Slow Ride ⋆˚۶ৎ˚⋆
Pairing | Tow truck driver!Bucky x rich girl!reader Summary | When you step into Barnes' Towing & Auto Repair, you think all you're leaving with is a newly repaired car, simple as that. But Bucky has other plans. After one glimpse of those pink heels and your overly bright personality—too polite to be genuine—he knows you're nothing but trouble. A few choice words slip from his lips before he can stop himself, and guilt hits as soon as you're gone. Now…he can't get you out of his head, and the universe is dead set on throwing the two of you together again and again. Warnings/tags | MDNI (18+), nsfw, dual pov, slow burn, forced proximity??? age gap romance?? (I imagined reader in her mid to late 20's and Bucky is late 30's) modern au, poor guy x rich girl, grumpy x sunshine, enemies to lovers if you squint, Sam Wilson makes an appearance, reader loves pink (like a concerning amount), reader is described as smaller than Bucky and can easily carry her, reader is a bit ditzy (she's just like me fr), Bucky's an asshole for like .2 seconds (pinky promise he redeems himself), reader is the daughter of a CEO, reader's father is an actual asshole (he doesn't redeem himself...it's the daddy issues in me), John Walker makes an appearance as a NASCAR driver and is a slightly cocky asshole (y'know what, maybe everyone's an asshole in this...my hate for men came through on this one, I fear), use of alcohol, hurt/comfort, angst, miscommunication, fluff, car accident, minor injuries, Bucky is a sexy motherfucker with a soaked tank top, Bucky's a groveler, Alpine makes an appearance, Bucky has a happy trail, reader catches print, mentions of how Bucky lost his arm, grief, mentions of death, mentions of drunk driving, smut, kissing, dirty talk, slightly pervy Bucky, Bucky cums in his pants, masturbation (f+m), oral (f receiving), breast attention, fingering, pussy pronouns, p in v, unprotected sex, biting, marking, praise kink, save a horse; ride a Bucky, multiple orgasms, pet names (princess, baby, sweet girl, pretty boy) Word Count | 19.5k (can you believe I popped out this big ass baby?) A/N | hi barbie, please don't be perturbed by the length of this (don't you like it bigger? :smugass:) this is officially the longest fic i've written, and i like it??? i think i really just love these characters, that's why it was so difficult for me to stop writing. i know next to nothing about cars/tow truck driving/mechanics/racing/the air force, so i'm truly sorry if anything is wrong:(( This is my portion of the Barbie Dreamhouse collab brought to you by @stantastic-association!! A heartfelt thanks to @miraclediviner for putting this together and doing such a wonderful job organizing it. And also being such a big support to everyone <3 dt: to my babies @phoenix-in-writing @sheriff-bodecker @metal-armed-muse @buckytakethewheel i love you all so much:)) cloud divider credit: @/uzmacchiato
Also on A03:))
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Sam Wilson tapped the end of his pen against the counter in a steady rhythm, deep in thought, the metallic click filling the silence. Leaning over, he pressed his elbows to the cool surface and released a long, dramatic sigh. The ceaseless ting of metal hitting acrylic was beginning to irritate Bucky, but to be fair, everything about his friend seemed to irk him most days. His jaw ticked before the pen even made a sound, as if he were bracing for it now.
A barely there, unhelpful voice echoed in the back of his mind, suggesting that he reach over the table and snap the pen clean in half. Oh, it would be so satisfying. The hurt look on Sam's face, combined with the following silence after, was getting too tempting by the second. However, he thought better of making a scene, opting instead for taking a steady inhale through his nose and blowing it out through his mouth.
It really wouldn't matter if he did cause a scene. It was one of the slower days at the shop. The kind where only a couple of customers drifted in with quick replies and hurried footsteps, so they could continue on with their day. But most of today was like this—an empty room with a pressing stillness and lingering pauses. Ones that Bucky wasn't keen on filling.
"I don't know, man," Sam finally broke the silence. "The common denominator between all these relationships ending is you. Maybe you need to adjust your attitude."
"I don't need to adjust nothin'," Bucky muttered stubbornly.
Sam raised a brow. "Right. It's them. Every single one. Not the guy who's always in a mood and has a staring problem."
"'m just particular. There ain't nothin' wrong with that."
"Some might say too particular," Sam murmured under his breath. "Look, I just don't want to see your sad little face walk in here, moping around like someone punted your cat."
"Don't bring Alpine into this," Bucky's scowl deepened, his jaw twitching again. "Besides, Alpine and I are fine. Don't have time for anythin' serious anyway."
"Did you ever send a message to…what was her name?" Sam trailed off, tapping the pen against his forehead, as if that would jog his memory. "Oh, Violet."
"No. 'm not textin' your barista, just because she gives you an extra shot of espresso and happens to have a nice smile."
The man behind the counter huffed air out of his nose. "Fine, just know I'm done playing matchmaker for your sorry ass."
Bucky rolled his eyes. Never asked for your help in the first place, he thought. Then, that same instigating voice nudged him, and he gave in this time. "How's Sarah?"
Sam's posture straightened rapidly, pointing the pen at him like it was a weapon instead of a writing tool. "Don't you fucking dare, Barnes."
"What? I was just askin'," Bucky shrugged, a smirk gracing his lips.
"My sister is off limits. You know that."
"Okay, okay." Bucky held up his hands in surrender, dropping the subject completely. Still, it gave him that brief, cathartic release he had been searching for earlier, even if it was fleeting.
Glancing around, his eyes drifted out of the wide windows. The sun was a bright statement in the clear blue sky, only partially blocked by the towering 'Barnes' Towing & Auto Repair' sign outside—bold enough that it could be read by anyone speeding down the highway. The reflection of the window pane left a white cast on the tiled floor. A small black rectangle carved in the bleached reflection forced his gaze up to the flimsy paper posted by the door, its edges slightly creased. The ink fading betrayed just how long it had been hanging there.
Now hiring.
Sometimes, Bucky wondered if this place was less a job and more a coasting point for people to move through to something better. No matter who he and Sam hired, they would leave within a couple of months—the universe was never gracious enough to gift them someone for more than that. Then the cycle would start again, and he'd have to reprint the sign.
So, there it stayed—a permanent decoration on the glass until they could find someone permanent.
The rays of the sun were interrupted by a dark Rolls-Royce pulling into the lot, snagging Bucky's attention immediately. His eyes flicked over the body of the car—spotless, glistening even. Tinted windows. Freshly polished rims. Even the emblem of the tiny woman with wings appeared untouched.
He scoffed at the ridiculous sight. Obviously, this car wasn't a potential customer. This was someone who took a wrong turn along the way and needed a place to swing around, so they could head back to whatever mansion they stumbled out of.
But the car idled. Right in front of the shop. Unmoving.
The driver's door opened, revealing an older man in a pressed suit. The fabric was all clean, sharp lines—tailored perfectly for him. He even wore one of those chauffeur caps, the kind Bucky only saw in movies that Sam would force him to watch on his rare days off.
The whole get-up screamed wealth and status, as though money itself dripped off of him—none of which belonged anywhere near the likes of Bucky's shop. Yet, there he stood.
The man moved around the front of the car, adjusting his gloves and smoothing out wrinkles that weren't visible. After assessing his surroundings, he wrapped his fingers around the chrome door handle, keeping his chin high as he pulled it open.
A single pearlescent pink heel appeared first, the pointed toe hovering for a beat before carefully finding purchase on the oil‑stained pavement below. You were smart enough to avoid the puddles that could potentially ruin your expensive shoes.
You stepped out, rising to your full height. Sunlight glinted off your dark sunglasses, adding a shiny sheen to your hair. You straightened your designer coat and fixed the creases in your pale pink dress before giving your driver a practiced, polite smile.
Then, you sauntered forward, hips swaying as you adjusted the strap of your small handbag over your shoulder. Bucky could hear the loud click of your heels before you ever entered the shop.
"This oughta be good," Sam whispered behind his dark-haired friend.
As you entered, the bell above the door chimed, announcing your arrival. Bucky was hit with a gust of warm vanilla layered with grapefruit, which he could practically taste on his tongue.
You pushed your sunglasses up with two manicured fingers, resting them on your hair. Bright eyes darted around the room as you inspected it with your clear vision. You took it all in before you spoke. Walls filled with old metal signs. Counters lined with tools and little bobbles.
You breathed in the air that smelled faintly of strong coffee and even stronger motor oil, but you didn't wrinkle your nose. You looked…prepared, trained not to visibly react.
Finally, your gaze drifted to the two men who were frozen in place, as if just noticing their existence.
"Hi, I'm here to pick up my car," your voice came, velvet confidence. You introduced yourself, muttering your last name so quickly, he would've missed it if he wasn't listening. He swore he had heard that name, but immediately brushed it off like it was inconsequential.
"My father brought it in for a routine check-up, and he received a call that it was ready," you clarified.
For a moment, no one moved. Bucky didn't even blink. And even though you explained why you were here, he still thought you took a wrong turn on the way to the mall.
Eventually, Sam snapped out of it, fingers finding the computer's keyboard. "Right. The Porsche?"
Of course. He should have known that your car was the most expensive thing to ever roll through here. And if the price of the car didn't give it a way, surely the color did. Pink. The first time he saw it, he wanted it out of the garage, almost called to have it sent to another mechanic because he couldn't stand to look at the damn thing.
"That's correct," you said sweetly, causing something in Bucky's gut to sour.
It must've shown on his face because you gave him a small, courteous wave. The kind of gesture people made when they were raised to address everyone in the room, even the ones they actually didn't want to make conversation with.
Your gaze flicked briefly to his metal arm. He no longer bothered to hide it like some kind of secret. In those first few years, still adjusting to the foreign weight, he’d kept it concealed under layers of clothing—even in the heat of summer. Most days, it was less a badge from his time in the Air Force and more an inconvenience at best.
But as the years rolled by, he cared less and less about what people thought. Customers would stare at him with pity, similar to the look you were giving him now. You offered him a tight-lipped smile, and he hated the feeling it carried.
Instantly rolling his eyes, he turned away; he clearly wasn't interested in your fake-friendly facade. He knew that look all too well, and he knew that under the practiced posture and fancy clothing, you wanted to get the hell out of this place. And he wasn't going to stop you.
Noticing the slight edge of tension, Sam tapped away at the keys as he kept his eyes on the screen, feigning professionalism. He cleared his throat. "Ahh, here it is…Porsche 918 Spyder. Yeah, it looks like all you needed was an oil change and a tire rotation."
"Did you happen to take a look at the weird sound it was making? It sounded…" You paused, pursing your lips, "mechanical."
Bucky let out a dry, humorless laugh, "It's a car. Everything is mechanical."
"Right," you giggled, light and airy, and it sounded like it belonged somewhere less cramped. More open, like a rose garden, to complement the warmth of it.
Was he really comparing your laugh to fucking flowers? Maybe that perfume of yours had gone to his head and messed up his brain chemistry.
"I mean, it sounded unusual," you added after your laughter had faded.
Bucky opened his mouth to respond with something snarky, but Sam cut in immediately. "After the tire rotation, the sound went away. But if you happen to hear it again, bring it in, and we'll assess it further."
He typed out something else, then clapped his hands together as he met your eyes. "Alright, if that's all, I can bring her around."
"Thank you. I appreciate your help, Mister…?"
"Sam will do just fine," he corrected, and you offered a sharp nod in return.
Then, he disappeared into the back, heading towards the garage, leaving you and Bucky alone.
You turned to him, your expression open and approachable, as if you didn't even notice his hostility towards you. "So, you work on cars, then?"
"No, I just stand 'ere and look pretty," he grumbled sarcastically.
"Well, you're doing a great job," you teased, obviously not perturbed by his glum behavior. "Don't let me stop you from your hard work."
The tips of his ears turned red, but he recovered quickly. "'m just glad to get that pink monstrousity outta the garage," he mumbled.
"You don't like it?"
"It's…loud."
"Well, isn't it supposed to be?"
He narrowed his gaze at you, impatience flickering over his expression. "I didn't mean the engine.
"Ohh," you said with a lilt of amusement in your tone. "The color."
"It's pink," he deadpanned.
"Good observation, Sherlock," you shot back, but it lacked the bite he was expecting. Your grin stayed plastered on your face, unflinching. "Maybe you should take up detective work when you're not…y'know…standing there looking pretty."
Bucky leaned against the counter, the cool acrylic biting his heated skin. He clenched his jaw, shaking his head as his eyes flicked over your appearance. "It doesn't take a detective to know that color is hideous."
You crossed your arms, but for the most part, you were keeping your cool. "Like I'm going to take fashion advice from someone who only sees the world in greys and blacks. And is appalled by the simple sight of color."
"I like color just fine."
"Really?" you questioned, arching a brow. "Let me guess, your closet is full of the same black shirt. But when winter rolls in, you'll throw on a flannel to spice it up."
Something shifted in his expression, irritation sharpening on his features. "You think you have it all figured out, huh?"
You leaned in, not backing down from the challenge in his words. "Don't you? You seemed to have made up your mind about me as soon as I walked in the door, without knowing a single thing about me."
"Oh, I know exactly who you are," he smirked, amused. "Bet you don't know what half the buttons in that car do. You just get behind that wheel because Daddy bought it. He even spiffed it up for you. Ain't that right, princess?"
The words hit hard, and it showed on your face. Your expression changed in an instant. Before he could even blink, your smile twisted into a grimace, as if you’d just tasted something bitter.
This time, you didn't brush off his words. Instead, you took a step closer, not backing down. "Here's the thing, I don't expect you to like my car, or the color, or even me." Your voice never wavered, bold and composed. "But don't mistake my kindness for ignorance."
And with that, you made your rushed exit—the echo of your heels lingering long after you disappeared from view.
A moment later, your car zoomed past in a pink blur, merging onto the busy streets of Brooklyn. He wished the image of the hurt etched on your face would have faded, along with the smoke from your exhaust dissipating. But it stayed, lodged between his ribs like a thorn in his side.
Sam stepped into the room a minute too soon, and Bucky could already hear the criticism forming on his tongue. "What the fuck was that? What the hell did you say to her?"
"Nothin'."
"Bullshit. She hopped into that car like she was fatally wounded and needed emergency assistance."
"Don't be dramatic."
"I'm not." Sam shook his head, eyes to the ceiling as if he was praying for strength. "Do you know who her father is?"
"No."
"You don't want to. At least not personally. He's…intense," Sam sucked air through his teeth, rubbing the back of his neck. "Ever heard of Apex Motors?"
Bucky promptly nodded; he was very familiar with the brand. Apex Motors was everywhere. Their parts were the gold standard. Their engines were the kind mechanics whispered about—if you hadn't seen them, you wouldn't believe they truly existed. Their logo showed up at every car show, every charity race, every community event that was always over-advertised.
"Of course, I know Apex. Who doesn't?" Bucky scoffed.
"Yeah, well, her father owns it, dumbass," Sam barked. "He doesn't just own it. He is Apex Motors. The founder. He's the one who elects to sponsor all those races we're lucky enough to attend. The one whose logo is clearly plastered on all the major drivers' cars and even bigger on the fucking banners outside those events."
Bucky's stomach dropped. "Fuck."
"Yeah, fuck is right." Sam dragged a hand down his face. "That man has enough influence in Brooklyn—hell, New York—that he could get us shut down. And forget about getting a job after that. Our names would be on everyone's blacklist."
"I didn't know."
"That's the problem, Bucky. You just don't know when to stop, do you? Not everything needs your input," Sam griped, then his voice softened. "Just pray she doesn't tell her dad, before you apologize."
Bucky's eyebrows knitted together in protest, but Sam raised a hand to stop him. "It's not up for discussion. Act like the adult you are, and apologize to the poor girl."
Poor girl.
Bucky couldn't help but notice the irony in his words; her purse likely cost more than his monthly house payments. However, he decided that it probably wasn’t the best time to laugh at the joke he had thought of, let alone say it out loud.
He spent the rest of the day mulling over his stupid mistake, and the constant side-eye from his friend didn't help.
The ballroom was grand, but at the same time, it was too congested. The weight of everyone’s piercing stares made it hard to breathe. You felt less like yourself and more like an accessory on your dad’s arm at these pointless, flashy events.
The marble floors seemed to glitter under the tasteful chandeliers above. Everything accented with gold looked like embers from a fire in this light. The Champagne flutes were polished to perfection, sparkling on the silver platters that waiters carried with ramrod-straight spines. Banners were strewn around the room, reading 30 years of Apex Motors.
You should be used to this scene by now. Used to the less-than-heartfelt speeches, the handshakes, the forced smiles, the way you tilted your chin just right to make it look like you were interested when you were anything but.
Tonight, that cracked mask felt heavier, and it was slipping.
You weren't sure if it was the series of fake grins and unwanted conversations, but it was overwhelming.
Your father must be so proud.
You look so much like him in this lighting.
Are you thinking about following in his footsteps and running Apex someday?
One too-polite statement after the next, and the pain of it began to ebb at you. The sting burrowed beneath your thick skin like an incessant sliver that refused to go unnoticed.
Or maybe tonight was different because of the feeling of being profiled. Again. You really should be used to that, too. But it never got easier. Living in your dad's shadow meant you were constantly being measured against him.
To your face, they might say that you'll fill his shoes perfectly. But behind your back, they whispered that you'll never be him. You'll never be as smart as him. You'll never amount to his achievements.
Because a girl in a pink skirt could never command a whole room.
Truthfully, it always rolled right off your shoulders. You didn't want to be your father anyway, so those words never struck you.
But now, those words tangled with a deeper voice.
It had been a week. A full week since you visited the auto shop, yet his words were just as loud in your head as the day he said them to your face, without guilt.
Bet you don't know what half the buttons in that car do.
Princess.
The words punctured deep, but what hurt worse was his expression. The certainty in his eyes, the way he looked at you like he’d already solved you. Like you were a simple equation he’d seen a thousand times before.
The thought of your walls—the ones you had so expertly built—crumbling under his penetrating gaze was baffling. How could a stranger know you?
You told yourself he didn't. That you weren't like half the people drifting through this ballroom. You were different. You had to be. Even if it was a thinly veiled lie, you were adamant in believing it.
Click, click, click.
Three snaps of a camera sliced through your train of thought. You glanced up, focusing on the photographer and the scene he was capturing. Your father was chuckling at something one of his business friends said, booming laughter traveling across all corners of the building. It made your jaw twitch; you hadn't heard him laugh like that in years. At least not when you were around.
He spotted you, laughter dying on his tongue as quickly as it bloomed. He muttered something to the man beside him that you couldn't make out, then he excused himself.
He crossed the room like royalty—small groups parted, and guests dipped their chins in acknowledgment. When he made it to you, he paused like he didn't know what to do. He eventually settled for an awkward side hug, the kind that felt void of affection. Hollow. Forced.
When he pulled back, he scanned you as if he hadn't seen you in a while. And frankly, he hadn't. The last time he saw you was when he picked up your car for its routine check-up.
Your regular mechanic had closed up shop and moved across the state, so you asked for recommendations on a new auto shop. He said he'd handle it.
His assistant handled it.
"You came," your father trilled.
"Wouldn't miss it," you said too hastily; it sounded like a lie. It was.
His eyes narrowed, searching for the deception in your words. He always noticed the cracks in your mask before anyone else did, but he didn't comment on it. Too many investors to please and cameras to smile at to break the facade that this was a happy pair—a dad and his daughter simply catching up.
Instead of voicing the slip in your guise aloud, he adjusted the sheer pink shawl over your shoulder. It could've been viewed as a tender gesture to any onlookers, but you knew it was a silent correction to fix your mask.
"Good. I wanted you here for the big speech," he started casually. "I was hoping you could take some notes on what points you'll need to touch on when you're up there."
You opened your mouth to object, but he was waving someone over a second later. "John," he called. "Come here a minute. I'd like you to meet my daughter."
A dirty-blonde, tall man broke away from a nearby conversation. It clearly wasn't as important as your father's needs because he was eagerly striding towards the two of you. He was refined—crisp suit and a nice smile, revealing his pearly white teeth. Exactly the type of man your father wanted for you.
Great.
John gave your father a firm handshake, exchanging pleasantries, then turned to you. You offered your hand, and he took it with a gentle touch as if you were fragile and couldn't risk breaking you. Leaning down, his lips brushed your knuckles. Something in you recoiled at the contact, but you kept your composure.
"I've heard so much about you," he said by way of greeting.
The grin you gave him didn't quite reach your eyes, but he didn't notice. Guys like him didn't notice much. He was too busy gliding his thumb over the back of your hand, like he was trying to convey something unspoken. You reclaimed your hand, gingerly prying it from his grasp.
Noticing the tension in your posture, your father interjected, “This is one of the drivers competing in the NASCAR Cup Series.”
Apex Motors had been sponsoring one of the NASCAR Cup races consistently for the past ten years. You started memorizing the competitors by name around the fourth year you attended. But you were out of touch with the more recent drivers.
This year, Pocono Raceway was hosting. Your father had invited you a month in advance; you still hadn't gotten back to him about whether you'd be joining him.
John nodded, adding, “Yeah, your father hooked all the drivers up with head-to-toe Apex gear and spruced up our rides.”
You forced down the bile rising in your throat. "That’s him all right. He's always been the generous type."
But you knew it wasn't generosity that drove him. It was selfish. Strategic. Anything for the good of the company. More advertisements meant more customers, which always led to more people talking about him. If it didn't benefit him or his company, it wasn't worth his time and energy.
"Maybe you could swing by and watch him drive sometime. You know, to get a feel for the kind of things Apex invests in," your father suggested. He reached toward John, gripping his shoulder tenderly—the son he always wanted. "He's very talented on the track."
"You honor me, sir," John murmured coyly, though the confident smirk on his face betrayed exactly how highly he thought of himself.
The corner of your mouth twitched, but you kept that same easy smile on your face. You leaned towards your father, lowering your voice. "Can I speak with you in private?"
Your gaze flicked to John, who instantly took a step back with a quick nod. "Of course."
You led your father a few steps aside, far enough that no one could overhear, but not so far as to draw attention. Your tone stayed light and casual, the kind you’d practiced and perfected, ensuring nothing seemed out of the ordinary.
"We talked about this," you said softly. "I don't want anything to do with Apex. At least not right now."
Something shifted in his expression, anger carving out the edges of his features. "Then, what are you going to do with your life?"
"I don't know," you muttered brokenly.
"Well, that's not an option."
You inhaled slowly through your nose, keeping your cool. "I'm just not ready to figure it out quite yet."
"You said that after your mother died," he replied, tone clipped. "I'm going to need a different excuse this time."
He rarely brought up your mother these days, so the words landed like a punch to the gut. It wasn't like he didn't include her in your conversations because her death still stung. No. Instead, it seemed like he didn't talk about her because it was better to ignore that she existed altogether.
"No daughter of mine is going to be unemployed the rest of her life," he added, voice rising. "The world doesn't wait for you just because you ask it to. At some point, you're going to have to catch up, and I can't stand here and hold your hand forever."
You didn't recall a time when he ever held your hand.
"I've given you ample time to screw around and grieve," he continued bitterly. "But you need to grow up and reevaluate your life."
You flinched, the words hitting like venom rather than offering sympathy to a daughter who was still mourning. Your breathing stuttered, and you tried to push down the tears welling in your vision.
He sighed, his voice going soft. "We can talk about this later."
Or never would be the better option, you thought.
"Go have fun. Mingle." Then, he hauled you into another uncomfortable hug, kissing the crown of your head.
This time, when he pulled away, he didn't look at you. He didn't notice the tension in your shoulders or the way your fingers curled into your palm, your nails leaving tiny crescent-moon shapes in your flesh.
He simply turned and walked back towards the guests, only to be instantly swallowed by the crowd.
You stood there, feet firmly planted on the ground. Frozen in time, while everything around you seemed to speed up. Maybe your father was right; you couldn't just will the world to slow down.
But there was also no reason for you to stick around here.
You slipped into the crowd, brushing elbows with investors and bumping shoulders with drivers who were probably begging for a sliver of your father's time. None of which made room for you to get through. A photographer said your name as you passed, but you ignored them and kept moving toward your exit.
When you finally made it to the front, you pushed open the door. You didn't even wait for the gentleman stationed there to hold it for you.
The city was calling for you to do something reckless, and that, you couldn't ignore.
The blaring music and strobbing lights inside the bar were enough to give someone a severe migraine or a trip to the emergency room. Thankfully, the former was what Bucky was dealing with as he stepped out onto the cracked sidewalk. The noisy contents of the bar spilled out of the door as soon as he opened it, and somehow it sounded exactly the same beyond the walls. He swore it even sounded louder, if that was possible.
He patted his pockets to make sure he hadn't forgotten his wallet in his rushed exit. Once he found the familiar square outline tucked safely in his leather jacket, he reached for his keys and started toward his truck.
He made it about four long strides before he stopped dead in his tracks. Loud, off-key singing. With the combination of drunken shouting and the thumping bass echoing behind him, he hadn't noticed the noise until he was face-to-face with the image of a very hammered girl.
Streetlights flickered above the woman as she threw her head back, belting out the lyrics to a song Bucky recognized. Yet, the way she was singing, made it feel as if he were hearing it for the first time. Her voice cracked on a high note, and it caused him to wince in response.
"Only the young can saaaaay," she screeched, tripping over her own heels.
His lips twitched upward before he could stop it. She was wasted, no doubt about it, but there was something…blissful about her. Completely carefree. Untouched by the world around her. Chaos incarnate.
She twirled, the night air getting caught beneath her silk dress and lifting at the hem slightly. Her legs twisted, her arms flinging out awkwardly, like a baby bird that had fallen out of its nest prematurely.
"They're free to fly away," she bellowed, a melody only she could hear.
Then, she teetered dangerously close to the curb, her heels wobbling. Snapping out of his trance, he stretched out his arms, lunging to her aid. He caught her right before she landed face-first into the asphalt.
"Careful," he rasped, firmly holding her arms as he guided her back to safety.
Her back hit his chest, and she giggled as if it were the funniest thing in the world. Craning her neck back, her head rested on his shoulder, leaning into his warmth. Soft hair brushed over his cheek as she shifted in his hold.
Too late, it hit him. He recognized that laugh. How could he not?
He gently turned her as she used him for balance. And his worst nightmare materialized in front of him.
You.
His smile instantly dropped.
"Of course," he muttered under his breath, rolling his eyes.
You were still struggling to focus, your eyes locked on the letters of his shirt. Blinking, your gaze flicked up as your laughter faded into the wind. You tilted your head, squinting your eyes as you attempted to steady your vision.
"Hey, I know youuuu," you squealed, like he was a long-lost friend you hadn't seen in years, though it had only been a week. "I don't think I caught your name, pretty boy."
"'s Bucky," he sighed, already annoyed. "And don't call me that."
"You're the one who said you get paid to look pretty," you slurred, raising a manicured finger to poke his nose.
You broke away from his grasp, raising your arms to the sky while you stumbled backward. "You're just in time," you cheered, your voice carrying a block down the street. The thin shawl draped over your shoulders slipped during your celebration. Bucky scooped it up as he steadied you again, his metal fingers gliding across your warm skin.
"Stay still. You're gonna break your ankles and fall flat on your ass."
"Are you thinking about my ass, Bucky?" you teased, ending your question with a wink. "Is that part of your very serious itinerary? Does it usually fall in the afternoon, somewhere between your third cup of coffee and your ritual complaint about the sun being too bright?"
"I am not— I don't—" he stammered, pink creeping up his neck and blooming across his cheeks.
"Aw, you're all flustered," you cooed, sweeping a knuckle across the flush.
There was a gentleness to your touch and a sparkle in your eyes, as if you were just discovering the beauty of this world, and nothing could dim your joy. It made his expression soften faintly, and something in his chest twisted unbidden. He hated it. He hated that it took you so little to make his entire demeanor shift.
He grabbed your wrist, carefully dragging it away from his face. "Quit."
"Sorry, mister grumpy pants," you said, scrunching your nose.
"Anywayyyy," you sing-songed. "Aren't you going to ask me what you're in time for?"
"My own demise, hopefully," he whispered.
"What?"
"Nothin'. What am I just in time for, princess?"
"The," you paused, drumming two fingers on his chest. "Concert. It'll be the performance of a lifetime."
Bucky snorted, "Yeah, I caught the tail end of Journey before I saved your a—" He was not about to make the mistake of talking about your ass again. He restarted, "Before I saved you…The performance itself needs some work. You were a bit pitchy."
Feigning offense, you lightly smacked his chest, a frown finding a way onto your lips. "Asshole. If you're done mocking me, do you have a song request?"
He gazed up at the twinkling stars above thoughtfully. "How 'bout 'go home, you're drunk?'"
"Huh? I don't know that one."
His fingers lifted to his forehead, massaging in slow circles on either side of his temples. "No, 'm tellin' ya to go home."
You blinked up at him, swaying slightly. "Ohhh," you drawled, his true meaning finally clicking through the haze in your skull. "You meant that literally. How boring. The concert just started."
"This isn't a concert," he said bluntly.
"I'll have you know, this is a sold-out show. Very exclusive." You crossed your arms with a very serious expression, lifting your chin. It was…adorable. "You're lucky I haven't kicked your ass to the curb."
He leveled his gaze at you, a smirk lifting his lips. "We're literally standing on the curb."
You glanced down, as if this was your first time noticing. "And? Haven't you heard? Curbs are all the rage now. Very underrated venue. The acoustics are top tier."
A laugh slipped between Bucky's lips before he could catch it. It was a real, genuine one, the kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes and softened the hard lines of his face.
Momentarily surprised by the sudden sound, you dropped your theatrics. You stared at him, unblinking.
"What was that?" you asked.
He forced the grin off his mouth, biting the inside of his cheek. "I don't know what you mean."
"Yes, you do," you insisted cheekily. "You laughed. You actually laughed."
"That's not what happened."
"I just made Bucky laugh," you screamed from the top of your lungs, like you just won the lottery.
His eyes widened in panic. "Shh…" He slapped his flesh hand over your mouth, scanning his surroundings. "Are you crazy? You're gonna wake up the whole city."
You mumbled something against his palm, vibrating his hand. The expression on your face could only be described as smug, mischief glittering in your eyes.
His eyes narrowed, pointing a single finger at you. "If you bite me, I swear—"
Peeling his hand away, you furrowed your brow. "I'm not a biter," you promised. He lowered his hand once he realized it was safe to do so.
"…Not unless you want me to be," you added flirtatiously.
Bucky shook his head in disbelief. "What am I gonna do with you, princess?"
Your smile softened into something warm and inviting, and he didn't mind the feeling that stirred in his chest. Maybe he really did misjudge you that day in the shop; you were nothing as he imagined.
You shivered, an imperceptible shimmy of your shoulders, but he noticed.
"Cold?" he asked, concern laced in his tone.
"A little," you replied, wrapping your shawl tighter around you. It did less than nothing to warm you, goosebumps spreading across your skin regardless of how well it covered you.
"Here." He slipped his wallet into his back pocket and slid out of his leather jacket. He gave you a look, silently asking for permission to touch. It felt appropriate, even though he touched you only moments ago.
You offered him a subtle nod, and he stepped closer, draping the jacket over your shoulders. His touch was light as he adjusted it over your arms, sliding his hands up the zipper. As he tweaked the collar around your neck, his fingers brushed over your bare skin. You shuddered again, but this time, he knew it wasn't from the chill in the air.
Locking eyes with you, he noticed your pupils dilate. He tried to rationalize it, thinking you might be drunk, or it was darker on this part of the sidewalk.
But rationalizing it didn't change the fact that the air around him felt thicker, and he could taste electricity on the tip of his tongue, as if he had just licked a nine-volt battery. An energy seemed to be swirling around the pair of you, drawing him in.
Bucky's fingerpads grazed over your pulse point, testing. He could feel the rapid thrum of your heart beneath his touch, and it made his breath catch. Because that right there was confirmation that he wasn't the only one feeling this.
Pulling away abruptly, he put some much-needed distance between you. You were still wasted, and he…obviously wasn't thinking clearly.
He cleared his throat after a beat.
"Listen, you're gonna forget all this 'n the mornin'," he began, rubbing the back of his neck. You gazed up at him, beaming, your eyes were a little squinty, and you were still very drunk. Oh, you definitely weren't going to remember this. "I wanted to apologize…for before."
Waving him off, you shook your head. "All is forgiven."
"But," he objected. "I was a complete dick to you."
"Yeah, you were," you admitted. "But I've dealt with worse."
Bucky pulled his eyebrows together, something washing over his face—guilt, or maybe irritation. "That doesn't make it okay."
You shrugged, indifferent. "I didn't say it did."
"I shouldn't've said what I did. I didn't know anythin' 'bout you."
"No," you agreed. "You thought I was some spoiled brat who had exactly two functioning brain cells." You giggled, mostly to yourself. "Which might be true as of right now." hiccup. "But I also made assumptions about you." You pointed a wobbly finger at him.
"Oh yeah?" he questioned, intrigued. "What were your assumptions, princess?"
"Grumpy."
"Fair."
"You hate fun."
"Hey, now—" he started, but you interrupted before he could say more.
"And you were only an asshole to me because you thought I'd bite first," you whispered, almost like you were afraid of calling him out. "If you bite first, you're less likely to get hurt, right?"
Bucky gulped, a little taken aback by your boldness. Racking his brain, he wondered how you obtained that information. He hadn't ever told anyone that. Not even Sam. Was he just that easy to read?
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Then tilted his head, not in annoyance but interest.
"I do that, too," you confessed. "Or, at least, I used to. I've gotten better about keeping my cool."
He didn't respond; he didn't know how to. Instead, he just looked at you—really looked—like he needed a second to take in this version of you he hadn’t expected.
"Well, 'm sorry," he repeated because he felt it was necessary.
"It's okay."
"Y'know," he choked on a half-laugh. "I didn't even know who your dad was until Sam said somethin'."
You sobered at that immediately. "Oh."
"He's intense, huh?" he asked, wiggling his hands into his front pockets casually.
"Um…yeah, you could say that," you mumbled, your expression suddenly blank. Your whole disposition had changed in an instant. "Is that why you apologized?"
His eyebrows twitched, confused. "No," he blurted out too quickly.
"It's okay if you did," you assured, but he could hear the tension in your voice.
"No," he restated, firmer this time. "'m genuinely sorry."
You studied him, looking for the lie you swore was hidden somewhere. "Let me guess, Sam said something like 'my father could shut down your shop.'"
Bucky's eyes widened slightly, the color draining from his face. The silence that followed was only confirmation.
You let out a bitter laugh, forcing a smile that didn't quite fit your face. "Right. Well…don't worry. Your shop isn't in jeopardy."
The hurt engraved on your face made his heart squeeze painfully beneath his rib cage because he hadn't meant to hurt you. And he truly didn't know how to fix it. Any response that came to mind didn't seem quite right. So, he just stood there, awkward and foolish.
"You were right," your voice cracked on those three simple words. "I should go home. It's getting late."
You reached for the collar of his jacket, attempting to shrug it off, but he stopped you. "No, keep it. You're cold."
"Thanks," you said stiffly.
The quiet that settled after was agonizing. He stared at you, and you stared right back. Bucky felt exactly how you looked—numb. And for some reason, this felt final.
Two chances. That's what he was so graciously given with you, and he squandered both of them.
You eventually turned on your heels and strode away without another word. You got as far as the crosswalk before he realized where you were headed. Your car.
"You're not thinkin' of drivin', are ya?" he called out, worry evident in his words.
Glancing over your shoulder, your expression was even more pained than before. "I would never," you scoffed, then you restarted, softer. "…I'm calling my driver."
Nodding in understanding, he gave you a tight-lipped grin.
When you reached your pink monstrousity, as he once not-so-lovingly called it, you yanked the door open and vanished behind it as it slammed shut.
And he was sure that was the last time he'd see you.
It wasn't.
Bucky saw you everywhere. Not you physically, but your presence was always there. The color pink. You. Anytime he smelled vanilla. You. A laugh on the wind while he was driving. You. Even the flowers near the checkout at the grocery store. You.
You were a ghost, haunting his every move.
A couple of days after the sidewalk incident, you sent your driver to return his leather jacket, dry-cleaned. It was still in the plastic covering, and the ticket dangled off the neck of the hanger. And even though it had been cleaned to perfection, he could still smell the faint trace of vanilla and grapefruit, as if you were now woven into the fabric.
He wasn't even embarrassed by how many times he pressed the material to his nose, breathing in your scent.
He didn't know how to shake you. He tried throwing himself into work, operating on the vehicles in the shop well into the night—elbow-deep in engines. He worked until his hand ached. Until the only thing on his mind was the soreness in his muscles.
That is, until Sam threatened to leave and lock the door behind him.
It was affecting his work. The way he interacted with customers was unusual; he was short, barely listening to a single word of their monologue of problems with their car. They rattled on about noises their vehicle wasn't meant to make—clunking, or sputtering, maybe both. He nodded at the right times, professional on the surface, but his mind was constantly far off.
It got so bad that on one tow job, he installed the tow hook on the front bumper the wrong way and nearly tore the whole thing off. The one task he used to nail with practiced skill, he botched completely.
The shop lost money that day. Sam gave him shit for it.
Maybe he wasn't the best at human interaction, or he didn't fully comprehend their minds—too difficult a puzzle to put together. But he knew cars. Cars were simple, predictable. He could do a full diagnostic of any vehicle just by hearing the engine purr. He understood them as if they were a second language, and he was an expert in communicating exactly what was being said.
And that was precisely why he royally messed up with you.
You weren’t a problem to diagnose or an engine to operate on. You weren’t some equation he could solve if he just stared at it long enough. But he kept treating you like one. Kept trying to force you into a mold—a predictable one. One he could understand.
And he couldn't get that through his thick skull.
So, no matter how loud the voice in his head got—the one telling him to just call and fix whatever he broke, he didn't give in. Not when he'd pull up a customer's information on the shop's computer, and your name would appear in the system, tucked neatly beneath your father's. Those ten digits sat there, blinking at him like a glaring reminder. Or…temptation.
But he gave you your space. Distancing himself was the best option for both of you…right?
Yet, it was as if the universe kept teasing him with you, like an owner waving a treat in front of a hungry pet. And a man can only be so strong.
It was late that night, legs stretched out on the couch with the blanket half-covering him. He didn't even know why his thumb was hovering over the app, but he found himself pressing it. He barely even used the damn thing, but Sam insisted it would be good for business. It wasn't. He never actually posted anything, except for a single picture of a car mid-repair, and another of Alpine perched by the window, with the sun warming her fur.
He had accidentally clicked the discover page—the little magnifying glass at the bottom of his screen. Twelve posts came into view, blinding him. Blinking, he adjusted to the brightness. He eventually started swiping through the posts. One after the other, depicting images and videos of cars and engines, all curated specifically for him.
Then.
You.
He sat up straight.
How you appeared on his Instagram, he had no clue. Before he could think better of it, he was tapping on the image. You were smiling, green straw between your teeth, and your eyes full of amusement. The arms of a pink sweater were tied around your neck, sunglasses resting on your head as you posed for your photo op.
He couldn't help himself; he pressed on your username. Pretty.in.pink. It suited you.
And, damn, did you have followers. 597.2k hovered between the number of posts you had and who you were following.
Scrolling through your feed, he glanced over your photos. Some showed you flaunting an outfit, pink checkered skirts, and white heels. You were adjusting the strap around your ankle in one. In the next image, you were holding a bouquet of daisies, pressed tightly to your chest, as you gazed up at the sky.
And he definitely didn't zoom in on your cleavage, hidden amongst the petals of the flowers.
You captured images of New York: skyscrapers, billboards, and the Brooklyn Bridge with the sunset as the backdrop. He noted some of the cafes and restaurants you visited, and the reviews that came with them. You had a very clear aesthetic that carried through your posts.
He kept scrolling. A mirror selfie. Pink makeup products on a white marble table. Mid-step off a sidewalk.
He felt like a stalker, looking at you like this. Like he was seeing something personal he wasn't supposed to. But he had convinced himself that this was for public viewing, and it wasn't like he was doing anything nefarious.
Well, that is, until he scrolled too far and saw your series of summer shots.
Sure, some were innocent, harmless. A cute one-piece swimsuit, hugging your curves. You had your hands on your hips, giggling. Or another with your legs dangling off the pier, bare feet kissing the surface of the water.
But most were tastefully suggestive. A floral bikini, barely covering your tits. You were toying with the strings of your bottoms, as if silently conveying that if you tugged just right, you'd be half-naked.
He wished he had stopped there. Because the next one he landed on filled his mind with every impure thought. "Fuck," he whispered under his breath.
You were on your stomach, legs folded behind you, crossing at the ankle with your feet in the air. His gaze dragged down the slope of your back to the curve of your plump ass.
He let out a low growl, his hand already finding the growing erection, pushing against his shorts. A feeling of depravity entered his body, even as he kept stroking himself through the fabric.
Scanning over your body, he noted the sparkle in your eyes as you looked over your shoulder playfully. The soft tilt of your lips. Your silky skin, and how it would feel beneath his fingers. The glimpse of your side boob, spilling out of the cup of the bikini top.
He stroked faster, biting his lip as the pressure built.
He told himself to stop. That this was wrong.
He didn't.
"You see what you do to me, princess," he groaned at the picture. "Y'know what you were doin' when you posted this, huh? Such a 'lil tease, aren't ya?"
Mind drifting, he imagined those same eyes looking up at him, a pout on your lips as he tapped the head of his cock on them. And the way those lips would feel wrapped around—
Hips jerking upward, he let out another low, broken curse. He was close. He could feel it in the way the vein on his neck stuck out, and his thighs tensed. Pressing the palm of his hand harder against his bulge, his breath stuttered.
He realized too late the predicament he was in. There he was, sprawled out on the couch, one hand curled around his phone, the other rubbing his dick through his pants. He came, his release blooming in his boxers and darkening the front of his shorts as your name fell from his lips.
Immediately after, he hissed, his eyes blown wide. Because he just came in his pants. Like a horny fucking teenager. Guilt and disgust flooded his body. He dropped his phone, as if it had burned him, sprinting to the bathroom.
He passed Alpine on his way there, and he swore she looked disappointed as she sat in the middle of the hallway, licking her paw. "Don't you dare," he scolded, but he knew he deserved it.
He banned himself from ever going on that stupid app. Because that couldn't happen. Not again.
After that, things settled. He still thought about you, of course, but he didn't have any more incidents. And the urge to call you faded.
It wasn't until he saw your face in the local newspaper that he almost broke that unspoken rule he had created, and finally called you.
It was dawn, and the sun had barely risen, just peeking over the horizon. The sky was a vibrant orange, and the clouds had a wispy quality that reminded him of the cotton candy he got as a kid on trips to Coney Island.
He was on his second cup of coffee as he reached for the newspaper that was thrown on the counter. Flicking out the paper with one hand, he attempted to right it as he raised his ceramic mug to his lips. The steaming dark liquid hit the tip of his tongue just as he saw you.
Setting down his cup with a sharp click, his eyes fixed on the image just above the article. It was a feature titled, "Upcoming Race in the NASCAR Cup Series: Apex Motors 500."
Your father was clearly the main focus, but that hardly mattered to Bucky. You were positioned behind him, and even slightly blurred, he could see those bright eyes of yours clear as day.
The photo seemed to be taken at some gala—a place he wouldn't be caught dead at. Too fancy and polished for his taste. He doesn't even recall the last time he wore a suit, let alone why he would've worn one.
Flipping the page, he was met with three more photos. Mostly with your father and his team. But there you were again. Another gala shot, but this one you were standing beside a tall man who was leaning in to kiss your hand. The caption read: John Walker, Two-time Lucas Oil Late Model Dirt Series Winner and NASCAR Cup Series Competitor, Seen Getting Cozy With a Potential Girlfriend?
The coffee settling in Bucky's stomach curdled.
John honestly looked perfect for you. Someone you could bring home to Daddy, and he'd have all the correct answers and say all the right things. Someone who fit flawlessly into the world you came from. And, of course, it helped that he was a NASCAR competitor, and in a race your father sponsored.
The smile you gave John wasn't genuine, though. He'd seen a real smile from you; it lit up your entire face. This one looked forced and uncomfortable.
"Buck?"
He jerked his head up, meeting Sam's narrowed gaze, the kind that said he'd called for Bucky more than once. Sam rounded the counter, peering over Bucky's shoulder to see what had so easily captured his attention.
"Man," Sam sighed. "You gotta talk to her."
After one too many of Sam’s knowing looks, the whole story spilled out. Everything that had happened between you and him. Sam had truly listened that day, without judgment or offering any unsolicited advice.
And if Bucky didn't want to talk about it, Sam changed the subject. But now Sam was fed up with it.
"'s…complicated," Bucky replied.
"From where I'm standing, it's pretty clean cut."
"Look at her," he pointed to your picture in the paper. "We come from opposite ends of the world."
"Do you really think she's so superficial that she wouldn't give you the time of day just because you have a different status?"
Bucky's face dropped. "That's not what I meant."
"No?" Sam shot back. "Then stop treating her like that. Stop assuming things you know nothing about." He didn't even wait for a response, just vanished into the garage and got to work.
A few days passed.
Bucky threw himself back into work, a wrench firmly in his fist as he tightened a bolt on an engine. Sam burst into the garage with a wild look in his eyes, panic written all over his face.
Somehow, Bucky already knew without hearing a word. Dropping the wrench, he wiped his hands on the nearest rag. Then, sprang to his feet, snatching his keys off the hook.
“Where is she?” he demanded, already moving.
The difference between the pouring rain and the tears blurring in your vision was indistinguishable. The tears were coming down your cheeks, hot and quick, before you could stop them. It didn't matter how many times you blinked or wiped the wet from your cheeks; they kept coming.
Why did this have to happen? Why today of all days?
The accident happened before you could prevent it. You swore that the family of raccoons came out of nowhere. One minute you were driving, the next you were slamming on your brakes as you yanked your wheel in the opposite direction. Your heart leaped to your throat, gripping the wheel so hard your knuckles had gone white. Swerving on a slick road like that one was always going to be a losing battle. With the combination of braking and swerving too hastily, your wheels locked, and you lost control. That was why the front of your car was curved around a telephone pole.
Now, you sat there with your hands trembling on the steering wheel as the rain pelted your windshield. Your breath was coming out heavy and uneven, fogging up the glass.
You weren't hurt, not really anyway. Your nose hit the top of the wheel from the impact, leaving a warm trickle of blood pooling above your lip. Your ribs ached from the brief constriction of your seatbelt across your chest—a whispering promise of bruising come morning. But you were fine.
After it happened, your hand was already curled around your phone, before you could properly register what you were doing. Anxious fingers flew across your keyboard, typing in the first person that came to mind. Your eyes were locked on ten digits, Barnes' Towing & Auto Repair hovering directly above them.
It wasn't the first time you had been in this predicament. You always talked yourself out of it before. Because you were embarrassed by the display you showed Bucky after he brought up your father. Because you couldn't muster the courage to talk to him.
But this time, as you stared at the phone number, you realized you really didn't know who else to call.
Luckily, Sam picked up the phone instead, so you still had ample time to think about what you were going to say to Bucky. Yet, your mind felt blank.
Weeks had passed, and you didn't even know if that spark you'd felt that night under the stars with too much liquor in your system was still there. Or if it even existed in the first place. You were so drunk that you could've imagined it. Did the laugh that echoed in your dreams ever even happen, or was that something you hallucinated as well? All a trick of the light.
Headlights flared in your rear-view mirror, pulling you from your spiraling thoughts. You squinted against the brightness until the beams dimmed. The truck eased forward, turning around before backing up toward you until there were only inches between your bumpers.
You rubbed the blood from your nose, and you swiped the tears from under your eyes. Adjusting your sweater and running a hand over your hair, you tried to look as presentable as possible.
The driver's side opened, and out stepped Bucky. All six feet of him strode towards your car, white tank top getting soaked as he got closer. You could see the definition in his abs through the thin material, and the flex of his muscles as he…knocked on the glass.
Shit. You'd been gawking as he waited for you to roll down your window.
You were so fucked.
Bucky rapped on the glass one more time as you stared up at him, blinking. Your shimmering eyes eventually met his, lashes fluttering. Fuck, he missed seeing those in person. Your fingers reached for the switch, lowering the window with a mechanical hum. The steady rush of rain began to enter your car, raindrops dotting the interior of the door.
You almost appeared frazzled now that the glass wasn't interrupting his vision. Were you still in shock?
Bucky propped his elbow on the roof, leaning into the opening. "Hey," he greeted. "You still with me, princess?"
"Y-yeah," you stammered.
Now he could see the streaks of dried tears across your cheeks and the smear of crimson right below your nose. His chest clenched, and his skin suddenly felt too tight around his rib cage.
He cleared his throat. "Sam said you assured him you didn't need medical attention…you gonna fight me on that, too?"
"I'm really okay. Just a minor nosebleed. Nothing serious." You offered him a stiff smile that didn't reach your eyes.
He didn't know how to push down the worry stirring in his chest, so he responded with humor instead. "We gotta stop meetin' like this."
"Like what?"
"You're drunk," he teased.
Straightening your spine, you knitted your brows together in offense. "I'm not."
"Just a joke. Bad joke," he admitted, grabbing the back of his neck. "How'd you get in this mess anyway?"
"It's raining," you said, shrugging, as if that alone was an answer.
"I see that, Sherlock," he deadpanned. "But I got 'ere just fine."
"There was a little family of raccoons. Just a momma and her babies crossing the street, and I didn't see them right away. And…well…this happened."
"Adorable." The word slipped before he could stop it. He stared at you, eyes wide, hoping you didn't hear him.
"What?"
"I bet the raccoons were adorable," he offered, too quickly. "And I bet they're thankin' you for sparin' their lives."
Nodding, you sighed. "I just wish I hadn't sacrificed my pink monstrosity in the process."
He softened at the nickname he gave your car. "Uh…before I pull ya out," Bucky started, tapping on the roof of your car. "I'd like to apologize…again. It was never my intention to hurt you, and 'm sorry it came across that way. Your father had nothin' to do with the apology."
You stilled, surprised by the sincerity in his voice. Then, you still didn't move, and the two of you continued to face off in a little staring contest.
But he was getting anxious waiting for a reply, so he kept going. "Listen, I could wait out in the rain all day, beggin' for forgiveness. 'm not afraid to drop to my knees 'n the mud f' you. In fact—"
Doing just as he said, he lowered himself, dropping to his knees. His knees sank into the mud, no doubt darkening his jeans with the sludge. The droplets were streaming onto his face now, hair getting soaked in the process. But he didn't care.
"'m not goin' anywhere 'til you know I mean it," he promised. "'m deeply sorry."
You peeked out of the open window, watching him with your eyes blown wide. "Are you crazy?"
"A 'lil."
"Get up before you ruin your jeans," you order, slightly flustered.
He could ruin a lot more than his jeans on his knees for you. But this was not the time, nor the place.
Realizing he looked like an idiot, he rose with an awful sucking sound as he attempted to free his knees from the mud.
"You did nothing wrong, so there's nothing to forgive," you admitted, gazing up at him as he leaned against your vehicle. "I have some issues to work through, and that's not your problem."
"It could be."
He hadn't even realized he said it out loud, but there the words hung in the air between you like a confession. Lips separating, you released a soft breath, but you appeared too stunned to say anything.
Promptly moving on, he asked, "Did you call anyone to pick you up?"
"Just you."
Bucky hummed. "I know you don't wanna hear this, but maybe you should call your dad."
You instantly looked panicked. "Are you kidding? He'll kill me."
"Okay," he drawled. "How 'bout a friend?"
Grimacing, you shook your head.
"Well, I don't want you to be alone tonight," he mumbled, then thought of the most ridiculous solution. "You can stay with me tonight. You take my bed, and I'll—"
"Yes," you interrupted.
He was taken aback by your immediate response, but nodded. "My house it is," he confirmed. "Now, how 'bout I get you outta this rain, princess?"
The car ride to Bucky's shop was mostly quiet, save for the occasional clinking of the wheel lift that was supporting the weight of your car as it dragged behind his truck. You kept glancing over your shoulder, a nervous tic, though he assured you multiple times that it was secured. It was also an excuse to catch his biceps in your periphery.
You were sitting on a bench seat, so the close proximity was something you hadn't expected. But you weren't complaining. But you didn't know what to do with yourself either. You started by fixating on two separate raindrops on the windshield to distract yourself. In your head, those two clear dots were having a race, and the one you were rooting for slowed as the other one began streaming quicker down the glass, as if it knew.
When that didn't fully shift your attention, you decided to just sit stiffly beside him. You folded your hands neatly in your lap as you tried not to let the faint scent of his cologne mess with your head…again.
You had a hard time sending his leather jacket back after he let you borrow it. Sure, it had undertones of grease and motor oil, but the most prominent scent was a mix of sandalwood and cardamom. You blamed that damn jacket for the reason why you couldn't get him out of your head.
After that night outside of the bar, you had come home and immediately flopped into bed, the jacket still wrapped snuggly around your shoulders. The next morning was torture. You'd draped it over one of your kitchen chairs as you made some coffee and swallowed down some Tylenol to help with your lingering hangover. You stared at the jacket over the rim of your mug until you couldn't take it anymore and started wearing it around the house. It was because of the draft circulating the house, you had told yourself.
And you swore the time your fingers traveled between your aching thighs as you breathed in his scent was only because the alcohol was still in your system. You weren't thinking clearly when you slipped your fingers inside yourself, and you certainly weren't thinking when you came on your palm, his jacket pressed to your nose as your mind drifted to what Bucky's head would look like between your legs.
That familiar scent was flooding your senses as you scanned his profile, following the sharp line of his jaw to the slow bob of his Adam's apple. Your gaze kept dipping to his saturated tank top and the way it clung to his chest. Your lip continued to find its way between your teeth. Because who the hell looks that good fresh from a day's work and a shower in the rain?
His human arm was casually resting over the back of the seat, his fingers kissing the nape of your neck. You hadn't figured out if he was doing it on purpose yet, but it caused a chill to travel down your spine, all the same.
When you reached his shop, it was an easy enough drop-off. He got your car into the garage without any problems, efficient and professional, everything your brain wasn't. The rain was still a wild downpour, and any time he'd had to dry off on the drive over was wasted. He was sopping-wet as he jogged back to the truck.
When he slammed the door shut, his breath was coming out in gasps, his chest heaving as he threw his head back against the seat. The water dripped steadily off his dark hair, and his tank top was plastered to his chest—practically sheer at that point. You couldn't take your eyes off of him, and with the noises he was making from the exertion, you were having a hard time not letting your mind drift to sinful things. If you just crawled over and straddled his lap…would he make the same noises?
Glancing over at you, a slow grin spread across his lips. "You'd think it'd slow down at some point, but 's only coming down harder out there. 'm soaked," he panted.
"Yeah, me too," you sighed before your brain caught up, then your eyes widened, blinking. "I mean— my clothes are still wet. From the rain."
His smile stretched, easy and knowing. You could see the spark in his eyes, but he didn't say anything about your slip-up. Dragging a hand through his hair, he let out a slow exhale. Before you knew what was happening, he was shaking his head frantically, like a dog straight out of the bath. Water went everywhere: the dashboard, the windows, and you.
You gasped, turning your face the other direction as he splashed you with water droplets. "Bucky," you screeched.
"What?" he laughed, a sound that rattled deep in his chest. "I was just helpin' you catch up."
You lightly shoved his shoulder. "You're a menace."
Before you could pull your hand back, he caught your wrist—playfully and unmistakably up to something. His eyes lit with mischief, and that alone should’ve been your warning to scramble away.
"Come 'ere," he teased.
His metal hand dropped to your waist, guiding you toward him into a soaking-wet hug. You squeaked, planting your free hand on his chest in a desperate attempt to get some distance. It was too late, though. His arm tightened on the dip of your waist as his opposite hand curled around the back of your neck, angling you exactly where he wanted you. Like an overgrown golden retriever, he rubbed his face across your cheeks.
The cold droplets smeared across your skin, making you shriek louder. "Bucky! Come on, you're—"
"Drenched?" he finished for you, sounding entirely too pleased with himself. "Hadn't noticed."
You wiggled in his hold, swatting his chest. "Okay, okay. I surrender."
He eventually released you, leaning back. His laughter faded into a gentle smirk, looking way too smug for his own good. Rolling your eyes, you wiped the water off your face with the back of your hand. You thought about scooting away, keeping that distance you so desperately wished for before. But now, as you watched him, the amusement softening his features, you remembered there were worse things than having your skin a little wet.
The ride back to Bucky's house was a stark contrast to the one to his shop. Words were easier. The conversation flowed. It simultaneously felt like no time had passed, and like you'd known him for years and were just catching up.
The pair of you shared soft stories, the kind that made you giggle and made the tension in his shoulders loosen. He shared the time that Sam dragged him to meditation in the park, and it went so poorly that the instructor kicked him out. You shared that time your dress accidentally got thrown in with your father's wash, and it turned all his white dress shirts pink; he had to wear them for a week before they were replaced.
After almost an hour of driving, he turned onto a gravel path surrounded by tall, lively trees. You hadn't seen this part of Brooklyn before. The cityscape slowly diminished, giving way to lush greenery. He passed a sign that read: Green Meadows Farm.
You briefly wondered what your life would've been like if your father had taken you somewhere like this in your youth. If he had just slowed down enough to give you the attention you deserved. Without the buffer of your mother, who was the glue that kept your family stable. But that was too much to ask.
The truck dipped over the rockier sections, but Bucky avoided any major holes. Until he ran over a bump in the road, and despite the seatbelt, you nearly flew out of your seat. But he was quicker, swinging his arm out to catch you and secure you against the bench. He whispered, "I gotcha, princess," then shifted his gaze to the road as if nothing had happened.
Though you were safely back in your seat, his arm lingered, bicep pressed firmly to your chest. When he finally moved it, his hand found purchase on your thigh, calloused fingers bending around your bare flesh. Not gripping, just holding, like he had a right to. Like it was natural.
Eventually, the trees down the path cleared, and his house came into view. The only reason you knew it was his was that it was very…him. There was no other way to describe it. A quaint cabin with a wraparound porch that overlooked the river.
The truck rolled to a stop as he shifted it into park. With the rain softening to an even patter, you could finally hear how quiet it was here. The rustle and bustle of the city felt like a distant memory. Nature was the only soundtrack here, the gentle rush of the river, and you could just make out the faint noises of an owl, high up in the branches of a nearby tree.
Bucky didn't waste any time. He leaped down from the truck, then helped you, offering you a hand. As you hopped down, the heels of your shoes vanished into the mud with a subtle squelch. He sighed dramatically beside you before leaning down and sliding his hands around your waist. With barely any effort on his part, he lifted and threw you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.
You let out a startled wheeze. "I do have two legs."
"Can't have your precious heels gettin' ruined," he cooed in an almost mocking tone. Trudging toward the door, he placed a protective hand over your ass as he smoothed out your skirt.
"I can walk," you ordered, but he was dead set on ignoring your protests. "I'm serious, put me down." You lightly pounded your fists into the dip of his back, but he only huffed a laugh in response. Flopping forward, you figured it best not to waste your energy arguing with a brick wall. Your arms dangled out in front of you as he carried you up the steps, the wood squeaking under the weight of his boots.
He gently set you down with a light click of your heels, reaching for the keys in his back pocket. "Better?"
You crossed your arms, tilting your head. "Thank you," you muttered, trying to sound annoyed, but failing miserably.
"Anythin' for you," he replied coolly. And even if he said the words as a joke, they made the corner of your lip lift.
Unlocking the door, he pushed in. He flicked on the light, bathing the interior in warm light, and you followed him in. You were immediately hit with the scent of cedar, and him. The inside was exactly what you expect—minimal decor, yet it had a lived-in feel. A worn leather couch in the living room with a black jacket draped over the arm. A wall of photos with unusual frames. A small fireplace. Everything was practical, but charming.
"It ain't much," he said, exhaling slowly with his hands on his hips. "But make yourself at home." He kicked off his heavy work boots, then disappeared down a dark hallway. A light flicked on as he entered a room, which you could only guess was his room. He closed it most of the way, but kept it open a crack.
You slipped off your heels, and they hit the floor with a gentle thud. You did a rough sweep of the room, then padded over to the wall of frames. You scanned the photos, some from his childhood, some of his shop, some of him and Sam.
But your eyes lingered on two, hanging beside each other. A navy blue uniform, neatly buttoned with a matching cap. Bucky and Sam stood side by side with perfect posture, saluting the camera. Metal arm. The other image was a solo shot, clad in an army green jumpsuit. No metal arm.
A set of dog tags dangled off the corner of the frame, twinkling under the light. They clinked as you twisted them in your palm. James Buchanan Barnes. You tested the name, mouthing it softly.
You peeked around the corner, ready to tell him what you uncovered. Instead, you were met with carved back muscles just as he was tugging up his sweatpants. You nearly choked on your own saliva, your cheeks warming from guilt of seeing something you weren't supposed to. He turned, pulling a dark shirt over his head, and flattened out the wrinkles in the fabric. His arm glinted, drawing your attention downward, and then your eyes drifted lower. And lower.
You caught the patch of hair above the waistband before disappearing beneath his grey sweatpants. You followed the trail. Fuck. Nothing could drag your gaze away from the subtle bulge against the material of his sweats. No matter how hard you tried to reason with yourself that this was wrong, that you were openly objectifying him, you continued to gawk.
"You can ask about it," Bucky said, walking towards you with a plush towel in his hands.
Shit.
You hadn't even noticed him step out of his room, and now you were caught with no possible way out of this one. But was he really giving you permission to ask about his dick size? Wait, maybe he wanted you to ask about the shape.
No, that's ridiculous…just…play dumb? Yeah. Some guys love that, right?
You've been staring for too long with no other excuse to use. Fuck it.
Play dumb. Play dumb. Play dumb.
You swallowed thickly. "What?"
"I keep catchin' you lookin' at my arm. If you're curious, you can ask. 'm an open book."
"Right, I've been wondering about your arm," you drawled. You mentally thanked yourself because, yes, sometimes playing dumb has gotten you out of some sticky situations. "How'd you get it?"
He motioned for you to turn around, and you scrunched your brows, but did it anyway. His hands moved to your shoulders, sliding your sweater down your arms, then hanging it on a hook by the door. Unfolding the towel, he glided it over your upper back, the nape of your neck, and anywhere else that was out of your reach.
"Sam and I were in the Air Force together. It feels like a lifetime ago," he began as he handed over the towel.
You took it, still a little stunned by how naturally he moved around you. As if he'd done it a thousand times. He guided you over to the couch, hand cupping your elbow. He nodded for you to sit as you started to pat down your hair, squeezing the dampness from the strands. Grabbing the plaid blanket from the back of the sofa, he covered your lower half, tucking the edges in. And he did it all without you ever needing to say a word.
Why did everything feel so natural with him? Why did it feel like he was reading your every thought before you even asked?
Lifting the blanket, he slipped under it, scooting closer until your legs brushed. His arm fell to the back of the couch, turning his full body toward you as he spoke. "That's how we met, actually. We served multiple tours overseas together. Got close in the process. Honestly, don't think I'd be 'ere without him."
The vulnerability in his tone cut you deeper than you expected. His gaze drifted, and he had this faraway look in his eyes that told you to let the silence breathe. So, you waited. You didn't force the conversation, just let him take his time.
He cleared his throat. "We had some aerial trainin' the day it happened. The other soldiers in the aircraft strapped on their parachutes. I was the last one to grab mine."
Bucky went quiet again, finding his words. "Y'know, everyone puts their trust in the manufacturers. You kinda have to have a 'lil blind faith that the equipment's been tested and retested. That they're suitable for jumps of high altitudes, or that 's even capable of carrying a large amount. That's why, when I jumped, I didn't even think twice. Just did it."
Your stomach dropped because you already knew the outcome of this story. You looked at him—really looked at him. It wasn't a look of pity, but understanding.
His eyebrows twitched. "I had a faulty parachute. It wouldn't deploy no matter how hard I pulled. Thankfully, I landed in a tree before I fully hit the ground, so the branches lessened the blow."
You felt your heart crack wide open, raw and exposed. Unfamiliar with this side of grief, you didn't know the procedure. You didn't know whether to reach for him or if he even wanted to be touched. You settled for a whispered apology instead. "I know this doesn't help, but I'm sorry."
Sighing, he offered you a small smile. "From you…it does."
You mirrored his smile, but he didn't dwell on the emotion for much longer. Correcting his posture, he coughed. "After that, I settled back in Brooklyn. Needed a job. Figured I've always been good at fixin' things, so I opened my own shop. Sam gave me a call not too long after, and we've been in business together ever since."
His expression softened, as if he were reminiscing. "Though some days I regret that decision," he jokingly added.
You hummed in amusement, easing into the couch as you shifted to face him. "You love him."
"I tolerate him. There's a difference," he said stubbornly.
"Right."
He rolled his eyes, but you knew there was truth to your words. "So, what's your story?" he asked, shifting the spotlight off himself.
You shrugged. "I don't have one."
Arching a brow, he bumped you with his knee. "Come on. Gimme somethin'. How 'bout why you were cryin' in the car?"
You stilled; you hadn't realized he saw that. "Just overwhelmed," you half-answered. Blinking slowly, he leveled you with a glare. Your head dropped back, puffing air through your nose.
"Fine," you murmured. "I was on the way to visit my mother's grave."
Bucky leaned in, not dramatically, but just enough to let you know he was listening.
"It's the anniversary of her death," you continued, quieter. "Which…ironically was because of a car accident." You nearly laughed, though nothing felt humorous about it. But you hadn't really reflected on the similarities until right now.
Your fingers tightened around the blanket, attempting to ground yourself. "Every year, my father and I make plans to honor her, and every year, he cancels. I guess I got sick of it. No, I am sick of it. Sometimes I feel like I'm the only one who feels the weight of her death."
Your voice wavered slightly, but you pushed on. "I know everyone grieves differently. But I expected…something. Glimpses of pain, maybe? But nothing. He ignores her very existence. And the one time I ask him to acknowledge her, even that's too hard."
Silence settled again, and under the blanket, his hand found your thigh—a grounding pressure you needed. As if to say, I'm here.
You exhaled slowly. "It was a drunk driver that killed her…That's why I got upset when you asked. That night, when I was singing on the sidewalk, was a rarity for me. I don't drink. And I especially don't drink and drive. It's irresponsible and stupid…and—"
Squeezing your eyes shut, you tried to keep the tears at bay. "I lost the most important person in my life because someone couldn't pick up the damn phone and call a taxi."
For a moment, the only sound was the soft patter of rain against the roof and the gentle wind whistling just beyond the windows. Just as you did for him, Bucky didn't fill the silence. He didn't try to fix it. He just offered a light squeeze to your thigh in comfort.
Releasing a shaky breath, you blinked back the threat of tears. "Sorry," you said brokenly. "I didn't mean to dump all that on you."
Reaching up with his metal hand, he tucked a stray hair behind your ear. "You never need to apologize for feelin' things, princess."
His gaze flicked over your features, as if he didn't know where to look. "I know it doesn't help, but 'm sorry," he echoed your earlier words.
You couldn't help the smile that grew on your lips. "From you, it does help," you repeated his earlier words.
The cool metal of his fingers dragged down your jaw, relaxed and measured, as his gaze drifted down to your lips. He inched a little closer, firmly taking your jaw in his hand. Lips parting, he hovered in your space. You felt that same electric energy from all those nights ago. Still present. Still charged.
Your eyes fluttered closed, certainty driving your actions.
Then.
You felt a sudden weight on your lap, causing your eyes to fly open. Backing away, you gasped. A white fluff ball with a pink nose and twitching ears sat on your knees, staring at you with its wide blue eyes. The cat tilted its head, assessing you.
Bucky rolled his eyes, huffing out a laugh. "I guess someone wanted an introduction." His flesh hand loosened on your thigh to scratch under the cat's chin. "Meet Alpine. She's…particular."
Alpine shut her eyes, purring as her owner gave her the attention she'd been missing. "She almost clawed Sam's face off the first time they met. So don't be offended if she isn't the biggest fan of you right—"
He cut himself off as Alpine moved out of the way of his hand. She crept up towards you, her front paws finding purchase on your chest as she lifted her head towards your face. Turning her head, she rubbed the side of her face against your jaw. She let out a long, low purr as she nuzzled into you. Lifting your hand tentatively, you carded your fingers through her thick fur.
"Hey there, pretty girl," you giggled. "I think he's painting you to be some kind of scary monster. You're not, are you?"
"Huh," he said, slightly baffled by the sight. "I don't know what I was worried 'bout. She doesn't usually click with anyone that quickly."
"Aw, just like her daddy," you cooed, winking at him.
Swallowing hard, his cheeks flushed faintly. The tips of his ears turned red, just like that day in the shop. He brushed it off, shaking his head as his hand found your thigh again.
Alpine blinked up at him, then you. Retreating from you, you swore she gave a subtle nod as if to say that she approved. Then she scurried off your lap just as quickly as she came, her tail flicking as she disappeared down the hallway.
A grin still plastered on your face, you let out a soft breath. "She's sweet."
"Don't let her fool you," he mumbled, gingerly rubbing your thigh. "She's opinionated."
The air shifted once more, warmth pooling in your stomach as he touched you. While his earlier grip had been innocent, this felt different. This was eagerness, as if he couldn’t wait another moment longer. The hunger in his eyes was undeniable, silently urging to resume where you’d left off before the interruption.
You forced your thighs together, your heart racing with desire.
"You're a flirty drunk. Did you know that?" he asked arrogantly, his hand still firmly pressed to your thigh, inching higher and higher in intervals so you wouldn't notice. But you noticed. Your body noticed. The space between your legs noticed, which only made you squeeze your thighs together tighter.
"G-guess that's another reason I don't drink very often," you stuttered.
"I dunno, I thought it was pretty cute. You said somethin' 'bout wantin' to bite me at one point?"
"I did not," you objected. "I said if you wanted me to, I would.
"So, hypothetically," he rasped. "If I said I wanted you to right now, you would."
"Bucky," you squealed, lightly slapping his metal arm, which probably hurt you more than him. "I was wasted."
"Yeah, but y'know what they say, drunk words are sober thoughts."
"Are you saying I thought about biting you the first day we met? Because that's as far as my sober thoughts about you went after our little conflict in your shop," you harmlessly teased.
Bucky sucked air through his teeth. "Oof, you wound me, princess." He placed his metal hand over his heart, feigning offense. "But yes, you looked like you wanted to bite my head off that day, so I wouldn't be surprised."
Then, he did something you least expected; he leaned closer. You figured this was all just teasing. That this back and forth was just innocent flirtation. But his lips brushed your ear as he whispered against the shell of it. "Bet that pretty 'lil head of yours is thinkin' real hard 'bout it now."
"Only because you won't shut up about it," you shot back breathlessly, lacking the bite you were intending.
"Ooh, she's got teeth," he chuckled, his warm breath fanning across your neck. He attempted to wedge his fingers between your thighs. A heat washed over your body, your cheeks warm with lust, and your head swimming with thoughts that were anything but pure.
The stubble of his beard grazed your jaw, and your breath caught. "So, when are we gonna stop dancin' around the fact that I've been tryin' to get between these thighs of yours?" he pressed boldly. "Are you ignorin' me? Because we know how well that worked out last time."
"I never ignored you," you said. "In fact, I couldn't get rid of you. You were like a pesky fly that was always there."
Bucky hummed in satisfaction, and you could feel his smirk against your skin. "You missed me then?"
"Yes," you blurted too quickly. "Yes, I missed you."
"I missed you, too," he muttered softly, and you could hear the truth in his words. The way his voice dipped into something gentle and earnest made your chest feel suddenly tight. Then, his tone dipped lower, deep and starving as he nudged your leg. "Lemme in, princess. Wanna show you just how much I missed you."
As if you were under his spell, your thighs parted. His fingers curled around your thigh, squeezing twice in quick succession. "There ya go. Keep 'em spread f'me."
Fingers danced up the inner part of your thigh until they disappeared beneath the hem of your skirt. They kissed the edge of your panties, his touch light as he circled your clothed clit. You sighed at the contact, your chin tipping back blissfully.
"Good girl," he praised, lips scorching the underside of your jaw. "Just relax."
Your breath stuttered at the combination of his lips trailing down your neck and the tantalizing patterns he was tracing over the dark patch on the seam of your panties. Metal-plated digits unexpectedly grazed the heated flesh of your shoulder, causing a shiver to ripple through you.
Bucky leaned back slightly, still keeping his close proximity to you, but needing to see your expression. "This still okay?" he asked, eyes flicking between yours, searching for any indication that you wanted to stop.
You nodded frantically. "Yeah. Please, keep going."
The smirk that graced his lips could only be described as downright smug. He moved your spaghetti strap over your shoulder, dragging it down your arm achingly slow. His mouth followed directly after, lips skimming over your collarbone.
All at once, he began nipping at the protruding bone as his fingers on your clit added more pressure. You moaned loudly—a long, elated noise that made him pause his ministrations.
The realization of how desperate it sounded hit like a force, and you could hear your heartbeat thudding in your ears, louder than before. "Oh gosh," you whispered, shame flooding your face. You raised your arm, concealing the embarrassment etched into your features.
"Ah-ah, don't hide from me, baby," he gently scolded as he pried your arm away. Bringing your wrist to his lips, he pressed them to your fluttering pulse. "Why're you all shy on me now?"
You didn't answer, your eyes sealed shut as the pang of humiliation echoed in your skull.
"What're you doin'?" he asked, planting another kiss on your palm.
"If I squeeze my eyes as tightly as humanly possible, I think I might disappear."
He chuckled, and even with your eyes closed, you knew he was showing off the creases beside his eyes. "No, you can't disappear on me this time. Y'know how long I've been waitin' to hear that?"
Cracking open your eye, you peeked up at him. "Why'd you stop then?"
"'Cause now 'm so hard, 's painful," he confessed, a little breathy. "I would fuck you 'til the ache went away, but 'm not done playin' with you."
You shivered, completely turned on by this bold version of him. If you were wet before, now you were soaked from his dirty mouth alone.
"You gonna lemme keep goin'?" he asked.
Nodding, you silently gave him permission. His hand traveled back between your thighs, running his fingers up the front of your underwear. Your hips jerked as his began rubbing in slow, captivating circles again.
His metal fingers grazed the side of your neck, curling around the nape as he pulled you closer. Leaning forward, his lips brushed the corner of your mouth, then the other. He pulled back a hair, studying your face. "Can I kiss you, baby?"
"Please do," you said, as if it were the most obvious answer.
His mouth was on yours in a second, your bottom lip getting caught between his. You sighed against his mouth, your hand coming up to cup his jaw and draw him even closer. The kiss was a lazy analysis of one another's mouths at first. Each slow graze of his lips elicited sparks coursing through your veins, like tiny fireworks exploding beneath your skin.
The urgency to fully taste you prompted him to force your chin up, his tongue delving into your mouth. He moaned against your mouth, eyebrows twitching as he found your tongue. Tongues swirled, teeth clashed, and your hold tightened on him. You felt light-headed from the kiss, breathing hard into his mouth.
The fingers on your clit picked up the pace as his lips began to move hastily against yours, as if he already couldn't get enough. You whined, your other hand finding his shoulder as your nails dug in. He sucked your bottom lip into his mouth, then pulled back.
His mouth met your neck again as you struggled to catch your breath, lips dragging lower and lower. Tongue darting out, he licked along the top of your tank top. He tugged on the material, exposing more of your skin until your tit spilled free. His non-human hand reached up, cupping the underside of your breast.
Heated lips closed around your nipple, pulling a whimper from you. You wiggled under his attention. The dual pleasure was making your head spin and your heart pound. His tongue licked around the sensitive bud, then flicked it before sucking it into his mouth. Gazing up at you, he softly rolled your nipple between his teeth. You sucked air through your teeth, hissing. He switched back to trailing kisses across your skin in deep devotion, leaving no space untouched.
"Have you thought 'bout this as much as I have?" he rasped against your flesh.
"Yes," you mewled shamelessly.
Inclining back, he retracted his hand with a cocky grin. "Show me."
"What?"
"Show me what you did when you thought 'bout it."
Momentarily shocked, you stared dumbly at him. He lightly pinched your thigh, grabbing your attention. "Come on, princess. Wanna hear all those pretty noises you made when you were all alone," he pressed. Scooting to the edge of the couch, he dropped to his knees before you. "Lemme help you."
Spreading your legs further apart, his hands—one icy and the other warm—drifted up your thighs. His thumbs hooked in the band of your underwear, yanking them towards him. The blush pink panties slid down your legs without much resistance. Tossing them aside, his hands snaked under your thighs, sliding you down the couch. He lifted the hem of your skirt, resting it across your stomach, revealing your bare pussy to the chilled air.
"Fuck." Bucky's tongue grazed his lower lip, ravenous. "She's so pretty."
Bending down, he kissed the inner part of your knee. "Put on a show f'me," he urged gently.
Your hands trembled lightly at your sides, nerves curling at the edges of your mind. You’d never had anyone witness something so personal before. But with a deep breath, you steadied yourself, and for reasons you couldn’t explain, being with him felt strangely comforting.
Your fingers met the skin of your thigh, tracing patterns before they moved closer to the place he couldn't keep his eyes off of. Two fingers pushed between your slick folds, gathering wetness as they skimmed through. They found your clit, mirroring the same pressure and pace as he did.
"Just like that. Nice 'n slow," he instructed. "You're doin' so good f'me, baby."
Exhaling roughly, your mouth opened in a soft 'o' as your fingers swirled around the swollen bud. Your eyes stayed locked on him, and the way he was gazing up at you, his chin gently propped on your knee with a longing in his eyes, nearly made you come on the spot.
"Spread her f'me," he whispered gravelly.
Doing as you were told, you straightened your fingers, delicately spreading the lips of your cunt. With your fingers already damp with your arousal, they glistened right alongside your pussy in this lighting. His eyes darkened, his lip getting caught between his teeth as he diligently watched you.
Your fingers dipped, sliding down the length of your pussy, and toying with your entrance. Two fingers slipped right in from how soaked you were. The noise your cunt made in response had you and Bucky groaning in unison. Your fingers sped up, caressing and curling against your plushy walls. Your free hand lifted, covering your breast and massaging it.
"Do you like to watch, Bucky?" You don't know where your boldness came from. Maybe it was being in control of your own body, or the way he looked at you like you hung the stars. Either way, the question hung between you.
"Yeah, fuck," he murmured pathetically. "Yeah, I like to watch."
The obscene sounds of your fingers going in and out of your already weeping pussy filled the air, along with the moans you just couldn't hold back.
"Listen to her talk to me," he growled, his eyelids drooping as he followed the sight of your disappearing fingers. "She sounds so fuckin' good."
Eventually, his hand snatched your wrist, and he brought the saturated pair to his lips. They enveloped your fingers, sucking them clean. He hummed at the contact of your juices on his tongue, eyelashes fluttering. He released them with a soft smack of his lips.
"Tastes so fuckin' good," he said, licking the tips of his fingers, like he just consumed his favorite meal. "Think I need more."
His hands closed around the back of your knees, pulling you until only a portion of your ass remained on the sofa. Scooping your legs up, he settled them over his shoulders, immediately diving in. His tongue flattened, licking a long stripe up your center. You gasped, your fingers carding through his hair and holding firm.
Tongue flicking over your clit, he leaned down and tenderly kissed it. He pressed his face flush with your cunt, sucking the bud hard before descending upon your clenching hole. The tip of his tongue traced around your entrance until it plunged deep into your cunt.
He pushed his face further into you, practically submerging himself in you. As he devoured you, fucking you with his tongue, his nose steadily nudged your clit. Your grip on his dark strands tightened, your thighs squeezing tighter around his head. His eyes flicked up—a predator feasting on its prey.
"Yeah, fuckin' drown me, baby," he hummed against you, patting your thigh.
Then, that same hand vanished beneath you as his mouth returned to your clit. Two fingers pushed into your pussy without warning as he slurped on your swollen bud. You squirmed above him, your hips wiggling this way and that. Metal-plated fingers reached around your thigh, his palm flattening over your lower stomach.
"I know, I know. You're close, aren't ya? Just stay still, sweet girl," he ordered gently, tapping his fingers over your belly button.
His flesh fingers curled as his tongue spiraled, leaving you a whimpering mess. The tension in your gut coiled. Your free hand bent around the edge of the couch as your hips canted. Vision flaring white, the coil snapped. You came with a cry of his name, gasping as your cunt fluttered around his thick fingers. With trembling thighs and your eyes flashing open, you let the climax wash over you.
Prolonging your orgasm, he guided you through it. He softened his ministrations to a stop when you went limp above him. He planted a lingering kiss on your inner thigh, then removed your legs from his shoulders. They flopped against the floor, boneless.
"You don't realize how beautiful you are, do you?" he asked, awestruck. "Did you know your eyes get even brighter when you cum? I didn't know that was even possible."
Attempting to get you to meet his eyes again, he shook your leg. "You still with me, princess."
You kept your gaze to the ceiling, tracing the wood panels with your vision as you slowed your breathing. "I think I went to heaven," you panted, dazed.
Bucky chuckled, rising to his full height. Interrupting your view, he hovered over you, stabilizing himself against the back of the couch. His biceps bulged on either side of his head, muscles locking as he gazed down at your blissed-out expression.
"Yup, I bartered with the angels to bring you back," he teased.
A small grin tugged at your lips, eyes glinting. "And? What did it take to bring me back?"
"Everythin'," he whispered. "But it was so fuckin' worth it."
Your breath caught, butterflies erupting in your stomach that had nothing to do with the aftereffects of your climax. He leaned down lower, snaking his arm under the curve of your spine, and lifted you.
"You gonna lemme fuck you now, baby?" he questioned carefully, forcing your legs to wrap around his waist.
Resting your arms on his shoulders, your lips brushed his, voice coming out in a sultry purr. "Fuck me, Bucky. I need it."
Eager lips pressed against his, prompting him to let out an animalistic growl. He moved, blindly feeling around his living room. As your lips parted, your teeth sank into his bottom lip, lightly tugging on it. His knee bumped the corner of the couch, stumbling forward. Luckily, his instincts kicked in. Metal arm locking, he caught himself against the wall before it caused you any harm.
You giggled into his mouth, "Careful, pretty boy."
"Are you tryin' to kill me and get yourself killed in the process?" he scoffed, righting himself before continuing the short journey to his bedroom.
"What?" you said, feigning innocence. "You said you wanted me to bite you."
"You're lucky you're cute."
He tossed you onto the bed, the mattress squeaking subtly. The softness of the blankets briefly swallowed you before you propped yourself up on your elbows. Reaching behind his back, Bucky tugged at the collar of his shirt until it was off.
This time, when you looked at his muscles, you didn't feel any guilt. Openly, you traced the lines of his battle-worn body. Every scar that the years in the Air Force granted him, or the cuts that he received from long shifts at the shop, was thoroughly admired by you.
"You're perfect," you praised.
As if he'd never heard such a compliment, he tilted his head in fondness. Then, his thumbs hooked into his sweats, yanking them down. As he pulled the cuffs from his feet, you watched his cock bob gently against his stomach.
"Holy fuck," you breathed, eyes wide and mouth agape.
He was thick. Huge. Your little exploration in the hallway as he changed didn't do him justice. You followed the veins along his cock that led to his angry, red tip. A bead of precum dripped from the slit of his dick.
Crawling to you, he settled over you. You were still staring as he positioned himself between your legs. Gripping your chin between his thumb and forefinger, he forced your gaze up.
"My eyes are up here, princess," he mocked lightly, then his tone softened. "I'll go slow, I promise. You're safe with me."
You nodded, but your mouth still felt desert-dry. "I have a confession to make."
"But 's not even Sunday," he jokingly replied.
"I wasn't looking at your arm earlier."
He hummed, amusement etching into his expression. "I also have a confession." His head dipped, mouth hovering beside your ear. "I knew."
Fingers curving around his cock, he pressed the head to your entrance, teasing it. You grasped his metal bicep, firmly planted by your head. You couldn't slow your breathing, your heartbeat galloping like a racehorse from nerves.
"Shh…" Bucky soothed. "Breathe with me. In 'n out. Yeah, that's perfect," he rambled as you matched his breathing.
The tip pushed through your folds, the thick head invading your pussy. The stretch was intense, stealing the air from your lungs. Even through his grunts of pleasure, he continued to guide you, talking you through the dull sting of his dick spreading you open.
"That's my good girl. Take it all," he groaned.
You whined brokenly as he bottomed out inside you; you'd never felt so full. Leaning back, he brushed a few damp strands out of your eyes. He pressed tender kisses to your slightly bruised nose—you were honestly so distracted by his presence that you hadn't thought about it since the accident. But he hadn't forgotten.
The attention he was giving your nose distracted you enough that by the time you had remembered the pain of him stretching you out, it had already faded. He pressed his forehead to yours, sighing in contentment.
With your pussy well-adjusted, he began rocking steadily into you. His metal hand found purchase on your hip as his other hand drifted up your arm that held the back of his neck. Securing your wrist, he drew it away, flattening your arm against the mattress. His hand glided up until he was intertwining your fingers with his. The intimacy of the gesture made it suddenly hard to swallow.
"I gotcha," he promised, squeezing your hand.
His hips picked up their pace, snapping up to meet yours. Setting a rhythmic pace, he gripped your hip with a more solid hold. Rapid breaths mingled in the space between you as the sound of skin slapping echoed around you.
The world around you fell away, and all you could see was him. He was invading your senses, leaving you completely connected to him. The worries of your personal life, everything that caused you pain, all dimmed in that moment. Because you were no longer letting those thoughts and feelings run your life.
Slamming into you, he groaned, his chin tipping back. "Baby, you feel so good. You're just perfect, aren't ya? Made just f'me."
You let out a loud, throaty moan as he hit that sweet spot deep inside you. The head of his cock bullied into your G-spot over and over until you were breathless. You arched into him, spine bowing.
Then, his hands slipped under you, lifting you. Your legs twisted as he adjusted you over top of him, straddling his thighs. Knees digging into the mattress, he thrusted up into you. Arms lifting to his shoulders, you held him. You moved with him, riding him at the pace he set. Your hips rolled, grinding against that spot that had you reeling.
A protective arm wrapped around the small of your back, fingers sprawled over your warm skin. His flesh palm rested over the back of your head as you buried your face in his shoulder. The next time he bucked up into you, your pussy clamped down hard around him. Like the force of a rising tide, you felt your climax ascend.
"'m right there," Bucky grunted. "I can feel her squeezin' me. That mean your close too, sweet girl?"
You nodded against him. "Come with me, please. I need it."
Moving in unison, the room filled with your combined sounds of pleasure. The wave came crashing down, your cunt pulsating around him. Your teeth punctured the skin of his shoulder as your second orgasm rippled through you. Hissing, his thrusts turned sloppy. Warmth spread through you, his release coating your walls as he spilled into you.
Slumping forward, your head rolling to the side. Breathing in tandem, his chest rose as yours sank. He nuzzled into your hair, inhaling your scent, and kissing the crown of your head.
You caught the teeth marks in his flesh, a flicker of concern overwhelming you. The emotion softened upon realizing you liked the sight of it. With a finger, you traced over each ridge.
"I know I said I'm not a biter," you slurred, still high on the experience. "But I have to say, it looks really good."
Bucky let out a gentle puff of air against your hair. "Oh yeah? I could get used to being marked up by you. As long as I can give you a matching one."
Lying you back on the bed, he moved over you and pressed his lips to your collarbone before sinking his teeth into the skin above it.
And though you knew there was not a soul around, you could have sworn your laugh carried for miles.
The sun appeared brighter this morning when you woke. You were drifting through Bucky's house with a pep in your step. The coffee was brewed, Alpine was fed, and you did it all while Bucky snored in the next room over.
But now with the sun sitting just above the treeline, everything felt dimmer than before. Frowning, you placed your phone on the kitchen counter. The white fluff ball, nudging at your hand, noticed your attitude change, as if she could smell it amongst the boldness of the coffee.
Your fingers carded through her fur, grounding yourself.
Warm arms enveloped you from behind, squeezing your midsection gingerly. "Mornin', princess."
"Morning," you parroted, but quieter.
Bucky stiffened behind you. "Hey, is everythin' alright?"
"I just got off the phone with my father."
"Oh," he muttered, turning you around so he could see your expression. "Judgin' by your face, 'm guessin' that didn't go well."
"No," you confirmed. "He said he was glad that I'm okay, but…" You trailed off, glancing at something over his shoulder. "He's not paying for the damages. Not unless I work for him. His wish for me to inherit his stupid company is finally coming true. I don't know why I even tried to resist it. He always wins anyway."
His brows knitted together in confusion, or maybe agitation. "Don't worry 'bout it," he said, framing your face with his massive hands. "I'll pay for it."
You scoffed, shaking him off. "No, I can't ask you to do that."
"You're not askin', 'm offerin'."
"No," you repeated more firmly. "I appreciate it, but I don't want that."
"Don't let him win," he muttered, eyes flicking between yours, searching.
"I'm trying not to," you insisted. "I guess I'll figure it out. I'll get a job, hopefully one I like, and I'll pay it off."
Bucky's lip lifted at the corner, giving you a look that could only mean trouble. "I know a place that's hirin'."
"Really?" You tilted your head, then it dawned on you what he meant. "No. Absolutely not. You were right, I don't know anything about cars. I can't work for you."
"I'll teach you," he said simply. "You don't gotta know everythin' right away. We can start slow. You can work at the front. Take calls. Schedule appointments. Take people's money…" His tone dipped into something teasing. "I know you won't have a problem with that one."
"Asshole," you chirped, slapping his chest. Then, your expression shifted into something warm. "I'll think about it."
"That's a yes," he murmured, as if he already knew.
"No, I said I'll think about it."
"Yeah, but your eyes said yes."
"You're ridiculous," you shot back, but you were grinning like an idiot.
He backed you into the counter, caging you in. "And you love it." Before you could even react, his lips were on yours, warm and inviting.
Five Months Later
The neon sign stood proudly outside Bucky's shop. It was a bright crimson that could be seen for miles, snagging just about anyone's attention. You suggested it. Because, of course, you did. You knew what customers liked, and you were right. The shop had an influx of people coming and going.
Your original suggestion was rejected. You wanted pink. He wanted blue. After bickering for half an hour, you both settled on red.
Sometimes he just had to stand there, leaning against his truck, taking it all in. The sign. The shop. His life…with you.
Eventually, he found his way to the front. His eyes scanned the poster hanging on the glass door, where the 'now hiring' sign had once lived. It read, 'Wrong Turn'—a foundation you were investing in. It was an organization specializing in drunk-driving awareness. Proud didn't even cover how he felt about it. About you, finding something that you were so passionate about. That you had poured your heart into.
Opening the door, the bell rang above him, announcing his arrival. Bucky was hit with a gust of warm vanilla layered with grapefruit, which he could practically taste on his tongue. He immediately heard the familiar sound of you singing. It was a little off-key, but unapologetically you.
Following the sound, he slipped into the garage, leaning his shoulder against the door frame. He watched you silently, a warm smile gracing his lips. You were tightening a bolt on an engine with a pink—yes, pink—wrench. In fact, your entire toolbox and tools were pink.
You finally glanced up from your task, offering him a small wave with oil-slicked fingers. "Hi, handsome," you greeted. Grabbing the rag hanging from the vehicle, you wiped the grease from your fingers.
Closing the distance, his hands found your hips, pressing a kiss to your nose. "Hey, princess." He glanced down and frowned. "What're you wearin'?"
"A shirt."
"I see that. Why is it like that?" he asked, scanning the shirt that had his logo on the front of it…but in blush pink.
"They just came in today. Isn't it cute?"
"No. Nope. I didn't agree to this."
"Buck," you drawled, a lilt to your voice. "Sam is wearing one. I have one ready for Joaquin when he comes in for work tomorrow. I even have one set aside for Alpine."
"After the pink bow incident, 'm not lettin' you put anythin' on her."
"She loved it, and she looked adorable in it. Just admit it," you muttered, poking him in the ribs.
She really did look cute in it, but he wasn't about to tell you that.
Sam stepped in then, wearing his new pink shirt, and the moment his eyes fell on the two of you, he started backing up. "Wilson, get your ass back in 'ere," Bucky called. Sam froze mid-step, turning with a guilty look on his face.
"Were you in on this?" Bucky inquired, pointing at your shirt.
"Will you dock my pay if I say yes?" Sam asked tentatively.
Bucky rubbed his forehead, groaning. "'m gettin' run out of my own shop."
"You love it," you cooed, and he only glared in return. You tried for a different approach, offering him a full, toothy smile as your eyelashes fluttered. "You love me?"
"You're lucky I love you," he corrected. "Alright, the shirts can stay."
Sam’s jaw dropped. “Wait, that’s all it took? All she had to do was bat her lashes, and you're just fine? I’ve been trying to get you to approve new uniforms for years.”
Bucky shot him a look. “Don’t push it.”
You just beamed, triumphant. "Thanks, baby," you cheered, pushing up on your tiptoes to kiss his cheek, smearing some of your glittery lip gloss on his skin.
But he didn't mind. Because for the last five months, he was happy. Content. And it was all because he'd fallen for the rich girl, who strutted into his shop with pink heels and a smile. The one who turned his world upside down with one glimpse of those bright eyes. The one who caused him to prefer chaos to his normal quiet.
And he thanked the universe every day for dropping you into his lap.
me posting this because holy shit...this took a lot out of me:
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