“LIKE ALL-FIRE”

She/her •23• Pisces

[aquaticmercy]

What Makes A Good Man?

Summary : Benjamin Poindexter finds his North Star in a sweet librarian who probably should’ve run. Still, she wouldn’t have it any other way. 

Pairing : Benjamin Poindexter x Librarian! reader (she/her)

Warnings/tags : North star! Reader, fluff (?), angst, hurt/comfort, obsessive love, unhealthy attachment, codependency, possessive behavior, stalking, morally grey reader, explicit sexual content (no anatomical detail as per usual), sex, orgasm denial, oral sex implied, voyeurism/exhibitionism themes, breeding kink, blip mentioned, conjugal visit, institutional abuse, canon-typical violence, murder, hostage situation, grief, food, pregnancy, towards the end you and Dex are mentioned to have a child called Leo. Dex isn’t the most traditional father in any sense but he eventually does love him for very specific reasons I won’t spoil. Starts two years before Daredevil season 3 and ends during DDBA season 1 (let me know if I missed anything!)

Word Count : 22k (whoopsie)

Requested by : A mix of these requests: X X X ( @faszomiskivan )

Notes : This story spans about nine years, so buckle up! Reader basically takes on Julie’s North Star role in canon, and yes, this story does explain how we get there. Enjoy!

FBI Special Agent Benjamin Poindexter didn’t know what to do with pretty.

He understood attraction in the detached, observational way he understood most things. He understood what people found objectively attractive was symmetry, pleasing aesthetics. He would observe little changes in a room when someone “beautiful” entered it. He went through it like a list: people looked longer, their voices gentled, posture adjusted without realising it. Dex knew how to recognise attractiveness because other people gave themselves away around it, because the world was always telling on itself if you paid close enough attention. But pretty was different when it was you.

Pretty was not supposed to make him forget the next thing he meant to say. Pretty was not supposed to sit under his skin like a fever. Pretty was not supposed to be you a school librarian in a pastel cardigan, with a pencil tucked through your hair and ink on your fingers, kneeling between two shelves while a little boy cried into your blouse because another child had laughed at him for reading too slowly.

Dex was at the school for an FBI community safety outreach visit. Nothing serious, nothing field-critical. It was just one of those public-facing assignments meant to make parents feel reassured and administrators feel prepared. He was supposed to stand beside the principal, nod at the right times, talk about emergency response based on a script made by the Bureau, and leave.

Instead, at the end of the day, he stood near the library doors and watched you lower your voice to soothe a child.

“Hey,” you said softly. “Don’t make yourself smaller because someone else was mean to you.”

Dex went still. The principal kept talking beside him. Something about lockdown protocols, fire exits, parent pick-up procedures, and perhaps thanking him for the visit. Dex didn’t hear any of it. He watched the little boy rub his face with his sleeve, watched you reach into your cardigan pocket and produce a tissue because of course you had one ready, because of course you had walked through life expecting the world to hurt these precious little things and had prepared yourself to help.

“Reading slowly just means you get to spend more time with the words,” you told the boy. “That’s not a bad thing.”

The boy sniffled, and you smiled at him.

Dex felt that smile land in his cold heart, somewhere it had no business being.

It would have been easier if you were only beautiful. That would have been manageable. Uncomfortable, maybe, but manageable. Beauty was a fact. Beauty could be observed, catalogued, eventually put away. You were beautiful in a way that seemed unaware of itself, unpolished and terribly human. The cardigan sleeves falling too far over your hands, the loose strand of hair stuck to your cheek, the worn soles of your cheap flats, you smiling so easily for children who probably forgot to thank you for it.

Dex thought you were gorgeous with an alarmed resentment, as if his own body had betrayed him by noticing before his mind had given permission. Then you looked up at him.

Your eyes met his across the library, and for half a second, Dex forgot what face he was supposed to be wearing. You smiled politely, like he was just another adult in the building, not a man with a gun under his jacket teaching staff how to react in case of a school shooting.

“Hi,” you said. “Sorry, do you need the library?”

The principal brightened. “This is our librarian.”

You gave Dex your name. He repeated it silently once. Then again. Then a third time, because it felt like something he should store somewhere safe, somewhere no one else could touch.

“Special Agent Poindexter,” he said, holding out his hand.

You shook it, and your hand was warm. Dex noticed that there was a tiny paper cut near your thumb. 

You were still smiling at him. Not because he was FBI, and not because he was handsome, though he was. You smiled because you were kind.

Fuck. That’s inconvenient.

Pretty made him look, but good made him stay.

That first visit should have been the last. Dex knew that. There was no operational reason for him to return personally. The school’s safety review was a basic one. The principal had his notes, but the follow-up could have been handled by email. A junior agent could have dropped off the printed materials. Anyone could have gone.

But Dex went. That second time, he poked his head to the library, and said hi. You said hi back, right after you told two boys that no, the beanbags were not for wrestling, and yes, you were very impressed by the creativity of the attempt.

Dex couldn’t stop thinking about it for a week.

The third time, he told himself it was because the library’s rear exit needed another assessment. It was technically true. The lock was old, the corridor outside had basically no surveillance, and the staff entrance was too far from the main office. He made it seem like a legitimate concern, when really, it was a neat little justification. Dex was excellent at finding those.

You were reshelving books when he appeared in the doorway, balanced on the tips of your toes as you reached for the top shelf. The hem of your blouse lifted slightly at your waist. It was nothing indecent. Barely anything at all.

Still, his mind went briefly blank. 

He cleared his throat.

You startled, turned, and smiled. “Agent Poindexter.”

Dex liked the sound of it from you. That was inconvenient too.

“Sorry,” you added, stepping down. “Am I in the way?”

“No.”

“Good. Because if you were about to tell me my fiction section is a security risk, I might cry.”

His mouth twitched before he decided to let it. “I’ll leave fiction alone.”

“Very generous of the DOJ.” That’s when he realised you were teasing him. 

Dex looked at you and thought, you have no idea what a dangerous thing that was.

After that, the visits became a pattern.

Not obvious, because Dex was never sloppy when he could help it. He didn’t go every day. He didn’t stand outside the library staring like some lovesick idiot with no self-control. He knew how to make repeated contact look procedural. 

His supervisor barely looked up from the file the fourth time it happened. “Poindexter, you handled the school outreach last week, right?”

“Yes.”

“They’ve got some updated compliance questions. I can send Nadeem.”

Dex immediately shook his head. “I’ll take it.”

His supervisor paused, but Dex kept his face still. “I’m already familiar with the layout,” he said, and what a good excuse that was. 

The whole truth was that he had thought about you every day since the first visit. You came to him through triggers. When he saw children’s drawings in a hallway. A cardigan on a mannequin The smell of old paper. A mug with painted stars on it in a café window, because you had one on your desk.

You were good, and you were pretty, and that combination felt less like attraction and more like orientation. As if Dex had spent his whole life moving without a fixed point and then walked into a school library and found one.

So, yes, he came back to the school. And, yes, eventually, he followed you home.

The first time, he told himself it was because you were the last staff member to leave again and the car park lighting was poor, so he had to make sure you were safe. It had rained earlier, leaving the pavement slick and black. You walked out with a tote bag over one shoulder and an armful of books pressed to your chest, juggling your keys between your fingers. 

Dex sat in his car and watched until you pulled out of the lot. Then he followed. He learned the route to your apartment in fourteen minutes. He cleared that you lived in a building with a front door that did not latch unless pulled hard, that the hallway light on your floor flickered, that your window faced the street and your curtains were thin enough to turn your silhouette suggestive when you moved past them with nothing on.

He hated your building immediately. The lock was bad. The street was worse. Your neighbours were careless. The man in 2B smoked on the front steps and watched women walk past like a fucking creep. The laundry room was in the basement. The side gate did not close properly.

Dex catalogued every vulnerability, then sat in his car for twenty-three minutes after your lights went out and told himself this was a reasonable concern.

He was trained to notice risk, and you just had so much of it. You were too open, too trusting, too underpaid to live somewhere safe enough. 

He found out about the money without needing to try very hard.

He figured out your exact job title, your district, and salary ranges within twenty minutes. He knew what you could afford, what you probably couldn’t, what your grocery budget looked like if your car needed work or if the school asked you to buy supplies out of pocket again. And you did, apparently. He saw the receipts in your hand one afternoon when you came out of a discount store with construction paper, glue sticks, tissues, and children’s stickers paid for with your own money.

That bothered him more than it should have. It enraged him. Not because you were helpless. Dex didn’t think that. You were competent in the way good people often were, holding ten pieces of a room together while everyone else assumed the room simply stayed whole on its own. But you were tired and stretched thin. You loved your job, the children, the library with its peeling posters and overhandled paperbacks, but love didn’t pay rent.

I could, he thought. Dex could pay your rent without noticing. He could buy groceries without checking his account. He could fix the lock. Replace the car. Put you somewhere safe and close. That’s… a good reason to ask you out, right?

If he ever had the courage. 

By the fifth visit, you laughed when you saw him. “Again?”

Dex stopped in the library doorway, because he insisted to the bureau that some of the teachers were security risks. “Again.”

“Should I be worried about the state of our emergency preparedness?”

“No.”

“Should I be worried about you?” That caught him off-guard.  Your tone was teasing, but your eyes were warm and curious.

Should I be worried about you?

Yes, he thought. Probably.

Instead, he said, “No.”

You narrowed your eyes in mock suspicion. “I don’t know. Five visits to the school. Either we are extremely unsafe, or you really like laminated evacuation maps.”

Dex looked at the map beside your door. “It’s a good map.”

You burst out laughing.

Dex loved the sound immediately and started to memorise it so he could copy it when you made a joke. More than that, he wanted to be responsible for it. He wanted to know what your laugh sounded like in his car. In his kitchen. Against his mouth.

The thought came so suddenly that his teeth clenched.

You noticed. Your smile softened, and Dex had the devastating impression that you thought you had embarrassed him. “I’m sorry,” you said. “I didn’t mean to make fun of you.”

“You didn’t.”

“Okay.” You tilted your head. “Good.”

Good. The word followed him home.

So did you, though not physically. Not yet. But your image, your voice, the way you said his name after he told you to call him Dex, the way you remembered he took tea plain after seeing him drink it once in the staff room. The way you handed him a paper cup and said, “I made too much,” as if generosity was just something that spilled out of you naturally.

And then there were the guys around you.

He had watched a math teacher who lingered at your desk too long after school, making you laugh over some stupid story about a parent email. A divorced father at pick-up who asked whether you ever took private tutoring work and then smiled in a way Dex didn’t like. A man you met for coffee one Friday evening, two neighbourhoods over, at a café with steamed windows and terrible parking.

Dex hadn’t meant to follow you there. That was a lie.

He had followed you there because you had worn lipstick, the kind you probably put on in your rearview mirror after work, thinking no one would notice.

The date was unremarkable. The man was unremarkable. He wore a blue shirt, laughed too loudly, and checked his phone while you were talking. Dex watched from across the street with his hands still on the steering wheel and felt jealousy move through him.

The man was wrong for you.

He was careless, dull, and too impressed with himself. He made you pay for your own tea. That alone felt like a crime.

You left to do some off-the-clock work, and your date stayed. Dex waited until the man left to use the bathroom, then walked into the café and passed close enough to his table to see the phone he had left face-up beside his plate. He saw a message from someone named Laura lit the screen with a heart attached.

Dex smiled. That was useful.

The next morning, he sent an anonymous message to Laura. The following week, you didn’t see blue-shirt again.

You looked a little sad about it on Monday. Dex hated that. Then he hated the man more for making you sad. Then he told himself it was better this way.

It became easier to scare off your dates after that. All it took was an inconvenient scheduling conflict, a resurfaced truth, a gentle nudge. One man had an outstanding warrant for unpaid fines. One was married. One was simply easy to scare with the right look from the right federal agent in a parking lot.

By the sixth visit to the school, there was no reason good enough to fool anyone but himself.

A “Penultimate walkthrough,” he called it, before the final walkthrough next week. 

The principal seemed pleased, though you looked amused. “Penultimate?” you asked when Dex appeared outside the library.

“Yes.”

“Should I be honoured?”

“You should feel secure.”

“I do. The biography section has never been safer.”

He looked at you, and you smiled like you were proud of yourself. Dex couldn’t help but copy that smile back. Your expression changed when you saw it, going still for one second, like you liked him, too.

That day, he walked through the library with you while you pointed out doors and windows and places the children liked to hide during reading hour. This corner was where the overwhelmed ones went. That shelf had the books no one returned on time because they loved them too much. The lamp near the beanbag was too warm if left on all day, but you kept it anyway because the kids said it made the corner feel cozy.

“This is where they go when they need silence,” you said, gesturing toward a little space tucked behind a low shelf. A lamp. A basket of soft toys. Books with soft edges. A handmade sign that read: take a breath.

Dex looked at it.

You had made a place for children to be afraid safely. Of course you had.

“You did this?” he asked.

You shrugged, suddenly shy. “It’s not much.”

Dex looked at you. “It is.”

You met his eyes, and for a moment, the library noise faded behind you.

After that, he wanted to give you things. He wanted to give you better shoes. Better locks. A safer car. A warmer apartment. Groceries you did not buy with mental arithmetic running behind your eyes. A kitchen where your tea sat beside his coffee because it belonged there. A bed you didn’t have to assemble yourself. A life where you did not walk to your car alone. He wanted your life folded into his so completely that you never again had to stand unprotected in the world.

It was raining the day he finally asked.

The sky had turned the school windows grey, and the car park outside shone black under the streetlights. Most of the staff had already left. The corridors had emptied, and you were the last one in the library again.

Dex had lingered through a conversation with the principal he barely needed to have after the final walkthrough. He had checked the same exit twice. He had waited near the lobby until your light was the only one still glowing down the hall.

Then you came out with a tote bag sliding down your shoulder and a cardboard box of donated books pressed against your hip. Your umbrella refused to open, and you stared at it like it had stabbed you.

“Need help?”

You startled, then relaxed when you saw him. “Dex.” You laughed, breathless and embarrassed. “Do you just appear whenever I’m losing a fight?”

“Your umbrella is inside out,” he pointed out, before taking the box from you.

You tried to hold on. “I can carry that.”

“I know.”

“Then why did you take it?”

“Because it’s raining.”

You looked at him for a second, then smiled, soft and helpless and too fond for his sanity.

“Okay,” you said, as if letting him carry a box was nothing. As if it didn’t make a dark and pleased thought settle low in his chest.

He walked you to your car and put the books in the back seat. He noted the old jumper on the passenger side, the stack of overdue returns, the half-empty water bottle, the evidence of your life that was still not his.

You stood beside him under the broken umbrella, rain misting your hair.

You were gorgeous, he thought.

It struck him then in the stupidest way. No analysis or clinical separation. Just so pretty it made him feel young and strange and almost angry with himself.

“What?” you asked, smiling like you could tell he was staring.

Dex could’ve said nothing. He could have smiled, stepped back, wished you a good night, returned to his car, and come up with another reason to see you next week.

Instead, he looked at you and thought of your whole life together. Then he said it. “Have dinner with me.”

Your smile faded into surprise. The rain tapped against the broken umbrella between you. You blinked once. It wasn’t really a question, was it?  “With you?”

“Yes.”

“As in…”

“A date.”

Your cheeks warmed. Dex watched the colour rise and tilted his head.

“Oh,” you said softly. Then, after a second, you smiled. “Okay.”

Just like that, he got what he wanted. 

—

The first date was dinner at your favourite restaurant, though you couldn’t recall ever telling Dex that.

You paused outside the little place with the handwritten menu in the window, your hand tucked into the crook of his arm. “Oh,” you said, surprised. “I love this place.”

Dex looked down at you, calm as anything. “Do you?”

You laughed. “I come here all the time.”

“I didn’t know that.”

The lie was smooth, but Dex said it with such calm that you accepted it because you wanted to. So you smiled up at him and said, “Then we have similar taste.”

His eyes held on your face. “Maybe we do.”

“Maybe we belong together then,” you joked.

Dex’s brain went to a catastrophic halt.

You didn’t see it from the outside, not really. His face barely changed. Maybe his eyes went a little too still. Maybe his fingers pressed once, carefully, against your hand where it rested on his sleeve.

But inside him, his heart lit up white-hot. Belong together.

You had said it so lightly. Dex heard it like a verdict. Like the universe had leaned down and put a hand on his shoulder and said, yes, that one.

He opened the restaurant door for you and followed you inside with your words still burning through him.

You had no idea he had chosen this restaurant because he had followed you there three weeks before, parked across the street while you sat by the window with two friends and laughed over a bowl of pasta. You had no idea he had watched you order the same thing twice. You had no idea he knew which seat you liked, which dessert you split with your friend and pretended not to want more of, which route you took home afterward, how tightly you held your coat closed when the wind picked up.

But yeah, dinner was great. 

The second date was coffee because you were trying to take things slower.

He was already there when you arrived, sitting by the window with your drink waiting in front of the empty chair. Your exact order, right size, right syrup.  He claimed similar taste innocently again. 

You should have been alarmed. Instead, you chuckled and sat down.

Coffee turned into a walk. The walk turned into him standing beside your car, close enough that your shoulder brushed his sleeve. He looked at your mouth once, then back at your eyes. “Can I kiss you?”

You didn’t even answer. You just stood on your tip toes and kissed him, carefully at first. But his hand came to cup your face, so you made a hum into his mouth and felt him unravel. 

When he pulled back, his eyes were dark. You smiled, dazed. 

The third date was dinner at his apartment.

He cooked for you, because apparently Dex did everything like it was a mission and feeding you was no exception. His apartment was neat  and perfectly arranged, but then you were there with your jacket on the back of his chair and your laugh in his kitchen, and he kept looking at those little disruptions were worth you being here.

The food was good, so you smiled and pushed a little harder. “You’re very good at taking care of me.”

Dex went still, and you could’ve sworn his ears went pink. 

After dinner, you kissed him on the couch. That was all it was supposed to be: A kiss.

Yes, maybe Dex made it feel a little too deep. Maybe it was too hungry. Maybe it was a little reckless, considering this was only the third date and you weren't the kind of woman who did things like this. You didn’t tumble into a man’s bed after three dates and let your body make decisions your brain would have to defend in the morning.

Your brain was trying, to be fair. The little voices there had formed a whole committee meeting about it.

This is too fast. This is insane. You have work tomorrow. You barely know him.

Unfortunately, Dex was kissing you, open-mouthed and desperate, his hands tight on your waist, breathing against you like every second of restraint physically hurt him, and your body didn’t seem particularly interested in attending the discussion.

You climbed into his lap because there was nowhere else you wanted to be.

Dex let out a breathy moan when you settled over him,  his head tipping back against the couch. His shirt was still on, but you had already pulled half the buttons open, enough to get your hands on skin, enough to feel his chest rise under your palms every time your mouth found his again.

Your skirt was hiked high around your thighs, his fingers trembling at the hem of it.

Dex, who could easily take what he wanted, sat beneath you with his hands on your thighs and waited for you to tell him he was allowed.

You kissed him harder for it.

His mouth opened under yours immediately, wet and so eager that you felt your stomach twist. You threaded your fingers into his hair and tugged once, just to steady yourself, just to feel him closer.

Dex sighed into your mouth.

“Oh,” you whispered, breathless.

His eyes opened, fixed on you. You smiled because you understood then that Benjamin Poindexter liked being told what to do.

He wanted to be good for you. He wanted to earn every sound you made.

You shifted in his lap, and his whole body reacted. His fingers slid higher under your skirt, then stopped again.

“Dex,” you breathed.

His throat worked. “Tell me.”

You leaned down, your lips brushing his as you spoke. “Touch me.”

He obeyed so fast it made you gasp.

Your panties were pulled to the side with clumsy, shaking urgency, his pants shoved down just enough because neither of you had the patience anymore. It was filthy how desperate it was. There was no time for the bedroom, no careful undressing, no pretending this was slower than it was. It was you in his lap, his open shirt under your hands, your skirt bunched around your waist, both of you panting into each other’s mouths like you had been struck by fucking lightning.

He was so intense you expected him to take over. Because he could’ve flipped you under him. He could have pinned you to the couch and made you forget every thought you had ever had. He had the body, he had muscles, he had the skills. 

Instead, he looked at you like he needed permission to breathe. “Like that?” he breathed.

You nodded, nails dragging over his chest nodding frantically. “Don’t stop.”

He didn’t.

Dex listened like obedience was devotion, like your pleasure was a commandment, like the only thing in the world that mattered was keeping you exactly like this: skirt up, mouth open, shaking in his lap while he looked up at you like you were holy.

You knew this was too quick. You never had one night stands. Even three dates was way too quick, by your standards. 

But his hands were on your waist, his shirt was open, his breathing was breaking, and when you whispered, “Fuck, baby,” he shuddered so hard beneath you that all your remaining common sense died on the couch.

Afterward, you stayed folded against him, both of you warm and breathless, your face tucked into his neck.

Dex’s hand moved slowly up your back, careful now. 

You lifted your head enough to look at him. His hair was wrecked. His mouth was red. His eyes were softer than you had ever seen them, though there was still a frightening stillness underneath, satisfied and hungry and already too attached.

You touched his cheek. “I should probably go home.”

Dex went still.

He looked at you from beneath those dark lashes, still flushed, still breathing hard, still beautiful enough to make bad decisions feel like fate. “Stay the night,” he said, trying not to say please.

You swallowed. “I have work tomorrow.”

“I’ll drive you.”

“My things are at home.”

“You can wear something of mine.”

“I need my toothbrush.”

“I have a spare.”

A laugh slipped out of you, helpless and fond. Of course he did. 

Dex’s mouth barely moved, and it was always a smile.

He looked at you like he needed you to say yes and hated that you could tell. Like letting you leave after this would physically hurt. Like you had crawled into his lap and accidentally turned yourself into the centre of his orbit.

You should go home. Your sensible little inner committee was banging on the table now.

But Dex looked at you like he was unaware he had puppy dog eyes, and you couldn’t say no to that, right? 

So you kissed him once. “M’kay, baby,” you said.

Dex held you tighter then, giving an upbeat little whine as he peppered kisses on your collarbone.

Little did you know, there was no going back now. 

—

The next day, Dex picked you up from work, even though you hadn’t asked him to.

He had driven you that morning as promised, his hands on your waist while he kissed you goodbye like he was trying not to follow you into the school library.

You had spent the whole day after that with his shirt on, but it was terribly oversized on you. Still, you managed to make it look intentional under your blazer, tucked and adjusted just enough that no one could tell. You had pinned your hair neatly, put your librarian face on, and acted very normal. Very professional of you, honestly.

Then the final bell rang, the library emptied, and by the time you stepped out of the front entrance with your bag over your shoulder, Dex was already there, waiting by his car with a suit jacket on and badge hidden. 

You stopped mid-step. “Oh,” you said, lighting up.  Beside you, Jonathan stopped too.

Jonathan, the music teacher. Nice Jonathan. Harmless Jonathan. Jonathan who lived two streets away from you and always carried a canvas tote bag with an embarrassing number of reusable water bottles inside it. He had been walking with you because you didn’t have your car with you and he offered to drive you home because you were both headed in the same direction. 

Dex’s grip tightened around his keys.

You were still wearing his shirt, and this man wanted to take you home? Cute.

“Dex?” you called, surprised.

Dex barely spared Johnathan a glance. He came to you instead, handsome in that frightening l way, his attention fixed you that it made the other man feel like background noise.

“What are you doing here?” you asked.

“Picking you up.”

You blinked, then laughed softly. “Why?”

Because you were wearing my shirt. Because I spent all day knowing you were out of sight. Because I don’t like it when you’re not with me.

“Your car’s not here,” he said, and that was reasonable enough, right?

“Oh.” You glanced back. “Jonathan was going to offer me a ride. He lives a few blocks away, so—”

“No.” The word came out flat.

You tilted your head, confused. You tried to recover, sweet thing that you were, turning half toward the man beside you. “Dex, this is Jonathan. He’s the music teacher. Jonathan, this is—”

Dex opened the passenger door. “You’re coming with me.”

Jonathan stopped with his polite smile halfway formed.

You looked at Dex for a second, and your sensible little inner voice probably tried to say something about how this was strange. 

Then Dex looked at you, and you melted, because fuck! Some foolish, lovesick part of you found that endearing. He came all this way for me? 

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Jonathan,” you said gently.

Dex shut the passenger door after you climbed in and stood there for one extra second, hand still on the handle, the word burning through him. What did that mean?

He got into the car.

The drive started silent. You settled beside him, and Dex saw you cozy up one the corner of his eye and had to tighten both hands on the wheel.

“Tomorrow?” he asked finally.

You looked over. “Hm?”

“You said you’d see him tomorrow.”

A little smile pulled at your mouth. You leaned across the console and kissed his cheek, like you thought jealousy was cute when it came from him.

“We work together, Dex.”

Oh. Okay. Okay. That’s fine, right?

Normal boyfriends were fine with that, right?

Still.

Then, asked if you wanted to come over to his place again because he couldn’t help himself. Because having you in the passenger seat made it feel obscene to let you leave again. Because you were already dressed in his things and smelled faintly like his apartment and he couldn’t understand why the day had to end anywhere else.

You looked down at yourself and laughed. “Dex, I am literally wearing your clothes. I need to go to mine.”

He kept his expression calm, but his fingers went still on the wheel.

You noticed enough to furrow your brows. “I’ve got work stuff to do,” you said. “I’ll call soon, okay?”

He nodded. He could do that. He could be normal. He could drive you to your car and let you go back to your apartment with its bad lock and pathetic hallway light and no trace of him except the marks he had left under your clothes. He could.

He pulled up beside your car outside your building and watched you unbuckle your seatbelt. You said your goodbyes and were halfway out when he blurted out, “I love you.”

You stopped.

Fuck. Fuck! 

He had not planned it like that. Not in the car, and definitely not with you leaving. But there it was.

You turned back to him slowly.

For a second, you bit your lip in shock. 

It was quick. Too quick to say that. You’ve been going on dates for what? Two weeks? 

You supposed he’d been around the school for two months now with the outreach program. But even that didn’t really make sense, right?

So now, your inner committee was no longer holding a meeting. It was pounding on the table, screaming that this was insane, that love wasn’t supposed to arrive between a third date and a school pick-up, that normal people didn’t do this.

But Dex was looking at you like you hung the stars for him. 

So leaned back into the car and kissed him. Gently first, then deeper, because his hand found your jaw like he had been waiting for permission to touch you again since the school gates.

“I love you, too,” you whispered.

Oh. Oh.

You left before you could take it back.

Dex watched you wave from your door, hands resting on the wheel, mouth curved in a small, helpless smile he couldn’t seem to stop.

She loves me.

The thought repeated all the way home.

She loves me. She loves me. She loves me.

By the time he reached his apartment, he was still smiling.

Then he opened the door, and the smile vanished immediately because you were not there.

The apartment was exactly the same as it had been that morning, clean and perfectly ordered, but suddenly none of that mattered. The couch was empty. The kitchen was empty. The bed was empty. All those neat, controlled rooms had become useless because you weren’t inside them.

Dex stood in the doorway with his keys in his hand and felt his stomach in him turn over.

You loved him, so why were you not here?

The question sat in his head with terrible simplicity. 

You loved him. He loved you. He could take care of you. He had the space, the money, the locks, the discipline. Your apartment was unsafe. Your building was bad. Your neighbours were careless. Jonathan from music lived too close. The world kept touching you and taking from you and making you tired.

Here was safer. Here, it made sense. Here, he could see you.

The thought came fully formed before he knew to stop it.

He could go get you.

He could get in the car. Drive to your apartment. Knock. Tell you that you should change your mind. Tell you the city was unsafe. Tell you your lock was bad. Tell you to pack a bag. Tell you you belonged in his apartment. Tell you until you believed him.

If you said no, he could still bring you back.

He was stronger than you. Faster than you. He was trained. He knew exactly how to move you without hurting too badly. He could overpower you, get you inside his apartment, lock the door, hide the keys, take your phone just for a while. He’d you keep warm. Feed you. Talk to you until the panic passed. He’d do that just until you understood. Because you would understand.

You loved him, so eventually you would understand that this was not cruelty, right?  This was not punishment. This was him seeing the truth faster than you did. This was him making the hard decision because someone had to. This was him saving you from all the places that were not him.

It took him an embarrassingly long time to realise that was kidnapping.

Actually, legally, literally kidnapping.

Kidnapping. False imprisonment. Coercion. Felony. It was bad.

“Oh,” he whispered. Then, after a beat, “Shit.”

His breath went wrong. The heat in him snapped into panic so quickly he nearly staggered. He saw himself then, not as a man in love, not as someone protecting his girlfriend, but as exactly the kind of thing you would need protecting from.

No.

No, no, no.

He backed away from the door like it had opened onto a cliff.

He loved you. He loved you. He wasn’t going to make you afraid of him. He wasn’t going to put his hands on you. He wasn’t going to lock you inside his life and pretend that was the same thing as being chosen.

Even if some awful part of him wanted to. Especially because some awful part of him wanted to.

Dex went to the drawer with shaking hands and pulled out the tapes.

Dr. Eileen Mercer’s voice filled the apartment through a soft crackle of static. “Your internal compass isn’t broken, Dex. It just works better with a North Star to guide you.”

Dex sank onto the couch.

North Star.

That was what you were.

Of course you were. You, with your kind heart and your gentle voice and your stupidly good heart. You, making safe corners for children. 

He had simply made the catastrophic mistake of falling in love with the star.  Which complicated things.

Because you were supposed to guide him, not belong to him. You were supposed to be fixed above him, untouchable enough to follow. Not in his apartment. Not in his bed. Not wearing his shirt and saying I love you in his car like you had any idea what those words would do to a man like him.

Dex pressed the heels of his hands over his eyes and forced himself to breathe while the tape kept playing through the static.

The apartment was still wrong without you. His hands still shook. The need to leave and get you didn’t disappear just because he had named it correctly. The desire sat there, dark and patient, waiting for him to mistake it for devotion again. But he stayed where he was.

He stayed on the couch with his teeth clenched so hard it ached, listening to the tape like it was the only thing holding him in place.

He loved you. That had to mean something better than possession. It had to.

So Dex sat in the empty apartment and tried, breath by breath, to become the kind of man who could love his North Star without building a sky small enough to trap her.

—

Dex barely made it through the week by hearing your voice through the phone.

You were busy with the school, chaperoning a trip, dealing with children and permission slips and packed lunches and museum gift shops, so he did the good thing, the normal thing. He didn’t show up. He didn’t follow the bus route. He didn’t appear outside your apartment just because he knew you would be exhausted.

Well. Maybe he just did it once, but he didn’t even stop! He just took a quick peek around the block to make sure you got home safe. 

After that, he took it one day at a time.

At night, he lay in bed with the phone pressed to his ear and listened to you talk when you called. You told him about the children, the chaos, the little girl who tried to correct the tour guide, the boy who cried because his sandwich got crushed in his bag.

He hated that he couldn't tell if you were warm enough. Hated that you sounded exhausted and he wasn’t there to put a blanket over your shoulders or press his mouth to your temple or make the world stop asking things of you for five minutes. But he behaved.

When you said, “I’m so tired, baby,” he closed his eyes like the world wrapped a hand around his throat.

When you said, “I miss you,” he pressed his fist against his mouth until the feeling passed enough for him to answer normally.

“I miss you too.” An understatement so violent it almost made him laugh.

Then you came back to regular life, and started spending more time with him. 

And naturally, you started spending more nights at his place.

It was easy. His apartment was closer to the school. His shower was better. His fridge always had food you liked. Your tea was already in his cupboard. Your toothbrush was still in his bathroom from that first night, and the spare charger by his bed somehow became yours without either of you discussing it.

One night a week became two. Two nights a week became most of the week.

Your laundry ended up in his machine. Your favourite cardigan stayed folded in his bedroom. Your substitute teaching papers got graded at his kitchen table while he made dinner. Your commute became easier because he drove you when he could, and when he couldn’t, he made sure your car had petrol, the tyres were checked, and the weird noise under the hood had been fixed before it became a problem.

It was dangerous, how much easier he made your life.

Dangerous because you were a school librarian on a school librarian salary, and Dex had big boy FBI paychecks and paid for groceries without mentally rearranging the rest of the month around it.

You tried to argue about that once. He looked genuinely offended.

“I should help,” you said.

“You do.”

“I mean with bills.”

“You buy supplies for children who are not yours because no one else will. Let me pay for dinner.”

That shut you up, not because it was fair. But because it was kind. Or because it sounded kind. Or because, with Dex, the difference had started to blur.

Your car made a noise; he had it checked. Your shoes wore thin; a new pair appeared by the door. You mentioned once that you were out of your favourite cereal, and the next morning there were two boxes in his cupboard.

By five months, you were barely at your own apartment.

You still paid rent. You still had mail there. Technically, you still lived there. But most nights, you went home to Dex.

Then one night, while you sat at his kitchen table grading reading logs and wearing one of his shirts under your cardigan, Dex said, “You should move in.”

You looked up. “What?”

“You should move in here.”

He said it so calmly. Like he was pointing out the weather. Like he had not been waiting weeks to say it. Like he had not already measured the space in his closet, looked up your lease date, and made sure there was room for your books.

You felt your inner committee rise from the dead.

Babe. What the fuck. Five months. Are you actually considering this? What’s wrong with you? Huh?

So you pushed back, but not very well.

“Dex,” you said, looking around his apartment. “We’ve been dating for five months.”

“I know.”

“Moving in would be very quick.”

“I know.”

But would it? You were at his kitchen table in one of his shirts, your papers stacked on his coffee table, your mug in his sink, your shoes by his door. Half your life was already there.

Suddenly, Dex leaned down and kissed you before you could keep arguing.

He did it because he had seen men do it in movies when they wanted to calm the woman they loved. 

That was how affection started with him, really.  He imitated touch. He put a hand on your waist because that was what boyfriends did. He rubbed circles over your hip because that was what loving partners did.

But then you melted under his hands and sighed into his mouth. Your fingers curled lightly into the front of his shirt.

And Dex thought, oh. So that was what it was supposed to feel like.

So after the first time, it no longer felt like pretending. It was no longer fake, no longer a costume he wore to convince you he could be normal.

He liked this. He liked the warmth beneath his palms. Liked the trusting weight of you leaning into him. Liked that touching you made him feel whole.  His thumbs kept moving in slow circles at your hips, more because he wanted to than because he remembered he was supposed to.

“I love you,” he murmured.

You closed your eyes like the words had done exactly what he hoped they would. “Dex…”

“You love me too.”

You laughed softly. “That is a terrible argument.”

“It’s my best one.”

Unfortunately, it was.

You hummed, but you were smiling now, and Dex felt his whole chest go warm.

He kissed you again, a little braver this time, still rubbing those gentle circles into your hips like he had finally found a love language that made sense in his hands.

You sighed, and he smiled against your mouth. It surprised him, even after five months, how much he wanted to be good at this. 

“Okay,” you whispered.

Dex went very still.

You opened your eyes and looked up at him, soft and doomed and already half his. “Okay, baby. I’ll move in.”

—

People got weird when you told them you had moved in with Dex.

Your friends did that careful-smile thing. Your mother went quiet on the phone before saying, “Already?” like the word had three question marks and a police report attached. One coworker just blinked at you over her mug and said, “Wow. That’s… fast.”

You kept giving the same answers. My lease was ending. His place is closer. It makes sense financially. He takes care of me.

Jonathan was the most obvious about it.

You told him in the staff room, after he was complaining about one of his classes committing recorder-based psychological warfare. “I moved in with Dex,” you said, trying to sound casual.

Slowly, he turned around. “Your fed boyfriend?”

“He has a name.”

“Agent Intense?”

“Dex.”

“Right. Your fed boyfriend.” He stared at you. “That’s so fast.”

You sighed. Here we go again. “My lease was ending.”

“You’ve known him for six months.”

“If you count his school outreach, seven actually.”

“That’s not better.”

You crossed your arms, already defensive. “He’s not bad.”

“I didn’t say bad,” he shrugged, “I think more like…  creepy.”

“Jonathan.”

“What? He once looked at me like I was trying to steal you because I offered you a ride home.”

“He’s just protective, that’s all,” you huffed.

“I’m gay.”

“I know that.”

“Does he?”

“He does now,” you said.

“Does he care?”

You opened your mouth and closed it. Because no, Dex didn’t care when you told him. Johnathan was still just another person standing between you and him, platonic or romantic or whatever. Jonathan could have been gay, married, celibate, and allergic to women, and Dex still would have watched him with that flat suspicion the second he stood too close to you.

Jonathan pointed his teaspoon at you. “Exactly.”

Your phone buzzed before you could answer.

Dex: Did you eat lunch?

You smiled and held up the phone like evidence. “See? He’s sweet.”

Jonathan looked at the message, then at you. “Sure,” he said carefully. “Sweet.”

You texted back yes, baby, and when Dex replied within seconds, Jonathan sighed. You ignored him.

After all, Dex cared. That was all.

—

The people who thought the move-in was quick were in for a treat, because one month after you moved into Dex’s apartment, he asked you to marry him in the back seat of his car.

See, you had shown up because summer holidays had made you stupid with missing him. You were bored. You had no school, no library chaos, no children asking where the glitter glue went. Just too much free time and the embarrassing realization that you had become the kind of woman who missed her boyfriend at eleven-thirty in the morning like an addict running out of nicotine patches.

So you brought him lunch and went to his workplace. That was a normal girlfriend thing, right? Except the lunch did not get opened.

Dex had barely gotten the car door shut before you were kissing him, and he had barely made it through the first breath of your mouth before his hand slid under your thigh and dragged you into his lap in the back seat.

“Dex,” you laughed into his mouth.

He made a low and lewd sound into his mouth. Then his hands were on you again, pushing your skirt up around your hips with a little too much force, a little too much need, until the seam gave with an unmistakable rip of fabric.

Dex stared at the torn fabric in his hand with the horrified focus of a man who had committed a federal offence against cotton blend. “I’ll buy you another one.”

“That is not the point,” you chuckled.

“I’ll buy you five.”

You should have been annoyed. But his eyes were black with want, and there was something so obscenely flattering about Benjamin Poindexter accidentally ruining your clothes because he needed you too badly to be careful. So you tightened your fist in his tie and pulled. “Later,” you whispered.

Dex obeyed, because liked it when you pulled him by it. He liked the pressure, the direction, the filthy little reminder that he was still half-dressed for work while you were undoing him in the back of his own car. His mouth opened under yours, hands clamped on your hips like he was trying not to lose the last piece of his mind.

Your inner committee, exhausted from the moving-in situation and still technically on unpaid leave, attempted to return to service.

Babe. This is his workplace. This is a federal garage.

Babe, your skirt is ripped.

Babe, we cannot keep replacing clothes every time this man gets horny and emotional.

Then Dex kissed down your throat and the committee immediately lost quorum.

By the time you were done and either of you remembered he had to go back inside, the windows were fogged at the edges. His hair was ruined from your hands. His tie was loose and crooked. His shirt was open at the collar, your lipstick low enough on his skin that he would need to button all the way up and pray no one noticed. His mouth was swollen. 

You sat in his lap, skirt torn and shoved badly back into place, one hand still looped lazily around his tie. “You have to go back in,” you whispered.

His forehead rested against yours. “I know.”

“You look…”

His eyes lifted to yours.

You smiled. “Compromised.”

Dex’s mouth twitched. His thumbs moved on your thighs, circling through the thin fabric of your ruined skirt.

You tugged his tie gently. “I should let you go.”

His hands tightened, only barely.

“Marry me,” he said suddenly, as if he would die if he let you leave without saying it first.

For a second, you just stared at him. Somewhere inside your head, your inner committee walked back into the room, saw the situation, and immediately considered retiring.

Babe, no. Babe, absolutely not. Babe, stand up for yourself!

“What?” you managed to choke out.

“Marry me,” Dex calmly, like the idea had been sitting in him for weeks, waiting for the right opening, and apparently the right opening was you flushed and breathless in his back seat. 

“Dex.”

“I love you.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake. Your inner committee sighed so hard the lights flickered.

“I love you,” he said again, quieter. “You love me. We already live together. It gives you legal protection. If something happens to me, you’re taken care of. If something happens to you, they call me first.”

“You are making a case,” you realised, though you shouldn't have been surprised.

He just shrugged. “I don’t see why we shouldn’t get married.”

There it was, the simple Dex logic of it: I love you. You love me. Why wouldn’t we?

It was reasonable if you ignored the fact that he was clearly halfway to losing his mind and had probably been planning this long before he said it out loud. Because sure, the practical reasons were true. But underneath all that, there was the darker, sweeter logic he kept tucked behind his teeth: If you were only his girlfriend, you could change your mind. You could wake up one morning, decide he was too much, pack a bag, and walk out before he had time to kiss you and remind you how gentle he could be when he was trying. A girlfriend could leave in one terrible conversation. A wife had to take steps.

And Dex loved steps. You’d have to go through lawyers, papers, and waiting periods. A marriage would buy him time, and time meant he could come to you, he could hold your face, and remind you that you loved him as much as he loved you. He would never hurt. But if the law could slow you down long enough for him to convince you that leaving was a mistake, Dex couldn’t help loving that, too.

He didn’t say that, though. He only looked at you with his hair mussed and his mouth ruined and said, “It makes sense.”

Your inner committee made one last brave attempt: Babe. Please. We JUST moved in.

But you banged the gavel at the head of your imaginary table and pouted. But look at him! He’s so hot! 

In the real world, Dex was looking at you like you were already his wife, like the ring was only a formality. Then he kissed you, tenderly this time.

“I love you,” he murmured against your mouth.

The committee dropped their clipboard. Fine, you win, they seemed to say, Whatever you say, handsome.

You laughed weakly into the kiss, and Dex pulled back just enough to look at you.

“What?”

You touched his face, thumb brushing over his cheekbone, and felt him lean into it like affection was still new enough to surprise him.

“Yes,” you whispered, hand tightening in his tie. “Yes, baby. I’ll marry you.”

For a second, he looked almost scared by how happy it made him. Then his arms locked around your waist and pulled you close, his face turning into your neck, breath hot and uneven against your skin.

“But you really do have to go back inside,” you whispered with a chuckle.

Dex lifted his head. He looked ruined, happy, and possessive in a way that should have made you run but somehow only made you kiss him again. “I have ten more minutes.”

You giggled and pulled him in by the tie.

Your inner committee walked directly into the sea, never to be seen again.

—

Dex let you pick the rings.

The engagement ring first, because he said you were the one wearing it, so you should love it. Then the wedding bands, including his, even though he tried to act like he didn’t care what his looked like. That lasted until you slid a simple band onto his finger in the shop and watched his whole face go still, almost overwhelmed.

A month later, you married him at the courthouse.

It was too soon for anyone around you to feel truly comfortable about it. Your family came anyway. Your friends came anyway. Even Jonathan, looking like he had accepted his role as the last remaining voice of reason, and still failing anyway. On Dex’s side, there was a couple of coworkers standing near the back in neat suits, polite and reserved, present more like witnesses than family.

Dex had no parents, no siblings, no cousins, no childhood friends with embarrassing stories. No one who could say they had known him when he was young. No one who could reassure your parents he was a good person through and through. Just coworkers, Ray congratulating him as the rest of his coworkers stood on the courthouse hallway while your side filled the room with nervous affection and badly hidden concern.

You saw the way your mother looked at him. The way your friends glanced at one another when they realised there was no one on his side who really belonged to him. It made them uneasy, and because you loved him, you rushed to explain it in your head before anyone even asked. His parents were dead. He grew up alone. It was complicated. He didn't have people the way other people had people.

You said little pieces of that aloud, as if it explained half of it away. Maybe to you, it did. Maybe that was a teeny part of the reason you kept choosing him. Dex had no one, and then he had you. But it was also tender, in its own damaged way. He stood across the room in his suit, eyes finding you every few seconds as if checking that you were still real, still walking toward him eventually. He looked alone until he looked at you.

The problem was not that Dex didn't love you. Anyone with eyes could see that he clearly did. That was half the horror, really. 

He loved you devoutly, too much for such a small courthouse. His attention followed you like a sniper scope. When someone hugged you, his eyes moved there. When Jonathan made you laugh, his face soured. When you looked at him, though, everything in him relaxed so completely that even your worried friends had to see it.

The ceremony itself was almost absurdly short, just a few legal words. A few signatures. Then came the ring that he slid on to your finger with a reverence that made your throat ache. His thumb lingered over the band once it was in place, brushing the metal like proof, like possession he was trying very hard to make gentle.

Your family saw it. Your friends saw it. Ray probably saw it too. But no one said anything anymore. They had tried to warn you. They had tried to tell you it was fast, intense, worrying. They had tried to point out all the red flags. But standing there, with Dex looking at your ring like the world had finally given him permission to keep the one good thing he had found, you knew why none of their warnings had worked.

Because you knew they were not entirely wrong. You just loved him anyway.

When Dex kissed you, it was gentle enough to make your mother cry. His hand came to your cheek, and his mouth touched yours like he was afraid of doing it wrong in front of everyone. But you felt the restraint beneath it, the hunger and devotion. The way he kissed you softly because that was what you deserved, even when every dark part of him wanted to hold on harder and bruise and mark his territory.

—

Two years later, Dex was in prison.

Jonathan tried not to say I told you so. To his credit, he really did try. He stood in your apartment after everything went public, arms folded too tightly, mouth pressed into a line while the news tore the FBI corruption apart in digestible pieces. Even family and friends looked at you like this was the ending they had feared from the start.

But you knew better.

Not because Dex was innocent. He wasn’t. You loved him too much to lie about that. He had done terrible things. There were parts of him that had always been hungry for direction, always been too easy for the wrong man to use.

And Fisk had used him perfectly.He had found every fracture in Dex and pressed his thumb into it. The instability, the need to be useful. The desperate, obsessive love Dex had for you. 

Fisk kept you in a basement beneath one of his shell properties and let the world mourn you.

That was the cruelty of it: Fisk did not need you dead. Dead was final. Dead meant there was nothing left to use. But alive, hidden in a cold and windowless place? That made you useful. That made you leverage. Fisk could keep your body locked away while giving Dex a grief designed to break him.

So Fisk staged your death. He built the lie piece by piece. He staged an accident, a fire. The reports say that the body burned beyond recognition was yours, and even had an urn with someone else’s ashes in it with your paperwork attached just in case people started asking questions.

Dex believed it, because why wouldn’t he? Fisk made sure every piece fit. Even Matt believed it for a while. Everyone did.

So when Dex found it, he carried the urn like it was alive. He thought he figured out that Fisk was manipulating him, which was correct. He thought that Fisk had killed you, which was false.

He put the ashes in the passenger seat. He drove to the hotel with one hand on the wheel and the other reaching over sometimes, hovering near the metal like it might feel lonely. He talked to it in that broken voice of his, the one he would have been humiliated for anyone living to hear. He told the urn things. He apologised. He told you he loved you.

Then Dex’s spine broke.

And you were found by the cops shortly after, alive. Bruised, starved, shaking under a blanket in the basement Fisk had buried you in, still asking for Dex before your voice had fully come back.

So when they told you he went into surgery under guard, he had fought your way into that hospital room on the only ground no one could deny: you were his wife, his next of kin, his legal family. You should be allowed in, and you eventually got what you wanted. 

During recovery, he looked wrong under hospital lights. The tubes and monitors and bandages made him look less like the terrifying thing the news kept replaying. Guards stood by the door. His wrists were shackled to the bed rails, his ankles too. You scoffed at that but couldn’t do anything about it, really. 

When his eyes opened, he came back fighting. His hands jerked against the restraints, chains snapping taut with a hard metal sound that made one of the guards shift forward.

“Don’t,” you said quickly. “Dex, don’t.”

His head turned and saw you. Suddenly, thoughts halted to a stop.

You had seen Dex angry. Jealous. Focused. You had seen him desperate in your bed and gentle in your kitchen. You had seen him worshipful, frightening, almost boyish with love.

You had never seen him look like that. Like he was staring at a ghost and trying to decide whether believing in it would kill him.

His mouth parted, but sound came out.

You stepped closer, hands trembling. “Hi, baby.”

Dex’s breath broke. “You’re alive.”

Your chest caved in. “yeah.”

“No.” His voice cracked in disbelief. “No, I saw— Fisk said—”

“I know.”

“You’re alive,” he said again, louder now, almost frantic. “You’re alive. You’re alive.”

“I’m here.”

The chains snapped tight again when he tried to reach for you. Pain tore across his nerves, but he barely seemed to feel it. His eyes stayed locked on yours,wild and terrified, like if he looked away, you would vanish and the whole nightmare would become true again.

“I thought you were dead,” he whispered.

“I know, baby.”

You moved to him before anyone could stop you. Your fingers found his hand where the shackle allowed, careful around the bruised skin. His grip closed around yours instantly, weak but desperate, like even broken he could not help trying to hold on.

Your wedding ring caught the light. It was a reminder that he was still yours, you were still his, and whatever was left of him seemed to collapse under the proof.

“You’re alive.”

—

Dex was incarcerated after he healed enough to be moved.

Not rehabilitated. Not treated. Incarcerated.

They put him in solitary confinement like that could contain him. Like isolation would ever make him better. Like locking him away from voices and faces and human contact would somehow fix a man whose worst injuries had always come from being left alone too long with his own head.

You hated it. So for three years, you fought to get your husband moved somewhere that might actually help him.

Three years of forms, lawyers, psychiatric evaluations, and rejected petitions. Three years of people looking at Benjamin Poindexter and seeing only what he had done, three years of people looking at you, Mrs. Poindexter, as if you were insane because you still loved him. Three years of explaining, again and again, that solitary confinement was not treatment. And Dex had always been dangerous when he was quiet.

Your old school library job no longer paid enough to carry the life Fisk had torn apart, so you took a better job at a public library. It's a better salary, but longer hours. More responsibility. You now had to think about staff rotas, community programmes, council meetings, difficult patrons, funding cuts, late nights under fluorescent lights while you built displays and answered emails with your wedding ring flashing every time your hands crossed the keyboard.

Every other day, you went to the prison.

Sometimes straight from work, your blazer wrinkled, your tote bag full of library paperwork, your lipstick faded from too many cups of coffee. Sometimes on your days off, when you could pretend the visit was the centre of the day instead of an activity squeezed between legal calls and grocery shopping and a life you had never wanted to live without him in it.

Dex always noticed when you were tired before you said it. He noticed when your shoes were new. He noticed when you had cut your hair, even slightly. He noticed when you had skipped lunch and lied about it. Even in prison uniform, even under the dead light of the visiting room, Dex was still your husband in all the ways that made people uncomfortable and all the ways that kept you coming back.

You told him about your days. You told him about the elderly man who came into the library every Wednesday to read the newspaper and complain about the chairs. The little girl who asked for “a book with a dragon but not a mean dragon because mean dragons have bad vibes.” The teenager who pretended not to care about poetry and then checked out three collections when his friends were not looking. You told him about staff meetings, leaky ceilings, broken printers, new shelving systems.

There were visits where he barely spoke. But even then, his eyes stayed on you. Even then, his fingers moved toward yours. Even then, when you said, “Baby,” parts of him came back to the surface.

You kept fighting because he needed help.

Then one afternoon, after three years of pushing against walls that did not move, one finally gave. The blip, after all, freed some space up. Though you really shouldn't celebrate such a tragedy, it was hard to ignore the fact that this time, it worked in your favor. That day, you carried the news into the visiting room.

His eyes moved over your face, your hands, the folder tucked beneath your arm. “What’s that?” he asked.

You smiled, biting your lip, “I have good news.”

You reached across the table. This time, they let you hold his hand. It was a small mercy. His fingers closed around yours immediately, like he could feel the tremor in you and wanted to steady it without frightening it away.

“A facility we applied to reviewed your case,” you said. “It’s looking good. The transfer is pending final approval.”

Dex didn’t move. You kept going before fear could steal the words from you.

“It’s a secure psychiatric institution. It’s not freedom, I know that. But it’s not solitary. You’d have doctors, actual treatment, scheduled therapy, medication reviews. You wouldn’t be in shackles.”

His face remained controlled, but you knew him too well. You saw the tiny shift in his breathing. 

“It’s going to be better,” you whispered. “Okay? Not perfect. Not easy. But better. You won’t be alone in a box, and we get longer visitation hours, okay?”

Dex was quiet for a long moment. Then he nodded once. “That’s good.”

Your laugh came out broken, because part of you still found that endearing. “That’s good? That’s all you have?”

His mouth almost softened, guilty at the thought of offending you. “It’s very good,” he amended.

You squeezed his hand, and for one rare second, the visiting room didn’t feel quite so much like a cage. It felt like a door opening somewhere far away.Then Dex looked up again. “But I hope my request gets approved before I get moved.”

“Request?” You blinked. “For what?”

He held your gaze with the seriousness of a man discussing nothing more important than bills. “A conjugal visit.”

For a moment, your mind simply stopped. “What?”

“A conjugal visit,” he repeated, as if you might not have heard him the first time.

You stared at him. Of course he had thought of that.

In three years of legal petitions, medical reviews, prison visits, and fighting to have him treated like a person instead of a weapon, you had somehow not allowed yourself to think about that part. About being his wife in that way still. About how long it had been since he had touched you without guards and tables and rules between you. Dex had, though.

“Dex,” you said softly, rubbing slow circles on his hand.

“What?”

“You are in solitary confinement.”

“I know.”

“You’re probably not getting approved for a conjugal visit.”

“Probably not.”

His expression didn't change, but he squeezed your hand and your stomach turned over despite yourself. You leaned forward as much as the table allowed. The guard near the door shifted, but you ignored him. You kissed the edge of Dex’s mouth, brief and soft, but still enough to make his breath catch.

“Let’s focus on this, yeah?” you whispered.

His eyes stayed on yours. For a second, the hunger in him quieted, almost obedient. He nodded once. “Okay.”

Your hand stayed in his until the guard told you time was up. Dex didn’t let go until he had to.

—

He got approved. Somehow, Benjamin Poindexter got approved for a conjugal visit.

You read the notice three times in your kitchen, work bag sliding off your shoulder, lanyard still around your neck, your shoes aching from a long day on your feet. The letter was painfully plain and administrative. But it was approved nonetheless.

You stared at it until the paper blurred. “What the fuck?” you whispered.

Because there was no way. There was no reasonable, lawful way that your husband, a convicted killer, a high-risk prisoner, had been granted that kind of access.

You knew then that Dex had done something. Nothing obvious enough to get the request pulled. He might have threatened a guard. Maybe Dex had mentioned a name, a detail, some small piece of information he shouldn’t have known and let them do the rest.

You should have been horrified. Mostly, though, you pressed the paper to your mouth and laughed once, breathless and disbelieving, because all you could think was: That’s how badly he wanted me. That’s how much he loves me.

—

When the day came, you waited in the room alone.

You had done the paperwork, gone through twenty locked doors to get here. You came knowing you had a couple of hours with your husband. And for the first time in three years, there would be no table between you, no visitor chair bolted too far from his. No guards close enough to hear every word. No one telling you not to lean too far across the table when all you wanted was to touch his face.

A couple of hours was not enough. 

You smoothed your hands over your blouse, then over your skirt, then clasped them together in your lap to make yourself stop fidgeting. You had dressed too carefully without really thinking about it. You had a white blouse, a nice skirt, because Dex liked seeing you in skirts. You were wearing the cardigan you were wearing when you met him.

You stared at your wedding ring until Dex stepped inside. For a second, neither of you moved.

He looked different. That was your first thought, blunt and stupid and immediate. He looked different, because of course he did. Years had happened. Prison had happened. Surgery had happened. His hair was shorter. His jaw looked sharper. But he was also bigger.

You noticed from your previous visits, of course, but seeing him a bit closer now, it was evident. His shoulders filled out the plain prison shirt. His arms looked stronger than they had in the hospital, muscle sitting heavy under institutional fabric, like all the recovery and physical therapy and whatever routines they let him have had made him sturdier.

You blinked before you could stop yourself. What were they feeding him?

Dex’s eyes found your face first, gaze locked onto you. For one fragile second he did not look like a prisoner at all.

He looked like Dex. Your Dex. Your husband, seeing you after being forced to miss you for too long.

“Hi,” you whispered.

His mouth parted slightly. When the door closed behind him, the lock turned, and whatever restraint he had used to walk in there like a normal person vanished.

You barely got to stand before his hands were on your face and yours were on his chest, and the first kiss was so clumsy it almost made you laugh. Your noses bumped. His mouth missed yours by half an inch and caught the corner instead. You made a tiny sound, half sob and half laugh, and Dex froze like he had done something wrong.

“No,” you said quickly, already smiling through the sting in your eyes. “No, come here.”

You took his face in both hands and kissed him properly, softly at first. Then again. And again.

These were little, ridiculous kisses. The kind you had imagined giving him in every prison visit where a guard stood too close. You kissed his mouth, the corner of it, his cheek. You kissed the line beside his nose, the skin under his eye, the edge of his mouth again.

Dex stood there and let you love him, as if he couldn’t believe you still did at all.

His hands stayed at your waist, almost uncertain, like after all this time he still didn’t fully trust that he was allowed to hold you without someone telling him to stop. But the longer you kissed him, the more his fingers settled. The more his body leaned into yours. The more the tension in his shoulders slowly started to melt.

“I missed you,” you said between kisses.

Dex’s eyes closed. “I missed you, too.”

“I missed you so much.”

“I know.”

“No, you don’t.” You kissed his cheek again, because apparently now that you had started you couldn't stop. “I missed you in the kitchen. I missed you in our bed. I missed you when I had to fix the shelf myself because you would have been so annoying about doing it better.”

His mouth twitched. “You fixed a shelf?” he asked.

“I tried to.”

His eyes opened with attentive focus you had missed so badly. “What happened?”

“It’s currently leaning.”

Dex stared at you, then he laughed. It wasn’t loudly, or freely. It was small, rough, and almost startled, like his body had forgotten how to make the sound and needed you to remind it. 

You broke a little. “Oh,” you whispered, smiling like an idiot. “There you are.”

His expression changed before he leaned in and kissed you again, not clumsy this time. A kiss that said yes, here, I’m here, I came back up when you called.

His arms moved around you properly then, and fuck, he was solid.

You had expected him to feel fragile, because part of you still remembered the hospital bed, the shackles, the bruised skin around his wrists after surgery. But this Dex was heavy and strong under your hands. When your palms slid over his shoulders, you felt muscle there making your stomach drop and go hot at the same time.

Still, he stayed sweet for a little while.

You had both expected the hunger. But before that, there was Dex touching your hair like he had thought about the texture of it more than once. There was you smoothing your thumb over his cheekbone, relearning him up close. There was him pressing his face into the side of your neck and breathing in once like he had been living on memory for years and memory had never been enough.

“I missed how you smell,” he said, voice muffled against your skin.

You laughed. “That’s creepy,” you said, but smiled into his hair anyway.

Your fingers drifted to the back of his neck, then lower, over the ridge of his shoulder. You felt him shiver when your touch found the edge of the scar beneath his shirt. You paused, but he shook his head against you. “It’s okay.”

So you kept touching him gently. Through the fabric first, then at the collar where your fingers could slip just beneath. The scar was there, and Dex’s breathing changed when you traced it. Not with pain, exactly. It felt more… intimate.

“My baby,” you whispered before you could stop yourself.

His hand flexed at your hip. This time, when his mouth opened under yours, the sweetness warmed.His body crowded yours a little more. His hands moved from your waist to your back, then down again.

“You got…” You swallowed, then laughed softly because there was no graceful way to say it. “You got big.”

Dex blinked. For half a second, he looked genuinely confused. Then his eyes dropped to where your hands were spread over his chest. “Big?”

“You know what I mean.”

“I had physical therapy.”

“That is a criminal understatement.”

His mouth twitched again as you dragged your palms over his shoulders, shameless now, because you had earned this. You had earned the right to be stupid about your husband’s arms after three years of prison visits and legal calls and sleeping alone.

“You’re very…” You squeezed his bicep lightly. “Recovered.”

Dex looked at you. “You’re flirting with me.”

You shrugged, but didn’t deny it.

The sound he made was almost an arrogant chuckle.

He kissed you again, and this time there was no mistaking the heat under it. Then, his hands settled on your blouse.

Not grabbing yet, but touching the fabric at your waist, thumbs moving slowly over the buttons as if he had only just realised there was something between his hands and your skin.

You were still smiling when his eyes dropped.

Suddenly, his eyes were fixed on the small gap where one button had loosened, where the fabric had shifted just enough to reveal a flash of black lace underneath.

Dex recognised it at the same time you remembered. “Is that…”

Your face burned hot as you nodded.

It was the black teddy he had bought you for your first wedding anniversary.It was sheer lace at the cups, delicate straps, a low satin-trimmed neckline. Dex remembered the first time you tried it on. You stood at the foot of your bed, pretending not to be shy, while he sat there ruined, looking at you like his brain had briefly stopped receiving oxygen. And now, you had worn it here.

Dex’s thumb brushed the edge of your blouse, right where black lace disappeared beneath it. His eyes darkened. “You wore my anniversary gift under your blouse,” he said.

Your stomach flipped. “When you say it like that—”

“How should I say it?” He demanded, and it was a little mean. But that always did turn you on.

“I don’t know,” you whispered. “Less like you’re about to lose your mind.”

Dex looked back up at you, too focused, too hungry. “I am.”

Oh.

Your hands tightened in his shirt.

The room felt smaller after that, less like a prison facility and more like the bedroom he remembered, the one with your knees pressed into the mattress and his hands shaking at your waist because he hadn’t known a piece of lace could make wanting feel that violent.

His grip settled firmer on your hips. “You have no idea,” he murmured, mouth brushing your ear. “What you do to me.”

Your eyes fluttered shut. There he was. Your husband, touch-starved, breathing against your neck like he had waited years to find out if he could still make you tremble.

You smiled, kind and doomed all the same. “Show me.”

Oh, he had a list.

Dex was undressed before you could blink, all broad shoulders and blown pupils, moving with a focused urgency that made the sterile little room feel suddenly too small to hold him. The white walls, the bolted table, the narrow bed, the chemical-clean smell of the sheets, and none of it stood a chance against the way he looked at you.

He had been counting down to this for years. Every prison visit, every supervised touch, every night alone in a cell had led into this exact moment.

His hands were already on your blouse, quick but not careless, tearing through buttons, ripping them off with a precision that would have been funny if his breathing had not been so rough. The black teddy appeared inch by inch beneath the fabric, lace and satin and memory, and Dex looked ruined. 

First on the list: his mouth between your legs.

You understood that the second he dropped to his knees. Dex had barely gotten the teddy off before his hands were already under your skirt, gripping your thighs.

Then his mouth was on you, and every thought in your head broke apart.

“Oh,” you gasped, one hand flying to his hair, the other twisting in the clean white sheet beneath you.

Dex made a sound against you that was almost a groan, almost a laugh. His hands tightened on your thighs, holding you open for him, keeping you there like he was afraid you might disappear if he let go. He was not gentle, like he used to be. He was focused, hungry, and touch-starved enough that every reaction you gave him seemed to make him worse.

“Fuck,” he breathed against you, voice rough and ruined. “You taste so fucking sweet.”

Your whole body went hot. “Dex—”

He didn’t let you finish. His mouth returned to you, and the room became nothing but the wet heat of him, the harsh sound of his breathing, the narrow bed creaking under the way your hips moved despite yourself. The sterile little room had no right to hold something this filthy. 

He was still so good, it was unfair.

Dex had always been terrifying when he focused. When he learned something, he learned it completely. And you realised, breathless and shaking, that he remembered everything. Every place that made you gasp. Every rhythm that made your hand tighten in his hair. Every tiny, helpless sound you tried to swallow and failed.

You tried to move back once, overwhelmed, but his hands slid under you and dragged you closer with a low, possessive sound that made your stomach twist.

“No,” he murmured. “Stay.”

So you stayed while he buried himself there like he could spend hours between your thighs if time were not an issue. You stayed while his fingers dug into your skin, while his mouth made you forget the guards outside, the transfer, the years, the ugly world that had kept him from you. You stayed while he took you apart with the kind of devotion that felt less like softness and more like obsession given a mouth.

At some point, you said his name too loudly, and Dex groaned like that was the point.

Of course he wanted them to hear. Of course he wanted the men outside that locked door to know that whatever they thought they had taken from him was still his. You were still his. 

When you finally broke, Dex did not stop right away.

He held you through it palms spread over your thighs, breathing you in like the end of the world had tasted sweet and he couldn’t make himself pull away.

Only when you tugged weakly at his hair did he lift his head.

Dex looked up at you like he had just crossed the first thing off a list and still had every intention of finishing the rest.

Number two on the list should have been obvious when he suddenly looked shy. 

“Can I ask you something?” he murmured.

Your breath was still uneven. “Dex.”

His mouth pressed briefly to the inside of your knee, like he needed one more second to gather himself. “I want your mouth.”

Oh.

Your stomach flipped so hard you almost laughed. Who were you to deny this man anything? 

You slid off the bed and onto your knees in front of him, and Dex went very still.

His hand came to your cheek, careful at first, thumb brushing your skin like he needed to touch you gently before letting himself want. His breathing changed when you looked up at him. His pupils were blown wide enough to make him look almost feverish.

“Baby,” he said, voice rough.

You smiled before giving him what he asked for.

Dex’s hand stayed in your hair, not forcing, not taking. His head tipped back. His throat worked. His eyes squeezed shut and opened again because he seemed to hate missing even one second of you.

He was big in every way you remembered and worse because you had missed him.

Too much, almost. Overwhelming enough to make your eyes water, enough to make your hands press at his thighs when you needed a second, and Dex stopped immediately each time.

His hand softened in your hair. “Too much?” he rasped.

You shook your head, breathless, stubborn, and a little ruined yourself.

Dex looked like that might kill him. Then you kept going, and he fell apart beautifully.

He moaned your name like a warning, like a plea. His hand stayed on your cheek against your cheek, his thumb brushing away the wetness at the corner of your eye with such tenderness that the gesture felt obscene in context.

“You’re perfect,” he whispered, voice breaking. “Fuck, you’re perfect.”

You felt him getting close, and you wanted nothing more than feeling him down your throat, but he pulled back, stopping himself so abruptly you almost protested.

Dex stared down at you, chest heaving, eyes wild, mouth parted like he had just survived something.

You blinked up at him.

He gave a rough little laugh, almost pained. “No,” he said, voice hoarse. “Not yet.”

You smiled slowly. “Not yet?”

His gaze darkened again. He reached down, thumb brushing your lower lip, still shaking from the effort of denying himself.

“I have two more things on the list,” he reminded you, making your thighs pressed together.

Dex helped you back onto your feet with hands that weren’t quite steady, then kissed you so deeply you tasted the restraint he had forced himself to keep.

“Bed,” he murmured against your mouth.

Number three on the list was taking you from behind, of course. 

He turned you toward the bed with hands that were still shaking his mouth at your shoulder, your neck, the back of your ear. 

He moved slowly at first, because even like this, rough and ruined and half-mad with missing you, Dex was still Dex. He still listened to every breath, every shift of your body, every little sound that told him whether you were overwhelmed or wanting more. The stretch of him made your hands fist in the sheet, your body tensing around the sheer shock of having him again after so long without. His mouth pressed to your shoulder. “Breathe,” he rasped. “I’ve got you.”

He took his time even though you could feel restraint burning through him. The way he cursed softly against your skin when you finally relaxed into him, when your body remembered him properly and pulled him closer.

“Fuck,” he breathed, voice breaking. “You’re so—”

He cut himself off with his mouth against your shoulder, like the words were too much, like saying them would make him less controlled than he already was.

Then he started moving. God, he hadn’t forgotten you, so of course you were loud almost immediately.

The first sound broke out of you before you could stop it, your whole face burning. Dex’s hand tightened at your hip, and the next lewd mewl came worse. He made a low sound behind you, smug and satisfied in a way that made heat crawl up your spine.

You bit down on your own wrist, trying to muffle yourself.

His hand slid up your body and gently pulled your arm away. “No,” he said, voice rough. “I waited three years to hear you.”

Your whole body went hot. “Dex—”

“Let me hear you.”

And then he made sure you did.

He got rougher, hungrier. His body covered yours, his mouth dragging over your neck while his hands held you exactly where he wanted you. The bed creaked under you. The sheet twisted beneath your fists. Your voice filled the room because he kept pulling it out of you, again and again.

At some point, there was a knock on the door, but unfortunately Dex didn’t have enough self control to stop.

You looked over your shoulder, cheek pressed flush into the sheets.

The little window opened and a guard looked in. They were worried, you realised. You had been so fucking loud.

The humiliation should have swallowed you whole. Instead, your stomach flipped.

“You okay?” the guard called. 

You could barely speak. “Hmmph, Y-yes!” you managed.

Dex’s hand slid over your stomach, keeping you pressed back against him.

The guard moved away when he realised what he was seeing, face red.

The second the shadow disappeared, Dex’s mouth was at your ear. “You liked that.”

You shivered.

“You liked him checking,” he murmured, darker now. “Liked him hearing what I do to you.”

You should have denied it, but you could not bring yourself to lie, Dex made a rough, broken sound against your neck and moved again, deeper into the heat, rougher now because he was jealous, because some stranger had seen even a glimpse of your face like that and Dex couldn’t stand it. He kissed your shoulder hard and held you like he could erase the guard’s eyes from the room by making you forget anything existed except him.

“Mine,” he breathed. 

You answered with his name, exactly how he wanted it.

Number four on the list started with him denying you an orgasm.

That was how you knew prison had changed him.The old Dex, the one who melted when you praised him, the one who went doe-eyed and obedient under your hands, had been buried under three of whatever this was.

Dex flipped you over before you could come undone.

Your gasp broke against his mouth as your back hit the narrow mattress, the white sheet twisted beneath you, your body sore in the best, most aching way. You were already too close and he knew it. Of course he knew it. He knew your body like he had studied it for a test he refused to fail.

“Not yet,” he murmured.

You made a helpless little sound, half protest, half plea. Dex’s hand slid up your waist, and he was inside you again in no time. 

Oh. you realised, he wanted to look at you when you came. That was all. So sweet. So cute. 

But then you felt him twitch, and you realised that he was close before he did. Or maybe he knew, and he was just too far gone to care about anything else.

“Dex—” Your voice caught. “Dex, I’m not— fuck, I’m not on birth control.”

He didn’t stop completely. His whole body stuttered above yours, rhythm faltering, breath punching out of him like you had hit him in the chest.

“Hmph—fuck.” His forehead dropped against yours. “I know.”

Your eyes snapped open. “You know?”

His hand slid over your stomach, possessive, and the sound that left him was almost pained.

“I know,” he said again, rougher. “I know, baby.”

The words should have sobered you, but you loved him, and you loved that he was still above you, still shaking, still so close you could feel every tremor of restraint tearing through him.

“Dex,” you gasped.

“I thought about it,” he said, voice low and wrecked. “Every night.”

Your body went hot. His hand pressed a little firmer over your stomach, not forcing, just holding there like the thought had been living in him for years.

“You in our apartment,” he murmured, words breaking between breathless little sounds. “My wife, wearing my old shirts. Sleeping alone. Fighting for me. Sitting across from lawyers and doctors while I sit in a– hmmphh— a fuckin’ box.”

“Baby—”

“And all I could think was… fuck—all I could think was I should have left you something.”

Your breath caught so hard it almost hurt.

A baby, he meant.

A living tether. Something that would tie you to him in a way no prison door, no court order, no transfer file could undo. And sure, if you were going to leave him, you would have done it already. No court in the world would blame you for divorcing a killer. No friend, no family member, no sane person would call you cruel for walking away.

But you stayed. And fuck, somehow, staying was still not enough for Dex. He needed proof that some part of him could still belong to you permanently. 

In his mind, twisted and tender as it was, this was not a trap. It was a gift.

His eyes locked on yours, blown dark and terrifyingly attentive even through the haze.

His mouth was against yours, then your jaw, then your throat, never settling anywhere long enough to be gentle. He kept touching you like he could not decide what he needed more: your face, your waist, your hips, the heat of your body. 

“You feel that?” he rasped, voice wrecked as you squeezed him a little. “How bad you want it?”

You did want it, but you could barely answer. Every breath came out wrong, caught somewhere between a moan and his name. Your thoughts had gone useless, scattered apart by the obscene tenderness of his palm resting low and possessive like he was already imagining the seed taking root there.

“Dex—” you sighed, trying to bury your face in his ned

“No, baby.” His mouth brushed your ear, rough and hot, as he pulled your hair back gently to look into your eyes. “Don’t get… shit— shy now. Not after that. N-not after the sounds you’ve been making ‘f me.”

Your face burned, but your hands only tightened on him.

His voice dropped lower, filthier, the words breaking between harsh breaths. “My pretty girl wants something from me, huh?”

Your whole body went hot.

Dex’s palm pressed a little firmer over your stomach. “S-she wants me to leave her with something.” His breath hitched, and for a second his voice almost failed him. “Wants to walk out of here carrying more than m-my… hmm— fingerprints.”

You made a helpless sound.

“There it is,” he murmured. “You like that, fuck! You like thinking about it.”

“Dex-please—”

“Yeah?” His mouth found yours, messy and desperate, before he pulled back just enough to look at you. His pupils were blown wide, his face flushed, his control hanging by a thread he was clearly ready to let snap. “My pretty girl wants my baby, huh?”

Your breath caught so hard it hurt.

Dex saw it the way your body answered before your mouth could.

His face changed, hunger folding into something sickly sweet, almost tender in the worst possible way. “Fuck,” he whispered. “You do.”

Your eyes stung.

You hated and loved how well he knew you all the same.

“Wants something of mine when they t-take me back,” he breathed, mouth dragging along your cheek. “Something they c-can’t put in a cell. Something that— hnghhh — still has me in it.”

You were shaking now, overwhelmed and aching and so far gone that language felt like a thing happening on another planet. Dex was talking to you like he knew exactly where every dark little want lived under your skin, like he had spent three years locked away with nothing but the memory of you and all the ways he wanted to make himself permanent.

“Say it,” he murmured.

You couldn’t, not properly. Dex’s eyes darkened further.

“C-can’t even talk,” he whispered. “That’s okay. I know you.” His thumb moved slowly over your skin. “I know what my wife wants.”

Your breath broke.

His forehead pressed to yours, and for one second, under all that hunger, he was shaking with the effort to hold himself back.

“But you gotta tell me,” he said, voice raw. “Tell me no and I’ll stop.”

The restraint from him was phenomenal. Your hands slid up to his face, holding him there, forcing him to look at you while you gave him the answer.

“D-don’t you fucking dare stop,” you whispered.

“Yeah?” he asked, like he needed it again, like one yes was not enough to survive on.

“Yes–Fuck! Yes, baby.”

His mouth crashed back to yours, swallowing the rest of your answer, and the room disappeared into heat and the terrible intimacy of choosing this with him. His hand stayed over your stomach the whole time, almost reverent, like the fantasy had become real the second you let him have it.

He kept talking against your mouth, the words coming apart as badly as he was.

How good you were. How much he had missed you. How he had thought about you every night. How he wanted to leave something behind. How you would be going home with him in a way no guard could take from you.

You clung to him through it, nails catching on his shoulders, then his back, then the scar along his spine. Dex shuddered when you touched it, a broken sound leaving him before he buried his face against your neck and held you closer, closer, closer, like he could press three lost years into the space between your bodies and make them disappear.

When he finally came with you, he did it with your name on his mouth and his eyes fixed on yours, like he needed you to see every second of what he was giving you.

His forehead dropped to yours afterward, both of you breathing too hard.

For a while, neither of you spoke. The guards outside were silent. The room was wrecked in small damning ways: twisted sheets, scattered clothes, your blouse half on the floor, the black lace halfway off the bed.  

Dex kissed your cheek. Then your jaw. Then the corner of your mouth.“I missed you,” he whispered, and this time it sounded almost broken.

You closed your eyes and held him there. “I missed you, too.”

—

The knock came fifteen minutes later, and you hated it. “Poindexter,” a guard called, “Time.”

Dex was still against you, face buried in your neck, one arm locked around your waist like pretending not to hear it might make the door stay shut. For a second, neither of you moved. His breathing was still uneven against your skin, and your fingers were still in his hair, and the narrow bed beneath you looked absolutely ruined.

Another knock. You touched the back of his neck. “Baby.”

“I know.”

He didn’t sound like he knew. He sounded like leaving you there might kill him.

You both moved in a rush after that, half-dressed and breathless, trying to put yourselves back together before the guards came in. The sheet was twisted. Your skirt was crooked. Your blouse was missing buttons because Dex had been too impatient, so you had to clutch the fabric closed with both hands while smiling like an idiot anyway.

Then the guards stepped in. One of them looked at the bed, then at you, then at Dex. His face went carefully blank.

“Hands,” he said.

You stepped forward before Dex could turn around.

The guard sighed. “Ma’am—”

“One second,” you said.

Dex bent instantly, like he had been waiting for permission. You kissed him once. Then again. Then to his nose, because one kiss was not enough and never would be.

“I love you,” you whispered.

He looked like he might cry. “I love you, too”

Then they cuffed him.

You hated the sound of metal around his wrists. It meant the world taking him back. At the door, Dex looked over his shoulder, and you stood there still holding your blouse together, still smiling, still ruined.

The guard muttered, “Filthy animals,” as they disappeared into the hall.

Then you heard Dex chuckle, low and rough and proud. Like being filthy with you was the best thing anyone had ever called him.

You stood there for a second, and then you laughed under your breath, too.

Because you loved it. You loved being disgusting with him. Loved that the room looked wrecked. Loved that the guards knew. Loved that Dex would carry that insult back to his cell like a compliment, and that you would go home with the same stupid, shameless pride in your chest.

Filthy animals.

Yeah. You smiled to yourself, still holding your blouse together. Maybe you were.

—

You were pregnant.

You found out before the transfer, while Dex was still in prison, still waiting to be moved to the secure psychiatric facility you had spent three years fighting for. For three days, you carried the secret around yourself like a forcefield. You went to work, answered emails, helped patrons at the public library. You smiled politely at everyone while your whole body felt like it had become a locked room with a miracle inside.

When you told Dex, he knew something was different before you even sat down. His eyes went to your face, then your hands, then the way you kept pressing your palm nervously against your stomach. “What happened?”

You laughed once, shaky and soft. “Nothing bad.”

Dex didn’t relax, so you reached across the table and took his hand as much as the cuffs allowed. His fingers closed around yours immediately. “I’m pregnant.” For a second, it was like the whole visiting room lost sound. Then his eyes dropped to your stomach. “What?”

You smiled through the tears already coming. “I’m pregnant, baby.”

The chair scraped back before the guard could stop him.

Dex moved toward you on instinct, cuffed hands reaching for your face, not violent, not thinking, just desperate to touch. The chain between his wrists caught on the edge of the table, but he barely seemed to feel it. His palms found your cheeks, and then he was kissing you across the table like the whole room had disappeared.

“Poindexter,” the guard snapped.

Dex didn't hear him. Or he did, and for one dangerous second, he didn’t care.

You kissed him back, crying into his mouth, fingers gripping the front of his prison shirt because this was your husband, your baby’s father, and he was making this broken sound against your lips.

Another guard came over. “Back. Now.”

They had to pull you apart. Actually pull you apart.

They had one hand on Dex’s shoulder, another on his arm, dragging him back while his cuffed hands strained toward you and yours reached for him across the table. His eyes stayed locked on your face the whole time amazed and almost frightened by the size of what he felt.

The transfer happened not long after.

The institution was better than solitary. You reminded yourself of that every day. He had doctors now. Treatments, structure. He was not locked alone in a box anymore.

But he still was not free. He wasn’t there when your stomach first started to show, but the institution had better visitation rules than the prison, and the first time you came in visibly pregnant, Dex was allowed to touch you. His hand settled over the curve of your stomach so carefully it made your throat ache, like he was afraid the smallest wrong movement might cost him the privilege.

He wasn’t there when the baby kicked for the first time either, but later, during one of those visits, the baby kicked beneath Dex’s palm. Dex went completely still, eyes dropping to your stomach.

Still, he wasn’t there for the smaller, lonelier things. He wasn’t beside you in the maternity shop when you cried because nothing fit right and you wanted him there so badly it hurt. He should have been there making some too-serious comment about proper shoes, back support, and whether the changing room bench was structurally safe enough for you to sit on.

But even then, you told him everything. Every appointment. Every craving. Every scan. Every tiny development you could turn into words and carry to him.

Then Leonard was born. Leo, for short, named for his father.

Dex wasn’t allowed to be there.

That hurt him in a way he didn’t know how to hide. You didn’t know this, but one of the nurses told you he had become erratic after the call came through that you were in labour. Not violent, but frantic, pacing, asking the same questions over and over, trying to negotiate with people who had no authority to give him what he wanted. By the end of it, they had to force a couple pills down his throat so he could just calm down.

So when you finally called, exhausted and crying, with your son against your chest, the silence on the other end felt too careful.

“He’s here,” you whispered. “He’s here, baby.”

Dex didn’t answer right away. For a moment, all you could hear was his breathing, thin and controlled, like he was holding himself together by force. Then, very carefully, he asked, "Are you okay?”

“Yes.”

“Is he okay?”

“Yes.”

You could almost picture him sitting there, hand curled too tightly around the phone, trying to make himself calm enough to deserve hearing this.

“Tell me,” he said.

You told him Leo had blonde hair. You looked down at the baby curled against you, tiny and furious, with pale hair against his head and features that already made your chest ache because there was no denying whose child he was.

“He looks like you,” you whispered.

Dex didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice sounded stripped bare.

“He does?”

“Yeah, baby.” You smiled through tears, touching Leo’s tiny cheek. “He looks like his father.”

Still, after weeks, then months, then years of hearing about Leo through you, Dex began to know him in fragments.

Children were not allowed inside the institution, so Leo had never met his father. Dex knew him through the stories you told him in visitation rooms, through the photographs you were allowed to bring, through the change in your voice whenever you said his name. You gave him a picture of Leo asleep with one fist tucked under his cheek. Leo with blond hair and your eyes. Leo scowling at the camera in a way that looked so much like Dex it made him go silent the first time he saw it.

But he didn’t love Leo properly yet. How could he? He had never held him. Never felt the weight of him against his chest. Never smelled his skin, never rocked him through a cry, never watched him fall asleep in his arms. Leo was still partly an idea to him, a child made real through your love before Dex could reach him with his own.

But he loved Leo, in a way, because you loved him.

That was easier. You loved that baby, so Leo mattered. Your face relaxed when you spoke about him, so Dex learned to relax around the sound of his name too. And somewhere in the darkest, neediest part of him, he thought he owed Leo his life because he made you stay.

Leo was Dex’s gift to you, because he didn’t want you to be alone. 

So Dex loved Leo in the only way he knew how at first: because Leo was yours, because Leo was his, because Leo looked like him, and because Leo kept a piece of him in your life while the rest of him was locked away. He loved him for your sake, before he knew how to love him for his own.

—

Leo was three years old when Vanessa Fisk made Dex kill Foggy Nelson.

He was three, serious-eyed, stubborn in the exact way that made your mother sigh and say, “That’s probably his father,” under her breath. Leo had Dex’s watchful stare, Dex’s unnerving ability to go quiet when he was thinking too hard. But he was still a toddler, so the quiet never lasted long. One minute he would be silently studying the wheels of a toy truck like he was investigating a crime scene, and the next he would be shrieking because his banana had “broken wrong.”

He loved dinosaurs, but only “scary ones.” He refused to wear socks that had seams in the wrong place. He called the moon “the night light” and cried once because you explained he couldn’t take it home. He had Dex’s face in miniature and your habit of talking to himself while concentrating, which meant you spent most mornings watching your tiny blond child line up toy animals on the floor and whisper, “No, no, you go there. No, you not listening.”

You were a good mother. You packed snacks. You remembered nursery forms. You cut grapes in half. You kept emergency wipes in every bag you owned. You sang the same bedtime song three times if Leo asked, even when your throat hurt and your body felt hollow from work and worry and loving a man the world had never stopped punishing.

Dex knew all of that through you. Leo liked peas this week. Leo hated peas this week. Leo asked why cats had no eyebrows. Leo threw a shoe at the wall because bedtime was, apparently, “a bad idea.” Leo had asked about Daddy again.

You and Leo had become the one fragile architecture that kept Dex going. Vanessa understood that because Vanessa Fisk understood devotion, even when it was ugly. 

So when she found out about you and Leo, it was over.

She came to Dex with ammo in her metaphorical gun.

This was no way to live, she told him, taking away the meds. Was this what he wanted? To hear about his son in secondhand stories? To let you raise a child alone while other men opened doors for you, helped carry groceries, taught Leo to kick a ball, to ride a bike, to be brave? Raising a child was hard, wasn’t it? You were young. Lonely. Exhausted. Beautiful. How long before someone else started looking less like help and more like a replacement?

Didn’t he want to be a husband? A father? Didn’t he want to come home?

Then, she gave him a photo of you at home, hair tied back, Leo on your hip. How… did she get this photo?

Then she gave him structure: Kill Foggy first. Then he could go to you and Leo.

That was the order of how it went. It was a task, a reward, a way back to the only life he still cared about. And Dex had always been most dangerous when someone took his pain and turned it into a sequence.

So he killed Foggy Nelson. And afterward, when they dragged him back into court, you wanted to see him.

Not because you excused murder. Not because Foggy didn’t matter. But because you were his wife, and you knew that Dex didn’t kill like that out of nowhere.

He wouldn’t simply go on a rampage. He didn’t wake up one day and decide he would burn every bridge that led to you. He loved you too much for that. So you came to the conclusion that someone must've reached into the most frightened part of him, and aimed him again.

You knew that, but the court didn’t care. This time, the court issued an order. It was for your son’s sake, they said. An injunction, no contact. You and Leo were not to be in the same room as Benjamin Poindexter. Not in court, not in visitation, not anywhere a judge could prevent it.

You stood very still when they told you this.

Leo was at home with your mother, probably refusing lunch because the sandwich had been cut into triangles instead of squares.

You didn’t cry. Not when the injunction was read. Not even when Dex was sentenced for the second time. You just listened. Then you got to work.

Because crying would come later, probably in the shower, probably with one hand over your mouth so Leo wouldn’t hear. But right then, there were lawyers to call, motions to file, and records to request. You knew your husband. You knew what manipulation looked like when he was the one pointed like a weapon.

And after court, you went back to Leo. He was sitting on the living room floor in dinosaur pyjamas even though it was the afternoon, blond hair sticking up at the back, one sock on and one sock missing for reasons nobody could explain. He looked up when you came in, toy stegosaurus clutched in one hand.

“Mama,” he said seriously, “Nana said no more crackers.”

You knelt in front of him, your knees cracking with the exhaustion of the day. “Your grandma is probably right.”

Leo frowned like you had betrayed him on a legal level. “I need snacks.”

“You had a snack.”

“I need more snacks.”

“You need dinner.”

He considered that, then lifted the stegosaurus. “Dino needs crackers.”

“Dino can have pretend crackers.”

Leo stared at you with Dex’s eyes. For one awful second, you almost laughed and almost cried at the same time. Instead, you reached out and smoothed his hair down. It sprang back up immediately.

“Daddy has that face too,” you whispered.

Leo blinked. “Daddy?”

You had never lied to him. You told him Daddy was away. Daddy loved him. Daddy couldn’t come home yet. All true, and yet, none of it was enough.

“Yeah,” you said softly. “Daddy.”

Leo looked down at his dinosaur, then back at you. “Daddy like dinos?”

You smiled even though your throat hurt. “I think Daddy would like whatever you like.”

Leo nodded, satisfied by that, and shoved the stegosaurus into your lap. “Then Daddy like this one. He bite.”

You held the toy carefully, like it was evidence. “Yeah,” you whispered. “He bite.”

Leo climbed into your lap after that, all knees and elbows, and you wrapped both arms around him. He smelled like shampoo and the strawberry yoghurt he had somehow gotten on his sleeve. He pressed his face into your shoulder for exactly four seconds before wriggling away again because three-year-olds loved affection on their own schedule.

You let him go. You watched him return to his line of dinosaurs, babbling to himself, head bent in concentration.

You opened your notes app and started another list: Lawyer. Injunction appeal. Facility records. Contact restrictions. Dex’s medication logs. Visitor records.

You could be heartbroken later. Right now, you were Leo’s mother. Dex’s wife. And someone had used your family to turn your husband into a weapon again.

And you were going to find out why.

—

A year later, you were watching the news while Leo played on the carpet.

Not watching, really. You were letting it sit on in the background while you moved through the living room with half your attention split into a dozen places at once. Leo’s sippy cup was on the coffee table. His toy dinosaurs were arranged in a careful little line near your foot. A postcard Johnathan had sent from the Bahamas with his boyfriend on the fridge. There was a basket of laundry on the chair you had been meaning to fold since yesterday, and your laptop sat open on the sofa beside you, full of documents, court filings, old visitor logs, psychiatric reports, and all the research you had been collecting like ammunition.

You had been working for weeks. You had names, dates, transfer notices, facility records, connections that were too neat to be coincidence. You had followed the clues until your stomach turned. Dex was going to be moved into general population, and it was not an administrative error. It was not random. It had the Fisks’ fingerprints all over it, even if she was careful enough never to leave them where a normal person could see.

After all, it hadn’t taken you long to find out about the Red Hook charter. That part had been almost laughably easy. Child’s play, really.

The public library had a stack of old municipal records tucked away in the back, half-forgotten beneath outdated notices and donation forms. Someone had slapped a label on the box years ago — NEEDS TO BE SHREDDED — and then, by some miracle of underfunded bureaucracy, no one ever had.

So you had done the one thing you could think of and sent Matt Murdock an anonymous tip. You didn't give a signature or explanation. It was just enough information to make him look where he needed to look. It was just enough to prove to him that Dex was not acting on his own.

Matt went to see him that morning. You knew because you still had someone inside the prison willing to tell you what the official channels never would. A friend, barely. A contact, more accurately. 

Then, that night, the news broke: Benjamin Poindexter had escaped from prison and attempted to assassinate the mayor.

Your husband’s name was on every channel again. Your husband’s face was dragged back into the world as a threat, a headline, a monster with a body count and no context anyone cared to say out loud.

You stood frozen in the middle of your living room, remote in hand, while the news anchor spoke over footage you could barely process. On the carpet, Leo lifted his plastic stegosaurus and made it bite the sofa cushion.

“Rawr,” he said seriously.

You looked down at him and how completely unaware he was that his father had just broken out of prison and tried to kill a man.

Leo was too busy frowning at the stegosaurus with Dex’s whole face in miniature, pale brows pulled together, mouth pressed into a stern little line. “No,” he told the dinosaur, pushing its plastic nose away from the triceratops. “No bully.”

The stegosaurus apparently disagreed, because Leo made it chomp again. Then he gasped, offended by his own storyline. “No. Bully bad.” He picked up the stegosaurus, turned it toward the triceratops, and shook it gently. “You say sorry.”

You stared at him.

Leo bumped the stegosaurus’s head carefully against the triceratops. “Sowwy,” he said in a deeper voice.

Then he made the triceratops pat the stegosaurus on the head. “Okay. Be kind now.”

Your chest tightened so hard you had to sit down.

Leo looked up. “Mama?”

“I’m okay,” you said too quickly.

He stared at you with Dex’s eyes, unconvinced.

You turned the volume down, but not off. You couldn’t make yourself turn it off. You sat there with Leo at your feet and the whole city falling apart on-screen, trying to understand the sequence. Matt’s visit. The transfer. The Fisks. Dex escaping. The mayor. None of it random. None of it was out of nowhere, and you probably were the one to set this into motion the second you gave the anonymous tip.

“Mama,” Leo said again, holding up a toy. “Dino hungry.”

“Dino is always hungry,” you whispered.

“Need snack.”

“Okay,” you said, because your voice was already too close to breaking and arguing with a four-year-old about a plastic dinosaur felt like the one thing you could actually survive. “Let me check what we have.”

You stood and crossed into the kitchen, still listening to the news. The fridge light came on cold and white across your face. You stared into it without really seeing anything: half a punnet of strawberries, Leo’s yoghurt, and Leftover pasta. A little container of cut grapes.

The news anchor said Dex’s name again. Your hand tightened around the fridge door.

You reached for Leo’s yoghurt, then stopped because he had asked for a snack for the dinosaur, not himself, and for one absurd second that distinction mattered enough to make you laugh under your breath.

Then you realised that Leo was… silent. He wasn’t babbling. He wasn’t talking to his toys. Is he okay?

Worried, you looked back into the living room.

Leo was standing in the middle of the carpet, one dinosaur clutched in his hand, his small body frozen in a way that made the back of your neck prickle.

He was waving at the window.

No. Not the window. The fire escape.

Beyond the glass, half-hidden in the dark metal lines of the fire escape, was his father.

Oh.

Little did you know, Dex had already been there for fifteen minutes.

Fifteen whole minutes of being half-hidden in the dark, one hand braced against the cold metal railing while he looked into the life he had only known through your stories. At first, he watched you, moving through the living room with the television flickering against your face, beautiful and alive, one hand absently touching your wedding ring while you tried to hold the world together through the sheer refusal to give up on him.

But when his eyes found Leo, Dex forgot how to breathe.

He knew what his son looked like from photographs. He knew he had blond hair, serious eyes, and that little frown you always said was his. But seeing Leo in person was different. It was jarring, how much he actually looked like him. Leo was now a real person to Dex, sitting cross-legged on the carpet in dinosaur pyjamas, scolding a plastic stegosaurus for biting another toy.

Dex watched Leo make the dinosaur apologise. He watched Leo say that bullying was bad. He watched his son choose kindness with no one guiding him toward it.

Oh. Leo looked like him, but he was good in a way Dex had never been able to be without help. Dex had always needed a North Star, someone outside him to point toward right when his own internal compass spun uselessly in the dark. He would always need you that way, always look to you when the world blurred at the edges and everything started to feel lost.

But Leo did not need a North Star. Leo had one inside him. Leo had a functioning moral compass in a tiny body with Dex’s face and your kindness. Dex’s focus, but not his emptiness. Dex’s intensity, but not his fracture. Dex, if someone had loved him correctly from the start.

And that was when Dex understood that he loved him. And not in the distant, complicated love he had forced himself to. Not just because Leo was yours, or because Leo was his, or because Leo had kept you tethered to him while the rest of the world tried to take him away.

Now, he loved Leo because Leo was a good version of him. Because protecting Leo suddenly felt a lot like self-preservation. Like if Dex could keep this child safe, if he could make sure the world never reached into Leo and broke the compass before it had a chance to grow, then maybe some part of himself could be saved too.

Then Leo noticed him.

Dex saw the exact second it happened. Leo’s head turned, eyes lifting past the kitchen table, past the window, to the dark shape crouched on the fire escape.

For one breathless second, Dex couldn't move. He had been caught. Not by the police. Not by guards. Not by Daredevil. By a four-year-old boy. 

Leo didn’t scream. He didn’t cry. Of course not. He was your son, too. He was brave, like you. 

He only blinked, then lifted one small hand and waved.

Because Dex didn't want to scare him, because he did not know how fathers were supposed to wave at sons they had never held, Dex lifted his hand and waved back.

That was when you noticed.

And fuck, he couldn’t wait to be in your arms again.

The second you got the window open, Dex came through it, one hand catching the frame, the other already reaching for you. The sniper rifle was still strapped across his back, cold against the warmth of your apartment.

You barely had time to say his name before his hands were on you.

He pulled you into him so quickly your feet left the floor, spinning you half across the living room with a strength that startled a laugh out of you before it broke into a sob. His arms locked around your waist, your hands flew to his shoulders, and then his mouth was on yours. The kiss was clumsy in the way only grief and longing could be clumsy. He kissed you like every locked door, every court order, every year stolen from you both had narrowed into this one second.

He tasted like blood and rain. His lip was split. One of his teeth was missing. There were stitches along his forehead and dirt at the edge of his chin, but he was here. Your husband was in your living room with his body against yours and his hands on your back like he was trying to convince himself you were not another trick his mind played against him.

“I missed you,” you breathed against his mouth.

Dex made a broken sound and kissed you again. “I missed you.”

“No, baby,” you whispered, laughing and crying at the same time as you pressed kisses to his mouth, his cheek, the corner of his cheekbones, the scar you’ve yet to trace there. “I missed you. I missed you so much.”

His forehead dropped to yours. For a second, he just held you there, eyes closed, breathing you in like he had forgotten the world. His fingers moved at your waist, not quite gripping, not quite letting go, that old helpless need in him trying so hard to be gentle and failing only because there was too much feeling in one body.

Then a small voice behind you said, “Mama?”

It went through him all at once, the way a person remembered fire after touching a flame. His hands stayed on you, but his whole body locked up, breath caught, eyes opening with a kind of fear you had never seen in him. 

Because no, Benjamin Poindexter had no defence against a four-year-old boy in dinosaur pyjamas.

Slowly, you turned in his arms to see Leo stood in the middle of the carpet with one sock missing and his stegosaurus tucked under one arm. His round little face was serious, sleepy, and curious. He looked much like Dex, it made your chest hurt, but he was smaller, untouched by every cruel thing that had made his father into a weapon.

“Mama,” Leo asked, pointing the dinosaur toward Dex, “who’s this?”

Dex’s breath hitched, you felt it under your palm.

For a moment, you couldn’t answer. You had imagined this introduction a hundred different ways over the years. Maybe in a supervised visitation room. Or through a phone call. Maybe one day in some future where paperwork finally gave way and Leo was old enough to understand more than he should have to. You had not imagined Dex standing in your apartment with a rifle on his back, blood at his mouth, wanted by half the city, looking down at his son like the universe had placed his missing pieces in a boy that looked like a mirror.

You swallowed.“Leo,” you said softly, voice shaking. “This is Daddy.”

Dex inhaled like the word had gone straight through him.

Leo blinked up at him. “Hi daddy,” he repeated, testing the shape of it.

Dex was still trying to keep himself held together with force and habit and whatever discipline had survived. But a foreign emotion moved across him as you felt your own eyes fill again.

“Hi, Leo,” he whispered. His voice was wrecked.

Leo studied him with the grave suspicion of a child encountering an adult who looked both interesting and badly assembled. His eyes moved over Dex’s face. Then his little brows pulled together.

“Your teeth is missing,” Leo said.

You made a small sound, half laugh, half sob.

Dex blinked at him. “What?”

Leo took one step closer, stegosaurus still tucked under his arm like backup. “Your teeth is missing. Are you okay?”

And that was what broke him.

Not the years he had lost. Not even the word Daddy, though that had nearly taken his knees out. It was the concern in his son’s voice, the immediate, unprompted softness. The way Leo saw something wrong and, instead of flinching from him, asked if he was okay.

Dex lowered himself slowly to one knee, as if sudden movement might shatter the moment.

The rifle shifted against his back, so violently out of place beside your son’s little bare foot on the carpet. Dex seemed to realise it too. His hand moved as if to take it off, then stopped, uncertain, afraid to do anything too fast with Leo so close.

“I’m okay,” Dex said carefully.

Leo looked unconvinced. “Mama has plasters.”

Dex looked up at you.Your hand went to your mouth, and you cried properly then, because Leo had no idea what he was offering. No idea that his father had come through the window carrying a weapon and a history no child should have to understand. No idea that asking about a missing tooth and suggesting a plaster was the kindest thing anyone had said to Dex all year.

Dex looked back at him, and saw a person. A tiny person with Dex’s hair and Dex’s nose and Dex’s mouth, but he was human, in the way he never was. He was kind.

Leo was everything Dex had wanted to be and never knew how. Leo was a good version of him.

For the first time in Dex’s life, he looked at someone smaller than him and thought, with stunned humility, that he might have something to learn.

From his son, his better self.

Leo tilted his head. “You want Dino?”

Dex looked at the stegosaurus like it was sacred.

Then he held out both hands, slowly, carefully, letting Leo decide.

Leo stepped closer and placed the dinosaur into his palms.

Dex took it as if it weighed more than the rifle on his back. As if this battered little plastic toy had more power to undo him than any weapon ever made.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

Leo nodded, satisfied by the manners, then moved closer. His small hand lifted and patted Dex’s cheek, not quite where the scar was, gentle in the imprecise way of toddlers trying their best.

Dex’s eyes snapped to yours. There was panic there. Wonder. A silent, helpless question: What do I do?

You sank down beside them, one hand on Leo’s back, the other reaching for Dex’s face.  “You’re doing okay,” you whispered.

Leo patted him again, then leaned forward and, with the sudden trust only children could offer, pressed himself into Dex’s chest.

Dex stopped breathing. Then, slowly, so slowly it made your heart ache, his arms came around your son.

Leo fit against him like he had always belonged there, his same-colored hair tucked beneath Dex’s chin. Dex held him as if the whole room might punish him for wanting it too much, as if any wrong movement would prove he didn;t deserve this.

You watched his hand spread carefully over Leo’s back. The same hand that had hurt people. The same hand that had held weapons. That same hand that now shook from the effort of touching his son gently enough.

Leo looked up from Dex’s chest. “Are you cold?”

Dex swallowed. “A little.”

Leo considered that, then turned to you. “Mama, Daddy need blanket.”

You laughed through tears. “Yeah,” you whispered. “Maybe he does.”

Dex closed his eyes.

His face bent toward Leo’s hair, and for a second he didn’t quite kiss him, He only breathed there, close enough to smell the child he had made and never held. Shampoo. Crackers. Life. His son smelled like life.

When Dex opened his eyes again, they were wet. He looked at you over Leo’s head, and the room seemed to fold around the three of you. 

“I missed everything,” he whispered.

You moved closer, pressing your forehead to his shoulder, one hand covering his where it rested on Leo’s back. “You’re here now.”

It was not enough, you both knew that. It was nowhere near enough.

But Leo wriggled in Dex’s arms and said, “Daddy, Dino hungry,” with the complete seriousness of a child who had accepted this new adult into his world and immediately assigned him responsibilities.

Dex looked down at him. Then at the dinosaur. Then back at you, for instruction. You tilted your chin like, go on.

“What does Dino eat?” he managed.

Leo gasped, scandalised that his own father didn’t know. “Crackers.”

Dex looked at you, and you nodded, so he also nodded, “Okay.”

Dex knew now that he was meant to love Leo because Leo was his second chance in miniature. 

And Leo had no idea his father would burn the world to keep him safe. Because in the end, that's what makes him a good man, right?

—end.

Extra note : I keep getting distracted from my Dex x reader / ex!Bucky fic, but I promise it’s on its way. In the meantime, my immediate thought after writing this is a sequel where Reader and Dex finds out Leo has powers (is a mutant) and that’s why Dex starts killing anti-vigilante task force. Because he wants to protect his son. (No promises, but let me know if anyone’s interested!)

Dex taglist : @itsdynotdaddy @diabolicallydownbad @doesanyonereadthis @meicore @pixie2k5 @bibiishin @starlitflora @pearlstiare @glorybeat @stardustworlds @castawaybarnes @supervampireflame @not-the-teen-witch @billybonesxx @ultimatewolverine @treetrees-world-of-imagiation @bitch-spaghetti-o @lostinthes4uce @cotton-eee @weallhaveadestiny @awesome-badass-cafeteria-sauce @moonbug333 @yujyujj @mattdexx @lostfallenangelsblog @bloomsberryfairy @flimsysquid @abbotfan @leonetta2014 @ficcharsimpsblog @odairtrqsh (Let me know if I missed anyone. If you want to be added, please ask/messege! it gets lost in the comments sometimes!)

[flowersforbucky]

petals for armor

vignettes of your relationship with jack abbot told through the five love languages.

word count: 13k+ ~ warnings/tags: 18+ only mdni, canon level description of injuries, lack of medical knowledge lol, nurse!reader, some angst, fluff, reader has a workplace stalker, no use of y/n, fem reader, heated kissing and implied smut, every cliche jack abbot trope crammed in one fic, some emotional hurt/comfort, ever so slight sugar daddy vibes but not really, slow burnish until it’s not !

author’s note: wrote this same concept for bucky and adrian too. can’t control myself, clearly. here’s my version for jack! big shoutout to my girl @fru1t4fr0gs for reading this 87 times for me over the course of the last month xoxoxo <3

✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑

Words of Affirmation

“Where the hell is Jack?”

A fellow nurse you had asked moments ago only shrugged in response, and Dr. Walsh barely looked up from her computer to mumble your guess is as good as mine.

If anyone were to ask why you’re curious of his whereabouts, you would spew some excuse about needing to ask him a question about the patient who got her hand stuck in a garbage disposal.

But that wouldn’t be your true reason for asking. No, Mrs. Sawyer is currently snoring after maxing out her morphine drip, so for the time being, she’s not your concern.

Jack is your concern.

He’s been quiet. Withdrawn. Solemn in the way that he gets sometimes, but tonight it’s worse than you’ve seen before. He isn’t exactly the most chipper person even on his best days, but you picked up on the minute change in his demeanor from the moment he greeted you at the beginning of the shift.

No one else seems to have noticed. If they have, they haven’t pointed it out.

But you’re hyperaware of him in a way that you have no business being. It isn’t your place to take such notice of him, and yet you do. Sometimes you think that your job would be easier if you only paid as much attention to him as you do Shen, or Robby, or Whitaker, or Santos.

Quite literally anyone else.

“He asked me to keep an eye on the patient in bay three and then wandered off,” Shen sighs. “Saw him going in the direction of the west stairwell when I was on my way back from the break room if that helps.”

“West stairwell?” You mumble under your breath. There’s only one reason he would be walking in the direction of the west stairwell that you can think of.

It wouldn’t be the first time he’s gone up to the hospital rooftop to clear his mind, though you can’t say you’ve ever known of him to do so in the middle of the night.

Especially not without his coat when it’s 25 degrees outside.

Call it a hunch. Something in your gut telling you that he isn’t in the staff lounge, or bathroom, or an empty on-call room. The grating voice in the back of your mind is telling you he’s on that damn roof.

“Hey, I’ll be right back,” you call to Shen as you grab the black Columbia off the back of Jack’s desk chair, walking away before Shen can ask where you’re going.

Before you can think of grabbing your cardigan. Before you can think of anything, really. You haven’t the vaguest idea what you’ll say if your suspicion is confirmed when you open the stairwell door and find him on the rooftop, but you don’t let that stop you from putting one foot in front of the other until you reach the top of the stairs with his jacket clutched to your chest.

When you start to open the door, you pause with your hand on the knob. It crosses your mind that it isn’t too late for you to turn back - to walk back down the stairs and hang his coat on his chair and resume your job before he can ever know that you came up here to check on him.

That would be the smart thing to do. Then you wouldn’t risk crossing any professional boundaries or potentially blurring the lines between the level of concern you would show towards any random coworker, and one that makes your brain turn to static anytime you find yourself in his general vicinity.

But then you recall the forlorn look on his face as he typed up discharge papers at his desk when he thought no one was watching. The way he kept rubbing the bridge of his nose like he had a headache that just wouldn’t go away. How he hasn’t cracked one sarcastic comment in the last eight hours.

That pesky, persistent voice in the back of your mind tells you that he would do the same for you, though you doubt her reliability. She’s been known to tell you what you want to hear.

You listen anyway, and open the door.

He doesn’t turn around or glance over his shoulder at the sound of the creaking door - he doesn’t even flinch, and you have to wonder if he heard you at all over the low howl of the wind. You step out into the cold, mentally cursing yourself for not taking the time to grab your cardigan.

You stop when you reach the guardrail. He stands just beyond it, several feet from the ledge of the building with his hands in his scrub pockets. Light from the full moon reflects off his salt and pepper curls and even from here, you can see goosebumps on the skin of his neck.

“Beautiful moon tonight,” you muse. “Pretty sure it would look just as nice from behind the rail, though.”

His shoulders lift with a faint, amused chuckle. “I can’t give Mrs. Sawyer anymore morphine,” he says without turning to look at you.

You huff a laugh, crossing your arms over your chest to attempt to shield yourself from the cold night air as you will your teeth not to chatter. “Mrs. Sawyer is sound asleep. I’m here for you.”

He finally glances over his shoulder, an expression that you can’t quite read on his face. “How’d you know I’d be up here?”

“Just a lucky guess.” You shrug, then duck between the railing to come stand beside him. He glances down, noticing the coat in your arms at the same moment you hold it out to him. “Thought you’d be cold.”

He stares at you for a moment before accepting it, but he doesn’t put it on as you expect him to. Instead, he takes a step in your direction, stopping right in front of you, and drapes the coat around your shoulders.

Your breath catches in your throat.

“You’re shaking like a leaf,” he murmurs. He reluctantly drops his hands back down to his sides, but doesn’t step away from you.

“That does tend to happen when it’s below freezing outside, doctor.”

He looks like he’s fighting the urge to smirk, but then he looks away, back to the full moon and city lights in front of you. He’s silent for a moment and then sighs. “Today is the anniversary of losing my leg.”

You exhale, your breath clouding in front of your lips. He continues to watch the night sky before him as you watch him. His jaw tenses and he seems to try to swallow down whatever he’s feeling. “Oh, Jack,” you murmur. “I’m sorry. I had no idea.”

He never talks about his leg. Never calls any attention to it, if he can help it. Doesn’t let it define him. Hell, you didn’t even learn that he’s an amputee until three months after switching to the night shift, when you walked into the break room to find him adjusting his prosthetic.

This is the same man who didn’t hesitate to use one leg to donate his own blood while actively working on a critically injured patient, while his other is in a prosthetic. Of course he hasn’t mentioned the anniversary of the day he’d lost his leg before.

So for him to confess this to you now…that’s not something you take lightly.

Jack shakes his head, still not meeting your gaze. “Most years, it doesn’t even cross my mind. It’s just another day to me. But tonight, when Mrs. Sawyer wakes up, I have to tell her that she’s going to lose her hand. That it isn’t salvageable. I have to deliver the same news that I received on this same day.”

You glance down at the ground. The news doesn’t come as much of a surprise to you. You had seen Mrs. Sawyer’s mangled hand with your own two eyes when she first arrived earlier tonight. She’d dropped her wedding ring down the disposal, reached in to try to grab it without thinking, and the disposal turned on all its own. A stuck switch, electrical shortage, faulty wiring…who knows. In the blink of an eye, her life is changed by one freak accident.

You don’t know the specifics of how Jack had lost his leg, but you wonder if that’s how he had felt, too, all those years ago.

But you don’t ask. Instead, you grab his hand in yours and give it a tight squeeze. The warmth of his palm against yours offers the smallest reprieve from the cold and his hands are far softer than you would have ever expected, but you force yourself to let go when his gaze snaps back to yours.

“I’m sorry it has to be you,” you murmur. “But for whatever it’s worth…if it were me, I wouldn’t want it to be anyone else.”

He exhales, the cold air turning his breath to fog. His lips part, then press together again like he wants to say something but can’t find his voice. The look on his face says it all, though.

I don’t know if I can do this. Not tonight.

“I mean it,” you implore. “It’s going to suck for you to say and it’s going to suck for her to hear. But she has you, and that’s one thing going right for her tonight. There’s only so many people in this world that can relate to what she’s going through, and she gets to have one of them as her doctor.”

He’s quiet for a moment as your words settle over him. Then, the corners of his mouth turn up ever so slightly. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes, but it’s something. “You know, I think the world of you as a nurse…but if for some reason you ever decide to change career paths, you should consider motivational speaking.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” you snort, your cheeks warming at the compliment. “But until then…” You trail off, contemplating your next words. Not wanting to come on too strong while also needing him to know that you mean what you’re about to say from the bottom of your heart.

“Until then, you don’t have to do it alone. I’ll be there when she wakes up. I’ll stay with you while you tell her. If you want, that is.”

Not just tonight, you almost add. Any night. Every night. If you’ll let me.

“And as much as I appreciate this—” You glance down at his coat that still hugs you, “I’d appreciate you coming back inside with me a lot more. She’ll be waking up soon. She needs you. I need you.”

He huffs out a quiet laugh and nods. “Alright. You win. Let’s go inside before you get hypothermia and I have to fill out an incident report.”

He starts to turn towards the guardrail behind you when he pauses, placing a tentative hand on your waist. It's barely there, a featherlight kind of touch - the kind you probably wouldn’t even feel if you didn’t glance down for visual confirmation.

“Thank you,” he murmurs. “For looking for me.”

You shiver. You tell yourself it’s because of the wind.

“Yeah,” you breathe. “Always.”

✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑

Gift Giving

“What are you doing here?” Cassie muses the second she sees you walk through the emergency department’s doors - just loudly enough to draw the attention of Dana, Santos, Whitaker, and everyone else within twenty feet of the nurse’s station. “You haven’t worked on your birthday once the entire time you’ve been here.”

You glare at her, making a mental note to get her back for that the first chance you get.

She knows exactly why you chose to work tonight - and right now, you’re just relieved that he has yet to arrive for his shift and therefore isn’t here to witness this conversation.

“I didn’t know today’s your birthday,” Santos says, seemingly intrigued by the teasing expression on Cassie’s face and the annoyance on yours.

“It’s not my birthday.”

“It’s not her birthday yet,” Cassie clarifies, glancing down at her watch. “But it will be her birthday in approximately five hours.”

“Jesus,” you sigh, staring up at the screen above you to see what kind of shitshow you have willingly walked into by agreeing to cover a shift for Perlah earlier this week. “I’m a big girl. Sometimes big girls have to work on their birthdays. Perlah needed her shift covered, so here I am.”

You omit the fact that you were more than happy to do so because it meant having an excuse to spend part of your birthday with a certain attending that you knew would be on shift, as per usual on Monday nights/Tuesday mornings.

It’s not as if you had any major birthday plans to begin with. Other than getting dinner with Cassie and Samira tomorrow evening, your only plans include binge-watching and bedrotting. Picking up an extra shift tonight interferes with none of that, but…

You do feel a little silly. You wouldn’t dare ever admit it to Cassie, but she’s right. You don’t normally work on your birthday. Someone else more than likely would have been willing to cover Perlah’s shift. You don’t have to be here right now.

But you want to be. As silly - and maybe even a little bit pathetic - as it may be, you want to be.

Unfortunately for you, by the time the clock strikes midnight and it’s officially your birthday, you’ve barely even had the chance to exchange a handful of words with your entire reason for agreeing to work this shift.

Jack has been in the middle of an emergency splenectomy for the last three hours, and you? Lena assigned you the time-consuming, meticulous task of removing hundreds of bits of gravel from a severe case of road rash.

Isn’t that how everyone dreams of kicking off their birthday?

It succeeded in keeping you occupied for a few hours, at least - even if it is the type of mindless work that allows your thoughts to venture into territory they absolutely fucking shouldn’t when you’re picking tiny rocks out of a bloody crater on someone’s leg.

The feeling of Jack’s fingertips on your waist as he stood mere inches away from you on the rooftop what feels like just yesterday.

Him walking you to your car damn near every morning since even though you’re parked farther from the hospital entrance than he is, and the way he hesitates a little longer to say goodbye each time.

All of the times he has shown up to work with two coffees instead of one, and one just so happens to be your go-to order.

And, most recently, the elevator incident just yesterday - when he had oh so casually asked what your plans for your next day off are.

Friday, you had told him. Your next day off is Friday, and you don’t have any plans other than deep-cleaning your apartment and catching up on laundry. He had leaned back against the elevator wall, looking at you in that way that makes your heart behave erratically.

“That’s too bad,” Jack sighed. “Someone should give you something to actually look forward to on your day off.”

Then the elevator came to a stop, the doors slid open, and he walked out like he hadn’t just made you forget how to string two words together.

It wasn’t until hours later, on the drive home after your shift, that you were able to think of what you should have said instead of staring at him with your mouth agape like a fish out of water.

Oh, yeah? And who is someone?

Is that your professional opinion, or personal one?

Let me know when you think of something that I can actually look forward to, then.

But no. You said none of those things, and then found an excuse to stay for nearly an hour after your shift had technically ended so that you wouldn’t make an even bigger fool out of yourself when he would inevitably offer to walk you to your car.

You replay the interaction over and over again in your head the entire time you’re removing gravel from the wound, but finally, you finish.

You’re pulling the bloody nitrile gloves off of your hands when Jack appears in the doorway, still wearing a scrub cap and looking like he could use a few shots of espresso.

“Hey,” you breathe, unable to stop the smile that blooms across your face as soon as you see him. “How did the splenectomy go?”

“He’s going to be okay,” he exhales, tugging off his cap and revealing tousled salt and pepper curls. “He’s in recovery now.” Then, he glances around, as if making sure no one is paying any mind to either of you. “Do you think you could sneak away for a few?” He asks, voice low. “Meet me in the empty on-call room in about ten minutes?”

Your heart thuds in your chest. He’s smirking, but there’s something in his hazel eyes that makes you think he looks a little nervous.

“Yeah,” you nod without missing a beat. “Yeah, of course. Just let me get him some more pain meds and I’ll be right there.” You nod towards the road rash patient scrolling on his phone behind you. “Is everything okay?”

He takes a step back and winks. “Everything’s just fine, birthday girl.”

And then he turns, walking away and leaving you speechless for the second day in a row.

You haven’t even had a chance to remind him of your birthday tonight. In fact, you don’t recall mentioning your birthday to him at any point recently. A few days ago, you told him that you would be picking up Perlah’s shift tonight, but you hadn’t said a word about it being your birthday.

Did Cassie say something to him? Maybe a playful comment as she was leaving earlier about you deciding to work on your birthday? But even so, why would that result in him asking you to meet him in an empty on-call room?

By the time you give road rash guy a maximum dose of Toradol and blurt out some excuse about needing to use the bathroom as you powerwalk past the nurse’s station, your palms are drenched in sweat and your stomach feels like it’s swinging on a pendulum.

You raise your hand to the knob, hesitate for half a moment - just long enough to recall the lilt in his voice when he practically cooed birthday girl - and then, before you can chicken out, push it open.

The first thing you notice is how dim the small room is. Aside from the pale orange glow of a lamp next to the bed, the room is dark.

But not so dark that you can’t see Jack sitting on the edge of the bed, holding a cupcake in one hand and a pocket lighter in the other.

“I would sing to you, but I don’t want to torture you on your special day.” He ignites the lighter, holding the flame to the singular candle until it catches fire. “Don’t tell Dana,” he murmurs, standing up to walk the few feet to where you stand frozen in shock. “I took her spare lighter from her desk.”

You’re at a loss for words - which is quickly becoming the norm for when you’re near him. The only coherent thought you can manage to formulate is that right now, you’re so grateful that Perlah asked you to cover her shift.

You take a step closer to him now that your brain seems to be remembering to send signals to your limbs to move. “Do you always bring the nurses cupcakes on their birthdays, or is this something new you’re trying out?”

He hums a laugh. “Only my favorites. Now go on,” he encourages gently. “Make a wish.”

You hesitate, pursing your lips as you wait to see if he’s joking.

The look on his face makes it clear that he’s not.

And you’re not about to tell him no, so you close your eyes, lean in closer, and blow out the tiny flame while silently wishing for the only thing you have really wanted since you met him.

He hands you the cupcake as soon as you open your eyes. “I don’t suppose there’s any way I could persuade you to tell me what you wished for?”

You huff a breathless laugh. “I don’t think so. Gotta do everything I can to ensure that it comes true.”

“I didn’t take you to be superstitious.”

You shrug, thinking of your wish. Thinking of what he said to you in the elevator yesterday. Thinking of the way he’s looking at you right this second. “I’m usually not.”

It’s true. You’ve never considered yourself to be superstitious. But you aren’t going to take any chances with this wish.

Jack’s gaze lingers on your face for one impossibly long moment before he glances over his shoulder at the bed behind him. It’s only then that you see something that you had been too distracted to notice when you first entered the room and found him holding the cupcake and lighter.

A small gift bag with white tissue paper sticking out of the opening sits on the bed.

“Jack, you really didn’t have to get—”

“I know I didn’t have to,” he laughs lowly, cutting you off before you can finish protesting. “But I wanted to, so I did.”

The already tiny room suddenly feels infinitely smaller. The cupcake alone was thoughtful enough to have your heart performing cartwheels in your chest. Hell, the fact that he even remembered your birthday without you directly mentioning it to him is enough to make you swoon. But all of this?

You’re so fucked. Entirely and irrevocably fucked.

You don’t remember the last time you felt so nervous to open any gift. Not at any childhood birthday party or family Christmas when dozens of eyes were glued to you.

It’s just Jack. There’s no reason to be nervous, you think to yourself as you place the cupcake on the bedside table and take a seat on the edge of the mattress.

Exactly. It’s Jack. Jack, who went out of his way to …bake you a cupcake? Or stop by a bakery on his way to work and buy you a cupcake? And personally pick out a gift for you? And find you the second that he finished performing an emergency splenectomy so that he could give you the aforementioned cupcake and gift in private?

You will your hands not to tremble as you delicately pull the tissue paper from the bag. Jack takes a seat beside you, and even though you don’t meet his gaze, you can feel his stare locked onto your face as he awaits your reaction.

You peek inside the bag, and you see it. Already unboxed. A stethoscope.

But not just any stethoscope. A really fucking pricey stethoscope.

The tubing is your favorite color and your initial is engraved into the bell in cursive lettering.

“Oh,” you breathe, too stunned to remember any of the other hundreds of thousands of words in the English language.

He clears his throat and gives a tiny shrug that does little to conceal how intently he’s watching you. “I know you’ve been using the same one since you first started working here,” he murmurs as you pull the stethoscope from the bag and hold it in your hands as if it’s made of glass. “This one should last you a while.”

You trace the engraved letter with your fingertip. “It’s beautiful,” you whisper, finally looking up at him. “But this…Jack, this is too much. You shouldn’t have spent this much money.”

“It’s not.” He shakes his head, gently shushing you, soft but firm. “I wouldn’t have spent it if I didn’t have it, but I do.”

He smirks, pausing for a second as he takes the stethoscope from you. He leans in, lifting the tubing over your head and looping it around your neck. His knuckles faintly brush your collarbone as the bell settles just over your heart.

“And maybe, selfishly, I’ll enjoy seeing it around your neck knowing that I put it there.”

You exhale a breathless laugh, your skin ablaze at both his words and the timber of his voice. “I’ll wear it every day, then.” Then, feeling brave, you scoot closer to him, closing the remaining distance between you and him until the side of your leg rests against his. “How’d you know my favorite color, anyway?”

Even in the dim lamp lighting, you can see a hint of pink bloom on his cheeks. He grins, the lines around his eyes crinkling. “Oh, I don’t know. It’s only the color of your water bottle, your phone case, your lunch box…”

You laugh to play off how it makes your heart swell that he noticed any of those things.

“And I might have asked Cassie,” he sighs, shaking his head. “Just to be one hundred percent sure.”

The look on Cassie’s face and her teasing comments when you’d first arrived for your shift earlier tonight suddenly pop into your head.

Of course she had known. Damn her.

At least she can keep a secret.

“It’s perfect,” you hum. “I love it. Thank you.”

“You deserve it. Especially since you’ve gotta be here on your birthday.”

You chuckle nervously, looking down at your hands in your lap to avoid his stare. “Yeah, about that…”

You hesitate before continuing, briefly considering regurgitating the same excuse you had tried to feed everyone else about only working tonight because Perlah needed her shift covered.

It isn’t a lie. But it also isn’t the truth.

The stethoscope hanging around your neck suddenly feels like it weighs fifty pounds. It serves as tangible proof that you don’t need to hold back, that he cares about you as much as you do him. That he isn’t going to make you feel silly. That, for whatever reason, he wants to be near you as much as you want to be near him.

“I was happy to say yes when Perlah asked me to cover her shift. I wanted to be here on my birthday. Well…wanted to be with you on my birthday,” you quickly amend.

Jack places his hand over yours with a heartfelt laugh. “I wish you had told me. I would have rearranged my shifts so I’d be off tonight,” he sighs. “I’ll remember that next year. But in the meantime…”

Next year. The words seem to ping pong around in your brain. You glance up at him to find he’s already looking at you.

“You said that your next day off is Friday?”

He’s so close that it’s dizzying. All you can manage is a small nod of confirmation.

“Here’s what I propose, then,” he starts, his thumb rubbing slow circles over the top of your hand, “Friday evening, you let me give you a birthday redo. Unless you’re too committed to catching up on your laundry, that is.”

The words you hadn’t said aloud when you made your wish just moments ago echo through your mind.

“I’m off on Saturday as well,” you hum. “I’m sure the world will keep spinning if I put it off for one more day.”

“Then it’s settled,” he says simply. “Friday night. Birthday redo. You and me.”

“Don’t you…always work on Friday nights?” You ask hesitantly. Every part of you wants to say yes, yes, yes, duh, of course - but in the entire time you’ve worked with Jack Abbot, you’ve never known him to be off on Friday nights.

Something about weekend shifts being more exciting than weekday shifts.

He huffs a quiet laugh that you feel the soft vibration of from where his hand rests atop yours and your thigh brushes against his.

“That’s not for you to worry about,” he murmurs. “Just get through these next few shifts and I’ll take care of the rest.”

✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑

Acts of Service

The following seventy-two hours drag.

You would think that twelve hour shifts would make the days go by quickly, but no. Not when your first official date with Jack awaits you at the end of the week, occupying your every waking thought at work, at home, and in your fucking sleep.

It certainly doesn’t help that Jack refuses to tell you what he has planned for said date. You’ve asked, but every time you do, he just smirks and says he doesn’t want to ruin the surprise.

Anticipation alone, you could probably handle. But anticipation and curiosity? You’ve been slowly losing your mind since Tuesday night.

Now, finally, it is officially Friday. It’s just after midnight, which means you just have to finish the remainder of this shift, go home and get some sleep, and when you wake up it’ll be time to get ready for your date with—

“Your admirer is back.”

Your fingers freeze over the keyboard as you’re working on charting for a patient who came in complaining of urinary pain. You glance up to see Lena looking down at you with what can be best described as an amused grimace.

She steps aside, giving you enough space to look over your shoulder to where an annoyingly familiar face is grinning at you from the bed in bay two.

“Jesus,” you sigh, turning back to your computer screen. “This is his third visit this month. What kind of insane health insurance does he have?” You grumble, more to yourself than Lena.

“Small laceration to the left palm,” Lena explains. “Says he cut it cleaning up glass from a broken liquor bottle. Judging by the way he smells, I’d say he’s telling the truth.”

Now it’s your turn to grimace. Trey - your admirer, as Lena had referred to him - has a habit of stumbling into the ER late at night after drinking too much and sustaining minor injuries that hardly justify a trip to the emergency room.

And every time, he asks for you.

He uses the same pick-up lines every time, stares a little too much, and reeks of whatever alcohol he’s been drinking that night, but he’s always been harmless enough.

This isn’t your first day on the job. You’ve had your fair share of Treys throughout your years working in the emergency department.

“It’s small and shallow,” she continues. “Doesn’t need stitches. Should be fine with some steri-strips, but I can ask Mateo to do it if you don’t wanna deal with him.”

“Mateo has his hands full with the lady with the dog bite that came in about ten minutes ago,” you sigh resignedly, pushing your chair back to stand up. “I’ll just get it over with. If I don’t, he’ll find some other way to fuck himself up enough to come right back here.”

You glance down at your watch. 12:36 am. Just six hours and twenty-four minutes left in this shift.

“Hey, gorgeous,” Trey greets you with slurred words and a shit-eating grin as soon as he sees you approaching his bedside. “I had a feeling you’d be here tonight.”

“This is my full time job,” you quip, not caring enough to try to conceal the annoyance from your voice or facial expression. Even from several feet away, you can smell the stout stench of liquor on him. “So, what is it now, Trey? Lena said something about you getting cut when you tried to clean up glass from a broken bottle?”

“Yeah,” he laughs, drawing out the word. “Clumsy me, right? Total accident.”

“Right,” you deadpan, sliding your hands into nitrile gloves. “Well, let me take a look.”

You take his hand as firmly as you can without technically being rough and turn his palm upwards. It’s exactly as Lena had described - short, shallow, already clotting well - and definitely not worth a trip to the fucking ER. He winces anyway, milking it.

“Ow,” he drawls. “Be careful with me, sweetheart.”

You ignore that, because you’ve become a professional at ignoring Trey and other men like him. You lean in slightly, inspecting the wound for any shards of glass.

“Okay,” you say, all business. “I don’t see any glass, so that’s good. I’m just going to clean it and then close it with steri-strips.”

“Whatever you want. I like when you take charge.” His breath wafts into your face in a thick cloud of cheap vodka and something soured - judging by the mystery stain on the neckline of his t-shirt, you wouldn’t be surprised if it were the stench of his own vomit. You purse your lips in a straight line to keep from making the face you really want to make.

You ignore that comment, too. You reach for the saline, starting to irrigate the laceration. He hisses dramatically.

“Oh, come on,” you mutter. You know you aren’t being professional, but you can’t find it in you to really care. “I’ve had cat scratches worse than this.”

“You could kiss it better,” he slurs, head lolling slightly in a poor attempt at a flirtatious grin.

“Not happening.”

You keep your eyes on the cut as you blot it dry, mentally counting down the minutes until you’re away from him. Mentally counting down the minutes your shift is over and you can go home and crawl into your cozy bed and sleep for hours, and then wake up and take a hot shower and put on something cute for Jack. The only issue with that is you don’t know what you should wear, because you don’t know where you’ll be going or what you’ll be doing—

A flash of silvery curls in your peripheral vision catches your attention. You glance over your shoulder and see Jack standing at the nurse’s station, leaning forward on his elbows, his expression unreadable as he watches you work. He must’ve just come out of trauma, or maybe he’s waiting on lab results; but either way, at this moment, he’s focused on you.

Warmth blooms on your cheeks.

“So…” Trey says, his voice dropping low. “What time do you get off?”

“Not soon enough,” you grumble under your breath, applying the first steri-strip.

“Maybe I could swing by your place later,” he continues, completely ignoring your uninterested, bored tone. “Y’know…hang out. You live at—” He pauses, face scrunching together as he tries to piece the thought together, “—at Carriage Park Apartments, right? In South Hills? You’re…what is it…unit 3B?”

Your blood goes cold and your hands stop moving.

“How the fuck do you know that?” You ask sharply, yanking your hands away from his.

Trey just grins. “Lucky guess, baby.”

It’s not a lucky guess. It’s spot on down to the exact unit.

Instinctively, you take a step back, but he immediately reaches toward you, clumsy but quick, grabbing the tubing of your new stethoscope where it’s draped across your chest.

“Hey—” You jerk backwards, but he doesn’t let you, inspecting the engraved initial on the bell of the stethoscope.

“This is nice,” he slurs. “You always wear this one? Or is it new? I saw on your friend Cassie’s Facebook page that it was your birthday the other day. Maybe it was a gift—”

“Let go,” you snap, trying to keep your voice even. You don’t want to draw the attention of any other patients, but you can literally feel your pulse spiking, hot bile churning in your gut—

But Trey doesn’t let go. His grip only tightens, and at that exact moment, Jack moves.

One second he’s watching like a hawk from the nurse’s station, and the next, he’s at your side, stepping in so quickly and decisively that you barely have time to register what’s happening. His hand clamps around Trey’s wrist - not hard enough to seriously injure him, but with enough strength that Trey’s face contorts in discomfort and he attempts to pull away.

“I suggest you take your hand off of her,” Jack’s voice is low but lethal.

Trey’s glassy eyes blink rapidly up at Jack. “Hey - hey, man,” he stammers. “I wasn’t - I wasn’t doing anything. Just talking to her and - and looking at her—”

“She told you to let go.”

You stand frozen as the interaction unfolds in front of you, your heart feeling as if it’s going to beat right out of your chest and onto the hospital floor.

“I was just joking around.” He says the words so quickly that they all run together. “You don’t gotta - hey, seriously, it’s fine. I’ll go—”

“Dr. Abbot, we’ll handle it from here.”

You vaguely register a security guard’s voice cut through the tension. Two officers appear at the entrance to the bay. You aren’t sure who even called them - knowing Lena, she probably had them on stand by when Trey stumbled in here drunk as a skunk and smelling like one, too.

Jack reluctantly releases Trey’s wrist. The moment he does, his hand finds your shoulder and he begins to guide you backwards, away from the bed and out of Trey’s reach.

“What’s going on here?” One of the guards - a new guy who you’ve never spoken to before - asks no one in particular.

Trey slumps back against the pillows, suddenly appearing very small. “I didn’t fuckin’ do anything,” he mutters, but even he doesn’t sound convinced.

The guards look to you and Jack for a legitimate explanation, which Jack quickly provides. “He grabbed her. She told him to let go, and he didn’t.”

The guard nods. “We’ll take care of it.”

Jack doesn’t wait for the rest. He already has his hand at the small of your back, steering you away from the bay and down a hallway until he reaches an empty consult room.

You don’t even realize just how hard your heart is still pounding until the door clicks shut.

Jack takes a step towards you, but doesn’t crowd you. He raises his hands like he’s going to touch you but stops himself, hands flexing awkwardly in front of him before dropping them back down to his sides.

“Are you okay?” He asks softly, his eyes searching for any obvious signs of physical or emotional distress.

You can’t think clearly enough to answer him right away. Instead, you turn away from him and walk the short distance to the loveseat in the corner of the small room. You take a deep breath in and then exhale, wringing your hands together as you normally do when you’re particularly anxious.

“He won’t be back here,” Jack assures you, watching you carefully from where he stands a few feet away. “Not if I have any say in it. He can risk bleeding out while driving to UPMC Mercy or Presbyterian for all I care—”

“He knows where I live,” you say quietly - barely a whisper, but it shuts him up.

“What?” He asks, though his tone of voice indicates he heard you perfectly fine. “He knows where you live? You’re sure?”

You nod, a fresh wave of nausea washing over you as you recall the satisfied smirk on his face when Trey witnessed your reaction to learning he knows your address.

“Positive.” You grimace. “I don’t know if he has followed me home from work before or what, but he knows where I live. Exact apartment number and all.”

Jack doesn’t say anything for a moment. He rakes a hand down his face, perhaps as stunned by this as you initially were. Your thoughts are reeling, thinking of all of the safety measures you’re going to need to take. You already have a doorbell camera, but you should set up some security cameras inside your apartment, too. An extra front door lock and additional window locks, for sure. A restraining order certainly isn’t a bad idea. There may be a way to terminate your lease early if stalking and harassment are involved - you aren’t really sure. You’ve never fucking been stalked before.

“Okay,” he sighs, sitting down next to you and interrupting your trainwreck of thoughts. “You can’t go back there. Not alone, anyway. After work, you can come back to my place. You can stay as long as you need. As long as you want. We’ll both go to your apartment and get some of your things—”

“Jack, don’t be ridiculous,” you say with a humorless laugh, turning to face him. There’s no hint of uncertainty on his face. You know he means every word he says, but you can’t just take up temporary residence in his home - as tempting as that may sound to you, the last thing you want is to be such an inconvenience before you’ve even gone on one date with the man.

“I can’t - won’t ask that of you. I can get a hotel room for the time being, until I figure out the terms of my lease. Hell, I could stay in an on-call room here for a few nights and I’d be perfectly safe. I know Whitaker did that at one point—”

Jack laughs. Not a humorless, half-hearted chuckle, but full, deep belly laugh. “Honey, you don’t know me if you think I’m going to have you sleeping on a cot in an on-call room or at a hotel where that fucker could follow you just as easily as your apartment.”

He shifts slightly on the loveseat, angling his body toward you. “You staying with me isn’t ridiculous,” he says, quieter. No longer laughing, but his expression is still soft. “It’s safe. And you’re not asking anything of me. I’m offering.”

You drop your gaze down to your hands in your lap. “I’d just…feel bad. I don’t want to intrude. We haven’t even gone on one date yet.”

He shakes his head. “That’s not the point. I don’t care if we’ve been on zero dates or a hundred. A drunk asshole grabbing you and telling you he knows where you live isn’t something that you sleep off in an on-call room.”

You swallow hard. “I don’t want to be a burden,” you murmur.

Don’t want to be a burden, but don’t want to stay anywhere else, either.

You can’t deny it, even to yourself. The second that Jack intervened, you felt safe. Sitting here beside him right now, you’re surprisingly calm given what just transpired. And the thought of going home with him, rather than sleeping in an on-call room or the first hotel you can find? Rather than going back to your apartment where Trey could be waiting for you after your shift? The thought of that brings you more comfort than you’re willing to admit.

His eyebrows lift in disbelief. “A burden?” He leans forward, forearms resting on his knees and his face just inches from yours. “Sweetheart, making sure that you’re safe doesn’t burden me. It matters to me.”

Sweetheart. When Trey had called you the petname, it made your skin crawl. But hearing it from Jack…it’s a term of endearment. Instead of making your skin crawl, it makes your stomach flutter with an entire kaleidoscope of butterflies.

It’s that very feeling that gives you the gentle push you need to say yes.

✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑

Jack and Lena each ask upwards of a dozen times if you’re sure that you’re alright to work the remainder of your shift.

Lena tries to insist that you take an extra long break and eat something. Jack offers to leave work long enough to drive you back to his place so that you can decompress in peace, but you refuse. You don’t have an appetite, and you don’t really want to be alone. You’re sure you would be completely safe at Jack’s, but you don’t want to be left alone with your thoughts. You just want to finish out the last few hours of your shift.

The best thing for you right now is to keep yourself busy, so that’s what you do. You take five minutes to freshen up in the employee bathroom, make yourself a coffee, and get back to it.

That is until the police show up and you, Jack, Lena, and the security guards all have to give statements as to what happened with Trey. You explain his multiple ER visits over the last month alone, how he always asks for you by name, and everything he said and did tonight. They take your statement, and ask if you want to press charges for stalking and harassment - to which you say yes, even though part of you is terrified of how Trey could react once he learns of this. You know it’s the right thing to do.

By the time it’s all said and done and seven o’clock rolls around, it feels like one of the longest shifts of your entire career and you’re beyond relieved for it to be over. So relieved, in fact, that you don’t even feel nervous about going to Jack’s condo until you’re literally walking through his front door.

You hadn’t let yourself dwell on it too much as he drove you to your apartment to collect some of your things. You swore that you were fine to drive your own vehicle and let him follow you, but he had insisted on driving you himself, and you were too tired to put up much of a fight.

As quickly as possible, you threw essentials into a duffel bag while Jack waited patiently in your living room. Hair care products, body wash, toothbrush and toothpaste, a few changes of clothes. Skincare and makeup essentials, perfume, and something cute to wear tonight - you do still have a date this evening, after all.

You were in and out in less than ten minutes.

Jack carries your bag up to his condo for you.

To no surprise, it’s significantly nicer than your apartment. Although you make decent money as an emergency department nightshift nurse, Pittsburgh rent prices are astronomical and you live alone, so you took the first apartment you could find that wasn’t going to completely break the bank every month.

You don’t even want to think about how much this place costs.

It’s damn near exactly how you had envisioned his home to be. There’s very little decor, but there’s still touches of him throughout the space. The large windows have thick blackout curtains - a telltale sign that someone who works at night and sleeps during the day lives here. The espresso machine that he’d been bragging about just last week sits on his kitchen counter. His coffee table is littered with random medical journals and books. It’s the perfect balance of clean and simple yet lived-in and domestic.

“Make yourself at home,” Jack murmurs, placing your duffel bag on the large sectional couch that you’re hovering beside awkwardly. Your heart skips a beat at the word home.

That’s just a thing people say. Make yourself at home - make yourself comfortable. He’s not being literal.

“Tell me what you need,” he says, voice low and warm. “Food? Sleep? A shower? I can make you coffee, breakfast, whatever you want. I don’t normally go to sleep until a few hours after I get home.”

Your stomach all but vibrates at the offer of food. You didn’t eat anything your entire shift. After Trey happened, the thought of eating was entirely unappealing. But now that some time has passed, and you’re away from the hospital, the hunger pains in your belly are becoming hard to ignore.

“At the risk of sounding needy…” You start with a breathy laugh. “All three of those things sound incredible right now.”

Shower, food, sleep. Preferably in that order.

“I’ll make us something to eat while you take a shower,” Jack hums, as if reading your mind. Your stomach does that erupts into hundreds of butterflies thing again that cannot be blamed solely on hunger. He takes a step towards you, placing a light, tentative hand on your waist. “How does that sound?”

It’s a simple question but it makes you lightheaded. You aren’t used to this - having someone take care of you in such mundane ways. Driving you around. Carrying your bag for you. Making you food. Getting you thoughtful, personalized gifts.

Part of you wonders if you’re even deserving of it. Any of it. Especially coming from him. But Jack’s a smart man. Rational. Self-assured. The kind of man who knows what he wants and doesn’t settle for less than that. And though you may not fully understand why…you’re the person standing in front of him with his hand on your waist right now.

You give a small nod. “That sounds good. Thank you.” You smile up at him. Then, remembering you don’t actually know your way around this place, you ask, “Where’s the guest room? I’ll take my bag in there.”

He sucks in air through his teeth. “About that…” He trails off with a shy laugh. “My guest room is currently functioning as a storage unit. You’ll be staying in my room. I’ll take the couch.”

“What?” You exclaim, eyes going wide. “No way. I’m not kicking you out of your bed in your own home, Jack.” You look at the giant sectional beside you. “There’s more than enough room for me on the couch. Get me a pillow and a blanket and I’ll be fine.”

“No way,” he snorts. Then, his other hand finds your waist, too. His chest is just inches from yours and you catch a whiff of something musky. You can’t argue back because you’re too busy remembering how to breathe. “Not happening. I end up falling asleep on the couch more than half the time, anyway. You aren’t kicking me out of anywhere.”

“But—”

“But nothing,” he interjects, gentle but firm enough to make you close your mouth. “You’re my guest. You’re sleeping in my bed. That’s final.”

Maybe it’s his tone of voice, or maybe it’s the look on his face - his words hit you straight in your core. You’re grateful that he can’t feel your skin through the material of your scrubs, because as soon as the words you’re and sleeping and in my bed left his lips, goosebumps bloomed across your flesh.

You dig your teeth into your bottom lip in an attempt to keep your composure. “You need to be careful,” you exhale, grabbing your duffel bag off of the couch. “You’re going to spoil me rotten.”

He smirks, turning to take you to where you’ll be sleeping. “Would that really be such a bad thing?”

✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑

Physical Touch

As if you needed anything else to add to the ever growing list of reasons that you believe Jack Abbot might be too good to be true, he also makes a killer breakfast sandwich.

You’re not ashamed to admit that you took your sweet time in his walk-in, fancy-pants shower, scrubbing every microscopic trace of hospital off of your skin and letting hot water soothe the aching muscles of your back before rejoining Jack in the kitchen.

When you do, bare-faced and donning the first clean pair of sweatpants and t-shirt you could find during your brief trip to your apartment, Jack is already plating up breakfast for you.

You aren’t even really sure what you had been expecting - cereal, maybe? A protein shake? Instant oatmeal? You were so hungry that you hadn’t been very worried about what, but you were still pleasantly surprised when you entered the kitchen to see what he had managed to put together while you were in the shower.

Bacon, fried egg, Gouda cheese, and avocado slices all piled high on a bagel with hash browns on the side.

He watches in anticipation as you take your first bite. Your eyes flutter shut and he lets out a soft laugh.

“Good?” He slides a cup of coffee across the kitchen island to you (decaf, he said, because he knows you’ll be going to sleep soon).

“That’s an understatement,” you mumble around a mouthful of bagel. “Divine.”

You can’t help but think he looks pleased with himself.

He stands directly across from you, eating his own breakfast that mirrors yours. You’re so hungry, and it’s so delicious, that you barely say a word until you take the very last bite. The silence between you isn’t uncomfortable. It feels natural, easy. Like you’ve sat on this very barstool eating breakfast with him after long shifts dozens of times before.

When you’re both finished, you offer to clean up - which earns you an incredulous look, like he can’t tell if you’re joking or not.

“It’s just a few dishes,” Jack snorts, walking around to where you’re sitting. “I think I can handle it.” He leans with his back against the counter, standing right beside you. “You should go lay down. Get some rest. We’ve got plans tonight, remember?”

“Of course I remember,” you laugh. “Although, I still don’t know what said plans are…” You trail off, looking up at him with raised brows and pursed lips, a silent plea for him to finally tell you what tonight’s agenda is.

He laughs, the lines around his eyes crinkling in the way that always makes you feel fuzzy inside.

“And you’ve been so patient.” He shakes his head and grins down at you. “You’ve made it this far. Why would I ruin the surprise now?”

You suppose he’s right. If you’ve made it all week without knowing, you can wait another eight…ten…twelve hours.

Jack walks you to his bedroom door even though you already know the way. He pauses just at the doorway, one hand braced lightly against the frame like he’s debating whether to stay or go. You hesitate too, your fingers grazing the doorknob but not yet opening it.

“Get some rest,” he murmurs. “And if you need anything - anything at all - I’ll be right in the living room. Just say the word.”

For a split-second, you swear he’s leaning in. Just enough to make your heart stutter and breath catch in your throat at the thought of his lips landing on your temple, your cheek, your mouth.

But then the moment passes. He pulls back instead, offering a gentle, almost apologetic smile. “Sleep well,” he whispers.

All you can manage is a small nod before you open the door and slip inside, closing the door behind you. You hold your breath until you hear his footsteps begin to retreat down the hallway. When the soft thuds fade to silence, you release a shaky exhale.

How the hell are you supposed to fall asleep after that?

The answer to that is you don’t.

Though Jack’s bed is plenty comfortable, you toss and turn for well over half an hour and still find yourself wide awake. You’ve been awake for sixteen plus hours at this point. Those sixteen hours have included working a twelve hour shift, learning that you have a stalker and getting harassed at your place of work, and answering dozens of questions from the police - you should have crashed the second your body hit the soft cotton sheets.

But you find that fucking impossible when his pillow smells so much like him.

You can’t stop yourself from inhaling the light, clean scent of whatever detergent he uses mixed with a faint essence of him - something earthy and masculine like aftershave or remnants of his cologne.

It makes the pitch black room feel like it’s spinning around you, the last words he’d said to you echo in your mind.

If you need anything at all, I’ll be right in the living room. Just say the word.

You can admit that it’s more of a want than a need, but he did say anything.

Before you can overthink what you’re about to do, before you can chicken out, you swing your legs over the side of the bed and stand. Then, putting one foot in front of the other, you ease down the hallway as quietly as you can in case he’s already asleep.

He’s not.

Jack’s profile is illuminated by the glow of the television in the otherwise dark room. He’s changed out of his scrubs, wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt that mirrors your own attire. His prosthetic is now detached, resting on the floor beside the couch.

“Hey.” He sits up a bit straighter, curiosity and concern etched across his features and in his voice when he notices you stop near the edge of the hallway. “Is everything okay?”

You just nod, and give him a small smile. You can’t bring yourself to speak for fear that you won’t recognize your own voice. You take a few slow steps towards the couch and he glances down to where you twist your hands nervously in front of you. His brows furrow in worry, though his hazel eyes can’t conceal his curiosity.

“C’mere,” he murmurs, patting the empty space right next to him.

But instead of sitting beside him, you stop directly in front of where he’s lounging. His eyes trail upwards, confusion merging into something akin to amusement when you lift one knee onto the couch, and then the other, hovering just over his lap. Your palms land lightly on his shoulders for balance, not yet putting all of your weight against his thighs.

He goes completely still the moment you settle over him, as if the slightest movement from him might send you running back down the hallway. His hands hover at your hips but don’t quite touch. You pause for a heartbeat, giving him the opportunity to stop you if he wants.

But he doesn’t. His normally hazel hues stare up at you, pupils blown so wide that his orbs appear onyx.

That’s all the confirmation you need to close the distance between you.

You lean forward slowly, your nose brushing against his. Your lips ghost over his in the barest tease of a touch that makes wildfire bloom across your neck and down your spine. The anticipation feels like electricity, your pulse thundering in your ears. You can feel his breath fan across your lips, shaky and uneven.

The initial press of your lips against his is feather soft, though his response is anything but. Something between a sigh and groan escapes the back of his throat, kissing you back with a tenderness that makes you melt into him. His hands finally settle against your waist, fingertips gripping the fabric of your t-shirt. Your hands trail from the broad planes of his shoulders to the nape of his neck, tips of your fingers intertwining in the short tufts of silvery curls.

His lips collide with yours in slow yet fervent kisses that could easily get you drunk off him. The faint stubble along his jaw tickles your skin in a way that makes you feel delirious. You think that you would be content to sit here and kiss him all day long, but you also don’t want to seem too eager.

Even if you are.

When you pull back, your lips tingle. Jack follows the movement for a fraction of a second, as if he can’t stop himself from trying to kiss you more. Your forehead rests against his and you exhale a shaky laugh.

“I tried to sleep,” you breathe, voice unsteady. “I really did. But your pillow smells like you and it was driving me fucking crazy.”

Even with only the light pouring from the television, you can tell that he’s blushing. His hands run up and down your sides. “I take it that’s a good thing,” he laughs, voice low.

“Mm-hmm,” you hum. “Indeed. You smell even better up close, though.” You close the distance between you once more. This time it’s the ghost of a kiss, your lips faintly brushing over his just enough to tease.

He peppers light kisses along your jawline. “Is that right?” The words are murmured against the skin of your throat.

Your eyes flutter shut and his name tumbles from your lips.

“Yeah, honey?”

You cup his face in your hands and pull back to look down at him. “Come to bed with me.” It’s intended to be a question, a request - but it comes out more of a breathless command.

His fingertips freeze along your spine. He looks up at you, hesitant. “You sure that’s what you want?”

You nod, the pad of your thumb brushing along his cheekbone. Another small peck to the tip of his nose this time. “I’m sure.”

He seems to search your face for signs of uncertainty. When he doesn’t find any, he exhales a laugh through his nose. “As much as I wish I could sweep you into my arms and carry you down the hallway…” He trails off, wiggling his leg beneath you. “I’m the one who needs a little assistance getting there.”

You follow his gaze to where his prosthetic sits a few feet away. It’s then that you notice a pair of crutches propped against the recliner, undoubtedly for getting around his place when he doesn’t feel like wearing the prosthetic. You ease off of his lap, standing up to retrieve the crutches for him. He pushes himself off the couch as you hand them off to him.

Once he’s balanced, he nods towards the hallway with a small smirk. “Lead the way.”

You do, walking slow enough that he can keep pace with you. Your heart thuds against your ribcage with each step you take, but it’s due to excitement rather than nerves.

Excitement at the prospect of simply listening to his heartbeat and inhaling the scent of his t-shirt as you both drift off to sleep.

Twelve hours ago, you never would have predicted that this would be happening right now. That you’d be in Jack’s condo. That you would shower in his bathroom while he makes you breakfast. That you would sit on his lap and kiss him and crawl into bed together.

It feels surreal. Like you’re dreaming and fully expect to wake up in your own bed at any moment.

When you reach the edge of the bed, you pull the covers back and lie down, scooting towards the middle of the large mattress so there’s plenty of space for Jack to crawl in next to you. He leans the crutches so that they’re within reach of the bed and then lowers himself onto the mattress with practiced ease.

He lies flat on his back, the mattress dipping beneath him. His arm extends outwards in a wordless gesture that opens the space closest to him for you.

“C’mere,” he coaxes, and just like when he’d said that to you minutes ago in the living room, you do. You slip into the space under his arm, tucking yourself into the solid warmth that is his chest. Your cheek settles just over his heart and his arms curl around you, cocooning you against him.

It’s too easy to melt into the embrace that is so new yet already feels so familiar.

You’re both asleep within minutes.

✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑

Quality Time

“All I’m saying is that it would be a lot easier for me to pick an outfit if I know where we’re going.”

Jack’s chest vibrates with laughter against your cheek.

You aren’t sure what time it is. All you know is that you woke up in the exact same spot that you had fallen asleep - in his arms. That, and you feel incredibly well rested.

“How many outfits did you bring with you?” He asks, lips pressed against your temple and voice still raspy with sleep. It’s a sound you could very quickly get used to hearing when you wake up, you think.

“Three.” You lift your shoulder in a small shrug. “Option one is casual. Two is semi-formal. And three is a little bit fancier than two.”

You did the best you could on such short notice and with no knowledge of what tonight’s plans entail.

He hums in contemplation, running a hand up and down the expanse of your arm. “Do you trust me?”

You shift enough to look up at him. He’s smirking down at you. “Of course I trust you.” You roll your eyes. It’s true. You do. Though you can’t say you aren’t suspicious of where he’s going with this.

“How about you show me options two and three and I’ll tell you which I think is the better choice? That way you don’t have to guess what you should wear and you still get to be surprised?”

So that’s exactly what you do.

An hour later, you’re wearing option number two in the passenger seat of his truck. Semi-formal. On the nicer side, but nothing crazy fancy - though you would think it’s the nicest thing Jack’s ever seen by how he’s complimented you no less than a dozen times since you first walked out of the bedroom wearing it.

Just before sunset, he pulls into the parking lot of a cute Italian bistro that you’ve never heard of in a quiet part of town. Osteria del Cuore reads the sign - Tavern of the Heart.

“Ever been here before?” Jack asks, curious lilt to his tone.

“No.” You shake your head. “I haven’t. Have you?” You glance over to him in the driver’s seat to find him already smirking at you with a twinkle in his eyes.

“I have not. No one has, actually.”

You give him a confused look, but before you can question him, he’s opening his truck door and hopping out to walk to the passenger side. Ever the gentleman, he opens your door for you and offers you his hand.

“And that’s because we are the first customers,” he continues when you place your hand in his as you step down.

“First?”

“That’s right. They don’t officially open until tomorrow night, but I called in a small favor.” He opens the front door for you and waits for you to step inside.

Your eyes scan the room. There’s maybe a dozen or so tables in total. Sconces line the brick walls and strings of fairy lights twine around ceiling beams, illuminating the space in a muted amber glow. Each table is adorned with tiny flower bouquets and flickering candles inside glass holders. Bundles of dried herbs hang above an open kitchen window - rosemary, bay, thyme - filling the air with a faint earthy scent in addition to the aroma of fresh baked bread.

It’s warm. Cozy. Homey. Perfect for a first date - but all you can think about is the fact that Jack was not kidding when he said that you’re the first customers. There’s no other patrons to be seen anywhere.

A young woman, presumably the hostess, appears from around the small bar and welcomes you both.

“Dr. Abbot.” She smiles, greeting him by name. “Mr. Moretti is so glad you two could join us tonight. Come with me and I’ll show you to your table.”

Jack motions as if to say after you. You follow her, expecting her to take you to one of the smaller booths for two, but she walks right past them. And then right past all of the tables for larger parties, as well. You glance at Jack in curiosity, but he only places a hand on your lower back in response, giving nothing away.

She leads you both past the bar and down a small hallway, then opens an unmarked door without looking back. You aren’t sure if Jack even knows where she’s taking you, but he makes no objections, so you keep quiet, following her up a short stairwell.

You aren’t entirely sure what you’re expecting - another dining room, maybe. But what you aren’t expecting is the breeze of cool evening air when she opens a door at the top of the stairs.

If you thought the inside was lovely, then the rooftop is something straight out of a fairytale.

It feels like stepping into a secret garden above the city. Like inside, string lights zigzag overhead and candles twinkle on every flat surface. There’s an abundance of lush planters and flowering vines, their leaves rustling in the light breeze. Several tall, outdoor style heaters line the perimeter of the tables, radiating enough warmth to ward off the chilly night air.

In the center of it all, there’s only one table set tonight.

One round, intimate table draped in ivory linen and graced with a small glowing lantern, a mason jar of wildflowers, and two empty wine glasses.

“This is what you consider to be a small favor?” You laugh breathily as he pulls your chair out for you. The hostess places menus on the table before wordlessly departing, leaving the two of you alone momentarily. “A private rooftop dinner at a restaurant that isn’t technically open yet?”

Jack takes his own seat with a small shrug, though there’s a pleased look on his face at the awestruck expression on yours. “I treated the owner’s wife a few months ago. She’d been experiencing on and off again leg pain that her primary care doctor had dismissed as a strained muscle. They came into the ER one night, begging to be taken seriously because she knew something was wrong. Long story short, she wasn’t being dramatic. An ultrasound showed the beginning of a DVT. We got her treated before it turned into anything life threatening.”

Mrs. Moretti - you vaguely recall overhearing Jack tell Robby about the case.

“Her husband was so grateful.” Jack shakes his head with a soft smile. “He told me all about this restaurant that they were in the process of opening - insisted that he owes me a favor and gave me his business card. He made me promise to come by for a free meal as soon as they opened. Which isn’t until tomorrow, but…” He trails off, taking in the scenery around you.

“I suppose saving people’s lives does have its perks sometimes,” you tease, nudging his calf with your foot beneath the table.

A faint dusting of pink appears along his cheekbones. “I wasn’t planning on ever cashing in on that favor, but I drove by here a few days ago and saw the grand opening sign…” Another small shrug, and you can’t help but giggle at how bashful he seems right now. “I’m going to insist on paying for the food, of course. Them letting us have the place to ourselves the day before opening is already more than enough.”

Your entire body is buzzing at the revelation. At all of it - at the thought he put into planning this, at the ambiance, at the romance of it all.

It’s perfect. Absolutely perfect. And so much fucking better than spending your Friday night alone doing your laundry.

“I don’t even know what to say,” you breathe, reaching across the table to take his hand in yours, giving it a gentle squeeze. “No one has ever done anything like this for me.”

Not just this, you think. Everything he’s done for you, big and small. The engraved stethoscope he got you for your birthday, and the coffees that he always brings to work for you without asking. Defending you from a creepy jackass and then inviting you into his home without a second thought. Cooking you breakfast, caring for you, making you feel more safe and loved than anyone else has ever made you feel.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he murmurs. “I just thought it might be nice to be on a rooftop together again. Only under much happier circumstances this time.”

The memory replays in your mind instantaneously - the hospital rooftop, much different than the one you’re on right now. It wasn’t all that long ago, in the grand scheme of things, even if it does feel like a lifetime ago.

Like that night on the hospital rooftop, the moon above you now is also bright and full. And like that night, there’s no one else you’d rather be with.

But now, when Jack smiles, it reaches his eyes. And now, as you hold his hand in yours, it isn’t to console him because he’s having a hard night. It’s simply because you can - simply because you want to hold his hand.

Yes, much happier circumstances indeed.

✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑

Epilogue {….a little more physical touch}

You aren’t quite sure how one night at Jack’s condo turns into two, and then three, then four…but you aren’t complaining.

He certainly doesn’t seem to mind, either.

You’d mentioned going back to your place multiple times. The last thing you want to do is overstay your welcome so early in your relationship, but Jack isn’t having any of that. He has assured you time and time again that the only reason for you to go back to your apartment is to get more of your belongings.

You put very little energy into objecting. You want to be here with him every bit as much as he seems to want you here.

Despite the fact that you’ve been sleeping in his bed for nearly a week, it feels as if you’ve barely seen each other the last few days. Your work schedules normally match up pretty nicely, but due to some people being out on vacation, or sick, or on maternity leave, your shifts have been all over the place this week.

So you’re beyond happy to hear him enter his condo not even ten minutes after your morning alarm wakes you up, knowing that both of you are now off work until tomorrow night.

You’re still laying in bed when he opens the door. Light pours in from the hallway, just enough to illuminate his silhouette.

“Good morning,” you breathe, voice still tinted with sleep. He walks to the edge of the bed and sits down beside where you lay.

“Good morning,” he whispers, leaning over to give you a tender kiss, the faint essence of coffee on his lips. “Did I wake you up?”

“No.” You shake your head, raising a hand to the back of his neck where you lace your fingers through his short curls. “I set an alarm so that I’d be awake when you got home. I missed you.”

You pull him down to you by his neck until his mouth is on yours once more. This kiss isn’t quite as tender as the first - you open to him right away, his tongue slipping between your lips. He braces one hand against the headboard, and the other comes to cup the side of your face, deepening the kiss. You can’t help but release a small moan into his mouth, your thighs clenching together beneath the covers.

He pulls away, as if reading your mind, planting a small kiss to the corner of your mouth with a shaky exhale. “I should probably shower off first, honey.”

You shake your head again like a petulant child being told no. “That can wait.”

Jack doesn’t need any further convincing.

He yanks the comforter away from your body, revealing you to be in only your underwear and an oversized t-shirt. You pull him back to you, crushing your lips to his. His hands grab at your waist, bunching the fabric of your t-shirt around your stomach. He smells sterile, just like the hospital he’s been at all night, but beneath that there’s the familiar scent of his body wash that you’ve quickly become obsessed with.

“Lay down,” you command gently.

He has worked twelve hours while you have been asleep in his bed, after all. You figure taking care of him is the least you can do if you’re going to jump his bones the second he walks through the door.

He looks like he’s about to object, his fingers toying with the waistband of your panties, but you pat the empty space on the mattress beside you and he gives in. Maybe it’s the pleading, eager look on your face or maybe it’s just exhaustion creeping into his bones, but he does as you ask without putting up a fight.

That alone makes you melt. You know that Jack isn’t used to being cared for - in any sense of the word. He’s been alone for a long time. Self-reliant and solitary.

But so have you. And just as it comes naturally to let Jack spoil you, he seems content to let you do the same for him.

He’ll more than make it up to you soon enough, you have no doubt.

He trades places with you, sinking down against the mattress and pillow with a soft exhale. You sit up onto your knees, smoothing a hand down his chest until you reach the hem of his scrub top.

“Can I..?” You ask, tugging lightly at the fabric.

He nods, sitting up slightly and lifting his arms so that you can maneuver both his scrub top and undershirt off in one go. You glance down, noting that he has yet to shed his shoes.

You crawl to the foot of the bed, making quick work of yanking off one, and then the other - leaving one foot and the base of his prosthetic exposed. He shimmies his pants down his thighs, letting you pull them the rest of the way off, tossing them to join his shoes somewhere on the floor.

Your gaze settles where his prosthetic meets flesh. You hesitate, not wanting to assume, not wanting to do something wrong or make him uncomfortable in any way. He notices your hesitation right away.

“I can walk you through it,” he says softly, thumb brushing your cheek. “If you’d like to learn how to remove it.”

The offer hits you square in the chest. It may seem small, but he isn’t just offering to teach you something - he’s showing you that he trusts you enough to let you into a part of his life that most people never see. That he trusts you enough to be vulnerable with you. That you mean enough to him that helping him with something like this could easily become a regular occurrence, so it only makes sense for you to learn how to do it.

You realize, right then and there, that you’re in love with him. And, wholeheartedly, you believe that he’s in love with you, too.

You smile, blinking away happy tears that threaten to spill over.

“Yeah,” you nod. “I’d like that.”

✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑

thank you so much for reading! i love you forever if you comment/reblog <3

[phoenix-in-writing]

The Long Way Back to You

pairing | Veterinarian!Bucky Barnes x f!Reader summary | After years of traveling abroad, you are called back to your hometown to help settle your grandmother's estate. You expected to quickly sell the house and return to your life in the city, but an injured bunny leads you straight back to your high school sweetheart...and a life you thought you wanted to leave behind. warnings | MDNI; 18+ Barbies ONLY please 💗 | modern AU, hurt/comfort, angst, slow burn, high school sweethearts to strangers to lovers, mentions of relative death (grandma), grief, Bucky lost his arm and it's briefly described (non-graphic), jealous partner (not Bucky), Bucky Barnes is a yearner, slight description of an animal injury (non life threatening), mentions of pet euthanasia (not described, just the feelings around it), Bucky Barnes is a beggar, but also a tease, oral f! and m! receiving, pussy pronouns, slow, passionate unprotected p in v, these two yap way too much as does the author, Bucky can lift reader and is described as being bigger than her, nicknames used: bunny and sweetheart, reader has a relevant tattoo of something, somewhere, no use of y/n, please let me know if i missed anything word count | 18k (i did say the long way, didn't i?) phoenix chirps | hooollllyyyyyyy fucking shit, i did it. my longest fic to date, who let me yap this much??? my second fic for the @stantastic-association Barbie collab ❤️💗 this one...i'll talk about after. there's a lore drop at the end where i'll yap your ear off even more. for now...please enjoy my favorite fic i've ever written 🫶 oh and if this flops i'm ending it all. kidding. maybe. Main Masterlist | Barbie Dreamhouse Masterlist | AO3

When did casseroles become the standard of care when someone was grieving?

Surely there had to be something better than canned ingredients thrown into Tupperware dishes to give the surviving members of a family? The unlabeled containers felt like a tower of misguided sympathy as you stacked them in the passenger seat of your car. The reception had cleared out minutes ago, each of your grandmother's friends handing you a dish and saying "sorry for your loss" or "she's in a better place" before going off to their own lives.

Words that were meant to bring comfort, yet hit a concrete wall that you had erected around the feelings death brought. Smiling as sadly as you could, you accepted each one gratefully. Social norms telling you anything but that would be rude and inappropriate. So now, not only were you still holding back tears that you didn't want to shed in the presence of others, you had to play Tetris so they wouldn't topple over on the drive.

Still though, it was easier to focus on them than the grief that was clawing at your insides, you supposed. Easier to focus on the contents of casseroles than the oddity of returning to a place you thought you'd left in the dust when you decided to broaden your horizons.

As you drove, your mind picked out familiar things. The tree-lined streets that looked like they belonged on postcards were still the shining star of the sleepy town, impeccably manicured as always. Yet the landscape around them had changed in the decade since you'd laid eyes on it. The diner you used to get a quick bite to eat at after school had gotten a new coat of paint that made you wrinkle your nose. The library where you once pored over travel magazines and occasionally studied had gotten a new neon sign and updated the flower beds with limestone facades. The singular convenience store where everyone did their grocery shopping had gotten a modern facelift with new signage.

Time had seemed to touch everything except the layout, making everything both familiar and new at once. The nursery that was at the end of the street your grandmother lived on was just putting out their spring plants. A fresh wave of despair hit you square in the chest at the realization you wouldn't get to hear your grandmother lovingly describe what she picked to plant in her garden that season.

The stack of Tupperware leaned dangerously when you turned onto the road you learned to ride a bike on, and once knew all of the neighbors. Memory alone got you from the reception hall to now idling on the unpaved driveway of your grandmother's house, body working on autopilot the second you had passed the nursery. The house looked the same, in theory. Though there was a looming darkness where your grandma's presence would've normally brightened. Like the soul of the house had been snatched with her passing.

The plush leather seats seemed to have magnetized your clothing, your hands not able to move from the steering wheel. Of all the tasks you needed to take care of since you got the news, somehow getting out of the car and crossing the threshold to a quiet house where your grandmother no longer occupied was definitely the hardest.

Yet, it was your cross to bear as her sole heir. Her last wishes were for you to clean up the house that had been in your family for generations, and make sure whoever bought it would treat it with the same care as she did. And there was no way you could fulfill that if you didn't gather the courage to walk through the door.

Yanking your suitcase free from the backseat, you moved to face the front door, casseroles forgotten in their stacked configuration of the passenger seat. With trembling fingers, you finally unlocked the heavy wooden door and pushed in.

The scent of muted rose perfume and lemon pledge hit you first, and your mind briefly played a phantom memory of your grandmother. Rounding the corner from the kitchen, drying her hands on a tea towel before she opened her arms for an all encompassing embrace that could cure all ailments. Pressing a hand to your heart to stop the ache as you took in the dim entry way, moving to the living room. The rooms and hallways looked the same as they did in your childhood memory only…smaller. Like you had outgrown the space, but not the feeling of comfort.

A fresh tinge of guilt wrapped around your throat as you saw the signs of your grandmother's aging. Pill bottles on the small end table, lined up in an orderly fashion. A walker stood at the ready next to her favorite arm chair that had a handmade throw blanket you sent her from a remote village of Machu Picchu. An unfinished crossword sat on the small coffee table that made your lip tremble. It would likely stay unfinished for all of eternity.

With a deep breath you moved to the bedrooms, taking in the changes that you had only heard from your grandmother when she visited you or spoke about on the phone. The kitchen had gotten a much needed upgrade from the old 70s appliances that were truthfully on their last leg for awhile.

Your childhood room had amassed some boxes, but remained for the most part untouched. That's where your suitcase landed, hoping what you packed would be enough until you could get the house ready to sell.

The heels you wore to the funeral clicked on the worn hardwood, and you could almost hear your grandmother's voice asking you how you walked in those things. The last room you hadn't inspected yet was hers. And the closer you got to the door at the end of the hallway, the stronger the scent of her perfume became.

Memories flooded in one by one as you dared to reach for the door knob. Cuddling up next to her while awful soap operas played on an ancient TV with a lace doily draped over it. Gossiping about the townspeople like they were characters in her own personal drama series. Your grandmother always made it a point to know everyone's business.

Dropping your hand from the knob, you bolted for air. For space to breathe that wasn't bashing you over the head with guilt. Guilt for not coming back as she aged even though you could have. Guilt for your selfishness of always flying her to you on your travels instead of relaxing with her in the home you basically grew up in.

The sliding glass door squeaked as you stepped into the backyard oasis that was still thankfully maintained to perfection. The sun was just dipping below the trees, casting everything in a soft orange glow, and birds were calling somewhere off in the distance. Out here, your thoughts always seemed to halt.

In the summer, wildflowers would bloom along the fence line, fruit trees towards the back of the property would produce lemons and cherries for pies that would be baked from scratch or preserved. Rows of raised flowerbeds held all manners of vegetables, herbs, and fruits. Even in her old age, your grandmother had continued its upkeep insisting that it helped her feel young again.

And when her body began to wither with the throes of time, she hired trusted gardeners and landscapers from around town to keep its spirit alive. Something you were tasked to ensure the next owners of the house would do. Even now, the thought of this space still overflowing with life being redone in a trendy minimalist aesthetic brought a strange surge of anger in your veins.

Just as you took a deep breath, you heard a rustling sound from a raised flower bed to your left. Something too loud to be from the light spring breeze. Slowly making your way over, you saw the source of the sound. Nestled between the stalks of herbs that had survived the winter frost, was a small, tawny bunny with wide black eyes trying to burrow for safety. Yet, she was ensnared in what appeared to be fishing line, an angry red mark visible against her fur where it dug into her back leg. She stopped at the sight of you, going completely still except for the rapid twitching of her nose.

You shrugged off your black cardigan without a second thought, draping it over her body in hopes of keeping her warm. You couldn't bear anymore thoughts of death today if you could help it. Dashing inside, heels briefly getting caught in the grass, your thumbs were already flying over your phone screen to find the closest vet. It wasn't lost on you that you used to know this town — and the vet clinic — like the back of your hand. And now you needed to Google a place you used to call home because you didn't trust your mind to remember where it was.

Grabbing a small shoebox from the kitchen counter, you returned to the bunny. Gently snapping the fishing line so as not to disturb the wound, you wrapped the cardigan completely around her and placed her in the box. "Hold on for me, okay?" you pleaded, securing her as best you could before making your way back to the car. "I've got you."

The casserole dishes you had been too drained to move still sat in the front seat, a glaring reminder that you hadn't been able to stomach anything real since the news of your grandmother's passing. But you had more pressing matters to attend to.

Based on your search, there was still a singular vet in town. The street address was the same as well, familiar now that it was staring back at you. Summers spent at that very address using every spare minute to nurture your passion for animals. And while you should know how to get there, you didn't trust the decade old map in your head while a life hung in the balance.

Pulling up to the clinic was like opening a time capsule. The name had changed to "White Wolf Animal Hospital", proudly displayed on a wooden sign. The front facade had been redone, upgraded slightly with a modern undertone though still keeping the rustic charm. The big oak tree you used to sit underneath during hot summer afternoons still stood, branches larger and broader now.

Carefully scooping up the box, you pulled open the clinic door, a bell announcing your arrival with a faint clink. The reception area was empty and quiet, though the overhead lights were still on indicating that it should have been occupied. It was odd that no one was manning the front, a position you used to fill during your free time, so you knew how important it was.

You checked your watch to see if you were too late for their working hours (you weren't), then chanced a glance at the bunny. She was still in a state of shock, eyes blinked slowly up at you. Sighing, you set the box down on the high counter, close to convincing yourself that you could go to the back and use your limited knowledge to maybe help the little creature.

Surely this place wasn't closed yet if the door was unlocked? And if it was, what kind of person bought the clinic and was managing it so inadequately?

"Hello?" You called into the emptiness, heels continuing to click with each step. The clinic wasn't that big, surely if anyone was here, they would have heard you. Picking up the box again, you moved to start opening doors to exam rooms until you found anyone to help, when the farthest one swung open, a man in a lab coat stepping through.

"Ma'am, I'm so sorry, but we're —"

Time froze as soon as blue eyes you never thought you'd see again met yours. Your heartbeat increased wildly, just as it used to when you saw him. Of all the people you had expected to be running the old vet clinic, Bucky Barnes was the absolute last one.

He looked nearly the same as he did in your memories of him, somehow. A little older, a little more muscular, with wisps of incoming grays in his dark hair and stubble around his jaw as the only things to show any time had passed since you had said goodbye. When the relationship between two young and dumb kids couldn't stand the test of long distance and an amicable breakup followed, you thought that would be it. And the 20 year old you left behind would be the forever image you held of your first love.

But now here you were, shaking free his own memories if the way his eyes darted around your figure were any indication.

"Bunny?" he asked, breathless.

Stepping closer, you held the box out for him to see, you almost asked how he knew what you had brought him. Until you realized he wasn't referencing the injured animal. He was talking to you.

A nickname bestowed to you once upon a time. When the stars twinkled brighter and your futures weren't yet decided, a silly thing based on an inside joke of an inside joke that you couldn't remember the origin of. Hearing it from him was in and of itself, another kind of shock.

"Oh," you both said in unison, chuckling awkwardly, trying to figure out where to go next. Because, truthfully, what words were there to say to someone after ten years and barely a birthday or holiday card? You weren't even planning on looking him up, not wanting to disturb whatever peace he had built by showing up unannounced. And yet an injured bunny sent those plans to crumble.

His gaze dropped to the cardigan in the box, then to the modest black dress and heels you hadn't bothered to change out of. His features morphed, worry lines deepening as he came to a quiet conclusion as to why you had returned in the first place.

"I…found a bunny in grandma's garden. It looks like she got caught up in some fishing line," you explained, breaking the silence. You moved closer, box still held out like a peace offering in hopes of getting his calculating stare off of you and towards the more pressing matter.

"Come on back," Bucky motioned with his head to the exam room behind him, holding the door open for you and letting you go in first.

Suddenly incredibly aware of the clack you made with each step, and how you were trying to breathe calmly and not breathe in the familiar aroma of his cologne. You placed the box onto the metal exam table, stepping back to give him space to perform the exam.

"Alright little one, let's see what you've gotten yourself into." Bucky's voice still held that gentle quality you remembered falling in love with. It was surprising how much you missed it, when something that faded over time without you realizing it was suddenly back with clarity.

His hands moved carefully, cradling the small animal that somehow seemed even smaller once it was in his palm. The glint of black and gold on his left hand caught your eye then, a sleek and modern prosthetic that had your chest clenching, mind reeling with scenarios of what could have happened for him to lose his arm. Vaguely, you did remember your grandmother telling you briefly of how there was a fire at the animal clinic, and that someone had been injured. She just hadn't told you how or…who.

Bucky's voice calling your name snapped you from trying to decipher the mystery and defrost any more memories. He was looking at you expectantly, probably asked a question you didn't hear and therefore couldn't answer. "Sorry, what?"

A soft chuckle left his mouth, making your heart melt just a bit further. "Do you know how she got wrapped up like this?"

"No," you answered, arms wrapping around your waist. "I was getting some air in the backyard when I heard her rustling in between the rosemary and parsley. I'm not even sure where the fishing line came from, grandma didn't use it for this very reason."

"Well she's lucky you found her." Bucky smiled in your general direction, but he hadn't met your eyes since the nickname faux pas. Turning, he grabbed some cleaning solution and gauze.

You watched as he tried to dress the wound, but the bunny was wriggling to the point it had become a struggle of not injuring her further. "Let me help," you offered softly, already pulling on a pair of surgical gloves. Helping to hold the bunny still, Bucky was able to get her patched up. Based on your limited knowledge, the wound didn't appear that deep, but without your intervention there was no way the poor thing would have survived.

Putting the thought of anymore death out of your head, you turned to dispose of the gloves and let Bucky do a final wellness check. Ignoring the familiarity of what just happened by reaching up to fidget with the pendant of your necklace.

Bucky barely looked over at you, but still asked: "When's the last time you ate anything?"

"Oh, about…twelve hours ago," you answered truthfully, but when he leveled you with a pointed stare, you felt the need to ramble in defense. "But I have…casseroles. In the car. For…later."

"Casseroles," he deadpanned, now moving his attention to bringing out a small cage and preparing it with straw and bowls from various cupboards.

"The backseat is full of Tupperware containers. Apparently all of grandma's friends thought the best way for me to deal with her death was by pouring a bunch of ingredients into a dish and letting me play a guessing game of what I thought was in it."

His lips twitched into a barely there smile, placing the bunny into her temporary home where she immediately hopped to the corner, snuggling into a tight ball. "I'm going to keep her here for observation for a few days, and contact some wildlife rehab centers in the morning."

Shoving his hands into the pockets of his lab coat, he rocked onto the balls of his feet. "In the meantime, let me take you to dinner. We can catch up."

It was a simple request, one you could deflect again. You did have casseroles…but they likely weren't even good anymore, considering they should've been refrigerated as soon as you got to the house. But as it neared 6 pm, you'd been running on empty for hours without realizing it. And your stomach was growling in protest of being ignored.

"Okay," you agreed, continuing to fidget with your necklace. It was a simple agreement. And yet nothing was going to be simple about bridging a decade of non-communication into one dinner.

"We can go to Frankie's up the road, just give me a couple of minutes to close up," Bucky suggested, nodding towards the door to the front.

You nodded, the name of the old diner hitting you like a force field. Memories of past dates, post homecoming and prom nights, and…the night you had both decided that the relationship wouldn't work if you left. There were no fireworks, not even a fight or careless words thrown. Just two people mature enough to realize that the life you wanted was one that he couldn't follow you into. And loving each other enough to say it instead of forcing someone to give up their dream.

Initially, you thought it would be easier to sever ties completely. Considering there would be long stretches where you didn't know where you would land, you didn't want to lead him on when you also didn't know if you'd be back.

Yet every year you'd look at important dates on your calendar just a little bit longer. A birthday, anniversaries of first kisses or relationship milestones that no longer meant anything hoping that you had made the right decision by putting yourself first and that Bucky was at least happy. Because that's all you'd ever wanted for him.

"Ready?" Bucky asked, returning to you with keys twirling around a finger easily. The lab coat was gone, giving a closer glimpse of his broad shoulders stretching the plaid button-down shirt he was wearing as he grabbed a jacket from a hook behind the reception desk.

You nodded, following him out of the clinic and onto the sidewalk. The streetlights were just coming on, bathing everything in an amber glow, with the soft chirps of crickets providing ambiance as you began walking.

It was absurd if you thought about it for too long. How normal this would've been had you not had to cure the wanderlust of your soul.

"So…" you both started awkwardly, chuckling at your timing. Perhaps this sort of clumsiness was just what ten years apart does to two people who used to finish each other's sentences.

"So, how long are you in town for?" Bucky asked, keeping a respectful distance with his hands shoved into his pockets and focusing on the ground in front of him.

You matched his pace, heels scraping along the sidewalk while your hands weren't really sure what to do with themselves, the anxious habit of twisting the pendant the only thing you were able to think of. "Only until grandma's house sells. Her will specified that I need to stay there while it's on the market, something about making sure it goes to the right person," you explained calmly. "You know how particular she was about that garden of hers."

Bucky nodded thoughtfully, a few pieces of hair bouncing as he did so. The uncomfortable silence lingered again, pressing inwards like it knew it shouldn't be here. There was the sense that there were several thousand words unsaid, and yet none were rising to the surface.

"So…how long are you in town for?" you asked, looking at him out of the corner of your eye.

He smiled fully then, lines around his eyes and mouth a little deeper than you remembered. "Quite a while, I think."

You stopped next to him in front of the diner, nose wrinkling in slight disgust as you saw the new paint job it had been given. A bright cherry red and white awning with bright, electric blue signage, where there was once a soft yellow storefront with inviting turquoise accents. Who decided that your favorite diner needed to look like a bomb pop had exploded? Only…was it really your favorite diner anymore?

"Don't worry. It may have gotten a botched facelift, but the food is still good," Bucky assured, holding the door open for you, the still familiar smell of fryer grease and salt with the undertones of ground coffee even this late in the evening wafted out.

There was once a time you recognized everyone who worked at Frankie's, including the owner, who named it after his late father. But now, only new faces blinked back at you while you were shown to a booth in the corner.

Just like your grandmother's house, the booths felt and looked the same, yet seemed…smaller. You had anticipated that after ten years of growing, yet you didn't think you'd ever outgrow a place that meant so much to you.

The Formica tabletop had been refinished, probably at the same time the awful paint job had occurred outside. This corner booth was one you would frequently sit at, and one your fifteen year old self had boldly carved your and Bucky's initials into, like it was going to be as permanent as what you thought your relationship was.

"What can I get ya, Doc?" a waitress asked, stopping by the table with a pen and notepad in hand. She smiled warmly at you briefly, but her attention was focused mainly on Bucky. A habit of people from a town where everyone knew everyone.

It was strange to hear Bucky of all people be referred to as 'doc'. Technically, it was his title, and you knew that. It just took a stranger saying it out loud to make it click that the boy who used to shotgun energy drinks, demolish your high score in Guitar Hero, and whisper sweet nothings against your skin was an actual doctor. Even if it was for animals.

"Two coffees please, Joyce, and I'll have my usual," he answered, not even glancing at the menu.

You rattled off a simple sandwich and French fry order, settling on the first familiar thing you saw. A little grateful that not everything had changed.

Joyce returned with two mugs of steaming coffee, and you wrapped a hand around one, letting the warmth seep into your palms.

"So, where did you end up going?" Bucky asked, pushing the tin of sugar towards you before you had a chance to grab for it.

"Ah, all over really? Spent a couple of years traveling around central Europe picking up odd jobs. Learned how to ask for directions and where the bathroom is in about eight languages," you explained, focusing more on the slow turn of your spoon.

He nodded again, eyes finally freely roaming over you when he thought your gaze was downcast. Up until now, he'd really focused on anything that wasn't your face. It made something in your chest twist, knowing that your surprise appearance was just as big a shock for him as it was for you.

Guilt, like bile, settled in the back of your throat. You had promised to come back, in this very booth actually. Sure it was before you knew where your life would take you, but still. You could have visited.

Your eye caught the black and gold glint of his left arm again, heart hammering to know how exactly that came to be. You hadn't really stopped wondering, but didn't know how to bring it up. You tried taking a sip of your coffee, averting your eyes back to Bucky's, but he was giving you a small, knowing smile.

"About a year after you left," he began, leaning back in the booth like he was reliving the memory in real time. "A fire broke out from some faulty wiring. Almost lost the whole building."

You put that into a quick perspective, trying to figure out what you were so busy doing while something so horrible was happening to a person you claimed to care about.

"All the animals got out," he continued, drumming his fingers against the table top. "I went back in to get the old clinic cat. Stubborn thing was hiding in the back storage room. I was able to get her out, but got pinned in the process."

You swallowed thickly, guilt still radiating outward. "Grandma told me about the fire, but never the extent of it."

"She probably just didn't want you worrying," he answered, sipping his coffee.

Your eyes finally met his since the first time at the clinic, cataloguing freely the changes age and the stress of running a business had caused. And his did the same to you. "Bucky, I'm - "

You were cut off from an improvised and too late apology by Joyce, dropping the food off at the table.

Shoulders dropping, you didn't even know what you would've said anyway. Something like that should be more thought out so you could get out everything you needed to say.

"So old Doc Hensley finally retired then? Any idea where he ended up?" you asked, steering the conversation away from a haphazard apology.

Bucky huffed a chuckle, popping a fry into his mouth. "Bought a timeshare in Cabo. Left me with the clinic once he knew I could handle it after I got my degree."

The image of walking into an empty reception area had your head tilting slightly. "Can you…handle it?" you asked gently, remembering just how difficult it could be to run the whole operation by yourself.

One of his shoulders raised slightly, the corner of his mouth tipping up like he knew what you were really asking. "It's been harder recently. Lost my front desk associate after he decided to choose a different career path."

You knew he didn't mean anything by the words. That was just the story of what happened, but still, an apology tried to worm its way free again. Like he wouldn't have this problem had you stayed…

"And where did you finally end up? Or are you still traveling?" he asked, and you wondered if he could see where your mind was wandering, and he had looked for a way to bring it back to the present.

"I'm working in the tech field now, based out of New York City, where I live. Mostly remote stuff, so I could keep traveling around if I want. I took a bereavement leave to get the house sorted," you paused to look at the darkening sky, realizing you had not made a dent in packing up the house or contacting a realtor to begin the process of putting it on the market.

"Do you like it in the city?"

"It's good, I suppose. The apartment is tiny, but it's in a great neighborhood, and my - " you paused briefly because it really hadn't hit you how awkward this next glimpse into your new life would be. "- my boyfriend likes living there."

Bucky stilled, coffee cup halfway to his lips as a mix of emotions quickly flickered over his eyes., before he shifted his gaze downwards. "How long has that been going on?"

Chewing your lip at the sudden change in demeanor, hand that wasn't occupied with the coffee mug flying to the pendant necklace again. "About two years."

He nodded his head once, like it was something final, and you couldn't help feeling like you had just sucker-punched him with that news. "Is he good to you?"

It was your turn to nod with a small smile when you answered, "Yeah, he is."

You should have expected this reveal to land awkwardly, as everything else had with him since you ran into his clinic. But in practice, it felt so much worse for reasons you didn't currently want to dwell on. Especially when every single turn of events since the funeral - except for saving that bunny - had made guilt become the leading emotion for the foreseeable future.

Turning your mug in your hands, you fought against the urge to fill the silence. Even as Joyce came to take away your empty plates and drop off the check, you still wanted to say something. But what could you say to someone whose feelings you hurt twice in the span of a decade? In the very same diner, no less.

You turned to dig in your purse to put some money down, but Bucky had already placed cash on the table and leveled you with a look that crossed a decade. Enough that you knew whatever small argument was about to happen, you would not win.

"Thank you for dinner. You really didn't have to," you protested, scooting out of your side of the booth and following him out of the diner.

He smiled gently, something unguarded now in his expression. "You ran into my clinic in what I'm assuming are your funeral clothes with an injured bunny. It's the least I could do."

Out on the sidewalk, the temperature had dipped considerably now that the sun had set. The moon had risen, providing a silver haze mingling with the amber pools of light of the streetlamps.

The silence between you and Bucky no longer felt like it was begging to be filled with awkward questions and small talk, it had become slightly more manageable. The dinner was successful, if that bar was measured by divulging big life events and evading the pitfalls of a reunion neither party was prepared to make.

You shivered against the chill during the short walk, slightly berating yourself for leaving the cardigan you had worn earlier with the bunny.

Bucky cleared his throat, draping his jacket over your shoulders without question or ceremony. He used to do something similar on cold nights, walking down these same sidewalks. Only it was his Letterman jacket he'd put over your shoulders and then wrap a hand around yours. His hand didn't find yours though in the present.

"How are you doing? With…everything?" he asked gently. It was a loaded question in the loaded silence while your hand was itching with the phantom feeling of his. Gone was the formality of catching up, and he was genuinely asking. Looking for an honest answer that none of the funeral goers earlier in the day would have wanted.

You let out a shaky sigh, guilt in the back of your throat being replaced with a heavy hollowness. Tears really hadn't fallen since you got the news, and some form of robotic numbness had taken up residence where emotion should be, and you didn't want tears to fall now. "Okay, I suppose. Being back in the house was hard. Didn't really have time to dwell too hard on it when I found the bunny."

Bucky glanced sideways at you, something in his expression shifting at your answer. You must have worn your sadness plainly enough now. "Do you need any help? Boxing things up or anything?"

You were approaching the clinic's parking lot where your car was waiting. "I don't know where to start, really. I couldn't even open her bedroom door," you paused to rifle through your purse for the keys. "The whole place feels like a giant game of Minesweeper, and I just keep stepping on mines instead of flagging safe spots."

"Well…" Bucky sighed, stepping back to give you space to open the door to your car. The wafting smell of casseroles made you grimace, thankful that you had taken Bucky's offer to get some real food tonight. "The clinic could use some help. If you ever want somewhere to be that isn't the house."

You faced him fully then, leaning against the car, tilting your head back to look at him. The passage of time had been kind to him. And maybe in another life, this date - if that's what you could even call it - would've ended with him gently pressing you against the car, his hand at the nape of your neck. It would be comforting even now, yet impossible for you to ask for on several counts.

"I'm not even licensed for anything clinical, Buck," you sighed, looking back down at your shoes, worried about getting too lost in his eyes. "I'd just get in the way."

"I'm aware," he answered simply, "and no, you wouldn't."

You kicked a small pebble with your toe, watching it bounce between his feet. Deep down, you knew he wasn't expecting an answer right now. He really wasn't even expecting you to do it. It was just an offer of a distraction so you didn't wallow in grief.

"I'll think about it," you finally answered with a small smile, gaze tracking over his face.

He nodded, opening the car door for you further so you could slide in. "Try to get some sleep. It really was good to see you."

"You too."

Shutting the door and driving away with an easy wave, you mulled over the last few hours in your mind. How little building blocks had all snapped into place so you could end up here. It wasn't until you turned onto the road home that you realized his jacket was still draped around your shoulders. And now that if the heaviness of going through your grandmother's things got to be too much, you had a sliver of an excuse to show up and slide behind the reception desk as if no time had passed at all.

Sleep evaded you, like it always did in a new place. Ghosts of your childhood and the things you left behind had you tossing and turning for most of the night. If you had managed to drift off, it was dreamless, and interrupted by sounds of the house settling that you were no longer used to. You rose before the sun, intending to at least start clearing some of the easier parts of the house.

The kitchen felt like the safest place to start. Not to mention if you were going to tackle anything on your to do list, copious amounts of caffeine were going to be a necessity.

The cupboard always held seven mugs, six were from the set of china your grandmother had acquired on her wedding day. The single out of place mug was a chipped butter-yellow with lopsided daisies hand painted on it. One that you had presented her when you were no more than seven years old. And ever since then, you watched her pour coffee into it every morning, reserving the 'fancier' mugs for company.

No one was ever allowed to use it while your grandmother was alive…and you decided you'd like to keep it that way. Setting it on the counter, the flagship of the 'keep' pile, you started the ancient coffee maker and let the aroma of fresh coffee fill the kitchen.

There were only a couple of texts from Nick asking how you were. A fresh pang of guilt knocked against your ribs that you hadn't responded. That you were too busy reliving the past to fully remember the present. You sent off a simple response…

You [7:39 AM]

Morning! Slept OK, but it's been a lot to take in…hoping to make progress with the realtor today. Miss you xx

With your coffee mug in hand, your feet carried you to the solace of the backyard while you drafted an email to the local realtor in your head. The sun was still hiding behind the trees, but must've been barely over the horizon, as the sky was lightening to a pale purple.

Glancing sideways at the small herb garden where you'd found the bunny, there was a small indent in the greenery still visible. A small frown tugged at your lips. You didn't really know how the bunny was doing this morning after her little ordeal. Sure the wounds weren't that bad, and the fact that she survived the car ride alone should've been enough to calm your mind. Yet, as you moved back inside going room to room to take stock of what you needed to accomplish, the poor bunny still lingered in the back of your mind.

Along with the image of an empty reception area. If Bucky was truly short-staffed, who was going to be checking on her throughout the day? Considering you were the one to drop her in his lap, maybe you should just…

Then, your eyes landed on the borrowed jacket that had been draped over your shoulders last night, where it now laid on the back of the couch. You should return it, at least, and when you did that's when you could check in on the bunny.

You should also start adding more to the 'keep' pile and clean up a few of the more personal effects of your grandmother's so listing photos could be taken. But the thought of doing that felt insurmountable when you were worried about the little creature. And Bucky trying to run that place on his own…

So, with a half-drafted email waiting to be sent in your outbox and memories that you didn't have the mental capacity to untangle yet, you grabbed the jacket and your keys and left all responsibilities to wait.

The drive to the clinic was familiar now. You pulled into the parking lot just in time to see Bucky emerging from a house next door to the clinic, juggling a bag and a travel coffee mug, his keys held between his teeth while he situated everything into a comfortable hold.

Stepping out of your car, you waved sheepishly at him, fiddling with your own key chain. "You live around here?" you asked, once he was in earshot.

Really, you expected to surprise him, seeing as this was your second time showing up unannounced in less than 24 hours. Yet there were no signs of shock on his face, just a knowing smile and the hint of relief in his piercing gaze. "I live next door," he gestured to the house, key sliding into the lock. "Easier and faster to get here in case of an emergency. What are you doin' here?"

You held the jacket out like a peace offering, "I didn't want to steal your jacket, and…I was worried about the bunny."

His lips twitched at the corners while he held the door to the clinic open for you to pass through first. "I checked on her last night before I turned in, and she was doing great. You can go see for yourself if you'd like."

You walked to the back, lights flicking on overhead as Bucky wordlessly prepared his clinic for the day. The bunny was awake, moving as gingerly as she could through her bedding of straw to get to a small food bowl. She caught sight of you, twitching her nose as she ate. The bandages you had helped place were still intact, though you suspected Bucky would need help changing them soon.

Your cardigan had been folded carefully and placed next to the cage, no longer needed now that the bunny was safe and warm. Moving to pick it up, your eyes caught sight of a small placard that would normally get filled out during intake. In Bucky's semi-neat handwriting was the name 'Rosemary' along with a few progress notes.

"See? She's a real trooper; the first night is always the one to watch."

"Bucky you…you named her?" you asked, turning to look at him while he adjusted his lab coat over his shoulders.

"I did. Figured she might be staying a bit until she gets her strength up, and we can find a wildlife center to help us release her."

For a moment, you didn't say anything, turning to look back down at the tawny bunny - Rosemary - instead. You could sense Bucky pick up on something being wrong as he moved closer behind you. "Was that okay?" he asked, voice dipping now in concern.

Nodding quickly, you turned the cardigan over in your hands. "It's just….I mean…you named her after my grandmother?"

Bucky's composure completely faltered as he finally connected it, eyes going wide with surprise. "Oh! I - fuck - I only named her that because you said you found her in the herbs, and I didn't - I'm sorry."

You huffed a small laugh at his stumbling, really unnecessary apology. It wasn't like your grandma liked being called Rosemary anyway. She much preferred everyone call her 'Rose' or 'Grandma', even if they had no relation to her. "It's really fine, I just…wasn't expecting it. It suits her, though."

Bucky's mouth opened like he had more to say, but just outside the room, the bell jingled to announce that the first client had come in for their appointment. "Well, that's me. You'll be okay back here?"

Nodding, you glanced back at your cardigan in your hands.

"Hey," he said, hand already braced on the door to the front. "Seriously, you can stay as long as you need to."

"Thanks," you murmured, knowing what that offer was. Stay somewhere neutral if the house is getting too loud. And you really were grateful for it. The crushing weight of responsibility still sat in your chest, but it was easier here when glaring memories of the past weren't around every corner.

But sitting in a room with your thoughts while the bell jingled twice more, and the sound of an overexcited dog came from beyond the door, wasn't really helping either. A different kind of guilt hit then, when you knew you could help. You knew, roughly, where the client files were. You knew how to soothe owners when something slightly traumatic happened, and they were worried. You knew some patients would take longer, and a backlog would happen if intake forms weren't completed before Bucky saw them.

Setting the cardigan back down next to Rosemary's cage, where she had already curled up for a nap, you pushed your way to the front. Bucky was bent over the reception desk, fingers rifling through folders. "Let me," you said gently, moving to nudge him out of the way, but he had already stepped back before you got too close.

He gave a grateful smile, but didn't dwell further, showing the dog and her owner to one of the exam rooms. Orienting yourself was easy enough, or would have been. But whoever Bucky had manning the front had completely obliterated your filing system that you spent your entire last summer here working on.

"Who fuckin' organized these?" you grumbled under your breath, knowing you'd need to get this back into shape at some point. Even if you didn't plan on staying, the need to create efficiency was already eating away at you.

The bell jingled again, and you looked up to see an elderly woman with a cat carrier clutched tightly. "Well, I'll be, I didn't expect to see Rose's granddaughter here ever again."

You chuckled softly, recognizing her as one of the many whom you met at the funeral the day before. "Just getting my mind off things. What brings you in today?"

A sympathetic smile creased her face. "We're here for Figg's annual checkup." She raised the cat carrier a bit.

Nodding, you pulled the paperwork free, and began the simple process. Asking questions if anything was concerning or anything had changed since last time. "Take a seat and Doctor Barnes will be out here shortly." The line out of your mouth was standard once the paperwork was completed. Though it used to be 'Hensley' you said, and Bucky's surname coming from your lips felt a little foreign. Still, you couldn't stop the flare of warmth in your chest at knowing he fulfilled a dream he'd talked about since you were kids.

"You know, these used to be organized to perfection," you groused, sliding Figg's client folder to Bucky when he emerged from an exam room.

A look of amusement danced across his eyes as he picked up the folder. "I do know."

You settled behind the desk once they were out of sight, starting to reimplement everything back to perfection. Something about doing something menial with little emotional consequence was healing. Giving you the space to maybe come to terms with having to go through every one of your grandma's belongings.

The day began to run smoothly. You sorted paperwork, greeted patients as they came in, and tried to get your mind to clear as much as possible. It was a little alarming if you stopped to think about it too much. How easy it had been to slip back into a persona and exist in Bucky's presence. Despite the initial awkwardness of dinner the previous night, and a few moments where the space between you narrowed too close, the stiffness had dissipated slightly, leaning more towards two people who had always known how to coexist in the same space.

It wasn't until your phone buzzed under a particularly thick stack of papers that reality came to a head.

Texts from Nick asking how things were coming along had been sitting unanswered, and you'd been too caught up to respond. Right. You had been in the middle of an email when you had decided you'd needed to be anywhere else.

With a lull in the day, you opened the half-drafted email back up on your phone. But just as you were double-checking the contents before sending it, Bucky's voice pulled your attention.

"Would you mind helping me redress Rosemary's bandages?"

And just like that, your phone lay forgotten once more, a more important task needing your full attention.

Once the last patient of the day left, the clinic lights had been dimmed, and the front door locked, you returned to Rosemary for one last check-in.

"Thank you for staying. " Bucky said, with this being the first real chance the two of you had to be alone. "You really didn't have to."

"I did, though. Couldn't leave you stranded when all I was going to do was stand frozen in the hallway of grandma's house."

You were aware of his proximity as he moved closer, while he carefully deduced what an appropriate amount of space there should be between you. "The offer still stands, you know. With the house. I have the weekends free if you need an extra pair of hands."

"Speaking of an extra pair of hands, could I…come back tomorrow? It was nice getting away from the house." You hated how timid your voice sounded, asking for permission to be in a place he'd already said you could be. But you really didn't want to get in the way or cause a distraction. "I figured I'd rather sort through paperwork rather than grandma's things…"

You caught the small twitch of Bucky's fingers from your periphery. Like he wanted to reach for you in comfort, but wasn't sure if he should. "You don't have to ask, you know. Just show up if you want to."

There was a long, white box waiting on the doorstep of your grandmother's house when you arrived. Picking it up and seeing it was from a local florist, your first instinct was that this was a late funeral arrangement. Someone that your grandmother had befriended on her travels with you, who couldn't make it to this small town.

Already gathering a vase from the linen closet, your eyes were finally able to start making mental notes of what to do with the contents after clearing your head at the clinic that day. But when you opened the box, you didn't see what appeared to be a funeral arrangement. There were a few dozen pink and white tulips nestled in brown kraft paper, wrapped with a delicate lace ribbon.

Plucking the card carefully from the greenery before situating them in the vase, your heart thumped just slightly harder at the familiar scrawl on the white stationery.

Hope these help you smile. You'll be okay. - B

Your favorite flowers from an ex of the past, yet maybe… a friend of the present had your mind reeling. Though you couldn't linger on what the feeling of being seen in such a vulnerable way, without having to word it for too long.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket, another dose of reality being poured down your throat for what felt like the thousandth time that day had just arrived.

Nick [6:42 PM]

What did the realtor say?

It was never meant to be something long-term. Maybe a week of clinic work at most until your head cleared enough to tackle the responsibilities of selling your grandmother's house. But by the second week of working a structured Monday through Friday, 8 to 5…a routine had been established.

You would arrive just as Bucky stepped out of his front door. Both of you would tackle the opening tasks separately, with you checking in on Rosemary, who was getting stronger every day.

The once messy files were now put back to their original glory, ready to be handed off to whoever Bucky decided to hire for this position. Who would hopefully keep it at least more organized than when you found it.

It became easier to breathe in the charm of the small town. Most everyone who came in recognized you as Rose's granddaughter, and would want to regale you with their favorite tales of your grandmother. Sometimes you'd be able to handle it, but others, Bucky learned to step in and redirect the conversation to the pet that was being seen. You weren't sure when he'd begun recognizing your grief was about to spill over unintentionally, but it was welcome. Like he'd never stopped knowing when to protect you, but the skill had waned while not in your orbit, only to sharpen with each day you kept showing up.

Sometime in that second week, the space you and Bucky carefully kept between you seemed to shrink. Until one day, poring over the appointment book to try to find room for a last-minute call in, the distance was nonexistent. Close enough that you registered the warmth radiating off of him, and practically feel the fabric of his shirt against your arm.

Neither of you moved to fix it, or place the wedge back. But you didn't acknowledge that something had shifted from when you first showed up with an injured bunny, either. The moment fleeting, as you solved the problem of squeezing in an appointment, and both resuming your separate tasks that didn't require such tight proximity.

In the middle of the third week, you realized that bereavement for your job that helped pay rent for an apartment in the city would be coming to an end soon, and you'd need to make arrangements. That combined with an onslaught of texts from Nick had reality continuing to press in from all sides.

Nick [11:23 AM]

How's the house coming along?

You [11:24 AM]

It's coming…still kind of hard to go into some rooms.

Nick [2:47 PM]

Did you ever hear back from the realtor?

You [2:58 PM]

Not yet, I still need to get some more cleaning done :(

Nick [7:15 PM]

Let me know if you need help finding an agent, I can pull some strings.

You [7:42 PM]

I think someone more local would be best, but I appreciate it. Love you xx

Somewhere along the way, his texts had become less about with your well-being, and more concerned that you hadn't been working towards the end goal of selling the house.

You still hadn't mentioned why you weren't really able to get much cleaning done. It wasn't a lie really, just a careful omission. You still hadn't been able to work up the nerve to go into your grandmother's room. Things did need to be cleaned for staging photos to be taken, but by the time you got back from a long day at the clinic, you didn't have the strength.

Not to mention, how were you supposed explain to your boyfriend of three years that the reason you're avoiding the house is because you're essentially working for your ex? You couldn't even explain to yourself why going to the clinic saved you from an emotional spiral that would've inevitably kept you rooted to your bed, and you didn't feel like you should until you had a concrete answer.

One weekend with the clinic closed, the storm clouds of your mind finally began to clear. The haphazard boxes that you'd started to stage around the rooms didn't seem quite so insurmountable. Determination flared the moment your eyes opened to the now familiar slatted ceiling and soft light filtering through the blinds, like the soul of the house had finally awoken and said 'let's start healing now'.

The living room was an easier place to begin, and maybe if you came home to visible progress, you'd be more inclined to keep moving ahead. With a fresh cup of coffee in hand, you began with the bookshelf that stretched from the ceiling to the floor along half of the wall, filled to the brim with cookbooks, knickknacks, framed pictures, and the occasional phone book.

Three boxes marked 'donate', 'New York', and 'discard' followed you as you worked along the shelves, sneezing every so often as clouds of dust broke free. Just as you neared the top shelf closest to grandma's favorite arm chair, you spied a bundle of postcards tied with twine, wedged between two thick mystery novels. Once you got them free, a wave of emotion hit, paralyzing any more of the progress you would make today.

Dropping to the soft rug with your legs crossed you began flipping through them. Every single postcard you had ever sent your grandmother was saved in this bundle. Tangible evidence of everywhere you'd been able to explore now lay in front of you.

Lisbon, Edinburgh, Melbourne, Mumbai, Rio de Janeiro…

Reykjavík, Iceland. You ran a finger over the glossy image of a waterfall you'd seen in person, remembering the moment you got to cross it off your bucket list. Roughly a year after you left…the same time Bucky would've been -

You didn't allow yourself to finish that thought. Instead, you wrapped the postcards back up, gently set them in the New York box, and didn't sort anything else for the rest of the weekend.

That Thursday was what Doctor Hensley would call 'a hard luck kinda day'. Like no matter what happened, a disaster was around every corner. The culmination came when Bucky's last appointment ran longer than it should've. When he had to pause at the door of the exam room after some X-rays came back, and the news he had to deliver was going to be one of the most devastating things a pet owner had to hear.

Regrettably, you'd forgotten this part. How sometimes this job asked you to hold someone together while simultaneously tearing them apart. You sighed heavily, hearing a muffled cry from beyond the exam door. With no more appointments that evening, you locked the front door, dimmed the lights, and silenced the desk phone.

It never got easier, no matter how many times you'd witnessed it, but you would try your hardest to make the owner comfortable when they left.

And when they did, it was with a tear-stained face and a strangled goodbye, a leash twisted around their hands that no longer had a purpose. Bucky emerged a minute later, a look of pure devastation etched deeply into his face. "Can you - "

"I've already called the cremation facility." You answered before he had a chance to ask. "They'll be here in a half hour at most."

Bucky nodded, eyes downcast. "Thank you, bunny," he whispered before turning and making his way out of the back of the clinic. The nickname caught you off guard, touching a nerve that was connected directly to your heart. He hadn't called you that since it had slipped out when you first showed up at the clinic with Rosemary.

You left the reception desk, finding him sitting on the short concrete steps that led out of the back door. He looked smaller somehow, his shoulders sagging inwards like he'd forgotten why he'd wanted to get into this profession in the first place.

His eyes were glassy when he glanced sideways at you when you sat down on the steps beside him. Crystal clear and bluer than the sky after a rainstorm. Deciding that now was when the space between you narrowed into nothing in an attempt to comfort, your shoulder brushed his.

"They were one of the first clients that came in after I took over," Bucky whispered, looking down at his hands clasped between his knees. "I watched them grow up, and just…"

You knew no words would help at this moment in the grieving process, having heard all of the canned idioms people thought they should say when a soul passes on a few weeks ago at your grandmother's funeral. They still didn't help now if people tried to give them. Instead, your knuckles gently brushed against the back of his hand, ignoring the slight flare of anxiety and welling of emotion at the familiarity of it. When he didn't shrink back, your fingers worked in between his palms, freeing one of his hands from the other and putting yours in its place.

He didn't say anything more, but squeezed your hand a little tighter in thanks, while you both watched the sun set beyond the treeline.

That next morning, you lay in bed for longer than you meant to, replaying the scene from the evening before. Something had shifted the minute you decided to comfort Bucky with touch rather than words. Or maybe it had shifted before that, and your brain was only now catching up. Seeing each other for eight hours a day, five days a week so suddenly after a decade of silence was enough to close any distance you thought would still be here. You didn't want to examine that too closely, almost afraid of what it could mean.

So instead, you made coffee and went to the clinic like normal, pushing whatever feelings were rising back down where they belonged.

In the week that followed, Nick's texts took on a different edge. Like he was trying tactic after tactic to get you to hurry up and move on like you were a client of his he was trying to sway.

Nick [10:14 AM]

Seriously though, how long do you think this is going to take? I miss you.

You [11:58 AM]

She has a lot of stuff and I want to do this properly…I'll be back as soon as I can, I miss you too.

Nick [12:01 PM]

Well, my buddy knows a good real estate lawyer if you need a referral to see if this can get settled faster?

You [3:47 PM]

No, I think it'll be okay. There's really nothing to settle except some memories, and it's still a bit raw for me.

Nick [3:49 PM]

I just feel like I haven't properly talked to you in days…

You [6:07 PM]

I know, I'm sorry babe…I'll try to make it up to you soon.

Nick hadn't been completely wrong, when you thought about it. On your phone calls, you hadn't been fully present, and you knew it. But when the only thing he wanted to talk about was how the house was coming along and if you had emailed the realtor (you still hadn't), it became more of a performance to speak to him. Especially when you hadn't touched a single box since you had found the postcards and you still hadn't mentioned the clinic.

The realtor email was something that felt like a finality that you'd been putting off. Like the second you sent it, it was going to put into motion that you'd be leaving once again, and that there was going to be a deadline attached to your time here.

But being reminded over and over by Nick….something snapped in you during a midday lull.

The draft had been sitting in your outbox since the morning you had decided to return the jacket and check on Rosemary instead. You added a few extra sentences, that above all, whoever bought it had to have your full blessing before any papers would be signed. The 'woosh' sound that it had finally been sent felt almost like a cold bucket of water being dumped over your head.

It should have felt like relief. One less thing off your plate. But it felt like the opposite. Your sudden change in mood must've been clearly written on your face, or Bucky had simply relearned how to read you.

"Everything okay?" he asked gently, leaning against the reception desk.

"Yeah, just…just sent an email."

He didn't respond, only gave a single nod, and changed the subject. But the corners of his mouth tilted down like he already knew what the email could be and what it meant for him.

Anxiety began to loom once again as soon as the realtor responded with suggestions of open houses, staging times, and a listing price. You tried to ignore it, but it was like any excuses you afforded yourself had finally run dry. That weekend, you reached through the invisible barrier your mind had placed over your grandmother's bedroom and finally opened the door.

It looked perfectly preserved, like it had been waiting for her to come back. Her perfume was strongest in here, having been sealed in with you unable to open the door. The vintage-looking crystal bottle that held the perfume in question was sitting on the dresser, primed for use. With trembling fingers, you allowed yourself to pick up the bottle, running your thumb over the beveled edges, remembering how it was to sit in this room and watch her get ready for the day.

You sprayed a small amount on your inner wrist, the urge to bolt again for fresh air still prevalent, but not quite as urgent as it had been that very first day. And with it, every time you moved, the perfume wafted around you, like the spirit of your grandmother was indeed still here.

It helped you move through the room. Opening the closet to assess what needed to go where once the boxes were brought in, immediately placing her jewelry box in a makeshift 'New York' pile. Trying not to feel like you were snooping as you opened drawers that you would've never looked in if your grandmother were still around.

It was in the nightstand that you felt the beginning of an avalanche you didn't know how to stop.

Your grandmother's planner was in the top drawer. She always said she liked to make sure she crossed off every to do at night, and look at the day ahead when she woke up. Among the mundane things like doctor's appointments, planting schedules, and get-togethers she had planned, your name appeared every Sunday at 2 pm without fail. A weekly ritual you hadn't really forgotten, but had just chosen not to think too much on in fear of what it would do when you realized you no longer had it.

The Sunday after she passed, your name was underlined with a small note that said 'Ask her to come home.'

She never did ask you to come back. Instead, always packing a bag and making a trip to where you were in the world, and never once making you feel guilty for it. And even if she had asked, would you have brushed it off and said this place was behind you? Calling it a chapter of your life you'd already finished? Cradling the planner, you sank onto the bed, where you would often curl up against her side.

You still hadn't properly cried since you got the news and began funeral preparations. Always keeping your mind and hands busy…the clinic, filing, packing. Because falling apart normally meant that what had happened was a finality. And you hadn't been ready to let go of your grandmother in that way yet.

In the end, all it took was realizing that she wanted you to come back and that she was probably in some other plane of existence where people go when they leave, regretting that she never got to ask.

And in that moment, you lay against the pillows that had a lingering scent of her shampoo mingling with the borrowed perfume on your wrist and finally let the tears fall.

You cried until there was nothing left, whispering apologies to the room like your grandmother could hear you. Even though you knew she'd tell you there was nothing to apologize for, and that your journey would've wound up exactly where you were always supposed to be eventually.

That next morning felt lighter, once the weight of tears you'd been carrying had been shed. Only made brighter when you walked into the clinic to do your standard check-in on Rosemary. Her wounds had healed to the point that no more bandages were needed, and she had developed her own routine as soon as the lights of that room flicked on.

The moment she heard your voice, she hopped to the front of the hutch, having learned that your presence meant either food or attention. And she loved both.

"Oh, the rehab center called and said they'd be able to do an assessment on her next week," Bucky said from the doorway while you started to clean her cage. You could feel his eyes on you while you worked, quietly assessing your reaction to the news.

Nodding, you held your hand in the cage for a second longer than necessary, letting Rosemary nuzzle into your fingers before she moved to her food bowl. "I guess we'll see how she does," you smiled up at him before making your way to the reception desk to set up the files for the day's appointments.

It wasn't until you arrived home that evening, sinking onto the couch with a glass of wine, that you had the chance to finally check your phone. Your stomach dropping slightly at the number of notifications you had waiting.

Nick [9:04 AM]

Morning love <3 Any word from the realtor?

Nick [11:23 AM]

Do you know when you'll have a timeline?

Nick [3:21 PM]

I miss you… I don't like that you're still there all by yourself.

Nick [4:10 PM]

What's actually going on over there?

Nick [5:39 PM]

When are you coming back?

Nick [6:08 PM]

Wait, did you extend your leave? How much longer is this going to take?

You [6:42 PM]

I did…I just couldn't balance that work with the house and wouldn't have been able to give it my all. My performance would've suffered.

Nick [6:44 PM]

OK…

Conflicted didn't even begin to cover the pressure in your chest. You truly didn't have an answer as to when you'd be back or how much longer it was going to take.

And the days were flying by at a breakneck speed to the point that you had become comfortable in the house and with your current routine. Gone were the days of slouching over a keyboard, staring at three different monitors while noises of the city hummed beyond your too-small apartment.

Here, there was…peace. A calm you didn't know you missed until you allowed yourself to stop and appreciate it. You weren't sure when you'd begun to miss the hustle and bustle of the city, or when the image of your apartment had become too fuzzy to remember.

Or when you stopped looking forward to the thought of leaving again.

The thing with making someone wait for your attention was that eventually…they became too big to ignore.

In the middle of sending out email reminders for appointments and vaccine schedules, the bell above the door jingled.

Not even looking up, you began your standard greeting. "Welcome in, we'll be right - "

"Finally, I've been looking all over for you."

Your fingers stalled on the keys, the voice familiar, yet didn't belong in this realm of your world because you hadn't invited him in yet.

Nick stood expectantly in the middle of the clinic, dressed like he'd caught the first flight out after a long day at the office, with the rich scent of his aftershave so out of place it made your head spin.

It took several beats for your brain to catch up with what your eyes were seeing, and that you should register the feeling of happiness of seeing your boyfriend after weeks of being apart. But you only felt confusion and a slight annoyance as to why he was here in the first place.

He cleared his throat, opening his arms further, obviously expecting a much warmer greeting.

"What….what are you doing here?" you asked, finally rounding the desk and returning his embrace.

"I missed you?" he phrased it like a question and that it was the most obvious answer before pressing a quick kiss to your lips. "I thought you could use some help so you could come home sooner."

Nick's hands landed on your shoulders to hold you at arm's length, performing a quiet assessment like he would an asset before making an offer. "And imagine my surprise when I didn't find you at your grandmother's house and," he paused to wave his hands around the space that felt smaller with him occupying it, "here."

His sharp gaze met yours, and then you realized he was waiting for you to explain what here was. "I'm just…helping out. They were short handed and - "

"You've been working here?" His dark eyebrows knit together in confusion. "Instead of - "

"Helping," you corrected quickly, placing your hands on his chest. "It's not - I really just needed somewhere to be that…wasn't the house."

"Love, you - "

That was the moment Bucky had seemingly decided to exit an exam room, cutting off Nick's sentence. "Hey, did the Bartons confirm or - oh."

It was like watching worlds collide in front of your eyes after the swinging of a door.

Realizing it was you who was in charge of introductions, you piped up to fill the awkward silence. "Oh, Bucky, this is my boyfriend, Nick. Nick that's - "

"Doctor Barnes," Bucky interrupted with the same tone you knew he reserved for difficult patients, extending a hand to Nick.

"Nick Fowler." The handshake was civil and brief, both men's smile not really meeting their eyes.

Bucky nodded. "I'll let you two catch up." And with that, he disappeared through the same door he'd just come out of.

Nick watched where he had disappeared for just a second longer than you thought necessary.

"Uhm, we can get lunch," you offered quickly, grabbing for your purse. "I'll show you the town."

Sitting in a booth at Frankie's, you quickly remembered that Nick always had loud opinions. And those were normally fine when dulled by the equally loud buzz of New York. But here, where things were quieter. And it made him stick out obnoxiously.

"It's…cute," was Nick's only praise while he barely looked up from his phone, food sitting untouched in front of him. "But I have some thoughts about the listing price of the house."

And that was all he said about a place that had been your solace for weeks. Cute. It shouldn't have landed wrong, it was a compliment after all. But he said it like it was an insult. Like he was a parent praising a child's finger painting.

That night, Nick had tried to convince you to go to his hotel. Stating something about it being weird to stay in the house and that he was already missing the amenities of the city. Strangely, he hadn't really said he missed you. You didn't push him to stay where he didn't want to be, but you felt the gap being widened between you and him even if this was the closest distance wise you had been in weeks.

The next morning, he showed up at the house bright and early, an easy smile on his face. "I figured I'd come help you pack," he offered, letting himself in without waiting to be invited. You knew he meant well, but it really was beginning to feel like he didn't want to be here longer than necessary while you were trying to get him to see the charm of this place.

"Nick, I have to go into the clinic today…"

"Oh, you're still - okay, um," he paused, hands on his hips as he looked around. "I'll go to the cafe then, I've got to get some work done anyway."

And that was that. His lips brushed yours in a rushed goodbye as he walked away, already talking on the phone to settle some sales pitch.

It wasn't until you stepped into the clinic that you realized you could breathe fully. Like you weren't walking on eggshells or performing or worried you were going to say the wrong thing. Bucky gave you a tight smile, but neither of you addressed the very clearly Nick shaped wedge that had surfaced. Instead, you worked around each other like normal. Letting the routine heal the staggering nerves that had for some reason started clawing at your insides.

That evening when Nick was helping you sort through a few boxes, taping them up and getting them ready to ship, he made the comment you'd been expecting. "You know you don't have to keep doing that. Volunteering for him."

"I know, but…I like it and the clinic does need help until someone fills that position."

Nick nodded like he understood, but you doubted he did.

The day of Rosemary's wildlife rehab assessment came, and when you mentioned it over breakfast to Nick, the only thing he managed to say was "So you'll be done at that clinic soon, then?" before directing the conversation to potential owners he had found for the house.

The foundation of your relationship with Nick continued to crack after that.

You watched with bated breath as the wildlife rehabilitator carefully took Rosemary out of her cage. He examined the now fully healed wounds where the fur was just beginning to grow back, jotting something down on a clipboard. Once she was set back down on the metal exam table, Rosemary hopped straight to you. She sat back on her haunches and looked at you expectantly, nose twitching with what you supposed was indignation of being handled by a stranger and to remind you that her breakfast was late.

The wildlife rehabilitator immediately confirmed what you'd probably already known. Rosemary had become too accustomed to humans and wouldn't survive on her own in the wild if released. You and Bucky exchanged a glance, a silent conversation happening with one single stare. "I"ll keep her," Bucky offered, watching you cradle Rosemary before gently putting her back in the safety of her cage.

Over dinner, you told Nick about your day, casually mentioning that Rosemary would be staying with Bucky for the foreseeable future.

"How well do you know him? Barnes," Nick asked, focusing on something on his fork instead of you.

You bristled only slightly, giving the bare minimum. "Pretty well, we went to the same high school, and worked at the clinic together."

He nodded, corners of his lips downturned, and didn't say more about Bucky. But did continue to make arrangements around 'the asset' as he had begun calling the house.

The cracks became fully noticeable and not something you thought you could fix when Nick showed up unannounced at the clinic the next day, offering to take you to lunch.

You had already agreed, standing to go let Bucky know that you'd be right back when he appeared from the back, head too buried in a file to notice Nick was there. "Hey bunny, did you get the Maximoffs their vaccine records they requested or - " he stopped as you stiffened. The nickname ringing through the clinic like a death knell. Ever since that evening on the steps after the euthanasia, he had tentatively begun calling you that again. And - a minor fault of yours - you let him. Allowing yourself to be swept away with the comfort it gave you.

To Nick's credit, he didn't cause a scene then and there, but there was a storm swirling behind the stare he shot at Bucky.

"I'm so sorry - didn't really realize - I'll - " and with that, Bucky disappeared to the back again, but the damage had well and truly been done. Maybe it had been done for a while, but you were trying to hold the foundation together with temporary band-aids.

Nick cleared his throat, giving you a once-over before saying, "I'll just see you tonight."

He came to the house that evening after your shift like he had been doing since he arrived. Normally, he picked up dinner, and had his laptop bag slung over his shoulder. But tonight, he was empty handed.

The door had barely shut before he said it. "Bunny."

You had been braced all day for this fight the second bunny slipped from Bucky's mouth. "It's just a nickname," you tried to play it off.

He folded his arms across his chest, head dropping like he was trying to solve some sort of puzzle. "Why did he call you that, though? That's not something you call an employee. Or volunteer or whatever the hell it is you're doing."

"It's just a silly nickname, it doesn't mean anything."

Nick shook his head briefly, still not meeting your eyes. "From when?"

He was backing you further and further into a corner. "High school," you answered.

"Did you date him?"

You looked up at the ceiling with a deep sigh. "Yep." There really was no sense in lying about it now.

"So you've been working for an ex-boyfriend for weeks and you didn't think that was something I needed to know?" his voice sharpened.

"I really didn't think you'd understand. We worked at the clinic together in high school and - "

"Bunny," he said again, cutting you off, something calculating behind his narrowing eyes once again. "Like your tattoo."

Your hand brushed over the spot on your hip almost like a shield, where you did indeed have a small bunny tattoo. No one had questioned it before, because they thought it was something you got on a silly whim. And yet here it was, the true meaning behind it being cracked open.

"How long have you had it?" he asked, eyes trained to where your hand lay over it.

You chewed your bottom lip. "A while."

His voice quieted. "Did you get it for him?"

Shutting your eyes, you nodded quickly.

"This is just," Nick shook his head again in disbelief, turning away from you. "You had a life, a real career. And you're talking about throwing it away to file paperwork for…for him."

"I came back for my grandmother. This is not about him," you clarified.

"We've been together two fucking years, and you never brought him up. Or this boring ass town. And yet all of a sudden, your grandma dies and you want to be back here? For what? Help me understand, because this all just seems like a dead end."

"See, that's the problem isn't it?" you asked, voice raising in pitch to match his. "You don't understand. All you've done since you got here is try to sell the house and belittle every fucking thing without trying to see it from my perspective first."

"I thought that's what you wanted! When you left you said you just needed to settle your grandma's estate and you'd be back."

"Maybe what I wanted changed!"

"Does that include me?"

You could hear a pin drop in the silence that followed. As you tried to reach for the most diplomatic answer. Though to Nick, your silence must have been answer enough, as you averted your eyes further. Because at this point, after watching him interact with a place you had fallen in love with again, you realized you couldn't be with someone who looked down on this town the way that he did.

"I see," he whispered. "Guess we're done then." he said it like he'd won a prize. Like he'd been expecting this and had been waiting for the culmination of it for longer than just today.

You gave a single nod, eyes looking down at the rug instead of him. "I guess so."

He scoffed, brushing past you to the front door. "I'll mail you your stuff so I don't inconvenience you by asking you to leave this place again."

And with a final door slam, rattling the pictures on the walls, he was gone. The silence he left behind deafening. But as finite and heavy as the silence felt, it was nothing compared to the weight that had been lifted off your shoulders. Of trying to live two separate lives at once while ignoring what felt like an inevitability.

Though losing a relationship in such an explosive way was never easy, and what you really needed before you spiraled into an uncontrollable mess was…

You picked up your car keys, hoping to go to the only place of comfort you had ever known.

You sat in the parking lot of the clinic longer than you probably meant to. Worried that you were disturbing Bucky after a long day. Probably made longer after your relationship with Nick silently imploded midday and you hadn't returned.

Soft light was filtering onto the flowerbeds from the curtained windows, so you at least knew he was awake and home. You approached the door like it might bite you, or tell you to get lost and that you no longer had claim to the comfort he brought you. But Bucky's words of 'if you ever need to be somewhere that isn't the house' echoed in your head. Sure he may have been talking about the clinic, but your mind had equated that to him as well, and how the thoughts quieted in his presence.

When you knocked, he opened the door not long after. Hair messy like he'd been running his hands through it repeatedly, dressed in a black t shirt that stretched across his broad shoulders, and dark sweatpants.

A look of wide eyed confusion flickered across his face while he took in your appearance, not all that different from the first time you dropped into the clinic unannounced.

"I…didn't know where else to go," you shrugged, looking down at your feet.

"That's okay, come in." he assured, opening the door wider and letting you pass.

The living room felt like the embodiment of him, warm and minimally decorated. Cozy in the same way a cup of coffee is during a fall rainstorm. A lamp was on in the corner next to a record player that was spinning something, but the needle had been lifted so no sound was coming out.

"Can I get you anything?" he offered, watching you orient yourself in his space.

Several things ran through your mind at once of what you wanted, each seemingly more and more unattainable. Sinking onto the couch with wobbly knees, wrapping your arms around your body like a shield. "A drink would be nice."

"What do you drink now?" he asked quietly. "Surely your tastes have changed from the dollar store boxed wine you used to sneak."

You mustered as close to a smile as you could , eyes watering at the fact that he remembered the rebellious teenager you used to be. "Whatever you're having is fine."

Bucky returned with two small tumblers of amber liquid, placing one in your hands. You murmured a thanks, turning the glass between your palms when you heard him fiddle with the record player in the corner of the room, lifting the needle back onto something soft and ethereal.

He settled beside you, as far away on the couch as he could, just enough to give you some space if you needed it.

"Nick and I broke up," you finally said, taking a large sip of what you deduced to be whiskey, the liquid immediately warming your chest.

Bucky nodded, slowly swirling his own glass in his hand like he had already known the second he opened the door to find you standing there. "I figured, after…my mess up earlier. Are you okay?"

"Not really," you huffed a dry chuckle, finishing the whiskey. "And it wasn't your fault."

The silence lingered like it had the first night the two of you went to the diner. But this wasn't awkward or loaded with expectations. Silence between you and Bucky had morphed over the past few weeks into something you found comforting. It's probably why you subconsciously decided to show up at his doorstep. Yet after everything that had transpired with Nick the past few days, it felt like something finally had to give and you needed to fill it.

"I owe you an apology," you sighed, leaning forward to put the glass on the table.

"You don't - "

"I do, Buck, I - please just let me," you turned towards him, something still guarded in his expression.

His eyes roamed your figure, sensing the determination behind your words and he sat back against the couch cushions. "Okay."

You stood, unable to say the hard parts while sitting still. Maybe that's why you weren't able to do it in the diner. There wasn't enough room to get your thoughts out.

"I'm sorry for never coming back like I promised," you started, beginning to walk back and forth in front of the couch where he sat. "I'm sorry I left in the first place, that was really fucking selfish, but - I should've at least called. Sent you a card or something on your birthday or the holidays instead of just - "

Your hands found your hips, eyes glaring at some nondescript spot in the dim room, before you began pacing again.

"I was in fucking…Iceland," you blurted, waving a hand at nothing. "When the fire happened. I figured it out a few weeks ago when I found some postcards I sent and - " you stopped, letting out a frustrated laugh. "I was standing in front of a waterfall I'd been dreaming about for years and you were - "

"Don't apologize for that," Bucky tried to interject, but the thread you were currently unraveling couldn't be stopped.

"I know you made peace with it, I know you know there's nothing that I could've done, but I would've…if grandma would've told me - " you stopped again, the thoughts now not coming out in the correct order, brain working faster than your mouth could move.

"She had 'ask her to come home' written in her planner for the Sunday after she died. She was going to ask me to come back. And - and she never got to. I don't know what had changed for her want to ask me that. And it just feels like - " Tears were now free falling, words tumbling out even faster.

"Hey," Bucky's voice finally broke through your own, and he was standing in front of you. "I know," he nodded. His hands raised settling on your shoulders first and then drifting up to cradle your face. "I know."

"No, that's - I don't - "

"It's okay, we're okay," he said, softer this time. Thumbs wiping away the tears that were collecting on your cheeks. His hands were a welcome weight on your skin. One familiar, one not, the cool touch of the prosthetic felt different, but not wrong. Still…him.

Bucky was now closer than he had ever been, your chest brushing his with each shuddering inhale. There was something unguarded in his expression when you opened your mouth to start the spiral again, but he shook his head, thumb brushing over your lower lip. "We've always been okay."

"You can't mean that. Not after I just…disappeared."

"We both agreed all those years ago that was best," he reminded you. "Might've been slightly misguided, but…"

His voice trailed off, something left lingering between you as he stepped closer, body pressed to yours completely. "I never stopped loving you, you know."

The words hung in the air. Suspended by the dreamlike reverb of whatever record he had chosen. Rendering you speechless after you had just spilled the contents of your heart.

A rush of memories flashed in your vision. The first time he had said 'I love you' in history class when you were barely sixteen, the times he whispered it against your hairline during school dances and beyond, the first time you'd given each other everything, the last time you had heard it in that diner booth before you started to travel…and yet, him saying it now had healed twenty-year-old you who thought you'd never get to hear those words from his lips again.

"You - " you thought about repeating it, but with everything that had happened since that morning, it was a snap decision to start acting on your feelings instead of continuing the spiral that had kept you frozen from your true desires for far too long.

Your own hands lifted to mirror his hold, cradling his jaw the way he cradled yours. His eyes hadn't stopped darting around your face ever since he had said those seven words. Like he was worried you were going to disappear when they finally registered in your brain.

And when they did, you didn't run like you had been recently whenever things got too weighted. Instead, you leaned forward, pressing your lips to his, allowing yourself to finally melt into him fully.

An explosion of time and fate, your mind had finally caught up to what you had been barrelling blindly toward for weeks now. His hands dropped from your face, arms wrapping tightly around your back like he planned to keep you there for all of eternity.

Bucky kissed you back, carefully at first, a sound of surprise escaping his throat like he couldn't believe what was happening. His lips tasted of whiskey, but underneath that, familiarity and comfort. Your arms wove around his neck, pressing your body to his, needing space to no longer exist between you.

The heat, the lingering tension of two people who had once given each other everything was rising steadily. His lips wandered from yours slowly, moving to your jaw, to your cheeks, tongue daring to erase the salt lines of your now dried tears. And you let him. Allowing him to explore the terrain of your features while your fingers twisted in the soft material of his shirt; an exploration of your own occurring along the muscles of his chest as he began to walk you backwards towards the couch.

"I've been wanting to kiss you since you walked into the clinic," he whispered, maybe more to himself than you as the backs of your knees hit the cushions. Each word was punctuated by a kiss somewhere on your skin, like his lips were magnetized and could not spend more than a second away.

A fire flared low in your belly, radiating out to your fingertips that had gotten bolder, taking the journey traveled so often underneath his shirt, tracing the ridges and dips of his skin. Once known completely by memory.

When you sank onto the plush couch, Bucky followed. His knees hit the rug, slotting himself between your thighs immediately. His mouth had moved to your neck, searching for the spots that used to leave you shaky and breathless, testing to see if they still did.

His hands radiated with unbridled tension as they trembled where they landed on your waist. Fingers dared to slide under your shirt, a sigh escaped from his mouth against your skin like he'd been waiting for this moment for far too long. "Can I?" he whispered in your ear, goosebumps erupting down your neck and arms.

You nodded quickly, leaning back so he could fling your shirt across the room. His mouth was back on you, restraint waning with each passing second, continuing a slow, almost agonizing descent. Moving over the swell of your breasts, down your sternum, teeth occasionally grazing your sensitive skin until his fingers dipped below the waistband of your jeans.

"C'mon bunny," he pleaded to the barrier of your jeans, fidgeting with the button and zipper. "Please let me, I've missed her."

Huffing a laugh, you ran a hand through his hair, reveling in the desperation behind his widened pupils and kiss swollen lips. "Go ahead," you chuckled, the sound quickly replaced by a sharp inhale when he pulled you to the edge of the couch.

A low, desperate but barely there growl sounded from between his teeth. With permission, his fingers made quick work sliding the denim off. Bucky's head lowered to continue working down your body. Until he saw the faded ink of your tattoo in the low light.

His jaw slackened on an inhale, like he wanted to say something, but words escaped him. He briefly shook his head instead, thumbs hooking into your panties to draw them down your legs.

Bucky's lips parted, tongue brushing over the tattoo briefly and then moved closer to your aching center. It was slightly frustrating, to say the least. He seemed to be taking his time, while your body had been missing his for ten years. "Bucky…" you whined softly, trying to use your thigh to push him where you needed him, but his arms were faster. Wrapping under your thighs so you couldn't move.

"When'd you get it?" he asked, not looking up, focused instead on your lower belly, kissing right above your clit.

"What?" Every one of your nerve endings was on edge and he wanted to talk about this now?

His finger tapped twice on the tattoo just as his tongue finally grazed your clit. Your body jolted, legs straining against his hold. "Please tell me when you got it," he pleaded again, voice deeper as his tongue ran through your folds once more.

"Uh - I - fuck…" you gritted out as he continued the slow, even movement. He may have forgotten how to exist in your presence momentarily, but there was no denying that he had never forgotten how to please you.

"C'mon bunny, tell me," his dark gaze lifted, meeting your glazed eyes while he continued to tease. A smirk raised the corners of his mouth, one thick finger circling your entrance, moving in tandem with the devastating pace he'd set.

"Two years after I -" you managed, but got cut off by a moan when that finger slid slowly in, lips sealing around your clit.

Bucky pulled back, leaning his head against your thigh. His blue eyes now dancing with amusement watching you squirm while his finger never ceased the slow curling motion that had your back arching for more. "After you left?" he finished for you.

He kissed along your inner thigh, stubble leaving a slight scratch in his wake while he moved back to the tattoo.

You nodded, reaching for him, to put his head back where it belonged between your thighs, but he resisted, batting your hands out of the way with his that wasn't slowly driving you to madness.

"Why?" he asked innocently, thumb now circling along the bundle of nerves with featherlight pressure.

You whined in frustration. "Do we really have to do this now?"

"Yeah, think we do. Bunny," he laughed softly against your skin, kissing the tattoo once more, and then turned his head, finally flattening his tongue along your clit. "Go on, now."

He finally stopped teasing, allowing your hands to fly to his hair in muscle memory. "I - I missed you," you stuttered out, the languid pace feeling more like he was savoring a feast.

"Mhm," he hummed, the vibrations of it making head fall back and thoughts to scatter.

"I was in - " you moaned something that might have been considered Bucky's name, "I don't remember, but I -" you stopped to cry out again. He pushed another finger in, like he thought the problem with you blanking on the story was that you weren't full enough of him.

"It was your birthday and I was sad I wasn't here for it, so I got it on a whim to make you feel closer to me while I traveled, and fuck please don't stop." The words spilled out in one breath as your thighs shook next to his ears.

Your answer seemingly satisfied his curiosity, gone was the slow pace he'd set replaced by a hunger that hadn't been satisfied in a decade. His name fell from the tip of your tongue like it had been perched there for the same amount of time, as sparks flared up your spine, release crashing over you in rocking waves.

His fingers and tongue slowed, withdrawing completely. His hands found your waist again, lips kissing the tattoo one more time before traveling back up to your mouth. Still trying to catch your breath, you draped your arms limply over his shoulders, returning the kiss. He groaned into your mouth, his own arms snaking around your middle to pull you against him.

"Bedroom?" he asked, voice sounding hopeful and wrecked while you were still hazy, mind fuzzy, savoring your own taste on his lips.

"Bedroom," you confirmed. With a deep grunt, he lifted you off the couch. Your legs locked around him on instinct while he staggered through the house until he nudged open the door to his bedroom. Turning, he sank onto the bed, situating you on his lap.

A slight impatience took over your movements, yanking the hem of his shirt over his head. It was then you caught the first glimpse of the extent of his injury, making you pause. A clean scar sat where his shoulder used to continue, where the black and gold prosthetic was attached. "Can - " you didn't finish the question, fingertips already ghosting over the raised edges. "Does - can - "

"I can feel things," he confirmed, letting you come to terms with this new part of him at your own pace. "Even if I couldn't, I don't think I could forget what you feel like."

You gently guided him down to lay on the bed, kissing his mouth first, then moving in your own familiar path down places you knew made him impatient. But not before pressing your lips against the scar tissue, offering an apology. Whispering it in your mind and transferring it from skin to skin.

Continuing down over the planes of his chest that had grown hair since you last visited them. Teeth gently sinking into the soft skin over hard muscle of his belly. A trail of coarser hair disappeared under the waistband. You didn't ask permission, as your thumbs dipped below, smiling against his skin at his sharp intake of breath. Permission was given in the form of his hips raising and you tugging his pants down.

His cock landed heavy against his stomach, flushed, hard, and leaking for you already. Mouth watering, having already wasted too much time not being here you leaned forward, tongue dragging slowly from the base to the tip.

Bucky tensed under your touch, letting out a strangled sound. Your eyes flicked up to his face, smiling while you wrapped a hand around his length, seeing the veins protrude from his neck and arm while trying to keep some form of composure. Your thumb swirled along the reddened tip, spreading the precum before your lips parted, pressing a kiss in the mess you made. A near involuntary moan left your throat at his taste.

He inhaled sharply again, his hand finding purchase on your head, brushing any stray hairs away from your face. With your tongue resting on the thick vein on the underside, you allowed your mouth to part, taking his length fully into your mouth.

He let out a dulcet grunt, fingers flexing against your scalp. "Oh fuck I've missed your mouth," he breathed while you slowly bobbed your head up and down on his cock. The taste of him had always been addictive to you, something you didn't realize how much you missed until you had gone without it for so long.

Bucky had been vocal, you remembered. But his voice was deeper now, taking on a sharper edge while you worked, sending heat rushing through you all over again. The second he hit the back of your throat, his hands moved, patting your arms and grabbing your chin with a gentle urgency. "Can't be finishing in your mouth like a teenager, sweetheart, hop up here. I need to feel you."

You laughed, letting him pull you back onto his lap. He adjusted, back hitting the headboard while your thighs landed on either side of his hips. There wasn't a preamble to be had anymore, one of his hands guiding your hips down, the other fisting his cock to line it up with your entrance.

Sinking down onto him felt like you were finally coming home. Like it was a missing piece of a puzzle you'd tried to solve in a different room. Your forehead dropped, leaning against his, allowing your body to adjust to the welcomed stretch.

"She feels just like I remember," Bucky whispered, hips bucking slightly like he couldn't help it. "Perfectly fucking made for me."

In such an intimate position, overwhelming pleasure and devotion trickled down your spine. Feeling the passion radiating from his embrace as his arms wove around your back, one warm resting on your shoulder, the other slightly cooler, holding you steady on your waist. You moved slowly, wanting to savor the sweetness of finally being where you were supposed to be for as long as possible. And he let you, allowing you to set the pace with only slight twitches of his cock when it dragged against a certain spot.

"Why didn't you ever come back?" he exhaled shakily, breath mingling with yours. You were sure he was rambling. Asking a question to the room and not really expecting an answer.

You hummed, already gasping broken moans quietly as your hips circled. "I didn't think you wanted to see me ever again." The answer honest, finally breaking free.

The hand on your shoulder drifted to the nape of your neck, coaxing you to look at him fully. "You've always been it for me, bunny." His blue eyes two crystalline pools of vulnerability, laying his emotions out raw and hoping that you wouldn't try to run again. "No matter how long you were gone.

"You've always been it for me too." You said, hands coming up to cradle his face. "I'm sorry it took me so long to realize it."

His palm guided you forward, mouths meeting again as the pace became less about savoring, more about letting everything go that you'd been holding back for a decade.

Whispered words of love, of devotion, of pleasure mixed with the sound of skin on skin. A new desperation took over. Bucky held your hips, slamming up over and over, his cock hitting the spot only he knew how to reach that had your mind blanking except for his name over and over again.

Breathless moans turned ragged, until your body clamped down on his, fingers dug into each other's skin like the fact that he wasn't buried as deep as he could be was close enough. You felt the twitch and throb of his cock as he held you against his body, the heady feeling of his own release right after yours spreading through your veins until you slumped forward into the safety of his embrace.

In the afterglow, Bucky held you close, sliding down the headboard to lay flat against the pillows. All the while peppering any skin he could with gentle kisses like it was impossible for him to not to have his lips on you. Like he was making sure you were actually here.

The only thought you could muster in that moment as sheets were pulled over your bodies and your brain was still soft around the edges was that this was what home should feel like. This was the feeling you had been chasing around the world, and it took you leaving first to realize it.

"I'm done running, I think," you whispered into the crook of Bucky's neck.

"Yeah?" even behind the tiredness of his voice, the hope that you were finally coming back here, back to him was unmistakable.

You nodded, fingers tracing over his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart that you had somehow never forgotten. The rhythm lulling you into a deep, even sleep.

One Year Later

A chipped butter yellow coffee cup with hand-painted daisies clinked down on the metal outdoor table next to a vase of fresh pink and white tulips. Steam curled into the early morning air as Bucky sat down in the patio chair next to yours.

"I found a good flight to Iceland, by the way," his voice broke through your drifting thoughts while you watched Rosemary happily hop around in her handmade hutch situated by the herb garden where she had been rescued. "We would leave right after the reception."

You smiled, twirling the ring around your left finger. Vacating your chair, you planted yourself on his lap instead. "Yeah? I can't wait for you to see it," you whispered against his lips.

Bucky's head tilted back to look at you fully. The rising sun catching the look of pure adoration and contentment in his eyes. With a slow smile spreading across his face, while he wrapped his arms further around your waist, "And I can't wait to be married to you."

Lore Drop (as promised): On August 21, 2025, I had to make the incredibly difficult and unexpected decision to put my soul dog to sleep. Anyone who's ever lost a pet knows that this emotional pain is really unlike any other. I still cry every day about him, and miss him more than I can really put into words. I named the diner in this fic after him as a small memento. Suffice it to say that when I spun the wheel we used to choose our Barbie Bucky careers and I got veterinarian, my first instinct was to channel the grief of losing an animal and having Veterinarian Bucky be there to make it better. I sincerely hope everyone enjoyed this story way more than whatever grief fest I almost dragged y'all into lmao. A massive, giant thank you to @miraclediviner again for putting this together. Another thank you to Stantastic for welcoming me in with open arms when they asked me to join. I really don't know where I'd be without any of y'all, and I'm so grateful to have all of you in my life.

Everything Taglist: @overwintering-soldier @stanmarvelous @wint3rbarnes @barnes-babydoll @defn0tonyourleft @herejustforbuckybarnes @stesha02 @sheriff-bodecker @wherewinterblooms @/miraclediviner @tw1sters @bucksbby @daddysbitchybaby @metal-armed-muse @avgdestitute @imtoooldforthis82 @daydreamgoddess14 @hailmary-yramliah @nachtigall127 @heavenchana @ornateglass @steelandvibranium @stkmaprang @yourmomoclockit @misswhiddless @mariamorales1998 @mistressmkay @ladymiseryy @my-drvidess @alli0-0 @buckyscaptain

Bucky Only: @thegirlwhowaited5everok @phantom-wolf-girl @optimisticchildtyrant @sassandscribbles @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @procrastination20 @mathcat345 @highhopes1008 @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @scarletkanami

Stan Characters Only: @iamthatonefangirl @cassity357 @erina00 @buckytakethewheel @buckysdecaflove

If you'd like to be added to the taglist comment here ᝰ.ᐟ

[heldbybarnes]

library for two

pairing: regency!duke bucky barnes x reader | 7.7k

warnings: regency-era societal pressure, family disappointment, cruel sibling commentary, ableism toward physical disability/scarring, anxiety/insecurity, soft angst, slow-burn tenderness

summary: born the quiet, overlooked sister, you’ve learned to survive in the shadows—until a ball places you before duke bucky barnes, war-scarred, steel-armed, and whispered about by all of london. the ton declares you ill-matched, but in stolen quiet and candlelit corners, you discover a love that makes you feel seen at last.

authors note: i love the regency era and i loveeee this trope. the concept of duke barnes saving me from my family that doesn't understand me has melted me in an absolute puddle!! please note, in this fic, it is understood that the Queen grants each home with a "name". Ashford is the name of readers home and to make the story flow better in my head, is often called upon as such!

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The first thing your mother does, every time she looks at you, is count.

Not with her fingers—not so crudely. With her eyes. With the faint pause between breath and greeting. With the way her gaze passes over your sisters first, as if she must take inventory of what she is proud of before she can bear to acknowledge what she is not.

Arabella—oldest, already married and radiant in it, a hostess in the making with a laugh that never trembles.

Seraphina—clever as a blade and twice as polished, the sort who can make a compliment sound like a promise.

Daphne—pretty and effortless, all dimples and flirtation, built for ballrooms like a swan is built for lakes.

Imogen—sharp-tongued, sharp-eyed, always the first to notice a weakness and the last to forgive one.

Cordelia—youngest, sweet-faced, eager, still soft enough to be shaped by the rest of them.

And then you.

Your father calls you “quiet” as though it is a virtue he might one day learn to tolerate. Your sisters call you “bookish” as though it is a disease. Your mother calls you nothing at all, most days, which is somehow worse—because it implies you are not a thing worth naming.

You’ve tried, in the ways a daughter tries.

You’ve worn the colors your mother prefers—pale pinks and creams that make you feel like a faded flower pressed between pages. You’ve practiced smiling until your cheeks ache. You’ve learned to curtsy without wobbling, to speak only when spoken to, to laugh on cue at jokes you do not find funny.

But there is no practice for being overlooked. No lesson for becoming small enough to stop disappointing the people who expect you to be someone else.

So you do the one thing you’ve always been able to do: you retreat to what does not ask you to perform.

You read.

In books, no one tells you that you are too much or not enough. No one sighs when you speak. No one looks past you to find the glittering thing behind.

Tonight, however, there will be no library to hide in.

Tonight, Arabella is hosting her first grand ball in London—her first as Viscountess Harrowgate, her first as the sister who has succeeded where your mother once feared daughters could fail. Her invitation came like a command sealed with lace: You will attend. All of you. The entire family. The ton must see us.

Your mother has clung to that final line like it is scripture.

“The ton must see us,” she repeats now, adjusting the line of your gloves with pinching fingers. “We must make an impression.”

“We always do,” Seraphina murmurs behind her fan, not quite hiding her smile.

“Precisely,” your mother says, and then her eyes flick to you like a draft sneaking under a door. “And you, my dear—please do try to look… pleasant.”

You swallow the first reply that rises in your throat. What does pleasant look like? Like Daphne? Like Arabella? Like someone worth watching?

Instead, you nod. Because you’ve learned that arguing only makes them look at you longer.

Imogen leans in as the maid pins a ribbon at your back. “Do not frighten away Arabella’s guests by talking about your dreadful poetry.”

“I don’t write poetry,” you say softly.

“You read it,” Imogen answers, as though that is equally offensive. “Which is nearly as bad.”

Cordelia, perched on the edge of the chaise like a bird too young to know the cage is real, tilts her head. “I like when she reads to me.”

Imogen’s gaze cuts. “That is because you are still a child.”

Cordelia’s mouth tightens. She looks down at her slippers.

Something in your chest twists—not dramatic, not sharp. Just a small ache you’ve learned to tuck away with the rest of the quiet hurts. You reach for Cordelia’s hand under the fold of your skirt, giving it a brief squeeze. She squeezes back, grateful, as though you’ve offered her a rescue rope.

Your mother misses the exchange entirely. “Remember,” she says, “you are not to wander. You are not to disappear into some corner like a—” She inhales, restrains herself, finishes with forced calm. “Like an unsociable girl.”

Seraphina’s eyes glint. “Like herself, Mama means.”

Daphne laughs, sweet and light.

Arabella, already dressed and luminous, pauses at the door. Her gaze lands on you. For a heartbeat, something softer lives there—under her pride, under her practiced hostess smile.

“Be kind,” she says to your sisters, quietly, but not quietly enough.

Imogen rolls her eyes. Seraphina’s smile turns sharper, but she says nothing. Your mother pretends she did not hear. Arabella hesitates, as if she might say something else—to you, perhaps—and then the moment passes. She is swept away by the crush of responsibility, the weight of her new title, the desperate need to appear perfect.

And you follow, as you always do.

The Harrowgate townhouse is a blaze of candlelight and expectation.

The entry hall smells of beeswax and perfume. Footmen take cloaks and names and secrets alike. The ballroom itself gleams—polished floors reflecting chandeliers like captured constellations. Everywhere there is silk and laughter and the soft shock of jewels catching light.

Your sisters bloom in it. Arabella floats through the room like she was born to move people where she wants them. Seraphina collects admirers as if it is sport. Daphne is surrounded before the first set ends, three gentlemen vying for her attention with the earnestness of men who have never been told no. Imogen stands near your mother, issuing judgments under her breath like a magistrate.

You stand where you are placed—near a pillar, close enough to be seen, far enough to be forgotten. Your mother’s hand presses briefly to your shoulder as she passes, a reminder that you are an accessory to her ambitions, not a person within them.

“Do not slouch,” she murmurs.

You straighten.

A waltz begins. Couples spin, skirts flaring like petals caught in wind. You watch the patterns because they are safe—numbers and music, steps and symmetry. It is easier to observe the world than to risk being noticed by it.

Your gaze drifts without meaning—past laughing mouths, past gloved hands, past the bright faces of girls who have practiced wanting what they are told to want.

And then you see him.

He is not bright.

He is not easy.

He stands at the far edge of the room near the shadowed archway that leads into the adjoining salon, as if the ballroom’s light is something he tolerates rather than enjoys. His hair is dark, brushed back with minimal care. His posture is too still—soldier-still, as though his body has learned to be ready even in peace.

The first thing people notice is his arm.

Even from here, you see the metallic gleam beneath the cuff of his sleeve when he shifts, the unnatural line where polished steel meets fabric. A murmur ripples through a nearby cluster of ladies; fans lift like shields. A gentleman leans in to whisper something that makes a woman’s eyes widen in fascinated horror.

The Duke of Barnes, someone says, and the name travels like a spark.

Duke.

War-torn.

Scarred.

A man made of stories the ton tells itself to feel thrillingly safe.

You should look away. It is what everyone else is doing—staring and then pretending not to, as though curiosity is indecent and empathy impossible.

But you don’t.

Not because you are brave, but because you know what it is to be watched like an oddity. You know what it is to be the thing people discuss behind fans and laughter.

As if he feels the weight of your attention, he turns his head.

His eyes find you across the room.

They are not the cold eyes of rumor. They are a blue-gray that holds storms and fatigue and something else—something older than the ballroom, older than polite society.

His gaze catches, and for one awful, breathless moment, you think you have done something wrong. That your staring has made you rude, that you are about to be exposed as the quiet girl who forgets the rules.

Then his expression shifts—not into a smile, not quite. Into recognition.

As if he has spotted another person standing at the edges, surviving rather than performing.

You look away first, because you always do. Because it is safer to become invisible.

But the heat of his gaze lingers like candle-warmth on your skin.

You last exactly twenty minutes before you need air.

It isn’t the crowd, not really. It’s the sense of being pressed into place—of existing as a piece on someone else’s board. You slip out when your mother is distracted by a conversation about dowries and Dorsetshire estates, and when your sisters are consumed by admirers.

The corridor outside the ballroom is cooler, dimmer. The noise becomes distant, as if you’ve stepped underwater. You move as quietly as you can, past a row of portraits in gilded frames—Harrowgate ancestors who look down at you with bored superiority.

A door stands slightly ajar at the end of the hall, light spilling from within. You recognize the room by its scent before you see it: paper, leather, dust warmed by lamps.

A library.

Your heart loosens, just a little, the way it does when you step into someplace that does not demand you shine.

You push the door open, slip inside, and close it softly behind you.

The room is lined with shelves, the kind that reach toward the ceiling like devotion. There are chairs by the fireplace, a writing desk, a scattering of volumes left open as if someone abandoned them mid-thought. A lamp glows on a side table, throwing warm light over a stack of books.

You move toward them as if drawn by gravity.

Your fingers brush a spine—Milton, then Rousseau, then a worn copy of Persuasion that makes your chest ache, though you are not sure why. You pick it up, almost reverently, flipping to a page at random.

“You’re hiding.”

The voice comes from behind you—low, roughened by disuse, as though he doesn’t speak often unless he must.

You freeze.

Slowly, you turn.

He stands near the doorway, half in shadow. The Duke of Barnes. Bucky Barnes, if the murmurs were accurate—though no one says “Bucky” in ballrooms. They say “Your Grace,” and they say it with a tremble.

He has removed his gloves. One hand is bare, strong, human. The other—metal, articulated in a way that is both beautiful and unsettling, fingers of steel catching lamplight.

He looks at you not like a creature to be studied, but like a person caught doing something familiar.

“I could say the same of you,” you manage, and it surprises you—how easily the words come.

His mouth tilts at one corner, nearly a smile. “I wasn’t subtle.”

“No,” you agree, and then you flush because it sounds like judgment.

He doesn’t seem offended. If anything, he looks… relieved. Like you have named the truth and spared him the performance of denying it.

“You shouldn’t be in here alone,” he says after a moment. “People talk.”

You glance at the book in your hand. “People talk no matter where I stand.”

He studies you as if the sentence has struck something in him. “That so?”

You shrug, a small movement. “My sisters are the sort people notice. I am… not.”

His gaze lowers briefly to the pages, then back to your face. “You came here for the books.”

“Yes.”

“And not,” he adds, almost cautiously, “because you were hoping to catch someone’s attention.”

The question is strange—almost too direct for polite society. But you realize he is not teasing. He is… checking. As if he has been hunted by expectations and wants to know whether you are another trap.

“No,” you say, honest. “I came because it is quiet.”

His shoulders drop a fraction, the tension easing. “Good.”

You blink. “Good?”

“Quiet’s… rare.” His eyes flick to the door, as though he expects it to burst open with laughter and judgment. “And I’ve had enough of rooms full of people pretending not to stare.”

The words are careful, controlled, but beneath them you hear exhaustion. Something in you softens in recognition. Not pity—pity is a kind of distance. This is something else. Understanding, perhaps.

You find yourself speaking before you can stop. “Does it hurt?”

His gaze snaps back to you, sharp.

You almost apologize immediately. You almost retreat into silence, mortified at your own boldness.

But he doesn’t lash out. He doesn’t sneer.

He looks down at his arm, the metal gleaming where the lamplight catches the joints. His fingers flex once, slow. “Sometimes,” he admits. “Not like it did at first. But… there are things a body remembers.”

You swallow. “I’m sorry.”

He lifts his eyes again. “Don’t be. You didn’t do it.”

It is a simple sentence, but it lands heavy. Like a door opening into a room you’ve never dared enter.

You shift the book in your hands. “You fought in the war,” you say, not a question.

He nods once. “And I came home less… whole than I left.”

There’s no self-pity in it. Just fact.

You gesture helplessly to the library around you. “They talk as if you are a monster.”

His expression hardens, just a little. “They talk as if I’m entertainment.”

Anger rises in you—a slow burn, unfamiliar. You are used to swallowing hurt, not holding it.

“It’s cruel,” you say, and your voice is firmer than you expect.

Something flickers across his face—surprise, and then something warmer, softer. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “It is.”

You look down at the book, at the lines of ink that have survived centuries because they mattered to someone. “I don’t think you’re a monster,” you say, and the honesty in it makes your throat tight. “I think you’re… tired.”

His breath catches, subtle enough that you might have missed it if you weren’t watching him the way you watch stories unfold.

“Tired,” he repeats, as though he is tasting the word. “No one’s called me that.”

“What do they call you?” you ask before you can stop yourself.

His jaw tightens. “Scarred. Ruined. Dangerous. Tragic.” A humorless exhale. “As if those are the only things a man can be.”

You meet his gaze, steady now because something in you refuses to flinch. “They’re wrong.”

His eyes hold yours for a long moment. The air between you feels charged—not with scandal, but with something strangely intimate: the shared relief of dropping masks.

“You got a name, Miss…?” he prompts gently.

You hesitate. Not because you don’t know it, but because names, in your family, feel like expectations. Labels people use to decide what you are worth.

But his voice is not demanding. It is offering.

You give it. Quietly.

He nods as though it matters. As though he will remember it when the room grows loud again.

“I’m James,” he says, and then, as if he knows how stiff it sounds, he adds, “Most call me Bucky, when they’re brave enough to forget I’m a duke.”

You almost smile. “Bucky.”

The sound of it feels like stepping off a polished floor onto grass. Real.

He watches your mouth when you say it, and something in his expression softens into something you’ve never been the object of before: interest without agenda.

“You like books,” he says, gesturing to the one in your hands.

“I like stories,” you correct quietly. “I like… the way they tell the truth without making you perform it.”

His gaze drops again to the book. “Read to me,” he says, then pauses as if he cannot believe he asked. “If you want. I mean. You don’t have to.”

You should be nervous. You should be thinking about propriety, about how your mother would faint if she found you alone in a library with a duke whose reputation has frightened half of Mayfair.

But the room is warm and quiet and safe in a way the ballroom isn’t, and his eyes look at you like you are not a disappointment.

So you sit.

You choose a chair by the lamp, hands trembling only slightly as you open the book. He takes the other chair—not too close, not too far, positioned like someone who has learned to give women space. His metal hand rests on the armrest, glinting. His human hand folds loosely over his knee.

You begin to read.

At first, your voice is soft. Then it steadies. Then it finds rhythm—words like familiar footsteps. You feel him listening, truly listening, in a way most people do not. His gaze stays on the pages, on your hands, on your face. He does not interrupt. He does not tease. He does not try to impress you with his own cleverness.

He simply lets you exist.

When you reach the end of a passage, you look up without thinking.

He is watching you as if you are the most interesting thing in the room.

“What?” you ask, flustered.

He blinks, as if caught. “You look… different in here.”

“Different?”

“Like you belong to yourself.” His voice is quiet, almost reverent, and something in your chest aches with the sweetness of it. “In there—” his eyes flick toward the ballroom “—you were trying to disappear.”

You swallow. “It’s easier.”

He leans forward slightly, the movement careful, controlled. “Don’t,” he says, and the word is so gentle it almost hurts. “Not for them.”

Your throat tightens. No one has ever told you not to vanish.

Before you can answer, the door opens.

Light spills in. Laughter. A familiar voice, bright and sharp.

“There you are,” Seraphina says, stepping into the library as if she owns it. Her gaze darts to you, then to the duke, and her smile changes—becoming polished, predatory. “Oh.”

Behind her, your mother appears, like a storm finally finding the house it means to break.

You stand so fast the book nearly slips from your hands. “Mama—”

Your mother’s eyes lock on Bucky’s arm first, and you watch the reflexive flicker of distaste cross her face before she smothers it with forced courtesy.

“Your Grace,” she says, dipping into a shallow curtsy that contains more calculation than respect. “I did not realize you would be… joining us in private.”

Bucky stands, too. Taller than you realized. Broader. His expression closes like a door.

“Lady Ashford,” he says evenly.

Seraphina fans herself, eyes gleaming. “How extraordinary. I didn’t know you were acquainted.”

You open your mouth, but your mother speaks over you. “My daughter has a habit of wandering,” she says lightly, as though you are a child who strays from the nursemaid. “I was just reminding her of proper conduct.”

Bucky’s gaze shifts to you, and in it you see a question: Are you alright?

You nod, barely.

Your mother continues, oblivious to anything but appearances. “Of course, Miss Ashford is not… accustomed to such company. She spends most of her days with books rather than people.”

The insult is wrapped in silk, but it is still an insult. Your cheeks burn.

Bucky’s metal fingers flex once, the soft click of joints in the quiet room.

“She reads well,” he says, voice calm. “Better than most I’ve heard.”

Seraphina’s eyes narrow, quickly masked by delight. “How charming. I didn’t realize Your Grace enjoyed being read to.”

Bucky’s gaze is flat. “I enjoy honesty,” he answers.

Imogen’s voice drifts from the doorway now—she must have followed. “And what honesty is there in a girl hiding in a library?”

Your mother’s eyes flash. “Imogen.”

Imogen shrugs, unrepentant. “It’s true. She cannot even survive one ball without fleeing.”

You want to disappear. You want the floor to open and swallow you whole.

But then Bucky looks at you again, and in that look is something steady—like a hand offered in the dark.

“She didn’t flee,” he says. His voice is still controlled, but there is iron beneath it. “She stepped away from the noise. There’s a difference.”

Your mother’s smile grows tighter. “A young lady’s duty is to be seen.”

Bucky’s gaze sharpens. “And a young lady is also a person.”

The room goes very still.

Your mother’s nostrils flare slightly, scandal barely held back. “Your Grace,” she says, warning threaded through the title, “I do not believe you understand—”

“I understand,” he interrupts quietly, and the quiet is worse than shouting. “I understand what it is to be treated as a thing rather than a human being.”

Your mother’s composure wavers for the first time. She recovers quickly, smoothing her skirts. “Come,” she says to you, voice clipped. “You will return to the ballroom.”

Your feet feel rooted.

Bucky’s gaze holds yours. He does not command you. He does not rescue you without permission.

But he stays.

So you take a breath you did not know you were capable of taking, and you nod at your mother.

“Of course,” you say, because it is not yet the moment to fight.

But as you pass Bucky, leaving the library, you feel something brush your hand.

Metal, cool and careful.

Not grasping. Not claiming.

Just… there.

A touch as light as a bookmark between pages.

Your breath catches.

His voice follows you, low enough that only you hear it. “Don’t disappear,” he murmurs. “Not entirely.”

You step back into the ballroom with your pulse racing like you’ve done something wildly improper—like you’ve done something dangerously brave.

After that night, the ton begins to talk in earnest.

They always talked about Bucky Barnes—about the tragedy of him, the horror and fascination, the rumors of how he lost his arm (a cannon, a blade, a French trap, a punishment). They talked about how he returned from war as if he carried winter in his bones.

But now, they talk about you too.

Because the Duke of Barnes calls.

He leaves his card at the Ashford residence the very next morning.

Your mother holds it between her fingers as if it might stain her. “This is highly irregular,” she says.

Seraphina’s eyes gleam. “It’s highly interesting.”

Daphne gasps, delighted. “A duke!”

Imogen sneers. “A scarred duke.”

Cordelia watches you quietly, worry and wonder tangled in her gaze.

Your father clears his throat, uncomfortable. “He is… wealthy.”

Your mother’s mouth tightens. “And damaged.”

Your stomach twists. “Mama—”

“I will not have you throw yourself at a man simply because he paid you a moment of attention,” she snaps, and the words hit harder than they should, because some part of you fears she is right. “You are not suited to the role of duchess. You would embarrass us.”

You go cold all over. “He wasn’t— I didn’t—”

Seraphina’s smile is syrupy. “Perhaps he only called because he enjoys being pitied.”

Bile rises in your throat. “I don’t pity him.”

Imogen tilts her head. “Then what do you feel?”

You don’t answer, because you cannot. Not without exposing yourself.

Not without admitting that one quiet hour in a library made you feel seen in a way you have been craving your whole life.

Your mother presses the calling card to the table as though pinning down an insect. “You will not be alone with him,” she declares. “You will not encourage him.”

“And if he asks to dance with you again?” Daphne asks, bright-eyed.

Your mother’s gaze flicks to Daphne, then Seraphina, calculating. “If he wishes to court an Ashford, he may court properly.”

Seraphina straightens, hopeful.

Your mother glances at you, and the disappointment sharpens. “But it will not be you.”

The room goes silent.

Your father does not contradict her.

Your sisters do not protest.

Only Cordelia looks stricken, like she has just witnessed a cruelty she cannot yet name.

You swallow the hurt until it tastes like blood. “Of course,” you whisper.

You excuse yourself before anyone can see you crack.

You take refuge where you always do—in a book.

But now, every page feels haunted by the memory of a voice at your side, listening. Of eyes watching you as if you mattered.

Days pass. Then another calling card arrives. Then another.

He does not stop.

Your mother refuses him twice before she can no longer do so without causing commentary, and commentary is the only thing she fears more than scandal.

So Bucky Barnes is invited for tea.

Your mother arranges the drawing room like a battlefield.

Daphne and Seraphina sit poised like flowers. Imogen sits like a judge. Cordelia hovers close to you, a quiet anchor. Your mother sits at the center, spine rigid, smile sharp.

You sit where you are told.

And then he enters.

In daylight, he looks even more out of place in your world—dark clothes, severe lines, a presence that fills the room without trying. His metal arm is covered by his coat sleeve, but you can see the shape of it beneath the fabric.

Your mother rises, all polite stiffness. “Your Grace.”

He bows, controlled. “Lady Ashford. Miss Ashford.” His gaze flicks over your sisters—and then finds you, and settles like something warm on your skin. “Miss Ashford,” he says again, softer, as if the second time is for you alone.

Your breath catches.

Tea is poured. Questions are asked—the kind meant to assess rather than understand.

“How is your estate?” your mother asks, as though she might find rot beneath the wealth.

“Managed,” Bucky answers, polite, clipped.

“And your health?” Seraphina asks, voice sugared. “You must have suffered terribly.”

His gaze is flat. “I recovered.”

Imogen’s eyes narrow. “Can you dance with that arm?”

The room freezes.

Your cheeks flame. “Imogen—”

Bucky’s metal fingers tap once against his teacup saucer, a soft clink. His expression doesn’t change. “I can,” he says simply.

Daphne leans forward, eager. “And do you plan to marry, Your Grace?”

Your mother sends her a warning look that says: Let him speak when spoken to, but the question is already out, and your sisters watch with hungry curiosity.

Bucky’s gaze drifts, slow, to you.

“I plan,” he says carefully, “to marry someone who doesn’t look at me like a spectacle.”

Seraphina’s smile falters.

Your mother’s eyes sharpen. “And where might you find such a woman?”

Bucky’s eyes do not leave you. “I’ve already met her.”

The air goes thin.

Your heart stutters. Surely he cannot mean— Surely—

Your mother laughs, brittle. “Your Grace, you scarcely know my daughters.”

“I know enough,” he replies, and there is quiet authority in it. “I know which one listens instead of performs. I know which one doesn’t flinch at my arm. I know which one reads like she’s speaking the truth.”

Your mother’s face tightens. “Miss Ashford is not—”

“Not what?” he cuts in softly, and it is the softness that makes it dangerous. “Not charming enough? Not loud enough? Not a proper ornament for your ambitions?”

Your mother’s mouth opens, shocked.

Cordelia’s hand finds yours under the cushion. She squeezes, hard.

You stare at Bucky, stunned. No man has ever spoken on your behalf. No one has ever put words to what you endure.

And yet terror coils in your stomach too, because his honesty could ruin you.

Your mother straightens, forcing control back into her spine. “Your Grace,” she says coldly, “you are not welcome to make sport of my family.”

“I’m not making sport,” he says. “I’m asking permission to court her.”

The word her lands like thunder.

Your sisters stare.

Seraphina’s cheeks flush with fury. Daphne looks bewildered. Imogen looks offended, as though he has insulted the entire concept of taste.

Your mother turns her gaze to you.

It is the same gaze that has weighed you and found you lacking all your life, but now it holds something new: fear. Fear that you might step out of your place.

“You will not,” she says quietly, as if she can command your choice by sheer will.

Bucky’s eyes are on you again, steady. He doesn’t beg. He doesn’t pressure.

He waits.

For the first time in your life, a room full of people is waiting to see what you will do.

Your throat tightens. Your pulse pounds.

You think of the library—of quiet, of warmth, of being spoken to like you are not a disappointment.

You think of your mother’s words: You would embarrass us.

And then you realize something terrifying.

Perhaps you are done trying not to.

You swallow. “I would like,” you say, voice shaking but real, “to be courted.”

Your mother’s breath hitches, a sound like outrage.

Bucky’s expression softens—not into triumph, but into something that looks like relief.

“As you wish,” he murmurs.

Courting Bucky Barnes is not like courting any other gentleman.

He does not bombard you with flattery. He does not bring you bouquets that smell like a stranger’s effort. He does not linger too close, smile too wide, speak too loudly.

He brings you books.

The first time he arrives with one, your mother nearly chokes on her own indignation.

“A gift already,” she snaps. “Your Grace, this is—”

“A book,” he says, calm. “Not a diamond.”

“It is still an impropriety.”

He glances at you, eyes quiet. “Does she think it is?”

Your mother’s gaze darts to you, warning.

You take the book with careful hands, as if it is precious. “No,” you say softly. “I think it is… thoughtful.”

Bucky’s mouth twitches. “Good.”

He visits, properly chaperoned, though he treats your mother’s hovering like bad weather—present, irritating, not something worth surrendering to. Sometimes the chaperone is Arabella when she can manage it, her presence a small mercy. Sometimes it is Cordelia, who tags along like a determined little guardian, refusing to let your mother poison every moment.

Bucky speaks to you as if the room is not full of observers.

He asks what you like. What you think. What makes you laugh when no one is watching. He listens when you answer, even when your voice is quiet.

At first, you don’t know how to do it—how to exist without shrinking. You catch yourself softening your opinions, hiding your enthusiasm, stopping sentences before they become too much.

And every time you do, he notices.

“You don’t have to edit yourself for me,” he says one afternoon, when you pause mid-thought about a novel’s heroine.

Your cheeks heat. “I’m not—”

“You are,” he says gently. “I know that look. It’s the same one I wore when people asked me what the war was like and expected me to say something that made them feel brave for listening.”

You swallow. “What was it like?” you ask quietly.

His gaze drops to his tea. “Loud,” he says after a moment. “And cold. And… lonely, even with men beside you.”

Your chest tightens. “And now?”

He lifts his eyes. “Now it’s loud in a different way. People stare and whisper and decide what I am without asking.”

You shift, then, without thinking, you let your fingers brush the cuff of his sleeve where the metal begins beneath. Not grasping. Not claiming. Just touching the fabric, a question.

He goes very still.

Then, slowly, carefully, he moves his arm so the metal hand rests on the table between you.

The room is quiet. Even your mother, across the way, has paused—watching with something like horrified fascination.

Bucky’s eyes stay on yours. “You can,” he says, voice low. “If you want.”

Your breath catches.

You reach out.

Your fingertips meet cool steel.

It is not monstrous. It is not obscene. It is simply… part of him. And in the precision of its design, the careful way it responds when he flexes his fingers beneath your touch, you see something you didn’t expect.

Survival.

A body refusing to be ended.

A man refusing to be reduced to what he lost.

You don’t know why tears prick your eyes. You blink them back quickly, embarrassed.

Bucky’s gaze softens. “Hey,” he murmurs, as if the word is a comfort. “Don’t cry for me.”

“I’m not,” you whisper, voice breaking. “I’m… angry for you.”

His throat works as he swallows. “No one’s ever been angry for me,” he admits, so quietly it feels like a secret.

Your fingers curl slightly around his metal ones—not tight, not possessive, just steady.

“I am,” you say. “And I think… I think you deserve better than their whispers.”

His eyes go bright for a moment, and you realize he is fighting something too—something sharp and painful and hopeful.

“So do you,” he says.

It is not the ton that tries to tear you apart first.

It is your family.

It begins with little cruelties. Imogen “accidentally” misplaces your gloves before an outing. Seraphina makes comments about your “strange taste” in men. Daphne, though less malicious, sighs and says, “But imagine the gowns you could have if you married someone… normal.”

Your mother grows colder by the day. She critiques your appearance like she is searching for flaws to justify her disapproval.

“Your hair is too plain.”

“Your laugh is too quiet.”

“Do not look at him like that. You’ll encourage him.”

One night, after Bucky leaves, your mother corners you in the corridor.

“You think this is romance,” she says, voice harsh. “You think you’ve found some poetic tragedy to live in. But men like that do not make good husbands.”

“Men like what?” you ask, quiet but steady.

“Broken men,” she spits.

Your chest aches. “He isn’t broken.”

“He is,” she insists, and her eyes flash with something ugly. “And he will break you too.”

You stare at her in the dim hallway, the candlelight making her face look older, harder. “You don’t know him,” you say.

“And you do?” she scoffs. “Because he listened to you read a book? Because he made you feel special for once?” Her voice sharpens. “You are vulnerable, and he sees it.”

Your throat tightens. “He sees me,” you correct, and your voice shakes on the truth. “No one else bothers.”

For a heartbeat, your mother looks struck—as if you’ve slapped her without touching her.

Then her face closes. “You are my daughter,” she says, as if it is ownership. “And you will not disgrace this family.”

You feel the familiar pull—the urge to shrink, to apologize, to become the obedient shadow again.

But the memory of Bucky’s steady gaze, his gentle don’t disappear, holds you upright.

“I’m not trying to disgrace you,” you say softly. “I’m trying to live.”

Her eyes narrow. “Then live quietly. Live properly.”

You swallow. “I have done that my entire life,” you whisper. “And it has never been enough for you.”

She inhales sharply, as though she might retort.

But footsteps echo from the entry hall—Bucky returning, perhaps forgotten something, or Arabella calling for you.

Your mother’s face hardens. “We will speak of this again.”

And she leaves you standing in the corridor, shaking.

The next ball you attend is not yours.

It is Seraphina’s—a smaller gathering, hosted by a friend who has a ballroom and a mother with ambitions just as sharp as Lady Ashford’s. Your mother insists you go, insisting that if Bucky intends to court you, he must show the ton he can tolerate society.

“He must prove himself,” she says, and you know she means: He must prove he is worth the risk of having you attached to him.

Bucky arrives late.

When he enters, the room shifts. Conversations stutter. Eyes turn. Whispers bloom like rot.

You stand near a wall with Cordelia, who clings to your hand as if she can feel the danger.

“There he is,” Cordelia whispers.

You look.

Bucky’s gaze finds you immediately, steady as ever. He crosses the room with controlled steps, ignoring the way people part like he is dangerous water.

When he reaches you, he bows. “Miss Ashford.”

Your mother appears at your shoulder like a hawk. “Your Grace.”

He doesn’t flinch at her chill. His attention returns to you. “Would you grant me this dance?”

A hush seems to fall around you—not because people are polite, but because they are eager to witness either romance or disaster.

Your mother’s fingers dig into your arm. “You must consider—”

“I have,” you say, and you step forward.

Bucky’s metal hand extends, palm up, not as a command but as an invitation.

You place your gloved hand in it.

His grip is careful, steady, warm through fabric despite the steel.

He leads you to the floor, and as you take your position, you feel the ton’s gaze like needles.

The music begins.

Bucky moves with surprising grace. The metal arm does not hinder him; it simply exists, as natural to him as breathing. His other hand rests at your back, firm but gentle, guiding you through the steps.

“You alright?” he murmurs, close enough that only you hear.

You swallow. “They’re staring.”

“I know,” he says softly. “Look at me.”

You do.

And the ballroom blurs.

Because his eyes are on you like you are not a spectacle, not a scandal, not a disappointment—just a person worth holding.

“Good,” he murmurs, as if praising bravery you don’t feel.

Halfway through the dance, you hear it—a sharp, cruel whisper from the edge of the floor.

“She must be desperate.”

Another: “No one else would have her.”

Your chest tightens. Your steps falter.

Bucky’s hold steadies you instantly, his hand at your back firming. “Hey,” he murmurs.

You blink rapidly, fighting tears. “I’m sorry,” you whisper, humiliated. “I shouldn’t—”

“Don’t apologize,” he says, and there is steel beneath the gentleness now. “Not for existing.”

You swallow hard. “They’re right,” you whisper, the old poison rising. “No one else would—”

His eyes sharpen, and for the first time you see anger in him—not wild, not violent. Controlled, purposeful.

“They’re not right,” he says quietly. “And if you ever repeat their cruelty to yourself again, I’ll have to spend the rest of my life proving you wrong.”

Your breath catches. “The rest of your—”

His gaze holds yours. “If you’ll let me.”

The music swells, and you realize the room has quieted again—not because of the dance, but because Bucky Barnes has tilted his head toward you as if speaking something intimate.

Your mother is watching from the sidelines, pale with fury.

Seraphina’s lips are pressed into a thin line.

Imogen looks disgusted.

Daphne looks conflicted.

Cordelia looks like she might burst into tears from sheer hope.

And you—

You feel like you are standing at the edge of a cliff you’ve been afraid to approach your whole life.

Bucky finishes the dance and does not let go of your hand when the music ends.

Instead, he turns to face the room.

The ton leans in, hungry.

He bows to you first, respectful.

Then he turns his gaze—cold, calm—toward your mother.

“Lady Ashford,” he says, voice carrying just enough. “May I speak with you.”

Your mother’s smile is rigid. “Now?”

“Now,” he says.

Whispers erupt.

He doesn’t wait for her to approve. He leads her—not by force, but by presence—toward a quieter corner, where Arabella has drifted close as a shield, and where your father hovers, uncomfortable but attentive.

You stand with Cordelia, your heart hammering, watching as Bucky speaks with your parents like a man who has decided he will no longer be treated as entertainment.

You cannot hear every word, but you see your mother’s expression change—anger, outrage, then something like calculation as she realizes the room is watching her now.

You see your father’s shoulders sag as if relieved someone else is bearing the weight of decision.

Then Bucky turns.

He walks back to you, the ballroom parting again, but this time the parting feels like acknowledgment rather than avoidance.

He stops in front of you.

“You told me once,” he says quietly, “that people talk no matter where you stand.”

Your throat tightens. “Yes.”

He nods. “Then stand with me.”

The simplicity of it steals your breath.

He turns, facing your parents, facing the room, facing the world that has tried to shape you into silence.

And then, in the most proper voice he can manage while still being utterly himself, he says:

“I intend to marry Miss Ashford, if she will have me.”

The room erupts.

Your mother makes a sound—half gasp, half protest.

Seraphina’s face goes red.

Imogen looks as if she might faint from outrage.

Daphne’s mouth falls open.

Cordelia clutches your hand so hard it hurts.

Arabella’s eyes shine with something like pride.

Bucky turns back to you, and suddenly none of the noise matters, because he is looking at you like your answer is the only thing in the world.

He doesn’t assume. He doesn’t claim. He asks—with his eyes, with his steady presence, with the gentleness in his voice.

“Will you?” he murmurs.

Your throat feels tight enough to choke you.

You think of your mother’s disappointment, your father’s silence, your sisters’ cruelty.

You think of the library, the lamp glow, the way Bucky listened like your words mattered.

You think of the metal hand that held yours like it was precious.

And you realize, with a clarity that makes you almost dizzy, that love is not loud.

Love is not a performance.

Love is someone seeing you in the quiet and choosing you anyway.

You take a breath.

Then you step forward.

“Yes,” you say, voice trembling but sure. “I will.”

Bucky’s eyes close for a brief second, as if the relief is too much to hold. When he opens them, they shine.

He bows over your hand—not for the room, not for propriety, but as if he is honoring you.

When his lips touch your knuckles through your glove, it feels like a promise sealed in warmth.

The engagement is a storm.

Your mother attempts to salvage control by insisting on conditions: timelines, announcements, guest lists. She speaks about scandal as though it is a living thing stalking your family.

Bucky listens, polite, unmoved.

He gives her the respect due to her position, and none of the power she thinks she holds.

Your sisters fluctuate between outrage and fascination. Seraphina makes pointed remarks about your “luck,” as if love is a lottery you cheated to win. Imogen predicts misery with the satisfaction of someone who wants to be right more than she wants you happy. Daphne, after one private conversation where she cannot quite meet your eyes, murmurs, “I didn’t know you could be… chosen,” and you realize she never believed you could be either.

Only Cordelia is unabashedly delighted. She slips into your room at night and whispers, “He looks at you like you’re his whole world,” as if that is the greatest magic she has ever seen.

And Arabella—Arabella pulls you aside a week before the wedding and presses your hands between hers.

“I’m sorry,” she says quietly.

Your throat tightens. “For what?”

“For not noticing sooner,” she admits, eyes glossy. “For letting Mama and the others make you feel small.” She swallows. “I was so busy trying to be perfect that I didn’t see what it cost you.”

You blink, stunned. “Arabella…”

She shakes her head. “He sees you,” she says, and the words are soft, aching. “And I’m glad. I’m glad you found someone who does.”

You hug her, careful, and she clings back as if she’s been holding guilt for years.

On your wedding day, the world is still loud.

There are guests and whispers and eyes that try to measure you.

But when you stand at the front of the church and Bucky turns to face you, the noise recedes.

He looks nervous, you realize. Not about the ton, not about judgment.

About you.

About doing this right.

As if marrying you is something sacred, something he cannot afford to mishandle.

His metal hand trembles slightly when he reaches for yours.

You take it anyway.

You do not flinch.

You do not hide.

And when the vows are spoken, when you say I do, it feels less like stepping into a role and more like stepping into yourself.

Later, when the reception swirls with music and conversation, you find a moment of escape—not into a library this time, but into a quiet side room with a window cracked open to cool air.

Bucky follows you, as if drawn by instinct.

He closes the door behind him gently, then leans against it like he’s guarding you from the world.

“You okay?” he asks softly.

You smile, small. “I should be asking you that.”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “Fair.”

You drift toward him. Close enough to see the faint scars along his jaw, the lines of weariness that have nothing to do with age and everything to do with memory.

“You look…” You search for the word.

He tilts his head. “Like what?”

“Like you can breathe,” you whisper.

His gaze softens. “Yeah,” he admits. “Because you’re here.”

Your chest tightens with something sweet and painful.

You lift your hand, slowly, giving him time to pull away if he needs.

He doesn’t.

Your fingers brush his cheek, and his eyes close briefly at the touch, like it’s a kindness he still doesn’t fully trust.

“You know,” you whisper, “they’ll still talk.”

He opens his eyes, looking at you like you are a truth he chose on purpose. “Let them,” he says, voice steady. “They can spend their lives whispering. We’ll spend ours living.”

You swallow, emotion thick in your throat. “I don’t know how to be… loud.”

His mouth tilts, gentle. “Then don’t be.” He lifts his metal hand, slow, careful, and cups the side of your face with it—cool at first, then warming where it meets your skin. “I didn’t fall in love with loud.”

Your breath catches. “You—”

“I did,” he says simply, as if it is not a confession but a fact. “In that library, when you read like you weren’t afraid to exist. I’ve been done for ever since.”

A laugh escapes you, soft and disbelieving. “That’s not how courtship works.”

“It is for me,” he murmurs.

He leans in, giving you every chance to turn away.

You don’t.

His kiss is gentle. Not hungry, not demanding. Just warm and sure, like a hand finding yours in the dark. Like a promise kept in quiet.

When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours for a moment.

“You don’t have to disappear anymore,” he whispers.

You close your eyes, breathing him in—the scent of clean linen and winter air and something steady.

“I won’t,” you promise, and for the first time in your life, the promise feels possible.

Outside the door, the world still spins with music and gossip and expectation.

But here, in the small quiet, you are not an odd one out.

You are chosen.

And in Bucky Barnes’s careful hands, you find a love that does not ask you to be anything but yourself.

tags: @firingstars @iamthatonefangirl @its-in-the-woods @houseofhyde @superbassbuck @chateaubarnes @earthsmightiestbenders @barnesonly @54nboo @winterdecember18 @unificsation @wildflowersandvibranium @juniebjonesin @blowingbarnes @grumpysunnybarnes @missvelvetsstuff @daisynotquake @colettebarnes @lokirogersgirl @sapphire882 @buckyfmd @justadaydreamingfangirl @venigrantrogers @overwintering-soldier @buckyboudoir @domitaylorsversion @multiversefanfics @avgdestitute @meowrz1a @globetrotter28 @mariamorales1998 @okaytrashpanda @icantfindanamenottakenn @pinksplace @infinitewithenvy @herejustforbuckybarnes @yexbarnes @sassandscribbles @ozwriterchick @spdrveil @r1ssa + add yourself here

[metal-armed-muse]

A SIMPLE FAVOUR

bucky x fem! reader — college au summary. Bucky Barnes is your senior. That’s how simple it should’ve been. But when feelings come into the mix, nothing is ever simple right?

in which,

a simple favour somehow turns into a complicated affair.

word count. 19.3k warnings. college au — med school, slowish burn, smut, mdni, 18+, tit play, oral (f receiving), protected pnv, insecure reader, angst, hurt/comfort, impulsive reader who self sabotages, college girl acting like a college girl, bucky is described as a fuckboy, takes reader to watch a surgery. no use of y/n. notes. extremely self-indulgent, i miss med school man. but can easily be read as a college au, i just gave them med subjects. this is basically stuff that kinda happened to me and stuff i wish happened to me lol. in my college — like in many colleges in my country — there’s this unspoken rule, where a junior must obey their senior no matter what. so she can’t just say no when he asks her a favour. i’ve probably used bike and motorcycle interchangeably, please ignore that. Supposed to be posted like a month ago. Since I might be inactive in the following week, this is here now.

READ ON AO3

You had promised yourself you would not spiral today. That promise sits thin as you step out of the library, the familiar pressure of deadlines stacking one on top of the other until breathing feels like a chore instead of a reflex that keeps you alive. There is a quiet pride in having stayed back this late, in choosing tables and notes over distractions, in being the kind of second year who does not get noticed for the wrong reasons. You’re someone who slides through corridors without anyone remembering her name but still remembers every page she read, every line she underlined, every small victory that does not need witnesses.

It should have been a clean exit. Library to hostel. Bed. Maybe a shower if energy allows. A voice cuts through that careful plan. “Hey. Hey, wait.” Your name follows, said with the kind of casual certainty that makes your stomach drop because you do not remember giving it to a him. You slow before you mean to, hate yourself for it immediately, then stop fully because pretending not to hear it is useless now. He is leaning against wall near the steps, fourth year scrubs on, bag slung carelessly over one shoulder like rules never applied to him in the first place. Bucky Barnes.

The name exists in your head long before this moment, passed around in whispers and rolled eyes. The kind of senior everyone knows without knowing, the kind who never seems stressed, the kind who smiles like he expects the world to bend for him because it usually does. He looks at you like this is normal. Like calling you over has not just rearranged your internal organs. “Yeah… You. From second year, right?” The nod comes before you can stop it. Your mouth opens, and closes. Something about air refusing to cooperate. He does not seem to notice, or maybe he does and just enjoys it, because his smile tips slightly. “Good. I was hoping it was you.” Hoping implies intention. Intention implies choice. Your brain scrambles to keep up. He reaches into his bag and pulls out a record book, thick and familiar and immediately ominous. Oh no. He holds it out like a peace offering. It’s not. “I need this filled. Clinical entries. You know how it goes.” Of course you know. Seniors handing down record books like curses, juniors swallowing irritation because no one ever says no. It is tradition dressed up as mentorship, exploitation wrapped in smiles. You have watched others do it, complained quietly about it, sworn you would find a way out if it ever landed on you. It has landed on you.

“Uh,” your voice finally shows up. “I… I have my own, uhmm records. To finish.” He hums, just acknowledging a fact that does not change anything. The book does not move. His hand stays steady between you, patient in a way that feels practiced. “I know. Everyone does. You’re good at it though. Got neat handwriting. I’ve seen your stuff.” Being seen has never felt like a gift. It feels like exposure, like someone has pulled back a curtain you forgot was there. You wonder who told him. You wonder when he looked. You wonder why it matters. You take the book because not taking it feels impossible. Your fingers brush the edge of his fingers for half a second too long, heat flaring where there should be none. You hate that too. “Thanks,” he says, like you have done him a favour already. “I’ll need it by Monday. You can just slip it under my door. Room 318.” Monday. Your mind does the math without permission, counts hours you do not have, pages you do not want to fill, resentment blooming immediately. Your mouth wants to say no now, wants to choke the word out before it becomes habit. Instead, what comes out is a quiet okay that feels like a betrayal. Fuck. “You’re a lifesaver,” his grin widens, the phrase just sticks under your skin because you know he does not mean it. It is just something he says. Something that works. He pushes off the wall then, stretching like this conversation has taken nothing out of him, like he has not just fucked up your entire evening, possibly your entire week. “See you around, yeah?” You nod again, nodding seems to be all you can do around him. He walks away without looking back, already pulling his phone out, already elsewhere. The space he had left behind feels too empty and too crowded at the same time.

You stand there, blaming fate, blaming everything. Irritation simmers, edged with something that feels uncomfortably like embarrassment. Not because he asked. Because you said yes. Why couldn’t you have said no? The walk back to your room passes in a blur of footpaths and familiar turns, replaying the way he said your name, the way he smiled like nothing in the world could touch him. The unfairness of it all presses heavy. Fourth years like him float through med school like it is a game. People like you count pages and hours and caffeine intake and still feel behind. When the door clicks shut behind you, you drop your bag on the chair harder than necessary, the record book landing on your desk with a dull thud that feels deeply satisfying. “Oh my God,” you mutter, then louder, “Oh my God.” Your friend looks up from her bed. She has known you long enough to recognize the particular tension in your shoulders, the way your hands shake when you are trying not to scream. “What happened?” You hold up the book like evidence. “Bucky Barnes happened.” Her face shifts instantly, recognition blooming into something between amusement and sympathy. “No. Absolutely not.” “Yes,” your voice rises despite yourself. “He just handed it to me. Like I’m his personal assistant. Like I don’t have my own shit to do.”

“Did you say no?” The silence answers for you. A dramatic groan leaves her mouth. “You cannot do this. Seniors will see you coming from a mile away.” “I didn’t mean to,” you snap, then immediately soften because she is not wrong and that makes it worse. “He just… called me. And he smiled. And then suddenly I had the book in my hands and it was done.” You pace now, words spilling out faster, frustration finally finding a mouth. “Monday. He wants it by Monday. Do you know how much I have to finish by Monday? I barely sleep as it is.” Her expression becomes gentler now. “Why you though? He has friends. Groupies. People who would do it without complaining.” “Apparently my handwriting is neat,” the bitterness in your tone is obvious. “Apparently he’s seen my stuff. Which is creepy, by the way.” “That man has no boundaries. Also he’s hot, so no one calls him on it.” You stop pacing to glare at her. “Do not.” “I’m just stating facts,” she puts her hands up. “He’s a menace.”

“He’s a fuckboy,” you correct, the word slipping out with venom, satisfying in its accuracy. “And I do not have time for this.” The innocent book still sits on your desk, infuriating you. Pages waiting to be filled with cases you did not attend, observations you did not make. Your jaw tightens. “I should just give it back,” you say, more to yourself than to her. “Tell him I can’t. Tell him I have my own work.” She watches you for a moment, then smiles in a way that is all understanding and zero judgment. “And will you?” The answer tastes bitter before it even forms. You sink onto your chair, stare at the book like it has personally wronged you.

“No. Because I’m weak and stupid and I said okay.”

“You’re just too nice.” A humourless laugh echoes. “That’s not a compliment in med school.” She gets up then to cross the room, and peers over your shoulder at the offending book. “Look. We’ll bitch about him while you write.” That helps. The bitching. “He smiled at me,” the confession slips out before you can stop it. “Like I was already going to say yes.” “Because he knows people do.”

“I hate that it worked.” She bumps your shoulder lightly. “Welcome to being human.” You pick up the pen, flip the book open, anger and resolve tangling together in your chest. If you are going to do this, you will do it right. Not for him. For yourself. Because that is what you do. Because walking away has never come easily.

Still, as the first page fills under your hand, one thought forms inside your head.

Bucky Barnes is going to owe you for this.

Finishing this stupid record book on time might actually be the most irritating miracle you have ever pulled off. Two nights of cramped handwriting and squinting at borrowed case sheets, all for a senior who probably has not worried about a deadline since orientation week. There is a strange mix of pride and annoyance together in your chest. Pride because the pages look perfect, neat lines and careful diagrams, everything organized the way your brain likes it. Annoyance because none of it is even yours. Your roommate watches from her bed while you pack the book into your bag. “You actually finished it,” her voice is impressed and a little horrified. “I had no choice,” you zip the bag with more force than necessary. “If I didn’t, he would find me in some corridor and smile at me again and I would say yes to something worse.” She laughs like she understands exactly what you mean. “Go give it to him and be free.” Free is a strong word, but you take it anyway. The walk across campus feels lighter without the weight of guilt hanging over you. You rehearse what you are going to say in your head, something polite and quick and efficient. Here is your record book, thank you, goodbye. Nothing more. Definitely no unnecessary conversation. You spot him near the canteen. Of course he is surrounded by people. Bucky always seems to exist in the middle of laughter, like he attracts it without trying. A couple of fourth years, one or two juniors, faces you vaguely recognize. He looks relaxed leaning back on the bench. Your steps slow on their own. It would be so easy to turn around, to come back later, to avoid this tiny social nightmare entirely. But the book is in your bag and Monday is too close and courage, apparently, is a muscle you are forcing yourself to use. He notices you before you can talk yourself out of it. “Hey,” he calls out, like you are an old friend and absolutely not a nervous junior.

Every pair of eyes turns in your direction at once. Wonderful. Exactly what you wanted.

Trying to ignore the sudden heat crawling up your neck, you walk closer. “Um, I finished it.”

You hold the book out to him the way a student offers homework to a teacher. Careful, a little formal, maybe even a little scared. His eyebrows lift when he flips through a few pages.

“Damn,” he does not bother to hide the surprise. “This is perfect.”

Praise should not matter this much from someone like him, but apparently your brain did not get that memo.

One of his friends leans forward, curiosity written all over his face. You remember his name after a second. Sam.

“So, this is the famous second year with the magic handwriting,” Sam says, looking at you like you are a rare species. “Hey, listen, any chance you want to do mine next? I will pay you in coffee and eternal gratitude.” Your mouth opens, ready to spit out a polite refusal you have been practicing since last week, but Bucky moves before you can speak. His arm slides around your shoulders, pulling you a fraction closer to his side. “Nah,” he says easily, “she’s mine.” The words echo in your ears long after he says them. She’s mine. You know it’s not serious. It’s just a joke tossed out between friends. Still, your entire body reacts like it is not a joke at all. Your heart jumps. Your face heats. You suddenly understand why half the campus melts over him. Sam raises both hands in surrender. “Okay, okay, territorial much. I see how it is.” “Find your own hardworking junior,” Bucky grins, finally letting his arm drop from your shoulders. Though the ghost of the touch stays behind though. You stand there feeling ridiculous, trying to remember how to breathe normally, trying to figure out how to actually survive. “Thanks for doing this,” Bucky’s voice is softer now, like the rest of them are not even there. “Seriously, you saved me.” “It’s fine,” you manage, which is not true but sounds polite enough. “Just… don’t give me another one.”

“Cross my heart,” he promises, two fingers over his chest in mock solemnity. The group drifts back into their conversation and you prepare to make a quick escape, mission accomplished, when Bucky stands up and grabs his bag. “I’ll drop you off,” he says, like it is the most natural sentence in the world. Did you hear it right? Your brain stutters. “What, no, it’s okay, I can walk.” “I know you can walk,” he sounds amused. “But I’ve got my bike and you’ve done me a huge favor and I’m not letting you disappear like that.” People are watching again. You hate that people are watching. Refusing in front of everyone feels impossible, so you nod before you can overthink it. The bike is parked near the gate. It’s black, shiny and slightly intimidating. Okay, very intimidating. You have never actually sat on one before. He hands you the spare helmet without making it a big deal, and somehow that small kindness settles your nerves more than anything else. “Just hold on to me, yeah,” he says while you climb on behind him. Holding on to him sounds like a terrible idea for your already fragile composure, but the engine roars to life and instinct wins over dignity. Your hands settle lightly on his sides, trying to keep a respectful distance that disappears the second the bike moves. It feels strange and a little unreal, like you have stepped into someone else’s life for a moment. Bucky drives smoothly, confidently, like he does literally everything else. You tell yourself not to enjoy it. You enjoy it anyway.

When the familiar outline of your dorm comes into view, you’re surprised of the disappointment that blooms. The ride had ended too quickly. Sudden quiet wraps around the both of you as he cuts the engine. You climb off carefully, handing the helmet back, already rehearsing another quick thank you and goodbye. Bucky does not move to leave. He stays seated, one foot on the ground, looking at you with that same unreadable half smile. “So,” he stretches the word out, “what do you want?”

“What do I want… for what?” “For writing my record,” he clarifies. “Don’t say nothing because I know how much time that took.” The question catches you off guard. You had not even considered the possibility of getting anything in return. In your head, this whole thing was just an annoying duty, a favor extracted through seniority and social pressure. “I really don’t need anything… it’s fine.” He studies you for a moment, like he is trying to figure out if you are serious. Apparently the idea of someone not wanting something from him is a new concept.

“Okay… but I’m not accepting that answer.” “you don’t have to do anything,” you insist, as you feel awkward all over again. “I just did it because you asked.” “Exactly. Which is why I’m doing something because you helped me.” You shift your weight from one foot to the other, suddenly very aware of how close he is, how easily he holds your attention without even trying.

“Look… let me at least buy you dinner. As a thank you.” Dinner. Your brain immediately supplies a hundred reasons why that is a bad idea. He is a senior. He is Bucky Barnes. People talk. You do not do dinners with boys on bikes who call you theirs in front of their friends. You definitely don’t do dinners with Bucky Barnes. “You really don’t have to,” your voice is weaker this time. “I want to.” He says it like it’s simple, like it doesn’t carry any hidden traps. You try to find a polite way out and come up empty. “It’s just dinner,” he adds, reading your hesitation with annoying accuracy. “No weirdness, I promise.”

The easy confidence, the genuine gratitude and the tiny hopeful tilt to his expression, makes your resolve wobble. “Okay,” you hear yourself say, surprising both of you. “But only dinner.” His grin widens. “Only dinner. Scout’s honor.” You have no idea if he was ever even a scout, but the image makes you smile despite yourself. “Same time tomorrow,” he starts the bike again. “Be ready.” Before you can overthink or change your mind or list all the reasons this is probably a terrible decision, he gives you a small wave and rides off.

You stand there for long after he is gone, heart doing strange unpredictable things, trying to understand how a simple favor turned into this. Deep inside your chest, excitement and nervousness argue back and forth. Dinner with Bucky Barnes. Tomorrow.

Maybe this is a bad idea. Tiredness is sitting heavy in your shoulders, the kind that feels stitched into your bones after a long day of lectures and wards and pretending to understand things you only half understand. The sensible version of you knows exactly what tonight should look like. Pajamas. Leftover notes. An early night. Peace. Instead you are standing in front of your tiny mirror with a dress spread across the bed behind you, trying to decide if it looks normal enough to pass for casual and nice enough to pass for dinner. This is ridiculous. Completely ridiculous. You keep telling yourself that while you brush your hair, while you check your phone for the tenth time even though you know there is nothing new there, while you dig through your drawer looking for the one pair of earrings that make you feel a little less invisible. Getting ready for dinner with Bucky Barnes feels like preparing for an exam you never signed up for. Your roommate is out, probably somewhere with her own life that does not involve spiralling over a senior who asked for a favour and then offered dinner in return. He probably didn’t even mean it like that. That thought pops up while you smooth the front of the dress over your stomach, trying to ignore how nervous your hands feel. He said it casually, like he says everything, like inviting someone to eat is the most normal thing in the world. He did not ask for your number. He did not give his number. People who plan real dinners usually do those things, right? They exchange details and make proper plans and act like adults instead of just throwing out a time and disappearing on a bike like you see on movies. What if he forgot?

What if he only said it because he needed to look cool and effortless like he always does? What if he says things like that to everyone and never follows through because he is Bucky Barnes and the world follows him around instead of the other way? The more you think about it, the more stupid you feel for taking it seriously. You imagine him right now somewhere across campus, laughing too loud with people who are not you, maybe already at a party, maybe already making other plans that have nothing to do with a shy second year who writes neat record books. A small ache starts low in your chest and you hate it instantly. Why did you even get ready? You stand in front of the mirror, turning slightly from side to side, trying to see yourself the way he might see you if he ever actually showed up. The dress is simple and soft and maybe a little nicer than what you normally wear to class, and suddenly it looks silly. Like you tried too hard for something that might not even happen. Oh God, the thought of sitting here all dressed up for no reason, waiting for a message that never comes. This is embarrassing.

You start to take the earrings off, fingers fumbling more than they should. It feels safer to assume nothing is happening. It feels safer to crawl back into your comfortable routine and pretend none of this ever existed. You reach behind you and tug at the zipper, already planning how quickly you can change and wash your face and bury yourself under a blanket. He did not even ask for your number. That sentence loops in your head like a stubborn song you cannot turn off. If he really wanted to take you out, he would have made sure he could contact you. That is basic logic. That is common sense. You pull the dress down over your shoulders, halfway committed to the idea of forgetting the whole thing. But then your phone lights up on the desk. The sound is small but it freezes you completely. For a second you just stare at it, heart suddenly beating in a way that feels unfair. Notifications come from lots of people. Groups and apps and random spam messages. It does not have to be him. There is no reason to assume it is him. Still, you walk over to the desk like you are being pulled by an invisible string. One new message.

Unknown number : I’m here. Come down.

That is all it says. Your face heats so fast it almost hurts. It’s him. He remembered. He actually remembered. The room suddenly feels too warm and too small making your earlier embarrassment shift shape into something lighter and terrifying in a completely different way. He is downstairs. Right now. Waiting for you. And you are standing here with your dress half off like an idiot. You scramble back into it with clumsy fingers, tugging the zipper up again, checking your reflection in a rush of nervous energy. The girl in the mirror looks flustered and a little wide eyed, and there is no time to fix that.

Of course he remembered. Why would he not remember. He literally told you to be ready at this time and you convinced yourself he was lying because apparently your brain enjoys drama. Maybe this is not such a bad idea after all.

You do not want to read too much into it. You really do not. But the feeling is there anyway, impossible for you to ignore. It is only dinner. Just a thank you dinner between a senior and a junior. Nothing dramatic. Absolutely nothing life changing. Still, you catch yourself smiling at your phone like it personally delivered good news. This is how it starts, isn’t it? Tiny things that mean nothing on their own slowly adding up into something heavier. A hand on your shoulder in front of his friends. A ride on his bike with the wind in your face. A message saying he is here when you were sure he would never come. Do not get carried away. Do not turn this into a story in your head. You barely know the guy. He barely knows you. Getting attached to the idea of someone is a dangerous hobby and you have exams and responsibilities and a life that already feels full without adding complicated feelings into the mix. What if this is all in your head? What if he is just being polite and you are turning it into something bigger because you are not used to attention from boys like him? What if tonight is normal and friendly and you walk back to your room later feeling silly for letting yourself hope for anything more? You don’t remember getting down. When you push open the hostel door and step outside, the evening air hits your face gently. For a second all you can hear is your own heartbeat being louder than it has any right to be. But that’s when you see him. Bucky is leaning against his bike exactly the way you imagined he would be, like he belongs there, like waiting for people outside dorms is just another ordinary part of his day. He looks up the moment you appear, and the second his eyes land on you, something in his expression changes. A playful whistle slips out before you can even take three steps toward him. “Okay, wow… yeah, hi. You look… really pretty.” Nobody ever just says things like that to you so casually. Nobody ever looks at you like that either, like you are something worth pausing for. You have no idea what to do with it. “I… um… thank you,” you manage, this is as flustered as you can get and it’s not even two minutes in. He smiles at the reaction instead of pretending not to notice it. “No, seriously. I’m glad you didn’t bail on me.” “I almost did,” you admit before you can stop yourself. “I mean… not because of you… God, no. Just because I thought maybe you forgot.” His eyebrows lift slightly. “Forgot?” “Yeah,” you are suddenly aware of how silly it sounds out loud. “You didn’t ask for my number and I didn’t have yours and I just… I don’t know, I figured maybe you say things like that to people all the time.”

He studies you for a moment.

“Hey… no. I don’t do that. If I say I’ll show up, I show up.”

He says it like he actually means it, and you hate how much relief that gives you.

“Good to know,” you mumble, suddenly very interested in the ground.

He reaches for the helmet hanging on the handlebar. “C’mere.”

Before you can process what is happening, you’re stepping closer, his hands are gently lifting the helmet over your head. He adjusts it carefully, fingers brushing your hair back so it sits properly, tugging the strap under your chin with an ease that makes your stomach flip.

“Hold still for a second,” he murmurs.

“I am holding still,” you answer, trying very hard not to focus on how close he is.

“Yeah but you’re holding still like you’re nervous.”

“I am nervous.”

He chuckles softly. “That’s kind of cute, you know.”

The buckle clicks into place and he gives the top of the helmet a small affectionate tap. “There. Perfect.”

You genuinely have to remind yourself to breathe.

Climbing onto the bike feels a little easier this time, but not by much. Your hands settle on his sides again and you wonder if he can feel how tense you are through the thin fabric of his shirt.

“You good back there?”

“Uh-huh, yeah,” even though your heart is doing ridiculous things.

The ride to the restaurant passes in a blur of lights. It feels different tonight, less awkward and more intimate, like you are sharing a small secret with him that the rest of the world does not get to see.

When he finally pulls up in front of the place, he turns back slightly. “Hope you like Italian. If not, pretend you do for my ego.”

“I like Italian,” you answer quickly. “I mean… pasta is good. Pizza is good. Food in general is good.”

“That might be the most honest review I’ve ever heard,” he laughs.

Everything inside feels new and a little intimidating in the way unfamiliar restaurants always do. Bucky opens the door for you without making it feel like a grand gesture, just a simple natural thing, and you slip inside with a quiet thank you.

He pulls out the chair for you at the table.

Nobody has ever done that for you before.

“You don’t have to do all this,” you say, sitting down carefully.

“I like doing it.”

The menu becomes a safe distraction for a few minutes, something to focus on so you do not have to keep wondering what to do with your hands or your face or your nerves.

“Order whatever you want,” he tells you. “Don’t do that thing where you pick the cheapest thing to be polite.”

“I was not going to do that,” you lie.

“You absolutely were.”

“Okay maybe a little,” you admit, smiling despite yourself.

The waiter arrives and Bucky waits for you to speak first, like your choice matters more than his. You stumble through your order with a little too much hesitation, suddenly hyper aware of how ordinary your preferences sound out loud.

“That’s a solid choice,” he says once the waiter leaves.

“I don’t do adventurous very well,” you confess. “I like safe food.”

“Nothing wrong with safe. Safe is good sometimes.”

Conversation should feel awkward. It usually does for you. Sitting with new people always involves long pauses and overthinking and trying to figure out when to talk and when to stay quiet. But with him, words seem to find their way out more easily than expected.

“So,” he leans back in his chair, “tell me something about you that isn’t related to med school.”

Your brain blanks immediately. What’s there not related to notes, day-old scrubs and stethoscopes?

“That’s… a hard question.”

“Come on, there has to be something. Hobbies, embarrassing talents, secret dreams.”

“I can touch my nose with my tongue,” you blurt out, then immediately want to sink into the floor. Bucky stares at you for a second and then bursts out laughing, real and completely unfiltered. “That is not what I expected.” “You said embarrassing,” you defend yourself, your voice is small like that of a child, cheeks burning a little too much. “No, that’s perfect. I’m genuinely impressed.” The way he laughs makes it easier to relax. It makes you feel less like a nervous junior and more like an actual person sitting across from another actual person. He tells you stories while you wait for the food, small funny things about his friends and the chaos of fourth year. You learn that he drinks too much coffee and hates morning rounds and once fell asleep standing up during a lecture. None of it sounds like the larger than life version of him people whisper about. It just sounds human. “So you really did all that work just because I asked?” he asks at one point.

“Yeah… I complain a lot but I’m bad at saying no.” “I’m sorry about that, by the way.” “About what?” “Putting it on you like that. I should have asked properly instead of… whatever that was.”

The apology catches you off guard. You had not expected that from him at all. “It’s okay. I survived.” “Still… thank you. Really.” Food arrives and fills the table with warm comforting smells, and for a while the conversation slows into easy quiet. He asks if you like it and you nod with your mouth full, making him grin. He pays attention in a way that surprises you. Notices when your glass is empty. Notices when you hesitate over the dessert menu. Notices little things you are not used to anyone noticing. “You don’t talk much,” he says suddenly.

“I know.” “Is it because you’re shy or because you think everyone else is dumb?” A small laugh escapes you. “Definitely the first one.” “That’s a shame. I think you probably have smart things to say.” Your fork pauses halfway to your mouth. “You don’t even know me that well.” “I know enough… and id like to know more.” Somewhere between the main course and dessert, the nervous knot inside you loosens. You start answering more without overthinking every word. You ask him questions too, and he answers without making you feel like a kid for asking. This feels entirely new but safe. Things that usually don’t belong together for you. By the time the plates are empty and the bill arrives, you realize with a tiny jolt that you do not actually want the evening to end yet. “Ready?” he asks.

You’re not. “Yeah.”

“So,” he says as you reach the bike, “dinner was okay.” “Dinner was really nice,” you correct. “Thank God. Because I was low key worried you’d hate my choice and never talk to me again.” “I would have at least finished the food before ignoring you.”

“You definitely know how to humble a guy,” he laughs. You stand there just looking at him, helmet in your hands, trying to hold on to the feeling of the evening before it slips away into ordinary life again. He looks at you with that same easy smile he had when you first came downstairs, but now it feels different. “Thanks for coming out with me.” “Thanks for actually showing up,” you reply before you can stop yourself.

His grin widens. “Told you I would.” As you hand him the helmet so he can help you put it on again, a small undeniable truth settles into your chest. Maybe you are not as immune to Bucky Barnes as you thought you were.

That night he drops you off like nothing extraordinary has happened.

Until you reach the dorm steps, he stands there and makes sure you get inside safely the way he said he would. Just a small wave and a lazy smile.

“Sleep well, okay?” There’s nothing cinematic about it, but it feels like a movie anyway.

You were on your bed for a long time afterward, staring at the ceiling fan and replaying the whole evening in your head from beginning to end, trying to understand how something so normal could feel so important.

You tell yourself not to overthink it. You tell yourself it was only dinner. You tell yourself a lot of sensible things that did absolutely nothing to stop the tiny hopeful flutter still moving around inside your chest.

The first text came later that night.

Bucky: Hey. Did you make it in without tripping over anything?

You laugh out loud because it’s such a ridiculous thing to ask. It felt like he texted because he just had to text.

You: Yes, thank you very much. No accidents reported.

Bucky: Thank god. I was prepared to feel personally responsible.

That’s how it started. Small messages here and there that slowly turned into longer ones without either of you noticing.

Bucky: How was class today?

You: Boring. You?

Bucky: Don't even ask. Surgery rounds are trying to kill me.

He started to slip into your routine in little almost invisible ways. A text in the morning asking if you were awake. Another one in the evening asking if you ate. Sometimes just a random picture of something stupid he saw on campus with a line of commentary that made you smile harder than it should have.

One morning, when you mention that you had skipped breakfast, he shows up outside your lecture hall holding a small paper bag and a cup of coffee.

“You said you didn’t eat,” he hands it over before you could even react.

“I didn’t mean for you to… you know… bring me food.”

“Yeah but I just didn’t want you to starve yourself, so here we are.”

Inside the bag is a sandwich cut neatly in half and a chocolate bar tucked beside it. You do not know what to do except mumble a shy thank you while trying not to look too affected.

You’re not used to people paying attention to small things like that. You’re not used to someone remembering. But here he is, with food, like you’d actually starve if you don’t eat.

Days begin to feel a little brighter with him in them. He waits for you near the library sometimes, pretends it’s a coincidence. You pretend to believe him. He walks you back to your hostel after late study sessions even when it’s slightly out of his way.

“It’s dark, okay. Just let me be dramatic and protective.”

“That is the most ridiculous you’ve ever said.”

“I prefer heroic but sure, we can go with ridiculous.”

He always teases you easily, gently, never in a way that makes you feel small. It always feels like he was trying to pull you out of your shell inch by inch, like he enjoys watching you relax around him.

One afternoon though, he did something that made your entire week.

You had been whining to him about how second years never get to see anything interesting in the operating rooms, how you were always stuck observing minor procedures while the exciting cases went to seniors.

The next day he texted you out of nowhere.

Bucky: Wear clean scrubs and meet me near the main OT at two.

You spent the entire morning confused and curious and a little nervous, and when you show up at the time he asked, he’s already there waiting.

“I pulled some strings... c’mon.”

“Pulled strings for what?”

“For you to watch something actually cool for once.”

He gets you inside an operating room you have no business being in.

You stand against the cool tiled wall with your hands folded awkwardly in front of you, trying very hard to look like you belong.

Bucky leans slightly toward you, voice soft enough that only you can hear. “this is a suspected small bowel perforation.”

Throughout the surgery, he explains before you could even ask anything.

“First perforation ever?” Bucky glances at you with a small smile.

“First case ever.”

He doesn’t seem to miss the awe in your voice. “Not bad, huh?”

Not bad at all.

Afterward you could not stop thanking him.

“You really didn’t have to do that.”

“I wanted to.”

That sentence becomes a pattern between the two of you. Small thoughtful things wrapped in the same simple logic. I wanted to. I want to.

He learns your coffee order without asking. You learn that he hated pineapple on pizza with an unreasonable passion. You start looking for his face first whenever you enter a room.

Slowly, without any formal decision, you become part of each other’s days.

Evenings often find the two of you sitting on the library steps pretending to study while mostly talking about everything else instead. You told him about your family and how nervous you were on your first day of med school. He told you about his ridiculous group of friends and how he still sometimes felt like he was faking his way through life.

“Everyone is faking it a little.”

“Even you?”

“Have you seen me?”

“Nah,” he chuckles. “You actually know what you’re doing.”

The faith he seems to have in you feels strange but warm and a little dangerous.

Sometimes you catch yourself thinking about him at odd hours, wondering what he might be doing, wondering if he is thinking about you too. The thought would embarrass you immediately afterward, but it never stops coming back.

You try to stay sensible about it. Really.

But he is Bucky Barnes. Charming and confident and surrounded by people all the time.

You are just you, always a little out of place in big social circles. There is no logical reason for him to keep choosing your company, yet he keeps doing it anyway.

One evening he calls instead of texting.

The sound of his voice in your ear makes you realize you had missed it more than you expected.

“Hey… are you busy right now?”

“Not really. Just pretending to study.”

“Perfect. Come downstairs for a bit.”

“Right now?”

In your two years of college life, there wasn’t a day where you’ve not dreamed of a moment like this. But there’s never been a day like this so far.

“Yeah right now. I’m outside.”

You go down in your pajamas and messy hair and he still looks at you like you were worth showing up for.

“I was out with friends, saw this juice you like,” he hands you a juice pouch like it’s no big deal.

He just got you something just because you liked it. You don’t remember the last time someone did that for you.

This shouldn’t make you feel special. But it does anyway.

These little moments pile up quietly. Late night conversations about nothing important. Shared snacks in the canteen. Him saving you from your seniors — who are his juniors by the way — during clinical postings. You helping him organize his notes even though he pretends to not need help.

One day he asks you to help him study for an upcoming exam. Pediatrics. You end up sitting together in an empty classroom for hours, your notebook spread between you while you explain topics he claimed to be terrible at.

“You’re really good at teaching,” he tells you. It’s a simple compliment. But when has there ever been anything simple about him?

“I’m just repeating what the book says.”

“No you’re not. You make it make sense.”

He looks at you with such easy admiration that you have to glance away to hide how much it affect you.

There are days when you wonder how this even happened. How a simple record book favor had turned into shared lunches and inside jokes and a growing comfort that feel suspiciously like happiness.

Your friends start noticing too.

“So are you two like… a thing?” your roommate asks one night while you were smiling at your phone again.

“No. We’re just friends.”

“Friends who text constantly and see each other every day.”

“That is literally what friends do.”

She gives you a look that says she absolutely does not believe you.

The truth is you don’t know what you are to him. He never defined it. Never said anything that crossed an obvious line. He was just there, steady, present and kind in ways that kept sneaking past your defenses.

You find yourself getting used to it. To him.

That scares you a little.

Because somewhere along the way you stopped thinking of him as just a nice distraction and started thinking of him as part of your life. You started noticing how your mood shifted depending on whether you had seen him that day. You started caring a little too much about how you looked when you knew he would be around.

You are not supposed to get attached. You know that. But knowing something and feeling something are two very different battles.

You spend a lot of time pretending that the little things don’t matter. That you are normal about him. That the way his name lights up on your phone does not rearrange something fragile inside your chest every single time.

It’s been easy mostly. Easier than it should be. You tell yourself it is just convenience, just proximity, just two people whose schedules keep overlapping like stubborn lines on a calendar. You are busy, he is busy, and somewhere in the middle of all that busyness you keep finding each other.

But tonight feels different in a way you can’t explain without sounding ridiculous even to yourself.

Maybe it is because he texted you at three in the afternoon asking if you wanted to grab something after your class, and you typed back a yes before you could think about it too hard. Maybe it is because you are sitting beside him now on the couch in his apartment with the television in the background like a polite third person trying not to interrupt.

Whatever it is, this is different.

You have been here before. Not like this, but close. Close enough that you know he keeps his spare blanket folded over the arm of the couch, close enough that you know he taps his fingers against his knee when he is trying to decide what to say next.

He is doing that now.

Tap tap tap.

“You look tired,” he’s always observant in that annoyingly careful way he has.

“I am tired.”

“Long day?”

“Long week. Long month. Long life, honestly.”

He laughs at that, pulling a smile out of you too.

“You wanna head home?”

The question catches you off guard because it is gentle and easy and leaves room for you to say yes without pressure. And for some reason that makes you want to say no.

“Not really.”

“Okay.”

Just okay. He stretches one arm across the back of the couch behind you. You think it might touch your shoulder. But it doesn’t, at least not yet.

The silence makes you aware of the small things, like like the way his knee is angled toward yours, like the way your foot is almost brushing his on the rug.

You start talking to fill it because you always do.

About a patient who made you laugh today. About the vending machine that ate your last twenty. About how you might actually be developing a caffeine dependency that deserves medical attention.

He listens to you like he always does, mouth twitching at the corners when you get animated.

Somewhere in the middle of your story you realize he is watching you a little too closely. The realization makes the words wobble in your throat.

“What?” you ask finally, because you’re self conscious and him watching you isn’t helping at all.

“Nothing.”

“No, you are doing that thing.”

“What thing?”

“The thing where you look at me like you know something I don't.”

His mouth curves. “I do know something you don’t.”

“And what’s that?” At this point, you’re wondering if you have clown makeup on because that’s how intense his look is.

“I know that we’re alone because Sam is out with his girlfriend.”

“That is incredibly unhelpful right now. And for the record, I know it too.” You roll your eyes, but you are smiling.

The movie he put on earlier plays forgotten in front of you. Some action thing you stopped following twenty minutes ago. You can hear it more than you can see it, explosions and dramatic music bleeding into the background of the room.

He shifts beside you, turning a little more toward you on the couch. The movement is small but it changes everything. Suddenly his leg is closer. Suddenly his shoulder is closer. Suddenly everything is closer.

He lifts his arm in an invitation, like this is the most normal thing in the world. Absolutely no words and yet you understand.

It shouldn’t feel like such a big decision to lean over a few inches. It shouldn’t make your heart start thudding. But it does.

You tell yourself not to be weird about it. You tell yourself this is nothing.

When you shift closer, his arm settles around your shoulders without ceremony. “Much better.”

You huff out a laugh and let your head rest back against the couch, trying very hard not to think about the way his thumb is brushing idly against your upper arm through your sleeve.

Minutes pass like that. Or maybe it is seconds. Time feels like a traitor you cannot trust.

You can feel the rise and fall of his chest beside you. You can smell the faint clean scent of him. You can hear the movie and the city outside.

All of it feels louder than usual.

“You cold?” he asks after a while.

“A little.”

He reaches for the spare blanket without letting go of you, drapes it over your legs with unnecessary care, tucking it around your knees. The gesture is so domestic it makes your throat tighten for reasons you refuse to unpack.

“Better?”

“Better.” Your voice comes out softer than you mean it to.

His hand doesn’t leave your arm. If anything, it drifts lower, resting just above your elbow, fingers tracing lazy patterns that make it hard to breathe normally.

You should probably say something. Make a joke. Lighten the moment. But every sentence you think of feels like a landmine you’d be stepping on.

You just sit there and let it happen.

“You know,” he says eventually, “you are very easy to be around.”

“Am I?”

“Yeah.”

“Most people would disagree.”

“Most people are wrong.”

Your chest does that stupid flutter again. “You just… say that to everyone?”

He turns his head to look at you properly then, and the teasing drops out of his face.

“No.” Just one word.

You become aware, all at once, of how close your faces are. Of how if you turned your head a few inches your nose would brush his. Of how his mouth is right fucking there.

Your brain scrambles for something normal to say.

“It is getting late.”

“Yeah.” Neither of you move to do anything about it.

His eyes drop to your lips and then back up again so quickly you almost convince yourself you imagined it. Almost.

“I should probably go,” you say, even though your body makes no attempt to follow through.

“You could.”

“You are not making a very strong argument for it.”

“I am not trying to.”

Your pulse kicks up, so loud you doubt if he could hear it too, but then you remember it’s inside your body and he will be unaware of it unless his hand makes contact with that point of you.

“Bucky.”

“Yeah?”

“What are we doing?”

He takes a breath slowly, like he is choosing his words carefully.

“Right now? Sitting on my couch.”

“You know what I mean.”

A small smile tugs at his mouth. “I think we are figuring it out.”

It’s a fucking line. He’s probably bluffing. He probably says that to all his flings. That answer should annoy you. Somehow it doesn’t.

His hand slides a fraction lower, resting at your forearm now, thumb warm against your skin. You can feel the calluses on his fingers.

The distance between you feels thinner with every breath. You can see the faint flecks of color in his eyes, the tiny scar near his eyebrow, the way his lashes cast shadows against his cheeks.

He tilts his head a little, searching your face like he is waiting for permission he does not want to assume. “Tell me to stop.”

Your heart trips over itself. “Stop what?” your voice is barely a whisper.

“Whatever this is about to be.”

You should say it. You know you should. This is complicated and messy and you promised yourself you would be sensible.

But sensible feels very far away right now.

“I don’t… I don't want you to stop.”

The words come out like a breath, almost worrying you that you imagined saying them.

He hears you though. You can tell by the way his shoulders relax, by the way his hand finally moves from your arm to your jaw, cupping it gently like something precious.

Your body moves towards him before your brain can catch up.

It’s hard to think.

The first brush of his lips against yours is careful. Like he is still expecting you to change your mind. It is soft and warm and nothing like the dramatic movie kisses you have built up in your head.

It feels real.

You lean in without thinking, closing the tiny space between you, and he makes a sound that you feel more than hear.

The kiss deepens slowly, two people learning the shape of each other in real time. His fingers slide into your hair, and you find yourself gripping the front of his shirt like you need something to anchor you.

It is unplanned and honestly a little clumsy in the best way.

“Is this okay?” he asks against your mouth.

“Yes.”

“You sure?”

“Bucky, please stop asking before I lose my nerve.”

A quiet laugh escapes him. He is kissing you again, a little more confident this time, a little less restrained.

Your brain goes pleasantly fuzzy. Every worry you walked in with dissolves into the simple fact of him and you and the warmth building between you.

His hand slips to your waist, drawing you closer, and you let yourself melt into him because pretending you do not want to feels impossible now.

You are very aware that this is a line. A big one. A bold neon line you are stepping over with both feet.

But right now you cannot find it in yourself to care.

The world narrows to the feeling of his mouth on yours, to the way he says your name like it means something important, to the way your heart pounds with a mixture of excitement and fear and something dangerously close to hope.

The kiss lingers like a question neither of you wants to answer just yet, his mouth moving against yours in a rhythm that feels both new and inevitable, pulling you deeper into a haze where everything else fades out.

You can taste the faint bitterness of coffee on his tongue, which he drank before you got here, and it mixes with the sweetness of the gum you'd chewed nervously on the way over, creating this odd, intimate flavor that's just yours and his right now.

His hand stays tangled in your hair, your fingers clutch at his shirt tighter, feeling the fabric bunch under your palms, the heat of his chest seeping through, and suddenly it's not enough.

You need more. You need to feel skin instead of cotton, need to know if his heart is racing as much as yours is.

Without breaking the kiss, you tug at the hem, pulling it up inch by inch, your knuckles grazing the smooth plane of his stomach. He gets the hint immediately, leaning back just enough to help you yank it over his head in one fluid motion that leaves his hair a little messy, falling over his forehead in a way that makes him look less put-together than the confident senior everyone sees.

"You sure about this?" he murmurs against your lips, you can feel that he's holding back but needs to check anyway, his breath warm on your cheek as his eyes search yours in the dim light.

There's no pressure in it, just genuine care mixed with that quiet intensity he always carries, the kind that makes you feel seen without feeling exposed.

And god, you are sure… surer than you've been about anything in weeks, even though your mind is a whirlwind of half-formed questions tumbling over each other: what if this changes everything, what if it's too fast, what if you mess it up somehow.

But none of that stops the yes from spilling out, because the way he's looking at you right now, like you're the only thing in his world, drowns out the doubts.

A small smile tugs at his mouth before he kisses you again, deeper this time, his hands sliding under your shirt to trace the curve of your back, fingers splaying wide against your skin, sending sparks everywhere they touch.

The contact makes your breath hitch, you arch into him. He takes that as his cue, lifting the fabric slowly, giving you every chance to pull away if you want.

You don't. Lifting your arms instead, you let him peel it off, the cool air of the room hitting your bare shoulders and making you shiver, though it is definitely not from the cold.

It's from the way his gaze drops, taking you in with awe that feels almost unfair, like he's memorizing every inch.

Left in your bra and the simple jeans you'd thrown on earlier, you feel heat creep up your neck, but he doesn't give you time to overthink it.

His mouth finds the spot just below your ear, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your jaw that make your eyes flutter shut.

"God, you're beautiful," he whispers, and it's not said like a line. It's mumbled, almost to himself, like he couldn't help it, that makes your hands reach for him again, tracing the lines of his shoulders.

He's solid and warm, the kind of presence that fills the space without overwhelming it, and you wonder briefly how many times he's done this, how easy it seems for him, but the thought evaporates when his lips find yours once more, pulling you back into the moment.

Your fingers fumble with his belt, nerves making them clumsy, warranting his help, as he undoes it with a quiet chuckle that breaks the tension just enough to make you smile against his mouth.

"No rush," he says, his voice steady even as his hands work at the button of your jeans, popping it open with a gentleness that contrasts the heat building between you. "We got time."

Maybe. Yes.

Sam's out, there’s no one here except you two. But the muffled sounds of neighbors through the thin dorm walls remind you that this is real life, not some polished fantasy, making this somehow urgent.

As he slides your jeans down your hips, he helps you kick them off without any awkward tangles.

The cotton of your bra and panties feel suddenly too thin under his gaze. You would’ve have worn something sexier if you knew this would happen.

Sitting back on his heels to look at you properly, he pauses. His eyes have gone dark but soft, his hands resting lightly on your thighs.

"Still good?" His thumb rubs small circles on your skin, the simple touch sending a jolt straight through you, making it hard to think straight.

You want more, but you’re also scared of wanting more, excited and overwhelmed all at once. But your body knows, nodding before you can form words, "Yeah, don't stop.” Stopping now would feel like cutting off a breath you didn't know you needed.

With that, he scoops you up effortlessly, one arm under your knees and the other around your back, lifting you bridal style. You let out a surprised gasp that turns into a laugh, your arms looping around his neck as he carries you the short distance to his bedroom.

The door's half-open already, and he nudges it wider with his foot, the room spilling into view: unmade bed with sheets twisted from whatever sleep he got last night, a desk piled with notes and a near empty water bottle, posters on the wall from bands you vaguely recognize.

It's lived-in, personal.

He lowers you onto the mattress, the springs creaking softly under your weight.

He follows you down, bracing himself above you on one elbow, his free hand trailing up your side as he kisses you again, slower now, like he's savoring it.

The bed dips under him, the pillow sinking a bit as your head rests back. You can feel the warmth of his body hovering just over yours, close enough to tease but not quite pressing down.

His fingers dance along your ribs, light, exploratory, absolutely maddening.

You need more, you need him to touch you properly. There’s the ache building low in your belly making you shift restlessly beneath him.

Without thinking, you reach for his hand, guiding it up to your chest, pressing it against your bra.

Surprised, he pulls back, a slight smirk playing on his lips as he looks down at you. "That eager, huh?" he teases, his voice laced with amusement.

"Tell me what you want.”

It’s absolutely impossible to word it, word what you want, as his thumb circles your nipple over the fabric. It's so close to what you need but not quite, making you whine softly in frustration.

"Just... touch me," you finally manage, the words coming out breathier than you intended,

He's already moving, his fingers deftly reaching behind you to unhook your bra with a single flick that speaks volumes about how many times he's done this before.

How many girls has he brought here, made feel like this? A spike of insecurity flickers, but it vanishes the second his mouth descends, warmth closing over one nipple while his hand cups the other, thumb circling in a way that makes your back arch off the bed.

Pleasure shoots through you, pulling a moan from your throat that surprises even you. It’s loud in the quiet room, echoing off the walls.

You're not usually like this, not vocal, always holding back out of some ingrained habit of keeping things contained, but here it spills out unfiltered.

He seems to notice it because frankly, it’s hard to miss. "That's it, lemme hear you… don't hold back if it feels good." His encouragement is gentle, making the next moan come easier, louder, as his tongue flicks and sucks, alternating sides until you're squirming beneath him, hands threading through his hair to hold him there.

Bucky takes his time, drawing it out, lips and teeth grazing just enough to tease the line between pleasure and ache, his free hand sliding down to grip your hip, fingers digging in slightly as if to steady you, or maybe himself. You’re not sure.

The sane part of your brain slips away with every pass of his mouth.

With spit shine and swollen lips, he eventually pulls back, his eyes meeting yours with a heat that mirrors the fire building in you.

"You're so responsive.” He's marveling at it, at you, his hand trailing down from your breast to hook into the waistband of your panties, tugging gently.

"Lift up for me, baby," the word baby slips out casually and affectionate, like he's said it a hundred times, making you obey without hesitation.

The fabric is peeled down your legs, and tossed over onto the floor, forgotten.

Now fully exposed, the vulnerability hits you for a split second. You feel the cool air on bare skin, but more than that, you feel his gaze.

When you break eye contact, he shifts down the bed with a purposeful grace, settling between your thighs. His hands part them gently, thumbs stroking the sensitive inner skin.

Anticipation tightens your core, making it impossible not to squirm under his touch. "Relax," he whispers, pressing a kiss to the inside of one thigh, then the other, his breath hot against you, making you tremble. "I got you."

The gasp you let out is stifled by your bitten lips, as his own brushes over your core gently.

"No, let it out— wanna hear how good it feels." The encouragement works, pulling another moan from you as his tongue finally presses flat, licking a slow stripe that makes your hips buck involuntarily.

He holds them down with firm hands, keeping you in place as he works, alternating between long, languid strokes and focused circles around that spot that has your vision blurring.

The room narrows to just the wet sounds of his mouth, the way his hair tickles your thighs, and the occasional groan from him like he's enjoying it as much as you are.

The sheets are rumpled from your fists, now they reach for him again, fingers tangling in his hair as the pressure builds, coiling tighter with every flick and suck.

Moans spill freer and louder now, spurred by his murmured approvals like "that's perfect" and "just like that" between breaths.

He's thorough, attentive, reading every reaction and adjusting, drawing it out until you're teetering on the edge, body taut and trembling under his touch.

His tongue keeps that relentless rhythm, dipping and swirling in ways that make your toes curl against the sheets.

The pressure coils tighter and tighter in your belly, a hot insistent build that has you gasping his name in broken syllables, "B-Bucky, oh God.”

Your hips grind up toward his mouth without any real control, chasing that peak.

A sudden and overwhelming wave crashes over you, your whole body tensing and shuddering as pleasure ripples out in waves that leave you trembling. Your muscles quiver in the aftermath, breaths coming in short ragged bursts that echo in the quiet space.

He eases you through it with softer licks that draw out the aftershocks, making your legs twitch and your hands clutch at his hair a little harder before you finally go limp.

You sink back into the pillows with a sigh that feels like it's been pulled from deep in your chest. Pressing a kiss to your inner thigh, then your hip, your stomach, he works his way up until his mouth finds yours again, tasting faintly of you in a way that's intimate and a bit dizzying.

"Hey," he murmurs against your lips, and you can feel the smile in it even with your eyes half-closed.

The trembling hasn't stopped entirely, little shivers running through you like echoes of the orgasm. Bucky notices that right away, brow furrowing, like he can't help but worry a little.

"hold on, let me get you some water," you hear him say, watching him through heavy lids as he twists the cap off of the bottle, sitting up a bit to hand it to you, his other hand steadying your back. "Drink this.”

The water hits your throat, the coolness of it washing something in you. He stays close while you drink, and when you hand the bottle back, he sets it aside before stretching out beside you on the bed.

His lips find your jaw first, trail up to your temple, brushing over your hairline in a way that feels almost too tender for what just happened, his breath warm against your skin as he presses another kiss there, then into your hair, like he's content to just lie here and hold you while your body settles.

The closeness wraps around you, his arm draped over your waist, fingers tracing idle patterns on your back that send lazy sparks along your spine.

As the trembling fades, you glance up at him, catching the way his eyes are half-lidded, watching you with that satisfied curve to his mouth.

There’s a confusion in you now. He's still half-dressed, jeans hugging his hips, and the unfairness of it hits you all at once, making you prop yourself up on one elbow, your hand trailing down his chest tentatively, fingers brushing the trail of hair leading lower.

"Wait, what about you?" because this feels lopsided, like he's given everything and taken nothing, and the thought lingers.

He shakes his head as his hand catches yours, bringing it to his lips for a quick kiss on your knuckles. "We don't have to rush the rest… there's always tomorrow, or the day after, whenever you're ready.”

That doesn't sit right, the idea of stopping here, of letting him walk away from this without feeling the same unraveling you just did.

Before you can second-guess it, your mouth forms a pout, lips pressing together in that way you know looks a bit childish but can't help. "But... I need you," you say, the words slipping out bolder than expected, shocking yourself even more, "I need your cock."

Whoa, where did that come from? It's not like you, this blunt courage bubbling up uninvited, heat flushing your face immediately after.

His eyes darken, a slow smile spreading across his face like you've just said something he didn't expect but absolutely likes.

"Say that again?" He slides his hand up your arm to cup your cheek, thumb brushing your lower lip as if to coax the words out.

A mix of embarrassment and frustration blooms, and you playfully swat at his chest with the flat of your hand, before your fingers drift lower again, fumbling with his belt buckle.

Avoiding his gaze, you tug at it clumsily. "You heard me."

His larger hand covers yours to undo the buckle with a quiet click, zipper rasping down as he lifts his hips to shove them off along with his boxers in one go, kicking them to the floor where they land in a heap.

He's hard and obviously so, cock springing free and curving up against his stomach, thick and flushed at the tip, veins standing out in a way that makes your mouth go a little dry.

He reaches over to the nightstand drawer, rummaging for a second before pulling out a condom packet, tearing it open with his teeth in that casual, practiced move that speaks to experience without flaunting it.

But before he can roll it on, your hand reaches out, "Wait—I've never, um, put one on before. Can I try?"

A surprised laugh bubbles up from his chest as he hands it over, eyebrows raised in amusement. "You wanna practice on me right now? Like I'm your training dummy or something?"

Lips jutting out again, "Teach me, Bucky… please?" drawing out the please.

He relents with a grin, guiding your hand to him, showing you without turning it into a lecture, "Pinch the tip here, yeah, like that."

His voice hitches when your fingers wrap around him, rolling the latex down slowly, carefully, the warmth of him pulsing under your touch making your breath catch.

Once it's on, he positions himself between your legs again, the weight of him settling over you comfortably, close enough that you feel enveloped, his forearms bracketing your head as he leans down to kiss you.

“You ready?" he murmurs against your mouth. You whisper a yes that's more breath than sound, your hands sliding up his back to pull him closer.

Inch by inch, he pushes in, stretching you in a way that's full and a little overwhelming at first, making you gasp into his shoulder, nails digging into his skin as your body adjusts.

The sensation builds from pressure to pleasure as he bottoms out, holding still for a moment to let you breathe.

"Fuck, you feel good.” The words are muffled against your neck.

The first thrust is steady and unhurried, making you wrap your legs around his waist, heels pressing into the flesh of his ass to urge him deeper.

The headboard taps the wall with each rock of his hips, he finds that angle that makes stars burst behind your eyelids, drawing moans from you that he swallows with kisses.

His own breaths come faster, mirroring yours. "That's it… fuck. Tell me — tell me if it’s too much—"

But it's not. It's perfect, the friction coiling that tension again until you're clinging to him, whispering "harder, please" in his ear.

Immediately he obliges, pace quickening until the room fills with the sounds of skin on skin, your shared gasps.

It builds faster this time, him inside you amplifying everything. You cum with his name on your lips, body clenching around him in waves that pull a deep groan from his throat.

His thrusts stutter as he follows right after, burying his face in your hair while he rides it out, hips pressing flush against yours one last time before he stills.

Somewhere between sleep and waking, you register the sensation of lips moving over your skin, the brush of his mouth along your shoulder, down the curve of your neck. That’s how you know it’s morning.

You stay still and let yourself exist in it.

His lips are softer now than they were in the dark. Curious in a way that feels less like hunger and more like quiet appreciation.

You are aware of your body before you are fully aware of the room. Aware of bare skin against bare skin. Aware of the way the sheets have slipped somewhere near your hips. Aware that you are not wearing anything at all.

There is a quiet exhale against your chest that makes you stir, eyelids fluttering open to a blur of morning light and dark hair bent over you.

“Morning,” he murmurs, sleep still clinging to his voice.

Your brain takes a second to catch up to the situation. To the fact that you are in his bed. That you fell asleep with your legs tangled with his.

You are naked.

He is naked.

You are in his bed.

Oh, also, this is Bucky Barnes.

There is no distance left to pretend this is casual.

“Hey.” His lips trail lower, until they take one nipple into its warmth, until it pebbles.

You open your eyes.

The ceiling above you looks different in daylight. More real. The warmth that had felt so comforting seconds ago now feels dangerously close to exposing something fragile inside you.

This is not something you do.

Not like this.

Not with a senior. Not with someone who walks into rooms and owns them without even trying. Not with someone like Bucky Barnes, who has a reputation that precedes him and a smile that has probably undone half the city.

And definitely not without talking about it first.

He lifts his head slightly when he feels the shift in you, eyes heavy but focused, mouth curving in a lazy smile that looks devastating this close.

“What’s that face for? Did I do something wrong already? Because that would be impressive.”

“No… no, it’s not that.”

“Then what is it?”

You do not have an answer that feels safe enough to say out loud. Instead, you trace a line across his shoulder with your fingers just to have something to do, to anchor yourself in something physical.

Last night was not reckless.

It was soft. It was slow. It felt like something building rather than something exploding. There were moments where he had looked at you like you were the only thing in the room, and the memory of it makes your throat ache in a way you do not know how to handle.

But that was night.

Night is easy. Morning is not.

“I’ve just never…” you start, then stop because the sentence feels childish before you even finish it.

“Never what?” he asks gently.

You let out a breath and force yourself to look at him properly. “Never done this with someone like you.”

“Someone like me?”

“Yeah. You know. Someone… above me. Senior. Someone who has a whole… history.” The last word slips out before you can soften it.

There is a pause. Long enough for you to realize what you have implied.

He studies you for a second, expression unreadable in a way that makes your stomach drop. “A history,” he repeats.

“I didn’t mean it like—”

“It’s fine.” His voice stays even, but something in it shifts just a fraction. “I know what people say.”

You want to take it back immediately. Not because it is untrue, but because it feels unfair in this moment. Because the man in front of you is not the whispered stories or rumors. He is human and still half wrapped around you like he belongs there.

“I just mean,” you try again, “I don’t usually wake up like this. I don’t usually… not talk about things first.”

He searches your face like he is trying to see the shape of what you are really asking. “Are you asking what this is?”

There it is. The question you have been circling since you opened your eyes.

“I don’t know,” you admit. “I don’t want to assume.”

His thumb traces a slow line along your hip. “I didn’t think last night felt like an assumption.”

“It didn’t.”

“Did it feel like a mistake?”

The word mistake is a mistake. Because last night felt like the opposite of a mistake. “No,” you say immediately. “No. It didn’t.”

It really didn’t. It felt intentional. It felt chosen. It felt like something that had been building and finally tipped over.

So why does your chest feel tight?

Why does your brain keep whispering that this is exactly how one-night stands begin? Intense, unexpected, and sweet in the morning until reality sets in.

Before you can say anything else, a sharp vibration cuts through the quiet.

His phone.

The sound is coming from somewhere on the floor, probably from his jeans. He groans softly and leans over to grab it, the movement pulling away the warmth that had been pressed against you.

You lie there watching the shift in him as his eyes scan the screen. “Shit, I have to take this,” he says. “Give me two seconds.”

The faint voice from the other side asks him numerous questions about where the hell he is and tells him he will lose his attendance if he isn’t there in ten minutes.

“Fuck — I’m late.” The words are simple. Practical. Normal. But they land like something heavier.

“Late?” you echo, absolutely dreading that you’re stalling him.

“Yeah. I was supposed to be in half an hour ago.” He runs a hand through his hair, already mentally moving into the day ahead. “I didn’t set an alarm.”

Last night definitely didn’t feel like a time where alarms existed.

But mornings come, and they wait for no one.

As he swings his legs off the bed, the sudden absence of him beside you feels enormous. You pull the sheet up instinctively, even though he has already seen every inch of you.

He is moving quickly now, scanning the room for clothes, checking his phone again. “I can drop you off on the way,” he says, distracted but not unkind. “I don’t want you getting a cab this early.”

“It’s fine, I can manage.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” He pulls on his jeans, glances back at you. “I’m not just leaving you.”

The reassurance should help. Instead, it tangles with the fear already building in your chest.

As you sit up, the sheet slips down to your waist. The room feels colder without the cocoon of the night around it. You watch him move around the room with practiced ease, like mornings here are routine.

It probably is routine for him.

You hope to God that only covers the ‘waking late’ part and not the ‘because of a one-night stand’ part.

You hate that your brain goes there, but it does. It does because there was no conversation.

It was just skin and warmth and whispered names in the dark.

“Hey,” he says, softer now, noticing the way you have gone quiet. “You okay?”

You nod because that is easier than explaining the way your stomach feels like it is sinking through the mattress.

“Yeah. Just waking up.”

He walks back over, bends slightly so you are eye level. There is something searching in his expression again, something that almost looks like he wants to say more.

“Last night…” he starts, then gives up as his phone buzzes again in his hand.

You take that as a cue to get ready and get the hell out of here.

You tell yourself that is normal. That adults have jobs and responsibilities. That this is not some dramatic movie where the world pauses because two people slept together.

But the fear creeps in anyway. What if it meant more to you than it did to him? What if the softness was just part of who he is?

What if you have stepped into something you cannot handle?

You slide out of bed, gathering your clothes from where they lie scattered. Each piece feels like evidence of something fragile and undefined.

He is already by the door by the time you finish dressing.

You search his face for something. A sign. A clue. A hint that he is about to say, stay. Or this is not nothing. Or we need to talk.

He does not.

He just checks the time again and sighs. “We should go.”

And just like that, you are left with more questions than answers.

It is ridiculous how much power one casual text can have over your entire nervous system.

The pharmacology class becomes ten times harder to sit in when you know it’s Bucky that’s texting you. You wait a full thirty seconds before checking because you refuse to look eager, even if no one can see you.

When you finally glance down, it is exactly what you expected.

Bucky: survived the morning. you alive over there?

That is it. No mention of last night. No shift in tone that would confirm or deny anything that happened between the sheets and the soft early light.

You stare at the screen, rereading the words as if they might rearrange themselves into something more revealing if you look hard enough.

Survived the morning could mean anything. It could mean he is thinking about you. It could mean he is not. It could mean the night was a pleasant distraction before reality resumed its normal rhythm.

Honestly, it was stupid of you to expect that he’d say something over text. At least he doesn’t ghost.

At least he texted.

You tell yourself that if it had meant nothing to him, he would not have bothered. He would have let the day swallow it. He would have gone back to being Bucky Barnes, charming and untouchable, moving from one thing to the next without looking back.

But he texted.

Your thumbs hover over the keyboard. Every possible reply feels wrong.

Too warm and you look clingy. Too cool and you risk sounding detached. Too flirty and you might seem like you are assuming something. Too flat and you might seem like you regret it.

Why is this so hard?

Finally, you decide on something light.

You: barely. Caffeine is the reason I’m alive.

You stare at it. Delete it. Type it again with a different emoji. Delete the emoji because that feels like too much. Send it before you can edit it a third time.

The three dots appear almost immediately.

Bucky: that’s concerning. eat something.

Your chest tightens at the simplicity of it. It’s the same tone he uses when he shows up with food because you mentioned skipping breakfast.

You want to read more into it than is there.

You force yourself not to.

You: yes dad.

You cringe as soon as you send it. Now why did you say that? Why are you like this?

His reply comes a few seconds later.

Bucky: don’t start.

You can almost hear the amused warning in his voice. Heat creeps up your neck even though NSAIDs are being discussed right now.

The conversation fades into small exchanges after that. Nothing deep. Nothing that addresses the thing sitting heavily between you like an unspoken question. He tells you medicine rounds ran long. You tell him a patient tried to bribe you with chocolate. He tells you to accept the chocolate next time. You tell him that is unethical. He tells you you are no fun.

It feels almost normal.

Almost.

But beneath every word is a current you cannot ignore.

By the time your class ends and the sky outside has turned that deep dusky blue that makes everything feel a little more fragile, you have replayed every message at least ten times in your head. You have analyzed the speed of his replies, the punctuation, the absence of certain words.

He did not call you baby.

He did not say he missed you.

He did not bring it up.

You tell yourself that maybe he is giving you space. That maybe he is trying not to rush you. That maybe this is what maturity looks like.

But another voice whispers that maybe it did not mean the same thing to him.

That maybe you were one of many mornings.

You hate that thought immediately. It feels unfair. He was soft. He was careful. He had asked you if you were sure. He had not treated you like something disposable.

And yet.

You have heard stories. You have seen the way girls look at him. The way they orbit him like he carries his own gravity.

What if you had stepped into something that was always going to feel bigger to you than it did to him?

By the time you reach the campus courtyard that evening, your chest feels tight with thoughts you cannot shut off.

You had not planned on seeing him, but you know he usually lingers here. A part of you hopes he will not be there so you do not have to figure out how to act. Another part of you hopes he is because not seeing him would feel worse.

He is there.

Of course.

He stands in the middle of a loose circle of friends, laughter carrying easily across the space. Sam is beside him, animated as always, gesturing wildly as he talks about something you cannot hear. A couple of others hover nearby, one of them leaning against Bucky’s shoulder in a way that looks effortless and familiar.

The sight of it makes something twist low in your stomach.

He looks the same as he always does. Relaxed. Confident. At home in his own skin. There is no visible shift that marks him as someone who woke up with you wrapped around him this morning.

Why would there be…

You slow your steps without meaning to. You consider turning around. Disappearing before he notices you. Pretending you are busy.

But then his eyes lift and land on you.

The change is subtle but unmistakable. His body angles slightly in your direction even before he excuses himself. He says something to Sam that makes Sam glance over at you with a knowing grin that immediately makes your face heat.

Bucky makes his way toward you. “Hey.”

You force yourself to meet his eyes without letting the storm inside you show. “Hey.”

“How was your day?”

The question is simple. Ordinary. You search his face for anything that hints at last night, but there is nothing but genuine curiosity.

“It was fine,” you reply, and then immediately hate how flat that sounds. You clear your throat and try again. “Busy. But fine. Yours?”

“Rounds were brutal,” he admits with a small shake of his head. “Chief decided I haven’t stood for 24 hours today.”

His comment makes you laugh despite yourself. “That seems illegal.”

“I’m considering filing a complaint.”

His gaze lingers on you for a second longer than necessary. There is a softness there that makes your pulse stumble, but it is fleeting. You cannot tell if you imagined it.

“You look tired.” He tilts his head slightly like he’s trying to figure something out. “Did you eat?”

The familiarity of the question makes your chest ache. “Yes,” you lie, because admitting you forgot feels too intimate somehow.

His eyes narrow just a fraction like he does not entirely believe you, but he lets it go.

There is a pause, not awkward but not entirely comfortable either. You are hyperaware of the group behind him, of the way laughter erupts suddenly, of the fact that this is his world and you are standing on the edge of it.

“I’ve got a game tonight,” he says after a moment, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s gonna run late.”

“Oh,” you say, and hope it does not sound like disappointment. “Good luck.”

“Thanks.” He studies your face again, like he is trying to read something you are not saying. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

The question is casual on the surface, but something about the way he says it makes your heart trip.

“Yeah… tomorrow.”

“Okay.” He smiles, that familiar crooked thing that used to make your stomach flip in a lighter way. Now it makes it drop.

He hesitates for half a second, like he might say more. Like he might bridge the gap you are too afraid to cross. Instead, he steps back slightly, already half turning toward his friends.

“Don’t stay up too late,” he adds, almost teasing.

You want to laugh. Instead, you nod.

“Go win your game.”

“Always do.”

He walks back to the group, slipping seamlessly into the rhythm of their conversation. Someone claps him on the back. Someone else throws an arm around his shoulders. He laughs at something Steve says, head tipping back slightly, unbothered.

You stand there like a statue.

Nothing about that interaction confirms your worst fears.

Nothing about it reassures them either.

He did not avoid you. He did not treat you like a stranger. He asked about your day. He said he would see you tomorrow.

And yet the space where a conversation should have been feels cavernous.

You tell yourself you are overthinking. That this is what normal looks like. That not every connection needs a dramatic declaration to validate it.

But as you turn away and start walking, the questions follow you anyway.

Did you move too fast?

Did you blur something that was supposed to stay light?

Are you already more attached than you meant to be?

The next time you see Bucky, he’s waiting for you outside your class. He is just there, eyes scanning the crowd until they land on you, and the way his face shifts when he spots you makes something hopeful spark before you can smother it.

For a split second, everything inside you softens.

He waited. He is physically here.

“Hey.”

You try to keep your expression neutral, like you did not spend half the lecture imagining this exact moment. “Hey. How long have you been standing here?”

“Long enough to hear the professor inside mispronounce drugs. I was tempted to go correct him.”

A quiet laugh escapes you before you can stop it. It feels good. Too good.

“That would’ve gone well.”

“I know. I’m very charming.”

You tilt your head slightly. “Debatable.”

“Ouch.”

You feel easy talking to him like this. Like nothing else is on your mind. But your heart does tighten occasionally, ruining everything.

“Walk with me?” he asks, nodding toward the parking lot.

You hesitate for a fraction of a second, not enough for him to notice, but long enough for you to feel the weight of the decision. You nod anyway.

When your shoulder brushes his, you are hyperaware of it. He does not comment. He just matches your pace.

“You okay?” he asks after a moment, glancing sideways at you. “You’ve been… somewhere else all day.”

“I’ve been in class.”

“You know that’s not what I meant.”

You force a small shrug. “I’m fine.”

He studies you like he does not entirely believe that, but he does not push further.

When you reach his place, he unlocks the door and steps aside to let you in first. That tiny gesture, that small courtesy, feels more intimate than it should.

The apartment looks the same but also not the same. The familiarity of it hits you harder today. You have been here before, but today it feels different because you woke up in his bed yesterday and left with no answers.

He closes the door behind you and tosses his keys onto the counter.

“Sam’s out,” he says casually, shrugging out of his jacket. “Date night again. I think he’s trying to set a record.”

You nod, even though your stomach flips at the information.

Sam is out. Which means you are alone.

The implication settles between you almost instantly.

“Oh,” you aim for neutral and land somewhere uncertain.

He steps closer without making it dramatic. He always does that, moves into your space like it is the most natural thing in the world. His hand finds your waist, fingers warm through the thin fabric of your shirt.

“I missed you.” The words send a rush of heat through you that you hate for how quickly it responds.

“It’s been one day.”

“Still.”

Before you can think about it, he leans.

The kiss is familiar already, like your mouths have memorized each other. His hand slides up your back, pulling you closer, and your body reacts on instinct, melting into him before your brain catches up.

You let yourself sink into it. Into the warmth and the steady pressure of him. Into the way his hand trails lower to your hip. Into the sound he makes when you kiss him back harder.

But then your brain wakes up again.

Sam is out. You are alone.

He waited for you after class.

Is this because he wanted you, or because he wanted this?

The grip on his shirt loosens slightly, but he picks up on it somehow.

“Hey,” he murmurs against your mouth, not pulling away entirely. “Where’d you just go?”

Nowhere safe.

You step back just enough to create space. “I’m just… tired.” You hate how weak of a lie it is.

You can clearly see him battling confusion. “Tired?”

“Yeah. I didn’t sleep much.”

That part is true. You did not sleep much because your brain just would not shut up.

His hands remain on your waist, not letting go. Almost not wanting to.

“We don’t have to do anything,” he says, searching your face. “I’m not dragging you in here for that.”

The defensiveness in you flares up immediately even though he has not accused you of anything.

“I didn’t say you were.”

“I know. I just—” he exhales slowly. “You feel different right now.”

Because you are spiraling.

Because you cannot tell if you are standing at the beginning of something real or in the middle of something casual that you are already too invested in.

Because you keep imagining him bringing other girls here with the same ease.

“I’m fine,” you repeat, which sounds less convincing each time.

He studies you in that steady way that makes it hard to hide. “Talk to me.”

The words are gentle. That almost makes it worse.

What are you supposed to say?

That you are scared you moved too fast. That you are scared he does not see this the way you do. That you are already picturing him getting bored in a week and drifting away like this was just another phase.

You cannot say any of that without sounding dramatic or fucking stupid.

The only sane option feels like distance.

You shift away from him just enough to create it, even though every part of you wants to stay where you are. “I think I’m coming down with something,” you say, reaching for the first excuse that sounds remotely believable. “I’ve felt weird all day.”

The concern on his face is immediate. It wipes away the warmth from a second ago and replaces it with something sharper, focused. “What kind of weird?”

You shrug like it’s nothing. “Just… off. Headache. Maybe.” The lie comes very easily.

He closes the small gap you tried to make, instinct overriding whatever confusion he’s feeling. His hand lifts toward your forehead before you can think of a reason to stop him. His palm settles there, clinical in a way that almost makes you flinch.

“You don’t feel warm,” he says.

Of course you don’t. You’d know if you were febrile. You both would.

“I don’t know.” You pull back a fraction. “I just—” The rest tangles in your throat. “I think I should go.”

He studies you like you’re a case that isn’t lining up with the symptoms. Brows pulling together, jaw tightening slightly as he runs through possibilities that don’t fit.

“You just got here.”

You can feel him trying to reconcile it. Sudden onset vague malaise. Absolutely no convincing clinical picture.

You know he knows.

“I didn’t want to say anything earlier,” you add quickly, filling the silence before he can dissect it. “Didn’t want to make it a thing.”

His gaze doesn’t soften. But there’s less confusion now. More searching.

“You were fine five minutes ago.”

You hate how true that sounds.

“I wasn’t… I just didn’t think about it.”

That part isn’t even a lie. You hadn’t been thinking. Not about consequences. Not about tomorrow. Not about anything but him.

“Don’t be like that,” he says. “If something’s wrong, tell me.”

Something is wrong. It is inside your own head and you do not know how to untangle it without making a mess.

“Nothing’s wrong,” you insist, even though your chest feels tight. “I just need to rest.”

There is a flicker of something in his eyes now. Hurt. Frustration. Maybe both.

“Did I do something?” You hate that you made him think that.

“No,” you answer quickly. “No, you didn’t.”

But you cannot elaborate because the truth is messy and unformed and terrifying.

Reaching for your bag, “I’m gonna go,” you say, keeping your tone as steady as you can manage.

He stands there for a second like he is debating whether to argue. Then he exhales and grabs his keys from the counter.

“I’ll drop you.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I know. I want to.”

I want to.

The firmness in his voice makes it clear he is not letting you leave alone, and a small part of you is grateful for that even as the rest of you feels like you are sabotaging something you cannot define.

You walk toward the door with him a step behind, the tension between you thick and unspoken.

This is not how you imagined today going.

He had waited for you after class. He had kissed you like he meant it. He had said he missed you.

Yet you are the one walking away.

As he opens the door and gestures for you to step out first, the weight of it settles deeper in your chest.

You are building a wall in real time, brick by careful brick, and you are not even sure what you are protecting yourself from.

Behind you, he locks the door and follows, close enough that you can feel his presence but not touching.

The silence is heavier than any argument that could have happened.

Your phone buzzes halfway through the afternoon. You consider ignoring it just to prove to yourself that you can. That you are not waiting around for him, that your entire mood does not hinge on whatever words appear on your screen next.

You still look immediately.

Bucky: heyy

Bucky: i wanna see you. if you’re feeling up for it. will be near your block after your last class. maybe wait by the entrance? no pressure.

He did not say come over. He did not ask if you are free. He said he wants to see you.

Your brain — traitor that it is — immediately begins its spiral. Maybe he just feels bad about yesterday. Maybe he thinks you were actually sick. Maybe he is trying to smooth something over. Maybe he is bored.

Fuck.

Maybe he just wants you.

You force yourself to be normal.

You: yeah. i’ll be there.

He reacts with a simple thumbs up.

By the time your last class ends, your nerves feel stretched thin. You tell yourself this is stupid. You are not walking into a confession. You are not walking into a breakup. You are walking outside your own building to meet someone who asked to see you.

Still, your palms feel slightly damp.

The doors swing open and voices spill across the courtyard in overlapping bursts of laughter and conversation. You scan automatically for him, heart already climbing into your throat.

It takes less than five seconds to find him.

Not alone.

A small group surrounds him, the kind of cluster that forms around someone people gravitate toward without even meaning to.

Steve stands on his left, animated as always, gesturing with both hands while he talks. Sam leans back against the wall with that amused, observant look he wears when he is about to make a comment no one asked for.

And then there is a flash of red.

She is standing close to him. Close enough that her shoulder nearly brushes his chest.

Natasha.

You have seen her before, of course. It would be impossible not to. Red hair that catches light like it knows it is being watched, sharp eyes that miss nothing, posture that suggests she does not need to raise her voice to command attention.

Right now, her fingers are at his collar. Adjusting.

She smooths the fabric down, straightens it slightly, then taps his chest like she is approving her own work.

There is familiarity in it that feels intimate even from a distance.

Your stomach drops so fast it almost feels physical.

That is not a friendly distance. That is not casual. That is close enough to touch without thinking about it.

Your brain does not wait for logic. It does not ask questions. It fills in blanks you never agreed to.

She fixes his clothes because she has done it before.

She stands that close because she is allowed to.

You are just another girl who showed up for a week.

You take an unconscious step back, already calculating the fastest way to turn around without being obvious. You could say you forgot something. You could pretend you never saw his text, even though you’ve replied to it. You could avoid the humiliation of walking over there like you belong.

Before you can pivot fully, his head lifts and eyes find you immediately.

There is no hesitation in the recognition. The moment he sees you, his expression shifts in a way that feels unmistakable. Something bright flickers there. Relief, maybe. Something softer than the grin he wears with the rest of them.

“There you are.”

Your body freezes mid-retreat.

He steps away from the group without thinking twice, closing the space between you in a few long strides. You have no choice but to stay where you are unless you want to make it obvious you were about to flee.

“Thought you were gonna ditch me.”

“I was literally just walking out.”

“Sure.” There’s just that faint teasing curve of his mouth.

Over his shoulder, you can feel the group’s attention shift.

“Come here.” He reaches for your hand. There’s no time for you to overthink or even think for that matter.

The contact is warm and familiar and it sends a rush of conflicting emotions through you. You let him guide you toward them even though every insecure thought in your head is screaming that you do not belong in this circle.

He says your name easily. Naturally. Not as an afterthought.

Shit, he’s introducing you to them.

But it’s just your name. There’s no label that follows.

Of course there is nothing to add. What would he even say?

This is the girl I slept with.

This is the girl I’m seeing.

This is the girl I don’t know what to call yet.

You force a polite smile as he gestures around.

“You know Sam,” he continues. “That’s Steve. And this menace is Nat.”

Nat’s gaze shifts to you fully now. “Hi.”

“Hi,” you reply, hoping your voice does not betray the way your stomach is still tangled.

Sam offers you an easy grin. “So this is who he ditched us for the other night.”

Heat floods your face instantly.

Bucky shoots him a look. “Shut up.”

“What? I’m just saying.” Sam shrugs.

Steve, ever diplomatic, steps in smoothly. “Nice to finally meet you.”

Finally.

The word echoes in your head.

Finally suggests there has been discussion. Anticipation. Awareness.

You glance at Bucky instinctively, searching his expression for any hint that he is uncomfortable, embarrassed, anything.

He does not look embarrassed.

If anything, he looks almost… pleased.

His hand rests lightly at your lower back now. The gesture is subtle but grounding, and it only confuses you further.

If Nat meant something more, would he touch you like this in front of her?

If you meant something more, would he have said it out loud?

Conversation resumes around you, overlapping. You answer when spoken to. You nod. You laugh at the right moments. But your thoughts keep circling back to the image of Nat’s fingers at his collar, smoothing, straightening, touching.

He does not pull away from you once. If anything, he shifts closer as the minutes pass, angling his body slightly so you are not on the edge of the circle but tucked nearer to him.

Sometime later, he leans down slightly toward your ear. “You good?”

“Yeah.”

His eyes linger on your face for half a second, like he is trying to read what you are not saying.

“Walk with me?”

You nod before you can second guess it.

His hand slides more firmly around your waist this time as he guides you away from the group.

You can feel Nat’s gaze on your back as you leave, or maybe that is just your imagination refusing to calm down.

The motorcycle waits a few steps away, gleaming faintly in the lowering light. He stops beside it but does not let go of you immediately.

“What’s going on in that head?” His voice is softer now that you are alone.

“Nothing.” Nothing feels like the only safe answer.

He huffs out a quiet breath. “You’re terrible at lying.”

“I’m not lying.”

“Okay.” You can tell he’s still not convinced.

The closeness of him is distracting. His hand is still at your waist, resting just above your pelvis. You can feel the warmth of it through the fabric and it makes your thoughts even more tangled.

“Where are we going?” You want to change the subject.

“It’s a surprise.”

“I don’t like surprises.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is when they involve you.”

A flicker of amusement crosses his face. “Wow. I feel attacked.”

“Just tell me.”

He hesitates for dramatic effect, then leans in slightly, voice dropping. “Where else?”

Your breath catches before you can stop it.

“Bucky.”

“My place,” he finishes, like it is obvious.

Of course it is.

The words hit differently now, layered with everything your mind has been chewing on for the past twenty-four hours.

My place.

Is that all this is?

Your heart thuds against your ribs, too loud, too fast. You tell yourself you are being unfair. You tell yourself he invited you to meet his friends. He introduced you. He did not hide you. He did not flinch.

And yet the image of Nat’s fingers at his collar refuses to fade.

“Okay.” You hope he cannot hear the storm building behind the single word.

His hand squeezes your waist lightly before he finally lets go to grab his helmet, and the absence of his touch feels colder than it should.

Bucky’s place feels too quiet for the amount of noise in your head. He drops his keys into the bowl by the counter and turns toward you. There is no visible tension in him, no sign that he feels the way you’ve been feeling.

“You’ve been kinda weird lately… you mad?”

The softness in his voice makes it worse. It would be easier if he were careless.

He reaches for you when you don’t answer, hands sliding to your waist with an easy familiarity. Sitting back onto the couch, he pulls you with him, guiding you until you are straddling his lap, knees pressing into the cushions on either side of his thighs.

It happens naturally, like your bodies already know the choreography.

His mouth finds yours before you can think too hard about it. The kiss is warm. You can feel your breathing get uneven as his fingers resume their path on your body.

His lips trail from yours to your jaw, then lower, pressing unhurried kisses along your neck. Heat spreads beneath your skin where he lingers.

Your hands rest on his shoulders, and for a moment you almost let yourself fall into it.

Almost.

Because the image of Nat leaning in, adjusting his collar with that quiet confidence, flashes again. At the worst possible moment. Because you do not know what you are to him.

“Bucky…”

He hums against your skin. “Mhmm?”

“What is this?”

His mouth stills. “What is what?”

“This,” you repeat, gesturing helplessly between your bodies while still sitting in his lap. “Us coming here. Sam conveniently being out. You kissing me like nothing’s complicated.”

His confusion deepens, and he looks genuinely lost. “I’m kissing you because I want to.”

“That doesn’t answer anything.”

“It kind of does.”

A sharp exhale leaves you in frustration. “No, it doesn’t, Bucky.”

With his hands steady at your waist now, he shifts in his place. “Okay. Then tell me what you’re asking.”

“Am I just… part of something casual to you?” The words finally come, absolutely rushed. “Because that’s what it feels like sometimes.”

His expression changes in a way you cannot immediately name. You know it’s not anger. Probably something closer to disbelief.

“Casual?” he repeats carefully.

“I saw her,” you blurt it out. “Nat. Fixing your collar like she’s done it a hundred times. And Steve said finally, like I’m the last to know something. And you didn’t say anything when you introduced me, you just said my name. Like that’s all there is.”

“There is more.”

“Then what is it? Because from where I’m sitting it feels like I’m the only one trying to figure it out.”

The irony isn’t lost on you, and you don’t give him space or time to respond.

“I don’t do this… I don’t sleep with someone and then just pretend it’s fine without knowing what it means. I don’t wake up next to someone and spend the whole day wondering if I just made myself convenient.”

His hands tighten slightly at your hips at the mention of convenience.

“And before you say I’m overthinking… I know your thing. Everyone knows. You don’t exactly have a reputation for… consistency.”

“That’s a polite way to put it.” He exhales, trying to look as unbothered as possible.

“I’m serious,” you insist. “I don’t wanna be another girl you had fun with until something better came along. I don’t want to be someone in your rotation. I don’t want to feel stupid for catching feelings when you’re just—” you stop at that because the next words just wouldn’t come.

“Just what?”

“Just being you.”

He doesn’t respond. You hate that he doesn’t respond. That’s when you realise you’re still straddling him, still close enough to feel the steady rise and fall of his chest, still close enough to feel the unmistakable press of his length against you. Even in the middle of this.

How can someone be turned on in such a situation, you genuinely do not know.

“And don’t laugh,” you add, because his mouth twitches. “If you laugh I will actually leave.”

“I’m not laughing at you… I’m just trying to figure out how you managed to build an entire alternate reality without asking me a single question.”

“I’m asking now.”

“Yeah. After deciding all the answers.”

“Because you never said anything.”

Bucky studies your face, eyes searching in a way that makes your pulse pound. “You want me to say it?”

“Say what?”

“That I haven’t always been great at this.” He nods slowly, almost to himself. “Fine. I haven’t. I’ve dated around. I’ve kept things light. I liked that it was easy. There weren’t any expectations. People knew the deal.”

The honesty stings more than you expect.

“That’s exactly what I’m talking about.”

“But that’s not what this is.”

The firmness in his voice makes you want to hide yourself, but still you look at him. “Then what is it?”

He looks back at you like he’s choosing his words carefully. Or you think that’s what he’s doing. “Do you remember the first time we talked?”

“Of course I do.”

“I was an ass. I handed you my record book like it was nothing.”

“You were,” you mutter.

A faint smile touches his mouth. “Yeah. I was used to people just… going along with whatever I asked. And then you looked at me like I had personally offended your entire bloodline.”

Despite everything, a reluctant breath of laughter leaves you.

“I — I noticed you before that… I’d heard your answers in rounds. Seen your handwriting in the logbooks. You don’t try to stand out, but you do anyway. I kept waiting for a reason to talk to you that didn’t sound stupid.”

Your heartbeat stutters.

“The record book was the only excuse I had,” he admits. “And then you said yes even though you clearly didn’t want to, and I felt like a jerk the entire walk back to my room.”

That catches you off guard. “You did not.”

“I did.” His gaze does not waver. “Because I knew you weren’t like the others. You weren’t trying to impress me. You weren’t flirting. You were annoyed. And I still kept thinking about you… I’ve liked you since then. Not in a casual way. Definitely not in a ‘let’s see what happens’ way.”

“I kissed you because I wanted you. I slept with you because I thought we both wanted it. And it was never convenient. It was anything but convenient… because every time you look at me like you’re trying to decide whether I’m worth the trouble, it drives me insane.”

Heat rises to your face.

“Nat fixing my collar means nothing,” he adds as an afterthought. “She’s been doing that since first year. Also she’s dating some girl. And Steve said ‘finally’ because he’s tired of listening to me talk about you and not doing anything about it.”

“You talk about me?” The question feels fragile, but absolutely unnecessary and useless from what you’ve been hearing so far.

“Constantly,” he says without hesitation. “To the point where Sam told me to either ask you out properly or shut up… apparently it’s hard being my roommate.”

Your mind struggles to reconcile that with the version of him you built in self defense.

“I have been a guy who keeps things surface level,” he goes on, not flinching from it. “I liked not having to care too much. But with you it hasn’t been surface level. At all. I just… didn’t know how to shift gears without scaring you… so no,” he says, more quietly now. “You’re not part of a rotation. There isn’t one. Not anymore.”

The words make you feel absolutely stupid and make you smile at the same time.

“And if you think I brought you around my friends because you’re temporary… then you really don’t know me as well as I hoped you did.”

Now guilt seeps in because you just built this whole picture in your head that couldn’t be the farthest from reality.

You start to slide off his lap, embarrassment flooding in, but his hands hold you there gently.

“Don’t go,” he murmurs.

“I just— I made a fool of myself.”

The corner of his mouth tilts in a smile. “Yeah… a little.”

“Bucky!”

“I’m not making fun of you.” His grip on your waist tightens, reassuring you. “I like that you cared enough about this to spiral a little.”

Your eyes sting again, but for a different reason.

He shifts subtly beneath you, and the movement reminds you once more of the hard length pressing against you.

“Also,” he adds, voice dropping, “for someone who thinks this is casual, you’ve been sitting on my lap for ten minutes while I’m very obviously not neutral about you.”

Your mouth opens in a soft ‘O’ at the attention he just called to himself.

His grin spreads slowly now. “You get so worked up… and it’s distracting.”

“Distracting how?”

His thumbs trace idle patterns at your waist. “You’re so hot when you’re mad. I’ve been trying to focus on what you’re saying and all I can think about is how badly I want to kiss you again.”

The sincerity in his voice cuts through the last of your doubt.

“I like you,” there’s a finality in his voice. “I just didn’t know how to say it without sounding like every other guy who says it and doesn’t mean it. So I just… didn’t say it… But I’m saying it now. Clearly. I want no room for interpretation. I want this. With you. Not because it’s convenient. Because it’s you.”

The story you built in your head never included this version of him at all, but that’s okay, you get to have first hand experience.

my masterlist !

extras. that was wayyyy longer than i intended. If this flops, I’ll never set foot on tumblr again 😭 been waiting like a month to post this shit lol

permanent taglist. @devililithh @buckyfmd @sheriff-bodecker @honeysucklewatr @demiebarnes @kqtholins @amoremarveloustime @colettebarnes @barnes-babydoll @miraclediviner @of-sanguine-eyes @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @manly-man-whore @indigo123789 @wasa-bby @biggestfangirl @herejustforbuckybarnes @buckysbunnny @highhopes1008 @castielscaplan @ornateglass @grumpysunnybarnes @luvyoupxmimi @slutdier @yes-ilovetowrite @cautiouscas17 @astridphantom @delusionalwomsn @cinnamon-girl-writes @wherewinterblooms @stifflyspeedyquirk @sassandscribbles @marvelouslyme96 @stesha02 @floatingvalhallasea @goobers-mcgee @t1redphoenix @vickynguyennn @bluellamacheesecake-blog @serenityrjd @pitabread79 @galaxygoddess30 @biggestfangirl @chenoadouble-o7 @phoenix-in-writing @ceoofdisappointment @ladymiseryy @wherewinterblooms @avgdestitute @lunexiax + to get added to the taglist!

[mckitterick]

[rip-quizilla]

[aquaticmercy]

Weather Girl

Summary : Bucky Barnes has a harmless crush on the local weather broadcaster. He watches her every morning, and even admits it to his friends. Its not like he’ll ever meet her, right?

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x weather girl! reader (she/her)

Warnings/tags : Fluff!!! Meet cute(?), Reader is weather girl and meteorologist, Steamy, and sex is heavily implied, cursing. mention of past trauma, but not a lot. Nervous Bucky! Set after FATWS but before Thunderbolts* (let me know if I missed anything!)

Word Count : 10.6k

Notes : Hi all! This was meant to be a shorter fic, but I got carried away. Enjoy!

Bucky Barnes had really tried to like the twenty-first century.

Trying counted for something, right?

Post-war, post-everything— life was supposed to feel better. No Hydra handlers in his head, no missions, no one telling him who to be. After everything, he thought it would just be him with a notebook full of names crossed out, and a century that had sprinted ahead while he’d been frozen in place.

There were days when he didn’t feel so out of time. Sometimes, he could walk down the street without flinching at car horns. And then there were days when everything reminded him that he didn’t belong here. 

He tried the things that friends suggested.

Baseball games, for one. Sam had suggested it like it was a cure-all: You like baseball. Go to a game. So Bucky went.  

Baseball had always made sense to him, but the stadiums were different now. It was too big, too loud, too… commercial. Even worse, the Yankees felt wrong to support, and the Dodgers being in Los Angeles still tripped him up every single time he thought about it. He sat through a few innings, hands folded tight in his lap, before leaving with the same hollow feeling he’d arrived with.

Coffee was worse.

He liked it black, bitter, no nonsense. Now it came with foam and syrups and names he couldn’t pronounce without feeling ridiculous. He ordered the wrong thing more than once and drank it anyway, grimacing through sweetness that stuck to his tongue long after the cup was empty.

Everything felt overcomplicated.

There were too many choices to make, too much noise. Too much pressure to be something to someone. 

So he built small routines, the kind his old therapist said were good for him.

One of them was the weather.

Back in the 30s and 40s, his ma used to turn on the radio every morning. The weather report would crackle through the kitchen while she moved around, apron on, humming a song. It didn’t matter if it was rain or sun. “Listen close,” she’d say, pressing a kiss to his hair. “Weather tells you how to dress for the day.”

It was… comforting.

One morning, after a whole night of being unable to sleep, he turned on the TV. 

That’s when he saw you.

You were the weather newscaster, standing in front of a green-screened map with blues, greens, and yellows curling across the screen. You smiled as you spoke, not forced nor overly bright. Your voice was comforting, like the weather mattered because people mattered.

Bucky sat down on the edge of the couch without realizing.

You talked about cloud cover and chances of rain, gesturing, explaining things like storms and sunshine were just part of a bigger, understandable pattern. 

When the segment ended, Bucky didn’t turn the TV off right away.

The next morning, he turned it on again.

That was all it was at first…. a routine. It was a familiar pattern to anchor himself to. 

He’d wake up, make coffee, and watch the weather. He told himself it wasn’t about you, specifically. You just happened to be there.

Except… he started noticing things.

He noticed the way your brow furrowed when you talked about incoming storms, like you took it personally. He noticed how you leaned into the screen slightly when you were excited about clear skies and sunshine. He noticed your smile when you signed off, wishing everyone a good day like you genuinely hoped they’d have one.

He learned your schedule without meaning to, but not in a bad way. He just knew which mornings you’d be on, which afternoons you covered, though rare. If he missed you because he woke up too late, there was a flicker of disappointment as he pretended not to care about it.

And yeah, okay— he thought you were really pretty. 

And it certainly didn’t help that Bucky caught himself wondering if you liked rainy days or just tolerated them. If you drank your coffee black or sweet. If your smile looked the same off-camera.

Still, he never lingered on those thoughts, never let them spiral. He wasn’t building some fantasy version of you in his head. He knew better than that.

It was just a crush.

A small one, harmless one.

But some mornings, he realized he’d woken up a little earlier than usual, just to be sure he wouldn’t miss you.

—

Letting Sam and Joaquin stay in his apartment after a boy's night out had felt like the decent thing to do.

Bucky had even told himself that as they stumbled through the door sometime after midnight. Sam had been riding the high of a good night out. Joaquin had been buzzing in that restless way, fueled by sugar-heavy cocktails and the thrill of getting Bucky out of his apartment for once.

The mistake became clear the moment the door shut behind them.

They stood in the living room, taking stock of the space like they hadn’t been there a dozen times before. 

See, Bucky only had one spare bedroom. The other would have to stay on the couch. 

“I’m taking the spare room,” Sam said immediately, toeing off his shoes.

Joaquin laughed. “What– that’s not fair!”

Bucky didn’t bother looking up as he shrugged out of his jacket. “Figure it out yourselves. I’m going to bed.”

“You hear that?” Joaquin said. “Man’s clocked out.”

“Rock, paper, scissors,” Sam announced. “Like adults.”

They tied. Once. Then twice. On the third round, Joaquin won and celebrated far more loudly than the victory warranted. Sam accused him of cheating. Joaquin accused Sam of being a sore loser. Bucky disappeared into his bedroom before it could escalate.

—

The next morning, Bucky woke before sunrise. 

He laid still for a moment, staring at the ceiling, orienting himself. He moved through the apartment without thinking as the kitchen light stayed off. He measured coffee grounds, the bitter scent blooming in the air as he brewed. Sam was still sprawled across the couch, throw blanket tangled around his legs, one arm flung over his face like he’d lost a fight with gravity.

Bucky hesitated before turning on the TV.

He told himself it was a habit. Surely, Sam wouldn’t mind. 

So the screen flickered to life as he turned the volume low enough not to wake anyone… at least, that had been the intention.

You appeared on-screen, framed perfectly against a colorful map. You smiled as you greeted the viewers, getting on with your job. Bucky leaned back against the counter, mug warming his hands, shoulders loosening without him noticing.

Sam stirred from his sleep, shifting beneath the blanket. He let out a quiet groan, waking too early against his will.

“Why,” he mumbled, “does it sound like a civic duty in here?”

Bucky didn’t look over. “Go back to sleep.”

Sam cracked one eye open, squinting blearily at the TV. “Why is the news on?”

“It’s just the weather,” Bucky said, casual to the point of rehearsed. “You don’t need to be awake for it.”

Sam hummed, unconvinced. Before he could say anything else, the spare bedroom door creaked open.

Joaquin shuffled out, rubbing his face, hair sticking up in defiance of any law of nature. He paused, eyes landing on the TV.

“Oh,” he said. “It’s her.”

Sam lifted his head now, more alert. “Her?”

Joaquin nodded toward the screen. “The weather girl, she used to cast in Miami. My mom loved her,  even cried when she moved to New York. She used to be on all the time.”

“Well, sometimes,” Bucky corrected, maybe a little too quickly.

You were explaining a shift in pressure systems, gesturing at the metrics. Joaquin watched for a beat longer than necessary, then nodded to himself.

“…Okay,” he said, squinting at Bucky’s response. “Whatever. My cousin thinks she’s cute.”

“Yeah,” Bucky nodded fondly. The moment his reply landed in the room, he knew he’d screwed up.

Sam’s head snapped around. “Hold on.”

Bucky took a long sip of coffee, buying himself half a second that did absolutely nothing.

Joaquin’s eyes lit with sudden clarity. “Do you think she’s cute?” 

Bucky felt heat creep up the back of his neck. “I meant—yeah, she’s objectively—”

“Ohhh,” Sam interrupted, sitting up now, blanket sliding off his shoulders. “Oh, no, no. That was not an objective ‘yeah.’”

Joaquin grinned, instantly energized. “Wait. Wait, wait, wait. Are you telling me—”

“No,” Bucky said firmly.

Joaquin leaned forward. “—that the Bucky Barnes—”

“Nope.”

He pointed at the TV. “—has a crush on the weather girl?”

“Fuck,” Bucky let breath out through his nose. “…Maybe?”

Big mistake. The room exploded.

“Oh my God,” Sam laughed, dragging a hand down his face. “This is incredible.”

Joaquin clutched his chest. “The Winter Soldier, reduced to heart eyes over the Weather Channel.”

“It’s not the Weather Channel,” Bucky snapped. “It’s local news.”

“Oh, even worse,” Sam teased. “He likes her accessible.”

Bucky shot him a glare. “You’re both idiots.”

Joaquin wasn’t letting it go. “How long has this been a thing?”

“It’s not a thing,” Bucky said, defensive now. “She’s just… she happens to be on in the morning. It’s routine.”

“Mmhmm,” Sam said, nodding exaggeratedly. “And you just happen to know her schedule?”

Bucky’s metal fist tightened. “…Look.”

They both leaned in.

“She’s just my type, okay?” he said finally, words tumbling out in a rush. 

Joaquin’s eyebrows softened, just a bit, as Sam grinned anyway. “That’s adorable.”

“It’s just a harmless crush,” Bucky rolled his eyes. “I don’t think I know her. I don’t pretend she knows me.”

On-screen, you smiled as you wrapped up the forecast. “Looks like clear skies for most of the week. Whatever the weather, have a great morning, folks!”

Bucky’s eyes were glued to your sign off before realizing Sam and Joaquin were staring at him.

Sam nudged Joaquin. “Look at his face.”

Joaquin softened just a bit. “Aw, man.”

Bucky muttered, “I hate you both.”

Sam slapped him on the shoulder. 

“I think it’s good,” Joaquin said. “Means you’re still capable of liking someone who isn’t actively shooting at you.”

Bucky huffed, though a smile creeped on his face. “Real comforting.”

—

A couple of months later, Sam was yet again stuck in Bucky’s apartment after an overnight blizzard.

After it passed, snowbanks still lined the streets like barricades, gray and uneven from plows that had done their best and moved on. The city felt wrong, quiet in places it was usually loud, crowded in the buildings that still had power and heat. People were digging themselves out, checking on neighbors, trying to piece everything back together.

Bucky watched it all from the window, mug warming his hands.

“The shelter’s doing post-storm relief,” Sam said, scrolling on his phone. “They’re short on volunteers.”

Bucky didn’t hesitate. “Let’s go.”

Sam glanced up, eyebrows lifting. “Sure”

To both of them, helping made sense, it always had. They saw a need, they filled it. 

They bundled up and headed out, boots crunching through packed snow, wind biting but manageable now that the worst had passed. The shelter sat on a corner still half-buried in slush, lights blazing inside.

The moment they stepped through the doors, the noise hit them all at once.

People crowded the space, some shaking snow from their coats, others already clutching steaming cups of soup. Volunteers moved quickly, voices raised just enough to be heard. Tables were set up along the walls, one stacked high with donated coats in every size and color.

Sam was immediately flagged down by a coordinator. To be fair, she probably recognised them both.

“Here to help out?” she asked, eyeing both of them.

Sam grinned. “Born ready.”

As Bucky turned to sign in… he stopped in his tracks. His brain just stopped working.

Because you stood near the front door, hair pulled back messily, bundled in a thick sweater and scarf that looked nothing like your formal on-screen wardrobe. Your cheeks were flustered from the cold, sleeves pushed up as you were getting ready to help with the soup stall. You were laughing at something one of the coordinators said..

Sam noticed immediately.

“Oh,” he said, far too casually. “Would’cha look at that.”

Bucky’s heart slammed into his ribs.

“No,” he said quietly.

Sam leaned closer, grin already forming. “Is that—”

“No.”

“That’s the weather girl.”

“Sam.”

“That’s your weather girl.”

Bucky swallowed hard. “She’s not my anything—.”

Sam nudged him with his elbow. “Man, she’s even cuter in person!”

Bucky shot him a glare. “Do not make this weird.”

Sam’s grin only widened. “I’m not making it weird. You are making it weird by staring.”

“I’m fine,” Bucky muttered, pulling his beanie down lower. “We’re here to help.”

They were directed to different stations, mercifully, but not mercifully enough.

Sam was assigned to give away donated coats, and somehow, Bucky was assigned to the soup stall— the very same soup stall you were assigned to.

You approached with a box of cups, setting them down gently. “Hey,are you good to ladle, or do you want me to—”

You looked up. Your eyes flicked to his face, then squinted just a fraction. “You’re new around here,” you mentioned with a smile, before telling him your name in introduction.

Bucky’s mouth went dry. What was he supposed to say? I already know who you are? I watch you every morning? No fucking way.

“Uh…” he said intelligently.

Sam, passing behind them with a crate of gloves, slowed to a stop and watched.

Bucky didn’t look at him. 

“I… nice to meet you. And I-I can—uh, ladle,” Bucky said, clearing his throat. “I’m… yeah. I’m good.”

You smiled at him, making his knees feel vaguely unreliable. “Great. Team soup, then.”

He nodded way too fast.

You both worked in silence at first. The line was steady, from families to elderly couples to people stamping snow from their boots, hands shaking as they wrapped them around warm cups. Bucky focused on the repeated motion: scoop, pour, slide the cup forward.

He kept his gaze down, keeping his hands hidden under the gloves as he continued to pretend not to know exactly who you were.

You, on the other hand, watched him with curiosity.

After a few minutes, you spoke again.

“You do this often?” you said lightly, handing a cup to a woman with a grateful smile. 

Bucky shrugged. “Just… doing what needs doing.”

You glanced at his gloves and the way his shoulders stayed slightly hunched, like he was trying to fold inward.

Then you looked back at his face.

“You did a good job,” you said.

Bucky blinked. “With… soup?”

Your lips twitched into a sweet smile, head tilting.

“With the GRC,” you said quietly. “Things were… a mess. Still are, feels like”

The ladle froze mid-air.

Fuck. You… recognised him? 

His heart skipped a beat as his mouth took off at a sprint.

“Oh,” he managed. “I—uh—”

You smiled again, gentler this time. You weren’t starstruck, nor invasive. You were just…  sincere.

“You handled it with a lot of compassion,” you continued. “I remember watching the live coverage in the office.”

Bucky’s ears burned.

Sam, across the room, caught his eye and mouthed SHE KNOWS YOU.

Bucky did not look back.

“I was just… following Cap’s lead,” he said, because that was safer.

You studied him for a moment longer, then nodded. “Still. It mattered.”

Snow whipped past the windows outside. The line kept moving. The world kept going.

Inside, Bucky Barnes was quietly, internally losing his mind.

You handed him another stack of cups as he tried to focus very hard on the soup.

“Thanks,” he said, voice low.

“Anytime,” you replied with a chuckle.

Over the next few hours, he realised you were chatty in the most charming way.

It started small.

You commented on the soup temperature. Joked that the ladle was deceptively heavy. Mentioned that snowstorms always made communities unite, like shared misery unlocked manners. Bucky responded with short answers at first, and you didn’t seem to mind. You just adjusted, met him where he was, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Conversation was… easy. He didn’t feel like he was calculating every word, didn’t feel like he was performing Normal Guy Behavior™. You filled gaps naturally, let silences exist without making them awkward. When he spoke, you listened like what he said mattered.

Internally, Bucky was losing a war.

Because in a deeply fucked-up, self-preserving corner of his brain, he’d been hoping, praying really, thats you’d secretly be awful. That you’d be rude, or fake, or condescending. 

Because if you sucked, he could move on. He could chalk this whole thing up to a stupid crush and go back to watching you from a safe, distant screen. Maybe even deflate this stupid crush instantly.

But no.

Nooooo.

Instead, you just had to be a sweetheart who laughed with volunteers, remembered regulars’ names, and casually mentioning—

“I’ve been helping out here for years,” you said, shrugging like it wasn’t a big deal. “Since college, on and off. Storms just make it busier.”

Years.

Of course.

Of course you had. Of course you’d been doing good long before he ever noticed you through a screen. Of course you weren’t just someone who cared on-camera. Of course you were and inconveniently wonderful.

Bucky stared at the soup again, and thought, Fantastic. She’s kind AND committed. Kill me.

You glanced at him sideways, “You okay?”

“Yeah,” he said quickly. “Just… uh—concentrating.”

You chuckled, perhaps sensing his nerves, and something in his chest gave way.

Then the coordinator’s voice cut through the room. “Alright, new volunteers just arrived! Time to rotate stations!”

You peeled your gloves off slowly, like you weren’t in any hurry to leave the moment. “Guess we’re done.”

“Yeah,” Bucky said, immediately hating how disappointed he sounded.

You hesitated, then tilted your head at him, studying his face. “You know,” you said lightly, “you’re a lot easier to talk to than I thought a super-soldier would be.”

His heart did a stupid little backflip. “I… uh, thanks?”

You smiled, warmer now. Flirty in that way that didn’t demand anything but absolutely invited him in. “I mean it,” you said. “I’m glad we worked together.”

He nodded, hands curling slightly at his sides. Say something. Say anything.

“Hey, do you maybe want to…”

Oh God.

You looked back up at him as he swallowed hard. Do it. Don’t be a coward.

“...get coffee sometime?” He finished quickly. “If you want. Just, coffee, no foam. I mean—foam’s fine if you like it… sorry.”

Smooth. Real smooth.

For half a second, you just stared at him, then you smiled.

You didn’t look surprised. If anything, you looked pleased.

“I was hoping you’d ask,” you said, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Bucky froze. “You were?”

“Mmhmm.” You reached into your coat pocket and pulled out your phone. “But I’m gonna make this easy on you.”

You scribbled your number on a scrap of paper from the counter and pressed it into his human palm.

“Text me,” you said, eyes meeting his. “And we’ll figure out when that date is.”

Date.

His brain short-circuited completely.

“I… okay,” he managed, nodding a little too fast. “Yeah. I can do that.”

You smiled, clearly endeared at how overwhelmed he looked. “I look forward to it, Bucky.”

—

Bucky stared at the scrap of paper like it might detonate.

Your number. It was real. Handwritten, and slightly smudged because his hands had been sweating like he was about to defuse a bomb instead of… text a woman.

He’d folded it once, unfolded it before folding again, tucking it carefully into his jacket pocket like it was fragile glass.

Sam, who just finished his part, noticed immediately.

He didn’t say anything at first. He asked if he wanted to go to a diner— which Bucky agreed to. 

And during dinner, Sam just watched his best friend tap the table restlessly with his metal fingers as he held his phone in his human hand, unlocking and relocking the screen like that might summon courage through muscle memory alone.

Finally, Sam leaned back on the booth cushions, arms crossed. “You gonna tell me why you look like you’re about to jump out of a plane without a parachute?”

Bucky stopped tapping. “I’m fine.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “You’ve opened your phone twelve times and haven’t done anything.”

Bucky scowled and lied. “That’s not true.”

“Oh, my bad. Thirteen.”

Bucky let a deep breath out through his nose, before admitting quietly, “I got her number.”

Sam froze. “You what?”

“I got her number,” Bucky repeated, like saying it again might make it less terrifying. “She… she gave it to me.”

Sam’s face looked like it was stuck between joy, disbelief, and chaos. “Whoa, Buck—”

“Don’t,” Bucky snapped, pointing a finger at him. “Don’t yell.”

Sam chuckled, eyes wide. “Sorry.”

Bucky rubbed the back of his neck. “She told me to text her.”

Sam’s grin was immediate and unstoppable. 

“You will not tell anyone,” Bucky said firmly.

Sam blinked. “Anyone?”

“Anyone,” Bucky repeated. “Not Joaquin. Not even your sister. Not anyone.”

Sam tilted his head. “C’mon man.”

Bucky hesitated, eyes dropping back to his phone. “I don’t wanna jinx it.”

Sam held up two fingers like an oath. “Secret’s safe. On my life.”

“Thank you.”

“Now,” Sam added immediately, leaning forward, “are you gonna text her, or are you gonna die staring at your lock screen?”

Bucky scowled. “I’m working up to it.”

Sam watched as Bucky finally opened the messages app, typed a few words… deleted them. Tried again. Deleted again.

“What the hell are you writing?” Sam asked.

“Something normal,” Bucky said. “Not weird.”

“Define weird.”

“Anything that sounds like I’ve been thinking about her for months.”

Sam snorted. “Good call.”

Bucky tried again.

Bucky: Hey, it’s Bucky from the soup kitchen today.

He stared at it. Read it. Overthought it. Finally, he showed Sam. 

“Too boring?” he asked.

Sam shrugged. “It’s fine, man. Hit send.”

Bucky’s thumb hovered.

His chest felt tight. This was worse than jumping out of planes. Worse than fighting aliens. At least their rejection wouldn't hurt.

He hit send.

The phone was silent for exactly seven seconds before it buzzed.

Bucky’s heart nearly stopped as he opened it immediately.

You: Hey, Souper Soldier :) I was hoping you’d text!

His breath left him in a rush he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

Sam watched his face and grinned. “She replied, didn’t she?”

Bucky didn’t even try to hide it. “Yeah.”

—

The texting started… cautiously.

At least on his end.

You: Made it home without slipping on ice 👍

Bucky stared at the screen for a full minute before replying.

Bucky: Yeah. Same. Still thawing out though. I packed some extra soup and it helped.

Three dots appeared. 

You: Soup is powerful like that

You: So is coffee, apparently. You seemed very serious about yours.

He huffed, a smile tugging at his lips.

Bucky: I prefer just black coffee. 

Bucky: It gets the job done.

Bucky: You?

You: Oh I’m a menace

You: milk, sugar, sometimes cinnamon if I’m feeling interesting

He shook his head, fond despite himself.

From there, it got… easy.

You sent him pictures of the ridiculous snowbanks still clogging the sidewalks. He sent back a blurry photo of his coffee mugs. You teased him for being dry over text; he admitted (after some coaxing) that he was better in person.

Then, two days in…

You: So what do you actually do when you’re not saving soup kitchens?

He stared at it, metal plates rippling on his vibranium arm.

Bucky: Bit of this, bit of that.

Bucky: Helping where I can.

You: Mysterious. I like it 😌

You: I’m a little less exciting. I work in broadcasting

He blinked. What am I supposed to say?

Typed.

Deleted.

Typed again.

Bucky: Oh.

Bucky: Really?

He could feel the universe judging him.

You: Yeah! Local news

You: Mostly mornings

His soul tried to leave his body.

Bucky: That’s cool.

Cool???

He knew. He knew. He should’ve just said something like Hey, funny story, I already know this.

But instead, like a coward, he kept digging.

You: Weather, specifically. Nothing glamorous

Bucky stared at the word weather like he was solving an impossible equation.

Bucky: That’s great. People need to know about weather.

Smooth. Incredible. Nailed it.

You didn’t seem to notice his nerves through the screen. Or if you did, you found it charming.

You: You’re sweet

You: want to get that coffee this weekend?

He said yes immediately. 

—

The date was simple.

It was at a small café of his choosing. It had warm lighting, and it was quiet enough that he didn’t feel like the walls were closing in. You waved when you saw him, bundled in a coat and scarf, smiling like this wasn’t the most terrifying thing he’d done in years.

Conversation flowed like it had at the shelter, maybe even better.

You talked about early mornings, about learning to smile on camera even when you were exhausted, about how weather felt personal because it affected everyone. He listened, genuinely fascinated, occasionally tripping over the fact and deflecting over the fact that he’d watched you tell him it was gonna be chilly over the weekend yesterday morning.  

Fuck, when he developed his silly little crush on you, he had never imagined you’d be sitting across from him, laughing into your coffee.

That was a lie. Maybe he’d imagined it once or twice, but he never actually thought he’d get to do it. 

At one point, you caught him staring.

“What?” you asked, amused.

“Nothing,” he said quickly. “You’re just… easy to look at.”

You chuckled, cheeks warming. “You are too, you know.”

By the time you stood to leave, his nerves were back in full force. He walked you outside, cold air biting at his cheeks.

“Well,” you said, “I had a really good time.”

“Me too,” he said, earnest. “I’d… like to do this again. If you want.”

Instead of answering right away, you stepped closer. And before his brain could reboot, you leaned up and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

His entire system shut down.

“I’d love to go on a second date,” you said warmly.

Bucky nodded, stunned. “Okay. Yeah. Definitely.”

You smiled at him one last time before heading off down the sidewalk, leaving him frozen in place, hand hovering near his cheek like he needed proof it had actually happened.

Somewhere deep down, he knew he really, really needed to tell you the truth.

But right now, all he could think was… 

Holy shit. She kissed me.

—

​​The second date was easier.

You met him at a bookstore-themed cocktail bar tucked between a laundromat and a bodega that smelled permanently like oranges. Bucky arrived ten minutes early and spent seven of them pretending to browse a shelf labeled Modern Memoirs while actually rehearsing how not to say something unhinged. When you walked in, he forgot every plan he’d made and just… smiled.

You talked for hours.

Not the careful, surface-level kind of talking either, but real conversation. You told him about growing up watching storms roll in from your bedroom window, how weather made you feel small in a good way. He told you about Brooklyn in the forties, about baseball games, about the war. You didn’t flinch when he mentioned nightmares. You didn’t pry. You just listened, nodding like it all made sense.

At some point, you reached across the table and nudged his metal fingers with yours.

“Can I?” you asked gently.

He swallowed. “Yeah. Please.”

You traced the vibranium seams like you were learning a part of him. Bucky’s heart skipped a beat, then settled. When you left, you hugged him, and he stood there afterward thinking, oh no. This is becoming a thing.

—

The third date was dinner.

Nothing fancy. It was a small place you liked near your apartment, all brick walls and low lights. You laughed more this time. He loosened up enough to tease you about your corny ‘souper soldier’ pun, and you teased back about him being emotionally attached to black coffee. Somewhere between dessert and the check, he realized he felt… normal. Like this was just his life now.

Walking you home was not something he planned on.

The night was cold but clear, streetlights glowing against leftover snow. You talked about weekend plans, a storm system moving in next week, until you stopped outside your building.

“Well,” you said, putting your weight slightly back on your heels. “I had a really good time.”

“Me too,” he said, too quickly. Then, because he’d promised himself he would be better than his fears, he added, “I was wondering if I could—” He stopped to take a grounding breath, “—kiss you?”

You smiled, eyes warm. “Yeah,” you said. “Of course.”

He leaned in carefully, like he was approaching a goddess. The kiss was gentle at first, then sure, your hand curling into his jacket as if you’d always known where it belonged. When you pulled back, his forehead rested briefly against yours, like he needed the contact to stay upright.

You laughed quietly. “You okay?”

He nodded, dazed. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m… yeah.”

You unlocked your door and turned back to him. “Text me when you get home?”

“Absolutely,” he said, already planning to text you the second he was out of sight.

You waved and slipped inside.

Bucky stood there for a full five seconds. Then his brain caught up as he realized three things in rapid succession:

You tasted faintly like coffee and cinnamon.

His heart was trying to escape his chest.

I know where she lives now????

He blinked, looking at the door, then at the building. He felt his soul try to exit his body in a spiral of delight and terror.

He walked home in a fog, lips still burning, heart doing laps in his chest. Somewhere between your block and his, he laughed out loud, startling a passerby.

This was good. This was really good.

It didn’t, however, change the fact that he was absolutely, completely screwed.

—

The fourth date started with him standing across the street from the local broadcasting studio at four-thirty in the afternoon, hands shoved into his coat pockets, teeth clenched like he was bracing for impact.

This was nothing. This was normal. People picked each other up from work all the time. Except, he kinda knew where you worked, like, eight months before you actually told him in a text. After all, he didn’t live too far from the Channel 7 Office. To his defense, before you actually met him, he never ever, even once, thought about trying to run into you there. That would be weird.

Still, it probably explained why his heart was pounding like he was about to jump out of a quinjet.

Then the doors opened, and you stepped out.

You were dressed down compared to your on-camera look, coat slung over your arm, hair loose, face relaxed in a way he’d never seen through a screen. When your eyes found him, your smile bloomed instantly.

“Hey,” you said.

His brain went blank.

“Hey,” he managed, voice rougher than intended.

You fell into step beside him easily, like this was already a habit. On the subway ride to the Guggenheim (your idea for a date), you talked about your day. You talked about early meetings, producers arguing over graphics, and how exhausting it could be to smile before the sun was even fully up. Bucky listened like it mattered. Like you mattered. Every once in a while, you glanced at him as you spoke, checking that he was really there. He was. 

Inside the museum, the space opened up around you. Bucky stood beside you under the spiraling white curves, hands tucked into his coat pockets, head tilted back as he took it in. “Feels like I’m standing inside a thought,” he chuckled.

You laughed as you moved slowly through the exhibits. Sometimes your shoulder brushed his. Sometimes your fingers found his sleeve and stayed there. He didn’t flinch when crowds pressed in, but you noticed him leaning subtly toward you as art curved upward with the building, color and shape unfolding slowly. You walked close, shoulders brushing now and then, never pulling away.

“This one always makes me feel small,” you said, staring at a massive abstract piece. “But not in a bad way.”

Bucky nodded. “Yeah. Like… perspective.”

You glanced at him. “You get it.”

Your fingers slipped around his metal finger without thinking, resting there like it belonged. He froze for half a second before relaxing into it, metal plates humming faintly beneath your touch. 

By the time you stepped back outside, dusk had crept in.

“Do you…” He hesitated, heart racing. “Do you want to come back to my place?”

You didn’t even have to think about it. “Sure.”

—

His apartment felt different the moment you crossed the threshold. You kicked off your shoes, shrugged out of your coat, looked around like you were mapping him through his space. He watched you like he couldn’t quite believe this was happening.

It didn't matter, anyway. You both barely made it past the hallway.

The second it felt private enough, you pulled Bucky’s lips to yours. This kiss was deeper, more urgent than ever before. His hands found your waist on instinct, pulling you closer as if distance had suddenly become unbearable. There was no hiding behind paper-thin pretenses anymore, not that Bucky ever tried to hide his intentions of why he was bringing you home.

“I just—” He pulled back a fraction, forehead resting against yours, breath uneven. “This is okay, right?”

Your smile was unmistakably sure. “Bucky… yes.”

That was it.

The kiss resumed, heavier now. Your back hit the wall as he pressed into you, then your hands reversed it without thinking, guiding him back until his shoulders met the cool surface instead. Your mouth traced along his chin, down your neck, making him inhale sharply.

You laughed breathlessly when he fumbled with your skirt zipper and the buttons of your blouse. “Hey,” you teased gently. “Still with me?”

“Barely,” he admitted hoarsely.

You helped him, and when his shirt came off, your hands explored him like you were curious, like you wanted to learn. You swallowed, cheeks already tinged with how much you were staring. “I… I have to admit something,” you started, biting your lip like it was the only thing keeping your words from spilling over.

Bucky raised an eyebrow, “Oh yeah?”

You bit the inside of your cheek, trying not to be too nervous. “At the museum earlier… I kind of wanted to push you up against the wall.”

He froze for a second. Eyes flicked to yours, just the faintest smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “Really?”

You nodded, heat creeping up your neck. “Yeah. Nothing says art quite like… Bucky Barnes, displayed right next to a Kandinsky. But I didn’t, because… well, public space.”

Bucky’s smile became a shy grin. He pulled you closer, if it was even possible, peppering kisses on your lips. “I think I could’ve handled it,” he said confidently, surprising himself. “Even appreciated it.”

Your stomach flipped. “Bucky—” you whispered, half warning, half pleading.

“Or,” he added, tilting his head, thumb brushing along your side, “we could make tonight a private showing.”

You laughed, breathless and flustered, trying to play it cool but failing spectacularly. “I—uh… I might need a moment to… appreciate the view first,” you said, voice wobbling, teasing, but utterly incapable of hiding the heat in your chest.

Bucky’s grin widened, the kind that promised he knew exactly what he was doing. He was nervous, of course. But now he was motivated, and a motivated Bucky wasn’t something anyone should evertake for granted. He leaned in, forehead resting against yours, lips just brushing your ear. “I think I could make you forget all about appreciating the art.”

And that was it. You were undone.

After that, the bed was a blur. One moment you were pressing him up against the wall, thinking you were in control, the next he was guiding you down with reverent hands. When he landed on the mattress and helped line your waists together as you back to straddle him, the sound he made was wrecked enough to make you gain a bit of your poise back.

“Oh,” you said, almost teasing. “You okay?”

He laughed weakly. “I’m… yeah.”

You leaned down and kissed him again, and it was thorough and devastating. His hands settled at your hips, thumbs digging in like anchors. The world narrowed to the heat pooling down your core and his breath and the way your bodies fit together like they’d been working toward this for weeks.

Later, after riding each other’s high, you lay tangled together beneath the covers, skin warm and limbs heavy.

Bucky stared at the ceiling for a moment, then turned his head toward you.

“Hey,” he said quietly.

“Hey,” you answered, tracing idle patterns along his human arm.

His throat tightened, looking down. You were not just a person on a screen anymore. You were real. And perhaps, you never needed to know otherwise. “I’m really glad I met you.”

You smiled, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. “Me too.”

—

The next morning crept in too early.

Gray-blue light filtered through the curtains, city sounds still half-asleep, the clock on Bucky’s nightstand glowing 6:02 a.m. You stirred awake first, carefully, like you were navigating a minefield instead of a bed.

You slipped one leg out from under the covers, then the other, wincing when the floor felt colder than expected. You reached for your clothes as quietly as possible, gathering them up against your chest, already rehearsing how to disappear without waking him.

It didn’t work. He had super-soldier senses, after all.

“Hey,” Bucky muttered, voice still rough with sleep.

You turned slowly. He was on his side, hair a mess, eyes barely open but already focused on you like you were the most important thing in the room.

“Sorry,” you whispered. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

He pushed himself up on one elbow. “It’s okay. What time is it?”

“Early,” you said apologetically. You pulled on your blouse, smoothing it down. “I gotta run to work. I texted my coworker to see if I can borrow a blazer and shirt so I don’t have to go back to my place, but I… yeah. I need to go.” You hesitated, then smiled sheepishly. “I was gonna leave you a note.”

You leaned down and kissed him.

When you pulled back, he looked… happy, and awake now. 

“I—” he cleared his throat, sitting up a little straighter. “I can drive you? If you want.”

You laughed, warm and fond. “Buck, it’s like three subway stops.”

“Oh,” he said. “Right. Yeah. That makes sense.”

You slipped your bag over your shoulder, then paused at the bedroom door. “Besides,” you added, teasing just a little, “I want you to tune in and watch.”

His heart tried to punch its way out of his chest. He absolutely could not say I do, every morning.

So instead he said, way too casual, “Uh. Okay. It’s… MetroView NY, right? Channel 7?”

You smiled, assuming he knew from picking you up yesterday. “Yeah. That one.”

Nailed it.Totally normal. Definitely not suspicious.

You reached for the door, then stopped when he spoke again.

“Hey… um,” he rubbed the back of his neck. “A couple of my friends are visiting the city tonight. They wanna check out this new dive bar. You… wanna join us?”

You turned back to him, nodding. “Yeah. Of course. Just text me the address and when.”

Relief washed over his face so visibly it made you smile. After what he did to you last night, you found it adorable that he was still kinda flustered.

As he sat straight up, you kissed him once more, quick but affectionate, and whispered, “I’ll see you tonight, then.”

—

Bucky was standing in the kitchen an hour later, coffee gone cold in his hand, shirt tugged on hastily after you left, brain replaying the exact sound of your laugh from the night before like it was on a loop he couldn’t shut off. The apartment smelled faintly like you, and it was doing absolutely nothing to help.

Right on cue, he turned the TV on.

And there you were.

You had bright studio lights on you, a polished smile, hair styled in a way that made it painfully clear you hadn’t been up all night… appreciating art. You greeted the audience like your legs weren’t still wobbly.

“Good morning,” you said cheerfully, standing in front of the weather map. “If you’re heading out early, you’ll want to bundle up, looks like the city’s still riding the weather out today.”

He choked on his coffee.

Riding the weather out. Jesus Christ, in all of his months of watching you on TV, he had never ever heard you say something like that. Especially not after you were on top him like a cowgirl last night. 

But still, it could be a coincidence, right?

You clicked to the next graphic. “Yesterday’s storm cleared beautifully, though. Sometimes all it takes is a little pressure shift to make things fall into place.”

Bucky closed his eyes for half a second.

Pressure shift. It could be totally normal phrase. He was absolutely not thinking about you trailed your hands on his shoulders or the way you’d smiled at him afterward like you knew exactly what you’d done.

“And if you were out enjoying the arts last night, maybe wandering a museum,” you continued smoothly, “you might’ve noticed how the city feels a little less windy. That trend will continue over the weekend.”

He shifted his weight, heat creeping up his neck. 

You gestured toward the screen again. “Today’s actually perfect for something low-key. A walk through the park, maybe. Or checking out a new dive bar while the roads stay clear.”

Bucky stared.

“And for those staying in,” you added, lips twitching just slightly, “it’s a good night for… private showings.”

He let out a strangled noise that might’ve been a laugh.

There was no way. No way that was accidental. The camera didn’t catch it, but he did, confirmed now by the quick little glint in your eye before you smiled wide again.

“Whatever you choose,” you finished, “it’s a good day to go out, or stay warm inside. Please plan accordingly, folks!”

Bucky actually laughed this time. 

You signed off like nothing had happened, like you hadn’t just flirted with one specific super-soldier through an FCC-compliant forecast.

He stood there for a long moment, heartbeat loud in his ears, replaying flashes of last night, thinking about the way you’d climbed into his lap like you already knew exactly where you belonged.

His phone buzzed.

You: I kept it professional, but I figured you’d understand the subtext 😇

He huffed out a chuckle.

Bucky: I understood, sweetheart. Loud and clear.

The reply came almost instantly.

You: Good :) 

You: Tonight’s forecast is still open 😉

He stared at the message, warmth spreading through his chest.

—

Later that night, you were at the dive bar a full half hour early, for no reason except for the fact that you had nothing else to do. 

Your apartment had felt too still after you got home, so you’d just changed clothes, stared at yourself in the mirror longer than necessary, and eventually decided that sitting alone with your thoughts was a bad idea.

So here you were.

The bar was comfortably dim, the kind of place that smelled faintly like citrus cleaner and old wood, neon signs humming over shelves of bottles. It wasn’t crowded yet, just a couple of people nursing drinks like they had nowhere else to be.

You slid onto a stool at the bar and ordered a soda. It felt normal. No cameras, just producers in your ear. Just a denim jacket and jeans, a Tool t-shirt, and your hair down the way it never was on air.

You didn’t mind being early. It gave you time to settle.

You’d just unlocked your phone when someone sat on the stool beside you with an audible little gasp. “Oh my god.”

You glanced over, already smiling because… yeah. You knew that tone.

“You’re the weather girl.”

You laughed, and it sounded light. “I am, yeah.”

His face lit up immediately, like he’d just stumbled into a celebrity sighting he hadn’t expected to happen in a dive bar of all places. You never considered yourself a celebrity by any means, well… maybe a local one. “That’s wild. I mean, sorry. I didn’t mean to say it like that.”

“It’s okay,” you said, lifting your soda in a small toast. “Happens more than you’d think.”

He laughed, then tilted his head, squinting slightly. “You look… different.”

You raised an eyebrow, amused. “Different how?”

“More real?” He waved a hand vaguely. “Less… map.”

You snorted. “Yeah, the green screen really does a lot of heavy lifting.”

That got a proper laugh out of him. He stuck out his hand. “I’m Joaquin. Nice to meet you.”

You shook it. “Nice to meet you too, Joaquin.”

He seemed genuinely sweet. He was friendly, a little excitable in a way that felt harmless. You chatted idly for a few minutes. About how weird it was being recognized in random places. About how this bar apparently had surprisingly good fries.

Then Joaquin shifted on his stool, suddenly looking like he was working up the nerve to say something.

“So,” he said, lowering his voice just a bit. “This is gonna sound kind of weird.”

You shrugged. “That’s usually how the best conversations start.”

He chuckled, then took a breath. “I have a friend coming in tonight who has… like. A huge crush on you.”

You blinked, then laughed softly. “Oh?”

“Massive,” he said, nodding seriously. “He watches you every morning. Has for… I don’t know. Almost a year, I think.”

You were used to people who knew you, sure, used to people finding comfort in routine, in familiar faces on their screens. There was something sweet about that kind of consistency, but your “fans” usually consist of little kids who wanted to work in broadcasting when they grew up.

“Is he… weird about it?” you asked with an eyebrow raised.

“No,” Joaquin said quickly. “Not at all, I promise. He just has a harmless crush on you. Any chance you’d maybe talk to him? He’d probably die before asking for a photo, but he’d definitely appreciate it.”

You considered it for about half a second.

“Sure,” you said easily. “I can say hi.”

Joaquin’s relief was immediate. “You’re a saint, man.”

He glanced toward the door just as it opened, letting in a rush of cold air and the crowd murmur of the street outside.

“Oh,” he said, pointing. “There he is.”

You followed his gesture.

Oh. 

Bucky Barnes stepped into the bar; shoulders squared, leather  acket pulled close, eyes scanning the room. 

His gaze found Joaquin first.

Then it slid to you, sitting next to him.

The moment recognition hit, it was like watching a system crash in real time.

He froze, just for a beat, but it was enough for his shoulders to go rigid. His steps slowed, face going utterly blank in that way that screamed oh no even if he didn’t say a word.

Joaquin, completely oblivious to the internal apocalypse happening, grinned like he’d just pulled off the greatest surprise of his life.

“That’s him,” he said cheerfully.

You set your side down slowly, eyes never leaving Bucky as he stood there looking like the universe had personally betrayed him.

You smiled fondly, just a little bit confused. “Well,” you whispered, mostly to yourself, “this just got interesting.”

Joaquin didn’t seem to hear. He lifted his arm high, waving enthusiastically over the low din of the bar. “BUCKY!”

Bucky flinched.

Not subtly, either. It was a full-body, caught-off-guard flinch. His eyes darted once more to you before snapping back to Joaquin, as if maybe, maybe, if he didn’t look directly at you again, this would all turn out to be a misunderstanding.

It didn’t.

Joaquin waved again, bigger this time, and patted the empty stool on his other side. “C’mon, man!”

Bucky swallowed and forced his legs to move.

You watched him approach, taking in the way his shoulders were stiff. God, he looked handsome, and for a while you were distracted from the matter at hand. 

You schooled your expression into polite curiosity as he reached the bar.

Joaquin beamed between the two of you. “Okay, Bucky, this is—” He gestured to you dramatically as he nudged his ribs “—well. You know who she is.”

You laughed lightly and turned toward Bucky, offering your hand like you hadn’t already memorized the exact shape of his body.

“Hi,” you said warmly. “Nice to meet you.”

Bucky short-circuited.

His brain screamed. His heart tried to exit his body. His internal monologue dissolved into white noise and regret.

Oh.

Oh no.

Oh absolutely not.

His stomach dropped so hard he was pretty sure it hit the floor.

You were acting perfectly casual, perfectly unbothered, like you’d never pressed him against the wall. Like he didn’t know exactly what you sounded like when he reached that sweet spot on your neck. 

Then, you met his gaze and gave the smallest smile, mouthing: Just play along.

Bucky caught it.

And immediately started spiraling worse.

Play along.

Play along with what?

Pretending he didn’t already know how you took your coffee?

Pretending he hadnt gone on four fucking dates with you already?

He stared at your outstretched hand for half a second too long before taking it, his grip careful, respectful, like he was terrified of doing anything wrong.

“Hi,” he said, voice a little too rough. “I’m… uh. Bucky. Nice to meet you too.”

You smiled at him like this was the first time you’d ever seen him, like you hadn’t woken up in his bed that morning.

Perfect.

Joaquin glanced between you, clearly delighted. “See? I told you he was cool.”

You nodded. “He told me you’re a regular viewer.”

Bucky felt his soul leave his body. Fuck.

“I—I mean,” he rushed out, already spiraling, “yeah, but not like—” He stopped himself, swallowed hard. “I just… uh. Mornings. Routine. You’re very… informative.”

Informative.

Jesus Christ.

You tilted your head, amused. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Joaquin snorted. “Dude watches every morning,” he stage-whispered. “Once, he stayed at Sam’s for work, in Louisiana? He downloaded a VPN to get to a New York server to watch your daily weekday forecast on his phone.”

Bucky shot him a look of pure betrayal. “Joaquin—”

“What?” Joaquin said innocently. “It’s true.”

You laughed again, kind and easy, while Bucky was very very close to jst bolting out of the room.

Then Joaquin checked his phone. “Oh, by the way. Sam texted me. He’s gonna be a bit late.”

Bucky blinked. “What?”

“Yeah,” Joaquin said. “Some kinda thing came up.” He leaned back on his stool, completely at ease. “So! Guess it’s just us for a bit.”

You smiled at him again, and the weight in his chest eased just a fraction.

He shifted his weight, hands curling into his jacket sleeves.

But as he sat there, pretending this was the first time you’d ever met, Bucky couldn’t shake the thought looping endlessly through his head:

Please don’t think I’m a creep. Please don’t think I’m a creep. Please don’t—

Oh no.

She is definitely gonna think I’m a creep.

She’s gonna think I lied.

She’s gonna think I stalked her.

She’s gonna think I’m one of those guys who shows up to volunteer hoping to “run into” someone from TV.

He nodded anyway. “Y… yeah,” he said, forcing himself to breathe. “Cool. That’s… cool.”

You turned fully toward him now, resting your elbow lightly on the bar. “So,” you said conversationally, “Joaquin tells me you’re a big weather guy.”

Bucky’s ears burned.

“I—uh,” He laughed awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just like… knowing what’s coming.”

You hummed thoughtfully. “That makes sense.”

Did it?

Did it really?

Or did you secretly think he was a freak who built his mornings around a woman on a screen and then go looking for her in real life to pretend to to—

Joaquin, entirely unaware of the existential crisis unfolding inches away from him, grinned. “See? He’s harmless.”

Bucky exhaled through his nose, heart still racing.

You took a sip of your drink, then glanced at Bucky again, eyes dancing just a little. “So. You a regular here?”

Bucky blinked. She’s flirting. Or pretending to.Or both.

“Uh. No,” he said. “This… opened last week.”

“Mmm,” you hummed thoughtfully, as your knee brushed his under the bar.

Bucky stiffened, heartbeat skyrocketing, every memory of the past few weeks crashing into him all at once: coffee dates, stolen kisses, the way you’d laughed when he got flustered, the fact that you’d already seen him naked and were now acting like this was a meet-cute.

You leaned in slightly, just enough that only he could hear. “You’re doing great,” you whispered. “Relax.”

He nodded immediately. 

You smiled, warm this time, and turned back to Joaquin like nothing had happened.

Bucky let out a shaky breath.

God help him.

If this was him playing along, he didn’t know how much longer his nervous system could survive it.

—

For the next thirty minutes, Joaquin, unfortunately, was having the time of his life.

He leaned back on his barstool like a man who believed that he was orchestrating and wingman-ing his good friend.

“So yeah,” Joaquin said casually, taking a sip of his drink, “Bucky doesn’t watch any other news channel.”

Bucky made a noise somewhere between a cough and a plea for mercy.

You tilted your head, resting your chin on your hand, eyes bright with interest. “Oh?”

Bucky tried to shoot him a warning look, but Joaquin missed it entirely.

“He knows which days you’re on,” Joaquin added. “If you’re off, he gets all grumpy. Pretends he doesn’t care, but—”

“That is not true,” Bucky cut in, face heating fast.

You smiled sweetly. “Really?”

Joaquin nodded enthusiastically. “Oh yeah. He’ll be like, ‘Huh. Must be a guest forecaster today.’ Meanwhile he’s chugging two cups of coffee.”

Bucky pressed his lips together and stared very hard at his glass.

You leaned in just a fraction, curiosity sharpening. “Two, huh?”

“Sometimes more,” Joaquin said, delighted. “Depends.”

Bucky groaned quietly. “Joaquin.”

“What?” Joaquin shrugged. “It’s endearing.”

You hummed, eyes flicking back to Bucky. “Is it?”

Bucky refused to meet your gaze. “I like… knowing what’s coming,” he said again. Weakly. Uselessly.

Joaquin snapped his fingers. “Oh! And the show. He calls it by the full name.”

Your brows lifted. “The full name?”

“Yeah,” Joaquin said. “Morning MetroView Weather Update.”

Bucky winced. “You don’t have to say it like that.”

“But that’s what it’s called,” Joaquin insisted. “You correct people when they get it wrong.”

You laughed softly. “Does he, now?”

Joaquin nodded. “One time Sam called it ‘the Channel Seven weather thing’ and Bucky was like—” He straightened, dropping his voice into a hilarious impression, “‘It’s Morning MetroView. It’s different.’”

Bucky buried his face in his hand.

You watched him with open fascination now. “Wow.”

“It’s not—” Bucky tried, then gave up, shoulders slumping. “I just… appreciate accuracy.”

Joaquin pointed at him. “See? Weather guy.”

You smiled, slow and curious. “Anything else he appreciates?”

“Oh!” Joaquin perked up. “The theme song.”

Bucky froze.

“…The theme song?” you echoed.

Joaquin nodded. “He hums it all the time.”

Bucky looked like he might actually pass away.

You stared at Joaquin, then back at Bucky. “You hum the theme song.”

“I do not,” Bucky said weakly.

Joaquin grinned. “You do. It drives me insane on missions sometimes. No offense.”

Your eyes lit up mischievously. “None taken.”

Bucky muttered, “Please stop talking,” as he pressed his forehead to the bar.

You stared at him for a beat, then chuckled. You didn’t laugh loudly or mockingly. Instead, it was a gentle, surprised laugh, like you’d stumbled onto a plot twist you hadn’t expected but appreciated.

“I just…,” you said. “Feel… professionally observed.”

Bucky peeked up at you, horrified. “I swear I wasn’t…  I didn’t— I never. I mean, I wasn’t looking for you. I didn’t even think I’d ever meet you. I just—”

Joaquin checked his phone mid-rant. “Oh, hey. Sam just texted.”

Bucky looked up sharply. “What did he say?”

Joaquin stood, sliding off the stool. “He’s around the block. I’m gonna go meet him outside.”

Relief flooded Bucky’s face, right up until Joaquin pat him on the shoulder.

“You two keep talking,” Joaquin said brightly, then leaned in and winked at Bucky. “I’ll give you space.”

Bucky stared at his retreating back in horror.

You turned back toward him, smile still in place. You said nothing, but your eyes were very, very curious.

Bucky’s silence lasted approximately forty seconds after Joaquin disappeared before absolutely losing the plot.

“I just wanna say,” he started, too fast, hands already coming up like he was surrendering, “I’m not a creep. I swear to God. I didn’t… this wasn’t like a thing I planned or anything. I wasn’t tracking you or showing up places on purpose or—”

You blinked, startled, “Bucky…”

“I know how it sounds,” he rushed on, words tumbling over each other until it blended together now. “Guy watches someone on TV, knows the schedule, hums the theme song…. okay, that part sounds bad when you say it out loud! But it was just routine. It helped me feel normal. And I didn’t know you. I didn’t think I knew you. I never thought you owed me anything, or that you even knew I existed…”

He dragged a hand through his hair, looking up at the bar heavens as though any kind of divine force could save him. 

“I swear I didn’t go to that soup kitchen because of you,” he added, panic in his voice. “That was real. You were just… there. And then you were nice, and kind, and… fuck, I just—please don’t think I’m some creep who built a fantasy in his head.”

You watched him unravel for a few seconds longer before closing the distance before he could spiral any further.

You… kissed him.

It was intentional. You were enough that he could feel the warmth of you, smell your perfume, register the way your hand slid lightly on the front of his chest like you were anchoring yourself there.

He froze for half a second. Then he melted.

When you pulled back, his breathing was uneven, eyes blown wide like he’d just been rebooted.

“I don’t think you’re a creep,” you said, lips still close enough that your words brushed his mouth.

He swallowed hard. “…You don’t?” he asked quietly, almost afraid to hear the answer.

You laughed, thumb tracing the seam of his jacket. “Can I tell you a secret?”

He nodded immediately. Anything to take the pressure off him. “Yeah. Please.”

Your smile turned a little sheepish. “I might’ve had a teeny tiny crush on you, too, way before I first met you.”

His eyebrows shot up. “No way.”

“Way,” you said. “I watched your press conferences all the time.” You rolled your eyes at yourself. “I used to get jealous of my on-field coworkers who got to interview you. I’d be in the studio like, ‘Cool, I’m pointing at a screen while you’re standing five feet away from Bucky Barnes.’”

He let out a stunned laugh. “You’re kidding.”

“I’m not,” you said, amused. “Guess that’s what I get for pursuing meteorology.” You hesitated, before adding, “My parents still have Howling Commandos trading cards in the attic. I found them one summer when I was home from college and absolutely lost my mind.”

He stared at you. “You can’t be serious.”

“Dead serious,” you said. “I thought I had a harmless crush, too. You are… a super soldier, y’know? Avengers-adjacent. No way you’d ever look my way.”

You met his eyes, smile turning shy.

“Well,” you continued, “until… you did.”

Bucky let out a disbelieving laugh. “That’s… that’s— wow.”

You smiled. “So.” You nudged his knee lightly with yours. “We’re even.”

Bucky laughed, nose crinkling adorably, “I guess so.”

You leaned in, voice low and teasing now. “We’re really just different sides of the same coin.”

He chuckled, tension finally breaking, shoulders relaxing as his hand slid to your waist like it had always meant to be there.

“You really don’t mind?” he asked, just to be sure.

You smiled, fingers curling into his jacket. “Bucky, you weren’t a creep about it. It’s not like you stalked or harassed me,” you reassured, “and I think… I would very much mind if you stop.”

You kissed him again.

This one was slower, your fingers sliding up into his hair, his human hand firm at your waist like an anchor. Bucky sighed into it helplessly as the bar noise faded into a dull hum. If anyone was watching, neither of you noticed. You were too distracted with each other, loving feeling the smile on his face when you tugged him closer, loving the way he followed your lead.

—

“Dude,” Joaquin said excitedly as he and Sam rounded the corner back toward the bar. “I’m telling you, you are not prepared for this.”

Sam raised a brow. “You say that a lot.”

“No, this is different,” Joaquin insisted. “We saw the weather girl. Y’know, the one Bucky watches.”

Sam stopped short, a grin spread across his face. “Oh. That weather girl.”

“Yes!” Joaquin said. “And Bucky’s talking to her right now.”

Sam chuckled under his breath. “Yeah, that tracks.”

They pushed the door open.

And there you were.

Bucky had your side leaning gently against the bar now, one hand braced beside you, the other warm and familiar at your hip. You were smiling into the kiss like you already knew something the rest of the room didn’t. Bucky looked… relaxed. He looked in a way Joaquin had literally never seen before.

“Oh damn,” Joaquin froze mid-step. “That was quick.”

Sam burst out laughing, slapping Joaquin on the shoulder. “Quick? Man, no.”

He nodded toward the two of you, still very much wrapped up in each other, completely unbothered by your audience.

“They met a couple months ago,” Sam added casually.

Joaquin turned around. “What.”

“There was a blizzard,” Sam said. “Power outages everywhere. Bucky and I volunteered at one of the shelters. She showed up to help, too.”

Joaquin stared at him, almost betrayed. “You knew this?”

Sam shrugged, still smiling. “Didn’t know it’d turn into that, but yeah.”

Joaquin looked back at the bar. He studied the way Bucky’s forehead rested against yours now, kissing your nose adorably.

“Oh,” Joaquin’s eyes widened. “That’s why he was shitting himself.”

Sam snorted. “Yep.”

“He didn’t tell her,” Joaquin whispered, horrified and delighted all at once.

Sam shook his head. “Not a chance.”

Joaquin looked back at the bar, where Bucky had leaned in to murmur something in your ear that made you laugh before pulling him right back in.

“…Wow,” Joaquin said. “They’re just—”

“Yep,” Sam cut in. “Bet they’re gonna be sucking each other’s face off by the end of the night.”

Joaquin laughed, a little awed now. “Good for him.”

“So…” Sam shrugged casually. “Drinks?”

—end.

[liati2000]

This is so wholesome and sweet!! I loved it so much🥹🥹

[heldbybarnes]

i didn’t disappear for fun.

i didn’t “take a break” because i was bored, dramatic, or couldn’t handle criticism.

i full deleted my account because someone sent me a death threat involving my family.

not vague. not edgy internet bullshit. specific enough that i didn’t feel safe staying online.

so before anyone starts running their mouth about how i “can’t take hate” or “owe explanations,” read that again and remember that behind this account is a real, breathing human.

over the past month (and longer), i’ve been dealing with - ai allegations - harassment in my inbox and on anon - people dissecting my writing, my posting schedule, my motives and yes, actual death threats

i’m including screenshots because i’m done protecting people who clearly had no problem trying to scare me into silence.

and let me be very clear about the ai thing since y’all are weirdly obsessed with that accusation

i do not use ai to write my fics. i never have. i don’t need to.

i’ve been writing some form fanfic for years. publicly. consistently. with a very obvious voice that hasn’t magically changed overnight. if you think second person pov + smut + emotional beats = ai, that is genuinely a you problem.

dislike my writing? cool. block me. think i’m overrated? fine. block me. think my stuff isn’t for you? then why are you here. BLOCK ME.

but jumping from “i don’t like this blog” to threatening my life or my family is unhinged behavior, full stop.

and no, i’m not going to be polite about it. i’m not going to soften my language to make it easier for the people who did this to swallow. i’m not going to apologize for disappearing when my safety was on the line.

if you sent hate, if you participated in dogpiling, if you fueled rumors, or if you’re the type of person who thinks anonymity means zero consequences, this post is for you.

if you’ve been supportive, patient, kind, or just quietly waiting for me to come back, thank you. truly. i saw it, even when i couldn’t respond.

this blog exists because i love writing. it does not exist to be a punching bag.

i will block freely. i will protect my peace.

and no, i probably shouldn't be back so soon. but i'm sick and tired of allowing some spineless ANONYMOUS person dictate my life. they don't get that power. i refuse to crumble because someone couldn't handle what i'm capable of.

final boundary:

any further harassment, accusations, or threats will be blocked and documented. no replies. no debate. no explanations. anon will be closed if needed. i am not here to prove my humanity, justify my work, or make people comfortable at my own expense.

if you’re here in good faith, we’re good. if not, this is not the space for you.

that’s all.

[liati2000]

THIS!!!!! Some of you anons literally need to get a life. Harassing someone for their ART the post online on their OWN blog FOR FREE!!!! Is fucking childish and just mean. No one is forcing you to be her and enjoy this community. If you don’t like it don’t be here.

I’ve been in enough fandoms where the anons and the haters kick people off this app just for their pure fun and hatred and it’s repulsive.

Kennedy, you are amazing, and I hope you know how some of us love you, your AMAZING & ORIGINAL writing and your blog. I consider you a gift for this fandom fr.

I hope you get some quiet and enjoy this new year.

[houseofhyde]

to make you feel my love.

pairing. bucky barnes x fem!reader synopsis. a change of season brings a change of mood. as you begin to sink into the depths of seasonal depression, bucky vows to become your life vest. manchild au masterlist. warnings. this is part of the manchild au but can be read as a stand-alone, congressman!bucky, established relationship, hurt/comfort, 40s!bucky throwback, mental health struggles, suggestive + mentions of previous sexual encounters. wordcount. 2.5k hyde's input. i am the number one hater of october. fuck october. me and my homies all hate october… anyway, dedicated to this anon and anyone else who’s being put through the ringer right now by life.

Bucky is no stranger to silence.

The box he called home in Hydra had been built to keep his screams contained, sound-proof padded walls denying him the right to disturb the world with his wails. Eventually, throat raw and chest heaving, the soldier would realise the padding not only concealed but denied him the noise of the outside: no passing footsteps nor conspiring voices were there to greet him, to reassure him he was still more human than machine.

The apartment in Romania had been a different kind of silence. Not stale nor stagnant, it was punctuated by the beeping horns of passing cars and the drunken yelling of surrounding tenants. Somehow, the noise of the outside world only made his quietness feel louder, all-consuming.

The silence in Wakanda was peaceful, soundtracked by birds awakening to seize the day and children playing down by a lake. Tranquil, a gift; silence became not a curse but an opportunity to relearn the sounds he could make. The cadence of his voice, the rhythm of his laugh, the forgiveness of his conscience. Enveloped in the quiet, he shed the title of soldat and became Bucky again.

Then came the apartment in Brooklyn. Weeks into knowing himself, weeks away from knowing you. The government had declared it part of his pardoning, a peace-offering — the soldier knew better than to believe them. They wanted the security of knowing his whereabouts, of keeping track of where he lay himself to rest at night. Unseen eyes watching him, the walls closed in and tranquil became trouble in Bucky’s mind once again.

But then he wound up at your doorstep, and silence became a luxury, an old friend he’d catch up with over lunch, only to return to the vapid loudness of you.

It didn’t take long for him to realise he likes the noise; likes hearing you choke on your own laugh while recounting an incident from the office, and listening as you croon beneath the flowing waters of a shower, and drifting to sleep with the soft blow of your breath in his ear. There’s no space for loneliness in his life when you’re there.

So, now that silence has decided to trespass on your home, Bucky doesn’t know what to do.

The move to Washington goes smoother than the congressman expected — if he’d known you would take to the city so easily, he wouldn’t have spent weeks agonizing to Sam over the best way to tell you he wanted to run for Congress.

New job, new home, new pet — within a week of moving into the neighbourhood, you heard a puff of white fur meowing amidst a downpour of rain — life is busy but life is good; so good that Bucky almost fails to notice the change in your demeanour.

At first, it’s just a matter of sleep. You cling to it longer in the mornings, ignore a series of alarms in favour of sinking deeper under the blankets; movie nights on the couch end as swiftly as your head meets his lap, leaving Bucky to watch you instead of the blockbuster; it embeds itself into your features, weighs down your eyes and your shoulders.

When he asks if your new job is exhausting you, he’s met with a dismissive smile.

Then, irritation makes it’s grand debut. His teasing words no longer lead to a verbal spar but an uncomfortable outburst. You declare patience as obsolete, trading it instead for frustrated sighs and a willingness to give up on things before they even start. It doesn’t take long for stress to become your newest companion, walking out the front-door with you, hand-in-hand, as you head off to work.

In the blink of an eye and the span of two weeks, Bucky watches the light he’s brightened his life with slowly fade within you. Mellow eyes meet his across the dinner table, and linger too long on your reflection in the mirror when you think he’s not looking.

The worst part is not knowing why.

Because, if Bucky doesn’t know what’s burdening you, then how can he begin to make it better? To ease the tension in your shoulders and coax out those tears you keep blinking away?

The answer lands in his lap — quite literally.

A package, wrapped carefully in a red bow and sealed beneath the army’s sigil, hand-delivered by a fellow congressman, a fellow veteran — though Bucky’s service had taken place decades earlier. Curiosity led him down a path of unravelling the gift within his office, no time to waste waiting to make the journey home.

Pressed and folded to perfection, a familiar uniform greeted him.

Instead of carrying the soldier back to the early days of his enlistment, the muted green bloomed visions of you a few weeks prior, with your legs pulled up onto the couch and a blanket of vibranium curled over your frame.

“Were you scared?” Your voice cut through the melodrama playing out on the screen, chin propping itself against his sternum as your eyes shot up in search of his own.

“Hmm?”

“When you enlisted,” behind you, an explosion takes place in the movie. It’s not half as destructive as the effect your smile has on him.

A lie is more palatable than the truth, and so he does so with the reassurance that he is doing you a favour, “I was excited to serve my country.”

Where he expects you to swoon over his claims of bravery, he finds you laughing instead, one hand reaching up to smooth out the tension in his brows.

“You frown when you lie to me, did you know that?” You say, not with the pain of someone deceived but the endearment of someone being charmed. “It’s okay to tell me you were afraid. Nervous or not, no matter how I picture it, you still look handsome in your uniform.”

The house is empty but for a four legged creature, weaving between Bucky’s legs and dusting the bottom of his grey suit in white fur.

The soldier is quick to put himself to work: dinner is cooked, furniture is moved, and music fills the living room.

A record player, a gift from you to commemorate a year of being each other’s. Ever since, you’ve made a habit of bringing home old vinyls, engraved with the very same songs his mother and sister used to dance along to.

It’s a parallel Bucky’s yet to let you in on. Not quite a secret he’s trying to keep but, rather, an anecdote he’s waiting to reveal, when the time is right. Perhaps that time is still far down the line, when you find yourselves agonising over finding the perfect tune to accompany a first dance.

Plans in motion and a text confirming your departure from work, the uniform slips on like a glove and Bucky finds the past facing him in the mirror. Hair a little longer, face a little older, metal filling the left sleeves, yet it’s still Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes.

Your arrival is muted, a careful turn of keys and a gentle twist of a handle.

He misses the commotion you usually make, bursting through the door like a storm, voice calling out for him and declaring yourself home. Nowadays, it’s as though these four walls no longer mean that to you, he no longer means that: home.

There’s a rattle of the coat-rack’s legs, the jostle of key-rings, the shuffle of heels being traded for slippers, and then you’re coming into view.

Head down, shoulders slumped, you wear the day all over you: long, busy, tiresome. Ink stains a few of your fingers and a splash of coffee overruns the otherwise pristine white of a shirt’s collar. Spiderwebs of wrinkles have imbedded themselves into pants, leaving Bucky to agonise over the image of you behind a desk, for hours on end, watching project after project pile up while the view of home on the horizon grows more distant.

All that exhaustion, yet Bucky still greets you like a man revered, “You look beautiful.”

“Glad to know my whole windswept rat look still does it for you, Jame-” As much as he loves watching the shapes your lips pull to say his name, Bucky can’t help the triumph that floods over him as you come to a pause, eyes at last trading counting Alpine’s hairs strewn across the floor for counting the buttons of his coat. “What are you- Is that your old uniform?”

“‘S not mine. Not exactly,” he’s moving towards you, footsteps landing heavy when aided by boots — you’ll forgive Bucky for breaking your no-shoes-indoors policy, just this once. He can tell by the way your gaze dances restless over his body, you’re too busy admiring the view to notice the sin he’s committing. “It is the uniform they issued back then, though. Apparently this one was collecting dust in storage, until someone decided to donate it to a worthy cause.”

A hand is by your shoulder, tugging at the strap of your purse until it gives way, slipping into Bucky’s grasp. He lays it gently on the coffee table and turns his sights back on you, fingers intertwining with yours as he leans in for a kiss.

Soft as a feather, his lips brush against your own, only to inch back the moment you start to reciprocate his affection, a grin overtaking them despite the serious tone washing over his voice, “It’s me. I’m the worthy cause.”

“I can see that,” there’s a spark of amusement behind your eyes. Though small, it’s enough to have his heart beating like a bass drum. “Just don’t go getting big headed.”

“Ouch. I thought you loved me and my big head,” one hand in yours, the other pressed against his faux-wounded heart, Bucky forces himself to replace savouring the muted scent of your perfume for stepping backwards into the open space of the living room, tugging you in tow. “Practically had to wrestle it out your mouth the other night.”

“Wrestle?” A snort infiltrates your laugh, the most earnest sound Bucky’s heard from you in weeks. “You were the one crying for me to make you cum again.”

“Crying is an exaggeration-”

“There were tears on the pillow, James.”

He concedes with an eye-roll and finally pulls you in, spare hand finding the small of your back and encouraging you to melt into him, chest meeting chest, head meeting shoulder.

Silence leaves space for music to seep into both your ears, with an occasional crackle of aged vinyl spinning beneath the needle of the record player.

Stiff at first, your muscles slowly loosen as the soldier wordlessly encourages you to sway with him. The dance is awkward yet tender, what you both lack in talent is made up for, tenfold, by the emotions put behind each tentative touch.

“You moved the furniture,” your comment is barely a whisper, head buried somewhere in the army greens of his collar.

The hand clasping yours squeezes a single pulse, a simple reminder that he’s here, with you and for you. It seems to do the trick, pulling you in even closer than before.

“I wanted to dance with you,” your breath hitches at his response. Bucky is quick to soothe it back out of you, fingers travelling up the length of your spine only to retreat back down.

“Why?”

“‘Cause I miss you.”

“We live together, you don’t need to miss me.”

“But I do,” a cloud of emotion clogs up his throat, forcing his words through turbulence before they finally make it out of him, shaky when they reach your ears. “You keep looking at me with these sad, tired eyes lately, and I don’t know what’s wrong, I don’t know how to help. It’s killing me, baby.”

Bucky lets you come to a halt. Mimics you, pausing his own movements to simply stand there and hold you.

Not even a sniffle is enough to rouse him into pulling away, arm steadfast in its hold.

“Nothing’s wrong. I’m just… Not right,” you answer eventually, when the record has already spun two tracks. “I don’t know how to put it into words.”

“Try,” the clothes he once wore to command as a sergeant, he now wears to plead of you.

You wind up your answer with a deep breath and a sigh, face fleeing deeper into the warmth of his neck, “Life feels really heavy. Sometimes it’s like there’s this big pressure, and it’s crushing me beneath it.”

It’s unclear who pulls back first, both of you so synchronised that hardly a decision needs to be made before Bucky’s fingers find your chin and tilt your face up. Where red rims his eyes, scarlet has overrun yours, tears already chasing each other down your cheeks to kiss his palm with their liquid anguish.

You shut out the world, if only for a second, when his thumb swipes over a cluster of tears.

“And how do I feel?”

“Light,” your voice splits the word in two, overrun with emotions forced back and held down for too long. “You just feel light.”

Bucky expects it to bring him comfort, to finally have you quiet that vicious part of him that has been whispering tales of him being the reason behind your change in mood.

Instead, the pain in his chest only widens until he feels it tearing him apart.

He won’t tell you that, though. Won’t let the ache show, not on his face nor in his actions, pulling you close once more.

“Okay,” he breaths out, slowly picking up the rhythm previously discarded; only this time he’s not swaying you, but cradling you. “Dinner’s in the oven. Made your favourite.”

It’s fascinatingly reassuring how easily the conversation slips back into the mundane, barely a hiccup in the way you reply, “It smells good.”

“Why don’t you go change into something a little less coffee-stained, so your soldier can treat you to a proper date night?”

“Is this how you used to woo all the ladies, Sergeant Barnes?” Despite the tear-tracks marking your face, you still manage to flash him a teasing smile as you reach back and steal the hat right off his head, fastening it atop your own. “Dinner and a show?”

“Mmhm,” he hums, happy to watch you drift from him towards the bedroom. “Play your cards right tonight, and I might let you see me out of my uniform.”

“No, Sergeant, the uniform stays on.”

The silence still lingers in the crevices between you, still clouds around your eyes and mutes your laughter; still feasts on your energy and renders you exhausted, rolling over in bed just to steal a few more seconds of restless sleep before a new day really starts.

That’s okay, though.

Bucky can learn to live with the silence, so long as you let him hold you through it.

+ extra hyde !

· this is going to flop because it's fluff but oh well, it is what it is <3 · your girl is going through it rn, this was very self-indulgent.

( ☕️ ) hyde's taglist ! @54nboo @andromedastark @avengemepercy @average-vibe @barnesonly @basicallynotbreathing @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @blowingbarnes @bckyslover @crispycarrierbagz @chateaubarnes @dolcesaint @earthsmightiestbenders @epiphanyrogers @faelvz @featurinbarnes @firingstars @fleurenoir @flockoff-featherface @frombkjar @fluorjscent @gilwm @heldbybarnes @herejustforbuckybarnes @iamthatonefangirl @intothesoul @its-in-the-woods @kinderwh0r3 @linggong7 @liati2000 @lilyyyy2005 @metal-armed-muse @miraclediviner @morphoportis @opheliabbarnes @overwintering-soldier @person-005 @saaaaaaaaaaam @satinbucky @seraphicd0ll @slutdier @sonatabae @ssareidsstories @starstruck-cowgirl @stellacherryfairy @sunnyteume @superbassbuck @thearchressstuff @umbreoni @unificsation @wifeofbarnes @winterdecember18 + add yourself to the taglist!

[liati2000]

Hyde I missed you!!! And just when I come back you wirte this BEAUTIFUL fic!!!

These two are my favorite couple 😍 you write so well every possible scenario

And don’t you DARE disrespect your wonderful fluffy fic it’s exactly what I needed. You’re a gift to mankind

[salem-s]

HIS AND HIS ONLY... FOR 24 HOURS (18+) — BUCKY BARNES ONE SHOT

SYNOPSIS The last person you would ever consider dating — much less touching with a ten foot pole — is Bucky Barnes. Yet somehow here you are: packing a bag to spend the night of the Fourth of July as his fake girlfriend, all to get his pestering family off his case. But admittedly you can’t help but lean into the bit. Just a tad. Especially when his ex-girlfriend makes it very clear she wants him back.

WORD COUNT 25k. dont. literally dont. im so sorry.

WARNINGS & NOTES contains fluff, angst, smmmut (oral sex- fem receiving, penetrative sex (p-in-v, unprotected oops do not take after them), sprinkles of orgasm denial and a whole lotta fondling). 18+ MDNI. slight friends-to-lovers trope? more so that reader can't stand him and he can't stop riling her up? so actually one-sided-friends-to-lovers, if you will. he fell first, but he fell harder buuuut she definitely is in some sort of internal denial. fake dating tropes will genuinely be the death of me, oops, also not edited.

You never would’ve stopped by Natasha and Steve’s apartment if you had known Bucky was going to be here. Again.

He always loiters whenever he’s bored — which is almost always — because he claims they have better snacks, a better couch, a better aura (whatever that means, you sometimes think he says shit like that just to hear the sound of his own voice). Whenever you stop by, Bucky’s either in the kitchen cooking with food that isn’t his, which is usually what Natasha makes him do since he hangs around so much, or sprawled out audaciously on their love seat couch watching a show you’ve never heard of, or interrupting their movie night by asking too many questions and guessing the ending in the first five minutes.

Granted, you interrupt them too, but that’s because you get invited along with Natasha’s other girlfriends. Bucky just shows up most of the time.

Sometimes you think he has a tracker embedded in your skin somewhere, because he’s always conveniently here whenever you are. Or he has some sort of sixth sense that he can predict when you’re stopping by, and beats you here first.

Your eyes instantly roll when he’s the first person you spot in an apartment that doesn't even belong to him, an autopilot gesture that he’s grown used to seeing. Bucky’s leaning against the kitchen island, phone to his ear and, uncharacteristically, looks agitated. Nervous. Especially as he picks anxiously at his nail beds.

Setting the container full of soup down on the counter (rest in peace to Natasha’s sinuses), you quirk a brow at his stature. Normally Bucky’s all talk, because the first course of action on his agenda whenever he sees you is some lewd comment, a disastrously stupid joke, or anything under the sun to annoy you. It’s almost like bothering you is his day job. Sometimes it's yanking the ends of your hair or throwing a dish towel at you.

Contrary to right now, because he looks like he'd rather be anywhere else right now.

But, of course, that doesn't stop him from giving you a once over, blue eyes raking up and down your body as he takes in your outfit, your pretty shoes up to what hairstyle you've gone with today. Shameless, really, he's not even trying to hide it. Morning, noon, and night he's thinking about getting some, because handling something serious over the phone doesn't mean that he's stopped being a prick. No, that's his default setting.

"Yeah, Ma, I hear ya," he says monotonously into the phone.

You snort. He's lamented before about getting stuck on the phone with his mother more times than you can count, knowing he's probably at a breaking point with his patience. He claims he loves the woman dearly, but sometimes she just doesn't let up about anything, especially about her precious baby boy.

His words, not yours, because precious is not the word you'd use to describe Bucky Barnes.

Faux pouting at him, you saunter into his space as he shoos you away, trying to listen to the half-nonsense his mother is spewing over the phone (but how can he? Especially when you look like this in that godforsaken top that trips him up every time you wear it) and half-trying not to verbally crash out with you. At least you're quiet, but the teasing look on your face and the way your teeth sink into your bottom lip forces him to look away.

When he shakes his head at you, annoyed, you jab a finger into his ribcage upon passing him. Hard.

"Stop it," he mouths low to you, not in the mood for playing.

You respond by doing it again.

"Ow," Bucky hisses as your name falls from his lips, this time audible. Then, his brows pinch as he sighs in irritation. "No, yeah, fine, that's just...uh..."

His mother says something on the other line that makes him freeze, his bright blue eyes slowly morphing from annoyance to indifference.

Bucky stares at you. He really stares at you, as if the gears are turning in his head about something you can't know to be good. And you just... stand there, your next move of attack on hold simply because you're frozen as he looks at you. No smirk. No lewd comment. No cocky expression. Just...Bucky. Thinking. Which is never a good sign, because he never takes the time to simply think of anything. He doesn't even think before he speaks half the time, let alone ponder anything outside of which girl he's going to make a move on at the bar.

Then, his expression turns into something you can't recognize, as if he has a bright idea, a revelation, an epiphany, because a slow grin etches on his pretty lips, showcasing dimples as he shifts his gaze between your eyes. You frown. Immediately. That's not good. Not at all.

All of a sudden, you're squeamish under his stare. Why is he looking at you like that? Smiling like he has something to prove? A grin that should come with a warning?

You tense when he says your name, loud and clear.

"Yeah," he continues slowly, eyes not leaving you. "My girlfriend."

If you eyes haven't popped out of the sockets before, they have now.

Instantly, you're lunging forward, reaching for the phone to end this godforsaken call. But the attempt to end the call is fruitless, because Bucky simply laughs into the ringer as if he has all the time in the world, low and easy and too nonchalant for your rising blood pressure. He defends against your grabby-hands easily, too strong for his own good, pawing your hands away as you frantically try and snatch his phone.

When you get close and your fingers brush the metal, he easily hums and puts the phone on speaker, proceeding to raise his arm as high as he can so that there's no way you're reaching it now with his freakishly tall stature. And, oh, he peers down at you so fucking smug that you want to slap it off. Immediately. Especially when he barely flinches when you shove at his chest, try and hit his armpit to get him to lower his arm (spoiler, he's not ticklish), as you hear his mother's chirpy tone on the other end.

"—nderful, James!" His mother beams through the speaker, unknowing to the way you're practically fighting her son right now. "Please tell me you're bringing her to the lake this weekend."

"N—!"

Bucky immediately covers your mouth with his palm, something that shouldn't have been as easy as he just did so. "She is, she can't stop talking about how excited she is."

When you lick his palm as an attempt to get his hand off, he barely flinches. Instead, he presses harder.

"I can't wait to meet her," she chirps happily. "This is good, James. Very good. It's time for you to show everyone what a respectable young man you are."

"Respectable?" You reiterate incredulously under his palm, but instead it comes out muffled as if you're underwater.

Bucky rolls his eyes, either at the respectable comment or the way you treat that as a joke, or at both. Regardless, you swear you see the tips of his ears burn pink, almost sheepish at his mother's words and how you're witness to it.

She doesn't hear you. Of course.

"When you get in," she adds nonchalantly, bubbling with excitement, "Pa can take you to that jeweler on the other side of the lake. You know the one? Where he got my engagement ring—"

"Okay!" Bucky interrupts hurriedly, wincing when you stomp on his foot. "Ow— Yeah, sure, Ma. Gotta skate, talk later, love you bye!"

Bucky barely lets his mother respond before he's hanging up the phone, tossing it carelessly on the granite counter before removing his hand from your mouth, which is definitely the wrong course of action, because the first thing you do is—

"What the fuck?"

"Okay," Bucky mediates immediately, throwing his hands up in surrender. "Before you freak—"

"I am freaking."

"Hear me out." His tone is calmer than you've ever heard him.

"Absolutely not."

"I didn't even pitch it to you."

"I actually couldn't give less of a fuck."

Bucky sighs your name, as if this whole ordeal that he started is one, big inconvenience.

But you're not letting him off the hook that easy. "Nope. Not doing it."

"You don't even know what it is." His hands flex at his sides.

"I didn't think I needed to?"

Cautiously, he takes a step towards you, eyes low with intent, as he says your name gently. When you don't back up, or when you don't stand down from this discussion, he takes it as a sign to take another step closer, until he's suddenly right in front of you, hands hovering over your biceps with an expression so serious it gives you whiplash, especially when he looks fucking exhausted. No witty comment on the back burner. No bribe that gets you to raise a brow and kick his groin. No nonsense that you're so used to from him.

Just Bucky. Raw. Unfiltered... Nervous?

"It's two days," he says eventually, voice calm even though you swear you can see his heart beating through his t-shirt. "Just one night, really. Forty-eight hours of pretending to like me in front of my family."

You hate how quiet his tone is. How understanding, like he's already preparing for you to say no, to head to his family function empty handed with empty promises so they can uphold their disappointed image of him, as if he's used to it. Another year of being single, another year of refusing to settle down, another year of reaffirming everything his family already thinks of him. Reckless. Unlovable. Difficult.

"Why should I?" You ask equally as quiet.

Bucky thinks for a second, eyes darting to your collarbone for one, two seconds before coming back up to meet yours.

"It could be fun."

"Are you kidding?"

"Easy," he muses, a smile ghosting his lips, but not that lopsided smirk that you absolutely can't stand, a genuine smile, as if he's amused. "I'm standing right here."

"Yeah," you snort. "A little too close, might I add."

This is when he grins, lopsided and easy (and too fucking handsome for you to even comprehend right now) as his palms have gently braced on your shoulders, one hot and the other cool, as if he knows he's overstepping boundaries and figured to get them all out of the way now while your guard is down, while you're allowing him to be this close. Last time he got this close to you — he went in for a hug on New Year's — you panicked and knocked him into the bar.

"Haven't pushed me away yet."

Immediately, your hands are bracing on his chest and shoving him away, ignoring the way your heart races at his low laugh and how you allowed him to even get that close to you without some heinous comment (also avoiding how you never noticed his hands on your shoulder, how natural they felt, and how much you hate your sudden complicity). It's one thing to let your guard down to a guy, but to a guy like Bucky Barnes? Consider yourself a dead woman the day that actually happens.

So, to combat the weird growing feeling bubbling in your gut, you put on a sneer and wear it like a badge of honor.

"How am I supposed to convince anyone I like you?"

Bucky cocks his head to the side, unfazed. "Uh, I dunno, by acting?"

Deadpan stare.

He laughs boyishly, throwing his hands up lazily. "What? Scared you can't handle it?"

Your brows skyrocket, patience wearing thin.

"You don't think I can't handle it?" You reiterate incredulously, offended. "Handle you?"

"No," Bucky says immediately, never sure of anything else in his life. "I know you can. That's why I said your name and no one else's."

The words settle in the air like a thick, suffocating fog, because you hate how certain he sounds, like what he just said isn't making your heart convulse inside your ribcage. Because you know that deep down, he really means that, no matter how much your brain wants you to think otherwise. It's not like you can't trust the guy, for fuck's sake he's been a part of your friend group for years (even though you avoid him as much as you want for reasons you don't want to get into right now), he's going to be Steve's Best Man next fall and Natasha treats him like a big, annoying older brother. They vouch for him. They love him, damn it.

Say what you want about him, but you know for a fact that Bucky Barnes isn't a liar, at least not a very good one. Sure, he's more annoying than a twelve year old school boy and has the emotional capacities of a brick wall, he's always said it as it is. No sugarcoating, no dancing around the subject, just straight forward and to the point. That's the difficult thing that you juggle in this very moment, that no matter how pissed off you are and more revolted by the fact that the Prince Prick of All Pricks is asking — no, begging — for your help, you know it's truthful.

You sigh. Long and deep and guttural.

He literally couldn't have said any other name? Not the girl you saw him flirting with two nights ago at the bar down the street? Not the pretty barista that always writes a heart on his cup and shoots you death glares whenever you go in? Not any other hookup he's had in the past month to give his mom the impression that he's tied down? Did it have to be you? The girl he can never have?

Suddenly, you remember a conversation you accidentally overheard between him and Steve a few months ago. It was right after Christmas, since that's when your friend group celebrates their own version of the holiday, more so as an excuse to get together and drink and hang out. You walked into Steve's bedroom, looking for him to help Nat with the furnace, only to discover the fire escape window open with Bucky and Steve's back to you, sharing a joint in the cold.

"You're not this monster they're making you out to be," Steve said sincerely. "You know that, right?"

It was a tone so low that you froze, knowing you weren't supposed to be hearing this, something so private that you clearly were interrupting. But part of you stayed in curiosity, because Bucky had been uncharacteristically quiet all night and dodging all opportunities to poke fun at your Christmas sweater, so you automatically knew something was wrong. Not that you ever had the heart to ask, because you knew there was no way he'd open up to someone like you, regardless if you actually cared.

And you never forgot Bucky's next words. "They'll never see me as anything worth caring about."

You had left before you could hear anything else, telling Natasha you couldn't find them.

But you sometimes think of that moment, how upset Bucky sounded, as if the opinions of his family — and even his extended family that he says he doesn't care about — really matter to him, make a mark on his soul, make him feel less of an obligation and more of a person who's wanted. Loved. Cared for. Not some mouthy fuck-boy who has nothing more to his name than a reputation. A bad one, at that.

So now, as you look at him, really look at him, you're reminded of the Bucky sitting broken on that fire escape, where all he wants is his family's approval. You can't say you blame him. But you can't let him off that easily.

"What do I get in return?" You say eventually.

Stunned, Bucky blinks at you once, twice stupidly, certainly not expecting that from you.

"If I do this for you," you add pointedly, steadily. "It's not for nothing."

He clears his throat almost immediately, desperately. "Anything you want."

You narrow your eyes at him, studying his expression as you ponder your course of action. Sure, you could make him do your laundry for a month. Or clean your apartment head to toe, yet how much of his cleaning skills are up to par? Where's the fun in that? The sense of desperation? Buy your meals for the next month? Hm, too expensive. Be your personal chauffeur? Bleh, the thought of spending confined time in a car with him, no thanks. Makeshift masseuse? Scratch that, he'd definitely be too into that.

Then you grin. It makes his brows skyrocket.

"I want Alpine."

Bucky rolls his eyes. "Okay, anything besides that."

"You just said whatever I wanted."

His lips twitch. "Sweet girl, that's my cat."

Oh, you hate the way your heart skips at the name. "So? And don't call me that."

"Gotta practice somehow."

"Haven't said yes yet," you snap pointedly.

Yet Bucky just beams. "Yet?"

You groan, feigning annoyance when your blood pressure is skyrocketing to regions so unknown, a primary care doctor would faint at the numbers. How he manages to do this every time you interact with him is beyond you, sending your bodily functions into panic mode as well as kickstarting migraines like a light switch as if he was put on this earth to do so. He knows what he's doing, he knows what buttons to push, how to prolong all of your interactions to get the most reactions out of you. He's relentless.

"Fine, deal's off," you say amidst his laughter, spinning heel and beelining for the door to refrain from actually throwing a pot or something at his head.

But, of course, he's not letting you go that easily.

"Wait!" Bucky pleads behind you, boyish laughter simmering down as he catches your wrist between his fingers, pads of the tips pressing against your raging pulse point as he spins you around to face him. "Just— Fuck— Wait a second."

God, he's so close, smiling so beautiful it makes you reel. No, you think immediately, not beautiful. Not at all. Not his hair threatening to fall over his eyes, those pretty ceruleans and those dimples on a smile that seems to be reserved just for you. It fucking sucks that he's handsome, as it would make this whole turning him down to save my dignity thing much easier than it is now, because you're fucking struggling.

Especially when his hand is warm and he smells intoxicating, like everything you're into trapped in a cologne bottle. You hate how you like him close, close enough to feel like you're the only person in the room (you are) and the only girl he will ever has eyes on (you aren't). It's horrible, feeling like you're wanted by a guy like him, knowing he probably said your name as a matter of convenience, since you walked right into the room as the topic came up. You guarantee if it was any other girl, he would've said her name.

Christ. You can't debate the semantics. You'll go fucking crazy if you do.

"Okay," he bargains slow, unknowing to your internal battle between self pity and self deprecation. "You can have Alpine for a month."

You quirk a brow.

He rolls his eyes. "Fine. Two. And unlimited visitation rights after."

For a second, you actually consider it. Because despite how much you can't stand him nor can stand to be in his apartment because that means he's there, you adore that cat. You love her like she's your own, and it's unfortunate she has such an annoying owner because you'd be over there much more than you already are simply to hang out with her.

The hardest part is that she loves you, too. You watch her when he's away and you take her out in your bag into the city (safely, of course). She lays on your chest and purrs like a motor about to takeoff and head to space. On the off chance he FaceTimes you about something irrelevant or if he's on with Steve and you're in the room, you make him put her on the phone. It's ridiculous, you know, but the fact that she's sweet on you and practically hates his other friends makes you feel special, like you've got a cosmic connection to a damned cat.

You sigh deeply.

"Three," you counter-argue.

"Done," he says easily. "See? Told you we could work it out."

You refrain from head-butting him. "You never said that."

He still hasn't let go of your wrist.

"Must've said it in my head." He shrugs and you roll your eyes. Prick.

And as if life couldn't get any worse, Natasha decides to emerge from her cocoon of a bedroom, sniffling with a red nose and sunken eyes looking like death reincarnated. A blanket is wrapped around her small frame, swallowing her whole, as Steve walks in behind her and nearly running into her back given the way she freezes in the doorway, staring at you and Bucky a little too close for comfort like you've grown three heads. Four. Five. Si—

"Did I...miss something?" She croaks, blinking blearily.

As you open your mouth to respond, Bucky beats you to it, throwing a lanky arm around your shoulders and pulling you taut to his body to which you immediately grimace. His grin is light, easy, so fucking smug and pleased with himself that you wish you could take it alllllll back, wishing you weren't a good friend who drops off soup for your sick friend in the first place.

"You didn't hear?" Bucky says amusedly. "We're dating."

You should've said no.

Christ, you should've laughed in his face for coming up with such a stupid idea. You should've shoved him as hard as humanly possible and slapped him upside the head for even bringing you into this mess. You should've packed and left town before he could drag you into his car and drive you all the way to the (admittedly stunning) lake house in the middle of nowhere.

Because here you are: tucked under his arm like it's your god-given right and forcing a smile so bright it almost hurts.

When the two of you pulled onto the street, you admittedly had no idea what to expect as you'd practically been thrust into this one-sided agreement. But the house sitting before you is no home, more like a mansion with beautiful stone and an exterior build that's something straight out of a magazine. Or an architect's wet dream. It's no doubt the biggest house you've ever seen, a three car garage with plenty of cars parked in the driveway which makes you think they'd need more than three garages, perhaps a dozen.

The front lawn is long and flat, outstretching a perfect green up until a short rock wall that separates the property from the water. Literally right on the water, as gentle waves lap up against the rock wall with a pontoon and speed boat adorning the long L-shaped dock. Right by the shore, there's a fire-pit along with about twelve chairs encompassing around it, along with a cabana next to the dock that looks like there's a bar inside.

Holy fuck. Holy trust fund. Holy Christ.

The words escape you. Truly. You know you're fucked when you had to pause mid-insult to Bucky as soon as you pulled up, too stunned to even speak.

But instead of flaunting or making your reaction the butt of a joke, Bucky simply shrugs, puts the car in park, and pats the back of your hand once, twice, before exiting the car.

Now you're here. Meeting his family whilst simultaneously trying not to catch flies in your mouth.

(And also really, really trying to ignore how good his cologne smells and how he's holding you in a way that makes you think he's enjoying this.)

Especially when his mother stands in front of said-mansion and beams at you, thoroughly pleased at the thought of her son having the capacities to settle down with someone who's remotely normal (loose term, the less she knows, the better). She doesn't even let you get a word in before she's rushing forward, the white wine in her glass sloshing precariously.

"James!" His mother scolds with a look of disbelief. "You didn't mention how beautiful she is!"

Bucky's hand squeezes your waist, whether he means to or not, but it makes you shudder all the same.

Shrugging the feeling off almost immediately, you stick your hand out and muster a smile that hopefully doesn't let her know how much you want to murder her son in sixteen different ways.

"You're too kind, Mrs. Barnes," you greet politely. "It's nice to meet you."

She takes your hand instantly, encasing it gingerly with a warmth that makes Bucky's fingers twitch against your waist. Her nails are filed and freshly manicured, skin smooth as if she just got back from the salon. Makes sense, given the almost perfect shimmer of her nail beds.

"Oh, please, Mrs. Barnes is his grandmother," she says with a playful scoff and a tone that makes it seem like she didn't like said-grandmother very much. "Call me Winnie. None of those formalities around me, honey. James has already told me so much about you, no need to be so proper."

You stifle a snort as you peer up at Bucky in faux-shock, noticing the tips of his ears burning red.

"Oh, did he?"

Winnie drops your hand as she laughs, and two things are obvious by the way her eyes crinkle and her smile widens: she loves her son and she loves her wine.

"Plenty," she muses, lunging forward to place a ginger kiss on Bucky's hot cheek. "Oh, don't give me that look. Everyone is just so excited that you’re becoming a young man."

He shakes off her welcoming gesture, squeezing your waist once more. You can practically feel the heat radiating off his cheeks, flushed with embarrassment that you of all people are hearing this right now. At this point, you think it's a coping mechanism for him.

"Dad didn't want to be a part of the welcoming committee?" He asks coolly, switching the subject as he looks beyond Winnie towards the house, waiting for a person who is probably never going to come greet them.

You shove that assumption way, way, way down.

Whether Winnie can see the nerves coming from her son, she doesn't comment on it, instead ignoring it altogether. "Don't start with that, James. He's grilling in the back with Mr. Townes."

Bucky snaps his gaze to his mother. "What?"

You brows furrow at the sudden tone shift.

His mother doesn't notice, instead moving towards the house. "Come inside, Izzy's making tequila sunrises."

If possible, Bucky stiffens even more. At this point, he could be as rigid as a board.

"Izzy's here?" He asks incredulously, almost...angry?

Not noticing her son's clear apprehension, Winnie nods and takes another hearty sip of her wine, still smiling bright as can be as she ushers the two of you inside. If the moment wasn't so full of tension, you'd take the time to admire the sunset. The smell of a cookout. The sound of the waves lapping against the rocks with the cadence of a lullaby.

"Yes, yes." Winnie interrupts your feel of the senses cheerfully. "She's here for the night to see the fireworks. The Townes are staying at the Clearwater's next door. Now come! Everyone wants to meet your girlfriend, honey.”

Before anyone can elaborate further or escalate the conversation, Winnie is turning tail and waving you two inside once again, this time sauntering back into the mansion as her shoes crunch under the soft gravel of the driveway, humming a common tune to herself and clearly giddy as can be. She’s unknowing to the chaos she just inadvertently caused, unknowing to the way her son practically seized up at the mere mention of someone. You assume it’s detrimental, given the iron grip on your waist and the way he hasn’t breathed in what feels like a minute.

The silence becomes palpable as you can practically see the steam coming out of his ears.

Swallowing thickly, you step away from him to grab your bag (in the process of doing so, his hand leaves your waist and you try to ignore how much you hate not having it there), slinging it over your shoulder as you ponder for a moment, eyeing his duffle. Feeling gracious for a second, you grab his as well and you slam the car door shut.

The sound seems to jolt him from his internal self-inflicted pity party, blinking his blue eyes once, twice, before shaking his head, taking his bag from your extended hand and tightening his grip around the straps and muttering something incoherent under his breath.

"We've been here for two minutes and you're already grumbling," you joke lightly as you try and clear the thick air. "Personally, I would've bet on five."

Bucky takes a long, deep breath. One from the soul. One that is obviously an attempt to avoid a crash-out mere minutes into the weekend. For a moment, you almost want to immediately apologize for the ill-timed comment as you feel your face get hot.

Fucking idiot, you think, who are you to comment on that?

But instead of snapping at you or defaulting to his asshole nature, he simply takes another deep breath.

"Izzy's my ex," he says eventually. Low and calm.

Your heart sinks. Great. Perfect. Another one of Bucky's past flings coming back to haunt you. Again. (Don't ask about the again. You had a pretty black and blue shiner to the cheekbone last Christmas when his winter situationship thought you two were seeing each other when you obviously weren't. You learned very quickly in that moment that these women do not play about Bucky Barnes. Not at all.)

"She's..." Bucky continues steadily, looking up the sky for a mere moment as he tries to find the words. "...territorial."

You roll your eyes. "Great. Am I gonna have to fight this one, too?"

Bucky's lips twitch barely. Just barely. But there. A crack in his horrible mood. It makes your pride swell slightly.

"Careful, baby." He draws out smoothly. "Startin' to sound a little jealous."

Aaaaaand your pride is extinguished. Gone with the wind. Dissipated into thin air. You're halfway to the house after the pet name, hating the way your heart thumps as you hear his jovial laughter behind you as he follows you in the house.

diver

His hand doesn't leave you the entire time you're introduced to his family.

You have every single urge to shove him off, because it seems like the fucker is enjoying this. Enjoying the feel of your smooth skin under his hand, charting territories that have been off limits for the entire duration of your friendship (god, how long has it been now?) and taking full advantage of being able to cart you around and show you off to his family. That's what he wanted, isn't it? To practically flaunt you as living proof he's not what they make him out to be?

Bucky talks about you to his aunts, uncles, cousins, friends and neighbors like you've hung the stars yourself, showcasing your career accomplishments and hobbies that you didn't even know he knew.

When you pulled him aside after the third fun fact, he simply shrugged as he fixed your hair.

"Did my research," is all he says, before putting on that million dollar smirk and moving onto the next introduction.

And he does not leave your side. Not once. Not physically. At all.

Meeting his chirpy aunt with glimmering earrings and a bright red lip? Bucky's fingers are playing with the ends of your hair. Chatting up his second cousin about the nuances of implementing more solar energy? His thumb is rubbing circles on your shoulder. Being introduced to his father and the ring of grown man crowding around the grill as if they're all waiting for their turn to be grill-master? A palm is pressed firmly to the small of your back, grounding and steady almost as a coping mechanism himself because his father does not seem to have an ounce of the warmth his mother does.

Mr. Barnes is stern. Stoic. Giving Bucky a simply once over before politely introducing himself to you. Then returning to his conversation with the rest of the guys at the grill.

Bucky takes that as his cue to steer you away, and you pretend not to notice the way his fingers tremble against your back.

And now here you are: seeking refuge in the (giant) empty kitchen, where the leftover appetizers are sitting idly on the counter while the main course, burgers and hot dogs, are about to be served outside on the back patio. From here, you can hear the faint chatter and laughter, no doubt a rich sound, but from your little corner of solace, the sound acts as a buffer between the two of you and the stuffy atmosphere.

You and Bucky lean on counters opposite each other, sipping on tequila sunrises as you carefully study his body language. Closed off. Quiet. Already in his head. Sometimes you hate being empathetic, because why do you have the urge to cheer him up? To push the hair away from his eyes? To grab his hand and tell him that it'll be alright?

Frankly, you can’t even begin to understand the dynamic Bucky has with his father. He’s never spoken highly of the man, and you’ve only heard few rumblings about him in your years of friendship (if you can call it that) with the man standing in front of you. Yet you’re no idiot, you can assume it’s nothing pleasant or warm given the constant drive Bucky has to please him, whether he outright says it or not, because despite the anger and resentment he has towards his father, you can tell there’s a still a part of him that is a boy simply wanting his father’s approval, his father’s love, his father’s respect. You can’t necessarily blame him for that. You don’t understand it, perhaps you never will, but you still hate the insinuation that he doesn’t feel like he’s enough just because his father thinks so.

"Hey," you say quietly, nudging your foot against his ankle as he peers up at you with distant eyes. "How long you think your cousin's been cheating on that old jizzbag she married last year?"

Bucky's lips twitch just barely.

"Because she's been making fuck-me eyes towards that one guy," you add pointedly. "Quite obviously, might I add, that I'm starting to get a little turned on from it. Fuck, what's his name? I think he's the neighbor, uh..."

"Dan," Bucky responds quietly, but a small smile ghosts his lips. "And at least three months. Since spring break."

You gasp dramatically. "Scandalous. You think he knows?"

"The— Christ, what'd you call him? The old jizzbag?"

Nodding animatedly, Bucky chuckles gently and shakes his head at you, slowly starting to thaw from the slump he'd been in ever since the run in with his father and returning back to the person you know.

"No shot. Or he's pretending not to notice."

"Oh?" You hum curiously. "That adds a twist. I can already smell the headline: Billionaire fossil makes shocking discovery of his lifetime, his trophy wife half his age is getting devious back shots from the stud of a neighbor, doesn't reveal their secret so long as they set up a cuck chair for him in the corner. Got a nice ring to it, no?"

Bucky laughs boyishly, and god if the noise doesn't do something weird to your gut.

(Especially when his smile is so fucking pretty it almost hurts.)

He clutches his abdomen, nudging your ankle to mirror your action from before. "I think you missed your calling. TMZ would kill to have someone like you."

"Someone like me?" You challenge, feigning offense. "You mean someone so creative and talented and—"

"There you are!"

An unknown third voice interrupts you, both you and Bucky whipping your heads to the kitchen entrance to see... probably the most beautiful woman you've ever seen in your life standing there.

Her long blonde hair is braided neatly and folded over her shoulder, accompanied with a silk ribbon tying the pieces together. Bright green eyes blink between the two of you, along with a wide (almost forced) pearly smile as she takes in the scene before her. She's genuinely one of the most stunning people you've ever seen, and with the way her eyes keep lingering on him, your heart stills. Is that..? No, you don't think that's—

"Izzy," Bucky breathes out evenly, almost pained. "Hey."

Izzy steps into the room like she owns it.

"So this is where you've been hiding out? Can't really say I blame you. It's a snooze-fest out there." Suddenly she's right here. In your bubble, sliding next to the counter and bumping your shoulder as if she's been your pal all your life. God, she even smells good. "Seems like way more fun in here."

You hum casually, remembering Bucky's thoughtfully in-depth description of her. Territorial.

Yeah. Sure. You can be territorial, too. You can totally sink your talons into him, stake your claim, assert your dominance. It's not like you're a stranger to people trying to one-up you, you're practically a professional asshole. Hopefully you won't have to use any of that side of you. But. It's there. Even if it's dormant.

"If by fun you mean raiding the liquor cabinet, then sure," you muse.

Izzy chuckles sweetly at you, then lulling her head forward to eye Bucky up and down. "I like her."

"Didn't think I needed your approval," he shoots back jokingly, but half of you thinks he was partially being serious.

Slightly, just slightly, Izzy stiffens next to you. But it lingers for less than a second, because her pretty smile is back up as she brings her cocktail up to her glossy lips.

"Just being friendly, Jamie," she murmurs into her glass, taking a sip before ahhing graciously.

Bucky's brows pinch at the nickname.

Christ, you can feel his irritation from here. He should start calling you a modern day Superman given the way you've been cutting corners at the expense of his well-being (and his blood pressure).

"You're the mixologist of the night, right?" You converse casually, lifting your glass to your lips.

Izzy's gaze lingers on Bucky (or Jamie?) for one, two beats before turning to you, eyes drifting down to your cocktail and then back up to meet yours. Her expression holds no indication of a vendetta, so trying to stay in her good graces couldn't hurt. You hope. Especially when Bucky looks at you incredulously, almost trying to warn you with his eyes not to engage.

After a moment, she nods and flashes that sweet smile once again.

No wonder Bucky fell for her, Christ. She could sway battalions by simply asking nicely.

A faint buzzing gains everyone's attention, filling the gaping silence and nearly making Bucky jump three feet in the air.

"Shit," Bucky curses all of a sudden, digging his phone out of his pocket and wincing at the caller ID. "Uh, it's Sam. He's watching Alpine, probably scratched his eye out or something."

He pauses, gaze darting between you and Izzy with skepticism.

But you're an adult. At least you try to be.

So you nod towards the other room. "We're good. Let me know if his eye's still in tact."

His blue eyes settle on you, a wordless question. And you respond with yours, smiling gently and giving him all the reassurance he needs to leave you here. With his ex. Alone. The supposed territorial girl who broke up with him so detrimentally horrific last year he lost twenty pounds. No biggie. The call can't be too long anyway, right? Sam's probably calling to send a proof of life. Five minutes, tops.

Then, Bucky does something you never expect.

The fucker leans forward, places a chaste kiss on your cheek, and promptly leaves the room.

He just— Okay. Yeah. No, totally. He just kissed you. Literally no big deal. Actually, it can't be a big deal, because you're his girlfriend. Loving, doting, caring girlfriend. Sitting next to his ex-girlfriend, who's no doubt watching your reaction like a hawk, gaging your dynamic, your vibe, your...everything. That's an everyday act for people who are dating. It's actually pretty prude-ish for people who are together. Normally it's the lips. The forehead. The back of the hand. Below the belt—

Christ. Stop. Stop. Stop.

You still have a job to do. A role to play. You can't be hung up on the semantics. You can curse him out later, you pointedly decide. That'll make you feel better. For sure.

You lift your glass in a feeble attempt to regain half your brain back. "Nice work. I'll have to ask for some pointers."

"Trick is a pinch of lemon juice," she whispers playfully. "Not that you really care, anyway."

Any ounce of formalities dissipate into thin air, rising and dying in your throat. Your head snaps up, looking into her green eyes with utter confusion, partially at the sudden tonal shift but also at the fucking audacity. Once you realize that she's not joking around, your heart skips a beat at the anticipation of a confrontation.

You... heard her correct, right? You're not just making things up based on the preconceptions you already have of her, right? She didn't just completely flip a switch and confirm all the previous suspicions you had of her, right? Right?

"Pardon?" You ask calmly.

Izzy smiles again, but this time it's nothing nice. It's calculated. Cold.

"I know what you're doing," she says gently, but the tone carries the backbone. "Trying to be my friend when you're frankly the opposite."

Oh. No mistake here. Your intuition was correct. You weren't hearing things or making scary stories up to tell in the dark. She's being fucking serious, and she's looking at you like you're her next meal, her next target, a canary to a cat. The conversation she struck up wasn't to be friendly, it was to get Bucky's guard down, to let him feel comfortable enough to leave you two in a room together with the naive belief his ex has changed.

Doesn't seem like it, though.

But two can play this game. She wants Bucky back? Too fucking bad, bitch, you think bitterly. If you weren't selling the fuck out of the girlfriend role earlier to his family, you're about to seal the deal right here, right now, starting with her.

"I think the term you're searching for is common decency," you deadpan. "A general misconception, though, so don't feel too bad."

The blonde snorts at that. Fuck, even that's a pretty sound.

"You're witty, I'll give you that. Jamie always liked the mouthy ones," she purrs, practically bleeding green.

"You think that's you?"

Izzy swirls her drink around as if she has all the time in the world to do so, bumping your shoulder with the gesture with little to no regard for your personal space. You're three seconds away from shoving her off, as you've gotten your fair fucking share of being touched tonight.

She sighs dreamily as if the whole conversation is already beneath her. "You know, if you weren't with him, I feel like we could've been friends."

Your response is immediate. "I normally don't pick up hitchhikers."

The deadpan makes her laugh, a genuine laugh, as if she's pleased with the way she's grinding your gears, as if that was the goal all along, as if your words do nothing to pierce her thick skin.

"And Jamie normally doesn't go for..." Izzy pauses, taking a long moment to look you up and down in a way that instantly pisses you off. "...girls like you."

Your brow quirks.

"But I guess it looks like everyone's changing," she adds innocently, clinking your glass with hers in a way that isn't ceremonial in the slightest, pushing herself off the counter and slowly sauntering towards the exit.

Yet you don't falter. You don't let her get to you.

Instead, you send her a warm smile that she definitely doesn't deserve as you tip your glass politely towards her.

"Don't worry," you respond coolly. "You still have time."

Izzy's grin slips, giving you another detrimentally judge-mental once over before turning heel and slipping out of the kitchen without another word, blonde braid swiveling with the abrupt movement as the scent of her pretty perfume slowly wafts out of your sphere.

Once you know she's out of sight and out of mind, you let out a long, deep sigh before downing the rest of your drink.

Conveniently, that's when Bucky decides to return, unknowing to the previous altercation.

"Well, good news is that he has both eyes," he says casually, sliding back in the spot he occupied earlier. "Bad news is that he now has the scratches to prove—"

Bucky trails off immediately when he notices your expression, your body language, how you're just about ready to throw hands at the next person who sparks up a conversation with you, clutching onto the cocktail glass as if it had done something to personally offend you. All conveniently without Izzy in sight, and he's no idiot to put two and two together in an instant.

He bites cautiously. "You alright?"

You quirk a brow. "Peachy."

Bucky carefully plucks the glass out of your hands and sets it on the counter, his hands moving back to encase yours. His fingers are cool against your flaming skin, but admittedly it calms you down in more ways than one — not that you'd ever tell him that. Not even if the world depended on it. Even though he can probably tell from the way your shoulders instantly relax.

"You look like you're seconds from snapping my neck, which is normal for you. But..." He winces, already knowing. "What'd she say?"

"Enough," you say curtly, shaking your head. "She's about to have the worst fucking weekend of her life."

His head tilts in confusion, and you're still pretending not to notice that his hands are still holding yours.

"Christ," he murmurs after a moment, brows pinched in worry. "You're not gonna kill her, are you?"

Sighing, you roll your eyes. "No. But I'm gonna remind her that she's the one who left you. That's all."

God, you hate the way he instantly grins, squeezing your hands as if it's his right to do so in the first place and suddenly occupying the space right in front of you, showing little to no fear of the giant chance you shove him where he stands. He's so close, blue eyes shining with a sense of pride that makes you want to slap the smug expression right off his pretty face.

No. Nope. His normal face. His perfectly adequate and average looking face. Nothing more. Nothing less.

It isn't until he ducks down, faces inches from yours, where your fight or flight instincts both fail you, because you just fucking freeze. Stationary. Still as a board as he holds you here, knowing damn well this is a win for him given how you haven't kneed him in the balls yet. And he grins like he knows it, wears it like a badge of honor, and you're so fucking close, closer than you've ever been. Encompassed by his broad stature and the intoxicating scent of his cologne, with a faint lingering of tequila.

His voice is low, laced with a honey cadence that almost, almost, distracts you from what he actually says.

"You're pretty hot when you're jealous."

Aaaand that's when you shove him off. He doesn't even flinch, not when the base of his spine smacks against the island counter from the force, not from the scowl on your face, not from anything. Because he won.

Bucky rides that high all night.

Especially you two sit thigh to thigh and shoulder to shoulder on an outside patio couch, getting absolutely hounded by a round-up rodeo of tipsy aunts and cousins who have nothing better to do than to learn the nuances of your supposed love life over way-too-strong cocktails and insultingly bland pasta salad.

"She's phenomenal at taking care of people," Bucky beams through a bite of a burger, saying it too nonchalant to be considered casual. This is probably the seventh question they've asked him about keen characteristics of yours, and the one that makes you quirk your brow. "She's got, like, a magic touch or something. Healed Steve when he was sick with a 104 fever."

You snort into your second (third?) cocktail glass. Yeah, you put a cool rag on Steve's forehead when he was enduring the worst hangover of his life after New Year's last year, forced him to pull-trig when he kept pushing it off, made sure he drank water and had small doses of food throughout the day (that he could stomach, which wasn't much). Your friends started coming to you after that when they were facing hangovers worse than death. Not really the same as a fever, but you'll take it.

His aunts eat it up, though, awwing at the anecdote.

"Such a sweet girl," his aunt Margaret coos endearingly.

God, you wish the world would swallow you whole.

Especially when you feel the pad of Bucky's thumb swipe the corner of your mouth with such eased nonchalance that you don't have time to register it, nearly swatting his hand away and cursing his bloodline into next Tuesday, but you remember your audience, and remain still as a statue. Because if you can't use your spitting words or hands to shove him off, then... what else can you do besides sit here like an idiot and take it? And, oh, he knows how badly you want to smack that grin right off his face, and it only spurs him in further.

"Mhm," Bucky hums low, eyes lingering on your bottom lip for a second too long before flashing a charming grin back to his family. "My sweet girl," he repeats low, certain. "But such a messy eater."

The smile on your face probably looks more like a grimace.

But whether his aunt or anyone in this little meet-cute circle notices, no one lets on.

Instead, Aunt Margaret beams as she darts her gaze between the two of you, looking like she’s about to simultaneously combust or erupt in a fit of awws, which you don’t think you can take much more of. She holds onto a printed napkin from some chain department store as if it’s an emotional tether to her soul, manicured nails digging into the soft fabric.

“It’s so nice to see you like this with someone again, James,” she says earnestly. “It’s heartwarming to know she’s making you better.”

Her words make your stomach do a weird flip. They’re simple. Kind. Nothing out of the ordinary. But the kettlebell in your gut would defer otherwise, plagued with a phantom ache that you can quite pinpoint on what emotion you’re feeling. Prideful? Guilty? Fraudulent (if that’s a state of being?) or downright evil for making these people believe something that isn’t true.

He isn’t…being real. He’s being Bucky. Charming. Playful. Playing his strengths to woo a crowd and get them to believe one thing. He’s acting. Being a (fake) doting boyfriend, doing acts that will get the people to get off his back, to believe he’s capable of moving on and functioning like a normal adult. That’s all. Nothing more.

But why’d Margaret say again?

You wonder. What the fuck did Izzy do to him all that time ago to warrant such a sudden character flip? What did she do to his brain to make him the epitome of a womanizer, to make him never trust an emotional connection that crosses the line of friendship? What emotional damage did she do to make his own family lose interest in caring for him? To make them believe he’s this awful person who will never find love again? And if what she did to him was so detrimental to his once-jovial character, why the fuck was she invited here?

You know you’re here to prove that Bucky has the capabilities to move on. You know that. Truly. You’re here as his friend, as a favor, that’s all. There’s nothing more you need to do than what you’ve already been doing.

But just because he has a supposed “girlfriend” doesn’t make him any less of a person, and fuck these people for making him believe that’s the case.

All Bucky does is hum, smile faltering only slightly to which no one notices.

But you do.

Fuck. You notice.

And your heart just… breaks.

How do they not know what a wonderful person he is? How selfless he is? How he constantly puts everyone over himself, catering to the needs of his beloved friends and even strangers before even considering his own well being? How many times have you seen Bucky carry groceries for his elderly neighbor who doesn’t do well with stairs? How many seats has he given up for others on the subway and how many visits did he make when Sam was in the hospital for a week? How many times has he saved you the last (and best) bite of a meal he made you? How can they not know the person he is? How can they only his worth as having a partner?

Don’t say anything to make it worse, you repeat to yourself over and over and over.

“Yes, honey,” his cousin Gemma pipes up. “Having such a wonderful girl is so respectable. She makes you look great.”

Fuck. Don’t say anything. Not your place.

Margaret hums in agreement. “You’re on a good path now. We can already tell. Thanks to this one!”

She nods in your direction, a warm smile adorning her cheeks.

But it only breaks the dam.

God damn it.

“Actually,” you say before you can stop yourself, gentle yet firm. “If anyone should be getting praise, it’s Bucky.”

Bucky says your name softly, almost in warning to not even bother with it.

But you brush him off, because what? You’re not going to sit here and let these people have one misconception about him running amuck in the mud. They don’t even know him, know an ounce of the person he truly is. How can they even think he’s not remotely enough? Physically? Emotionally? As a fucking human being? As someone who’s more than a partner, a boyfriend, a prop?

You know you butt heads with him. You know he drives you up the wall with every opportunity he gets, and you know he knows it makes you crazy. But at the end of the day, he’s your friend. A good one, at that. Contrary to popular belief, he cares a lot and he loves deep and he’s one of the best people on the godforsaken planet to have in your corner. Even though he grinds your gears. Even though he relishes in your irritation. Even though he's chatty and bold and boisterous.

Before the aunts and cousins can protest and stammer to get back in your good graces, you continue.

"He's the one who made me better." Well, there's no stopping it now. "When we met, I was going through a rough patch. Not sleeping, eating, taking care of myself, the whole nine yards." Not partially a lie unless you count meeting him a week within the worst breakup of your life, then yeah. "Bucky's the one who brought me out of that hole. Even though I wanted to smack him upside the head most of the time." Meaning he distracted you from your sorrows with his natural wit and charm so detrimentally that your ex was a lingering forethought in a quick matter of time. Sure, let's go with that.

Bucky's hand somehow finds yours. Aunt Margaret chuckles nervously.

“I’m sure you weren’t implying that he’s less of a person when single,” you add pointedly. Then, “Right?”

The stammering is immediate.

“No!” Margaret defends quickly, eyes wide and panicked. “Of course not. James, that’s not what we meant at all. We just—“

“That’s good,” you interrupt sweetly, frankly not interested in the half-assed apologies but also not trying to get in a tousle with people who you don’t even know like that. “I just wanted to make sure.”

“Of course,” Gemma parrots her aunt, blinking with wide eyes to try and scramble. “We love you, James, we just want you to be happy.”

And Bucky?

His hand is encasing the back of yours, fingers wrapped tight over your knuckles.

"All good," he says smoothly, as if being belittled by his family is a normal instance he's used to at this point. "I'm happy. Very much so. She's protective, 's all."

Gemma takes a particularly large gulp of her drink. "Yes, we see that. You know, James, your cousins started a bonfire by the water, why don't you join them?"

You nearly snort. That's gotta be some polite suburban code for get this girl out of my face before she tries to humiliate me further. Or something like that. Frankly, you definitely could've given them more grief, but with the way everyones faces are burning a bright crimson leads you to think that your words were the beginning of someone standing up for Bucky. Part of you hates that you're probably the first to do so given the panicked response from your defense of him, the other part of you would do it all again in a heartbeat. Regardless of the secondhand embarrassment.

Yet instead of escalating and having more choice words for his so-called family, you smile sweetly, putting the little hiccup behind you as you upturn your palm in Bucky's grasp, lacing your fingers with his so gingerly that you see him whip his head towards yours in your peripheral. He's been the catalyst of touch all night, as you've kept your paws relatively to yourself for the duration of him showing you off. But now... You're reciprocating. Leaning into the bit. Fueling the fire. And with the way he squeezes your hand in return, it's a wordless promise. I got you.

"I could go for a s'more." Your tone is light, sweet. Like a flavored creamer. You turn to Bucky, whose bright blue eyes search yours incredulously. "You?"

He takes a beat. Registering your words.

Then, he nods. "Read my mind."

You're standing before you know it, Bucky in tow, as you toss your empty plate in the trash bag lying underneath the table. Grabbing your drink and throwing one more sweet smile to his bewildered family members, you give a once-over of the mini-crowd before you.

"It was nice meeting you all," is all you simply say, before turning heel and walking towards the water.

Bucky's hand is hot against yours, burning bright and prominent as yours stays cool. You have half a mind to pull away now that you've given some distance between you and the people you're supposed to be convincing, but he doesn't allow that as he falls into step with you, bumping your shoulder in Bucky-like-fashion and giving you a gentle squeeze, a form of a thank you he can't formulate into words. The act makes your heart thrum all the same, and there's this nagging voice in the back of your mind telling you how nice it is to feel his touch, to be in his vicinity without having to worry about the next time you're scheduled to push him away.

It's... achingly comfortable.

God, you shake that thought away. Immediately.

The two of you are halfway to the bonfire when he speaks up.

"You could've gone easy on 'em," Bucky muses low and playfully, avoiding the real reason for your intervention. "You nearly scared them out of their Tory Burch dresses."

You frown instantly. "...That was me going easy on them."

He laughs boyishly, swinging your conjoined hands back and forth, clearly relishing in the way you haven't pushed him off. For once, you don't really see the urge to shove him away just yet, and that revelation nearly stuns you, but it aches in familiarity, as if you could get used to it. Especially when you see a familiar blonde sitting in one of the bonfire chairs up ahead that makes your chest burn with a fire you didn't know ignited.

"Sweet girl," he says in warning. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were seconds from throttling a sixty year old woman. I think that's considered elder abuse."

"I'm just about ready to throttle everyone here."

His hand squeezes yours once, twice. You pretend to ignore the way your heart lurches at the gesture. "Being a knight in shining armor looks hot on you."

"And now I'm seconds away from throttling you."

"Yet you're still holding my hand." You don't have to look at him to know he's grinning. "Christ, you'd be sexy in steel."

"Bucky."

"Like my own personal Joan of Arc. Oh my god."

"Do you ever think before you speak?"

"Never with you, my sweet, sweet girl." His voice is saccharine, almost sounding genuine.

You eyes roll so far back the whites are showing.

But the next quip rises and dies in your throat as you approach the bonfire, an expensive stone pit with burning embers flying high in the air surrounded by all of his cousins and family friends in similar age, who all laugh at a previous anecdote that fills the air with a warm buzz. The sun setting behind the tree-line across the lake is almost picturesque, letting the real glow of the flames cast a shadow over everyone's face, including Izzy roasting a perfect golden marshmallow.

...Sitting next to the only vacant seat.

When you and Bucky emerge to the group, all heads pick up, including the blonde's, who hums innocently inviting with that killer of a smile. But you're not fooled by a second, nor will you ever forget the absolutely audacity she had towards you in the kitchen earlier.

"Hey guys," she says cooly, blowing off the small flame of her marshmallow as she looks you dead in the eye. "Sorry, maybe there's another chair in the garage?"

The group goes quiet for a moment, holding their breaths and waiting. It's no secret Izzy's been attempting to sink her talons into her ex-boyfriend all night, stealing glances across the yard and talking him up to his family behind his back to stay in their good graces. She probably wasn't expecting you to show up this weekend, someone who will definitely put up a fight, a threat, a challenge to her endgame to get her Jamie back once and for all. There's no doubt everyone sitting in this circle knows that, especially when they all look between you and her with the anticipation of something snarky.

But you shrug nonchalantly. "No biggie."

When you peer up at Bucky and nod towards the chair, he blinks at you once, twice, before getting the hint and sitting down without much prompting, manspreading deliciously wide and audacious in a way you'd normally scold him for — as you've done so many times in the past.

This time, however, you simply let him get comfortable before settling in his lap.

...And Bucky fucking freezes.

Thankfully, almost instantly one of his cousins, a shaggy-haired late-teen who definitely shouldn't be nursing a beer, kickstarts the previous conversation with little to no regard for the clear tension between you and the person sitting one chair away, and you nearly sigh in relief at the subject change and let yourself slowly lean back until your back his brushing his broad chest.

He's not breathing. You can feel that he's not breathing because his chest doesn't rise and fall against your body, still as a board as you settle in casually. On his lap. Perched pretty on his lap. Flush to his chest. While sitting on his lap. Practically a second skin to him. Was it mentioned that you're on his lap?

The hands that have been wandering uncharted territories on your body all night are conveniently stiff on the arms of the chair, not sure whether or not they're suppose to stay politely off or if they can heighten the experience all the more. You can practically hear him thinking behind you, and you don't even need to turn around to know that or read his facial expression.

It makes you stifle a grin.

"Someone's a little quiet." You start innocently, practically cheek to cheek with him as you both stare at the burning embers. "What happened to all that sweet talk?"

You hear and feel his breath falter, as if he's just remembered how to breathe.

Bucky lets out a small huff of air, half annoyed and half amused that you're finding his internal crisis entertaining. More importantly still computing the fact that you're sitting in his lap. Willingly. Practically brushing cheeks. No big deal. Not at all. Not in the slightest. Not something he's been dreaming about for what feels like years now. Totally chill. Platonic, one may say.

"You seemed eager," he manages to get out, trying to act normal. "Still denying your feelings for me?"

You scoff. Cute of him to think he's in control here. Two can play that game.

You shift your hips barely. Just barely. A minute sliver to the left.

His hands immediately grip your waist, stilling your movements, both of you inherently shocked at the bold moves on each side but not putting a stop to the escalation, either. It's...thrilling. Especially surrounded by other people, unknowing to your objectively monumental moment. Especially sitting two feet from his raging bitch of an ex-girlfriend, whose eyes have been glued to the two of you finagling the whole time.

There's an odd sense of pride — perhaps dormant cave-woman primal instincts beginning to thaw — that instantly make you lean into the bit in response to seeing Izzy staring at you in your peripheral. You're shifting your body to splay sideways in his lap, as if he's about to pick you up bridal style and march you back into the house, splaying a hand in his hair as one of his palms remains a little too low on the base of your spine and the other resting on your bare thigh, a little too high than what friends would normally do. However, that excuse is completely out the window now, so why not run with it?

And... You're on cloud nine. Even more so when you meet Izzy's envious green eyes, smiling so sweetly it'll make your tooth rot.

Bucky hums at the sensation of your fingers in his hair whether he means to or not. "Remind me why we don't do this often?"

"Uh, probably because I can't stand you," you say as if it's law.

"Debatable."

"Is it?"

"You tell me, sweet girl." Your faces are inches apart. Have his eyes always been this blue? "You're the one sitting pretty in my lap."

"For show," you add pointedly.

Bucky grins boyishly (it's so beautiful). "Nah, I think you're doing it for the love of the game."

"That's presumptuous."

"Is it?" He mirrors your question from earlier.

God, he's so close. "Mhm. I'm simply helping a friend."

Bucky pauses at your words, eyes darting between yours almost in disbelief. The silence only lasts a few seconds, but it's palpable all the same, as those seconds feel like eons as he stares hard and deep into your eyes, practically into your soul. His grin morphs into something smaller, softer, steering away from the jovial playfulness you're familiar with and leaning into something deeper, something more serious. It makes the hair stand up on the back of your neck.

"That's what we're calling this? Friends?" He muses low, dangerous, calculated.

Your brows pinch slightly.

"Because I don't think friends do this," Bucky continues in the same tone, and you almost miss the way his thumb slips under your shirt, tracing over the lower bones of your vertebrae in admiration, curiosity, need. "I don't think friends feel like this."

It takes you a moment to find your words, still trying to hold your ground. "And what kind of feeling is that?"

His lips twitch. "I think you know, sweet girl."

"Do I?"

"Mhm." His response is immediate. "You're smart. Think about it."

...You do.

You think about what it would be like to wake up in the morning next to him, hair tousled and pretty blues bleary with sleep, reaching for you through half-lidded eyes and pulling you taut to him to get an extra few minutes of peace and quiet, or pulling you close for entirely different reasons. Would he fuck you slow and deliberate or fast and rough? Would he roll you onto your side and sink in deep with his chest against your back? Or would he crawl under the covers and bury his head between your thighs until the sun truly rises?

You think about holding his hand in public, dragging him through crowds of farmer's markets or sitting next to him on the subway. Touching him at all possible times. Him touching you at all possible times. Hands together. A hand on your thigh, on the small of your back, on the back of your neck. Endless places. Constantly. Protective. Possessive.

You think about his words. You've grown accustomed to the normal vulgarities that spill from his pretty puffed lips, but what about his true feelings? Is right now — this very moment — a glimpse of that reality? A shroud of seriousness? Would he confess through the implications his actions or would he actually find the words? Would he tell you how much you mean to him or would he show you? Would the flirting cease or tenfold if you truly told him your thoughts and feelings? How would he react to your greatest fears and nightmares, with sweet nothings or a comforting hug? Would he talk you through having sex? Tell you how pretty you are and how well you're taking him?

"You're thinking about it."

Blinking, you snap out of your disassociation to discover him still staring intently, a smile tugging the ends of his lips no matter how hard he tries not to let it slip.

"I wasn't," you defend bitterly, a weak attempt at remaining indifferent.

He truly doesn't buy it. "You totally are. It'd be a nice life, no?"

"Bucky."

"You and me. Me and you. Cooking together. Going out. Christening every room—"

"You're insufferable."

His smile is infectious, voice saccharine. "Yet you're still thinking about it, aren't you?"

Your scowl is prominent, face flushing a temperature comparable to the pits of hell. "Nope."

"Oh, Natasha's gonna love this."

"If you even consider telling Natasha, I'll cut your eyes out."

"Hot."

"Bucky."

"What?" He asks incredulously. "You can't expect me to be chill about this."

You roll your eyes. "I can, and I am. So chill." Can he feel your heart beating?

Probably, given the way his grin hasn't faltered the entire exchange, clearly soaking this up like a greedy sponge. The pads of his fingertips dig into your flesh like a staked claim, a reckless promise that doesn't need words to fill the gaps of what he truly means, what he truly wants. It's obvious, painfully so, and you're starting to slip. You wonder if he knows, if he can see the way you're subtly inching closer, if he can feel the thrum of your heartbeat in anticipation, if he can skim past your dismissive words and look into your eyes to understand your true intentions.

Fuuuuuuuuuck. You're in deep. Shit. God fucking damn it. Has he always been this pretty or is he emitting some toxic scent that makes people's brains all fuzzy and discombobulated? It must be the latter. It has to be the latter. Because absolutely no fucking way you're falling for—

God, you can't even say it. Falling for—

"Bucky!"

The shaggy-haired cousin pipes up from across the bonfire, breaking you both from your little moment and popping the bubble of unrelieved tension and rising blood pressure. Your neck twists to meet the gaze of his cousin, unknowingly continuing without a shroud of concern for interrupting the fact that you almost just kissed Bucky Barnes. On the lips. Willingly. Without a gun to your head or not from a dare. Did you mention willingly?

"Remember that burly dude who stole my skateboard in middle school?" He prompts nasally. "And ya bet him to a halfpipe competition to get it back?"

Bucky's grip on your waist and thigh are iron. "Yeah, man."

"And then he said..." Shaggy trails off, looking up into the air momentarily as if that'll help him remember the rest of the anecdote. "Fuck, I don't remember. Can you tell the story? Jason's never heard it, apparently."

While Bucky — quite reluctantly — recounts the story for the crowd, you sit idly on his lap. Thinking about it. All of it.

And you're absolutely, irrevocably, without a doubt fucked.

When the embers start to die and the people gradually trudge back to the house, you realize how late it's gotten.

Fireworks went off ages ago, illuminating the sky in hues of yellow, orange, red, sprinkles of blue and white to celebrate the holiday. Though your mind is elsewhere the whole time, solely focused on the man beneath you as he pulls you a fraction closer at the light show, cheeks brushing as you try to ignore the rapid thumping of your heart, using the fireworks as an excuse not to turn an inch to look at him. When it’s all done and over, conversations resume around the fire, more s’mores are eaten, more drinks are opened.

The half moon rises high in the sky on a cloudless night, shimmering gently over the waves on the water and pushing and pulling the soft tide. The quiet chatter from the last few people around the fire echos across the lake, the idea of s'mores long forgotten as everyone now takes the remaining sips of their drinks, bids a farewell, and disappears into the house or walks down the street to their respective homes.

Once she realized you weren't moving from his lap, Izzy packed up camp a little while ago, loudly announcing her departure to earn a few polite goodbyes and weaving into the night. It feels like a breath of fresh air when she's no longer watching your every move, but when you also feel no inclination to move off his lap (despite having nothing to prove anymore), your heart settles like a kettlebell in your gut, knowing the reason is deeper than just simply being too lazy to get up and take your own seat.

Bucky's fingers have been tracing up and down your spine for the past twenty minutes, slow and deliberate while he casually converses with his cousin. You sit still as a statue, relishing in the sensation but also not wanting to make it seem like you're enjoying this. But he knows. Because he knows you would've shrugged his touch off if you didn't want it.

It isn't until you're the last two remaining where you rediscover your motor functions.

Carefully slipping off his lap and standing on wobbly legs, your eyes drift down to his sitting figure, still manspreading so godforsaken arrogant as he peers up at you, head cocked to the side and blue eyes twinkling with pride. It's almost criminal how good he looks like this, unguarded and domestic with his hair slightly mussed and his plain white tee sitting snugly across his chest and around his biceps. His demeanor drips in smugness, absolutely eating up the way you're shamelessly staring down at him, and for a moment you brace for one of his incessant flirt tactics or forward one liners.

But it never comes. The silence says everything he wants to tell you.

Bucky simply stares up at you. Calculated. Morphing into something deeper than just lust. Maybe admiration? As one would admire the tedious brushstrokes of an intricate painting. He's thinking intently, raking his eyes over the slope of your nose, the curve of your lips, the dips of your collarbone poking through your tank top, your bare thighs where his hand took solace just moments ago. The once over isn't intimidating or intense, it's comfortable, strangely enough. As if he's taking the permission of being able to to heart, running with the opportunity to do so to the girl who never let him get too close.

"If there's something you want," Bucky says quietly after a moment, low and deliberate, "just ask."

A bratty retort rises and dies in your throat, your default response to whenever he makes a move (or an insinuation to one?), and instead linger in the moment, letting his words hang in the air as an actual testament instead of a joke.

Because the tension between you is shifted, ever since you decided to slide into his lap like you owned him and ever since his hand slipped up your shirt to hold you like he had every right to do so. It's uncharted waters, something you've never experienced with him in all your years of friendship. Sure, you've hugged once or twice and hit him feebly more times than you can count, but this is different. You allowed it, you're still allowing it, and he's taking that opportunity and making the most of it while he can.

A particularly rogue, loud wave drifts you from your thoughts, pulling your attention towards the shore.

You consider it for a moment, turning your head to see if anyone's still outside, and then back to the water, and then finally down at his figure.

"I wanna swim."

Bucky's brows skyrocket, certainly not expecting that. "What?"

Tilting your head to the side in playfulness, your fingers skim the bottom hem of your tank. "You heard me."

His eyes lock onto the sliver of skin that's exposed when you mess with the fabric, mouth agape as if he has an excuse right at the tip of his tongue. As if on autopilot, Bucky sits up, arms reaching up to pull your tank top down to where you bunched it up (or simply to have his hands on you again).

But you swerve his grabby hands, bare feet dipping into the stone patio after kicking off your flip flops, walking backwards towards the dock while still maintaining eye contact with him, challenging him, daring him, keeping him on his toes. Especially when you see him swallow a particularly harsh breath when you push your tank top up and off your body, discarding it carelessly as you're left in your bra and fumbling with the belt of your shorts.

A grin widens on your lips. "Scared?"

Bucky scoffs, the taunt kickstarting his motor functions as he subconsciously stands, flicking off his shoes and shirt in the same motion. He closes the space you created in just a few audacious steps, his broad shoulders shielding the light of the dying fire so that his body backlights the flames, making him look like some sort of angel reincarnated. Well, that comparison also aids to the fact that his shirt is off, and it's definitely a heavenly sight. Objectively speaking.

"I think you're forgetting who you're talking to," he teases low, eyes glued to the way you shimmy out of your shorts.

Yeah, he's seen you in a bikini before plenty of times (each time more enjoyable for him than the last), but this is entirely different. He nearly groans at the sight in front of him, the concept of you standing out here in the open in your matching bra and underwear simply for the love of the game. And you can tell he's tattooing this visual in his brain, the first time ever seeing you in actual undergarments looking like sin.

"No, I remember," you challenge immediately. "Clear as day."

His shorts are pooled around his ankles in a matter of milliseconds, and now you're both here: standing in the middle of a dock in the dead of the night in your underwear, the only light now from the half moon cascading light across the lake. The fire's burned out, the lights in the house are off, only the moon and the lightning bugs flickering shed a glow on the moment. It's dark, but just light enough to see the silhouette of his face, the slope of his nose, the steady rise and fall of his bare chest mere inches away from you.

After a moment of simply standing and staring, you turn towards the open water, walking slowly towards the edge as you fumble with the back clasp of your bra, letting the material fall onto the dock along with pushing your underwear down over the curve of your ass, suppressing a shit eating grin knowing he's watching your every movement behind you, especially when you hear his breath hitch audibly.

You don't turn. You don't say anything. Instead you let your toes curl the edge of the dock for one, two, moments before jumping into the cool water.

The coldness engulfs you immediately, black water surrounding you everywhere. You feel the bottom of the lake briefly, but when you come up to surface you're treading on the waves, the water being just deep enough where you can't touch.

However, your fleeting moment of staying afloat doesn't last too long before you feel the catastrophic splash of him jumping in beside you, shaking his hair out like a dog as soon as he surfaces.

"Agh—"

You groan in annoyance, attempting to shove him away as your default response but he knows you too well, anticipating this move and grabbing your wrists before they can make contact with his chest. Then, his hands immediate find your bare waist under the water and tugs you taut to his just-as-bare body.

Your arms instinctively wrap around his shoulders as the waves lap up to your collarbone, shielding your body under the near-black water. But he can feel you all the same, skin to skin, chest to chest, especially when your legs hook around his waist and his fingers dig a little deeper in the soft skin of your flesh, anchoring himself to the moment, to the feel of your body, to the sensation he's been fantasizing about for what feels like forever. When your pubic bone meets his, you realize he's just as naked as you are.

"You're evil for that."

You feign innocence. "What? I love swimming. Sue a girl for wanting to get some laps in."

Bucky shakes his head, and despite the darkness you can make out the blues of his eyes, how they're focused on nothing but you, you, you.

"Sweet girl, this isn't about the swimming and you know that." His voice is low, deliberate, edging on playfulness and genuine pain.

Still, you lean into the bit, figuratively and literally. "Maybe. But where's the fun in that?"

His lips barely brush yours. "Fun? You think teasing me all night is fun?"

"I'd say so."

"Yeah. For you."

"What would you consider it?"

He grins. "Someone who's denying her real feelings."

"Sure," you murmur against his lips. "Because calling it that is much more appropriate."

Then you kiss him.

And the whole world stops spinning. Because you never knew, you never ever would fucking suspect that this is where your dignity goes to die, tangled up in Bucky Barnes' arms and making out with him like your life depends on it. You never knew how nice it could be, taut against his body and tasting the lingering tequila on his lips as he groans into your mouth as if it's been killing him to not know what you feel like for all this time spent as his friend. His pal. His weirdly annoying acquaintance that he can seemingly never get enough of.

Bucky kisses you like a man starved, oxygen escaping his lungs the longer he spends seeking solace in the way you taste, feel, smell. He makes a noise, a sigh of relief and pleasure perhaps, and the sound goes straight to your core as you wrap your legs a fraction tighter around his middle, sending the message loud and clear without actually having to say anything. And he notices. Obviously. Because his cock is hard and throbbing and the mere feel of his size makes you dizzy.

"Oh my god," Bucky mumbles against your lips, drunk off the feeling of you. "Knew you'd taste so sweet."

"Sweeter somewhere else," you say gently, coaxing him.

"Fuck," he curses immediately. "You can't— You can't just say that."

Your hands slide over his cool skin, a palm pressing on his erratic heartbeat and the other seeking solace in the column of his neck, feeling both pulse points and how the rhythm skyrockets at the sensation.

"I can't?"

"No." The response is sharp, pained, as if he's barely holding it together. "Because I'm losing my fucking mind here."

You lean down, brushing your cheek with his as your lips attach to his jaw, to the stubble on his neck, to the soft skin of his earlobe that makes him sigh so gutturally that it sends a shiver down your spine. His hands trail experimentally down over the globes of your ass, breath hitching with the anticipation you’ll shove him off, but you don’t. You fucking don’t. You hum pleasingly so he squeezes, pulling you closer, fingertips digging in your flesh and rocking your hips against his so subtly that you feel the length of his cock pressing against your front.

Now it’s your turn to curse.

“Fuck.” You shift your hips against his once more. “Of course you’d have a big dick.”

Bucky chuckles boyishly, seemingly pleased with your approval. Yet you feel his neck get hot with the compliment, a bit flustered at the sudden remark, and it makes you zoom out for a moment, because behind all the sweet talk and flirting and charming persona, he’s just a guy. Flustered with a bit of flirting back. Folding immediately after a bit of touching and soft words. Not only does it make a nice swell of pride in your chest, it makes your heart flutter. Knowing he’s just a man.

“Makes up for being an asshole,” is all he’s able to get out.

You hum against his vocal cord, purposefully pressing your breasts further into his chest and skimming your palm over his heartbeat.

“You’re not an asshole,” you say genuinely, softly, too kind to be kidding. “Not actually.”

“Careful, baby,” he warns. “It’s starting to sound as if you like me or something.”

“I can totally swim away if you want me to—“

“Nope.” His hands are iron grip. “Not a chance. You’re stuck with me.”

You scoff. “I’m never being nice to you again.”

Bucky kisses your temple, a display of intimate affection that makes your heart thrum with all notes of lust aside. It’s delicate. Simple. Promising. Something you can definitely get used to.

“I can live with that,” he says simply, as if it’s certain as law.

That’s when you pull back to look at him. To truly look at him.

How pretty he looks in the moonlight, skin soft with water droplets cascading down his cheeks from his damp hair. How soft his gaze is as he stares right back at you, reaching a hand up to the crown of your head to wipe away your hair that’s fallen onto your face, tucking it gingerly behind your ear and letting his palm idly lay on your jaw, holding you there as if he has all the time in the world to do so. Deliberate. Meaningful. Purposeful.

It isn’t until a fish swims up against your leg, scaly and slimy and absolutely ruining the moment as you yelp, scrambling in his arms.

“Argh— What the fuck!”

Bucky laughs. Hard. Shoulders shaking and everything, hardly panicked in the slightest as you grimace, practically koala clinging to him and scanning the inky water for any more proof of aquatic life.

“Easy,” he muses gently, beginning to walk towards shore with you still in his arms. “All this big, bad talk and you’re scared of a fish.”

You scoff, cheek to cheek with him as you rest your chin on his shoulder, scanning the ripples of waves forming behind him (and totally not staring at his ass in the act of doing so). Your palms lie on his upper back, feeling the planes and muscles move as he trudges out of the water and not even feeling an ounce of shame about it.

“That wasn’t a fish,” you defend instantly, hating the way he’s still literally laughing at you. “That was… It was a three tailed shark, or something.”

Bucky’s footsteps gradually stop, leaving him in thigh-deep as your naked body is completely out in the open as you still cling to him, suddenly fucking freezing despite the warm air and frustrating that he’s not moving, instead standing audaciously still. In this moment you realize just how incredible naked you are — him, too — hanging onto him like a second skin as he holds you like a lifeline.

His words are slow and calculated. “A three tailed shark?”

You groan, annoyed he’s not moving. “Or something.”

“…Or something. Don’t sharks have fins? Not tails?”

His tone makes it sound like he’s on the verge of barking out laughter.

"Can we go inside and stop lingering in creature infested waters please?"

"Oh, god," Bucky says, feigning horror. "It must've bit and infected you with something. You're saying please."

"Bucky."

"It's worse than I thought."

"I'm going to kill you."

"Just like any other day."

When he (eventually) starts moving again, he sets you down gently on the small shore as you immediately give him a shove which earns a hearty laugh from him, stomping away from the beautiful sound to retrieve your scattered clothes on the dock and bonfire patio. The embers have gone out long ago, leaving the two of you coated in a comfortable darkness illuminated solely from the moonlight.

As you gather his clothing as well — even though you throw it at him as he continues to laugh right in your face — you noticed a dim light flicked on in the house on the first floor. If that isn't motivation to get dressed, then you don't know what is. So you slip your tank top and shorts back on despite your sopping wet figure, noticing Bucky following suit as you're already halfway to the house.

"Wait— fuck," Bucky curses, picking up a light job to fall into stride with you, audaciously bumping your shoulder now that he has the right to do so. "The three tailed fish almost got me, and you weren't there to save me."

Your eye roll kickstarts a migraine.

Shamelessly, he slides his hand in yours, interlacing your fingers. "I could've died," he says incredulously.

Truly you try to ignore how nice it feels to be holding his hand, how is palm encases yours and how his thumb glides over your smooth skin in admiration, such a simple gesture but...sweet in its own. Christ, get it together, you're not in middle school. Even though his incessant teasing makes your face feel hot and even though you try and hide your smile (impossible), you don't dream of pulling away like you normally would. You...let yourself have the moment, even if your dignity is the price.

"I think you're having way too much fun overanalyzing a moment of weakness," you mumble bitterly, walking up the porch stairs and avoiding his gaze.

He hums low. "Am I?"

"Clearly."

"Couldn't you argue I'm on cloud nine because I kissed a pretty girl instead?"

God, your face is burning. How do words come so easy for him? "Do you ever stop talking?"

"Never with you."

He squeezes your hand once, twice in a way that makes you think he probably doesn't even realize he's doing so. When you get to the door, Bucky's quicker than you, reaching his unoccupied hand up to quietly turn the knob and open the door with a gentle creak, gesturing you to enter first like the grandeur gentleman he is (debatable) and hot on your tail so he can close the door behind the two of you (probably making you go in first so he can take a sneak peak at your ass).

Once you're both inside, Bucky stands broad behind you, still gingerly holding your hand as the other one comes to lay refuge on your waist, guiding you towards the grand stairs just on the other side of the dimly lit kitchen. He's right at your back, feeling the rise and fall of his chest against your spine as he pushes you into the next room—

...To where you're not alone.

You freeze when you see a figure standing at the kitchen island, the spot where you stood with Bucky and Izzy a few mere hours ago where you learned her true character, and your heart drops when you realize it's Bucky's dad, nursing a half drank whiskey in his pajamas. He's peering at the two of you intently, and you realize they have the same bright blue eyes, as if you're looking at his carbon copy. You wonder if he's who Bucky sees every time he looks in the mirror.

Mr. Barnes stares at you and his son through tired eyes, almost as if he was expecting this to happen, a little midnight rendevous involving his prone-to-risky-behavior kid. This probably isn't the first time his father has caught him in a predicament like this, unfortunately, given the way Bucky absolutely stills behind you and how his grip becomes iron.

"James," his father says eventually, low and rough around the edges with exhaustion. "It's one in the morning."

Although Bucky doesn't cower. "I'm aware. We were being quiet."

His father does a quick (and rather judge mental) once over of the two of you: hair dripping, bodies sopping wet, water staining through previously dried clothes and probably making a puddle the longer you stand stagnant in one place. You can imagine how this doesn't look great, especially for Bucky whose been trying to render the rebellious image his family has of him.

All of that hard work today is seemingly put down the drain, because you think that — at the end of the day — the only approval your supposed-boyfriend has been seeking is his father's...who doesn't look very happy in this given moment.

The up-curl of his father's lip is nothing nice. "You really thought it'd be a good idea to mess around in the water this late?"

Bucky narrows his eyes. "I'm not a kid."

"You're my kid," he corrects pointedly, not saving room for argument. "Acting like an idiot."

"Can we not— Can we not do this right now? In front of my girlfriend?"

A shiver runs down your spine, both at the incoming confrontation and the forbidden g-word.

But Mr. Barnes doesn't flinch at the attempt to diffuse the escalating situation.

"You're an adult acting like a child." His father's voice is quiet in volume, but laced with venom at the undertones. "So I'm going to speak to you like one."

Before Bucky can say anything else, you unexpectedly clear your throat.

"The swimming was my idea," you defend gently, trying to diffuse the growing tension with an ounce of the sweetness everyone seems to think you have. "Not his. Really. I practically forced him to."

Your name is said softly behind you, defeated and partially in warning to not get involved.

But you are. Oh, you fucking are getting involved. Because Bucky's been subconsciously throwing looks over his shoulder to see if his father was seeking him out for anything special, to see if he was needed for any task whether it be helping man the grill or even take out the trash, for fuck's sake. It's not your place to say you noticed, but you did, and your heart breaks for him, for the small shroud of hope he always holds for the mere possibility he'll be loved. Appreciated. Cared for in a way he yearns to be.

Besides, you're not scared of this man. Granted, you've been wanting to fight him for years given the way Bucky's shoulders always sag without meaning to whenever parents get brought up, but you've always had something personal set out for his father despite wanting to strangle Bucky half the time you've known him. But this is different. This is love, we're talking about. A basic human emotion. Something everyone should have, feel, give out. And his father just...doesn't.

His father's eyes set on you. "That's very chivalrous, honey, but James knows better—"

"I do too," you interrupt firmly, yet gentle enough to not escalate with volume. You need to get out of this kitchen. Stat. Not for your sake but for the man standing behind you, still as a statue. "Definitely irresponsible, but still. I'm sorry for bringing water into the house, where do you keep your towels so I can clean it up?"

"That's not—"

Bucky's father trails off, cutting his sentence in half as he sighs instead, peering at your innocent gaze and pondering for one, two beats before sighing again, ultimately deciding that this little dominance back and forth act is simply not worth the trouble. Nor the headache. Because there's no way you're not taking the blame and there's no way his father wants to pin the blame on anyone other than his son, the easy way out.

"No need for that," Mr. Barnes secedes eventually. "The two of you just... head to bed and we'll forget this happened in the morning."

You furrow your brows, a retort rising in your throat.

But Bucky squeezes your hand, leaning down so his lips ghost the shell of your ear.

"C'mon." His voice is merely a whisper. "Let's go."

Bidding a soft goodnight to his father, you allow Bucky to guide you out of the kitchen, still right behind you but without the same smile from earlier, the same pep in his step. Instead he's quiet — too quiet — as he trails your path up the stairs, down the hallway all the way to the left, and into his childhood bedroom where you brought your bags up to earlier today.

When he shuts the door behind you and flicks on the old Superman lamp he's had since he was a kid, you're engulfed in a gentle light, illuminating the old comic book collection gathering dust in the corner and the old super-hero posters hanging on the wall, edges creased from aging. Most of the recent decor he brought to his apartment, so everything in here are the scraps, the old testaments to his childhood that make your heart swell detrimentally.

"You wanna shower?"

Bucky's voice startles you as you shamelessly study his wall decor, turning your heel to discover him on the other side of the room plugging his phone in.

He can barely look you in the eye as he continues. "Room's on the other side of the house where everyone's sleeping. It won't wake anyone up, if that's what you're thinking."

You frown.

...No. That's not what you're thinking.

You're thinking about him pretending to be fine, pretending not to care about the emotional toll his father has on his life, pretending not to acknowledge the astronomical tonal shift from when you were in the lake to now, two opposite ends of the same stick, planets apart. You're thinking about how he always goes into panic mode whenever his father's around, and you assume it's him bracing for the anticipation of being insulted or belittled or completely ignored all together. You're thinking about the fact that no one's probably defended him in his life. Maybe besides his sister, but she's not here this weekend, so he would've had to muster it alone if you didn't show.

But you can easily tell he doesn't want to talk about it given the way he barely looks in your direction. He probably needs a moment, you think logically, so no big deal. You'll take a quick shower, maybe he'll go after you or he'll fall asleep. The activities from the lake can wait. Truly, they can, because you want him to be in the right headspace.

So you shower. Quickly. Not bothering with half of your normal routine, just a simple body and hair wash before stepping out, and you barely get a word in because he enters the bathroom right after you, following your actions. In the time he takes under the hot water, you slip into your pajamas and slide into his childhood bed, claiming a side you hope isn't his and staring at the ceiling. You count down the minutes until the water shuts off, wringing the thin blanket in your hands as some sort of pathetic coping mechanism to fuel your bubbling nerves.

Bucky emerges from the backroom in basketball shorts, his normal sleeping attire, as he maneuvers swiftly around the room to shut the lights off and eventually slide into the bed next to you.

Your fingers twitch in his direction, aching to hold him.

The silence between you is palpable, and you teeter between wanting to fill the gap or let it coarse you into a deep sleep. However that internal debacle doesn't last very long, because when he adjusts his position and his arm brushes yours, you take a long deep breath. Well, so much for trying to mind your own business.

"Hey." You nudge his arm with yours. "You asleep?"

"It's been thirty seconds since I've laid down."

"...So, no?"

Bucky chuckles softly in the darkness, and you count that as a win in your books. "No, sweet girl."

You hum contently, biting your lip as a million questions rise and die in your throat. How do you...broach it? Do you outright ask if he's alright? Simply reach over and hold him instead of opting for your words? Or do you make him use his words, talk through his bubbling feelings. That will most likely make him feel better (you'd hope) but then again, he most definitely does not want to do that, not with you, especially since he'll probably label is as a serial mood killer.

His voice startles you. "I can hear you thinking."

You blink stupidly.

"Sorry," you say immediately, unsure of why you're apologizing. "I just— I'm sorry. I wanna know if you're alright, but I feel like I know the answer, but I also didn't want to say anything to remind you— I don't even— Sorry. I don't know anymore."

Bucky doesn't say anything, and the silence is almost unbearable. Granted it's only a few seconds between your last breath and the long stretch of quiet elongating between you, but it feels like eons, days stretched into nights, weeks into months and months into years. Your panicked incessant rambling lingers like a cloud in the air, unforgiving and soft but so fucking obvious.

God, why isn't he saying anything?

You only make it worse. "That sucked. Hearing him speak to you like that. I hate that it's normal. It shouldn't be." Fucking christ, stop talking. "Even today with your aunts, I don't understand it. You didn't deserve that. You don't deserve that. That's not... That isn't how you speak to people you love." Shut the fuck up. "I just... I'm sorry. That's all. I'm here if you want to talk. Uhm. Yeah."

Bucky's still quiet for a moment.

Then, "Will you c'mere?"

At his words you blink once, twice, unsure you heard him right, but the longer it lingers in the air, the more certain you are of the request, swallowing the lump in your throat and cautiously shifting towards him, heart racing from your panicked little speech at the fear of crossing boundaries or making him feel like even more shit than he already probably does.

You place a light palm on his bare chest experimentally, and his hand immediately encases over your knuckles, fingers calloused and rough and cool from the water. Cautiously, you rest your cheek on his shoulder as he wraps an arm around your body to splay his hand on your spine, tugging you closer.

And you just... hug him.

Truthfully, you're not really sure why you do so, but you assume it's stemming from the kettlebell settled in your gut from the interaction with his father, how easy it was for him to speak down at his son as if it was any other day. God, it make your chest ache with something you're not necessarily ready to confront and understand, but that feeling lingers and spreads in your body like a wildfire, hot and burning and impossible to ignore.

The whole thing makes Bucky stiffen, not from the act of having you close but from the implication behind it, the way you're trying to comfort him instead of brush it off like everyone else does, caring for him in a way that feels foreign, performative, fake. He's not used to it, used to this, to the simplicity of your rambling words to the warmth of your arms, literally and figuratively.

You swallow thickly and it feels like sandpaper.

The sound makes Bucky snort, chest jerking underneath you. "I'm alright."

"Okay."

"I think you're more upset about it than I am."

You huff, half playful and half in disbelief that he's finding the energy to kid around. "Upset is an understatement. I think I'm ready to take on your whole family, Scott Pilgrim style."

Bucky's thumb smoothes over your knuckles delicately, as if he's skimming the topography of a map. "That fighting technique is for evil exes, sweet girl."

"Still applicable here," you murmur without thinking, flashes of a pretty blonde popping into mind.

All he does is hum teasingly, but it's gentler, as if his eyes are shut and sleep is beginning to overtake. Despite desperately wanting to continue the activities from the lake, you know it's not the time nor place for that kind of mood. And, genuinely, you're fine with that. Because you want that moment, whenever it may come, to be in good graces, to be in the right headspace.

It's quiet again for a while, the two of you basking in the now-comfortable silence as you hold each other as if life itself depends on it. The concept of being here, laid in his arms, seeking his warmth and touching him for longer than ten seconds would've seemed like a fever dream yesterday, but now that it's something that you've experienced, there's little to no possibility of ever returning to what it once was. Not when you know how nice it is to be held by him, touched by him, kissed by him.

You're inches from sleep when his baritone voice lulls you.

"Izzy and I were together when I was in my snowboarding accident."

His voice is all but a whisper, a hushed breath, but you hear him all the same, now wide awake with the anticipation of his anecdote. You've heard about his accident in high school, how his arm was the price of his life. Granted, you've never really asked him about it not knowing if it's a sensitive topic, but he's mentioned it a few times in the duration of your friendship casually. Snowboarding accident, months of trial testing bionic limbs, a whole nightmare for him. Sure, he's infinitely better now, but sometimes you notice the way he rolls out his shoulder where flesh meets metal, never quite comfortable in skin that isn't his.

You feel the cool metal against your back, calming you in more ways than you'd care to admit.

"At first, she was there for me as much as any seventeen year old could." Bucky's fingers trace over your vertebrae, perhaps as a coping mechanism. "Tied my shoes. Fixed my hair. Carried things for me. Drove me to appointments when my mom couldn't. Basic caretaker tasks like that."

Your stomach fills with dread imagining a seventeen year old Bucky faced with such an incomprehensible struggle, a life-changing alteration. Just a kid. Having to re-learn everything he already knew.

Then he pauses for a moment, finding the correct words.

"It got to the point where I was inconsolable. Treatment was rough, the bionic matches kept falling through. I think it got too hard for her because I was so negative all the time," he excuses quietly.

Your defense is immediate. "No shit you were negative, Bucky. You went through something incomprehensible."

"Easy, sweet girl." His voice is saccharine, light and playful at your irritation as if he's finding your rising blood pressure funny. "It was a long time ago. I'm over it. I'm telling you because I want you to know, not because I'm still bitter, okay?"

With a small sigh, you secede, digging your cheek further into his shoulder to prevent a pout. "M'kay."

Bucky hums. "Good girl," he murmurs with certainty.

(Your breath hitches. You disguise it as a yawn.)

He either ignores it and lets you suffer or doesn't notice. "But basically she just slowly pulled away. Stopped checking in, brushed me off at school like she was embarrassed by the whole thing. The amount of times I made Steve and Becca do my hair or get that one itch on my back was concerning. However, I did learn how to chop fruit one handed. Felt a bit like Soul Surfer."

"Bucky."

He chuckles boyishly. "Sorry. But true. It was right before prom when she left me officially when I got a bionic match for a new arm." His fingers wiggle against your spine, making you laugh into his warm skin. "I thought...you know... we'd be good. I was getting better, actually had a working limb," he continues, trailing off because you both know how the story ends.

You ask anyway. "What happened?"

"Her dress was navy," he says simply. "Didn't match with black."

Your filter leaves the room. Immediately.

"Are you fucking kidding me?"

Bucky just laughs. Hard. Honest. As if he was totally expecting the reaction.

"Nope," he says simply, still coming down from his laughter (that is normally such a beautiful noise but you're too busy seeing red to process anything other than how bad you want to fight her right now). "Took Becca as my date and had loads more fun, anyway."

The anecdote still does nothing to soothe your frustration. "How could she—? When you were— Did she even—? And then she has the audacity to try and get you back—"

"Easy." A playful warning.

"No. I'm fighting her in the morning."

He snorts as if this is the most entertaining bit of the day. "You're not fighting anyone. I'm okay, I'm over it." Then he pauses. "But I'm flattered you'd fight someone for me, baby."

The pet name makes your face flush, and instead of commenting on it (because he can probably feel your heat on his skin), all he does is hum with contentment, because you can deny it all you want, but he's right. You will go to bat for him, and you have multiple times in the past twenty four hours, despite how much you love to tell him you won't. It's almost a bit embarrassing how well he can read you, even in the dark, unknowing to the extent of which he knows you, how much he's been paying attention to your mannerisms, demeanor, behavior the last few years of knowing him.

You yawn gently despite your bubbling anger, squeezing him just a fraction tighter as a wordless gesture that you're here, you're not running, and you're in his corner no matter how much he riles you up, makes you want to punch a wall, or smack him upside the head. Preferably in that order.

Then his lips meet your hairline, pressing gently as a show of good faith as your eyes flutter shut, relishing pathetically in the moment.

"Sleep it off, Rocky," Bucky jokes low, voice rough with sleep and admiration. "You'll be back to sweet girl in the morning."

"Wait." You find yourself saying a little more desperate than you hoped. "We're not— Uh— Are we not— Like, you know..."

Bucky pauses, your babble of an incoherent sentence lingering in the air.

"Are we not..?" He asks in clarification, trailing off. “…what?”

But he’s connecting the dots anyway, trying to suppress a grin you can practically hear in the darkness and how deliciously it spreads on his lips. The rapid thumping of your heart is a dead giveaway as to what you’re referring to, and Bucky’s too smart to not know the nuance of your words, too in tune with your semantics and too fucking keen on you as a whole. It sometimes it feels like he knows your reactions and responses before you even know them yourself.

The pause between you is palpable, because he knows what you’re asking for. But he’s never made things easy for you — why would he? Especially when he has the opportunity to hear you use your words, plea for continuing the events from earlier, something he’s been dreaming about for far too long in such a pathetic way that it makes him practically oozing with smugness. He wants to hear you beg for him, to say please like the sweet girl you are, and then he’ll have you every single way you want him.

You groan irritably. “You’re really gonna make me say it?”

“Yup.” Prick.

“This should be considered a form of medieval torture.”

“What’s torture is every second you’re delaying the inevitable.”

You roll your eyes even though you know he can’t see it. “For you.”

The sigh that comes from his mouth is dreamy, almost mockingly as you build up the courage to give him what he wants. “Who knew I’d get cracked in my childhood bedroom.”

“Seriously? Can you not phrase it like that?”

His fingers skim the waistband of your sleep shorts, slow and deliberate and dangerously low on your back. The baritone hum emitting from his throat does nothing to settle the bubbling nerves in your stomach.

“Sorry,” he says, completely unapologetic. “Who knew that you’d get cracked in my childhood bedroom.”

“Bucky.”

He repeats your name back with a mirrored cadence.

You sigh, knowing that you might as well be talking directly to a brick wall.

But it isn’t until he shifts up onto his side, ducking down in the darkness to find the curve of your jaw with his lips. He places one, two chaste kisses on your soft skin, a plea of sorts, and then moves lower to the column of your neck, shamelessly inhaling the faint scent of shampoo as he sucks a sweet spot just below your jaw. When he groans quietly — yet loud to you all the same because he’s right there by your earlobe — your hands immediately seek solace on his broad shoulders, fingers dancing in the ends of his hair as some sort of coping mechanism.

“Tell me to stop,” Bucky mumbles against your pulse point, his hushed whisper sounding pained.

Your response is immediate. “Don’t.”

With one swift guidance, you’re suddenly on your back with your hair splayed against the pillow, and Bucky’s hovering over you, chest to chest, as his lips immediately connect with yours, full of hunger and admiration and straight disbelief that you’re both in this scenario right now. He slots himself between your open legs, barely — just barely — connecting his hips with yours. The faintest brush of his hard cock to your cunt makes you both intake a sharp breath, and it isn’t until you’re ignoring the steps to take it slow and hooking your legs around his waist, tugging him closer by digging your heels in the base of his spine so that you feel him. All of him. Up against you.

Bucky moans into your mouth at the contact, minimal but there and prominent.

It makes you feel dizzy. Buzzed off one drink. Floaty off one hit. Intoxicated and airy and light as if you’re not even on the planet. You kiss him back with fervor as you feel his hands push the hem of your sleep shirt up over your ribs, just stopping shy of the swell of your breasts.

You answer before he can put the request into words. “Off.”

Bucky obeys, but not without him grinning against your lips. “Bossy.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Your shirt is discarded somewhere carelessly in the darkness, leaving your chest bare. “Would you rather me be quiet and complicit?”

His hands waste no time fondling your breast, pushing and pulling the flesh and rolling the pad of his thumb over your pebbled nipple. The act is done in pure admiration, the need to explore and simply feel your body, to learn what makes your toes curl and eyes roll back.

“No,” he says immediately before ducking down to attach his mouth to your chest.

Sighing, your back arches into his mold, one hand fisting the ends of his hair and the other splayed on his broad back. The sensation of his mouth on one breast and the cool metal fingers fondling the other gives you a shock of pleasure that’s almost embarrassing to admit. It’s hot and cold, your body confused with the temperature it’s supposed to be feeling, but it sends a jolt of pleasure down your spine nonetheless.

You think you sigh his name. Maybe you moan it. At this point, you’ve lost control of your motor and speech functions.

Christ, it’s humiliating how wet you are. You can feel it in your sleep shorts, and perhaps you were dripping for him ever since his hand grabbed your ass to initiate this little rendezvous. Regardless of the semantics, he’s bound to discover the remnants of your pleasure sooner or later, probably in seconds given the way his hand slowly skims down your ribcage, over your stomach, eventually settling on the waistband of your sleep shorts and dipping his fingers inside to tug down.

This time, Bucky does ask. He takes. And within seconds, your shorts are added to the discarded pile of scattered clothing.

When his fingers meet the slick wetness between your slit, you sigh unabashedly loud from the mere teasing, not missing the way his breath hitches from where his mouth kisses your breast almost as if it’s stolen from him. Ragged and pained and you swear you feel his cock twitch in his shorts.

“Oh my god.” His fingers spread you open, feeling your obscene wetness. The act is nothing short of slow and deliberate, as if in disbelief. “All this for me, sweet girl?”

Your face flushes. “Bucky.”

Your attempt at a deadpan falls short, and it merely comes out as a breathy sigh that’s music to his ears.

He’s in heaven. He must be, given the dreamy sigh that falls from his lips. “Knew you liked me.”

“Shut up.”

Bucky laughs again at your attempt to stay tough, maneuvering down your torso with kisses peppered to your breasts, ribcage, stomach, hip bone, all the way to your inner thighs where he nestles in between your legs, hooking your thighs over his shoulders with one hand remaining on one of your breasts. He gives it a gentle squeeze, a reaffirmation, as you brush some hair out of his eyes that you can just make out in the moonlight poking through the sliver of the curtain.

“I think you should be a little nicer to the guy who’s about to eat you out.”

You scoff, ignoring the way you twitch when his hot breath fans over your cunt. “I think you should—“

You don’t finish. He doesn’t let you, prick, because his mouth attaches to your core to shut you up immediately.

And it works, because ho— holy fu— fuck—

Bucky hums greedily low into your cunt at the effectiveness of making you speechless, plunging his tongue that’s hot and needy as his nose nudges into your clit every time his jaw tightens. One hand squeezes your breast, rolling his thumb over your nipple, as the other splays on your hipbone to effectively keep your hips tethered to the bed. God, you’re trying to move against his face, writhing with pleasure that he’s too good at giving, and he’s only making it worse by keeping you still. Your thighs shake around his head at the attempts, back arched against the mattress as if it’s done something to personally offend you.

A minute passing feels like eons. He eats you out like a man starved, thoroughly pleased with the way you’re breathily moaning curses and his name as if they’re mantras spilling from your lips. It’s a beautiful sound, one he’s thought about more than once with his hand down his pants picturing it was your hand. Now it only makes his cock throb achingly, and his hips rutting into the mattress somewhat relieves the pressure in his groin.

He shifts his body, freeing a shoulder. When he adds his fingers to the mix after another minute of greedily letting his mouth do all the work, the pad of his thumb searches the darkness for that special sweet spot. Bucky misses once, twice, three times, but when a ragged moan escapes your lips at the fourth attempt, he doesn’t miss again. Instead, he presses harder circles, keeping the same rhythm that makes you squirm and whine and clutch his hair so tight it makes his eyes roll back into his head.

The coil builds in your lower tummy, sparking like a lit match and gradually getting brighter with a sense of euphoria that’s blinding, dismantling all your default settings and making you into a big pile of mush and moans. Your heels dig into his lower back and your thighs clamp against his head, and instead of pulling away or teasing you, it only spurs him on further, as if suffocating is part of his endgame.

“Bucky,” you babble clumsily. “Fuck— Right th— Fuck, I’m close—“

A low hum escapes his throat, vibrating your pleasure to tenfold as it comes crashing over embarrassingly fast, blinking away the blurry spots in your vision as you come hard on his mouth, writhing against his face as his tongue and fingers fuck you through it nice and firm, the sound wet and obscene and straight pornographic. You feel his lower body jerk forward particularly harsh, as he’s been rutting the mattress the whole time, groaning low into your cunt and it’s such a beautiful sound, a practical whine, sounding irrevocably wrecked just from eating you out.

Bucky Barnes. Whining into your cunt. Fucking you with his mouth so good you practically see stars. Definitely did not see that on your radar.

The aftershocks make your back arch off the mattress, thighs trembling achingly so against the sides of his head, especially when he dives into your cunt for more — after you’ve already come — and the overstimulation makes your thighs jerk closed on instinct. But the notion of tightening your hold around his head only makes Bucky pant into your core, out of breath but not detaching his mouth under any circumstance, as if he wants to die between your thighs as if he was put on this earth to do so.

You shake and babble something incoherent, mind fuzzy and still trying to come down from the intensity of the moment, whining as his tongue continues to lap up the remnants of your orgasm with all the time in the world. The concept of him going in for more, not wanting to stop tasting you, only spurs you on further.

It isn’t until his thumb finds your clit again to where you physically jerk, letting out a shameless moan from the overstimulation.

“I need you,” you murmur raggedly, sounding absolutely fucking wrecked. “C’mere.”

“Wanna give you another,” Bucky mumbles, resting his cheek on your inner thigh as he pants from the work, his fingers replacing his tongue as they plunge in and out of your cunt, curling into sweet spots you thought unimaginable.

You paw around clumsily in the darkness to reattach your fingers to his hair. “Wanna feel you.”

“Fuck,” he whines. Whines. “I need a— need a minute.”

“Please,” you plea into the darkness, throwing your dignity out the window given the sheer desperation in your voice. “I want your cock. Please, Bucky.”

His teeth gently bite down on your inner thigh, making you jerk at the sensation as he bites back a moan — literally.

“God, you’re killing me.” Bucky crawls up your body, needy and desperate and clumsy as his lips find the column of your neck. “Want you too, baby. I just— I need— I can’t—“

Your hand reaches down to cup his length, his achingly hard cock straining his shorts. Bucky physically jerks, practically trembling as you feel his cock literally twitch in your grasp. Especially when your fingers smooth down his length over his shirts, your thumb finding his tip and brushing over—

You gasp.

Brushing over the prominent wet spot.

The cool sensation against your thumb makes you both viscerally react, you intaking a sharp breath of disbelief and Bucky moaning into the hot skin of your neck, his hand iron gripping your waist and the other elbow holding up his body so he doesn’t entirely collapse on you, but given the way he’s melting from simply touching his dick over his clothes, you figure that might happen soon.

He came from eating you out. You hadn’t— You didn’t even need to touch him. And he’s still hard.

So you find yourself smiling. No, grinning.

“All this for me, sweet boy?” You murmur back at him, reiterating his words from earlier.

Bucky scoffs against your neck, burying his face in the crook of it as he sucks a sweet spot on your vocal point. But he doesn’t say anything. He can’t. Not when your hand feels like heaven and sin mixed together in the same breath. Unashamed of his clear want and desire and lust, letting you do whatever you want and placing proverbial knife in your hand and hoping you don’t stab him with it.

You let it happen for a minute. Maybe two, while you essentially jerk him off over the shorts as he assaults your neck. But you need more, clearly not done if the night will allow it. Especially when he sounds this hot, this wrecked as if you have his lifeline in the palm of your hand (in some ways, you do).

“Lie back,” you say gently in his ear, finally not panting after the intensity of your orgasm and speaking coherently.

Bucky hums teasingly, but obeys nonetheless, shifting off of you, sliding his shorts off and propping himself up against the headboard.

“You gonna take care of me, baby?” His gravely voice makes you bite your lip.

You clumsily scramble up to perch in his lap, his hands greedily on you before you can even settle in. It’s dark, no doubt, but you can just make out the outline of his cock standing straight against his stomach, hard and leaking and ready for you again. Gently, you reach down and take him in your hand, thumb brushing over the wet tip and slowly — achingly slow — jerk him off as you feel him tense beneath you, especially when you trace over a vein.

God, he’s big. You don’t need the light to know that.

Bucky’s hand grabs your wrist. “I don’t… I don’t have condoms here.”

You continue your movements. “‘M safe. It’s okay.”

You adjust your hips, lifting them on trembling thighs as you guide his dick through your wet folds, keeping him there as you coat him with the remnants of your previous orgasm.

The sensation makes you both moan pathetically. Bucky’s hands are squeezing the flesh of your ass as he shakily aids your movements, and one of your hands braces on his shoulder, the other smoothing over the lines of his abdomen in admiration. And you just…rub on him for a bit. Feeling his length. (Also to partially hear his breathy whines when his tip nearly enters your cunt with every shift of your hips.)

“You feel like a fucking dream,” Bucky sighs. “Taste like one. Smell like one.”

Instinctively, you lean forward and place a chaste kiss on his lips, one that he chases when you pull back, capturing you in another filthy kiss as your hand guides his cock towards your entrance. With the wet slick of both your arousals, his tip slips right in, and Bucky intakes a sharp breath at the sensation, his hands iron and immediately halting your movements.

“Shit,” he curses. “Shit. Give me a second.”

“Gonna come from just the tip?”

“Shit. Maybe.”

You laugh, and the vibration makes him swear again, nearly sounding pained. Bucky says your name low in warning, but you just pepper kisses on his cheek, jaw, neck, as he slowly — at his pace — lowers your body onto him until he’s buried to the hilt, and you’ve never felt so fucking full, stretched, fulfilled.

Adjusting your hips subtly to accommodate all of him, Bucky’s hand comes up to the crook of your jaw.

“Breathe,” he muses gently.

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, so caught up in the mere size of him and how he’s undoubtedly the biggest dick you’ve ever had, stretching you to regions unknown and places you never knew you had. But it’s delectable, delicious, and in this moment in your dazed mind you know that he’s ruined you for anyone else.

His fingers brush hair away from your face. “You okay?”

You nod against his hand. “Feel so full.”

“Do you want me to come immediately?”

His deadpan makes you shakily laugh, now somehow understanding the full effect you have on him, how the mere taste of you made him finish and how he’s still rock hard after doing so, eagerly waiting for me, wanting more, needing more.

“Wanna make you feel good,” you mumble incoherently, blink with pleasure.

But he understands you all the same. “You are. Doing such a great job taking all of me.”

You roll your hips experimentally once, twice, and he doesn’t stop you. Instead, Bucky spurs you on.

“Good girl, that’s it,” he coaxes gently, tone dreamy. “Take what you need.”

So you do.

Well, you try to. Your trembling thighs don’t do much to help you in your movements, but Bucky’s hands planted firmly on the backs of your thighs (practically your ass) aide your bounces, rocking you sensually over his length to take all of him, nearly pull out, just to have you sitting back down on him again, buried to the hilt. Your clit rubs against his pubic bone, nudging every time you sink into him completely. The feel of it makes you whine every time, and he swallows them up when he kisses you, or praises you against your lips.

You’re a pathetic mess, writhing on his lap and taking what you need while you feel him thrust up into you to bury himself that much more. The sensation of his cock reaching spots in your cunt that you’ve never explored before only furthers your arousal, makes you whine into his mouth and dig your fingers into his shoulders to indent crescent moons on his delicate skin.

It isn’t until after a minute or two of his, one of his hands leaves your ass to meet your front, his thumb finding your clit and pressing firm circles on it, making your back arch and your movements jerk, messy, sloppy, lazy, so fucking hot that his hips snap up to meet your discombobulated thrusts. The combination of his cock so fucking deep plus his thumb plus the sound of his breathy moans synonymous to yours makes your head spin, your legs tremble, your heart thump rapidly.

“This what you needed, hm?” Bucky’s voice is absolutely wrecked, a low growl that kickstarts that familiar coil in your lower belly. “Someone to fuck you nice?”

“Wh—Who said you f—fuck me nice?” Your question is humiliatingly answered when his thumb pressed harder onto your clit, eliciting a ragged moan from your pretty lips. “No one s—said that.”

The sound only makes Bucky scoff, or what appears to be one. “Me giving you your second orgasm says otherwise.”

God, how can you read you like a book in the dark? How does he know your body already? Has he felt that way your movements are getting quicker, sloppier, desperate? How your breath is shallow and whiny and wrecked? How the coil building in your gut is already hotter, more blinding, agonizingly more detrimental than the last one? How it’s practically making you see stars already when it hasn’t even climaxed?

“You—You’re not.”

“Oh?” Bucky removes his fingers from your clit and stops thrusting up into you, suddenly still as a statue as a protest immediately rips out of your throat. “I’m not?”

Your desperate is downright humiliating, gasping from being on the brink of an earth shattering orgasm. “Bucky, why’d— Don’t stop— Please— I need—“

“Need what, sweet girl?” Oh, you can hear his fucking grin in the darkness, enjoying this, relishing in your cries as you desperately paw at his shoulders to get him to continue. “I told you to take it, so take it.”

Tears brim your waterline at the denial, god, your orgasm is right there, it’s aching, white hot and searing and almost there, so closed just reachable, but you need his hands, his cock thrusting up into you, his mouth, you can’t do it on your own, your thighs are jelly and you’re hands are shaking.

A ragged breath leaves your mouth and it doesn’t even sound like you, so wrecked. “F—Fuck, baby, I need it, I’m close—“

“Thought you said I wasn’t giving you one?”

Your frustrated groan makes him chuckle meanly.

But he’s not done, cock achingly hard and probably close behind you anyway, so he gives in. Just slightly. With one small, minute, step to be done before he continues anything.

“Just say you need me, sweet girl.” His voice is laced with honey cadence.

You secede. Immediately. Writhing as your orgasm edges you, inhabiting your entire motor and speech functions.

“I need you.” You feel a tear roll down your cheek, desperately trying to find release. “I’m yours.”

That makes Bucky intake a sharp breath, but your request is granted as he thrusts up into you almost without meaning to, thumb clumsily finding your clit again in the dark. And it makes you realize that he’s just as fucking close to finishing as you are, especially with his whimper at your words which is a sound so beautiful it snaps the coil in your lower stomach.

“Fuck—“ Bucky’s voice is desperate. “How are you—? When I—? Holy— Such a— a sweet fuck— fucking girl—“

You come. Hard. Blinding. It washes over you with a wrecked moan and desperate bounces on his achingly hard cock, as Bucky meets your movements from underneath, rutting and thrusting up into you to chase his own release that comes immediately after, filling you up with hot spurts that make the most obscene noise, his release trickling down your thighs with the combination of yours making a downright filthy mess of sex.

You face buries in the crook of his neck, and you feel him bear-wrap his arms around you to thrust up into you, riding out both of your highs with wrecked moans and a squelching sound straight out of a pornographic film.

Bucky’s movements gradually slow, chests bumping together as you both heave from the intensity of it all, working down to you simply sitting in his lap, still buried to the hilt as the remnants of your shared orgasm dribble down your thighs and onto his, and you make the mistake of twitching (completely out of your control) that shifts your hips, and you let out a soft moan of overstimulation as he softens in you, thighs trembling and hands shaking against his shoulders.

His hands butterfly splay on your spine, tracing soothingly up and down the vertebrae as you catch your breath and blink back your vision. The whole thing is achingly sweet, patient, kind as he waits for you to regain your senses, still buried deep in his neck as you breathe intermittently ragged, wrecked, fucked out.

“You okay?” His voice is gravelly.

You mumble something incoherent, a testament that you hear him but don’t quite have your speech functions back completely yet.

Bucky makes a noise that’s a mix between a laugh and a sigh. “You did so well for me.”

You hum, eyes fluttering shut and your lashes butterfly kiss his soft skin.

“Thank you, sweet girl.”

Did he just—

Steadily, you manage to lift your head, inches from his face. “Did you—“ Your voice is hoarse. “Did you just thank me?”

“Mhm,” he murmurs, completely unashamed. “Had to.”

“For sleeping with you?”

“No. For letting me sleep with you.”

You try to laugh but instead it comes out as a noise of disbelief, skepticism. Because… no. There’s no way he actually— he hasn’t been plotting on you, right? No, there’s genuinely no way. You’ve been friends. Just friends. You’ve never thought about him with his shirt off or what he’s like with other girls or if he’s ever fucked against the wall or in the back of a car—

“Why’re you so surprised?” Bucky says gently, interrupting your thoughts (for the better).

Now you’re sort of regaining your brain as your dizziness fades, the post orgasmic clarity hitting more than ever at the sincerity of his words. He’s being completely serious, and you know that because you feel his fingers drumming on your spine, a nervous tick of his that you’ve seen him do before on countless occasions. It calms him for some reason, as some sort of coping mechanism to stay rooted to the moment.

But you are surprised. You’ve been friends for years, never crossed a boundary further than that and instead used your vernacular as your way of bonding with him. He’s teased, you’ve swore, he’s riled you up, you’ve shoved him, but you’ve always stayed friends, stepping up when it mattered most despite your on and off banter. It’s not— You’ve never considered yourself an actual player on his roster, a forethought, an option as something more than friends to him, because it’s never crossed that line, and frankly you never assumed you were his type. At all.

All this thinking and you realize he’s waiting for an answer.

“Uh,” you say immediately, unsure of where to start. “Well, I don’t know. We’re friends.”

“I’m literally inside you right now.”

You shove gently at his shoulder with what little strength you have. “Idiot. Not counting right now.”

Bucky hums, biding you to continue.

Thank god it’s dark because your face flushes at the sudden flip to something serious, something real and vulnerable that makes your heart lurch in a weird and discomforting way.

“I just—“ You find yourself saying. “I’m not your type.”

“What?” He asks incredulously. “Who told you that?”

You tilt your head to the side, confused. “Uh, every girl I’ve ever seen you with ever?”

“Sweet girl, do you have any idea how long I’ve been waiting for you?”

You freeze. “Huh?”

His metal hand comes to cradle your face and it nearly makes you jolt from the sensation. “Why do you think I said your name on the phone, hm?”

Bucky leans forward and places a chaste kiss to your right cheek.

“Why do you think I crash girl’s night and come to your apartment unprompted?”

Your left cheek.

“How come I live to rile you up?”

Your lips. You find yourself chasing him when he pulls away.

His voice is saccharine, yet laced with a twang of disbelief that he actually had to be explaining this to you right now. The feeling of his lips makes you dizzy all over again, but also from the meaning behind his words. All this time… All those nights spent bickering and bantering and cursing his name in your sleep, he’s been… into you? Wanting you? Yet waiting patiently for you to eventually come to him?

Your heart is thumping, can he hear it?

“Uh—“ Your voice is coarse. “Wh— You’re into me?”

“Took you long enough.”

Your head is spinning. “Like, as of recent?”

Bucky snorts. “As of three years ago, more like.”

“You—“ You’re trying to wrap your head around this. “Okay. Three— Okay.”

“Take your time.”

“No, yeah.” You clear your throat. “Totally. Thanks.”

Bucky’s other hand soothingly rubs up and down your back. “Want me to make you a cup of tea while we wait?” His voice is teasing, yet full of admiration as if he’s finding the whole encounter perfectly comical.

“Funny,” you deadpan. “I think you’re wasting your potential by not pursuing stand up comedy.”

His lips find the corner of your mouth, pressing gingerly. “Such a sweet girl.” Another kiss. “Always looking out for my best interests,” he mumbles against your lips.

All this time, all this talk, all come to realize you’re still inside him.

It makes your heart flutter. “Uh—“ Suddenly you’re fumbling, losing that sliver of control that you barely had in the first place as you feel his cock inside you still. He peppers you with kisses, your lips, jaw, cheek, nose, an utter display of intimate affection that makes your chest constrict with something unfamiliar. It’s a phantom ache in your heart, longing for something you can’t quite pinpoint. You’ve never…been treated like this. So delicately and full of appreciation. Adored, even. Who knew that the person to do so would be Bucky Barnes.

Said-guy who is making you feel something unexplainable.

At your silence, he hums. “I know it’s a lot. I’m a lot. But I’m yours. Whenever you want me, I’ll be here.”

Your heart skips. “I think I…”

The words escape you.

Bucky presses a chaste kiss on the corner of your mouth. “You think what, sweet girl?”

“You’re really gonna make me say it?”

“Obviously.”

You groan, but there’s no backbone behind it, no real malice, no irritation that you normally have with his incessant wit. Instead it’s one of admiration, eased affection and something so unfamiliar it makes your heart flutter with uncertainty. But you’re here. With him. And somehow you’ve never felt more reassured.

“I think I’ve been yours,” you say with no shroud of dignity left. “Even though I want to kill you half the time.”

Bucky gingerly hums, so content as his nose nudges your jaw. “I’ll take it.”

It isn’t much later when he eases you up off his lap, slipping his arms around you to guide you towards the en suite bathroom. You mewl quietly from the loss of his stretch, ignoring the cool fluid burning between your thighs as you blink blearily at the light, no doubt looking like a hot wet disaster. You use the restroom and let him wash the sweat off your face, also cleaning up the mess between your thighs with a warm soapy rag. Yeah, he snorts at your wobbly legs as if you’re a baby fawn learning to walk, but holds you steady nonetheless and kisses the crown of your head all in the same breath. He coos and calls you baby when you swipe the hair away from his eyes, and dresses you in one of his overtly big t-shirts with something ridiculous on the front as he slips on a pair of boxers.

Bucky guides you back towards the bed after exiting the bathroom, laying you down gently so your back splays delicately on the mattress. You mewl quietly from the loss of his stretch, ignoring the cool fluid burning between your thighs as your head hits the pillow. Bucky kisses you once, lingering a little longer than he should before pulling back, sliding in next to you and pulling you taut to his chest.

You murmur something incoherent, completely bliss in the warmth of his arms and surrounded in his scent. Territorial. Possessive. Practically claimed by him. Not that you’re complaining. At all.

“Easy,” Bucky hums, tucking his chin at the crown of your head. “Sleep.”

“‘M not tired.” Your eyes are shut and your fingers twitch, moments from sleep.

His hands splay against your back under his shirt. “Sure.”

Your nose nudges his vocal cord. “I think you’re just keen to praying on my downfall,” you say laced with sleep.

“Try reciting the alphabet backwards and maybe I’ll believe you.”

“Shut up,” you mumble, words blending together in exhaustion. “You love me.”

A pause.

Then, quietly. “Yeah.” His voice is certain. “I probably do.”

You’re asleep moments after that, lulled by the deep baritone of his voice and the steady syncopated thumping of his heart. But also from the sincerity of his voice, anchoring you in ways you can’t explain nor want to try to understand. Sure, he’s a royal pain in your ass more than ninety percent of the time he’s in your presence. But he’s real. Genuine. Ready to be the man everyone thinks he isn’t.

And he’s solid, broad against you and holding you with the notion that you’ll float away if he lets go. The sound of your soft snores make him follow suite, calmed in more ways than he can ever imagine, finally able to breathe with a clarity he hasn’t felt in a really long time.

And when you leave the next morning, opting to leave the boating adventures behind the two of you and instead choosing to go home to his real family, his mother protests. His father says nothing. His cousins beg him to stay so they can wake board and drink in the sunshine. Sure he’s inclined to say yes solely to see you in a bathing suit, but he doesn’t have anything to prove anymore, not to these people.

Especially Izzy, when she inserts herself as part of the departing committee and giving you a hug that’s nothing genuine, solely for show in front of everyone else.

“You can’t leave!” She protests innocently, green eyes deceiving everyone as they surround the trunk of Bucky’s car as you throw your bags in the backseat. “Winnie and I wanted your opinion on the foyer decor.”

“Right, honey,” Winnie chimes in, grabbing your hand delicately as Bucky shuts the door, solidifying your decision to leave. “We’re going for a rustic ocean entourage. Silvers, navy, whites, darks. We’d love your input.”

"Well, I think navy and black go pretty well together," you say before you can stop yourself.

Bucky fails to suppress a snort. Izzy's head whips towards you, as the whole ordeal goes over Winnie’s head. Green eyes immediately narrow at you, her pretty tanned skin burning at the memory of her worst decision all those years ago, the whole reason she left him in the first place. But you hold your ground, sending her a sweet smile as you curl a hand over Bucky’s bicep, a wordless claim and reminder of what she lost. Who she lost.

And you leave just like that, with his family gathering dust in the rear view mirror as he drives away. With his hand settled on your bare thigh and the soft music gently caressing your ears, you realize he doesn’t look back. Only onward.

© salem-s please do not copy or replicate work unless given permission.

notes holy fucking god. this was too long. im unplugging for the unforseeable future. happy kinktober????? sort of????

[liati2000]

Oh my god this was so good!!!!!!!!!! It was such fun reading it didn’t even feel like 25k words!!! I think it’s one of my new faves

[houseofhyde]

hyde's taglist.

꒰ ✧ ࣪ 💭 ! ˓ hyde at last presents ୨୧ ࣪ ִ ៸ ꯭ ࣪

〰〰〰 a GENERAL TAGLIST ! everyone rejoice ʕ•̫͡•ʔ ( no one cares ) ★ i'm finally getting my shit together & organising a taglist for my fics. 𐀔 this list will be tagged in: series + longer oneshots + tldr/short oneshots

🦢 — if you wish to be added or removed from my taglist: comment on this post or send an ask.

disclaimer. by adding yourself to my taglist, you are consenting to being tagged in fics including smut and/or darker themes. please read ficwarnings before proceeding to read. comments & reblogs would be appreciated: if i can take the time to tag you, you can take the time to give me feedback <3

╰─➤ divider crdts. browser @/honeyluvsw velvet cream @/toastray

( ☕️ ) hyde's taglist ! @54nboo @barnesonly @blowingbarnes @bckyslover @chateaubarnes @earthsmightiestbenders @firingstars @flockoff-featherface @gilwm @heldbybarnes @iamthatonefangirl @its-in-the-woods @superbassbuck @opheliabbarnes @umbreoni @unificsation @winterdecember18

[liati2000]

Oh my godddd I would love to be on the tag team of your wonderful work queen🥹🥹🥹🥹

[houseofhyde]

the vocal economy.

pairing. rockstar!bucky barnes x popstar!reader synopsis. after a chance encounter at paris fashion week, you find yourself entangled in a web of sex, lies, and watchful eyes alongside the drummer of beloved rock band the howling commandos. a problematic boyfriend is a rite of passage for every pop-girlie… but bucky barnes is not your boyfriend, he’s your drug. no matter how hard you try, can you truly quit him? warnings. smut (multiple sex scenes, switch!bucky, unprotected piv, oral sex - f + m receiving, public sex, pussy pronouns, dirty talk, use of slut, exhibitionism, spit, licking?, breeding kink, nipple play, hair pulling - f + m receiving, sex tapes, light degradation, cum eating, cockwarming, dacryphilia, biting, overstimulation, messy sex??, he has a massive dick because i said so!!), no use of y/n, idiots in love, age gap, very toxic behaviour, jealousy, possessiveness, drug/substance abuse, addiction, misogyny, revenge porn, attachment avoidance, dead parent, so much yearning, angst, fluff, & more. reader inclusivity. the reader has hair that can be pulled and an assigned nickname. wordcount. 24k (it's big, but you can take it baby, can't you?) hyde's input. throwing this slop at the wall and hoping it sticks... okay but i also want to give a really big thanks to my bwamily for putting up with listening to me whinge, and stress, and ramble about this fic more than i should have/needed to. every fic that's been written for this collab has been amazing, i'm so happy to have taken part in something with so many talented writers, but i’m even happier to call you guys my friends. you're all amazing, i am in constant awe of you all. ps. take a shot every time i reference bwa in this fic. bwa collab masterlist. - read & reblog every fic or istg i'm deactivating (/j... but also /srs)

There comes a point where you have to question your self-respect.

Or, better said, your lack of self-respect.

Every kid has big dreams. Take little Tommy L. for example: first day of elementary school, he got up on a chair and proclaimed to the class that he would be the first person to step foot on Jupiter. Everyone applauded his bravery, a cheerful ruckus of whiny children egging on the fantasies of a dreamer. No one dared to dampen the mood by pointing out the fact that Jupiter is made of gas and therefore cannot be stepped on — this, of course, was not out of consideration for his feelings, but out of the sheer ignorance that comes with being young and unaware.

The next person that comes to mind is Natasha R. Head-strong and confident, not once in the ten years of knowing her have you doubted her ability to make her dreams a reality. Mostly because her dreams were relatively simple, to the point, and oh-so Nat: I just want to get payed to boss idiots around.

Low and behold, you are now that idiot she gets payed to boss around.

Because only an idiot would find herself in a public bathroom, squandering her dream away for Bucky fucking Barnes.

“Christ alive,” speak of the devil, and he shall moan in your ear — or however that saying goes. It’s a little hard to remember, or care, in your current predickament. “How’s she getting tighter?”

Blunt nails dig into skin, scratching off the body glitter sprayed over you by a team of stylists. If they could see you now, bent over a sink with the frilly shorts of a matching, custom, two-piece set billowing out around your ankles, while a mirror forces you to confront the state you’re in: eyeliner smudging at waterlines, a tangled web of dishevelled extensions, and a hue of lipstick now staining the mouth of rock legend, James Buchanan Barnes… Well, they would not be surprised, but they would certainly be disappointed.

“Wider, baby. Theeeere we go,” steel-toed boots push against dainty heels, forcing you into a state of compliance in which your legs spread further apart and you feel the tip of his cock nudge a part of you that previously you had not known existed. “Need to stretch her out again, don’t I?”

The only need you should have right now is to get back to your table. To sit with Nat on your right, a labelmate on your left, and the impeccably dressed CEO of Thunderbolt Records directly across from you, hawk-eyed and waiting to see if his newest protégé takes home the award of Best New Artist.

“Figured a pretty slut like you wouldn’t have this issue,” against your own best intentions, you grind back against Bucky, walls squeezing him in a momentary vice. Worst of all, he doesn’t gasp, or groan, or giveaway the slightest sign of surprise — because he expects this, knows what kind of a reaction his degrading pet names rouse from you. “Them other guys not been fucking my girl’s pussy right, hmm?”

My.

Ownership, possessive. An object belonging to he who speaks it.

Bucky says it with conviction, no waver in the familiar rasp that takes over his voice during times of pleasure. He means it and believes it, almost in spite of the fact it could not be further from the truth. You are not his, this has been made clear more than once throughout these twisted sexcapades you’ve allowed yourself to indulge in — your better judgement has not taken the backseat but, instead, has been fully booted out of the car.

A cruel laughter rips through his chest and cuts straight into your own, a gash that threatens to bleed all over the bathroom floor. Instead of blood, a tear of arousal drips onto the ground.

“Or have you been savin’ her for me? Yeah, bet you been keeping her nice and tight. Just wanted to relive the memory of me splitting you open that first time in Paris, didn’t ya?”

Like any ego-maniac, coke-fuelled jukebox hero, Bucky Barnes is a man in love with the sound of his own voice.

“Shouldn’t you be- Aah!” Mission failed: you reach for your voice and, consequently, Bucky reaches for your hair.

His chest presses flush against your back, your head meets his shoulder, and ring clad fingers tangle themselves in the mess of your hair, tugging just enough to rouse a sting over your scalp. Liberation is found in the pain; a reminder that Bucky can hurt you, that pleasure is not the only thing his touch can bring. What is the virtue of pleasure to a thousand vices?

“You’re so stupid sometimes, you know? Can’t even finish a simple sentence once I get you all cockdrunk,” there’s an irritation in his voice that you almost believe, like he can’t stand seeing you act this way. Like he’s not the one to blame, rolling his hips slowly only to snap back into you, filling the tiled room with the squelch of your soaked walls. “Go on, finish what you started. Shouldn’t I be what?”

He’s evil.

And, sadly, you’re more than accustomed to him by now, “Shouldn’t you be saving your voice? Fans- Oh god!”

“Not quite God, baby,” something about the condescension injected into each syllable has your eyes rolling back, fingers shooting out in search of something to stabilise your sanity with. Your torturer grants you this small favour, binding his hand to yours in a collision of flesh that almost mimics a lover, so woefully contradictory to the manner in which he’s fucking you. “But if you wanna call me that, go right ahead.”

“You’re annoying,” you gasp, half in frustration and half in shock, eyes growing wider the longer you stare at your reflection.

Never once had you thought yourself a voyeur, so used to hiding from the visual un-pleasantries of sex beneath dimmed lights and bedsheets and placid lovers… Then came along the devil to drag you down a path of temptation, fucking you into the silk sheets of his bed. You had not only felt the act, but watched it too: a performance mirrored onto the ceiling, your face of ecstasy peeking out from his left shoulder while Bucky buried himself in your neck and your cunt.

The image haunted you for weeks, through rehearsals and studio sessions, the memories of your ankles interlocked at his back while his unjustly perky ass rocked back and forth with his thrusts plagued your waking hours; until, at last, your paths crossed again and he gave you a new sexcapade to reminisce over. Now here you are, months later, back in front of a mirror and dreading the fact you will never look at your reflection the same way.

A version of your name is groaned into your ear, as the mirror displays the frantic speed overtaking his hips, a final burst of energy to sprint towards his finishing line.

“Shut up,” your voice is pathetic, reducing your command to a pitiful request. The last thing you want is to be haunted by the sound of your own name tearing through his throat in a destructive crescendo of lust. “Save your voice for your- Ngh! Your performance.”

Bucky relieves your scalp of pressure, hand skirting down the length of your body, over the dips of your hips, and between the valley of your thighs. Frozen on the reflection, your eyes are entranced by how the static, overhead white-light catches on the grey steel of his rings as his fingers continue their descent. While his thumb takes to circling your clit in slow, torturous movements, his index and middle finger spread your folds apart. You try to run from the sight, from the shame of watching how he fills you so easily, how your tight opening hugs his girth, but you can’t, he won’t let you.

“Stars like me don’t perform at these things, pretty girl,” he drops your hand in favour of clutching your face, callouses built over decades of plucking strings now pressing into the soft of your cheek and holding your face in place, pinning your stare to his own in the glass. “That’s for rookies like you. Still need to sell yourself like a whore to the masses.”

Five years in the game amounts to nothing and slips down the drain. His words are a short and unsweet reminder that, despite the time and effort already put into your career, you’re still new to this part: the glitz and the glamour, the screaming fans and the intrusive paparazzi, the late-night shows and early-morning radios. A once heathen indie artist, now the gods of success have baptised you in their waters. The corporate machine of the industry treats you like a wilted flower, at last warmed by the spotlight of a main-stage and watered by the profits of a record deal.

“Need to cum.” The words are terse, not quite a request, not quite a warning. The mirror holds no secrets, laying you both bare for the other to see: the twitch of your thighs as the circles he teases your clit with grow harsher; the exertion of his body fucking into yours causing tears of sweat to run down his face, smudging the messy charcoal lining his eyes; the parting of his lips as he turns his face into yours, nose pressing into your cheek and his breath hitting your skin. “Gonna let me cum in you, hmm? Fill you up, like you deserve? C’mon, know you want it, don’t you? Wanna feel me seeping out this pussy, all sticky and warm, staining your panties while you’re up on that stage.”

What you intend to be a protest, a denial of his outlandish claims, quickly devolves into a whine of his name, hand meeting the one between your thighs. To pull him away, to hold him place, to just feel how the bones, muscles, ligaments of his fingers all work together to send you towards a maddening spiral, nirvana born only at his touch.

“Of all the pretty girls that chant my name, you’re definitely my favourite,” is Bucky’s twisted version of a compliment, something to make you swoon and weak in the knees. Instead, it makes you sick to your stomach, flash-images of every faceless body he’s taken his pent-up frustrations and post-performance high out on. Groupies and band bunnies, faceless shapes in crowds that got lucky and captured his attention from behind the drum kit. You’re no better than any of them, nor more important, yet a knife twists in your chest like you should be. You should be more than that, more than a cheap fuck in a public bathroom, more than a desperate quickie amidst the award show you’ve dreamed your whole life of attending. “‘S only fair of my favourite girl to let me cum in her. Wanna watch you doing your cutesy dancing across the stage and know your walls are wearing me like a good luck charm. Hell, you win that little award and we can make a tradition out of it, make sure I fuck you full of me every award show.”

“Do it,” your chest heaves, and you tell yourself this is you giving in, this is you letting him get his way, one last time. Not because you’re weak, and certainly not because you want him to cum inside, but because you want him to stop talking like your lives are interlinked, like any form of a future exists where you two have private pre-show rituals or good luck charms. “Fuck, James- Cum in me, please! Just get it over-”

A hand clamps over your mouth, fingers wet with you and staining your lips in the taste of lust, while Bucky’s voice hits your ear in a harsh whisper, “Don’t you dare finish that sentence, you little slut. Take what I’m giving you like the gift it is, and make sure you thank me in that speech of yours, when you’re holding that award in your hands and my cum in your cunt.”

Seconds later, Bucky tips over the edge. Warmth floods your insides, melting away the part of you that can think clearly, and leaving nothing but the desperate soul that strives for some form of human connection, something a little deeper than niceties and handshakes. Your walls clamp down around his cock, a spasm creeping up the length of your spine as he continues to grind into you, feeding his cum deeper while you ride out the waves of your orgasm, head thrown back against his shoulder and eyes blinking up at the now blurry ceiling.

Seconds pass. Maybe minutes. Time warps, bending to the will of Bucky’s existence while he holds you pressed against him. Breaths fall in sync, deep and heavy and exhausted. You faintly register the brush of his lips along your skin: your shoulder, your jaw, your cheek, your neck, your forehead. He’s relentless, smothering you in the musk of day-old cigarettes, burnt whisky, and expensive cologne.

You take the initiative to part ways, shifting forward to lean one palm flat on the sink and the other against his torso, shoving him back in a weak effort. He grants your request, slipping out of you with a hiss. Despite the shame that overwhelms your heart, you still can’t help but moan when you feel his index and middle finger swipe through your folds, collecting the spill of his own spend. He fucks it back inside slowly, rings kissing against your puffy lips.

“We can’t keep-” You pause, trying to gather all the willpower you have to inject it into your wavering conviction. “Doing this. I don’t want to. Not anymore. Please.”

“You’re pleading, baby,” he muses, fingers curling up ever so slightly just to give him the pleasure of watching you clamp down on your bottom lip, trapping a whine inside. Bucky chuckles, mockery imbued into it, and your traitor of a stomach flips. “Acting like you didn’t come running to meet me here.”

You want to tell him that it shouldn’t flatter him. That he should not mistake your eagerness for enjoyment. You come running to Bucky like a moth flies towards a flame: entranced and yet wholly unaware of its incoming destruction.

“I mean it, James.” That was good. Well done. You almost believed yourself, which means you’re halfway to convincing him too. “This is it. The last time. I don’t want to see you, ever again.”

“Ever again? ‘S a bit harsh, sweetheart. We work in the same industry, under the same record label. Gonna have to see me at some point,” his fingers depart from you, Hallelujah!

Only to shatter your joy when you spot Bucky in the mirror, wrapping his lips around them and savouring the taste of you both on his tongue. Instead of reacting how the feral animal inside of you longs to — bending over the sink and inviting him to take a taste straight from the source — you take to pulling your shorts back up, trying your best to manufacture a composed, talented, busy woman out of the wreck of a girl he’s made of you.

Bucky speaks up before your hand can hit the door handle, halting you in your tracks, “Not even gonna answer me? You’re breaking my heart here, baby.”

Your shoulders lift with a deep breath and then you’re wrenching the door open and taking a single step out into the backstage halls, not even bothering to glance back at him, “Delete my number, James.”

The first time you met Bucky Barnes, you were in a sheer dress and a state of utter panic.

Seven months have passed in the blink of an eye, yet even now you can still recall every detail.

The uncomfortable quiet of the hotel’s lobby, the blood rushing to your cheeks as you catch your heel on the carpet, the bracing for impact of both the floor and everyone’s attention. And then a grip wrapping itself around your arm, an effortless tug back against a solid figure, and a condescending laugh ringing in your ears.

“Careful, sweetheart, don’t want you bruising those pretty knees,” a voice like caramel, sweet but sickly, threatening to erode not only your teeth but your mental well-being. In an act that would have the suffragettes tutting in shame, a tornado of butterflies swipes through the valley of your loins. “At least not like this. Would rather see them put to good use first.”

The last person you expect to see leering at you, as you turn to assess your dirty-minded saviour, was rock legend James Buchanan Barnes, founding member and drummer of ‘The Howling Commandos’. Unlike you, he’s far from dressed for the nines: hair an unbrushed mess, face in desperate need of a shave, sporting a miscellaneous stain on his hoodie and a pair of untied basketball shorts that, if you were looking — and you aren’t — you would notice his thigh tattoo peeking out at the bottom.

With a stuttered apology, and a glance over your shoulder to assure your nerves that no one had noticed your near-mishap, you stumble back and inflate the space between you both. Though he makes no attempt to secure his grip, hand dropping back to his side at the first sign of you fleeing its touch, his eyes pin you beneath his stare, the blue of his irises a near perfect match to the designer dress clinging to your curves.

“Do I know you from somewhere?” Barely five minutes into unofficially knowing him and he has already caught you off-guard twice, a feat which should be an omen for the future trajectory of your complicated relationship. Instead of acknowledging that right now, you’re too busy feeling starstruck by the fact he possibly knows who you are. “Yeah, I do, don’t I?”

Your attempt to make eye-contact is abandoned instantly, the intensity of his stare too much for you to handle, “Uh… I don’t know. Maybe? We’ve never actually met-”

“Course we haven’t, I’d never forget meeting that pretty face of yours,” against your better nature and the voice screaming at you that a man like him flirts with anything with a pulse, you regrettably feel yourself smile shyly in his direction, fingers fiddling with the borrowed ring sitting snug around your index finger. “You’re Thunderbolt’s golden girl, aren’t you? His shiny new toy.”

Once again in retrospect, the lighting bolt of surprise that strikes through you is unjustified.

Bucky Barnes has every right to know of you and your position within the industry. And not just because you are still riding the wave of becoming an ‘overnight success’, your sophomore album hitting number 1 on the global charts and your presence in the industry suddenly becoming a lot more noticed by fans and media like. No, he has every right to know you through the simple fact that you are both under the same record label.

Half of the enigma surrounding Thunderbolt Records is focused on the matter of how, in less than two decades, they have grown from indie label to household name — the Oxford University of music labels, a company that every up and coming artist dreams of signing with.

Rumours have forever surrounded the illusive CEO; ludicrous tales ranging from him being born into generational wealth, to internet theories speculating on the uncanny resemblance between him and a high-ranking member of the Ruska Roma family. But, no matter what people believe when it comes to the company’s origins, the whole world can agree on this: the musical legacy of the company lies in the calloused hands of The Howling Commandos… A musical legacy you are now inscribed upon.

“I don’t know if golden girl is the right term,” a wolfish grin overcomes his face, tongue swiping over his bottom lip and slipping back into his mouth. He hums, pleasured, like he can taste you in the air, a snake locking onto the scent of new prey. “Rusty bucket is more up my avenue.”

There is a distorted laugh that comes with wealth and power; one that is loud, and abrasive, and shamelessly punctuates one’s presence. That’s exactly how Bucky laughs at your self-deprecating claims: head thrown back, hand splayed over his torso, nose ring shaking slightly as exaggerated humour scrunches up his face. He shows no care for the fact the clock has hardly passed ten in the morning, or that the decadently decorated hotel lobby carries an air of sophistication and library-level silence. Why would a man who’s had the whole world grovelling at his feet care for decorum?

“So, what brings you to Paris, goldie?” There are his eyes again, trailing down the length of you. As he lingers over your chest, you begin to question your stylist, Wanda’s decision to have you go bra-less, leaving the hue of your nipples perfectly visible beneath the see-though fabric. “Dressed like that, I’m guessing Fashion Week. Channel?”

A shake of your head, “Dior.”

The brand still tastes strange in your mouth. Foreign, like it belongs anywhere but between your teeth. A girlish part of you, the one that is still very much a fan in the presence of her celebrities, almost wants to ask Bucky if he had felt this way at the start of his stardom. If the sound of his name in strangers’ voices had felt intrusive, if looking up at the stage lights had felt like staring at the barrel of a gun, if the glitz and glam still felt like borrowed garments on his skin.

Somehow, you find the will to not sound like a complete loser, and instead adopted the attitude of someone speaking to just another co-worker… If you forget about the fact that said co-worker has just been announced as Sexiest Man of the Year and is known for making more than hearts throb.

“What brand are you here with?”

“Oh, me? Fashion Week’s not really my scene, too many people kissing up to Wilson for my liking.”

Sam Wilson, full-time guitarist and fellow member of  The Howling Commandos, part-time runway model. He’s become a staple figure in male fashion, one of the top-to-watch at any MET Gala or red-carpet event. With a face sculpted by the hands of angels, it’s not hard to understand why every fashion house wrestles for a morsel of his attention. Amidst all this, he’s also known as the member James Barnes shares the strangest relationship with, both forever taking harmless jabs at each other in the press, only to go for blood the minute anyone else dares to throw dirt on their names.

“This is just a little treat, a vacation before the band heads back out on tour,” Barnes explains, after assessing the confusion on your visage. At the mention of tour, his eyes light up, like he’s just remembered the most interesting story in the world. “Congrats on your album, by the way. Yelena said the launch party was quite the rager. Sorry I couldn’t make it, I was busy.”

Busy was a cute way of putting it.

Photographed on a yacht off the Canary Islands, with a hand-full of super-models and enough drugs to put a pharmacy to shame was a better reflection of the truth.

“Thanks!” Whatever demon is ruled by anxiety possesses you, forcing a burst of energy in your voice that not only has you flinching, but the rockstar in front of you too. “Uh, for the congratulations. Oh, and the flowers you sent. They were beautiful, lasted a whole two weeks before they started to wilt. I don’t know how you guessed my favourite-”

“My assistant organised the flowers, doll, I just covered the bill.” Well, that shuts you right up… And invites in another anxious demon, doubling the dose in your veins and inflicting you with an overdose of nerves. You try to exorcise it, knee bouncing the back of your heel onto the carpet in a hope to work out that nervous energy he conjures within you. “Tell you what though, why don’t you tell me how long you’re in the city and we can try organise a night where I can take you for dinner. That sound like something you’d like?”

“Oh. I don’t know if-”

“Back off, Barnes,” Natasha is by your side in the blink of an eye, smoothing out the wrinkles in her suit jacket and pinning the man with a warning stare, the kind you only ever see her shoot towards intrusive interviewers and pushy paparazzi. “Don’t you have some other innocent victim you can go harass with your presence?”

“Good to see you as always, Nat,” unfazed by her diss and her glare, Bucky renews the intensity under which he studies you, picking you apart more and more with each blink. “What’s so wrong about a senior in the industry wanting to get to know the sparkly new thing under his record label?”

“Exactly what you just said. You’re her senior. A man your age should be looking for a wife, not terrorising the youth.” With the way Nat’s talking, you’d think you were freshly eighteen and still frightened of the world, and Bucky a man twice your age. Instead, your frontal lobe is months away from full-development, with a decade or so separating you from Bucky’s life experience. “And you-” Oh no, there she is pointing fingers at you, though her eyes have softened and there’s no longer an angry wrinkle cutting across her otherwise flawless forehead. “Quit being polite and learn to tell creeps like him to shove it where the sun don’t shine-”

“For the record, I really would like to take you to dinner-”

“Uh-huh, and what were you thinking of eating for dessert? Her? Get lost, Barnes, before I call Tony and tell him to put his star on a leash.” Nat’s hand lands between your shoulder blades, guiding you away from James Barnes without so much as a goodbye. Curiosity, your greatest nemesis, entices you to glance back, only to find him doing the very same, shooting you a cheeky wink while he waits for the elevator doors to welcome him in. “You’re late. Your first big brand event and you’re about to arrive late. I swear, someone’s getting fired once I find out who fucked up the hotel pick up-”

“How do you know him?” You interrupt Natasha, head already splitting with your own stress, the ache only growing as she rambles on.

“Who? Bucky?” The Parisian wind cuts at your cheek as the two of you pour out of revolving doors onto the street. A flash of blinding lights, a handful of photographers already crowding around the hotel entrance, has you wishing your outfit came with a matching pair of sunglasses. Nat keeps a hand clasped around your elbow, guiding you towards the open door of a car before shoving you both inside, out of the chaos and onto the leather seats. “He’s unfortunately my friend. I used to babysit Yelena Belova, she’s like a sister to me. Blame it on her that I have to know that idiot.”

Maybe that’s how Bucky got your number: he called in a favour from The Howling Commandos front-woman, Yelena Belova.

However he pulled off such a feat doesn’t matter in the grand-scheme of things. What does matter is that he called you the next morning, put the dinner offer back on the table, and convinced you to meet him in the hotel lobby at eight pm.

Right where you left me yesterday, goldie. Meet me there.

Dinner winds up being drinks, and a congratulations from Bucky Barnes winds up being you spread out in the middle of his suite, your vision going blurry while his tongue worked magic against you. By the time the time morning comes, so have you… A handful of times, no inch of you left untouched by him. While he snores away on a well-fluffed pillow, you make your great escape with your heels clutched to your chest and an ache between your thighs.

What should have been a one-time thing, another notch in both your bedposts, perhaps even a flirty line for a future song, has since spiralled into a car crash; the kind you can only hope that tossing yourself out the window can save you from the impending collision.

Which is exactly why you have blocked his number.

“Helloooo, earth to kiddo!”

You snap out of the reminiscent daydream to find Clint Barton waving in front of your face, something written across his features, as close to worry as he ever gets. Thrust back into the present, the studio comes back into full-view as your eyes skirt over the soundboard in front of you before at last settling on the screen where Clint has pulled up the latest demo you’ve both been working on.

He’s watching you expectantly, on the edge of his seat and on the verge of calling out to you again, “Are you even listening to me?”

“Yes!” You lie out of pure instinct, a defensive mechanism that you sometimes forget to disengage around him. “Actually, no, sorry. Can you repeat whatev-”

“You sleeping okay, kid?”

“I- Why? Do I look like I’m not?”

“You look like you haven’t been sleeping, full stop.” Concern is customary when it comes to Clint, now more than ever since he’s become a father.

Much like Natasha, he’s been with you since Day 1 — if Day 1 began the evening you sat down and decided you were going to release your debut album, sans label and backed by nothing but a low-wage job at the local zoo, a kick-starter, and a dream. Enter stage left Clint Barton, genius producer hiding amongst the low-lives in a dive bar.

“Is that what you asked me?”

“What? No,” Clint shakes his head, head turning back to the screen after taking an extra second or two to study your supposedly exhausted features. “I was asking about your thoughts on the track. Do we like it? Are we scrapping it? Is it lead-single material?”

The questions fly at you like a checklist he’s been ordered to fill out, and you have no doubt who put him up to this.

“He’s been emailing you again, hasn’t he?” The he in question is, of course, none other than your beloved CEO.

“Him and his assistant-slash-girlfriend are currently away on a business trip,” Clint slumps back in his chair, springs screeching at the same time as your phone buzzes on the table. “We have until Wednesday to confirm a lead single. They want to announce your next album before the end of the month.”

“Already? I feel like we just put out the last one!”

“You’re a hot commodity, kid,” he nods over at the anointed trophy cupboard where, perched upon the top shelf and shining in a way that seems to be mocking you, sits your latest and greatest award: Best New Artist. “Gotta strike while the iron is hot, and all that crap they say. That’s just Hollywood!”

“Hollywood is the movie business, you idiot,” though you roll your eyes, you can’t ignore the fact he’s soothing away those beginning embers of anger in your chest.

Another buzz from your phone.

Clint is back on the screen, mouse in hand as he moves around the layering of your vocals.

“Point is,” his voice drowns out another buzz, but it does not halt you from reaching for the device. “We need to come up with something before the boss-man throws us in the capitalist grinder and turn us into minced-meat. Minced-musicians!”

Poor Clint is left high and dry, not even a pity giggle thrown at his cheesy joke.

Because your attention is glued to your phone screen, heart lurching up into your throat as you scan over the notification bar, reading and re-reading with the hope that the words on the screen will disappear if you look long enough.

instagram barnesonly: you blocked my number, that hurt me and not-so-mini barnes’ feelings.

instagram barnesonly: i’m willing to forgive you if you meet me for dinner tomorrow, 8pm.

instagram barnesonly: we can call it your early-birthday present to me.

His birthday is months away, absolutely nowhere near to passing.

You know that. You remind yourself of it by opening your browser and searching. Low and behold: James Buchanan Barnes was born 10th of March, 19… And yet, even with this staring you right in the eye, you swipe down, tap on the notifications, and open up your chat history.

Most of it features him responding to your stories with some variation of the thirsty emoji, with the occasional congratulations. Never once have you responded, leaving the infamous James Barnes to appear as nothing more than a mere fanboy, instead of a world-renowned, lady-adored musician. Before you can even dare pop your chat-cherry, he’s typing again, unknowingly answering the question you were about to ask.

barnesonly: i booked us a reservation at chateau barnes.

The restaurant is far from what you expect.

With Bucky, overindulgence is everything. No half-measures, no settling for a more palatable price, no cutting corners to get a cheap deal. Since the moment you met him, he’s tossed cash around as easily as he’s tossed you around in bed, manhandling the cards in his wallet and taking any excuse to flaunt his wealth. At first, it was attractive, a regrettable staple of his persona that only seemed to make you weaker in the knees and wetter between your thighs. Then, with time and the state of your questionable relationship, it soured and turned into something crass, a piece of him that turned your stomach.

You assumed tonight would be no different. He would take you to eat at a place where imposter syndrome would cage you in from every wall, where the menu is an amalgamation of dishes you’d sooner keel over and die than try — what is it with rich people and thinking the more obscure the food, the better it tastes?

Decadent is not the word you would use to describe Chateau Barnes. Comfy, quaint, cute all fall far more in line with the establishment, lively with customers yet not stuffy in atmosphere. This alone unwinds some of the knots in your gut, just unfortunately not enough for you to tolerate Bucky Barnes’ wandering stare.

“… Medium-rare, and d’ya think you could ask your chef to be generous with the peppercorn sauce?” He’s hardly looking the waitress in the eye, gaze flickering between the pad in her hand and the burst of cleavage peeking out the top of her shirt.

“The chef’s a bit of a grump here,” you watch the girl throw a look over her shoulder. Following her trail, you catch the back of a dark haired man through the kitchen window. Strangely, he looks like a cleaner-cut version of the man sitting across from you, whose lips are stained with red wine and eyes are widened from a trip to the gentleman’s room. “You’re in luck, though. Our sous chef is a sweetheart, I’ll ask him to pour you a little extra sauce.”

“Thanks, sugar,” with a parting wink from Bucky, the waitress almost seems to skip away to put in your order.

The glass on the table calls out to you, a siren tempting you to down it’s remnants of wine; to drown your sorrows in the aged grape juice until they are dead and gone. You give in, far too easily for a woman determined to keep her wits about her tonight, and swallow it down in one fowl gulp. Across the table, Bucky watches you attentively, like you hold the key to everything he’s been missing.

That is basically what he had said, right? When you sat down in the chair and let him tuck you in against the table, mouth dipping to press a chaste kiss on the crown of your head before a whispered confession met your ear: Missed my golden girl.

“You look beautiful tonight,” he takes the initiative of refilling your glass, the neck of the bottle hitting the rim with a soft clink as his unsteady hand hovers it over the dainty cup. “Not sure if I told you that yet.”

“You did.” It comes out colder than the late-night air blowing outside, your words clipped of any niceties as you watch him struggle to sit still. “Four times.”

“See?” Bottle back on the table, his fingers slide across the white cloth and tangle themselves in your own. Despite the nausea bubbling in the back of your throat, a part of you still wavers at his touch. “You’re just so damn pretty, I can’t get enough of telling you. Can’t get enough of looking at you.”

“Is that why you were perving on the waitresses’ tits?”

His spine straightens yet his hand does not flee from yours. Instead, it stresses its presence, pulsing a soft squeeze once, then twice, like he’s fighting to remind you that he’s here with you. It seems Bucky doesn’t realise that he is the one who needs reminding of it.

A pink tongue, now stained mauve, pokes out to wet his bottom lip, his jaw tenses and he turns his face to the left, eyes breaking away from your own to look toward a nearby table. A couple sit in a booth, impervious to the social norms of sitting across a table, and instead opting to snuggle side by side, too busy gazing into each other’s eyes to notice how their food is going cold. Bucky pulls in a breath, slow and through his nose, inflating his shoulders and, likely, his ego, before turning back to face you.

“What do you want from me?”

When you envisioned a scenario in which you wound up choking tonight, you hadn’t imagined it would be on your wine. Quelling your cough, you find the outrage in your system, “Excuse me? You invited me here, asshole.”

“Not talking ‘bout tonight,” something glassy overcomes his eyes, reflecting the twinkling of the restaurant’s low-lights. He squeezes your hand, instinctively, stabilising himself in holding you. It’s not enough to ease the shakes rippling throughout him, like wind over water. “You’re playing me like an instrument, baby. Dodging my calls, swearing you never wanna see me again, then you go and get pissy with me looking at another girl.”

“Playing you like an instrument? Quit being cryptic, Bucky, it doesn’t suit-”

“Last time I checked, it was me who was begging you for something more, something real. Practically served my heart to you on a platter,” finally, his fingers slip back over the cloth and settle at his side. A cold rushes in at the loss of contact but you tell yourself to ignore it, to clench your fist shut and sit a little taller in your seat. “Then you chewed it up, spat it out, and told me it wasn’t good enough.”

“Think you’re being a little dramatic there, Buc-”

“Am I? I told you I was serious about us and you laughed.”

You don’t mean to, you swear, but you can’t help the laugh that finds its way passed your lips this time either, “Because you’re full of shit, Barnes. You wouldn’t know serious if it slapped you in the face.”

“How do you know that? You won’t even give me the chance to take you on a proper date, and so here we are, acting like we don’t both feel this-”

“How do I know? Look at your history, James! You’re not exactly a symbol of monogamy and fidelity,” your voice attracts an unwanted amount of attention from a neighbouring table, to which you quickly dip your head and pray they don’t recognise either of you. “Remind me, how many time have you been caught cheating? Four? Five? Si-”

“That’s different. How I felt about them wasn’t this,” Bucky flattens a palm against his chest, right over where his heart lays. If you search hard enough through the archives of your mind, you can hear the beat of it beneath your ear, slowing from frantic to a steady thump, a melody played for no one other than you. “I could try, if it were us. If it were for you.”

You hate him. More than fire hates water, more than the Sun hates Moon, more than Moriarty hates Sherlock. If only you could will it, you would choose to never look him in those pathetically weepy eyes again…

Now, if you could only say all of that to him and not sound like you’re lying through your teeth, that would be great.

“I’m not a loyalty test for you to ace,” over his shoulder, you spot the waitress from earlier balancing your order in her hands, weaving past tables effortlessly. Your gaze fixates on her a few seconds longer than needed, but you’re just not quite ready to look at Bucky again. When you are, you find him scowling. “We aren’t lab partners, okay? I don’t want to be part of your experiment.”

“Stop twisting my fucking words-” His anger is intercepted by an overly joyous voice.

While you have enough etiquette in your bones to smile politely and thank the waitress as she delivers your plates and cheerfully tells you to Enjoy! Bucky remains seated and seething like a toddler, tattooed arms crossed over his chest and a damn near humph falling from his wine-sullied lips.

Even like this, looking pathetic and aggravating, something coils around your gut as you take in the swell of his biceps. Try as much as you do to fight it, your thoughts spiral down into memory after memory of watching those same arms, glistening in sweat and covered in ink, gliding over a drum kit and hitting every beat effortlessly, a man-shaped machine built for music who somehow still finds the time to wink at the audience the moment he feels the camera pointed at him. He also manages to find the energy, off stage and back in the safety of his dressing room, to bend you over a chaise lounge and smack his drum kits against something else.

Treating your brain like an Etch A Sketch, you shake it and watch the memories fade away, dragging yourself back into the present where the last thing you want is to be bent over by Bucky Barnes.

“I know this might be hard for that big head of yours to understand,” across from you, his lip teases a smile. You can practically smell the dirty joke defrosting in his brain, slowly spinning around like a dish inside a microwave, just waiting for the timer to ding and give him the go ahead to unleash it. “But not everything is about you. I wasn’t pissy at you for checking the waitress out, I was trying to defend an innocent girl from your pervy gaze.”

Steak knife in hand, he scoffs down at his plate, confirming the state of the meat before bothering himself, and subsequently you, with a response, “Innocent girl, my ass. She knows what she’s doing, practically shoving her tits in my face.”

“She’s doing her job!”

“And her job just so happens to involve slutting herself out for tips,” a splatter of watered-down blood bursts out of the steak as Bucky stabs it with his fork, crudely shoving the bite in his mouth before continuing to talk. “She was practically asking for me to look at her!”

James Barnes is such a peculiar brand of douchebag that you often forget how, beneath the layer of all his little quirks and mannerisms that make your blood boil, he is merely a man at his core. Therefore, he is bound to say something so despicable with an air of righteousness and a dismissive shrug of his shoulders.

If there weren’t a table between you and a room full of people who could recognise either of you at any moment, you would reach across the table and slap the food right out of his rotten mouth.

Instead, you wrinkle your nose and stick to twirling pasta onto your fork, “You’re actually despicable.”

“Yeah, well,” he shoots you a tight-lipped smile, as fake as the ones you shoot while being hounded on the streets by strangers shoving their phones into your face. “I’d say you love it, but we both know how you feel about that word.”

He stumps you into silence.

Bucky isn’t supposed to know about that.

About the way that word keeps you awake at night, twisting knots in your stomach and choking down your breath with boulders in your throat. About how it looms over you like a cloud, drapes off of you like a shadow, sits across from you at a table-of-one every morning as you eat breakfast. About how it feels like your personal Everest, a mountain that you will either die trying to climb or, worse, you will reach its peak only to find it wasn’t worth all the hassle that went into the climb. Bucky isn’t supposed to know the things you don’t vocalise to him; he is not supposed to read you like the pages of a book that is wide open, on display for his eyes to skim over and through.

Your defences activate, a bitterness overcoming you as you drop your fork. It clangs down onto the porcelain plate and his eyes flicker down to watch, only to shoot back up to yours and find themselves caught in your vengeful stare.

“Do you want to know the real reason we’d never work, Barnes?” As expected, he nods eagerly, elbows pressing down on the table as he leans a little closer towards you, awaiting to hear what opinion of yours he has to burden himself with changing. “Because we’ve been here for less than an hour and you’ve already been to the bathroom five times.”

“Harsh, sweetheart,” his lips kiss against his teeth, before stretching into a teasing grin. He’s not taking you seriously. “Didn’t know you had a thing against small bladders.”

“Don’t try bullshit your way out of this, James.”

“Now look who’s being cryptic-”

“You’re high.”

That shuts him up instantly.

The noise of the restaurant seems to double and pops the bubble surrounding you both. Conversations bleed into an amalgamation of unintelligible voices, cutlery scrapes against plates and grates at your ears, and footsteps fall like heavy weights on the floor.

Bucky is the first to clear his throat, eyelids suddenly looking a little heavier, like he’s hoping to conceal his blown-out pupils. “Let’s not go around throwing accusations, baby-”

“Oh so I just hallucinated you wiping powder off your nostril when you came back to the table?” Though you sit taller and more confident now than you have all evening, your skin crawls and you want to erase the weight of guilt that falls over you as you watch him shrink in on himself. “Next I assume you’re going to tell me your eyes aren’t bloodshot, I’m just colour blind.”

A sigh rips itself from his soul and tears into yours — and still you refuse to dampen the faux confidence in your features.

“Look, I know I’m an…” Bucky’s confessions is lost somewhere between his tongue and his teeth, voice faltering under the pressure of his jaw clenching shut. He swallows back whatever lump fills his throat. “But I’m working on it.”

“Working on it how? By sniffing up every last morsel until your dealer’s all dried up and has no bags left to sell you?” You may as well have reached over that table and slapped him, just like you had imagined doing, for Bucky flinches like you’ve actually wounded him. Worst of all, you don’t feel satisfied, you just feel pity. For both of you. “So, yeah, forgive me for not believing you can commit to me. From where I’m sitting, you seem pretty committed to cocaine.”

The night should end there.

You should throw a wad of cash on the table, wish him a happy way-too-fucking-early birthday, and storm out of the restaurant with that little bite of dignity still in your mouth.

Instead, you both eat in silence. You both drink in silence. You both drive back to his place in silence.

Past the threshold of double doors, the barrier of sound breaks around you both as Bucky let’s you put him in his place, eyes widened and bloodstream high on you instead of those thin white lines.

A necklace made of your hand tightened around his throat, your mouth around his cock, and the echo of his moans bouncing off the walls as you curl your fingers against his g-spot.

Just like Paris, you leave before he wakes, and tell yourself it won’t happen again.

The question haunts you from your phone screen in the back of a cab, as you wait to be delivered back to your apartment building without any wandering eyes noticing you.

instagram are you sure you want to block barnesonly?

You press  ‘confirm’ and tell yourself this is the end of the story.

It takes three weeks for you to cave.

You do not do so at your own volition but, more aptly, your hand is forced. Mid-rehearsals, clothes stained in far too much sweat than the public would ever wish to see dripping off a popstar — you learned fairly quickly how pristine of an image the public expects you to have, heaven forbid you do something human like sweat!

Wiping at your brow with a towel and excusing yourself from Maria’s choreography instructions, you open up your phone to find an alarming text from Natasha.

nat-attack: What the fuck did you do? 13:17

Ominous.

Not exactly the kind of message you want to receive from your manager; even less the kind of message you want to receive from your best friend. Heartbeat in your throat, you barely register your thumbs typing out a response.

is this about the lead single? you said you liked it’s in the woods more than the other demo? 13:23

Natasha is typing before your message has even been delivered, striking another wave of panic through you. At this point, your heart is in your mouth and you are one shocking piece of news away from spitting it onto the dance-halls polished floors.

nat-attack: Barnes instagram story. Check it. 13:23

Your thumb hits N, and another chat bubble appears on the screen.

nat-attack: NOW. 13:24

So, really, you can’t be blamed for breaking your own rules. After all, Nat wanted to boss idiots around, and you are her idiot.

At the very least, you don’t unblock him, no. You do the far more mature, absolutely justifiable act of making a whole new account just to immediately type his user into the search bar. Low and behold, that familiar pink-hued ring sits snug around a picture of him behind his beloved drums, tempting you with the knowledge of whatever could possibly have Nat on the brink of killing you so early in the day. Finger shaking, you tap his icon and wait for his story to load.

Regret may be your oldest and dearest friend, for she wraps herself around you with so much familiarity, you have no choice but to embrace her back. The known discomfort is the only thing preventing you from crashing out in front of your entire team of dancers as you come to terms with the image staring back at you.

The most striking feature is the red lace. Bright and commanding attention, it sits atop a set of hips and peeks down into the space between two ass cheeks. The owner of the hips is standing out of frame, the top left corner of the screen filled with the expanse of a naked back and the tiniest hint of under-boob. That’s hardly the most eye-catching part of the image, however. The spotlight is all on him, one hand spread open along the faceless back while the other snaps the crass selfie of his bite sinking into flesh, carving out the shape of his teeth into one of the cheeks.

Jealousy is not the emotion overcoming you. It’s shame, red-hot and coursing through your veins, as you feel yourself sink back into the past.

A hotel room in London. A brand launch party you both wound up at. A bottle or two of tequila… And then the stumble through your door, his voice in your ear begging so sweetly that it eroded any willpower you possessed to say no.

Please baby, don’t get to see you enough. Want something to remember you by, while you’re off making me proud and performing for all those crowds. C’mon, lemme put you on film. Pinky promise I won’t share it. Can you do that, just f’me?

Well, Bucky Barnes is clearly a fucking liar. Because there he goes posting a screenshot of the moment right before he pulled that lace to the side and buried his tongue between your cheeks to an account of 34.8m followers. While, yes, there is not a single identifiable trace of you on the screen for any stranger to distinguish your identity, that red lace is enough for Natasha to know.

Note to self: Never buy matching lingerie with Nat. Ever again.

You push aside the voice that nitpicks, telling you it should be something more along the lines of Note to self: Never sleep with Bucky Barnes. Ever Again.

When in doubt, it’s time to pull out the tried and tested method of deny, deny, deny.

checked it. don’t see what’s so surprising about bucky barnes posting a raunchy picture. isn’t that guy forever being linked to new women? 13:31

Either you are the world’s greatest actress or Natasha Romanoff decides you’ve suffered enough for one day, because she drops the subject and never brings Barnes up again… Until a song drops.

This time, she phones you.

Three forty seven in the morning, eyes finally shut and sleep secured after a gruelling day in the studio, you’re torn from the relaxing plains of a dreamless night by the only ringtone that can strike both love and fear through your heart in as little as one ring. You pick up on the fourth, vision still blurry and mind still laying on the pillow as you shrug off the sheets and sit up in bed.

“Why am I being wakened by the woman who kicked me out the studio to get my quote-unquote much needed beauty sleep?”

“Be thankful I called,” Nat’s tone tells you she means business, clipped and entirely uninterested in the light-hearted mood you’re trying to set. Whatever has happened, you’re certifiably screwed. “Instead of breaking into your apartment and slapping you awake, like I originally planned.”

Settling in for what no doubt is about to be a long conversation, you throw your legs over the side of the bed and search blindly for your slippers. “Pray tell, what have I done this time to warrant such abuse from my best friend?”

“Oh no, don’t try sucking up to me right now, missy. Not when you’re the reason I’m about to go prematurely grey!” Oh no. Oh no. The fear of every god strikes through you, just as your feet slip into the fluffy warmth of your house-shoes. If there is anything Natasha Romanoff takes immense pride in — apart from her killer business instinct and that time she floored a man in a boxing ring — it’s the fiery shade of her beautiful hair. Heaven forbid you be the reason she looses it, you might as well start packing you bags to flee the country now. “What did I tell you about getting involved with Bucky Barnes?”

“That it would be like playing Russian Roulette but the bullet is an STD.”

“And what else?”

“That it would be a safety hazard on my image?”

You’ve made your way out into the kitchen, balancing the phone between your ear and your shoulder while two hands occupy themselves with filling the kettle. By the time you switch it on, Nat’s in your ear again.

“Oh, so you do listen when I speak!”

You wince, pulling the speaker back from your ear as she barks a little too loudly down the line. Despite the laid-back demeanour you are wrestling to uphold, an inevitable fear strikes through you. Has he posted more screenshots? The whole video? Surely not. Bucky is many things, but he’s not cruel enough to harass you with full-blown revenge porn just because you blocked him out of your life… Right?

“Nat, listen-”

“Oh! I’ve done enough listening, thank you!” You can picture her eye roll so clearly, it’s like she’s in the kitchen with you, standing by your fruit bowl and nervously peeling the skin off an orange to avoid digging her nails into something else — ie. your neck. “Barnes released a song.”

“O…Kay?” The kettle, now boiled, tilts and expels water into your mug, steeping the chamomile teabag. “I really don’t know why you’re keeping me updated on everything that guy does, I mean he’s basically a stranger to me-”

“Oh, a stranger? Is that why he tagged you as a feature on the song?”

Your grip on the mug falters and it smashes on the floor, hot tea splashing up your leg and over your foot. The reaction is instant, a slew of curses falling from your mouth as you hop over to the bathroom and throw yourself into the shower cubicle, pointing the shower head at your leg and switching on the tap. All the while Nat is in your ear, ire on the back-burner while worry overtakes her voice.

“Are you okay? That yelp was pretty loud-”

“Yeah. I think,” you hiss, the cold water soothing the burn momentarily before the sting multiplies and rouses tears in your eyes. “Maybe not? I think I might’ve just given myself a third degree burn.”

“Shit. Okay. I’ll be at yours in 10, okay? We’ll take you to the emergency room.”

“Okay. I’m sor-”

“And don’t apologise or so help me God, I’ll give you a different reason to visit the hospital”

Nat hangs up before you get the chance to apologise for apologising — a habit she might just kill you over one day. While you wait for her to arrive and let herself in, you do what you do best: self-sabotage.

By which, of course, means you open up the first streaming platform you can find, type in that bastard’s name, and click on the most recent song you can find.

The song has no real name, just a date. A date that conjures too much recognition in you to be a mere coincidence. Pair that with the way your name sits pretty next to Feat., and suddenly the pain of your leg is the least of your concerns.

After an initial listen, you feel your shoulders immediately relax: at no point is your voice featured in the track. Then, because you must have an unknown vendetta against your own sanity, you press play again and swear, up and down, that it has nothing to with the fact you’ve missed hearing his voice. On your third listen, you catch it.

Subtle, soft, smothered between layers of bass and background vocals. You swear you hallucinate it, until you slide the song back and let it replay. A familiar cry plays, one that has your thighs clenching, as it melds into words you’ve tasted one too many times.

Please… Touch me… Harder… Bucky.

You weren’t supposed to meet him at the band’s studio that day. You weren’t supposed to meet him at all, really.

A shitty day of press and a headache pounding against the walls of your skull, you shutdown his offer of a midnight rendezvous with the excuse of needing rest. Then he promised you rest and sent you the door number of his studio… What were you supposed to do? You were already in the Thunderbolt Records’ building, what difference did it really make if you went home to lay your head on a pillow, or if your went up a few flights of stairs to rest your head in his lap?

Bucky’s fingers carding through your hair while he worked away on new music had been enough to lull you to sleep. When you awoke, alone on the couch and with his jacket draped over your shoulders, you sat up to find him behind the glass of the studio, soundproofing preventing you from hearing whatever tempo he was banging at the drums. But at least you could see him.

Shirtless and sweat-slicked, the overgrown locks of his hair clung to his forehead. Transfixed by the twirling of sticks in his hand, you inched your way quietly over to the door, only to startle when his eyes found yours through the glass port and his hand beckoned you in.

C’mere, doll. Been waiting for you to wake up, got something I was hoping to give you.

Low and behold, ten minutes later you were perched in his lap, thighs brushing over either side of his waist, head resting on his shoulder while he kept you stuffed full of his cock.

Helps me concentrate better. Less likely to keep fucking up my takes if I know I get to cum in this sweet pussy as soon as I’m done.

Nothing if not helpful and desperate to aid a fellow musician in the pains of recording the same thing, over and over, it was through pure charity that you let yourself sink down atop him. He managed three failed attempts at recording, whines pouring off your lip and the clench of your cunt around him with every jolt of his foot playing the bass-drum, before he finally gave into both your debauched desires and traded banging the drums for banging you.

At the time, it didn’t seem to matter that the recording light was still on. But now, listening to the faintest layering of your own voice pleading for him, you wish you had just gone home that night.

By some miracle, you haven’t given yourself a third degree burn — it’s barely even first degree.

The miracle in question is just the fact you’re a giant baby with the pain tolerance of a thousand exposed nerves. He had made fun of you once for it, teasing you after you hit him with a million questions about all the ink decorating his arms and the countless loops of metal pierced through his skin.

You ever get the courage to get a tattoo, gonna need to make sure you take me with you, goldie. I’ll let you squeeze my hand, even if the needle’s not actually touched you yet.

While Bucky should not be at the forefront of your mind, again, life keeps finding a way to bring him forth. This time, it’s not by force of him scaring Nat into a state of panic, but by an overly-smiley interviewer bringing him up while you do your best to stand still and look pretty for the camera.

Wrapped in a dress so tight it’s hard to breath, it’s no wonder you have to ask her to repeat herself, mind numbed between trying to pose and trying not to pass out. When are they going to call lunch?

“You’ve mentioned a few times how you’re still new to fame,” her voice cuts through the sound of the head stylist yelling at an intern, a sight you’re struggling to stand idly by and watch. “You’ve been photographed with the members of Firing Stars and Umbreoni, and even the Uni! Big, big names. Most recently, James Barnes was cited claiming you two are friends. I mean, how does it feel to go from a small town artist to brushing shoulders with someone as big as James Barnes?”

The second time she says his name, it’s stressed, like she’s trying to remind you how much of a nobody you are compared to the likes of him. Maybe it’s the high-pitched voice, or the bright lipstick on her lips, or maybe it’s just the fact you’ve spent too long quietly letting Bucky prod and poke at you as you continue to ignore his existence, but something vengeful in you snaps.

“Oh, he’s not that big. Average, if I’m being generous- Oh!” The surprise on your face is disingenuous, but the interviewer’s not even paying enough attention to notice, pen scribbling away at something in her notepad. Good, let her quote you. Hopefully the magazine will land itself in Bucky’s lap and he can get a nice slice of humble pie… Even if the pie is baked in lies. “Sorry, you mean big as in famous and not… My bad!”

It’s amazing how much people are willing to dismiss if you just giggle and shoot them a ditsy smile.

Things fall into place, like puzzles pieces at last reuniting with each other, and life feels good again.

In November, you release a new single. It hits number one on the charts.

In December, you announce a new album, set to release in June, Born With Anger — though you’ve been calling it BWA for short.

In January, you bag a 2 week break. Instead of home, you head south for a girls’ trip, and drag Natasha and your new assistant, Kate, with you.

In February, you find yourself entangled in your first real scandal. Unknowingly photographed on a late night walk with an actor friend, you wind up the front page of every gossip blog and TikTok page.

And then, in March, reality finally knocks on your door.

You originally have no intention of answering, snuggled into a blanket on your couch and watching The Princess Bride for what could easily be the hundredth time in your life. The sound echoes off the oak-wood door and you sink deeper into your comfort in protest, hoping that, if you wrap the dark grey fluff around you tight enough, whoever is at your door will slip away with the night and leave you be.

But the knock comes again. And again. And again.

It does not grow more frantic, nor does it grow louder, yet it affects you more each time, grating on your ears until you’re practically slapping the pause button, tossing the blanket aside, and marching over to your apartment door with one thing in mind: a very unpleasant fuck-off.

The door handle hits the wall with a thud and you prepare yourself to chew out whatever idiot decided it would be a good idea to disturb your peace at nearly two in the morning… Only to freeze the moment he melts into you.

“There’s my golden girl.”

Throwing himself forward in a trust-fall, Bucky cushions himself in your arms as you open them for him, a knee-jerk reaction to his body barrelling towards you. It’s been months since you last saw him, and the first thing you notice is the layer of red hair peaking out beneath the usual mess of dark brown.

Actually, it hasn’t been months since you last saw him.

The last time you really saw him was two weeks ago, his sharp jaw and bright eyes projected onto a number of screens while you stood in the artists’ tent of a festival. The Howling Commandos were headlining the very same stage as you had the night before, a feat which Bucky had no problem reminding you and the crowd of as they approached the final quarter of their set, his voice cutting in over the mic for the first time all night, greeted with a wave of screaming fans.

‘Fore we close this night out, I just wanna give a little shout-out to a special someone. She was amazing on this stage last night, and I just need her to know I couldn’t be any prouder. I don’t know if she’s in the crowd tonight, so I need you guys to sing as loud as you can so we can make sure she hears it, no matter where she is. This next song goes out to my golden girl.

If you didn’t have Clint dragging you out to the Flock & Feather’s after-party, you likely would have caved and unblocked him that night. Or, worse, waited for him backstage.

But now he’s here, dripping rain water onto your doormat and hiding his face in your neck. The tip of his nose is cold as it drags along your skin, but his hands are warm as they haphazardly rub your back at the first shiver that runs down it.

“Miss you,” he speaks so softly, you’re unsure of who he’s trying to not scare away: you or himself. “So much. Keep havin’ these dreams where you’re laying next to me and I make you happy.”

Longing unloads on you with no warning. Like a soda bottle shaken one too many times, someone has at last unscrewed the lid and a mess now lies — both in it’s wake and in your arms.

You drag him inside, trying your best to manoeuvre you both while being mindful to not slam the door. It’s late, after all, and your upstairs neighbours have a kid. As soon as you twist the lock, you’re pulling back from Bucky, only for him to chase after you with immediacy, head shaking in the crook of your neck.

“James-” You try to adopt a serious tone, but it falters the moment he interrupts you.

“Please don’t,” he pleads like a man begging for life, for respite, for salvation. The hands around your back are suddenly clinging onto your shirt, pulling you tighter against him. “Don’t send me away. Just… Let me be here, be yours, for the night.”

When silence persists from you, pensive as you shuffle a few steps further into your apartment with the hunk of muscles around you matching each step, Bucky attempts one last ditched effort.

“It’s my birthday. Don’t make me spend it alone.”

Not even a man made of the mythical metal known as Vibranium — from the world renowned fantasy series, Wildflowers and Vibraniun — could resist such a request, and so you let Bucky stay.

You don’t tell him with words, opting to instead wrap your arms around him. The embrace lasts for minutes, hours, as long as he needs it to. Hearts beat towards one another, magnets at last reunited through layers of cotton and flesh. His shoulders shake, every inhale a gust of wind against his fragile hold on reality. And all the while you bite your tongue, and ignore the fact that he stinks of alcohol, that his hands are shaky against your waist, that his eyes are more pupil than iris.

“Come on,” you whisper, two hands cupping his cheeks and finally getting a proper look at his face. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

The bathwater is warm but not scalding, the perfect temperature for Bucky to sink his aching limbs into — with the help of you, both hands holding his frame steady through his descent into the tub.

All plans of watching the rest of your movie are abandoned as you settle down on the tiled floor, back pressed against the wall and arms folded over your knees. It pains you to see him like this, as much as you try to will yourself to not care. His head is tilted back against the porcelain basin, eyes shutting out the offensively bright light, and his breathing keeps exploding out of him in heavy puffs of air, rippling the water as his chest bobs up and down.

Bucky Barnes is too beautiful for his own good, otherwise someone would have slapped him silly and told him to clean up his act by now… Or has he just not listened? God knows you tried to tell him, in your own vengeful, messy way.

“Think it finally dawned on me,” the words are soft-spoken, carefully put out into the space between you both.

“What did?” You call back to him, feet skating a little closer to the end where his head lays, hunching over your legs as your back unsticks from the wall.

“Why you don’t wanna be with me.”

Out of all the things you expected him to bring up, that was not one of them.

A part of you assumed he had moved on from his conquest of turning you both into something serious. A part of you had hoped he did, for his sake as much as your own. Months of no contact should have been enough to let the concept of you and Bucky disappear, a fantasy long faded into dust-particles and blown away with the winds of winter.

But now Bucky is inside your apartment, naked and high as a kite in your bath tub, and his eyes are reopening to pin you with a look so saturated in affection, you feel yourself ache. For him, for yourself, for both of you.

“You’re too good for me.” He doesn’t speak in search of pity, voice steadfast as he watches you from the tub, calm and collected, entirely decided in the stance he’s taken. You, on the other hand, have tears kissing your lashes and are dragging yourself a few inches further up the length of the tub. “Can’t let you be another thing I ruin.”

Whatever higher power sent him stumbling to your door tonight has not sent you the James Barnes you love to hate; the abrasive man with too many leather pants for a man of his age and an ego inflated through the roof. Instead, you sit face to face with something realer than you’ve seen of him before; a man stitched together by misery and mistakes, blinking back sadness before it can pour down his cheeks. His face is tired, his shoulders heavy, and his soul is infected with desperation.

No longer is James Barnes hungry with lust, but haunted by it. Hunted by it, prey to the very thing he predates with.

You reach for him with a sigh, only to falter and let your touch fall upon the tub’s edge, “You wouldn’t ruin me, Buck. ‘M not that fragile.”

“But you are that precious,” Bucky shifts, bending at the waist and sitting up in the bath. The movement causes a ripple effect that leads to water pouring over the the side of the tub, wetting your fingers and the floor. “Just wish I was the kinda man who knew how to treat you right.”

Then be that guy. For me. You can practically taste the words in your mouth, feel your tongue moulding to their shape, readying yourself to speak. Bucky continues before you get the chance.

“I know you don’t wanna be on my mind. I’ve tried forcing you out of it,” the bath water moves with him, dripping off the arm he reaches out for you with. Pruned fingers lock around your wrist and remind you, for the first time in months, what it feels like to be touched, handled, cradled. He guides your fingers away from the porcelain edge and over towards him. “But I don’t know how to get you out of here.”

Bucky presses your hand to his chest and it’s like a knife has been shoved in your own, twisted for extra measure before promptly being ripped out and leaving you to bleed to death. There’s insistence in the way he holds you against him, his larger hand clutching your own even tighter against him. His heartbeat dances against your palm, singing your name.

You can’t remember when you turned fully toward him, but suddenly your knees are bumping against the body of the tub.

“Can you tell me how, baby? Wanna do at least something right by you,” he’s come to you weak and defeated, a warrior trading in his sword and commanding you to drive it through him. “I thought seeing you with someone else would help. I don’t usually have the patience for jealousy. But… God, doll, when I saw those stories about you and Walker… Well, you’re looking right at my reaction, went out and got a hold of the first bag I could find.”

If you weren’t so afraid of hearing it falter, you would use your words to plead for his silence.

If Bucky were any more sober, you would slap him across the face.

The guilt unweighed atop of you is enough to suffocate, to bury you alive, six feet deep in a well of shame and blame. How dare he insinuate you are a cause of his addiction, a vehicle through which he turns to rot himself into a living corpse? Selfish, cruel, inconsiderate. All the big words one can pin onto rock legend James Barnes come flying back to the forefront of your mind, pickaxes that chip away at the empathy crystallizing around your heart.

And, then Bucky — sweet, pitiful, human Bucky — drags your hand up to his mouth and places the softest kiss against your fingers, “I love you.”

His eyes are two black pinholes, staring at parts of you that you do not even recognise, watching as you lay your head down on the porcelain edge and let the sleeve of your cardigan soak itself as you reach for his other hand. He looks at you like any ordinary man would look at the dawn, like a new day and a new life has begun simply because you have returned the light to him at last, after six months of darkness.

Beneath the buzzing of a bathroom light, with one hand pressed to his mouth and the other nestled between the spaces of his scarred knuckles, you want nothing more than to be his Sun, to soothe his worries with the warmth of rays, to truly become his golden girl. But your lips part and the words won’t come out.

“Don’t need you to say it back,” Bucky peppers a few more pecks over your palm, laying your fingers flat on his cheek. Days old stubble scratches at your skin and takes you back to simpler times between you both, where feelings had not yet been addressed and relationships had not been denied. There was no mess to be cleaned up back then; just you, perched on his bathroom sink, and Bucky standing between your legs as you dragged a razor over his cheek and left him rocking the kind of goatee only an 80s porno movie would dare curse the world with. “I’m stubborn enough to love you anyway.”

In an ideal world, you both stumble to bed that night as lovers do.

Bucky pulls you into his arms, you stake claim over his skin as a place to rest your head, while he marks his territory with a kiss to your forehead and a sigh of your name. Not even in sleep do you depart each others side, using one another as life jackets to wade through the dark sea of unconsciousness. When morning comes, eyes reopen to find one another and blink back longing stares that spill I missed yous down your features. He reminds you that he loves you, and you return the favour at last, and life is finally good again.

But, in the real world, you lay restless in your own bed while Bucky drools against your shoulder. And you wake before him to reach for his phone. And you watch him stumble out of your bedroom with Tony Stark dragging him by the scruff of his neck, cursing at him to ‘Get your act together, Barnes, or I’ll have you kicked out the band.’

By April, you no longer pay attention to the headlines you make, too busy focusing on his.

James Barnes, drummer of ‘The Howling Commandos’, checks into rehab.

The world comes crashing down on a Friday.

Or, at least that’s how it feels.

Like any and every woman in the industry, there comes a point where the general public decides they are no longer comfortable with your success. You have surpassed the sell-by date slapped onto you by them, and now it is time to tear you off the pedestal they mounted you upon.

All it takes is one post to turn the tides and, overnight, you go from most beloved to most despicable; from proof anyone can achieve their dreams to just another industry plant being shoved onto everybody’s screen.

Natasha had warned you before you even got the chance to stumble upon it.

nat-attack: Look, this happens. We were expecting it. I know it’s tempting to check, but stay off your phone while this passes. Once the album drops, they’ll be back to loving you, trust me. 07:52

Clint was next in line, not to warn you but to distract you.

clit: the barton family are heading out to a spa retreat this weekend, wanna join? we have room for one more in the car. 08:33

Even the CEO of Thunderbolt reached out to you, albeit not to comfort but inform you of news.

The Boss Man: Due to the current circumstances, myself and your team have agreed it is in your best interest to stay offline. Kate Bishop will continue to run your socials, though we have changed the passwords in an effort to ensure you do not engage in the wave of hate. Take care of yourself. See you at next month’s meeting. Kind regards, J.B.B. 08:47

When Bucky doesn’t reach out, you have to remind yourself that it’s your own doing, that his number is still blocked.

No matter how many loving messages you receive, however, that doesn’t stop you from spiralling. Now, three days after the shit-storm began, you’re sprawled over your mattress — instagram opened with the very same account you had used to check Bucky’s story — scrolling through the comments of your most recent post.

stopthepop not to be that person but i never got the hype abt her anyway

sunflowerrrs her music isn’t deep, her fans just salivate at mediocrity 😭

superbassbuck you guys are literally sheep, hating on her just because the rest of internet decided to. smh, get a fucking life.

mornpony okay so can we now address how she’s so male centred??? idk, i just find it weird that she’s always singing about a man.

opheliabbarnes @mornpony wtf do you want her to sing about, the sociopolitical state of the world? she’s a popstar! hop off her dick, you freak.

iamthatonefangirl hi, i just wanted to say i’m really looking forward to your next album. you’re amazing, please don’t let the hate get to you x

biscu1t55 idk the music’s just kind of mid, innit

lilcherubbutt cant dance, cant sing, no stage presence, body not tea, and this is who you guys stan?

54nboo @lilcherubbutt i’m exploding you with my mind rn.

juniebjonesin i have a g*n, girl. let me know if you need me to use it on any of these weirdos/j, but also srs

The phone drops out your hand as a loud noise startles you. Two seconds pass, and then it happens again, enticing you out of bed and into the living room.

Deja-vu slaps you over the head as you approach the front door, a third knock already landing against the wood as you twist the key and hesitantly open the door, expecting to meet Nat and 21 questions on why you’ve been dodging her calls.

Instead, there’s just him, carrying a smile and a bouquet of poppies.

Bucky is far from the man that left your apartment all those months ago. There is a brightness in his eyes, no longer weighed down by exhaustion nor widened by drugs. His hair is perfectly styled, not damp from rain nor messed by fingers. The clothes he wears are clean, the shoes he wears are polished, and if it weren’t for the nose ring and the lick of ink poking out from his sweater, you’d almost think this was Bucky Barnes secret, unrockified twin.

But no, it’s him, in the flesh and more present in his own body than you’ve ever seen him. Rehab has clearly served its intended purpose. Too much pride and a wounded ego intercept you telling him as much.

You settle for a question injected with sarcasm, yet fully intend for the grin you stretch across your cheeks to come off as sincere,“Did your assistant pick those out too?”

“This was all me. Had to scour through my payment history,” he waves the bouquet, too focused on you to notice the red petal falling to the floor. “Wanted to make sure I got your favourite ones.”

The admission is what undoes you.

Your lips falter, the mask slips off your face, and the dam breaks.

Like a dying star, you implode. Your arms collapse around your waist, embracing you as though they possess any chance of holding the frame of you together. You feel a sob lurch from somewhere deep within and your knees begin to buckle, only for Bucky to catch your fall.

The plastic wrapping around the flowers crinkles as he brings you in against him, enveloping you in the safety of a steady figure. The door clicks quietly shut, his foot nudging it into place while he guides you through the perilous waves of distress rolling over you, threatening to pull you under.

In the span of 3 months, nothing and everything has changed: you both still stand in the entryway of your apartment, locked in comfort, yet it is now him who has become the lighthouse, the bright light to guide you to the safety of shore.

“I got you, goldie,” you feel the unmistakable pressure of his lips meeting the crown of your head and soften deeper into his hold, nose pushing against the smell of clean cotton and fresh aftershave. Had he gotten himself all dressed up, just to see you? “Been missing you so damn much, you know that? My notebook’s getting sick of me scribbling down songs about you.”

Your unwilling response is another sob, hiccuping out of you as a hand soothes up your spine, a rhythm so gentle you feel yourself longing to sway to it.

Much to your surprise, Bucky doesn’t hush you, doesn’t tell you to bottle it all back inside.He just holds you against him and let’s you spill it all onto his sweater. The stress, the anxiety, the self-pity. Everything that has stolen bites out of your sanity these past few days is finally spewing it’s teary guts out.

“Think you can do me a favour?” Bucky asks, another kiss engraved onto your skin. This one meets the space between your eyes. You nod, voice still thick with emotion. “Pack your bag, wanna take you somewhere.”

Somewhere turns out to be New York.

A six hour flight and a cab ride spits you out onto a street in Brooklyn. You barely find the time to notice if any fellow travellers fixate a camera lens on either of you, attention placed solely in the palm of Bucky’s hand as he entwines it with yours. Clasped in his other hand is your duffel bag, packed in a blurry hurry and with no real clue of what he intended to do with you.

Even now, following him up a set of steps like a loyal disciple, you have no real clue what stands behind the door he raps his knuckles against. Like he can smell the nervous energy, he trades your hand for your jaw, cradling it in his hold and inflating his lips with a reassuring smile.

“Relax, they don’t bite,” he punctuates it with a kiss against your forehead, lips lingering long enough for you jolt back in surprise when hinges creak open.

On the other side stands an older woman, with hair a stylish shade of ash and the kind of glint in her eye that screams of a mischievous youth. She smells of plum wine and home-cooked meals, and joy pours out of her pores like a fountain, promising to drench you in the feeling.

“James!” The woman wastes no time in pulling him down into her embrace.

“Hey ma,” He hugs her back, mindful of the bag still in his grasp. “Where’s pa?”

“Kitchen,” she responds, both hands rubbing over his back with the affection only a mother’s love could possibly conjure. “I locked him in there, he can come out once he’s done mashing the potatoes.”

“We’ve been over this, you can’t keep confining him. One o’ these days, he’s gonna call the cops on you!” The laugh the pair share is infectious, seeping into you and forcing a giggle to shake through your own frame. You regret it immediately, as both faces turn towards where you stand, four eyes as blue as the ocean pinning you beneath their stare. Bucky clears his throat, “I brought a guest.”

The past two years of performing for the faceless masses, of walking down carpets in heels that threaten your balance, of ripping out the loose threads of your soul and stitching them together into music… It all amounts to nothing when you meet the spotlight of her gaze.

“I mean, if that’s okay,” squirming slightly where you stand, you shift your weight from one leg to another and give your best attempt at a sheepish smile. “I don’t want to intrude.”

Bucky and his mother exchange a look, something unintelligible passing between them, information shared through nothing but a glance. And then, before you can brace yourself for impact, you’re enveloped in her arms.

“Don’t be silly,” she says, soothing your back with the very same affection she’d given her son. “There’s always room at our table.”

Muscles freed from a tension you’ve been holding in for who knows how long, you catch the wink Bucky shoots you over her shoulder, only for the peaceful exchange on the doorstep to be interrupted by an excited squeal.

“Uncle Bucky!”A blur of motion throws itself at him, and emerges in Bucky’s hold as a young boy — who has paired the superheroes of his Earth’s Mightiest Benders shirt with a plastic tiara.

“Well if it isn’t the birthday boy,” Bucky secures an arm beneath his nephew, letting the boy dangle his legs on either side of his waist, and straightens the crown atop the boy’s head. “D’you wanna tell my friend what big age you’re turning, Jamie?”

Made aware of your presence, Jamie takes barely a glance your way before he’s hiding his face in his uncle’s neck, the tips of his little ears blushing red.

Bucky chuckles as his nephew mumbles something you don’t quite catch, face full of affection as he looks at you, “You’re right, kiddo. She is very pretty.”

The Barneses welcome you in with open arms, full plates, and absolutely no questions. With Bucky on your right and his sister on your left, you slot seamlessly into the family. Smiles and side plates are passed over a table of seven, while music and laughter play on in the background.

Time passes slowly. Dinner transitions into a game night, hours spent with cards in hand, and Charade prompts, and the warmth of Bucky’s fingers drawing patterns over your knee. By the end of the night, your legs are sprawled over his lap alongside his nephew, who stakes claim of his left shoulder… So much so that, at one point, Bucky leans down to whisper in your ear, “Think you’re gonna have to cut this arm off’a me, goldie. Jamie’s showing no signs of letting go.”

When the wine comes out and the birthday boy begins to snore, sheltered safely beneath the blanket of Bucky’s tattooed arm, you find the courage to check your phone. Of all the missed calls and unanswered messages, the only one that captures your attention is the link to an article, sent by none-other than your endearing little stress-head.

nat-attack: www.rosesaintsnews.com/A-Pop-Rock-Romance-:-James-Barnes-Spotted-Hand-in-Hand-With-It-Girl 19:51

nat-attack: Are you being HBB? 19:52

am i what?! 22:17

nat-attack: Held By Barnes. HBB. 22:19

of all the things you decide to abbreviate in text… you choose that? 22:24

nat-attack: It irks me to type his name. 22:27

nat-attack: But I guess I have to thank him for finally getting a response from you. Have fun, be safe, use protection! Or… are you just BB tonight? 22:29

you can’t just keep inventing shit and expecting me to understand. 22:48

nat-attack: Blowing Barnes, BB. Get with the program. 23:01

It’s not until after ‘goodbyes’ are bid and you find yourself staring up at the ceiling of Bucky’s childhood bedroom, a comforter clutched around your tired limbs and the steady sound of his breathing filling the room, that your voice crawls out of your throat.

“Your mom’s really nice,” you’re hesitant to speak too loud, afraid to wake him from any possible slumber. You hear movement from the floor — despite your insistence on sharing, he had stressed there wasn’t enough space on the twin bed and took up residency atop a blow-up mattress — and use it as your queue to keep talking. “Your whole family is, actually.”

“They’re pretty great,” you can hear the smile in his voice and finally drag your eyes down from the ceiling.

Moonlight has slipped through the cracks of curtains, casting a blueish glow around the room. The walls are a mess, scrap-art in the form of magazine clippings and band posters. Not even the closet is safe, decorated with scribbled lyrics and the names of Bucky’s favourite bands. A baby-sized drum kit takes up space on the left side of the bed — where several guitars and a bass hang from the wall — while the right side sports a nightstand housing a collage of photographs from Bucky’s earliest years, and the presence of the air-mattress. Who would ever think that, tucked away in the suburbs of New York, sits a time-capsule of rock-legend James Barnes’ childhood?

Just the thought of it is enough to rouse melancholy you possess no ownership of, an imposter staking claim over somebody else’s memories.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Bucky speaks up, tearing you away from the tears threatening your eyes. “How am I such a screw up, when I come from a family like that?”

Your thoughts sound so sinful aloud, invasive in a way you have always denied yourself of being when it comes to Bucky, “I’m sorry-”

“Don’t be. You deserve to know,” the mattress sighs beneath him as he rolls over onto his side, elbow digging into it as he props his head up. Shadows dance over his silhouette, mimicking the blinking of his lashes and exaggerating the sharpness of his nose. You follow suit and roll over, gazing down at him from the bed-frame. “There’s no big story, though. Just… A kid who got to live out his wildest dreams, and then crashed and burned in the middle of it. The band, we blew up so fast, so young, we didn’t really have the time to process it. One minute, we were playing for our high school prom, the next minute we’re on a world tour.”

You bite your tongue, swallow down the urge to confess how you went to one of their shows. How it was your first ever concert. How you stood in the crowd, gazing up at the man behind the drum kit, and fell in love with the thought of pursuing music.

Now is not the time.

You’ll tell him someday, in the future.

“The first time I tried it was at an after party. I was barely even drinking age, and I was surrounded by my idols. There was no hope in hell that I was about to refuse when one of them offered me a line,” Bucky laughs, like the story is funny and not devastating. Barbwire made of anger wraps itself around your heart, ripping it open with every contraction and letting the feeling fester throughout your bloodstream as you picture a bright-eyed, blank-canvas, younger Bucky being corrupted with something as rotten as addiction at the reckless hands of his heroes. “Then it just became a way to stay awake. Keep up the rockstar image, you know? Far as I was concerned, I could quit at any point… Did I ever tell you I’m an idiot?”

This time, you are the one that laughs, a choked out noise that you muffle into the pillow beneath your head, “I’ve definitely called you one.”

“‘Course you have, goldie,” he inches closer, nearing the edge of his makeshift mattress. “Thankfully I met the sweetest, smartest girl, who could knock me on my ass with the truth. Wouldn’t have wound up in rehab, otherwise… I thought about you in there.”

Head shooting up in shock, you somehow find the blue of his eyes in the unlit room, “You did?”

“Why’re you so surprised? I always think about you.”

A lump makes itself at home in your throat. Heavy, noted, emotion filled, “Oh.”

Bucky speaks so plainly, no gimmick or hidden agenda in his voice, that you have no choice but to believe him, believe that there is a tab open in his mind that forever features you, in moving colour and perfect memory. The revelation brings forth your own realisation that he is there too, in your mind, like a melody that plays on repeat in your head.

“There’s this thing in rehab, part of the road to sobriety, where you have to right your wrongs,” Bucky picks back up where he left off, distracting you before the balloon of emotions swelling in your chest gets the chance to explode. “I know I’ve given you more wrongs than you can count, so let me just start with the most recent. That night, what I told you in your apartment-”

“Don’t even mention it, Buck. Water under the bridge, okay? I know you weren’t in the right state of mind, saying things you didn’t really mean-”

“I meant it. Still do,” how is he even closer than before? If you wanted to, you could reach down and touch his face. Or his arm. Or his hand, intertwine it with yours and tug him up onto the single-bed. “I shouldn’t have told you. Not like that. It was selfish of me, knowing that you’re not- That you don’t feel that.”

You fall silent and the room fills with his breathing again.

Sinking back down onto the pillow, your eyes meet the ceiling once more. Sleep entices you, promising you safety and freedom from the pressure on your chest, the waver of your heartbeat, the ache in your soul that calls for no other but him to soothe it.

Those four letters take shape above your head, looming over you like a threat. Love. A nightmare on display in your waking hours. It terrifies you into a state of freeze, with nowhere left to run, and leaves you in the direct sight of your assailant, primed and readied to be consumed.

“It’s not that I don’t feel it, I just-” the hitch in your voice is unexpected, forcing you to pause. You find strength in the soft hum that leaves Bucky, followed by another squeak of his mattress deflating beneath his body. “I didn’t grow up in a home like yours… My parents, they, uh- They should’ve gotten divorced. But they loved me too much.”

Something cuts through Bucky’s inhale, strangling the descent of oxygen as he listens to you. In the dark of the night, you find yourself in a confession booth, spilling your guilt out your mouth for a faceless, forgiving figure by your side, who makes no attempt to interrupt yet reassures you of his presence with minute signs of life.

“They thought they were doing me a favour, keeping the family unit together, under one roof. And all it done was hurt me,” the sting in your eyes has grown too great for you to continue ignoring, and so you are forced to finally blink, only to send a tidal wave of hot tears pouring down your face and onto the pillow. “I was a kid but I wasn’t stupid. I saw it when I would sleep at my friends’ houses, how their parents looked at each other, spoke to each other, cared for each other. Then I would go home to snarky comments from my mother and lipstick stains on my father’s collar. All they wanted was to do what they thought was best for me, and even if they made themselves miserable in the process… I don’t want to end up like that. I can’t.”

Bucky cuts in, when the time is right and your voice has faltered, “What about now?”

“Now?” You echo back to him, wiping a hand over your wet cheek as a sniffle leaves your nose. “My dad passed a few years ago. My mom is getting remarried, next fall, and she’s happy. Happier than I’ve ever seen her.”

“I make a surprisingly good impression on parents,” he proclaims, so seriously that you can’t help scoffing in humour. Outside, a stranger beeps their horn, obnoxiously loud and prolonged. In the quiet of the bedroom, it feels like the firing of a starter’s gun, marking the beginning of a race — instead of running from Bucky, maybe it’s time to start running towards him. “Just, y’know, if you’re needing someone to keep you company at the wedding.”

“My mom already likes you. She’s a howler, or whatever your fans call themselves,” you sigh at the thought, turning on your side to face him again, one arm slipping under the pillow while the other drifts towards the edge of the bed. You swallow down hesitation, blink back tears, and mentally fall back into the confession booth, “I just wish my dad got that… To move on, be happy, instead of forcing himself to stay in a loveless marriage. Instead of spending the end of his life trapped and unhappy, all because of me-”

“Hey, no, none of that,” he takes the first step onto the field, it seems, his touch landing atop your outstretched hand and anchoring you in him before guilty thoughts get the chance to sweep you out to sea. “They were the adults, you were the kid. Them sticking things out for you, even if it did make them unhappy, that’s not your burden to bare. You hear me? Their misery was not your fault.”

You’ve lost all the willpower to fight off the sickness of emotions, burrowing yourself into his blankets and clutching your fingers around his own. No matter how tight you squeeze, he does not falter; he simply continues soothing his thumb over your knuckles and holding what little he can reach from mattress of the floor.

“I bet your parents woke up everyday thankful that, despite all their problems, at least you exist,” his voice delivers you into the arms of exhaustion, letting it envelop you for the night as you shift a little closer to the edge of the bed and pull your interlocked hands against your beating chest. “Can’t tell you the number of times I’ve done the same.”

The sleep is dreamless and swift; the kind that feels like a blink and then you’re awake again, eyes opening to find your hands still intertwined while he brushes an eyelash from your cheek with the other.

Fully clothed and ready for the day, Bucky leans over your sleeping figure and greets you with a smile, “Come on, sleepyhead, time to get up.”

Eyes squinting to block out the golden sun, haloing him from behind, you groan and hide your face in the pillow, “What time is it?”

“Early, but I told you, goldie,” he lands a kiss on your naked shoulder, sharing affection as casually as he had passed you the salt at the table last night. “Got someplace I wanna take you.”

“What the hell is this?”

“This,” Bucky, having almost flown over the car bonnet to open you door, slams it shut behind you. “Is the first thing I bought after the band got big.”

Stones crunch beneath feet as you both begin the ascent up a driveway. Before you lays a villa, made up of brown bricks, arched windows, and overgrown ivy. A dock sits outstretched on the left side of the house, leading out onto a lake filled with crystalline waters and a family of ducks. Up a staircase of dark wood sits a porch, circling the entirety of the house and decorated by several plant pots and a swing-chair fit for two.

In short, the building looks like something plucked right out of a fairytale or an animated movie. You half expect someone to open one of the windows and leave a homemade pie out to cool on the ledge.

Without even noticing, your jaw has gone slack, lips parting as you take in the sight of the building. Fingers, less calloused after months of relaxation and rehabilitation, draw a line over the side of your face before finding purchase under your chin and easing your mouth closed.

Out of force of habit, Bucky’s thumb brushes over your bottom lip, dragging it down with just enough pressure for it to spring back into place when his thumb releases it.

The action is familiar, something he’s done time and time again in the throes of pleasure — taking you from behind with one arm hooked over your torso, pinning you flush against him and tweaking at your nipples, while the other one pries open your lips and readies you to receive an offering from his mouth, spit dripping down like syrup onto your tongue.

It lingers between you, gazes meeting with an unspoken understanding: you are both recalling the ways you used to exchange body heat, the way neither of you has touched the other in half a year. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows back whatever thoughts are swirling behind the storms of his eyes, and takes the initiative to move two steps back; de-invading your space and allowing the cold breeze to fall over your skin.

“Well,” bringing his hand up, Bucky brushes back a handful of hair and devastates you with the sight of one strand falling perfectly over his forehead, framing the art that is his face. “Do you want the house tour?”

The house is more furnished than you expect.

Not with sharply cut and oddly shaped pieces plucked out of a home-decor magazine, worth so much money it feels wrong to do anything other than stare at them. No, the home is a fusion of comfort and style: a living room centred by an antique fireplace, a bathroom adorned with a row of rubber ducks along the tub, a dining room where the sun beams in and warms the table, a hallway filled with knick-knacks. Despite the dust and the cobwebs, the house feels lived in, feels like a home.

It’s in the kitchen that you’re stunned into silence, coming to a halt and forcing poor Bucky to stumble into you as a gasp tumbles out your mouth. Between the double-door fridge, the speckled marble counter-tops, the colourful azulejo designed tiles lining the wall, and the breakfast bar facing out onto the lake, you hardly know what to begin looking at first.

So you settle for none and instead spin around to face Bucky.

“Please tell me that you brought me here to hand over the keys so I can live here for the rest of my life.”

He coughs out a chuckle, taking hold of your shoulder to manoeuvre you both out of the doorway and fully into the room, explaining along the way that, “You’re welcome to stay, goldie, but that’s not why I brought you here.”

With an exasperated sigh, which you conjure up with the acting skills you honed after a 2 week stint in your school’s drama club, you cave and finally ask: “Then, why did you bring me here?”

Your question is met with a shrug, at first, as Bucky drifts away from your side. Strolling the length of the kitchen, he wipes a hand over the marble surface before finally coming to a pause, leaning back against the counter, pinning you beneath his interrogative stare, and crossing his arms over his chest.

Goddamn it, his arms look great, threatening the cotton prison of the faded Metallica shirt wrapped around them.

“Figured you could use a distraction,” he clears his throat, and you wonder if you’re making the great James Buchanan Barnes nervous. “I know things can get… Ugly, when the world turns against you overnight. Guess I didn’t want you resorting to any of my bad habits. So, when I got the approval from Nat, I decided to go fetch you and drag you away from the epicentre of the chaos, take you as far away from that part of our lives as I could get you.”

As obvious as it should have been, your mind finally begins to connect the dots: travelling to the opposite coast, surrounding you in the domesticity of his family, dragging you out to the middle of nowhere and showing you a personal gem he keeps hidden away from the public.

Every tiny action in the past twenty-four hours or so has been perfectly curated to get your mind away from the anarchy against your name taking place online.

“I don’t know how to thank you.”

“Then don’t, cause I don’t want you to,” Bucky shifts, body turning as his eyes follow you through the room while you approach the breakfast bar. “Told you right from the start, you’re Thunderbolt’s golden girl. As much as you may want to, you can’t just let yourself rust.”

Compliments sometimes feel as difficult of a mountain to climb as that pesky L word, which is why you choose to run from the sincerity in his voice and instead turn the conversation onto him.

“How come you have this place? Is it like, a vacation home? Or-” Mock-shock in the form of an outraged cry, you widen your eyes and do your best impression of disgust. “Don’t tell me you’re the devil incarnate… Don’t tell me you’re a landlord, Barnes!”

“You’ve been spending too much time with that actor o’ yours, y’know that?” Your confusion at his statement is kicked to the curb instantly, as Bucky proceeds to explain. “Our parents told us to choose our first big spend wisely, to make it something we would remember. Where Steve bought himself a guitar, and Ava went out and spent pennies on getting her tongue pierced, I bought this place. It was a bit of a fixer-upper, but I wasn’t really in a rush to move in. Now, I’m just… Waiting, I guess.”

“For what?”

“You’re not aloud to laugh, okay? You’ve given my ego enough lashings through the years,” if anyone else were to say such a thing, a sickly kind of guilt would overcome you. Instead, watching a wicked grin bleed onto his face has you matching it with your own, a girlish giggle squirming it’s way up your throat. Hands up as a quiet sign of your surrender, Bucky confesses, “A family. That’s why I bought it, wanted to find someone and spend the rest of our lives living under a roof I earned with the one good thing I’ve done in my life: music.”

Visions of a life flash before your eyes: children running through the kitchen, evenings spent curled up by the fireplace, swimming through the lake in summer and skating atop it during winter. It’s nothing you ever imagined yourself wanting, yet it clenches around your heart like an iron fist.

And then you spot the wall. A tiny bump of a foundational pillar, jutting out from beside the grandiose window.

“My dad used to mark my height against a wall in our kitchen. He said he was keeping a visual record, to remind himself one day of how far I’ve come from the little girl throwing tantrums before bedtime,” It isn’t often that you manage a full sentence about your father without a pinch in your voice, yet this time you muster a smile as you brush your fingertips against the pillar. “This would be a good spot to measure height, right? We could even-”

“No. You can’t do that.” You almost jump out of your skin, turning to find him no longer leaning against the kitchen but right at your back, towering over your figure and just about caging you between the pillar and the sunshine piercing through the glass. Bucky shakes his head, tongue darting out to swipe over his bottom lip, “Can’t talk about my future, goldie, like you’re going to be part of it.”

When did the sun get so warm?

It’s prickling your skin, rousing sweat between the neckline of your jumper. Not only is it heating you up, but it’s quickening your breathing, driving it from a steady inhale-exhale to an unsure waver of oxygen rolling in and carbon dioxide rolling out. And it’s turning you light headed, commanding your legs to sway forward, right into Bucky’s receiving palm, hovering over your cheek like touching you might burn.

Bucky’s face is closer than you remember, consequence of a magnet force that draws you both in. There’s a ghost of a touch when his head dips an inch, the cool metal of his nose-ring bumping against your nostril and the brush of his breath hitting your cheekbone. You watch as his eyes slip shut- No, squeeze shut, like a physical pain has overcome him and he’s fighting back a complaint.

“I’m trying real hard to be a good man, okay?” And yet he says it with all the frustration of a sinner, of someone salivating with the desire to consume. “Trying to turn a new leaf, to not force you to become the thing you criticised me for. So just… Work with me, goldie, help me be a good man.”

“What are you talking-”

“Walker,” he practically spits the name out, body slumping forward only for him to hold out a hand and catch his fall before he can fully collide against you. Which would be great, if it did not leave you now even more trapped, now between the pillar and his bicep. “John, the actor guy. I know you guys are… You know, together. And I’m trying to respect that, I really am, but baby, you’re putting me through hell here.”

Like an overheated computer, you shutdown.

It takes a minute or two for the power to come back on in your brain. For his words to slot themselves into place, for you to realise what nonsense he’s spewing, for the magazine covers and the social media comments to come flooding back in. The late-night walk, the unfounded rumours, the continued speculation…

“Bucky,” you cross the invisible threshold between you both, flattening your palm against his face and watching as you coax his eyes open with a tender brush of your thumb along his cheek. “I’m not seeing Walker. I’m not seeing anyone. Not since…” you.

Maybe saying it is too real, too close to that other word you won’t say. Despite this, you watch Bucky register the implication.

“So you’re single?” You nod as slowly as he speaks, vocally processing the news you just delivered. “Which means I’m free to…”

Whatever the end of his thought sounds like, you don’t hear it.

Instead, you find out just how much warmer the sun feels when you’re pressed up against the window.

Of all the people you’ve kissed, none have ever done so with as much hunger as Bucky.

He does not press, he tastes.

Soft lips pulling your own into an unrehearsed dance that, somehow, you both know how to move to. Thick tongue breaching into your mouth, laving over the shyer movements of your own. Sharp teeth grazing the threat of a bite over your skin, ripping an unexpected whine from you as he clamps down on your lower lip, pulling away just to dive back in with reinforcements.

The hand by your cheek has finally made contact, slipping down and around to the back of your neck, and tilting your head further back with a sharp tug at the roots of your hair. His tongues reaches deeper, savours the flavour of you as your fist balls up around his shirts and beckons him closer.

“Missed you,” he somehow finds the time to mutter, between all-consuming kisses and desperate hands scraping up all the pieces of you they can find, like you are moments away from slipping between his fingers. “Missed my golden-”

Quack.

The pair of you physically jump back from the window, lips swollen from one another and pupils dilated with horror as you come face to face with a duck, stood right at the window and staring at you both like you are today’s entertainment.

Another quack is muffled by the window.

“We should probably, uh, continue the tour,” never has Bucky sounded so sheepish, pink staining the tips of his ears as he looks anywhere but the invasive avian. “Lemme show you the upstairs.”

You don’t make it upstairs.

Not fully, at least.

“Buck-aah!” Your moan reverberates off the walls, echoing down the grand stairwell. “Oh my- Please!”

Three steps from the top is where you find yourself, one hand gripping the wooden banister and the other tangling it’s fingers in Bucky’s hair. You’re bare from the waist down, pants tossed over the side of the railing in his eagerness to get his mouth on you. A few stairs further down and sprawled upward is where he lays, a man who has ascended the staircase, parted the gates of your thighs, and is now devouring heaven with his tongue.

For all the fervour put into his kiss, it only ever seems to double once he properly gets his mouth on you.

His tongue drags up the expanse of your cunt, the velvet texture of it perfectly riling up your senses as it licks over folds. His lips pucker around your clit, giving the pearl of you just the right pressure of suction before his tongue joins the fray, tensing to a point and flicking over the sensitive nub. Tender-tipped fingers spread you open, put you on pull display to his hungry eyes and, without a doubt every time, Bucky groans as you clench around nothing and your hole winks at him, as though tempting him to dive in.

A cacophony of moans and groans are plucked from the both of you, the most sinful duet ever known to man. There’s eyes rolling to the back of skulls, breaths hitching, and a whole load of spit as Bucky watches you get wetter, shinier, a smoother yet messier surface for him to work his mouth over.

When his tongue dips in, game-over is practically hovering over you in flashing neon lights as your imminent slip and slide into an orgasm approaches over the horizon… Which is exactly why Bucky always chooses to get mouthy at this point, cutting off the high he’s building just to mutter profanities.

“‘S like drinkin’ sunlight,” Bucky’s eyes are on you. The look on him can only be described as wrecked, the lower half of his face glistening with your arousal, lips swollen from exertion, his eyes slipping back ever-so-slightly as you impatiently pull at his hair and try to drag him back down to finish his meal. “My pretty golden girl, hmm? Always so fuckin’ sweet.”

He’s barely finishing sentences, consonants slipping away as the need for propriety and enunciation disappears with your own ability to think about anything beyond the man between your legs.

“Know what she tastes like, goldie?” Whatever response you have is lost when Bucky plunges two fingers into you, giving no pause between the stretch and the way he curls them inside of you, pushing against the spongy softness of your walls. “Like she’s mine. Ain’t she?”

“Yours. Y-yeah,” you can’t get the words out quick enough, the culmination waiting far too long to just give in and lay all your cards on the table. No more hiding, no more feigning frustrations, no more pretending it doesn’t leave your pussy, your heart, and your soul aching to hear him so proudly call you his. “Yours, yours. All yours.”

You cum with the flavour of surrender in your mouth, foot accidentally kicking against his back as Bucky perches your knees onto his shoulders and dives deeper into you, unrelenting in his attention as he lets you ride out the orgasm, grinding up against his mouth and indulging in the the subtle brush of his nose against your clit.

By the time Bucky takes his mouth off of you, you’re panting with every breath, seeing nothing but stars, and trying to flea up the stairs from the overstimulation he unloads onto you.

He’s in no better state, lips parted for breath and brushing over your right thigh as he turns his head into it, staining your skin in your own lust. Like he has not savoured you enough, his tongue presses hot against you.

“James,” oh, and don’t you just sound like the most pathetic little thing? A whisper for a voice, as shaky as a leaf blowing in the destructive winds of fall. Bucky hums in acknowledgement, stormy blues flickering up to your face as he licks a strip up the length of your thigh, all the way up to your hip before he takes a bite, tattooing his teeth into your flesh. “How much is-”

You’re forced to pause, to recenter yourself and find the ability to speak while his mouth continues over your torso; one hand slipping under your sweater, fingertips slipping beneath the band of your bra and teasing himself with the promise of your soft breasts.

“How much is left of the tour?” You deserve a medal for finally getting the words right. “Can’t we just skip to the master bedroom?”

The pair of you are more tangle than tease, stumbling down the hallway and passing door after door. Hand in hand the entire journey, it only serves to complicate the attempts you both make at undressing one another. Yet, each time you pull away to slip a shirt down his arm or discard your bra on the floor, your fingers can’t find one another again fast enough.

Bucky finally comes to a halt outside a door, turning to cradle your jaw and pull you in for a kiss. Chaste yet lingering, he shoots you one of those heart-wrenching smiles right after he pulls back and twists the handle open.

While you want to take in the room — the plush carpeted floors, the vintage chandelier light, the perfect view out onto the lake — the sex-pest in your brain has you zeroing in on nothing but the four poster bed. Complete with curtains and a cushioned headboard, it is primed and ready for the upper echelons of society, aristocrats or royalty, to slumber within it.

But it’s you who crawls atop the mattress, squealing and tripping over yourself when Bucky lands a slap against the back of your thigh. You turn to face him on all fours and find him tugging down the waistband of his boxers, just in time to watch his cock spring free — literally spring up against his lower abdomen, freed from the shackles of Calvin Klein.

The sight of him alone is enough to have your thighs clenching and pussy pulsing: the vein that begs to be traced by your tongue, the almost angry red flush of his tip, the shine of precum beckoning you to taste, and the shape of him — longer than you should be able to fit inside of you, and the kind of thickness you can already imagine your walls stretching around just by looking at it. And then, waiting patiently beneath, lay two heavy balls, the weight of which you’ve memorised with both your hands and your mouth.

Unsurprised and nonchalant, Bucky welcomes you around his dick like he was expecting it, one hand sliding over your jaw to cup the back of your neck. Warm to the touch and soft against your tongue, you slip into the familiar gratification of watching how easily Bucky melts, turned to putty in your hands — well, your mouth, in this case.

“Come on, baby,” he croons from above, chin kissing his sternum as he stares down at you on the bed, lips wrapped halfway down his cock and a hand full of the rest of his length. “We both know you can do better than that. Relax that pretty jaw, and take me deeper.”

Thumb reaching over from behind your neck, he soothes the corner of your jawbone and, as you force it a little more slack, his hips jut forward to sink a further into your mouth, not hitting the back of your throat, yet still far enough for tears to sting at your eyes. You do nothing to hide them, to fight them off when the head of his dick finally breaches your throat, because you know crying won’t deter him.

No, crying will only make him…

“Fuck. Look so delicate when ya cry for me, like I could break you if I don’t handle you carefully.” He catches one of your tears, but not with his hand. Cock slipping out of your mouth, he bends down and laves his tongue up the side of your face, collecting the salted sweetness born from the mouthwatering pain he’s causing you. “Don’t need that, do you, though? To be touched gently. My good little slut likes it when it hurts.”

“Mhmm,” you hum, swallowing him back down with your mouth and relishing in how he gathers up your hair, fist clenching it into a makeshift ponytail. He pulls on it, sharply, just enough to make your scalp burn and your cunt clench around nothing, a teardrop of arousal running down the expanse of your thigh and dripping onto the bedsheets.

Reigns secured, Bucky wastes no time in pushing the boundaries of your limits and begins bobbing your head down on him, hips rocking forward just to fuck himself that little more down your throat and relish in the sickly, wet sounds of him hitting your gag reflex. Saliva spills past your lips and down your chin.

The bed is five minutes away from possessing it’s own lake, composed of all the fluids spilling out of you. Tears, drool, cum, pouring like a fountain. It’s messy, and sloppy, and exactly how Bucky likes it: when he can see just how desperate you are to get him off, to have him paint your mouth white and feed his cum down your oesophagus.

A depraved relief overwhelms your heart and a heavier set of tears spill down your cheeks as Bucky grants you your reward, balls pulling tight against him as he floods your mouth full of cum.

“Uh-uh,” he tuts, pulling at your hair until you release his dick from your mouth with a wet pop. “Don’t you dare swallow, lemme see the mess I made o’ you first.”

Your lips part to his command, tongue slipping over the bottom one and putting the dirty painting of hot saliva and thick cum on display. Thighs squeezed against one another, you grind carelessly down against your own flesh, cunt drooling all over yourself as he continues to study you.

Then, with a groan of approval and a good fuckin’ girl, Bucky pulls you up for a kiss and relishes in his own taste.

It’s you who entices him onto the bed, too desperate to function without your hands shaking and too wet to wait any longer. And all the while the cruel bastard is chuckling at you, stalling the moment with tender smooches trailed over your neck and possessive bites and bruises being mapped over your breasts.

“So eager,” he muses, leaning back on his haunches and wrapping a hand around his already-hardening cock, no refractory period needed when the sight before him is his golden girl, wide eyed and cockdrunk. “Think you need to show me just how bad you want me. I deserve it, after these months of hell without you.”

Bucky guides you by the hips, helping you slot yourself atop his body, your knees indenting the mattress on either side him. Your hands curl over his shoulders, propping yourself up until you feel the head of him waiting at your entrance, pleading you to sink right down until it’s somewhere in your guts, rearranging the layout of your organs just to fit the whole length of him inside.

A light bulb goes off above your head, just as Bucky teases you both, forcing you to sit on his thighs and rolling you forward to feel the first sparks of friction, folds slipping over his hardness, “I’ve not taken my birth control. Didn’t- Aah! Didn’t think I’d need it.”

You watch the words wash over his features and swear you see more of that soul-stealing black consume the blue of his iris. His answer comes through clenched teeth and with his tip rubbing up against your clit, forcing your head to fall back and leaving your chest on display for his wandering hands.

“You already know I don’t have any rubbers, goldie,” his thumb and pointer finger take to rolling one of your nipples, while the other is greeted with the heat of his kiss, sucking the peak into his mouth. “Never want somethin’ in the way when it comes to you.”

“Me neither,” you must be truly gone, a lost cause, to so freely admit secrets you usually shove away with an eye-roll and a chastising lilt that tells Bucky to get on with it already. “But we shouldn’t…”

You trial off at no fault of your own, voice stolen from you by a gasp as he lines himself up against your hole, the tip of him knocking now at the door of heaven and begging to be let inside.

“Yeah…” He whispers, just as wrecked as you are, mouth falling open as a moan festers in the back of his throat, just waiting for a real reason to breech the surface of his lips. “We shouldn’t, should we? ‘S risky.”

And despite the fact the reply is pregnant with understanding, that sure doesn’t stop him from testing the waters. From making use of your drooling cunt to seamlessly fill you with just the tip.

Your thighs tense up as you fight the urge sit right down and let him fill you to the brim, all the while his mouth is back on your chest, mouthing mayhem into your skin in the form of sloppy kisses and desperate bites, like he cannot risk a second being wasted on inaction while you are here in his arms.

“But y’like risky,” he peers up at you, dark hair framing his eyes and forcing you to brush it out the way so you can fully relish in the sight of him mouthing at your nipples, covering them in his spit. “Like testing how good of a boy I can be for you, like seeing me struggle to not cum inside o’ her. Pretty please, sweetheart, let me show you how good I can behave, I’ll cum wherever you tell me to.”

A wiser woman would say no.

A stronger woman would send him out to retrieve condoms from the nearest gas station.

A better woman probably wouldn’t be here in the first place.

Thankfully, you are none of those things, and are instead feeling his cock split you open as you sink flush into his lap, the swell of his sack kissing against the globe of your ass as you pause and savour the fullness, mouth empty and open in a gasp. Bucky fills it with his tongue, licking into your mouth with a grunt as you squeeze around his cock.

“Well if you do that, I’m gonna paint your walls,” despite the threatening tone to his words, you feel more thrill than chill, excitement dancing up your spine as you finally start to ride him.

The rhythm is steady, your skin is sweaty, and there is a perpetual rise and fall of your body against his. Your thighs burn with every bounce, yet the pain only drives you to work harder, to wind down on him slower, deeper, pulling moans, and groans, and earth-shattering whimpers out of Bucky.

He’s more lost-cause than he is a man at this point, pawing up the length of your back, nestling his face as deep as he can in the valley of your chest, bruising his fingerprints into your hips as he squeezes and eases some of the tension from your muscles, doing the heavy lifting for you and fucking you down onto his cock.

“Buck,” you sigh, hand cupping his face. Where you mean to soothe his skin, he has other plans, tongue dragging over the pad of your thumb before his mouth envelops it, an erotic display of how far gone he is, lost in the dessert wasteland of lust and relishing in the oasis that is you. You pull out a different name, hoping to catch his attention, “Pretty boy. Are you close?”

His reaction is nearly instant: a hazy eyed nod and a cut off moan.

“Yeah?” You taunt him, even if you don’t need to, like digging for gold after already finding diamonds. “Bet you’re thinking about what it would be like to cum inside me, fill me up like only you know how to do. Have me drowning in you, no wall untouched.”

“St-op,” torture has never looked better than on James Barnes, eyebrows furrowing and jaw clenching in a last ditch effort to hold his focus, to not stuff you full despite how badly his body craves it. “Please, doll, be nice.”

“Be nice? I’m sitting on your dick, baby, how could I be any nicer?” You feel him press against a part of you so deep it has even you descending into chaos for a moment, jaw falling slack as you lean into the feeling and grind your hips down. “Maybe if I let you cum in her, hmm? Don’t you like reminding me how this pussy is yours? Surely a man like you, a big bad rockstar, would take what’s his and ruin it whatever way he pleases.”

His hand lands at the back of your neck, pulling your forehead down to meet his. You take in how his eyes are squeezed shut, like he can block out the feeling of you gripping the life out of him and the wet sounds of your cunt, “Christ alive, you’re mean, you know that? Evil.”

“Hmm, don’t you need me to be bad, so you can prove you’re good?” Your nails bite into his shoulder and you can feel the finish line approaching, mind threatening to fray at the edges and slip into the same wrecked nature that’s overcome him. “This house isn’t gonna fill itself with kids, Buck. And there’s no time like the present...”

“You mean it? Shit- Baby. Goldie. Don’t say that if you don’t-”

“How much clearer do you need me to be, James?” You don’t even have to ask for him to take over, he’s studied the way you move for years, knows the tell-tale signs of exhaustion and overwhelm. And so quietly, without ceremony, his touch finds your waist and suddenly he’s the one winding you down onto him, guiding you closer and closer to the cliff where, if you toss yourself over, ecstasy awaits below for you to crash into her. “Cum in your pussy.”

The final syllable has barely parted ways from your mouth when Bucky succumbs at last, his arms moulding around your body, caging you against him. Through the turbulent pleasure of his orgasm shaking him to the core, his hips keep rocking up and into you, driving every spurt of his hot, thick cum further inside.

You soothe him as best you can, palms flattened against his naked back, mouth placing kisses over the ink on his arms, chest slumping into him and bidding him to anchor himself in the rapid beat of your heart.

“Wait, wait,” he’s muttering to himself, arms sliding his grip up to slot itself in your armpits and lift you off his cock, forcing you to hover over his abs. “Just wanna- Lemme see it.”

No further instruction is needed for you to give him what he wants.

Clenching the muscles of your pelvic floor, you stave off a squirm as you feel his cum spill out of your cunt, dripping down onto his torso. Bucky is entranced, spreading your folds apart and watching the whole ordeal like you’re Da Vinci painting the Mona Lisa… Only for him to smear his fingers in your masterpiece and deliver it up to your mouth.

Without a word, you open up and obey, let him lather his spill over your taste buds again. A kiss lands on your jawline, tender and careful, like he’s engraving a thank you into your flesh.

“I love you.”

Both of you freeze.

All that remains is the ragged sounds of your breaths, filling the gap of silence between you.

The words marinate in the air, swell both in weight and flavour. It reminds you of stepping off stage after a show and ripping your earpiece out, expecting silence only to find there is a persistent ringing in your ear that lingers even once your limbs find the comfort of your bed, tucked away from the screaming crowds yet plagued by more noise than ever.

Bucky is the first to move, face pulling back to find yours. To touch yours, hand falling over your cheek. His gaze assesses your features, as if scanning for signs that something is wrong, or different, or not quite real. Like, any moment now, he’ll blink and wake to find himself alone in bed, nothing but the faintest smell of your perfume on his sheet.

“D’you actually mean it?” When you nod, he forces your head to stay still. “Words. Use them, wanna hear you.”

“I love you, James,” the second time feels less scary, less like a grenade you have tossed into the air, and more like loaded gun you have pointed toward yourself. So you say it again, and hope the third time takes away even more of the threat. “I love you.”

“Huh,” despite the fact he’s not said it back, you’re not worried. You can see it, stitched into his eyes and curling over his lips, a fondness that parallels the one gripping hold of your heart and crushing it into submission. “I didn’t even make you cum, so you must mean it.”

“Aren’t you just the luckiest man?”

“Shit, I didn’t- You never came.”

And so you wind up on your back, knees pinned against your chest and Bucky smothering you from above, hips barely pulling fully back before they’re thrusting back into you, pouring noises of pleasure all over the bedroom floor.

Everything is warm, and sticky, and overwhelming, but at least you have him whining in your ear and working you towards nirvana.

“My golden girl,” just listening to him, breathy and aching from overstimulation — cock having pushed past the limits of his own biology to harden for a third time in a row — is enough to have you reaching that crescendo, one final shove all that remains to have your walls clamping around him. “Love you so much, you’ve no idea. Gonna be the man you need, okay? Keep you safe, and cared for, and satisfied, and-”

Say less, you’re already there.

You don’t even get the chance to warn him, walls clamping down on him in a vice grip as your orgasm joins the short list of things that are tearing you in two — his cock being the only other item on said list.

“God- Look at you, perfect, gonna- Fuck,” Bucky is barely intelligible, sensitive and aching, yet he continues rocking into you, shallow juts of his hips. “She’s milkin’ me, baby. I’m sorry, I need to- Aah! Fill you again. Sorry, I’m sorry, sorry-”

Bucky does not crack, he shatters completely.

The pieces of him that remain are laid bare in your arms, are filling you to the brim, are pouring out in thick rivulets with every barely-there thrust he re-burrows himself into you with.

Under the shine of a shared afterglow, limbs so light you fear they’ll float away from you, you’re more than compliant when Bucky rolls you both over, laying on his back and holding you down against his chest.

“Let’s just stay here,” he begs, fingers already playing in your hair. He’s still inside of you, plugging you full and keeping you warm. “Just want to feel you for a while. Forever.”

Morning arrives slowly.

The light of dawn washes over the room in an orange hue and teases your eyelids awake only to find Bucky wrapped around you. Dead to the world, he snores gently and holds you closer when you shift. At some point in the night, he slipped out of you and now the inside of your thighs are stained in him. Your heart is to, his name forever tattooed on it.

Your eyes slip shut for a moment, and you can picture it so easily.

A future where you wake tangled together, where you race home just to see one another sooner. Where you fill those empty bedrooms with race-car beds, and princess dolls, and the giddy laughter of a child who knows love in only the purest and truest of forms. Where you feed the ducks, and he mows the lawn, and both of you grow teary eyed, one glass of wine too deep, as you stand in front of that wall in the kitchen and come to terms with how quickly your baby has grown.

It is real, and visceral, and plausible, you know it.

But it is your future, not your present, for a reason.

Because you know the man in that bed is no doubt the closest thing to a soulmate you will ever have, but that the timing for either of you is not quite yet right.

Because you know there is still a part of you that craves the chase, that wants the excitement of running from love just to time how long it takes for it to catch you.

Because you know about the bag of white powder in his glove compartment.

In the greatest escape to date, you tiptoe away from Bucky Barnes once more, shoes clutched to your chest and an ache in both your thighs and your heart.

Sitting timid and with your head low in the back of a cab, you pull out your phone and take a deep breath.

And then you unblock his number.

i love you. 07:47

see you somewhere down the line. 07:49

+ extra hyde !

· … and with that, i am retiring my keyboard and never writing another thing. goodbye cruel world of writing, i will not miss you./j · after reading this, is it obvious that silver springs is my favourite song? · please be gentle, i really struggled to write this and idk why. maybe because it felt a little different to fics i've written before? idk, either way this fic put me through the ringer but i'm happy with how it turned out. thank you for reading <3 · a special thank you to @chateaubarnes and @blowingbarnes for helping me with a sentence i got stuck on, and to @unificsation and @flockoff-featherface and every other member of the bwamily who locked in with me on stream <3

( 🥁 ) taglist. @54nboo @aydamaq @barnesandashes @basicallynotbreathing @barnesonly @blowingbarnes @buckyfmd @chateaubarnes @demiebarnes @dollaems @earthsmightiestbenders @esunarint @firingstars @flockoff-featherface @heldbybarnes @iamthatonefangirl @icantfindanamenottakenn @its-in-the-woods @kissesforbucky @letterstodevil @lavhandoll @lilyyyy2005 @metal-armed-muse @moodswriting @ohgloriousmoon @opheliabbarnes @peachessprincess @pinksplace @prettyliittleviolets @sassandscribbles @sergeantsebastian @stanmarvelous @superbassbuck @tw1sters @unificsation @umbreoni @wandanatissuperior @wifeofbarnes

[liati2000]

Holy shit this one was a roller coaster. Seriously one of the best fics I read

[dailysebastiannews]

Sebastian Stan on set of Pam and Tommy via

[blowingbarnes]

@houseofhyde i ca-

[houseofhyde]

he’s coming too- at some point this weekend

[liati2000]

I’m just watching “we were liars” because it looked interesting and mainly because I wanted to see Joseph zada’s acting before the sunrise on the reaping movie and holly shit let me tell you… he’s going to be an AMAZING haymitch.

He sooo good im telling u guys we sure lucked out with this movie cast!! Im so so excited for the film to come out next year

[liati2000]

MY GOD I ONLY SIGNED UP BECAUSE I WANTED TO WATCH JOSEPH ZADA I WAS NOT READY!!!!! I cried my heart out and none of you warned me!!!

[liati2000]

I’m just watching “we were liars” because it looked interesting and mainly because I wanted to see Joseph zada’s acting before the sunrise on the reaping movie and holly shit let me tell you… he’s going to be an AMAZING haymitch.

He sooo good im telling u guys we sure lucked out with this movie cast!! Im so so excited for the film to come out next year

[thelhc]

nobody has been there for me like the ‘x reader’ tag has been there for me

[liati2000]

HOLY SHIT the casting for sunrise on the reaping is fucking PHENOMENAL!!!!!! And non of my friends understand I have no one to talk to about itttttt