Pairing: Best friend! Bucky Barnes × Female! Reader.
Word count: +8k words.
Summary: After both of you get stood up by your respective Valentine's Day dates, your best friend and you decide it's best to tease each other a little at the bar near your flat. Only at the end of the night, with the help of alcohol and a little sincerity, you both end up in a situation you always thought impossible.
Tags: MDNI! +18, sexual content (if you are underage, do not interact with this work or I will block you), Bucky and reader are university students, friends to lovers, Valentine's Day, Bucky and reader are haters of this date, Bucky and reader are fools, Bucky and reader making a mess, mutual longing, getting drunk, both are hungry for contact, porn with plot, p in v, unprotected, fingering (f! Receiving), rubbing, dirty talk, Natasha is your roommate! ... and she is suffering the consequences of being so, A brief mention of Sam, Steve, Romanogers. My native language is not English, so I translated this work (Please excuse any errors).
Notes: I was supposed to finish this yesterday, but better late than never. I hope you all had a happy Valentine's Day!
☆
Valentine’s Day sucks. Especially if you’re single.
It’s exhausting to see store windows covered in red hearts; supermarkets packed with boxes of chocolates tied with bows, oversized plush toys, mugs with stupid designs, and the overpowering smell of flower bouquets.
It’s also tiring to feel the pressure of having to spend the day with someone. In every one of your classes, at least one classmate had asked what your plans for Valentine’s Day were. You said you didn’t have any, and immediately got that awkward smile that screamed I shouldn’t have asked. Even Nat had questioned whether you wouldn’t go out with one of the guys who had sent you roses through the faculty’s anonymous mailbox.
When Nat told you she was going out with a tall, handsome blond guy she’d met at the gym a couple of weeks earlier, you decided you didn’t want to be the only one rotting on the apartment couch. You would go out with someone too.
And so, when Nick—a classmate, much braver than the anonymous admirers—handed you a rose in person and asked you out for Valentine’s Day while his friends cheered him on from a few meters away, you accepted.
He looked genuinely surprised when he heard your answer, but it didn’t take long for him to smile with a confidence that bordered on cocky as he promised you’d have a great time.
He seemed sincere, like he’d keep his word—but now you were reading his text message, the one where he stood you up.
“I’m sorry, we won’t be able to go out. I’m not ready for the dating world.”
You scoffed, incredulous. He was the one who had asked you out, and now it turned out he wasn’t ready. To top it off, he’d even robbed you of the small pleasure of blocking his number—he’d already done it.
Screw you, Nicky.
Now you were dressed, made up, and ready for a date that wasn’t going to happen. On one hand, you felt relieved you wouldn’t be going out with a jerk like him; on the other, the humiliation of rejection settled in your chest, heavy and unavoidable.
You tossed your phone onto the bed and sat on the edge, screaming only on the inside so you wouldn’t bother Natasha, who was probably still in front of the mirror, patiently taming her red curls.
Then you let yourself fall back onto the mattress, sinking into the softness as you mentally reviewed your backup plan for the night: kicking off your high-heeled boots, changing into comfortable pajamas, taking off your makeup without rushing, and staying in bed watching several episodes of the show you were obsessed with, while the rest of the world enjoyed Valentine’s Day.
Your ringtone vibrated right above your head. Lazily, you stretched out your arm and fumbled around until you found your phone, without even sitting up. When you finally had it in your hand and read the name on the screen, a small—almost involuntary—smile curved your lips.
“Bucky, I swear, if you’re calling to ask me to rescue you from a bad date, I’m going to—”
“I got stood up,” he cut in flatly.
There was a short laugh on the other end of the line, heavier with disbelief than humor, and you could almost picture him running his tongue over his lips, shaking his head.
“Stella called me crying,” he continued, “saying she was incredibly embarrassed to tell me she got back together with her ex-boyfriend.”
The laugh that burst out of you was immediate and genuine. You didn’t even try to hold it in. Bucky grumbled on the other end of the phone, clearly offended… which only made you laugh a little harder.
“You think that’s funny?” he growled. “I’m standing outside a ridiculously expensive restaurant, surrounded by couples making out, and I just found out I’m the emotional rebound for an ex with abs.”
You rolled onto your side, squashing the phone between the pillow and your head, trying to catch your breath between laughs.
“I can’t blame her. Charles is easy on the eyes,” you joked, your voice still shaky. “Sorry, sorry,” you hurried to add, amused, when you heard his growl.
“Tell me you’re at least having an amazing date,” he murmured. “I need to know someone won this battle.”
“I got stood up twenty minutes ago,” you replied bluntly.
This time, he was the one who laughed. A low, rough, but genuine laugh.
“Well. Then we’re officially tied.”
“Tied and overdressed,” you added, staring at the wall. “All dressed up for a romantic dinner that never existed.”
You pushed yourself up a little, propping yourself on one elbow.
“Where are you?”
“A few blocks from your apartment,” he answered casually.
You blinked and frowned.
“What?”
“Uh… the restaurant… it’s close to your place,” he clarified. “You know, the bar and restaurant area… um, Sam recommended an Italian place for my date.” He started rambling, over-explaining, then went quiet for a second and cleared his throat. “Doesn’t matter.”
You smiled, this time without a trace of bitterness.
“No, it does matter,” you said. “Are you going to stay there wallowing, or do you want to go to our bar and make fun of every couple we see walking past the window?”
“I’m five minutes from the bar. You’d better hurry, or more people are going to think I got stood up.”
☆
The little bell above the door chimed softly when you pushed it open and stepped into the bar. The murmur of the place wrapped around you instantly: a couple of people occupied the tall stools at the counter, and in one corner, a small group of girls had pushed several tables together so they could all sit as one, laughing far too loudly.
There were more people than usual. Despite being yours and Bucky’s favorite bar, it didn’t usually get crowded; its simple aesthetic didn’t draw much attention. Still, that was exactly why you both liked it: the relaxed atmosphere, the music at just the right volume, and the almost ritual detail of the owner giving you a free round of beers for being regulars.
Finding Bucky was easy.
He was sitting at your usual table, the one by the large window. Even before you got closer, he was already looking at you, openly scanning you from head to toe without the slightest bit of shame. He was smiling in that way of his—crooked, almost feline—while resting one elbow on the table and then his chin in the palm of his hand.
“Well,” he said, never taking his eyes off you. “You got way too dressed up for that guy.”
“Shut up,” you replied, hanging your bag over the back of the chair. “You look like someone who was emotionally abandoned an hour ago.”
Bucky let out a low, raspy laugh, shaking his head as he brought a hand to his chest.
“That hurts because it’s true,” he said. Lied.
You sat down across from him and carefully crossed your legs, suddenly aware of how much your heels were starting to wear on you. Bucky noticed immediately—he always did. He lowered his gaze for just a second, then clicked his tongue.
“If you want, we can pretend this was the plan all along,” he said. “Two functional adults avoiding romantic drama.”
“I like the sound of that,” you admitted. “Much better than an awkward dinner with someone who doesn’t know what they want.”
Bucky smiled with a hint of mischief, finally catching on to what had happened with your date.
“So, you got hit with the classic ‘it’s not you, it’s me.’”
You scoffed softly and leaned back against your chair.
“No. He said he wasn’t ready for dating.”
The waiter approached before Bucky could tease you. Without needing to ask, he set two beers down on the table.
Both of you glanced toward the bar, where the owner was arranging a few liquor bottles behind the counter. When he felt your eyes on him, he looked up and greeted you by lifting two fingers, and you returned the gesture.
Bucky picked up his beer bottle and raised it automatically.
“To failed dates.”
“To failed dates,” you echoed, clinking your bottle against his.
☆
Before the alcohol could start working its magic, you fell into your usual routine: joking around, teasing each other, and shamelessly criticizing strangers. From your table, you commented in low voices—and sometimes not so low—about the couples walking past the window, as if it were a shared sport.
You laughed mercilessly at a couple dragging along a ridiculously large white stuffed bunny, clearly heavier than they had anticipated; the poor thing ended up soaked in the dirty puddles on the sidewalk. You also made sarcastic remarks about those couples who, despite holding hands, looked more miserable than in love.
“That’s true love,” Bucky said, pointing at a couple arguing in silence. “Not speaking to each other for twenty straight minutes.”
“Life goals,” you replied, clinking your bottles together.
But little by little, the alcohol softened the edges of the night. The laughter grew louder, the words less careful. You started interacting with the other patrons—traded comments, improvised toasts, exaggerated stories that no one bothered to fact-check.
And then someone— you never knew who— put on All by Myself.
Within seconds, the entire bar was singing at the top of their lungs, with exaggerated drama and hands pressed to their chests, as if each person were auditioning for the lead role in their own heartbreak story. Céline Dion’s voice echoed through laughter, off-key notes, and improvised harmonies.
Everyone was single that Valentine’s Day. And, strangely enough, no one seemed to care.
Bucky sang with a ridiculous amount of intensity, pointing at anyone who happened to meet his gaze, while you laughed until your cheeks ached and your eyes watered.
“Oh, God. I need more beer,” you said between laughs when the song ended.
“No,” he replied immediately. “I’m going to get you one of those sweet drinks you like to-go, I’ll pay the tab, and then I’ll take you home.”
He said it with a big, carefree smile as he stood up, though the slight sway gave him away. Still, there was something protective in the gesture, as if the decision had already been made and wasn’t open for debate.
You followed him with your eyes from your seat, a silly smile settling on your lips. Bucky walked toward the bar, greeting half the place, handing out friendly pats on the backs of the men standing there as if he’d known them his whole life. They laughed and welcomed him without question. You just shook your head, amused.
There was something almost captivating about watching him like that—relaxed, charismatic, speaking easily as he motioned to the bar owner and ordered the drinks between jokes. The scene felt so natural it almost hurt.
That’s when you realized how you were looking at him.
Your chest gave an uncomfortable lurch and, almost immediately, you looked away, pretending to study the label on your empty bottle. You forced yourself to remember what he was: your best friend. Nothing more. Nothing less.
You couldn’t afford to look at him any other way. Not as a possibility. Not as something that could ruin what you already had.
When he returned to the table with a plastic cup in each hand and a napkin caught between his lips—curved into a shamelessly triumphant smile—you had already schooled your expression. Too well, even.
“And what’s that?” you asked, tilting your head with genuine curiosity and a light smile.
Bucky set the cups on the table and removed the napkin from his mouth so he could speak. He held it between his fingers like a trophy. He wore that arrogant smile that sometimes you found charming… and other times, frankly deserving of a smack.
“The blonde over there came up to me and gave me her number,” he announced proudly, showing you the white napkin with a name and number written in blue ink.
You felt something strange tighten in your chest. Brief. Annoying. Quickly suppressed.
“Great,” you said, standing up to grab your jacket. “Maybe next Valentine’s Day you can spend it with her.”
Your tone was light, perfectly rehearsed. That of a friend who’s happy for him. Of someone who doesn’t care. Bucky raised an eyebrow, watching you more closely than necessary.
“Was that sarcasm or genuine support?”
“Both,” you said with a shrug as you put on your jacket. “Come on, bar hero. Before you decide to adopt all the single people in here.”
He laughed and slipped on his jacket, then pretended to tuck the napkin into his back pocket when in reality he let it fall to the floor.
You reminded yourself that it didn’t matter. That it shouldn’t matter.
Bucky picked up both cups again and handed yours to you with exaggerated care, as if it were something fragile. As you walked toward the exit, he stepped ahead of you—clumsy from the alcohol—just to open the door. The gesture was simple, automatic… and still it made your stomach tighten in a way you chose not to analyze.
Once outside the bar, the cold night air cleared your head just enough to organize your thoughts—until you felt Bucky’s arm slip around your shoulders in a warm, familiar, dangerously comfortable embrace.
“Come on,” he said, with a crooked smile and words slightly slurred. “I’ll take you home.”
☆
The walk to your apartment was full of small stumbles on the sidewalk and inevitable laughter, sparked by absurd comments and constant mockery of the holiday. Valentine’s Day was still fair game, and the two of you took advantage of it without a shred of guilt.
At one point, a rose street vendor approached, convinced you were a couple enjoying the night together. Neither of you hesitated to play along.
“Look, sweetheart,” Bucky said in a syrupy voice, pulling you a little closer. “Don’t you like them? I’ll buy them all if you want.”
“I don’t know, Buck,” you replied, lowering your gaze with fake shyness. “Ever since you cheated on me with my mom, I’m not really ready for gifts.”
The vendor’s ears turned red instantly, caught between embarrassment and palpable discomfort, as if he’d stumbled into gossip he very much did not want to hear.
“Baby, I already apologized for that,” Bucky added with dramatic sigh. “We can’t keep bringing it up.”
“I… I’ll just take off,” the vendor mumbled, urgently stepping back.
Bucky raised a hand to stop him and pulled his wallet from his jacket, counting the money with exaggerated calm before paying for the rose.
The moment it was in your hands, the vendor practically ran away. You walked a few more steps, waiting until he disappeared from sight, and then both of you burst into laughter, doubling over.
The laughter slowly faded, replaced by that strange calm that comes after laughing too much. Bucky’s arm was still around your shoulders, and neither of you seemed in a hurry to pull away.
“We’re terrible people,” you finally said, wiping away a tear that had escaped from laughing so hard.
“Absolutely,” he replied. “But at least we’re entertaining.”
You kept walking, now at a slower pace, taking small sips of the piña colada through the straw.
The rose Bucky had bought stuck out awkwardly from his hand, its petals a little worse for wear. He handed it to you without ceremony, as if it were nothing. Still, you hesitated for a second before taking it.
“Thank you,” you murmured.
You didn’t know why that small gesture made you feel more than any carefully planned date ever had. Maybe it was the context. Maybe it was him.
You walked a few more minutes until, in the distance, a couple clinging to each other and laughing with too much intimacy caught your attention. Any other time, you wouldn’t have cared—but something made you frown: the guy was wearing a university cap.
As you got closer, the silhouettes became clearer. Your eyes widened slightly, first in surprise… then in a wave of offense that ran through you.
It was Nick. On a date. With another girl.
He hadn’t noticed you; he was too busy whispering nonsense in her ear, making her laugh, as if he hadn’t stood someone up just hours earlier.
“What’s wrong?” Bucky asked when he noticed your expression change, following your gaze.
“That’s the asshole who stood me up,” you whispered.
Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe Bucky was just like this even sober. Either way, you saw something light up in his eyes: resolve, mischief… and a very stupid idea. He deliberately lowered his arm from your shoulders.
“Watch this.”
You didn’t even have time to react. Bucky turned around immediately, and you did too—more on instinct than logic. He took a step back to gauge the distance, locking onto his target, then lunged forward two quick steps and hurled his plastic cup into the air.
The cup traced a clumsy arc and landed squarely on Nick’s shoulder.
“What the hell?!” Nick shouted, startled.
You brought the hand holding the rose to your mouth, gasping between shock and laughter you couldn’t stop. Nick let go of the girl, who stared at him in confusion—thankfully completely dry. When he turned around and saw you, Bucky didn’t hesitate for a second: he grabbed your hand tightly and took off running.
You followed without thinking, laughing out loud. The cup you were still holding in your other hand slipped from your grip and was left behind on the ground, but you didn’t care.
“Fuck you, Nick!” you shouted at the top of your lungs as you ran down the street.
☆
After several minutes of running in circles, turning random corners to make sure Nick wouldn’t catch up to you, you finally reached your building. You stopped for a moment, still breathless, then went inside, trying to catch your breath between muffled laughs.
It wasn’t the first time Bucky had walked you there. It was almost routine after spending time together, though there had only been a handful of occasions when he’d actually crossed the threshold of your apartment. Still, that night felt different.
Silence settled naturally inside the elevator. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but it was heavy—charged with something that refused to take a clear shape. When the metal doors slid open, you walked down the hallway at an unnecessarily slow pace, as if you were both trying to stretch the last few seconds of the night.
When you stopped in front of your door, Bucky lowered his arm from your shoulders with deliberate slowness, as though he weren’t entirely convinced he should.
“Well,” he said, scratching the back of his neck. “Mission accomplished. You made it home alive, you got your revenge… and with a souvenir, too.” He gestured toward the rose you were still, miraculously, holding.
“A successful Valentine’s Day,” you joked, though your voice sounded softer than usual.
You looked at each other for a second too long. It wasn’t new, but that night it felt different—the alcohol, the exhaustion, the honesty that always surfaced when your guards were down.
Bucky opened his mouth, clearly about to say something more, but the jingle of your keys as you searched for them in your jacket pocket broke the moment.
“Thanks for all of that,” you added quietly. “Really.”
He smiled. No arrogance. No jokes.
“I’d always do anything for you. You know that.”
The words lingered between you, too sincere and intimate to ignore, too close to something that no longer felt like just friendship. Bucky took a step forward.
Your pulse quickened and your mouth went dry when you felt how close he was. It wasn’t like you’d never stood this near to each other before, but it was the first time the closeness came with that silent, expectant tension—as if you were both standing on the edge of a line that no longer seemed so clear.
Neither of you spoke right away. The hallway felt too narrow, the air heavier. Bucky hesitated for barely a second before lifting his hand, as if to touch you… then stopping halfway.
“Hey,” he said softly. “If this is weird, tell me and I’ll go.”
The words lodged in your throat. Your brain short-circuited completely. Was this really happening, or was it a hallucination courtesy of the alcohol and the absurd night you’d had? The sensible part of you screamed that you should pull back, not cross that line, not ruin a friendship that had held you together for the past two years.
The other part—bolder, more honest, dangerously tired of pretending—begged you to stop running from something you’d wanted for months.
While you fought that silent battle, Bucky took another step forward. Just one. Enough for your bodies to nearly brush. Enough to set your thoughts on fire.
He looked at you with a small, crooked smile, brushing the edge of smugness, as if he were keenly—too keenly—aware of the effect he had on you.
You needed a lifeline. Anything.
“And the blonde from the bar?” you asked suddenly, clinging to the idea even though it made no sense. “You have her number.”
Bucky’s smile didn’t fade. If anything, it widened, turning openly playful.
“I don’t,” he said without hesitation.
“Of course you do.”
“Then look for it.”
As he said it, he raised both hands theatrically, keeping them in plain sight, giving you tacit permission to check wherever you wanted. The gesture was provocative. Confident. Too much.
And in that moment, you understood he wasn’t talking about the napkin.
He was talking about whether you’d dare to step closer. To touch him.
You quickly wet your lips, as if that might erase the nervous energy prickling across your skin. It didn’t work. Still, your hands moved on their own toward the pockets of his jacket. You found his wallet, a pack of gum… nothing else.
Bucky didn’t move. If anything, he seemed to enjoy every second of your search, watching you with a dangerous calm.
You moved to the front pockets. His smile widened when he felt your hands invading that limited space. In the right one, only his keys; in the left, nothing. Slowly, you pulled your hands back, hesitating for a moment at the thought of checking the back pockets.
You let out a soft breath, as if gathering courage, and stepped closer. The tips of your shoes bumped into his. To reach the back pockets, you wrapped your arms around his waist in an awkward, clumsy embrace—far too intimate to keep calling it a “joke.”
There was nothing there either.
Bucky followed your every movement, watching for your reaction as you confirmed there was no napkin, no hidden number. Heat rushed to your face; your ears burned as you realized what you were doing. You were acting like a jealous girlfriend. And you were far too close.
Too close.
Bucky leaned in just slightly. Enough for your noses to brush. Enough for the world to shrink to his breathing and the fact that your hands were still in his pockets.
“See?” he murmured. “I told you I didn’t have it.”
Your heart was pounding absurdly hard. You didn’t pull away. Neither did he.
His gaze dropped briefly to your lips before meeting your eyes again.
You held his stare for one more second, weighing whether you were about to make the biggest mistake of your life… or the most honest one. The silence between you was thick, expectant, as if the entire hallway were holding its breath.
Slowly, you slid your hands out of his back pockets, your fingertips brushing deliberately against the denim until your hands rested at his waist. You felt Bucky tense ever so slightly—a subtle change you didn’t miss.
“There’s nothing,” you said, not moving away.
“I told you.”
His eyes were darker now, the crooked smile transformed into something else—something more serious.
Bucky lowered his hands slowly. One of them stopped at your side, not quite touching you, giving you space, giving you a choice.
For a moment, neither of you moved. The world felt reduced to that narrow hallway, the closeness of your bodies, the silence loaded with things left unsaid for far too long.
You were the one who took the final step. It wasn’t impulsive or clumsy. It was slow. Deliberate. You tilted your face up just slightly and closed the last inch between you.
His lips were millimeters away from brushing yours.
Bucky exhaled, closing his eyes for a second, as if he’d been waiting far longer than he’d ever admit.
He drew in a slow breath, as though he needed to be sure he wasn’t imagining it. His hand—kept at a respectful distance until now—rose carefully to your waist. He didn’t grip you; he barely touched you, still giving you the chance to pull away.
But you didn’t.
Instead, you kissed him.
It wasn’t urgent or clumsy. It was slow, restrained, as if you were both making sure it was real. His lips were warm, soft, and stayed still for a heartbeat before responding, as though Bucky needed that moment to decide… and then he did.
He kissed you back.
His hand settled firmly at your waist, confident now, while the other rose to your cheek with a tenderness that completely unraveled you. A soft, quiet sigh slipped from your lips against his as your hands moved to his chest. You could feel his heartbeat—steady, fast. Too close. Too familiar and, at the same time, entirely new.
Little by little, the movements of his lips grew surer, more urgent, bolder, until both of your breaths turned heavier, broken, uneven.
Bucky’s hand, which had rested so gently against your cheek, slid to the back of your neck, holding you there and tilting your head back just enough for him to claim your lips the way he wanted. Your hands, meanwhile, left his chest to wrap around his neck, as if you never wanted him to pull away.
A breathless gasp escaped you when he guided you backward, step by step, until your back met the door with a soft thud. That was all it took for Bucky’s boldness to deepen. His strong arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer, pressing your hips against his in a way that made your pulse spike.
The heat and the need to keep their bodies close together increased with every passing second. They were so completely lost in their kisses that they didn't even consider the possibility of being seen by one of your neighbours.
You parted your lips in a silent invitation, one that he instantly picked up on and did not hesitate to take advantage of. His tongue pushed between them to enter your mouth.
The way he licked your mouth and tangled with your tongue made you moan into his mouth. A moan that sent a rush of need to his groin and made him pull away from the kiss.
Both of you opened your eyes, staring at the mess of swollen lips, heavy breathing, and raw need.
Bucky's pupils were dilated, and the steel blue you loved so much looked different, looked hungry.
"We have to go inside," you said quickly.
You turned around as you took the keys out of your jacket. Bucky, for his part, pressed his chest against your back and moved your hair aside to begin planting wet, desperate kisses along the curve of your neck. The kisses made you giggle softly as you inserted the key into the lock and finally turned it to open the door.
They stumbled over a few pairs of shoes in the hallway and laughed together, both so focused on each other that they didn't notice that one of the pairs belonged to a man. Bucky just pushed the door behind him with a gentle kick to close it.
He made you turn around so he could press his lips against yours desperately. You both hurriedly took off your jackets, leaving them lying on the floor in the entrance as you walked blindly down the small hallway. When your hip bumped into the small table in the hallway, causing its legs to squeak against the floor, you laughed against each other's lips and then continued kissing your way to your bedroom.
The door to your bedroom was ajar, so you just had to push it open to get in and then close it behind you. Your make-up was still scattered on the dressing table and some clothes, which had been discarded for your failed date, were on the chair in the corner.
Bucky's lips scattered kisses across your cheek and jaw, until he moved down to your neck, causing you to sigh.
When the backs of your knees hit the edge of your bed, he helped you lie down so he could open your legs and settle between them. His lips continued to kiss your skin with his mouth open, occasionally leaving soft suctions that would not leave a mark. His hands, warm and slightly rough, slipped under your blouse, reverently caressing the skin of your waist and abdomen.
The heat was becoming unbearable and the clothes were getting in the way.
One of his hands stopped caressing your waist and slipped under your skirt. The caresses of his fingertips sent shivers down your spine. He caressed you so delicately and slowly, as if he feared that going faster would make you think it was all a mistake.
"James..." you whispered.
Bucky's breath caught in his throat when he heard his name come out of your mouth in that almost pleading, breathless tone. His judgement clouded and his hand squeezed your thigh with desire as his face emerged from its hiding place at your neck.
You took his cheeks to draw him into a dirty kiss, which was more tongue and teeth.
Bucky took your leg and hooked it around his waist so he could press his aching bulge against your centre. The pressure made you lift your hips to feel him more.
His hips began to rock in short thrusts that were unable to calm each other's desires. The thick fabric of his trousers barely let you feel him.
You moaned in protest when Bucky's lips parted from yours, and a small, teasing smile appeared on his face as he heard how needy you sounded. His hands quickly went to the hem of his own shirt to pull it off in one swift motion, exposing his toned torso.
The dim street light filtered through the blinds, allowing you to admire a little of his body until his hands went to your blouse to remove it.
"So pretty..." Bucky murmured as he looked at your tousled hair.
He leaned on one arm so he could float above you while his other hand slipped under your back. His face hid in your neck again, leaving a few open-mouthed kisses before moving down your collarbone to the valley between your breasts.
"I'll never be able to take my hands, my lips, my damn eyes off you again..." he murmured between kisses as his hand unfastened your bra. "Because I just can't get enough of you..."
His hand slid under you to remove your bra, and he groaned in his throat as he looked at your soft-looking breasts with their hardened nipples. It was an invitation just for him. He didn't hesitate to pounce on them, alternating between kisses full of passion and need on your breasts.
Your moans were quick to follow when Bucky's lips closed around one of your nipples, sucking and nibbling on the bud until you arched your back.
"That's it..." he murmured before running his tongue over the other nipple. "Offer 'em up nice for me..."
His hand squeezed your other breast, deliberately and slowly running his thumb over your swollen nipple.
Your hands went to his back, caressing his skin and feeling every ridge of his muscles beneath your fingers. It was exciting to feel his skin and his warmth.
"...I want to suck these sweet tits until they're red and sore... Maybe another time..."
Bucky's voice sounding hoarser than usual and saying those dirty words made your head spin, making you dizzy and even more excited.
He growled as he felt your hips contract beneath his. He knew your sweet tits were begging for his attention, but he couldn't let your dripping pussy go unattended and ruin your panties.
His mouth closed around a nipple one last time, sucking harder this time with a pop as he pulled away.
"How long has your pretty body been craving me?" he asked with a slight teasing tone as his hand pulled down the waistband of your panties.
You rolled your eyes as your cheeks flushed at his boldness.
"Idiot..." you muttered under your breath.
Bucky's smile grew even wider and he leaned in to kiss you, invading your mouth with his warm tongue.
And then his hand slid between your thighs, finding the sticky mess covering your folds. You both moaned almost simultaneously against each other's mouths, and your hips trembled and rose, craving the relief Bucky would give you.
Bucky's breath came out in a heavy, ragged burst as he felt you seek his touch as if it were a prayer to his fingers.
"Um, I think you've wanted me for a long time." He teased. "Look at this pretty little cunt... all wet and swollen just to see me."
You never imagined he would be the type of man who liked to talk dirty, but you were totally enchanted and moaning.
His thumb rubbed slow circles on your clitoris, enough pressure to make you shudder, but still not enough relief.
"Let me take care of you, doll." He murmured against your lips as his fingers slid towards your entrance.
He pulled away from you just enough to open your lower lips for inspection. He stood there for a few seconds, admiring how wet you were.
And then his fingers slowly pushed until they were deep inside you. You moaned and gently arched your back while your nails gently dug into his back.
The movements of his fingers were slow and experimental. He watched your face closely, enjoying your expressions of pleasure and trying to find the rhythm and spots that made you see stars.
When his fingers found that spot that overwhelmed you and made your pussy tighten around his fingers, he began to thrust faster. Beneath your moans, you could hear Bucky's heavy breathing and his small, strangled moans as he watched the way your pussy sucked his fingers.
And then one finger pushed alongside the other without warning; stretching you obscenely just to hear how loudly you would moan for him.
You could imagine how hard he must be inside his trousers, and you didn't want to be the only one getting off on the pleasure here, so your trembling hands went to his belt buckle to undo it, a little clumsily due to the pressure of his fingers against your sweet spot.
"I need you, James..." you moaned.
That plea was enough to end the foreplay.
His fingers suddenly pulled out of you, making you whimper softly, so he could unbutton his trousers and pull down his zip. You hurriedly removed your skirt, which had remained wrapped around your hips.
As Bucky was about to pull down his trousers, he quickly patted his pockets and cursed under his breath.
"Shit. My wallet's in my jacket."
You felt the coldness of your room suddenly hit you when his body was no longer on top of you, and you quickly hooked your fingers into his open trousers.
"I want to feel you," you said as you pulled him back onto the bed. "I have an IUD and I'm clean."
That was what broke the last thread of coherence in him.
He settled back on top of you as you kissed his lips and neck wildly. His hands hurriedly pulled down his trousers and boxers.
You felt his hot, heavy cock rub against your wet pussy, making you moan and want him even more. One of your arms wrapped around his neck while your free hand moved down between your bodies to take his cock and try to align it with your entrance. When the thick head rubbed between the folds, you both moaned at the same time.
"Look at you. You're a desperate little thing," he murmured as his kisses drew closer to your ear. "You're eager for me to ruin you and give you my cream."
Your arm clung to his neck as you felt him push against your entrance, and you stifled a sharp moan. The thrust was firm and careful until your pussy began to open up for him, receiving him between your soft, hot walls, which drew a moan from him.
"...That's it... take all I give ya..." he murmured through clenched teeth as he buried his face in your neck and moaned. "You're so tight and hot... You're going to drive me crazy..."
He pushed deeper until his pelvis collided with your folds, and you desperately sought his lips to kiss him while his hips remained still long enough for you to get used to it.
His hands slid down your bare back to grab you, pressing you against his chest and letting you feel every desperate beat of his heart. He began to rock in slow circles to check that you were okay. Your muffled moans against his lips were proof that you were.
"More, James..." you murmured pleadingly against his lips.
Every time he heard his name come from your lips, it clouded his judgement and fed that animalistic, possessive part of him. His hips pulled back slightly before rolling forward gently, testing your limits for a few moments until his thrusts began to take shape.
Your pussy fluttered around him as you felt his cock slide in at a steady, deep pace between your inner walls.
Bucky looked down at where their bodies were joined and groaned as he watched the way your tight heat stretched obscenely and took every inch of his cock.
"I'll make sure you remember how good I feel."
His hips thrust forward with rough, relentless force; each snap of their bodies seemed to send his thick cock even deeper, turning you into a mess of trembling, broken moans.
In one swift movement, he grabbed your arms to make you let go of his neck and separate his torso from yours. His rough hands slid down to your waist, gripping it tightly enough to lift your lower body slightly, just enough to penetrate you at a new and brutal angle.
The change caused your legs to wrap around his hips while your hands clenched the pillow near the bed frame out of the need to hold on to something. Your hips trembled in the air and your pussy tightened around him from the intense pleasure you were receiving.
"Don't stop, don't stop!" you said tremulously between moans.
Bucky let out a guttural noise as your body tightened around him like a vice. His hips moved forward again, harder this time, penetrating that spot that made you see stars.
He was terribly obsessed with watching the way your body writhed because of him, the way your breasts bounced to the rhythm of his thrusts and the grimaces of pleasure that adorned your beautiful face.
You were so immersed in enjoying each quick and desperate thrust until you heard banging on the wall to your left.
"Damn. It's Nath," you murmured, surprised that she was there.
They both looked at each other for a second and laughed softly at the absurd situation they were in. They hadn't bothered to try to hide the banging of the bed frame against the wall or tone down their moans, thinking they were alone.
They didn't take long to continue.
One of your hands went to cover your mouth to try to silence your moans.
Pleasure began to curl in your belly. It was a knot of tingles and overwhelming heat that made you tense up and moan more sharply.
Meanwhile, Bucky's hips began to tremble. He tried to keep up the pace he had set, but he was also close. His cock throbbed intensely inside you and his balls were ready to release their load.
"Fuck... I'm close," he said through gritted teeth. "Do you want it inside?"
You could only nod frantically as you moaned against your hand.
Your pussy was penetrated desperately until your climax came overwhelmingly intense. The way you squeezed around him was enough for him to reach his own in a loud, hoarse moan.
Your legs trembled around his hips as you felt him pulsing and spilling his hot, thick seed inside you.
You were left weak, your lower body still suspended in the air, moaning breathlessly.
Slowly, Bucky lowered himself onto your body, still moving slowly inside you, just to enjoy a little longer the way your walls fluttered around him with every thrust.
"You look damn beautiful when you're ruined..." he whispered close to your face.
You closed your eyes as you struggled to catch your breath and calm your racing heartbeat.
Still dazed, you could feel Bucky pressing soft, wandering kisses along your jaw, sometimes brushing the corner of your lips. One of his hands traced slow, careful circles over your hip, as if he wanted to anchor you there, in that exact moment.
“W-what… what did we do?” you whispered, your voice barely steady.
“What we’ve always wanted to do,” he replied without hesitation.
You opened your eyes slowly and, in the dim light, found his gaze fixed on yours—intense, open, sincere. There was no trace of teasing or doubt.
“We ruined our friendship,” you murmured, letting the fear seep into the words.
Bucky cupped your face with both hands, with a gentleness that made your chest tighten. His thumbs brushed soothing strokes along your cheekbones before he spoke.
“Nothing was ruined or complicated,” he said calmly. Then he pressed a brief kiss to your lips. “What was complicated was pretending I don’t feel anything for you.”
A soft smile—different from any he had ever seen on you before—curved your lips.
“So…”
“So we can see where this goes,” he interrupted, his confidence quiet but certain. “But I’ll be honest with you: I know the direction I want this to take. I can’t keep being just your best friend. Not after this.”
He rested his forehead against yours, completely still, as if he wanted to memorize every second while he waited for your answer.
“I like your plan…”
Bucky’s smile was instant, almost victorious. He kissed you again, this time slowly, without rush—a gentle kiss that promised more than urgency ever could. You stayed that way, wrapped in each other, letting the silence settle around you.
“Natasha is going to kill us,” he murmured with a quiet laugh.
“But it was worth it,” you replied just as softly.
☆
The next morning, you woke up wrapped in the unmistakable smell of freshly brewed coffee.
Your body felt heavy, pleasantly sore from everything that had happened the night before. You sighed, rubbing your eyes as you tried to adjust to the pale light of a new morning. Beside you, you felt Bucky’s arm tense when you moved; even half-asleep, he pulled you back against him with an unintelligible murmur.
“I’ll be right back,” you whispered to him.
He let you go reluctantly, letting out a small grunt before turning over on the pillow. You got up carefully and left the room, already dressed in clean clothes, guided by the strong aroma that filled the apartment.
The coffee was ready.
You went straight to the kitchen and confirmed the obvious: the coffee maker was full of that dark, promising liquid—exactly what you needed to chase away the exhaustion. You opened the cabinet where the mugs were kept when you heard the bathroom door open.
You automatically thought of Natasha.
You began mentally rehearsing an apology—long, sincere, full of promises—for everything that had happened the night before. Footsteps approached the kitchen, and you turned to face them.
“Nath, I’m so sorry about last night, I—oh God! Who are you?!” you exclaimed, taking a step back.
A tall, blond man stood at the entrance to the kitchen, looking just as startled as you were.
“I’m sorry!” he said immediately. “I’m Steve, Nath’s date.” He cleared his throat. “You must be her roommate.”
The man, broad and intimidating at first glance, now looked completely out of place: cheeks flushed, gaze averted, nervous all the way to his shoulders. That was when the inevitable realization hit you.
He had probably heard everything the night before.
Your own cheeks burned instantly.
“Oh, God…” you murmured.
Before you could say anything else, the door to your bedroom flew open. Bucky rushed out, half-dressed, saying your name with urgency.
“Are you okay? What hap—?”
The words died in his mouth when he saw the blond man standing in front of you.
“Steve?”
“Bucky?” he replied, wearing the same expression of disbelief.
An awkward silence stretched between the three of you, so thick you could almost hear it. You were looking at Bucky, Bucky was looking at Steve, and Steve seemed to be debating whether to say hello, apologize, or disappear through the nearest window.
“Do you… know each other?” you finally asked, breaking the stillness.
Bucky blinked a couple of times, as if his brain had just fully switched on.
“Uh… yeah,” he said slowly. “Steve and I are friends. We met at the gym.”
“Before I changed gyms,” Steve added, clearing his throat, clearly uncomfortable. “I didn’t expect to… see you here.”
Bucky glanced down at his badly put-on T-shirt and then back at you. A crooked, guilty, and faintly amused smile appeared on his face.
“Valentine’s surprises,” he murmured.
You covered your face with one hand, completely embarrassed by the situation.
“I want you to know this is not the scenario I would have chosen for this conversation.”
Steve let out a nervous laugh.
“Trust me, neither would I. Nath just said I could stay over and that there would be coffee in the morning.”
“The coffee delivered,” you said, pointing at the coffee maker. “Everything else… is questionable.”
Bucky took a step forward, positioning himself at your side almost by reflex, as if his body knew before his mind where it was supposed to be. His shoulder brushed against yours—solid, reassuring.
“Is Nat still asleep?” he asked.
“Very,” Steve replied. “And for everyone’s sake, I think we should let her stay that way a little longer… She didn’t get much sleep last night.”
You nodded quickly.
“Totally agree.”
Another silence followed. This one less tense, more absurd. Bucky broke it by leaning toward the coffee maker.
“Well,” he said, “since we all survived the night… does anyone want a cup before this gets even weirder?”
Steve raised his hand timidly.
“Please.”
You let out a short laugh, shaking your head.
“I definitely need coffee to process this very traumatic situation.”
Bucky glanced at you, a playful spark in his eyes.
“It could be worse.”
“Don’t tempt it,” you warned him.
As the coffee was poured and the atmosphere slowly began to relax, you knew this would only be the first of many awkward moments… and that, in some strange way, you didn’t mind at all.
While the coffee was being served and the kitchen gradually returned to an awkward sort of normalcy, you felt Bucky’s hand brush against yours on the counter. It wasn’t a big or deliberate gesture; it was soft, almost absentminded, as if he just wanted to make sure you were still there.
Still, you didn’t pull your hand away.
Bucky laced his fingers with yours naturally, without looking at you at first. Then he lifted his gaze and gave you a calm smile, different from the one the night before. There were no nerves, no rush. Just certainty.
“We’ll talk later,” he murmured, low enough that only you could hear.
You nodded, squeezing his hand once in response.
In that moment, you understood that it wasn’t an impulsive mistake or a confusing night. It was the beginning of something new—something that didn’t need grand promises or rushed explanations.
✦Read on a03! - Series Masterlist - Bucky Masterlist - Chapter One✦
✦pairing: Bucky Barnes x female!reader✦
✦summary: You and Bucky meet on the roof.✦
✦warnings/tags: fluff, meet cute, Bucky being a charming boy, slight slow burn, fluff, no use of y/n✦
✦author's note: i love him he's so cute. 40s Bucky i'd go to war for you. enjoy!✦
He waited.
The first time you go up to the roof after the storm, Bucky isn’t there, and you prove yourself right.
You’re good at that. It’s always satisfying, looking around at the rubble of something you expected to crumble and feeling the swelling pride of being correct. It doesn’t matter that the debris usually lodges in your skin or lung.
You were right.
Not a single sign of James Barnes. Like he never existed. Like he was just another ghost from the graveyard, floating up to find some company in the storm.
You might’ve liked some company. Your life doesn’t allow for things like friends, or even companions. There’s a street mutt that Etta’s bonded with, and you toss him scraps when you can, but even that eats out of food that could’ve helped you survive. And friends eat up time and thought. Etta gets to have friends. Other girls from Miss Robinson’s who she giggles with and talks your ear off about.
You always smile the whole time, because she deserves that kind of affection. You don’t tell her that the girls in your group used to put glue on your chair so you couldn’t stand up, and told the boys at the fancy school down the street that you opened your legs if they asked nicely—or even if they didn’t.
Etta doesn’t need to know these kind of things. Why you don’t have any friends now, save for one or two other street rats like you—with the same dirty nails and untamed hair—who you have deals with. Kathrine makes shoes with her mother, and you give her a dress in trade. Georgina can fake up one of those shiny necklaces the uptown ladies wear, so you trade a few outfits for one of hers. You keep what you need of the shoes. You pawn the jewelry and use the money for food.
But they’re not your friends. You sit with them while you eat, but you don’t speak or laugh or joke.
They certainly don’t make your heart go all fast like Bucky did.
But you’re almost certain he was a demon or ghost. That’s the only reasonable explanation for why he’d be up there and have taken interest in you.
A figment of a lonely girl’s imagination. A tragic reminder that you are alone, and you’re usually right, and Dear Lord, if that doesn’t hurt.
“You ever see a ghost?” You ask Georgina and Kathrine on afternoon, and they both give you strange looks.
“Ghosts ain’t real.” Kathrine tells you, and you tap your foot on the ground.
“I know. Just- Thought I saw one.”
“Where?” Georgina demands.
“On the top of the Havenford building.”
Her nose wrinkles. “Were you standin’ up there in the rain again?”
“So what if I was?”
“You’re gonna get caught one day.” Kathrine says, and you snort.
“I get caught all the time. Always manage my way out.”
They both hum, like they’re not sure if they believe you. You return to eating in silence, all the more assured that Bucky was a ghost. He was a nice boy. One of the boys that belonged in a place like that, who used to corner you against walls and mock you until you got lucky, and the school-bell called them away. If he was real, he would’ve snitched.
Maybe your polished performance fooled him.
Maybe he just forgot about you all together.
Best not to think about it. You’re right. That’s all that matters.
Until you’re not.
You climb up to the roof about a month later, your legs aching from running all day but your head foggy, and needing to be cleared. It’s already dark out, the skyline littered with the lights of people who got money to afford them.
You lean against the wall with a sigh, and start to pull your hair out of the tight braids you’d been working in. Not like anyone’s going to be able to see you anyway, and they’ve been giving you a headache. You just need to breathe. Look out at the sky and ocean—look at your mother, peacefully in the dirt—and breathe.
The door opens behind you. And you open your mouth to greet Fred when a horrible feeling like an echo hits you. Like time is bouncing off the clouds and dropping back down to haunt you.
You know who’s behind you before he even speaks. And when you whirl around, he’s smiling at you.
“You’re here!” Bucky says, grinning at you the same way as the first time.
Without the rain, it’s clearer. Impossibly prettier. Your mouth falls open—your heart hammering in your ear—and Bucky stumbles a little, seeming to jerk himself back from walking closer.
“I, uh-“ He gives up a nervous look, rubbing the back of his neck. “I thought you’d gone and run away. Or that I made you up.”
You blink at him, your voice almost breathless. “You thought you made me up?”
He nods. “Like an angel. But I knew you were real.” His smile widens. “I’m not creative enough, to make somethin’ like you up.”
“Something like me?” You cross your arms over your chest, raising your chin. “And what kinda thing am I?”
Bucky’s grin returns quickly. “I don’t know. I’ve been really wantin’ to find out.”
You swallow. It’s not fair, how good at talking he is. Handsome and charming, apparently not a ghost, making you feel all dizzy. It’s not fair.
“I’m sure you got other girls who want you to know what they are.” You snip.
Bucky doesn’t waver. “I do. But I wanna know what you are.”
He takes a step forward. You still haven’t figured out how to take a step back.
“Nice boys let a girl keep her secrets.” You try to make your voice sound firm, but it’s breathless.
If Bucky hears it, he doesn’t tease you. He just smiles, and stays right where he is, blue eyes shining in the dark.
“Good girls let a boy ask about her secrets.” He retorts smoothly. “Even if she’s gonna keep bein’ all mysterious and make him keep waitin’.”
Your face floods with some kind of buzzing heat that pools all the way down to your core. You don’t know why he said good girls like that, why it felt like being punched in the stomach in a good way when you’ve only ever hated people saying those two, evil words.
“You didn’t wait.” You snap, because you have to say something.
Bucky frowns. “I did. I was here every night.”
“Every-“ You cut yourself off with a laugh, because that’s insane. “Lying isn’t nice, James Barnes.”
His frown deepens. “I’m not lyin’. And you can call me Bucky-“
“You said friends call you Bucky.”
“People I want to call me Bucky call me Bucky.”
You hold his gaze, and it really does feel like staring at the sky. “Youwant me to call you Bucky?”
He nods eagerly, taking another step forward. You can see a stubble where he needs to shave now. He’d look good, as one of those older men with the thick beards. He’d look good anywhere.
Those aren’t helpful thoughts to have.
“Well, maybe I don’t want to call you Bucky.” You say, and his tongue darts over his lips.
He’s still staring at you, not seeming thrown at all. “Alright.”
“Alright?”
He nods, and you hate that he’s so agreeable. It makes you almost trust him, which is another annoying, unhelpful thing.
“Fine.” You snap, smoothing your skirt down. “I have to go home.”
Bucky doesn’t protest. Doesn’t ask you to stay.
But he catches your elbow again, when you try to stomp past him.
“Is it ‘cause you don’t think I waited for you?” He asks, a tiny furrow in his brow. “‘Cause I did. I even met Fred, and he said you’d been around, so I- I kept waiting.”
He blinks at you, hopefully. And some mean, bitter part of you wants to squash his hope in your hands, because he can’t be pretty and hopeful and charming. That’s just too much. Too unfair.
Instead, you just turn to face him a little more. Whatever spell he’s got over your heart is stronger than your head, and it might be about to kill you by leaping out of your ribs and into his.
“I’m going to ask Fred if you’re telling the truth.” You say, and he grins.
“Good. Fred likes me now.”
“Hm.” You glance down at where Bucky’s touch is still burning into you. “Fine.”
Bucky’s silent for a moment, scanning over your carefully guarded features—you’ve gotten quite good at that, at being unreadable—and sighs. Lets go of your elbow and stepping back like he expects you to flee.
But you don’t. Because he’s like an infection, and if he’s really been waiting for you, you have to know.
“I don’t usually come up here at night.” You say loftily, like it doesn’t matter at all.
Bucky stands a little taller. “Okay. When do you come up here?”
“Whenever I want.”
“When are you gonna want again?”
“I don’t know.”
He nods slowly, but doesn’t slump in defeat. Just keeps staring at you, like he’s hoping he’ll read the answer on your face.
And damn him again, you look in his eyes and they’re magnetic. They pull the answer right out of your lips.
“I might be coming back next week. In the morning on Sunday, when everyone’s at Church.” You look down to your nails. “I like hearin’ the bells.”
Bucky blinks at you slowly. Then nods. “Sunday.” He echoes. Like he’s trying to memorize it. “I can be here Sunday.”
You shrug, like you don’t really care if he is or not. Turn on your heels, and run again.
But you ask Fred about him, that Friday. And Fred does like him, which is odd. Fred doesn’t like much anyone but you and the pigeons.
“Nice fella.” Fred mutters. “Brought me good seed. Asked me about you.”
You frown. “What kind of things about me?”
“If you were always such a shrew.” Fred’s mouth twitches at your gaping expression. “But he said it a lot nicer than that. Seemed pretty happy when I said yes, too.”
“I am not a shrew-“
“You’re somethin’.” Fred shrugs, looking back to the coop. “Nothin’ a fancy boy like that usually got the heart to bother with, tell you that much.”
You roll your eyes. “He’s not bothering with me-“
“Yes, he is.”
“Well.” You stand at little taller, looking back out to the sky. And there’s something hot and angry inside of you, that wants to defend Bucky against nothing but the wind. “Maybe he’s got a special heart.”
And there it is, again. That hope. You wish Bucky had a worse heart, so you could stomp the feeling down into the gutter.
But he doesn’t. And he keeps proving you wrong.
He’s bothering with you. He still doesn’t even know your name, but when you go up to the roof on Sunday, he’s there waiting.
Smiles when he sees you. No one but Etta’s ever done that before, and it makes the summer air feel sticky.
“You showed up!” He sounds thrilled, and it really is an infection. It’s so damn hard not to smile back.
“I said I would.” You snip, and he shrugs.
“Maybe. But I’m still allowed to be happy about it.”
That makes your mouth twitch, and Bucky looks at you like you’re glowing.
He keeps looking at you, like you got something in you only he can see.
And it makes you smile back.
You walk slowly past to lean over the wall. Bucky trails after you, leaning so that his back is to the ocean. So that he’s looking just as you, and you can feel it, and it feels like the sky is looking back.
That first afternoon, you mostly just stand in silence. When you leave, before Bucky can catch your elbow, you turn back around.
“I come up here every Sunday.”
He nods, smiling wide. “Okay.”
You pause, taking a half step back, and Bucky just keeps smiling at you.
When you turn and run again, you lie to yourself. You repeat that he won’t be there, and you stomp down the vision of his smile and eyes that are slowly seeping into your dreams.
But he is there next Sunday. And the Sunday after that.
“I don’t like bein’ up on these things.” He mutters, glancing over his shoulder at the sprawling world behind you. “Don’t trust ‘em.”
“Don’t trust roofs?” You say, confused into forgetting you’re really trying not to talk to him, because it makes you like him more.
Bucky nods. “Don’t like man-made buildings. Or planes. Or trains.” He makes a sour face. “People shouldn’t be goin’ that fast.”
You giggle. Despite your best effort, you giggle, and Bucky grins like he won a lottery.
“You think we shouldn’t be up this high?” You tease, and Bucky shrugs.
“The sky shouldn’t be for people.”
“I thought you wanted to touch the stars?”
“Yeah, but- That’s different.”
“Don’t sound different.”
“It is. That’s science, Howard Stark’s been sayin’ we’re gonna put an man on the moon-“
“Howard Stark helps build trains.” You can’t stop smiling at Bucky’s pretty face. “And buildings. I think you’re just afraid of heights.”
Bucky’s mouth twitches, and he sighs dramatically. “Is it bad if I am?”
You shake your head, and his grin returns.
“Alright then.” He pauses, then says quickly, “are you afraid of anything?”
“No.” You say, because you’ve practiced that lie many times in the mirror. “I’m not.”
Bucky doesn’t look like he believes you, but he doesn’t push it. Which is good.
It’s embarrassing, to tell the pretty boy just how much you’re afraid.
Afraid of being alone, as fully and completely as your mother is in the dirt. Afraid of being in the dirt with her, being shoved under it and being buried before you’re ready, leaving Etta scared and alone. Afraid of the shiny men like Bucky, throwing you in that shallow grave, or worse throwing Etta there.
Afraid every time Etta gets a scraped knee or sneezes, that it’s going to kill her.
She’s gotten this cough, the past few days. It’s a wet one, but there’s no blood, and you’ve been keeping her home until it’s better.
You don’t tell Bucky that you’re afraid of what you’ll turn into, if she doesn’t get better. That you’ll become a. ghost on a rooftop, because you’re already. half-way there.
And you don’t tell Bucky that you’re afraid of him.
Not in the way of the shiny men. They scare you because they make you feel afraid.
Bucky scares you because he doesn’t. Because he’s there, every week, instead of going to church like nice boys probably should. Because he doesn’t push when you don’t talk, and he hangs onto every word when you do. Because you keep seeing him whenever you sleep and close your eyes, you keep counting down days until you see him again, and when you go to the roof alone, it’s strange he isn’t there at your side.
He still doesn’t even know your name.
And you almost don’t go to see him this Sunday. The usual time passes, as you keep an eye on Etta and her cough, and your finger start to itch. Your heart gets sore, as you picture Bucky waiting for you up on the roof he hates being on, but goes to anyway.
Just to see you.
If he really hates the roof, he only goes to see you, and you’re just leaving him there alone.
It’s gnawing in your gut. Making you feel sick. You might be about to vomit because of it.
And it’s past noon—past the church bells—when you finally pull on your shoes, kiss Etta’s forehead, and almost run out the door. You’re praying he’s still there. That if God has one small favor to give you—and he doesn’t—Bucky won’t have given up, and he’ll still be waiting.
He is.
Framed against the sky when you push open the door, Bucky’s there.
And you smile freely, when you see him.
The sky is for dreaming, and Bucky’s eyes are sort of made of it. When he smiles at you, something in you wonders if he is a dream, or not a demon at all.
One of those angels, that your mother said belong up in the Heavens, turning to something you can touch.
You walk over to stand at his side, looking out over the horizon. He never looks away.
“I’m sorry I’m late.” You break the silence, and he just shrugs.
“It’s okay.”
He waited. He proved you wrong, and really waited.
So you tell him your name. Just say it, and nothing else.
Bucky’s eyes are wide, when you dare to look over. He echoes your name back, and you’re learning how to speak James Barnes.
That’s how he says something, when he wants to remember it.
He wants to remember you.
“I really want to be your friend.” He repeats your name—as if practicing—and takes a tiny step forward.
“Well, boys and girls aren’t friends.” You mutter, tracing your finger on the wall.
“We could be the first.”
You swallow. You want to say yes. So badly. The word is trying to leap off your tongue without persimmon.
He’s called you that once, and it had almost killed you. Somehow, this time, it’s even worse.
“Because.” You snap. “You know why.”
“I don’t.”
“James-“
“Bucky.” He corrects, taking the tiniest step forward.
Not close enough that you’re touching, but close enough that you could. If you wanted to try.
And close enough that you can feel the heat from his body. It’s intoxicating. And he says your name and you slowly look up at him, it doesn’t feel like the sky coming down to meet you.
It feels like being pulled into the sky
“We don’t have to be friends.” He murmurs, and his voice sounds like music. “But I wanna be something to you. It can be whatever you want, but- I like bein’ near you. I wanna do it more.” He bows his head slightly. “Please?”
You stare at him for a long moment, and you think that if you told him no, he’d go.
But he waited.
And you can’t tell him now, because you don’t even know what the words for it would be—which scares you even more—but you want to be something to him to. You want him to remember you. You want to keep finding him, close to the sky.
Or even down on the ground.
A little piece of dreaming that you’re allowed to have.
“Okay.” You whisper. “We can be… Something.”
Bucky’s smile splits his face. “Really?”
You nod, and he doesn’t ask what. You’re grateful. You still don’t know.
You want to know. It feels like a whole new language to learn.
And you want to speak it for the rest of your life.
✦Chapter Three✦
✦End note: look at them. just babies.✦
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Jazz Club Owner! Bucky x Female Burlesque Dancer! Reader
Word count: 989
Warnings: 18+ MDNI. Strong use of langue, one night stand implied and nsfw jokes. Maneater kind of vibe ( calling him out and putting him in his place.)
A/N: Please check warning's for this series, may change as chapter's go. If you see any warnings that need to be added, fill free to hit my inbox.
Chapter one <<
Chapter Two
It was a month since the underground bar opened up and it was getting more packed by the second. More customers came in, so did dancers because no one took down the hiring sign — Bucky was screwed. Dancer applications kept coming in non stop, some were tossed out and some he couldn't ignore — not when they were famous in the burlesque world.
"Man, you've been picking up business lately since the underground opened up." Sam spoke. Bucky sighed softly and nodded as he polished the glasses at the bar. "It's been stressful but nice seeing other faces on stage." Bucky said with slight tiredness in his voice.
Sam chuckled softly like something made him laugh. Bucky looked at him, his eyebrow arched. "What's funny." He spoke. Sam finally stopped laughing for a minute. "Did you spill the news to her yet?" Bucky looked at him confused. "Who?" He asked. "The one you called toots." Sam said between laughs. "Oh. Her, yeah I haven't said anything yet." Bucky ran his hands down his face.
"You know she's gonna be pissed at you. Barely being on schedule at all." Sam said, still laughing about it. Bucky grimaced. "Don't remind me, she's gonna raise hell over it."
A week passed. You were slowly noticing you were barely getting put on the schedule. At first, just first just assumed he was taking a minute to upload things — but then — you saw how much more dancers he was getting added to the schedule. "Are you freakin kidding me right now?" You mumbled to yourself, already bolting out the door.
He was in his office, hiding away from the shit show that was about to come his way. Paperwork was all over the place. Empty cigar boxes laid on the floor. He was lost in thought but snapped out of it when his phone ding. He picked it up, reading it.
Sam: FYI, toots is coming your way and she look's pissed.
Before Bucky could text back, his office door slammed open. There you stood, pissed off to no end. "Why the hell am I not on the list? You let a bunch of broads on stage all because you fancy you and they get more hours than me." You snapped. He bristled, he knew you had a southern accent but it was in full force tonight.
"First of all, none of them fancied me. if i was going based on what dancer's personality's — you wouldn't even make it on to the stage...Secondly, customer's need to see other dancers aside from you and Sadie, even if it means cutting hours down." He spoke leaning back in his chair.
"That still doesn't answer my god damn question. Sadie has more hours than me, I barely have one hour." You snapped yet again. He looked at you like you were full of it. "Bullcrap toots you have more than — " He couldn't get anything else out when you grabbed him by his tie, yanking him towards you. "You callin me a liar now? Is that the shit you're trying to pull with me?"
His eyes widened, no one ever bossed him around like you did and he couldn't deny he didn't like it, but would never admit it. Even if the tips of his ears were red. "Toot's, you have more than one hour on stage." He spoke. You shoved the phone in his face, you were right.
He flipped through a bunch of papers and started fixing the schedule. "Can you let go of my tie?" He asked, not looking up at you. "No, I can not." You said in a sharp tone. He growled slightly but you tugged his tie again.
"There. Hour's fixed." He said looking up at you, You leaned down to check the schedule. He caught a peak of your cleavage peaking out of your top, when you leaned down — but quickly looked away when you stood back up.
Finally you let go of his tie, but noticed how tensed up he was. "You know maybe if you got laid once in a while you wouldn't be so up tight and grouchy, darlin." You spoke. He looked at you, glaring that you called him out on his lack of getting women. "I'll have you know I get laid plenty even though it shouldn't concern you toots." He spoke in a sharp tone.
"Oh really? How come you're always so up tight around here then? You're so stressed half of the time the veins in your forehead look like they wanna pop out. Have you tried something else besides using your hand's? Huh, darlin?" You spoke in a teasing yet mocking tone.
He looked pissed and a little bit turned on. He sat there for a minute, not used to having someone call him out so much. After a minute he finally spoke up. "Fuck you, toots." His tone held no bite to it.
You gasped but that quickly turned into a smug smirk. "What time, my place or yours, sweetheart?"
He was at loss for words. He just sat there looking at you, completely shocked. "W-What did you just say to me toots?" He said quietly. You leaned down, your nose brushing against his. "My place. Or. Yours."
He looked away, flustered and a mess at what you said. You waited a few before heading to the door. You looked over your shoulder at him. "Hey Bucky, should I wear a cheetah or lace next week." "C-Cheetah." He choked on his words.
You smiled softly at him. "Okay. I'll wear it with a thong and stockings next week." You closed the door behind you after that.
He was confused at first of what you said you'd wear with — but — it hit him square in the face.
You never wore thongs on stage. Always shorts or skirts.
His face burned even more red, he didn't know how he was gonna survive next week.
pairing: tfatws!bucky barnes x fem!reader | word count: 5.4k
prompt: 'making fun of valentine's day but celebrating it anyway' as part of the dear my darling reader event! thank you for organising such a fun event @salty-tang
warnings: angst with a happy ending, feelings of loneliness and rejection, alcohol use, themes of trauma/trauma bonding, mentions of nightmares, insecurity and slight disassociation during sex (fwb dynamic), jealousy, smut, unprotected p in v, oral (f. receiving), fingering
summary: Bucky's been your valentine for 3 years in a row — a silly tradition, two best friends making fun of a holiday you claim to hate. This year, he's got a date...and you're left alone on his doorstep — a basket full of food and all the love you didn't know you held for him.
a/n: this is dedicated to the lovely @dei-dreamz 💞 so excited for you to read it! I hope it hits the angst you were looking for! i know the timelines don't make sense canonically (please go with it 🙈)
February 14th 2023
“Oh my god, why do people do that?” Your face screws up — half amused, half disgusted — at the couple making out on the park bench, practically dry humping.
“What? You’re saying you wouldn’t want a little dry hump in the park for Valentine’s day, hmm? Not romantic enough for you?” Bucky pokes your side, moving to place his hands on either side of your face like he’s going to kiss you.
“Buckyyy, stop!” You swat at his hands, pulling away from him.
“No, huh? You more of a flowers and chocolate, fancy dates kinda girl?” He laughs.
“It doesn’t need to be fancy. It’s about the effort.” You roll your eyes, punctuating your words.
“Noted, going to have to step up my game next year.” He smirks, looking away and you have to try not to blush.
You and Bucky were on a “date”. The idea had come up the night before — the two of you sitting on the floor of his apartment, grumbling about Valentine’s Day and what a stupid holiday it is.
“Ughh, Valentine’s Day is tomorrow. I swear it’s so stupid.” You stuff popcorn into your mouth, rolling your eyes.
A small piece gets stuck in your throat and Bucky rubs his hand up and down your back, patting it softly. You ignore the way warmth spreads up your spine, making your head feel slightly fuzzy.
“I know, everything is covered in pink and flowers. Like why do people need a day to show that they love someone?” Bucky takes a swig of his beer, shaking his head with a grunt, but you catch the tiny glint in his eyes, the way his voice catches on the word ‘love’.
“Yeah I mean, I guess it kind of just reminds me that I don’t have one as well and I hate that feeling.” Your hands twist in your sleeves, avoiding Bucky’s eyes as your mouth fills with regret at the words that had just left it.
“One what?” Bucky asks stupidly.
You turn to give him a look that says really? before letting out, barely above a whisper, “A valentine. A boyfriend? I don’t know, it’s stupid.”
You weren’t unhappy with your life. Weren’t desperate for a boyfriend. You liked your friends, your time, your dogs. But sometimes, just sometimes, there’s a little itch of loneliness that you can’t quite scratch.
A little space you don't quite know how to fill. The part of you that wants a partner. Someone to make you coffee in the morning. Someone to call and talk about all the random parts of your day. Someone to come home to and wake up to and to lean on when things get too much.
But more than that. The part of you that wants Bucky.
Your best friend.
The way he rarely smiles but when he does, it’s at you, for you and your heart gives a stupid tug because how could it not?
The way he’s always had your back — through Hydra, through all the nights you’d woken up screaming, not knowing where or who you were. The way he understands you in a way no one else does. The way he listens to you — does anything to make you happy.
Bucky sucks his teeth, before clapping his hands, startling you.
“Hey, why don’t you be my valentine? I’ll take you out tomorrow.”
“I don’t need a pity date, thank you Bucky.” You roll your eyes, picking up the popcorn bowl and moving it to the counter — more an excuse to move away from his intense gaze than anything else.
“Come onnn, it’ll be fun, we can make fun of all the goofy, sappy couples we see.” Bucky tugs at your hand, his face like a little puppy and you can’t say no.
February 14th 2024
Bucky’s set up a projector screen in his apartment, fairy lights hung around the room, all your favorite movies laid out and a tray full of your favorite snacks.
You have to remind yourself that it’s a joke.
It wasn’t a real date.
But you can’t help the way your heart stutters when he calls you baby. Or the way your breath hitches in your throat when he reaches over and wipes chocolate off the corner of your mouth with his thumb.
Or the way your heart beats out of your chest when his hand brushes yours, pinky hooking over yours just slightly.
And when Bucky pulls a blanket over you before you even register that you’re cold, placing it over you like you’re something sacred — you’re done for.
Totally, completely, hopelessly in love.
February 14th 2025
“Oh fuck Bucky—” Your voice dies into a loud moan as Bucky’s hips rut against yours, his dick deep inside you.
“Fuck baby, you feel so—” His words die on his tongue as you clench around him, sucking him into you.
Your hands roam his broad back, right hand resting on the metal of his upper arm.
Bucky’s got you on your back, fucking you into your mattress. His hand slides up your thigh, pushing your leg out to fuck you even deeper.
The new angle makes you cry out, eyes rolling back as the pleasure rolls through you with every drag of his cock, squeezing him as you come.
Just friends.
He takes you from behind, hand pressing flat between your shoulder blades, thrusting into your soaked cunt fast and hard.
It’s just a stress relief.
And when he has his face buried between your thighs, pushing you to the edge over and over, staring up at you like you hung the moon — you have to look away, hands twisting in his hair as you remind yourself yet again.
Just friends.
Friends who fuck and go on dates and sleep in each other’s beds.
Just friends.
He’d taken you out to dinner, picked you up from your place with a bouquet of flowers and a smile that knocked the wind out of you. You’d kept your cool all night, ignoring your heart thrumming in your chest.
But now, his forehead’s resting against yours, eyes locked on you like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, coming inside you with your legs wrapped around him. And all you want is to call him yours. Hold his hand in the light of day. Kiss him good morning when you wake up. Tell him all the things you love about him when he gets lost in his head.
But you can’t lose him. You won’t.
So you take the small pieces he offers you — collecting them like mosaic tiles, trying desperately to fit the pieces into something that makes sense.
February 14th 2026
You and Bucky had been edging towards something lately that felt like you were together. Like you were his and he was yours. Without it really being said. You’d catch him staring at you when he thought you weren’t looking. Eyes drifting to your lips when you’d talk. Sleeping in the same bed even when you hadn’t had sex — under the pretense of ‘it’s too late to go home.’ Gently brushing hands in the morning, leg hooking over his. Intimacy hidden in the quiet of the morning.
So when Valentine’s Day finally arrives, you’re excited. For your “pretend” date.
The two of you hadn’t said anything about it this year, but it was a tradition now, so you assumed he’d be ready and waiting when you arrived.
You’d been giddy all morning, trying hard to calm your nerves in between swipes of your mascara.
It’s just Bucky.
This isn’t a date.
Just friends.
You can’t help the anticipation, itching to see Bucky so much, you could barely get your shoes on.
So when you get to his door — all dressed up in that dress he’d said looks good on you and your makeup just the way you like — you’re not expecting him to be equally dressed up, already at the door.
And you certainly don’t expect the words that come out of his mouth.
“Oh hey doll. I’m so sorry. I was just about to call you. Sam set me up on a last minute date. I won’t be able to do our thing today. Next time, okay?”
The world tilts.
Your eyes blur. You say something that you can’t make out over the ringing in your ears.
He kisses your cheek and walks away.
He wasn’t yours. It shouldn’t matter that he’s going on a date. Shouldn’t matter that it’s Valentine’s Day and he wants to spend it with someone else.
It shouldn’t. It shouldn’t. It shouldn’t.
The words play over and over in your head as your feet hit the floor. You don’t even know when you started walking. Your blood rushes to your ears, your cheeks. You feel something sink low into your stomach — embarrassment.
‘Going on a date.’
‘Won’t be able to do our thing today.’
‘Next time.’
Our thing.
He had said it so casually. Like it meant nothing to him. Like you hadn’t stayed up late last night making him his favorite food, baking cupcakes and packing those face masks he loved so much.
You remember the first time you had shown him them.
He’d been sitting on your couch — muscles tense and shifting side to side with a groan of frustration when you’d offered to help him relax. Ran your fingers through his hair while he inched closer to you — blue eyes focused on yours. You’d given him a shoulder massage, offered to do your skincare routine on him. And Bucky had loved it. You don’t think you’d ever seen him that relaxed.
He’d made a face, crinkled his nose at the wet sheet mask before sinking into it.
‘We should do these all the time, doll.’
The lump in your throat is unbearable as you push your way into your apartment, finally breaking down into tears as the door slams shut.
Bucky couldn’t get it out of his head. The little ‘Oh’ you had muttered. He’d barely heard what the girl in front of him was talking about.
You sounded disappointed? Sad?
Honestly, when Sam had told him about the date, he’d wanted to cancel. Would have much rather spent the day with you. But Sam had told him off for taking up your Valentine’s day, saying how you’d probably much rather spend the day with someone else.
When he stutters over his words, an uncomfortable silence settling over the table as Bucky tries to think of something, anything to say — his mind wanders to you. How easy it is to talk to you. How he never has to think twice about what he says or the tone he says it in or when he should pause, when he should speak.
It all comes so naturally with you.
Bucky looks at the girl across from him. He can’t help the guilt that rises in his chest. She had probably been excited for this date and here he was, thinking about you, what you might be doing right now. How upset you had seemed.
His fingers twitch at his sides as he tries desperately to not reach for his phone and text you.
When Bucky asked you to come over a few days later, you know you should’ve said no. Know you shouldn’t have crawled into his bed, naked and wanting.
It’s hard to care once Bucky’s hitting that sweet spot inside you that has you reeling, pushing your hips up to meet his as his arm wraps around your lower back, pulling you into him.
“Oh fuck baby you feel so good. So fucking tight for me.”
Baby. Did he call her that? The girl he went on a date with.
His hands grip your hips, dragging you over him again and again, watching the spot his cock disappears inside you, covered in your slick.
Bucky’s eyes roll back at the sight.
“Look at you, taking me so deep. My perfect girl.”
Your mind wanders again. Perfect. Did he think that when he fucked her? Had he fucked her? No, he would’ve told you. Would he?
Bucky slows his thrusts, hand coming to rest on the side of your face.
“Hey, hey where’d you go, doll?”
You shake it off, moaning at the stretch of his cock inside you, hands grabbing at his back, nails digging into his shoulders.
“Nowhere, Buck. Please, please— just don’t stop.” You push your hips up to meet him, begging him to move.
Bucky falters for a second before pinning your hips to the bed and pounding into you.
“Oh god, yes Bucky please.” Your hands tangle in his hair, lips resting on the shell of his ear as you pull him into you, wanting him to cage you into the bed.
Bucky’s eyes roll back at the soft sound of your voice in his ear, fucking you harder, deeper — his tip dragging against your cervix with every thrust.
As you clench around him, moaning into his ear as your orgasm hits you fast and hard, you can’t help but think of it again.
Had he been inside her like this? Had she kissed his neck, whispering soft nothings into his ear as he comes — the way you do?
Bucky collapses onto the bed next to you, pulling you into him, placing soft pecks on your lips.
Did he hold her in his arms like this? Kiss her like this?
You needed to draw a line. Tell him he couldn’t cuddle with you all night. Couldn’t kiss the back of your neck and nuzzle into it like it meant something. But when his hand brushes your arm or his nose nudges your cheek, you melt into it — the way you always do.
But then, your mind wanders to the way you’d sat on the floor of your apartment crying, only days ago.
Bile rises to the back of your throat and you push his arm off you, standing quickly to get dressed.
“Doll, what?” Bucky half sits up, brows furrowing in confusion.
“I’m fine Buck, I just— I have an early meeting. I gotta go.”
You give him a convincing smile, eyes wet as you walk out of his apartment — a sob ripping through your chest the second he’s out of earshot.
You couldn’t do it anymore. Couldn’t keep pretending he wasn’t everything to you.
It had been weeks since you’d last slept with Bucky. Since you’d seen him, talked to him.
You’d ignored his phone calls, pretended you weren’t home when he knocked on your door.
He knew you were. Could sense your presence on the other side of the door.
You’d tried to ease the ache in your chest every time he texted you asking if you were okay. Tried to distract yourself. Tried to let him go.
But how do you let go of the man whose soul is made of yours?
The music in the bar is loud, voices mixing with the loud beat as you stumble over your own feet, giggling and dancing with your friends as they pass you yet another drink.
You’d been drinking for hours, laughing and drawling on and on about all the dirty details of your many hook-ups with Bucky.
“No, like he fucks soo good. I don’t even know how to— how to explain it. I swear i’s like his dick is magical.” Your words slur together — your friends giving a loud whoop before diving into the details of their own hook-ups.
You’re listening intently to your friend tell you about the girl she’s fucking when your phone lights up.
Bucky:
Doll, please talk to me. I’m worried about you.
“M’just— just gonna—”
There’s a chorus of protests as you step outside, putting the phone to your ear.
Bucky picks up on the first ring.
“Doll, what— where—” He’s cut off by you.
“Buckyyy!”
“Doll, are you drunk?” He moves to put his shoes on, already grabbing his keys.
“Just a little, but m’having a good time.” You giggle, sniffling at the end, frowning at yourself.
“That’s good, m’glad. But I’m still coming to get you, okay? Stay right there and send me your location.”
“Mkay, Buck I can’t— I can’t figure out the location.” You’re about to cry as you try to text him.
“S’okay, I’ve got it.”
Of course he does.
“Okay, can you hurry? Cause I kinda feel not great now.”
“I’ll be there soon. Go say bye to your friends and meet me outside in ten minutes, okay?”
Bucky thinks he breaks about fifty laws just to get to you. His heart pounds in his chest — the thought of you needing him and him not being there making his jaw clench and his chest tight.
He smiles when he sees you, heart flipping in his chest at the sight of you. You’re sitting on the curb, eyes wide, looking a little lost before you see him.
You grin at him, running over to him, almost tripping over your own feet. He hugs you tight, breathing you in — his eyes closing at the feel of you so close to him. It’s as though he’s taking his first proper breath in weeks, his chest and shoulders easing as your hands find his waist.
“Can you take me home?”
“Course, let’s go.”
He starts driving towards your place when he sees the panicked look on your face.
“Where are we going? I want to go to your place Bucky. Miss you.” You feel a lump rise in your throat at the words and Bucky’s heart aches as you reach for his hand.
“Yeah, yeah we can go to my place. Hold on.”
By the time you get there, you’re half-asleep — Bucky picking you up and taking you inside. You grumble against his neck, arms wrapping around him.
“Why don’t you— Bucky why don’t you love me?” You hiccup as he places you down on the bed.
The sheets smell like him — warm and earthy with the faintest smell of smoke and you feel like you could cry. It pulls at a spot in your chest in a way you don’t quite understand. It feels like home and safety wrapped into one.
“Doll, what— you—you’re drunk—it’s not…” He trails off. He doesn’t know what to say.
Because you’re you.
You’re so beautiful and soft against his sheets and you’re the only thing that’s ever felt like home to him. His chest aches as a single tear slips down your cheek.
He wants to bury it. Wants to beg and plead with anything that would listen to take your pain away and never let you feel anything but joy ever again. He’d gladly burn the world down to make it happen.
He bites the inside of his cheek.
Still silent.
Still no words that would ever be able to explain the way he feels about you.
You’re more than love.
More than life.
Something he could never even imagine existing, let alone amongst him.
You’re everything.
But Bucky’s never learnt to hold something like you. Hydra taught him that if he showed he cared for something, he’d lose it. The memory of it. The feel of it. All of it.
And he couldn’t lose you. Not when you’re the closest thing he’s ever felt to peace.
“Bucky why don’t you get it? Like I love you. I love you. Like all the time Bucky.” You’re slipping, words slurring together as your eyes flutter shut.
You’re reaching for him — hands pulling at his shirt in a way he’s more than familiar with. When he doesn’t budge, you take off your own shirt, leaning in to kiss him.
He kisses you back — deep and hard and full of everything he doesn’t know how to say.
How to feel.
He snaps back when he tastes the alcohol on your breath, your hands dragging up his chest and around his neck, pulling him into you.
“Doll— we can’t—” He gets out between kisses, your lips moving more frantically against his, hands tugging at the hair on the back of his neck, the way he loves.
“Hey no— listen baby, you’re drunk…you’re drunk.” He says it so soft, so firm that you pull back completely, sitting back on your legs.
The room tilts. The air feels thicker. And embarrassment twists with something even uglier and you’re suddenly very conscious that you’re not wearing a shirt.
You pull it to your chest quickly and over your head, like it can reverse this moment, cover up the rejection you feel.
A single tear drips down your cheek — your chest and throat tightening.
Bucky feels his heart crack right down the middle when you look down, biting your lip, almost ashamed.
“You don’t— you don’t want me…”
His eyes snap to you, leaning in to cup your face in his hand, looking down at you with a tenderness that makes your heart flip in your chest.
“Listen to me doll. I will never not want you, you hear me? I will always, always want you. But right now, you’re drunk. And I don’t want you to regret it in the morning, okay? Just let me take care of you.”
Something in you melts and the tears start falling freely, your chest heaving and your breath shaking.
Bucky closes his eyes like a rock had just landed into his heart.
A rock would hurt less.
His thumb brushes your tears as he pulls you into his chest, lips resting against your forehead as he whispers sweet nothings against your skin.
“We’ll talk tomorrow, okay? I promise.”
You nod against his chest, sleep overtaking you as he slowly lays you down, pulling the blanket over the two of you as you nuzzle your face into the crook of his neck.
Bucky kisses your forehead and drifts off.
“Hey doll.”
You’re curled up to Bucky’s chest, the scent of his soap washing over you, head pounding as your eyes open.
You look down at yourself, groaning at the fact that you’d fallen asleep with your makeup on, back aching from the weird position you’d been in.
You blink the sleep out of your eyes, sitting up slowly.
“Hey— um— m’just gonna—” You get up, gesturing towards the bathroom as your heart pounds along with your head, the anxiety starting to settle in.
“Yeah, yeah, here take these first.” He hands you two aspirin and a glass of water he’d set on the bedside table.
“Thanks,” you mumble, swallowing the pills.
“I put some clothes in the bathroom for you too. And your toothbrush is in the same spot.”
You bite your lip, tears threatening to spill at the simple mention of your toothbrush.
You shower, scrub your makeup off with your cleanser you’d left there, and brush your teeth like you can wash away the drinks you’d had with sheer force alone — before settling into a pair of Bucky’s boxers and t-shirt.
You remember your drunken confession to him and wince — not wanting to leave the bathroom. Your hand hovers over the doorknob before you take a deep breath and open it.
“Hey.”
Bucky’s eyes snap up to you, already walking over to you, not quite sure what to do.
“Hey, um— do you want to eat something?”
“Not right now.”
Bucky nods, eyes trained on you.
“So last night?”
“Buck, I don’t want to talk about it, please. Just— can you take me home please? Sarah’s looking after my dogs and I need to get back.”
“Doll, please. I can’t just forget it ever happened. I can’t go back to not seeing you, not talking to you. The last few weeks have been hell for me. I miss you. I miss my best friend.”
“Bucky I—”
“Just please, sit down and talk to me, please.”
You sigh before sitting down on the couch, folding your legs under you. Bucky breathes out a sigh of relief before joining you.
“Where have you been the last few weeks?”
You shrug, curling into yourself as your throat gets tight.
“Doll, please talk to me.”
“Bucky, I— I can’t do this anymore.” You say, voice cracking as you sit up straighter, blinking back tears.
Bucky feels his chest go tight at your words.
No. No.
He’d been so terrified of losing you and now it was happening anyway.
“I can’t keep doing this half thing. You act like we’re together— I— I almost thought we were— and then you go on a date like it meant nothing to you. You didn’t even call me. I was just standing there like an idiot. It hurts too much Buck. It hurts to be yours and not be able to call you mine.”
You’re crying now, tears slipping down your cheeks, sniffling softly as you try desperately to control yourself.
Bucky has to stop himself from cupping your face, wiping your tears.
“Doll— fuck— I don’t know what to say.” He drags his hand down his face, feeling shame settle so deep in his stomach, it hurts. He had hurt you. Made you feel unwanted, unloved. When all you ever did was love him.
You look down, digging your nails into your hands as the urge to cry hits you even harder.
“Hey, look at me. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry doll. Fuck, I’m an idiot. I thought that I was— I don’t know— doing you a favour. I didn’t want you to be stuck with me. You deserve everything. You’re everything that’s good and kind and sweet about the world. You taught me that I don’t need to shut everything out, taught me how to want again, how to feel. You mean everything to me and I— fuck— I love you. More than anything. I should have told you sooner. Fuck— I should have shouted it from the rooftops. I just— I didn’t know how. I didn’t know if you wanted me to.” Bucky’s eyes meet yours— terrified of what your reaction might be.
“I thought maybe loving me, being with me was too hard…thought I was too much…” Your voice trails off as you divulge your deepest fears to him, chewing the inside of your cheek.
“Hey—no.” Bucky’s hand curls around your jaw, thumb stroking lovingly at your cheekbone as you lean into his touch.
“I have been through hell, but loving you? Doll that’s the easiest thing I've ever done. I think— I think it almost came so easy that I didn’t realize it was happening. And then when I did, it terrified me. Because what if— what if I lost you? You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me and I can’t— I can’t lose you.” Bucky’s voice breaks at the end, his head dipping as he feels his eyes well up at the thought.
“I’m so sorry, I don’t know if you can forgive me. I don’t know if I deserve it.” His thumb brushes your cheek again and the small act alone has you melting into him.
You look at him, long and hard, your heart swelling at the sheer emotion in his eyes.
“You not gonna go on dates with anyone else again?” You ask, teasing softly.
“Fuck no. I was thinking about you the whole time. Could barely get a word out of my mouth. Stupid Sam said that you probably wanted to spend Valentine’s with someone else.”
“Since when do you listen to Sam?” You laugh wetly.
“Since never. And I never will again.” Bucky leans in, carefully resting his forehead against yours.
“Do you forgive me?” His eyes meet yours and you forget how to breathe. They’re so blue and beautiful and full of love.
“Almost. You have to make it up to me.” You tease gently, nudging your nose against his.
“Doll, I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to if that’s what it takes. Just say you’ll be mine.”
“You gotta ask me properly,” you whisper, enjoying dragging it out like this.
He happily obliges.
“Will you be my girlfriend?” He kisses your cheek, pulling your hands into his and sitting back to wait for your answer.
“Yes Bucky, I’ll be your girlfriend.”
Bucky smiles so big, he feels his face hurt. His chest so full, it feels like it might burst.
“Can I kiss you now?” He leans in, pressing his forehead to yours once more.
“You don’t gotta ask Buck.” You kiss him then, soft and sweet and wet with your tears.
And Bucky’s kissed you many times but it’s never felt like this. Like the answers to the universe are held in the way you kiss him. Like everything he had ever been through was worth it for this moment right here.
Kissing you felt like coming home.
And when you pull back breathless, eyes glinting, he swears he could never love you more.
“Fuck you’re beautiful.”
You giggle softly, turning your face to kiss his metal palm that rests against your cheek.
“I love you Bucky.” Saying it in the light of day feels like a weight lifted off your chest — a truth that had always been there, just waiting to see the light.
“I love you doll, more than anything.”
You move to get off the couch, groaning loudly.
“I have to gooo Buck.” You reluctantly pull your hand away from him.
“Mm-mm, you think you’re getting away from me that easy? I just got you.” He stands to kiss you again, lips finding yours, kissing you deeper this time, tongue coming to softly trace yours as his hand travels up the back of your neck, tilting your head for him, his metal hand resting on your waist, fingers digging into your skin lightly.
“God, I can’t get enough of you. Call Sarah right now and tell her you’re not coming home yet.” He says between kisses.
You do. Because how you can you resist him when he looks like that? Lips parted and wet and kiss bitten. Eyes sparkling like this was the start of the rest of his life. Hair mussed and fingers still gliding posessively over your waist.
“What are you gonna do with me, Buck? You’ve got me all day.”
“C’mere.” He picks you up, wrapping your legs around his waist as you yelp.
The playfulness melts into something deeper, more desperate. Bucky’s lips chase yours as he carries you to his bed, placing you down.
“Gonna worship this pussy baby. Fuck, I missed you.” His lips trail down your neck, hands pulling at his boxers you’re wearing, tugging them off.
“Bucky please…” Your voice melts into a moan as his lips find the soft skin of your thighs.
“Look at you, lying there in my shirt like it doesn’t drive me crazy. Mine. Gonna spend all day here, making it up to you.”
He places soft, barely there kisses to your thighs, inching closer to where you’re burning for him.
“Open, doll.”
You whine, spreading your thighs wider, bending at the knees as his hands wrap around your thighs, pulling you into him.
“Bucky fuck please, need you,” you let out a whimper when he runs his thumb through your folds, spreading your wetness like it’s something holy.
“Look at you, all wet for me, hmm? My perfect little girlfriend, so ready for me.”
Your hips push up towards his face, desperate for more. Bucky pins you down gently, before wrapping his lips around your clit, tongue flicking out and he moans.
“Fuck Bucky.” Your hands fly to his hair, before fisting in the sheets, trying to ground yourself as he licks long stripes up your slit.
“Yeah, that’s it baby. Make yourself feel good on my hand.” Your hips rut against his hand, fingers fucking into you with an obscene squelch, his tongue coming to flick against your clit once more.
You don’t know how long he stays between your legs, how many times you come against his face, moaning and breathless, pushing at his head when it gets too much.
Bucky finally, finally moves up your body, kissing you hard as he pulls you on top of him.
“I love you doll. So much. Always gonna be right here loving you.” He whispers it against your hair as you drift off in his arms.
And he keeps his promise.
He stays.
Through every hard thing. Through all your softest moments. Through the times that break you. Through every tear. Every health scare. Every time you have a nightmare. Every time you want a coffee. Every movie night and date night. Every time you’re so excited and want to share it with him. Every dance. Every laugh. Every kiss. Through every sweet and beautiful and ugly moment you share.
And for every Valentine’s.
also special thanks to @/quantumbarnes for keeping me inspired and to @/heldbybarnes for bouncing ideas with me! truly grateful 🫶🏼
Summary: With your date no where in sight you’re preparing yourself for another night alone, ready to file the whole thing under your growing evidence regarding the death of romance enter Bucky Barnes, friend, obscenely hot neighbor, and *checks notes* savior?
Warning: fade to black smut, making out, Bucky is cute, reader is lowkey avoidant attachment, waiter is canonically Joaquin, both of them are yearners TRUST ME
PSA (Pink Service Announcement): This fic is apart of the wonderful @salty-tang’s My Dear Darling Reader exchange! A beautiful event hosted by a beautiful person!!! You are so good to us and I cannot thank you enough for organizing and putting so much care into this event. This is based on prompt #7: Saved from a no show date
Dt: @quantumbarnes my dear sweet Veni I could not have been more excited when I found out I got to write for you! You are a ray of sunshine and everytime I interact or see you on my dash it brings me so much joy! You and your works are so beyond beautiful. Thank you for being patient with me while I tried to do you justice 🩷
Veni in my heart of hearts I’ve written you 10k of porn with plot, with so much yearning it makes my heart ache. In actuality the month of February snuck up behind me and hit me over the head with a club. Forgive me my love
Word count: 2.5k
What a waste of a pretty dress.
That's the thought you keep circling back to.
It'd been sitting in the back of your closet for almost two months, and impulse purchase that you had been waiting for the chance to wear.
Foolishly, you thought it was tonight.
Now, as the clock ticks almost an hour past the time your date was supposed to arrive, you're not so sure.
You don't know what's worse, the fact that you won't be able to wear it again, or that you're seriously considering asking the waiter for another bread basket.
"At least it can't get worse." You mumble to yourself, grabbing your butter knife and snatching the last roll.
You'll order another drink, get buzzed enough to numb the sting of rejection before you force yourself to go back to your apartment. Maybe you can kill another hour, spare yourself from the interrogation of your well-meaning roommate. She'll feel guilty enough knowing that she's the one who convinced you to go out with this guy anyway.
Then a bone shakingly familiar voice speaks from behind you.
"Hey stranger."
Bucky.
Bucky your hot, dream haunting, neighbor.
Fuck it can get worse.
You don't get the chance to turn around and greet him, Bucky instead walking around and taking the empty seat across from you.
"Bucky!" You feign excitement, forcing yourself to perk up. "What are you doing here?"
Bucky shrugs, looking around the restaurant as if he's unimpressed. "Was hungry."
Of course, a million restaurants in this city and he comes here. A casual twist of fate's knife.
Bucky's talking but you don't hear him, meeting someone he says. Been a while, explained with a casual wave of his hand.
You catch none of it.
Noticing your silence, Bucky finally looks at you, properly.
His expression falters, just for a moment.
"Oh shit you're-" he trails off, gesturing to the dress and the fancy table setting.
You're on a date.
Loud incorrect buzzer.
Maybe you could play it off. Say you're early, or he went to the bathroom. Anything to save face. You could slip out before he gets a chance to double back, disappear into the crowd of lovers on the sidewalk and avoid the embarrassment.
Of course, fate is not that kind.
"Finally!" Your waiter appears, seemingly out of thin air. He flashes Bucky a relieved smile, "Can I get you anything to drink? I can't believe you actually showed we were about to give up the table."
Mortification, white hot and inescapable climbs up your face.
You stammer, tripping over your own words as rush to explain that no this isn't him, and yes you are still waiting and if they have a gun in the back could they please bring it out so you can kill yourself-
"Can I get a water and-" Bucky nods to your empty wine glass, "A bottle of what she was drinking."
The waiter leaves, parting with a firm nod and a pleased expression. As he walks away you can see him turn back to you, mouthing an exaggerated Oh my god! And pointing at Bucky's back.
"Bucky," you swallow around the shock and embarrassment in your throat. "You don't have to do this really."
He doesn't acknowledge it. Doesn't look up, doesn't make eye contact, doesn't pass go or collect two hundred dollars. Instead he opens his menu and starts to browse.
"Any idea what's good here?" He asks, flipping through the thick pages.
You recover faster this time, your mouth only opens and closes twice before you finally speak.
"They're known for their steak." You answer.
The words blur in front of you, anything you might've read while waiting for your date gone from your mind. Your sensibilities pulled loose and numbed with wine and insecurity.
"Guess I'm having steak."
Dinner is… something.
Not the food, no the food is delicious, the food is out of this world.
But so is the company.
It's not that you didn't expect it from Bucky. He's a good neighbor, a good friend. He fixes your leaky pipes with a twist of his hand and changes the batteries in your smoke alarms because you can't reach them. He gives you that awkward, almost a smile when you pass in the hallway, and asks how your day is going every time you ride the elevator together.
Even then, it's like pulling teeth, stilted and borderline painful at times.
Tonight it's none of those things.
Tonight it all flows like water between you.
Stories, yours and his, a second bottle of wine and a shared dessert.
Bucky doesn't bring it up until the latter is set down in front of you, two spoons on one plate.
"So," He starts, stabbing a fork-full of cake with more force than necessary. "Who was the guy?"
You sigh, matching his force, the plate clattering with the sound.
"Blind date." You say morosely, "Honestly didn't even want to come."
Bucky hums. "So why did you?"
You shrug, another forkful gets swallowed before you answer.
"I've been single for forever." You emphasize the last word, "I kept thinking it would just happen, y'know? That love would just appear, and when it was right it would feel right."
Bucky nods, taking another bite. This time it catches on his lip, a drop of chocolate syrup dotting the corner of his mouth. You only think about licking it for a moment before Bucky's own tongue darts out. Pink and sinful it drags the chocolate over his bottom lip before finally wiping it away.
In a moment of sheer brilliance, you mind speaks from the gutter.
"That wasn't working so I figured I'd try this, thought maybe I'd at least get laid."
That lands like a fart in church, Bucky sputtering on his last few drops of wine.
"What about you? I never asked who you were supposed to be meeting?" You change the subject, dragging another bite into your mouth, anything to stop you form talking.
Bucky recovers more gracefully than you did.
"It was just a few friends," He clears his throat, "Honestly I'm having a much better time with you."
Your cheeks get warm, and you pray he doesn't see the smile that plays at the corner of your lips.
"Besides they would have tried to get me laid. God forbid." He adds.
The laugh it punches out of you is embarrassing, loud enough to turn heads at the surrounding tables. It's more shocking than it is funny, the look he gives you after more fond than smug.
"Wanna get out of here?" You're not sure if it's bravery that asks, or self-consciousness at the eyes of the other patrons.
"Way ahead of you." Bucky promises.
Way ahead of you' apparently meant Bucky had already paid the check while you'd gone to the bathroom, insisting the entire walk home that it was his treat
Really Bucky at least let me pay for half!
My mother would turn over in her grave.
You bicker, banter, brush hands the entire time. A goofy smile painted on your face, and you'd had the mind to noticed, you would have seen a matching one on him.
The elevator takes it's time getting to your floor. You both drag your heels once the doors open.
Even once you get to your apartment, you hesitate, turning your key in the lock but refusing to undo the latch.
A tiny voice inside you screams, begs you to drag it out, to make it last. Silently cursing your roommate for being inside, probably sitting on the couch waiting for a debrief.
Stealing one last moment you turn back to him, pressing your back to the door as you tilt your chin to meet his towering gaze.
He's easily a foot closer than usual, his typical polite distance shrunken to something more intimate.
When had he gotten so close?
"You're a good man Bucky." You tell him, smile pulling at your lips as you force yourself to swallow around your nerves
"I don't know about that." Bucky argues, metal hand rubbing the back of his neck with embarrassment.
You scoff, "C'mon how many other guys would have spent their night trying to make their neighbor feel better?"
You want to make it obvious, let him know he's off the hook. You're not stupid. The way he's looking at you tonight? There's a softness in him you've never seen before, it's pity.
Isn't it?
Bucky struggles, for the first time since he sat down with you, he looks like he doesn't know how to say what he's thinking.
"God, Doll you still don't get it?" He finally whispers, sounding almost hurt. "That was me being selfish."
The air between you goes tight, what moments ago had felt safe, warm, easy, is now charged with something unspoken.
It hangs heavy, suffocating you in possibility.
You eyes fall, down to his hands fisted at his sides, the way his shoulders curl in on them selves, the gentle curve in his neck as he leans down into you.
His lips, parted and pink. His cheeks, flushed and freckled. His eyes, wrecked and wide.
He's rigid, body braced for the blow of rejection.
The ball is in your court, fate in your hands, two paths.
The fear, the kind that always bubbles up whenever the chance at love actually presents itself. It curls under your skin, twists in your stomach and makes you panic.
Your doorknob is in your hand, one twist and you could disappear inside, but you can't seem to make yourself do it.
You made your choice the second he sat down. You made your choice two weeks ago when you room mate described your supposed-to-be-date as tall, dark and Bucky-ish.
A few months from now he'll curl a hand around your wrist and tell you he made his six months ago when you moved in and brought sunshine with you.
You let go of the doorknob and find something new to hold onto.
Bucky's hair is softer than you expected, gentle tufts of dark curls that already feel familiar under your hands.
You grasp it, soft at first, testing. Then harder when you use it to pull his lips down to yours.
Bucky follows you without protest, nearly tripping over himself as he rushes forward to meet your kiss.
Big hands find your hips, curling into them like he's afraid you'll disappear. You do in a way, into the door frame, into his chest, swallowed whole by all things Bucky.
His lips are chapped, rough and bruising as he takes your invitation and runs with it.
His chest bumps into yours, once, then twice, than a third time until you're pressed to the door again.
"Don't wanna stop." He murmurs, not even bothering to pull his lips away from yours.
"So don't." You tell him. One hand trails from his hair, down his neck and over his shoulders until you can clutch his bicep. It's strong, flexing beneath your touch and unflinching as your nails dig into it.
Bucky groans, ragged and throaty as he kisses you again, still trying to talk through it. "Fuck-" He pants, dragging his teeth over your bottom lip. "Won't let you leave if I do."
Despite his words, whatever war he's fighting inside him, his body tells a different story. Hands reach down your back, palming your ass through your dress before grasping the backs of your thighs. There's no instruction to jump, he just stands to his full height and takes you with him.
Your legs scramble around his waist, ankles locking behind his back as you try in vain to bring him even closer.
"Then keep me." You insist. "Please Bucky, keep me."
The door to Bucky's apartment swings open with enough force to rattle its hinges.
He kicks it shut, as if ripping his hands from your body would be too difficult and you have to agree.
It's a mess, teeth clashing, tongues tangled, frantic grasp at any skin you can touch.
Your feet don't touch the ground until his bedroom. Your heels are somewhere by his door, toed off with little patience
Bucky puts you down as gentle as can be, slowly detaching himself from you until he can lean back and take in everything.
He towers over you, imposing and
You falter under his gaze, just for a moment as he rakes his eyes over every inch.
"With a dress like this-" He sucks in a shallow breath, "-Sweetheart I was never going on that date."
Like magnets his touch returns. The backs of his hands trace your curves, brushing over your breasts, and down to your ribs. He lays his palms flat over them, running his thumbs just below the line of your breasts.
"Date?" You gasp, pressing your hands over top of his.
He shakes his head, letting out a low whistle. "Cancelled the second I saw you sitting there."
He finds the zipper on the side of your dress, pulling it down slowly as he speaks.
"Before you came over?" You ask, voice softer than you expected.
Bucky nods, sliding his hand below the fabric, resting it over your back and using it to pull you into him.
"Before I got past the hostess stand."
The dress comes off in a flurry, fabric gently lifted over your head only to tossed half-haphazardly on the floor.
The lace set had been chosen with optimism in mind. Nothing too showy, but enough to make you feel pretty even if no one got to appreciate it.
Boy are you glad someone does.
Bucky walks you back to the edge of the bed, but just when you think he's going to push you down, he kneels instead.
He pulls the waist band of your panties between two fingers, thumbing where it rests over your hip.
"I can't believe you were gonna waste this on some guy who didn't have the balls to show up." He sounds borderline angry, jealousy rearing its head just enough to make you shiver.
"Wish I wore something else?" You tease, fingers falling back into his hair, taking your time to card through it.
"Not what I said." Bucky insists. His face presses against you through the fabric, nose pushing in just enough to elicit a squeal.
"Bucky!"
"It's just a good thing that I'm here." He presses on, placing a kiss just below your navel, then a second one an inch lower, progressively traveling down until he landed at the elastic of your panties. "This pretty pussy deserves some one whose gonna worship her."
Something sure settles in your stomach, a weight in that covers your entire soul in the feeling of knowing that for the first time ever. This is right.
Event Masterlist
Personal Masterlist
Thank you so much for reading, and again to salty for hosting!
Veni I hope you enjoyed this little slice hero Bucky, he makes my heart swell almost as much as your Steve fic did.
Synopsis: Bucky’s pretty damn sure when he walked out of your place three months ago, that’s the last the two of you would ever interact outside of the world ending. Your…more-than-friends but never anything more was already complicated enough with all of his shit, then everything with the new Avengers team he got roped into joining just…it got ruined. It got ruined, and Bucky was trying to get his shit together, and then, when he Valentina ropes everyone in to do a beach-themed photoshoot for this fundraiser, well…. Things get a little complicated when a shoot runs late, and Bucky peeks over to see you sprawled out in a skimpy bathing suit that reminds him of how badly he’s missed you. Oh, and the fact that despite your weird more-than-friendship, you never fucked. And very, very suddenly–at the worst possible time–his body seems to wake the fuck up.
Warnings: Bucky’s POV & reader is described as shorter & smaller than bucky // nsfw content + some angst // follows MCU canon, coworkers -> friends -> more than friends -> exes -> lovers, pining & yearning, angsty exes, sexual awakening after trauma (bucky)/bucky’s sexually repressed, reader is a hero but not specified (honestly you could sub in Nat for the reader), reader wears a skimpy bikini, dirty thoughts, inner turmoil, bucky literally trying not to have a panic attack, sexy photoshoot!!!!, sexual tension, bickering, making out, flashback of thigh riding, grinding, nipple play, clit stim, unprotected sex, bucky cums prematurely, bucky cums inside of the reader, implied happy ending
Word Count: 13.5k
A/N: This is definitely a self-indulgent fic, i’m sorry. It came to me and i was possessed by the writing devil to write it all in a single sitting. <3
There were a few too many times Bucky stopped and wondered how the fuck he got there. He had answers for most–drafted, Hydra, Steve, Sam, healing, trying to be better–but for what it was all worth, he felt that single nugget of dread acting like a pebble in his shoe when he walked into the studio. Everyone was there, which he couldn’t decide was better or worse. At least they were all suffering this bullshit together, but it wasn’t exactly a comfort.
It was for a fundraiser linked through the magazine, and it was a big damn deal to have the new Avengers in the spread. It was great PR, and they were capitalizing on the sexual appeal, yada, yada, yada. He tuned Valentina out hard the second he knew he was getting his arm twisted to do something just completely horseshit. At least when he was doing fundraisers on the campaign trail, the end result was going to lead to him helping people in Congress. This was just…bullshit.
At least, collectively, everyone seemed to be on the same page. Except Alexei. He was grinning ear-to-ear the second Valentina said beach photoshoot. He’d spent the week in the Watch Tower gym preparing. Bucky even caught him practicing poses in the mirrors.
Bucky's plan was just get the necessary photos done and fuck off. Even in Congress, he hadn't gotten used to being on camera or dealing with the attention, and this was just…. Well. Bullshit.
An annoying day that was going to lead to probably one of the few non-hostile texts with Sam the second the images dropped, and he’d wind up with one in their very inactive text thread. He’d take the mockery if it eased the tension, but knowing who else was going to see the spread of what he hoped was just going to be one image was a knot where vibranium met his shoulder.
Well, it’d started as a knot. Then it eased into his chest like it always fucking did the second he thought about how he’d stayed with the team. Given everything…he still couldn’t. But that didn’t ease that pinch in his sternum. And, usually, that little regret was just that. In the grand scheme of everything, a few sacrifices were expected to keep the world safe and do good. It was the classic hero gives up good for him to give good to others shit he'd read about ad nauseam everywhere back when he was a teenager. He'd stopped arguing about the whole use of the word hero when referencing himself. Whether or not he fit that description didn’t erase the point of it. He’d made a choice he figured would better the world over something selfish.
Yeah, and then he followed the personal assistant leading the team into the studio to get ready for their photoshoots, and that pinch was a fucking volcanic eruption. The rush of cold air from the vents slammed into him first, and the flashes of the cameras only gave him a mild discomfort, and when he blinked past Walker and Alexei, he felt time just fucking stop.
They weren’t the only heroes attached to the fucking project. Apparently.
In the corner of his eye, he caught Yelena looking up at him with that look. Something akin to sympathy or pity. He sure as shit couldn’t tell, and he wasn’t going to check. He hadn’t even taken a breath yet. He wasn’t sure he could with how tight his chest went. Like his diaphragm locked up to punish him. Remind him? His jaw clenched until it ached, and there was an annoying, frustrating tension ripping across his shoulders and down where his left arm hummed to reset itself.
Whatever the PA said, Bucky didn’t hear it. The camera flashed again.
They were a little early, so the set they’d be using shortly was still in use. Bucky would’ve given money for it to be Sam. He would’ve preferred that tension and awkward bickering over stripping down to wear some ridiculous bathing suit to appease a PR requirement over the burn that started in his lung and spread like lava leaving that volcano.
The last time he saw you was three months ago. Right after the whole Void and subsequent press conference incident. It’d been a long argument in your place, and one Bucky knew the outcome of the second he knocked on the door because he wasn't there to change his mind; it was to change yours. But you were more stubborn than he was, and since you'd been with SHIELD way before the Chitauri invasion and spent a good deal working with the Avengers, he knew he was walking into a stalemate. It was one that you had to meet, but it just…hadn't gone as smoothly as he'd hoped.
Breaking up tended to have that effect, though. Especially when that breakup was ending something that hadn't even really started yet. Years of almosts and false starts were still a hell of a lot punching him in the chest when he'd walked out of there. He hadn't thought it could get any goddamn worse, and then he looked across the studio at you lounging back in a sand box meant to recreate the coastline while a tiny goddamn bathing suit barely stayed on you.
There was that time you’d dragged him over to watch one of the thousands of movies he’d missed over the decades, and about an hour in, you’d both stopped watching. You were in these thin pajama shorts and an oversized t-shirt, straddling him, kissing him like you’d die without him. He was so fucking scared he’d hurt you; he’d been scared and hesitant and just…every push to try to put himself out there always wound up with him at a wall. The same goddamn wall that shot up his spine and shouted at him to just try. But it didn't matter how hard his cock was or how much his balls hurt; he just wasn't ready. Not that you ever complained; he never fucking deserved that. But that night, it was the closest he'd gotten when he nudged you over onto his thigh, and he kissed your neck as you rode it.
Maybe he might’ve done more, but just as you ruined your shorts, he’d gotten a call from Sam, and…and he couldn’t even remember what it was about anymore. There was just that memory of you with your arms around his neck, trusting him, needing him, and leaving a goddamn wet patch on his jeans he still thought about when you humped his thigh. The usual hidden expression you masked most of the time was gone when you shuddered. Fucking came humping his thigh. That stupid phone call was the only thing keeping him from ruining his jeans. Literal seconds away from it.
Anyway. That’s the closest the two of you had gotten. That was the most he’d ever seen you…undressed? It felt like the wrong fucking word, but it wasn’t like you two ever had any moments where you were stripped down to nothing. Not when Bucky never…. Damn it. So seeing you throw your head back with a smile primed for the camera in nothing but that bathing suit? Well, Yelena’s sympathy was misdirected, just not entirely.
“Bucky," she said, drawing him right back to the reality in front of him. The group was moving. She had her hand on his arm, pulling him away from the area, and he hadn't even fucking noticed. Shit, he finally actually breathed, too, when he blinked down at her. A heat climbed up to the tips of his ears, and that ache in his shoulder was shooting down his left arm like a goddamn curse. "Are you okay?"
A question anyone would've asked him for checking out like that, but it was laced with the obvious lingering behind them. Thankfully, he'd been at the back. Despite his height, Walker, Alexei, and Ava were fully focused on shuffling forward behind the PA and Valentina, sparing him from the absolute ridicule he knew was coming, regardless, the second they got to the next room. At least he hadn't been caught staring outside of Yelena and Bob–trying to keep his cool and keep as hidden as Bucky wanted to be back there with them.
"I'm fine," Bucky said. Like he would've said, regardless. Like he had to say. Cause what else was he going to be? His jaw clenched hard again. “C’mon.”
Given everything with the Red Room and the Black Widow program, Yelena came the closest to understanding him. They'd talked about it a few times–everything–sometimes in detail, sometimes not. But it was the shared looks that said everything that wasn't talked about. This was one of those moments where he knew damn well what her look was saying, and he didn't return it. He wasn't going there. As far as you and Bucky were concerned, you were both in the past. A failure that wasn't going to try launching again. And he damn well wasn't about to talk to Yelena about the fact that, yes, seeing you there made his chest hurt, but that wasn't what was trying to physically destroy him from the inside out.
Apparently, that wall fucking weakened over the past three months. He could feel and see the crack spreading up it like it was following the curve of his spine. Hairline cracks deepening when the flash of the camera drew him back for another look before they rounded a corner. An oil they’d definitely spread over you caught the flash and made you glisten like you were fresh out of the water.
The wall was a dam. He fucking felt the water trickling through those growing cracks. The pressure building where he really couldn’t fucking have it build right under his belt. What fucking bullshit timing was this?
He wanted you.
He balled his hands into fists and kept his eyes forward.
Goddamn it. It’s like he was thrust back into the guy who’d never left the ‘40s society, and seeing you like that was a blush on his ears and total whiplash. It wasn’t just a little itch he could brush aside; it was a twitch of his cock getting harder in his jeans, and that memory of you riding his thigh twisting into the soft sounds you made, and the whine of his name, and how you just fucking writhed on his lap when you came, and he needed that. Immediately. With his cock inside of you.
He would've punched the wall if he could've without drawing attention. Instead, with his heart pounding like it was about to draw more attention than just Yelena's third look up at him, and Bob’s whispered there’s some history there, isn’t there? to her, Bucky just took a deep breath. A forced, burning deep breath, and he wiped his left hand over his face. The cold of the metal was soothing where he was sure he managed to get a fever for the first time in decades. Despite his dislike of the cold, he almost wished it was snowing outside so he could throw himself into some of it to cool the fuck off.
At least you hadn’t seen him.
Bucky crossed his arms and leaned back against the wall in the neighboring area, the PA turning away from Valentina to talk to the group. Yelena’s pitying look was enough to bring him back to reality, and he wasn’t a sad puppy that’d been kicked. He just needed to get the photoshoot over, and since they were using the set you were at, when they got started, you’d be done.
So he just had to get the day over with, then move on. Again. Nothing changed about the fact that you two weren’t anything anymore. The closest he could come up with was colleagues if the world decided it was ending again, and even then, that’s basically what he and Sam were. So. You two were less than that, just about.
Nothing about that changed. His inner turmoil shifting over to the erection he was trying to squeeze his thighs to get rid of was his own bullshit he had to figure out.
"We have various costumes for each of you to try on. Ava, we've got something special for you, too, so while we wait for the current shoot to finish, we will get you all ready," the PA said. A handful of people came swarming in with racks on wheels, all with different articles of clothing on them, and names hung from the end.
“Ah, yes!” Alexei started, but Bucky tuned out all the noise.
He smiled and nodded at the man who'd brought out his rack of clothes for the shoot. He even ignored Valentina's heels on the tile when she went over to talk to the people who'd help Ava out. All he had to do was pose for some photos in what looked to be mostly swimsuit bottoms, a few white and black basic tank tops that looked like they were a size too small for him, and three different button-up casual shirts that he had a feeling were going to be worn open with nothing underneath.
During the Congressional campaign, he'd gotten used to showing off his left arm like it was some prop, so the tank tops weren't anything to sweat. He just rolled his eyes at them. But all the skin he was going to show? If it was anything like the glimpse he'd gotten in on your shoot, he felt a little itchy. Sweat was a little drip down his back, and he tried to shake it off. After getting his memories back, he was sort of dealing with two versions of himself coming together, and sort of…healing? Co-mingling until he got his shit together.
But as evident with you on just around the corner and on the other side of the wall, and the erection he was still sporting, this wasn’t where he had a lot of recent practice. It wasn’t like he was out posing for shit back then, but he’d done enough dock and warehouse work that drew a few interested eyes, and he knew he pulled it off, being covered in the muck and grime in just an old shirt and pants that fit well cause they were years old and all he could afford. But he did feel good when he’d flash them a smile and they’d swoon.
Just like when he’d given you that crooked, small smile and you’d give him one back. Fucking made his chest feel all lighter, and–goddamn it. He brushed the Speedo aside and ripped one of the black bottoms off the hanger. Took the white shirt and black-patterned button-up the man gave him, too, and stalked off toward a changing area.
Ava was going to take the longest to get ready since they had to manage her powers. So, she and Yelena were going last, especially so Yelena could keep an eye on Bob until the end, since he was the most comfortable with her. And since they did have more than just the set you were using, the order went Alexei and Walker, then Bucky, and then Yelena, then Ava. With group shots mixed in, and he dreaded whatever Baywatch vision they were concocting that he’d have to fake it through with Walker and Alexei without losing his patience with them.
So he just took his time in the changing room. As everyone else fell into the instructions out there, he just leaned his head back and closed his eyes. Had to let his heart catch up with itself before he could relax it. A mirror made him look at himself. His hair was still long, but he’d gotten it trimmed per instructions for the photoshoot, and his coat was an expensive version of the leather one he normally wore. For image purposes.
He shrugged it off, like he did with the rest of what he was wearing, and set it aside. He wasn't one to linger even normally, but he dressed quickly since his jeans weren't there to constrict his erection anymore. At least it was starting to go down when he shrugged his jeans off, but it was a catch-22 because if he thought about it, then he'd get hard again, and trying not to think about it made him think about it–goddamn it. He readjusted himself, half-hard, and pulled on the short trunks that were definitely shorter than his briefs. There was a liner, thankfully, but there was literally no way for him to wear his underwear underneath them, so he reluctantly shed them, too.
He looked himself over in the mirror again. Jesus. He looked…so weird. Not wrong, just… beachwear wasn't exactly his scene. Even if it was mostly black. The white tank top clung to him tightly, and he could see the divots of his abs poking through, which meant the camera would too. The sleeves on the black shirt he left open were tight enough that he was pretty sure he'd rip the material if he moved his arms wrong. Especially with his left; the short sleeve was left on, and if he moved his arm wrong, the plates would rip and shred it. It'd be fine as long as he stayed conscious of it; wasn’t like he was there to throw punches or anything.
A robe was offered, but he didn’t take it. He was basically in shorts and a t-shirt. Just tight ones that were definitely leaning toward sex appeal than anything else, but it wasn’t something he thought twice about.
So he left his stuff in the changing area and reluctantly stepped out to just get the day over with. As the door left his fingertips, he really, really wished he'd taken the damn robe.
"You know, it's unprofessional to not stick to the agreed-upon time," Valentina said, that snideness in her voice catching Bucky's attention. It only caught it for a second. "It can throw everyone else off schedule, and when my team's so busy–"
"Better hope there's not an emergency, Val. Who the fuck's going to come to the rescue when your dolls are playing dress-up for you?" you returned, passing by Valentina without even so much as giving her a side-eye.
A robe spared Bucky from as much as he could be, but for the look you didn’t give Valentina, you did throw one over at him. Three fucking months. And you pulled your shoulder back to make sure you didn’t even accidentally get too close to him.
“Bucky.”
At least you acknowledged him.
He just forced a nod. Wasn’t like he was breathing to be able to say anything. Shit. Managed a small inhale, and it was vanilla, coconut, and something else tropical in there. Either that oil or…or perfume or something. He almost choked. No, he was pretty sure he did choke on absolutely nothing; he just managed to do it inaudibly.
You turned toward the changing room next to the one he’d come out of, and he couldn’t help himself. Not that anyone would think anything of it besides the obvious those two have a history. For all the shit Walker had been given about his wife and kid, Bucky knew he was asking for it when he glanced your way again. But it wasn’t just about the rush going beneath his trunks that was about to screw him in front of everyone. It was you.
Seeing you again. The sharp, awkward tension you were so goddamn good at maintaining and radiating off of you that told him to keep the fuck away because you hadn’t forgiven him yet. Weren’t going to. Bucky felt it wrap around him like a stifling cloud he had to turn and walk through, but–
“Oh, wait, (Y/N), you know what would be great?” cut through the damn thing like a knife, and you stopped, hand on the door. A quirked brow was all you let show as you looked first at Bucky with a glance that definitely caught on him a second longer than you’d intended cause his caught on you the exact same way. Then you were both looking over at the lead photographer coming through with her eyes wide and excited. “Can I get a few shots of you and Bucky? It’d be popular given the history with SHIELD and…you know. Everything. Sorry. I don’t know the socially polite way to say it. We’d have done a shot with Sam Wilson, but–”
“Right,” you interjected, and scrunched your nose.
Hold on. He didn’t really hide the discontent. They wanted a picture of…you two? Because apparently this day was about screwing with him in the most inconvenient and awkward way possible? What the–
“That sounds fantastic," was Valentina's answer. But her answer didn't really matter when you were on the other end of it, and Bucky was about five seconds away from saying he didn't think it was a good idea.
“Fine.”
One word. One word from you that turned what should’ve been a turned-down request into a cold, unforgiving tension on his spine. He also didn’t bother hiding his outright confusion when he threw it right at you to ask what wasn’t said. Erection or not, why the fuck didn’t you say no to a picture with him? You’d barely acknowledged him a second ago, and it wasn’t like you were out there screwing around and having fun.
You let the door shut and sighed.
Hold on. Just. Hold the fuck on. You started walking back toward the photographer, but–hold on. It was a desperate instinct taking over, and despite the discouraging distance you put between yourself and him, he had a hand out for you. Didn’t even need to think about it; you’d trained together enough so he knew how you moved, but you didn’t flinch away either way when he grabbed your upper arm.
“Just…hold on,” he said, his brows furrowing so hard he was starting to get a headache that launched down to where his jaw was aching, too. He didn’t like losing his thoughts that quickly, and he needed to catch the fuck up with what was happening. He needed to take a breath, and going out there with you with what you had on under your robe when you hadn’t even seen each other in months was…. "Can we just…. Can I talk to you for a second?"
He wasn’t entirely sure what he’d say to you, but the inner turmoil was like a hurricane, and if anything, it’d give him a second to catch his breath. Even when he could feel you twitch under his arm–very clearly not pulling away, but he was sure that was for present company not to think anything of it.
You sucked in a low breath and glanced at the photographer.
“Just…give us five minutes.”
"Sure, yeah. We can get started with Alexei," was her answer, sparing Bucky one hell and dragging him right into another. You pulled your arm free casually and reached back for his changing room door.
You went in without waiting for him. It garnered a few looks from his teammates who knew most of the details. There was something, then it crashed and burned because of the new Avengers team. Their taking over the Avengers Tower was just the icing on the shitty cake. Plus, the overall distaste you had for Valentina, well. They knew just enough, but to everyone else working the photoshoot, you two were just ex-coworkers. Ex-friends, maybe. Just like him and Sam, which wasn’t any secret in the news. So this probably just looked like two friends taking a second to the photography team, but to everyone else….
He jerked the door open and followed you in.
“You want to take a picture together?” he asked, jumping right onto it before the latch even caught behind him. He was in a small enclosed space with you when you had little to nothing on underneath that thin robe.
This was counter-fucking-intuitive to what he actually needed.
So he kept his distance. Really fucking obvious distance, moving away from the door and standing at the other wall while you leaned back against the vanity with a bulb-framed mirror. Jesus, you looked good. He shook the thought off and kept his hands on his hips.
"It's for a fundraiser, Buck." Your voice was as tight as your shoulders. His hands squeezed his hips when he saw you push your right shoulder back a little. There was always a knot in that one that drove you nuts. He'd massaged it out enough times; he had the spot memorized. "It's a little posing for a reunion picture between coworkers."
Coworkers. Didn't even say friends. He sucked in his cheeks. That's all it was. Posing for some pictures. A couple of shots. Maybe it'd take fifteen minutes. Half an hour at most, right? He sucked in a slow breath and threw his gaze elsewhere from you. A slow breath that was all of the vanilla, coconut, tropical perfume you had on–easier to think about it as perfume than body oil–and he tried not to think about any of it. Just…breathed. Got his thoughts as centered as they'd be, so he could just get through this.
“Listen, Sam was supposed to be here, but something came up, so I’m filling in for him as a favor,” you said. It wasn’t exactly softer, but it wasn’t as cold.
Your way of saying this wasn’t supposed to happen. And, yeah, Bucky was feeling the goddamn extent of it when he looked at you again. It shot right down to his groin like a bolt of lightning. He couldn’t fucking do this. He had a lot of control, a lot of restraint, and a lot of respect for you. But that didn't fucking mean shit when he knew he was about to be posed up with you out there, and you didn't have that robe on.
“Buck, it’s a picture,” you said slowly.
Right. He exhaled long and slow; it pulled out of him like someone had reached into him to rip it free. Damn it. Every part of him was visibly tensed. Not that he enjoyed the thought of being shoehorned into a picture with his…sort of ex…but there was so much unsaid. And so much he really couldn’t say, but he couldn’t fucking go out there with you.
He shifted and shook his head.
“I can’t.”
He could try. He could go out there, and maybe it’d be fine. But even when you looked so irritated with him, like being in that room was annoyingly agonizing for you, the second he got close to you…. His balls already hurt. He wasn’t about to play the game of potentially getting caught with a hard-on for you in front of dozens of people, a camera included. He’d rather face the sharp pinch in his chest that slammed into every beat of his heart while he looked elsewhere. The ground. The wall. The door.
“I can’t go out there when you’re….” He waved one hand at you. “We haven’t fucking seen each other in three months, and then you’re here wearing that, and…and they want us to take a picture together?”
You narrowed your eyes at him. For what it was worth, you could’ve stalked out of the room and forced him to either follow you or poke his head out and deny a picture from there. Which would’ve been awkward as all hell. But you weren’t. So old habits died hard; you weren’t pretending not to notice something else was going on.
“It’s just a bathing suit.”
Bucky threw you a glare. Yeah, bullshit that’s just a bathing suit.
“Those aren’t the kind of suits that were popular when I was growing up,” he tossed back.
Your brows twitched. Bucky’s heart stuttered. The faintest hint of a smile relaxed your face. It was almost like before. That playful comfort underneath the roughened exteriors. You crossed your arms and tilted your head.
“It’s for a picture, Buck. If it’s about touching me, it’s fine. It’ll be quick. They probably just want us lounging in the fake sun together or something. It’s not going to be some boudoir shoot.”
Goddamn it. That shot an image into his head that he didn't entertain even for a second. Fuck that. He shook it off and cleared his throat.
“I just….” Well. If it was just going to be that and nothing…close…he’d be fine, right? You were right; to them, you were just old coworkers. Nothing more. They weren’t going to throw you into some variation of the sexually charged cologne commercials he saw everywhere. This was a picture for a fundraiser. “Fine.”
He tensed his thighs until they hurt. An ache went beyond his neck and shoulders. He wasn't going to be able to relax for the pictures; he fucking knew that already. He'd gotten it enough when taking them for the campaign trailer. Relax. Loosen up. Act natural. He could blend into a fucking crowd and stalk someone without them knowing if he needed to, but taking a picture? Ha.
Guess that was your first conversation. A short, unkind work talk that led to him being the one to leave first. Not that you were lingering, but he just needed to get out of there. Being trapped in there with you was the wrong kind of nightmare. One he'd definitely take over all the others if given the choice, he just was choosing for no nightmares then. And definitely not the one that could be brewing around the corner if shit went south.
A casual fucking photo.
You were a step behind him as you both just went around the bend, ignoring the others there who were definitely not being subtle about him and you posing together. Thankfully, Valentina was over with Alexei, who was enjoying the attention as he posed shirtless by a volleyball net. A secondary photographer was handling the pictures, so it was a silent positive when the main photographer perked up and waved Bucky and you over toward her. Meant fewer eyes on the two of you.
“Just tell us where you want us,” you said for him, coming up to stand a very appropriate distance beside him. Not too close, and not too far. But not too far was closer than he was used to, but he tried not to think about it.
“Perfect. Okay. I was initially going to just have him and Sam posing out on some chairs like they’re reminiscing,” she said, waving you both over to follow her to the set. Bucky’s stomach dropped before she even finished. “But for you two, I was thinking about making it a little more intimate. People will eat it up if we can pull it off. So, basically the same thing, except it’s both of you on one chair, posing back, sort of teasing. A little romantic, a little sexy, but it’s just two friends hanging out together. Intimately.”
You laughed. As Bucky put his hands on his hips and pushed a very, very, very forcibly controlled breath out and looked at the single chair set out in the fake beach set, you laughed. It was as sincere as it was short. You didn't cough to try and play it off. Didn't apologize for it either. Just cleared your throat, crossed your arms, and nodded, barely taming the smile.
“Are we comfortable with that?” she asked, and Bucky could feel her eyes flitting between the two of you even when he didn’t look away from the set.
No. He could feel you thinking it, too. A personal fucking layer of hell for you both to be thrown in, like the world was mocking you. Certainly mocking him. He was fucking screwed.
“It’s…alright,” you said with a sigh. “I take it that you still want me in what I have on?”
"Yes." A firm nod came into his peripheral vision. "And, Bucky, we want you to lose the tanktop, please. The outer shirt can stay on. I want to see how it photographs."
Because, of course, that's what they wanted for him. He hadn't even fucking agreed, and– You nudged him with your elbow. You'd turned, keeping your back to everyone else as they started to move into position. You had another look for him that basically just said it’s a fucking picture, Bucky, let’s just get it over with. And any other time, he might've appreciated that, but this was a bit more than him getting overwhelmed.
“Slow breath, Buck,” you said under yours.
He did it. Old habits and all that. A slow breath in for five, a slow breath out for five. He would’ve held it for a few seconds to really calm his heart if he’d had the chance, but he just wanted to get this over with. Fine. He’d do it.
You didn’t untie your robe until he nodded.
It was hard to not notice that.
The second you pulled at the bow on the front, he turned and pulled his shirt off. He wasn't going to look at you until he had to, so fuck it. He pulled the tank top off and handed it to someone who appeared next to him, ready to take it. And before he could pull the open shirt back on, someone was up next to him, spraying him with something. Oil. It smelled exactly the same as you did. It had the faintest bit of glitter in it, but it went on almost like he’d spent the afternoon out working in the heat.
“Give him a little warning, Demi, he’s not used to this stuff with photoshoots,” he heard you say just before someone reached to rub the oil in.
"Sorry. They need to rub it in to make it look natural," who he guessed to be Demi–the lead photographer–said. She came up and looked him over with a level of intensity he appreciated, given that it was focused entirely on making sure it looked right and not him being rubbed down over his stomach by an assistant that didn't seem to completely hate the job.
Flattering. Almost.
"Here." Demi took him by the sleeve of the shirt. "I'm going to have you lie down with your arm behind your head. Sort of showing off your arm, right?" Guess he was being posed, then. He moved with her, and he refused to even look in your direction. He wasn't risking it. He just looked down at the chair Demi pointed to. "You'll be propped up, and (Y/N) will lie sort of on top of you, but sort of next to you. You know, sharing the chair. Right? And that'll put her here, where you’ll put your left arm around her so we can see all of you.”
So they can capitalize on his prosthetic, right.
“And we’ll make some tweaks here and there, so a few of us will come and touch you, but it’ll just be to move clothing around and adjust the pose. Cool?”
What the fuck else was Bucky supposed to say? He just nodded.
“Great!” Demi clapped her hands together. “Here, lie on down. (Y/N), C’mere, and settle in, too.”
There was just his heartbeat in his ears when Bucky lay down. He took in the fake scenery mostly. Shifted back as the instructions fell into a hum he half-listened to. Enough to acknowledge what they were saying so he knew how they wanted his right arm back behind his head–more oil getting sprayed on him there as he tried to get comfortable. He wasn't hard, so that was a positive considering he was laid out flat.
And they came in and adjusted his shirt so it sat open enough to still be casual while showing off the effects the serum had on him, and all the training afterward. They put a little more oil down over his abs again, and he tried to not flinch when they came in and touched him. It was invasive and weird, but he could tolerate that.
What he couldn’t tolerate….
His jaw was tight again when you came around. Like a miracle, you still had your robe on; it was just open. So he still got a glimpse of that bikini, but it was just a glimpse. Until you had to shrug the robe off so they could take the damn picture. Then, it was a lot of oiled skin, the fake sun draping you in golden yellow light, and your hands coming to readjust the suit. Over your breasts, fixing the straps that tied around your neck, then coming down and tugging up on the bottoms right around your hips. Pulled them up in a slightly more V shape that you turned to show Demi, and Bucky got a glimpse of the back of the suit that was more cheeky than anything else.
His balls ached.
And when you sat down on the very edge of the seat, the only warning he got before he had to move his left arm to make room for you, he thought he might actually just…die. Combust on the spot, maybe. He tensed up down to his toes in some flip-flops they'd given him, and that was the only thing he was literally capable of doing. You came in next to him. Half on top of him, lying with your back partially on his chest without blocking what they wanted to show off on camera. You propped one leg up by his and draped a hand back as someone said something.
For as fluid as your motions were, he knew that tension in your back and the slight flex in your jaw. He tried not to look because then he was looking. But as you looked up to fix how your arm came back and rested by his head, your eyes caught.
That hard swallow you did, paired with how you jerked your eyes away when someone else said something–it went right to his cock. Right where you shifted how they told you to, and you were pressed perfectly up against him.
Don’t. Fucking. Get. Hard.
He had so many other priorities in life. He was a public figure, a superhero, trying to fix his shit with Sam, handling everything Hydra forced onto him and forced him to do, and trying not to screw over his relationship with Wakanda any worse than it was. And the fact that his main issue was you–trying not to get hard over you nestling up against him–was laughable. But that's about how his luck went, wasn't it?
“Alright, and now let’s stay juuuust like that, and we’ll run through some slight variations,” Demi shouted from behind her camera.
The first flash went off, and Bucky fell into the blur of requests and the hands that came and moved the two of you. It was cold–he was thankful for that. Not literally cold; but you. You were just…there. Asking questions about poses that he probably should’ve been himself, but they just moved Bucky how they wanted him, and he went along with it. For those agonizing minutes where your bodies kept rubbing up against each other, intertwining and then coming apart, you made it feel like a fucking chore.
It helped. As irritating as it was. It helped. Just…not a lot. It was enough of a deterrent that it really was just work. Which, great. Alright. That’s where the two of you were at–getting through it because it was work. But he wasn’t sure how much better that was outside of not getting an erection in front of everyone. Less humiliating and imagine tainting, but it was an extra pinch in his chest the entire time.
“Alright, wild card last pose.” Demi came up, camera in hand, waving at Bucky and you. You were already sitting up, the position making you put a hand on his chest to do so, and it wasn’t just inappropriate thoughts trying to rush on in there. Just you touching him casually like that was something close to unfair. He tried not to think about that, either, when an assistant came over with a sunscreen bottle being set in the sand next to some towels they were trading out. The brightness of the fake sun changed, and you were shifting to sit on the edge of the chair. Where they were moving Bucky–and he subconsciously moved with them just to get it over with–until you were leaning forward on one hand, nestled right between his parted legs. Your ass just barely touching him, a bottle of sunscreen set next to him, and a whip of heat shooting down to his groin.
“Just act like you’re putting sunscreen on her. Or like you’re giving her a massage, sort of. Just….” Demi took Bucky’s hands and brought them to you. Like he was a puppet finding consciousness again the second he touched you.
Your back arched a little.
Fuck.
He nodded at the directions, because he was already fucking doing them, so he was waist-deep in it already. But he should've fucking said no to this one the second it was said. You should’ve. For fuck’s sake. Maybe you hadn’t for the same reason he hadn’t–just going through the motions and getting it over with. But, goddamn it, he had his hands on your back like that, your ass was against his lap, and the way you shifted back into a more natural position–grinning for the photo over your shoulder–
Hard. He squeezed your waist when you shifted again, brushing your ass right up against him. Against his lap. Fuck. Fuck. Demi said something, but he didn’t fucking hear it. The camera flashed a few times. Blood was rushing through his head and down to his cock. And he was trying to control his breathing and keep the heat off of his cheeks so they didn’t catch the rare time he serum let him actually blush. God-fucking-damn it.
Could you–?
Your gazes caught in another flash.
His heart stopped. You could. Didn't fucking matter how good you were at masking, you had moments. The flare of your nostrils when you were trying to keep your breathing easy so you didn't cry. That one was fucking burned into him the night of your fight. He'd been so in tune with it, it was fucking maddening. Or with your eyes narrowed slightly at something or someone that was suspicious, even if you didn't look at them again or study them like he usually did. Or right then, quick, your brow quirked up just a little. Not noticeable unless someone knew to look for it. He knew.
Fuck. Okay. The photoshoot was over. He couldn’t fucking sit there like that casually. He wasn’t…. This…. He wasn’t going to fucking do this. He just needed to get his erection down, then get the fuck out of there. They’d gotten enough pictures. They were done. He had his own to get through, and you’d be long gone by then. So….
You leaned back, adjusting your bathing suit. The world fucking stilled for that moment. The press of your back against his bare chest. The shirt was open enough to give way to most of you, and his heart lurched. He was a fucking idiot for letting you go. For not getting his shit together sooner. For every goddamn thing that’d happened since he’d met you.
Goddamn it.
You reached down and adjusted the other side of your suit, closer to the camera, and you leaned back again to do so. He took more of your weight, and he was going to fucking–
“Shit.”
Something cold was a stark sensation on Bucky’s thigh. Cold and creamy, and it splattered up toward his stomach and over the right side of his lap. Were it not for the squished bottle of sunscreen you picked up and winced at, he might’ve thought something way fucking worse had happened when he looked down to see white on his fucking stomach.
“Sorry, uh, here,” you said, leaning back to reach for the towels set up as props. There was a bit of a commotion around the small set, but Bucky was way too fucking fixated on you unfolding the big beach towel over him. His lap. And using a small corner to wipe off the spilled sunscreen. “I forgot the sunscreen was there.”
“It’s okay. We got more than enough pictures,” Demi reassured, her voice coming in nearby, but Bucky was just looking at where he held onto the towel over his lap. “There’s a bathroom over there if you two wanna clean up a little.”
“Thanks,” came from you, and then you were standing. Robe going on. A hand waving for Bucky to follow.
“Thanks,” he breathed, still catching up.
He was never this fucking behind. He never got this dazed. But as he wiped the sunscreen off his stomach while following you to the bathroom, letting the slack hang down and spare the embarrassment that was definitely making a tent in his trunks, he was fucking dazed.
Mouth dry. Heart pounding. Hands so fucking tight on that towel. He worried he was going to punch a hole in the door when he threw it open to follow you into the single-person bathroom. Could’ve waited, but like hell you accidentally did that.
Except when the door shut behind him, he had no idea what to say. He was just away from the crowd, covered in sunscreen he was awkwardly trying to wipe off, stuck in a small bathroom with you–who’d just saved his ass–and hard. Rock fucking hard.
He wiped the sunscreen off his stomach and winced at the tent in his trunks he saw when pulling the towel back just a tad.
“Still getting used to modern fashion?” you said more warmly than anything else you’d said to him that day.
He swallowed hard and threw you a hesitant glance.
"Yeah, something like that." He found you leaning back against the counter, not even an arm's reach away from him. Your hands were back on the edge and, for once, you actually looked semi-casual. "Thanks."
“Sure, Buck.” You nodded. Your robe was only partially closed. Fuck. That glimpse at your chest he got; the way it parted over your legs just enough to show up to your mid-thigh right there. “If you need some extra time in here, I can tell Demi you need to collect your thoughts for a bit. Nobody’ll really question it.”
Jesus fucking Christ. He dropped his hand and threw you a hard glare. Seriously? Did you actually think he was going to…there?
The corners of your mouth twitched. His wanting to wait was never a moment of contention. It wasn't until recently that friends became whatever more there was to it, with what came along with hanging out late at night, the occasional hesitant kiss that became making out on your couch, or grinding against his thigh until you came.
His grip tightened exponentially on that towel.
“Is this why you didn’t want to take the photo?” you asked.
It was about as tentative as you’d get; nervous wasn’t right, but it was a rough territory to weave into. You were trying to skirt the line. It was the opportunity for him to just say he was uncomfortable with it. Not that it meant anything.
Did…you want it to mean something?
He cleared his throat and swapped the towel for himself. Not like that. But he wasn’t going to stand there with a clear erection in front of you, but he wasn’t going to hide it behind the towel. So he just readjusted himself, trying really hard not to focus on the fact that you didn’t just not look away, but you followed his hand down to his groin.
He shook his head. It didn’t fucking matter what he said. There was no solution when he was still walking back out there to be on Valentina’s Avengers. His chest was still going to hurt whenever he thought about you. It was still going to be like punch after punch when he looked at you right there. And it wasn’t going to magically alleviate the ache in his cock.
“Well, this wasn’t exactly the reunion I figured for us after last time,” he said plainly. He tilted his head. Fuck it. “And you do look incredible in that. Even Yelena was looking at me with pity.”
He got a half-smile out of you from that. Counterintuitive to his mission to get back on track. It simultaneously hit him like a summer breeze and a winter chill. Damn it.
“Demi neglected to tell me you guys were coming in today. She had some extra poses she wanted me to try, but I’m pretty sure she just wanted to keep me around until you got here so she could get the shots with us together.” You shrugged. “Wasn’t exactly anticipating this either.”
Well, at least you two were talking. He nodded. He’d missed you. If today solidified anything, it was that. That and how disinterested you were. You’d written him off the second he left your place–probably before then, honestly. You’d already gone into the argument the same way he had; he’d accepted working with Valentina’s team in the Watch Tower, and it spat in the face of everything you’d done. No convincing the other. No meeting halfway.
Like you’d told him. What was there to meet halfway for? You weren't together. Not really. The fucking words hung over him and prickled into him whenever he tried not to think about you. The imperfections stretched between both of you, but you were right on that; you'd made your moves. You'd gotten off on his goddamn thigh. But it'd never been more than that. Or…it'd never been anything defined. Friends. Coworkers. Never any other label.
“I’m sorry you got roped into it,” you added. “If I’d known….” You waved a hand. “I was trying to prevent people from asking too many questions if we'd acted weird about taking a picture together. But I would've taken the heat if I'd known it was because of that.”
Bucky scoffed. “It’s fine. Just put me through hell out there, but at least you got me out of it.” He brushed off some more sunscreen with the back of his finger. “Messily.”
You hummed. When Bucky glanced back up, you were still looking at him. Masked enough, he recognized. But his attention snagged on it. Why? Your eyes flitted over him, and your next breath was slow. Slower. There was the faintest twitch in your hands on the counter, and he felt the clench in his stomach. It was involuntary; really, he tried not to think about it. But what could’ve been passed off as an idle once-over had him putting his hand on the counter near yours. He only took one step closer, but he caught your attention fully.
Were you just…?
You answered his furrowed brows with another slow breath.
“What?” you asked, keeping that light scrutiny of him stepping closer right there in your voice and your look. Not quite a glare, but given the circumstances, it should’ve been.
He fought a smile.
“I was going to ask you that.” He tapped his fingers on the cold sink.
You’d had a lot of conversations in silence before. Plenty that were cold, plenty that were heavy, and plenty that were warm. This was different. This was fucking closer to that night on your couch. Your breathing was slow–way too fucking slow, so it was controlled. His was the same. He was way too aware of how hard he wanted to be breathing. And the heat trickling down his back…the cracks in that wall, that dam, they were spreading and getting deeper than they should’ve been.
He was reading into it wrong. He wasn’t perfect at deciphering body language and looks, not even yours. So this was him, right? Because he was skewing the results.
He did another agonizingly slow breath. Your eyes fell and skimmed over his chest as it moved.
“I need to clean up before the rest of my shoot,” he stated.
Your eyes jerked up.
“‘Course, Buck.” You didn’t quite push up from the counter, but you rolled. Coming to face him with a smooth step. One that brought you closer. Nearly directly in front of him. “Have fun posing for Valentina–sorry, Demi.”
You reached up and gave his chest a condescending pat. The brush of your fingers skirting past the open shirt just a little–
He grabbed your wrist before you could finish your next step. The thump of his heart slammed into his head, but so did yours. He glanced your way as you glanced his, and you didn’t pull away nor try to. His breathing came quicker. Goddamn it. He brushed his thumb over the soft skin at your wrist. It was a little oiled up still, but it was soft and warm, and he fucking missed you. As irritated as he was, he missed you. And you weren’t pulling away or moving out of his reach or anything. You just held his gaze, and another breath came quicker than the last.
What the fuck was he doing? He pulled your wrist back. What the fuck was he doing? You moved with it, narrowing your eyes just a little. What the fuck was he thinking? He wasn't–he wasn't fucking thinking, not entirely, when he held your wrist back, and he pivoted so you met halfway. Where your chest met him, and he slowly, slowly, slowly, slid his hand up your arm, bringing the loose sleeve with it.
Warm. Soft. There, in front of him, with him.
And maybe it never really did bug you–waiting for him. But you couldn’t control the goosebumps that came up on your arm under his fingers. And when all of his instincts were screaming at him, he ignored them. He knew it was going to hurt more doing this and having to leave the bathroom after. There wasn’t fixing anything. Not when he was still on the new Avengers team. But….
But your eyes closed when he cupped your jaw. And that told him every goddamn thing he needed to know. Even when he skimmed his thumb over the light color they’d applied to your lips, the color coming off on his thumb and smearing a little, and you threw a threatening look his way. He was floating on fucking nothing but that volcanic eruption, burning so hot he worried he’d burn you.
“James,” you said, much like a warning whispered beneath the hum of the overhead AC vent.
“Can I see you again?” he breathed. His left hand brushed against your stomach, first, then he found the tie of the robe. This was the only time he could. This wasn't happening again. You two weren't making up. This was just…a single moment he wasn't going to let slip through his fingers. Not when the dam was about to break, and it'd been sealed for so goddamn long.
When you should’ve slapped him or told him to fuck off or just pulled free and left, like he aptly deserved, you followed his eyes down and nodded. You goddamn nodded, and he thought he might combust again. There wasn’t time–he knew that. It was busy out there, but there’d be a point where they’d notice the two of you being gone for a long time together. Alone. In the single bathroom. So it was fleeting–like everything fucking was. It was only a matter of time before it was gone.
You were, again.
He still hooked his fingers around the lopsided bow. He still pulled on it gently, watching the fabric give. And give. And give, until he was pulling on the next loop of fabric, and there…. It fell apart, right along with the robe. The light fabric opening more, and creating a direct path open over your front. A bit more of you there for him to see more than before. The glistening oil, the white bikini like a joke of fabric between you.
He was a greedy bastard. He stepped closer, sliding his hand down from your cheek to your shoulder and slipping his left underneath the robe to slide it over your waist. You were watching him; he felt the burn of your eyes, but he didn’t meet them. Fuck. You’re beautiful. You’re just…. He brushed his hands back. You shrugged your shoulders back. And back. Until the robe fell clean off. It was an ignored heap on the floor.
Change of plans. He was giving your words serious consideration. He might actually have to beat off in the bathroom after you left to get through the day. This was a whole different level of torture than what he was used to. He felt the pining under his fingers and in his chest. It twisted like a knife, holding what he’d never get. And he felt the ache in his jaw rip down to where he was pitching another goddamn tent in his pants.
“Is it the bikini?” Your voice brought his eyes up to your masked expression. But you spoke softly. Carefully, almost. “Or the person in it, Buck?”
His hands twitched on you. Jesus. He was ogling you like you were a fucking object. He shook his head and really looked at you.
“What the fuck do you think?”
He didn’t even know what the hell he was supposed to say. You knew him better than that. Did you just think…? He shook his head. Your next breath was deeper than before, and your eyes searched his. Like you were looking for the answer he was just about to say if you really thought it had nothing to do with you.
Then, you went and stepped closer. He didn’t move with you, and his hands skimmed back. Closer to where there was so little fabric on the bottom of that bikini. He started to lift his hands despite how badly he wanted to keep them there–amongst other places–but you found his wrists, stilling him.
His heart skipped.
“You gave me your thigh,” you whispered, and his balls tightened until there was pain. “They won’t miss us for a few more minutes. Do you want the same…company, Buck?”
Your knees bent. That was it. You beating around the fucking bush to ask like that. He felt the visceral whiplash, and fuck that. His cock throbbed at the mere thought of you getting on your knees. But he didn’t fucking want it like that. He didn’t want you like it was something transactional. He didn’t…. This…. You….
He locked an arm around you and kept you on your feet, hoisting you back against him. Your breath hitched, but only for a second, because fuck that. Goddamn it, what the fuck happened to today? He was supposed to be enduring Alexei basking in the attention during the photoshoot, trying not to wish he and Sam had taken Walker down more than just a few pegs, and watching over Bob while Yelena and Ava did their shoots. He was not supposed to be pressing you back against the counter, his cock throbbing against you in that tiny white bikini, and kissing you.
And you weren’t supposed to be kissing him.
Oh.
Fuck.
You tasted like strawberries. Sweet, artificial strawberries. And he lapped it up. Slowly, at first. Because it felt like the whole room was spinning around him. But when you brought your arms up around his neck, he was a goner. He leaned in, pressed you back, and reached, lifting your legs up to come around his waist. You moved with him like it was second nature, and he got a better taste of you that got him the softest fucking sigh…. He put you on the counter, a hand going back to the mirror that was thankfully pretty fucking secured to the wall.
Like that he….
He had you.
All of you.
He shrugged the top shirt off, and then it was just you and your bathing suit and the trunks. But those trunks were fucking nothing. Not when you shifted, keeping an arm around his head to kiss him and kiss him some more. It was intoxicating. You were fucking intoxicating, and you dropped a hand back for leverage. The same leverage he was trying to get.
And there you were. Kissing him like you missed him too, rocking your hips right where you met his cock straining in those trunks.
He almost slammed his hand against the wall. The threat of someone hearing was all that kept him steady. You, you, you–
You ran your hand through the hair at the base of his neck and grabbed hold.
He didn’t deserve you. He missed you. He needed you. This was it. He didn’t get you like this again. He fucking knew it. He knew it, and that little flare of your nostrils when you looked up at him with half-lidded, needy eyes, shit, you knew it too. Everything was fucked up, and it wasn’t as simple as just flipping a switch and going back to it.
You rocked your hips again, rubbing your cunt against his cock, and he dropped his head to your shoulder. Fuck.
“Don’t cum in the shorts,” you breathed against his cheek. He moved so he could watch. His body moved on its own, the motions old but familiar. Rocking his hips in time with yours. He squeezed your hip as he watched, seeing the damp fabric along the crotch of your bottoms like it was a goddamn special gift for him.
One that almost fucking did him in. You were wet for him. That wasn’t fucking sunscreen–not a chance in hell. He pulled his head up and pressed his mouth to your neck. That spot…you had that spot….
“Fuck.” You dropped your head back and angled it away for him to get better access to it. Yeah, right there. The spot that he’d found that made you squirm and pull at him.
He needed you. Sweet fuck–he needed you. He needed you to touch him. He needed to feel you. He had no right to want that, at all. He had no right to any of this, and the fact that you were humoring him owed you more than the bouquet of flowers he was already planning on sending. Even if it'd probably just end up pissing you off.
“Can I?” he asked, moving his hand up from your hip and brushing his thumb underneath the bottom band of your bikini. You two had never…. He’d never….
You shuddered, and out came a muffled moan that tensed you up. Yet, you nodded. Against the side of his head with a brush of your lips at his temple, you fucking nodded.
Yeah, fuck it. Time was running out by the second. He didn’t know how long he actually had with you in there, so screw it. He wanted to savor it. He’d thought about it countless times before; when he’d actually get to the point where you two were like this. He’d fucking favor it, savor you, and just go slow. But you didn’t exactly have slow then. And he…he was itching and aching and about to catch on fire for you.
He slid his hand up to your chest and groaned at the feel of you in his palm. Palms. Fucking getting off. He prioritized feeling you first; besides, if he kept grinding against you, he was going to cum in the trunks, and that wasn't an option. So he leaned back enough to see you, pressing a kiss to your jaw in the process, squeezing your chest, and getting another soft sigh out of you. One he wanted more of. One he…fuck. Your nipples were hard peaks through the thin material, and he brushed his thumbs over them.
You shivered. Your jaw was clenched tight, but in the best way. You still held him in his hair, and you pulled him closer when he brushed over them again. You pushed your chest out, heaving shallow breaths when he pinched them. A tentative move, but–holy fuck. You mewled under your breath.
Oh.
He hooked his fingers over the thin elastic edge. He needed more, and so did you. You just gave him another half-lidded look when he started the slow tug down. You said nothing, just steadied your breathing when he kept tugging that material down. And down. He was electric; fucking shaking. His fingers brushed over your nipples, and he tucked the suit underneath your breasts. Propping them up a little more and just….
“Fuck,” he groaned. “Goddamn it.”
He slid his hands up and held you. Brushed his thumbs over your nipples again and rolled them. You lurched and moved your hips. This…. He tilted his chin up and pressed his mouth to yours. You…. You whined into the kiss, still meeting him with a brush of your tongue that he swooned at the touch. He pinched your nipples, and he went just hard enough to make you gasp, and he stole the kiss. Palming your chest as he kissed you harder, deeper, longer. Savoring seconds you two didn't have.
But he…he couldn’t leave without it being mutual. He wasn’t going to fucking last. He knew that. He was already basically there anyway. A little grinding, and he’d ruin those trunks. But he wasn’t the kind of guy to leave someone without. And when you were fucking wet for him, he was going to take getting caught over not getting you off. Fuck it. Fuck it. This was going so far out of left field for what he’d expected for the day, and it wasn’t supposed to be like this. It wasn’t.
You reached for him. A brush of your fingers over his stomach that stalled out his thoughts. Sweet hell. You were the only one who did that to him. And he found himself pressing his forehead against your cheek when your fingers pulled at the bow tied on the elastic of the trunks. It allowed for a little give in the waist, but it was still tight when you hooked your fingers around the top.
But you didn’t go further.
Not until he gave you a nod.
Always so goddamn respectful. He wanted to scream. He almost did when you pulled the front of the trunks down. And the release of pressure of not being stuck inside of them was fucking fantastic. Less than the warmth of your touch on his cock for the first time. Holy– He was a ruined man. He buried his face against you while your breathing stuttered. Angling your head to see him and whining when you did. Still, you didn’t hesitate or pause or stop–you took him in your fist and squeezed the base of his shaft.
Pleasure blurred behind his eyes and tightened in his balls.
“You’re going to kill me,” he grunted.
“Nah, not today.” You pumped your fist, and he wrapped you in a hug so tight, he feared he’d break you. You just let out a quiet laugh. “Thought about it enough to know how to take care of you.”
So then you were fucking thinking about it. Fuck. Fuck. You never talked enough. Together. About that. You had your moments. You came on his fucking thigh. But you never talked about it. It was always just there in the background, waiting like an elephant in the room that wasn't ready to be talked about.
He shoved you back a tad, burning up from the inside out, and he kept an arm around you to arch your back. You had to let go of him to support yourself. His name was on your lips as your hands flew back, but it fell into a silent stutter when he brought his lips to your chest, sucking a nipple into his mouth and tweaking the other. He wasn’t…ready yet. Not like that. He wasn’t fucking ready to cum yet. Even if the imaginary timer was about to strike zero. Someone would come knocking on the door–if not barging in–soon. Maybe he had a minute, ten seconds, ten minutes. But he wasn’t fucking ready yet.
“Oh, fuck. James.” You lifted your hips to meet him. Rocking yourself against his cock, and he fought it. The premature edge throwing itself his way. Not yet. Not yet. Not fucking yet. He lapped at your nipples, giving them both the ample attention they deserved. Fuck. You writhed under him. Fuck. Fuck. “Fuck, you’re going to kill me.”
Seconds. Seconds dwindling away.
Fuck it.
He lifted his head and stole another kiss. Short but hard, his hand skimmed down to your bottoms. He wanted it to be fucking special. To be nice. To be good. He locked eyes with you when his fingers brushed over you. Wet. Really fucking wet. And trying to find your clit–you jolted. Sensitive. There, baby. He rubbed your clit and had your legs parting for him. His eyes begging, he knew they were. Begging what somehow managed to break after practically a fucking decade of knowing each other. Of this.
He brushed his thumb over the edge of the bottoms.
You answered with a look toward the unlocked door.
He returned it with a bit of honesty.
“I doubt I’ll fucking last long enough to get inside of you all the way,” he breathed. He didn’t let up on your clit, and he caught your thighs starting to quiver. “But I want to fucking feel you cum around me.”
You squeaked. He didn’t fucking know you could make that sound, but you did. A squeak of a whine. And you looked at him like he was a bit insane. He felt a bit like it. But when you were at the other end of it, it just made sense.
“Should’ve taken you swimming,” you breathed. “That’s what I’m fucking learning from this. God, fuck you.”
You nodded.
Frantically.
Bucky felt himself reaching for time that wasn’t there, but he still went for it. It was you, after all. And he hadn't realized how much he'd had–how good it all was–until three agonizing months ago. He kissed you again and kissed you hard.
He hooked his thumb around the bathing suit bottoms and pulled them aside. Oh, fuck, he didn’t have time to properly articulate how beautiful you were. He hoped the groan that bounced around the bathroom way too loudly and the searing kiss covered it. He’d tell you later. This…this was just about….
He brushed his finger over your pretty clit, and watched how you squirmed. He needed you right at that edge before he went in. He wasn’t going to cum and then make you wait. Especially if he was going to end up making a mess of you if he came first. Fuck, the suit, he…he had to cum on your stomach. Or…fuck. Fuck.
You yanked on his hair and arched your back.
“J-James, you’re going to make me–”
Fuck, already? He would’ve risked all the time in the world making sure you came.
But he pushed up and gave you that moment to catch your breath, his cock in hand, tip coming up to you. He hadn’t…. You knew he hadn’t…. This wasn’t going to fucking be anything special. But it still felt like it when he pressed his tip against you. Still felt like his world was erupting with sweet, stunning stars when he pushed into you. Wet and warm and fluttering. Holy. Fuck. He fell against you. Decades. Fucking decades since he….
You moved to take him, too. Shifting forward and sliding down to let him bottom out.
“Oh, fuck.” He cupped the back of your head. “Fuck. Fuck. (Y/N), you feel fucking….”
He just groaned. He couldn't think. Couldn't speak. You rocked your hips, moving yourself atop him as much as you could like that. And it…. It shot through him. The ripcord pulled. His balls clenched, and his cock throbbed. Twitched. He couldn't do it. He tried to hold on, he tried to breathe to stall it out a little bit. But, no. Not with you.
“W-Wait, I’m–”
He grabbed your hips.
“Inside me,” you whined. “It’s fine.”
Well. There went that last ounce of control. A lit fuse finally reaching the firework. He managed to thrust into you to really fuck you; he wasn't going to make you do all the work. And that's all it took. He felt it reach up like a cresting wave. The first time he'd jerked off, it'd been a fucking surprise how hard it hit him. Knocked him on his ass in the shower until the water ran cold and he just sat there catching his breath. But like this? It was different. It was you, and you were wet and perfect and sucking his cock right back in while you hooked your legs around his waist.
It was fucking blinding.
Pure, white-hot, burning pleasure as he came.
He locked onto you with a bruising grip, gritting his teeth and muffling his moan into your neck.
Hash waves rocked him. He fucked you through it, spilling inside of you as you kissed the side of his head. You whined when he still hit you in just that right spot that made your cunt flutter. It almost knocked him on his ass then. Almost. His legs felt like they were going to give out, but screw that, he cupped the back of your head and found that spot on your neck again. Dragging his teeth over it just a little to make you shudder. He got his hand back between you next, finding your clit to make do on his promise.
Your cunt clenched hard around him.
There.
There, there, there–he ran light circles over you, studying how you liked it. Softer, harder. Faster, slower. Switching between them until suddenly you tensed, and you held onto him tighter. Much tighter. It was the same back then on his thigh. Except this time, he actually got to see you, feel you, do so much more than occasionally bounce his thigh to make you groan and bite him.
You tensed up and arched your back. Dug your heels into the small of his back. Started with a low quiver that gradually overtook you, and there you were. Sweetheart. You squeezed his cock, gushing around him as you came with a silent scream, your mouth trembling. And a little tear. A single, heavy tear sliding down one cheek.
He brushed it away with his thumb and kissed where he’d caught it.
Holy shit.
Your quick breaths came together inside the silent bathroom. Just staring at each other like that. Your cunt spasming over his cock that really wasn’t softening all that much. He could’ve gone again. All night in there, if it was possible. But….
“I’m sorry it took me so long,” he breathed.
You shook your head. “Don’t apologize for that.”
Apologize for why this wasn’t going to mean anything the second you walked out that door.
He felt the cracks spreading beyond that broken dam. Same way they had when he left your place that night. His chest ached.
He still brushed his thumb over your cheek again, feeling the dampness of the tear against him and you.
“Are you going to say this doesn’t change anything?” he murmured.
You quirked a brow. Your nostrils quivered. His chest hurt more.
“I don’t know.” You reached up and brushed some of his hair back from his forehead. His heart stammered. “The hair looks nice.”
“(Y/N).”
“I don’t know," you said again, stronger. Your eyes were as serious as his were when you looked at him. "I don't…know. You need to go out there and finish the shoot you haven't even started, Buck. And I have to sneak out of here without anyone seeing me freshly fucked unless you want it to be the gossip headline tomorrow that we fucked in the studio bathroom."
Honestly, he didn’t care. Not if it meant he got to have you in any capacity.
Still, he nodded. It was reluctant in every sense of the word, but he pulled out of you, giving himself that tormenting look down that was absolutely going to haunt his dreams and fantasies in the best–and worst–possible ways. You laid out on the counter like that for him, because of him, with him. Cum leaking out of you–
He stepped aside and grabbed a paper towel out of the holder, wiping himself off before grabbing more. He tucked himself into the trunks and turned back wordlessly. He ran some under the water and brought them to you. You didn’t say anything, just watched him and parted your legs a little more when he cleaned you up and patted you dry. He fixed your suit, too. Bottoms first, then top.
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“Yes, I did. I always….” Tried to, at least, back then. It wasn’t always that easy in the moment. “I’m not going to leave you like that, like I used you.”
“Buck.”
He tossed the paper towels in the trash can and buried them under some other ones. He washed his hands next to you, his name like the weight of you on his shoulders.
“James.”
He looked up. Cold water rushed over his hands. Yours was on his wrist.
“Friday night. 8:00. Do you know if you’re free?”
The water got warmer. Friday…at 8:00…he had nothing. It was a wait for trouble night since there weren’t any fundraisers to go to and get good press.
“I’ll make sure I am.”
That got him a sly, playful smile.
“Then come over.”
He tilted his head and scoffed.
“Last time I came over, it didn’t exactly go well.”
“Come over,” you whispered. “And I’ll get ramen from the corner place you like, and we’ll eat, and watch a movie, and we can talk. Or we can not talk. Or you can just take the food and leave. How’s that?”
He sucked in a very, very careful breath. Friday 8:00? The water ran hot. It was something. It was something he really fucking needed. He felt it sear the cracks together in his chest in a way that was going to be brutal if this ended the exact same way as last time.
“I…I miss you,” you breathed, eyes down, grip tight on his wrist. The heavy yet hesitant emotion in your voice ripped through him. “As much as I loathe to admit it.”
He turned the water off and barely dried his hands. He cupped your cheeks and practically dragged you off the counter while kissing you. Fuck. Fuck you. What the fuck was today?
“8:00. Friday.” He nodded into the kiss. “I’ll be there.”
Your smile was worth a million fucking bucks. He savored it. Out of time, but screw it. You were making more.
He slipped his shirt back on and reached down, sliding your robe back over you. Tied it around you and held you at your hips like he had any right to. Like you were actually together. But you didn’t swat him away, so he was fucking taking it.
"Go first," you said. "I need to use the bathroom, and I'll wait for my clearance."
Right. Made sense.
“Okay.”
But he kissed you again. He kissed you all the way back toward the door. Until his hand was on the knob, and then you were swatting him away.
“Tell Demi I took off. I had another meeting to get to,” you said, leaning back against the wall beside the door. But Bucky frowned.
“What about the swimsuit?”
You didn't hold back a single watt of that thousand-watt smile.
“Buck, this is mine. Demi asked me to bring my favorite.”
Alright. Maybe you should’ve gone swimming together sooner. Maybe it wouldn’t have mattered back then, but it was hard not to think it right then. Fuck. He must’ve shown exactly that on his face because you laughed. Laughed him right out the fucking door, actually.
“Friday,” he said, slipping out into the empty hallway. “8:00.”
He ventured back out to the main portion of the studio, finger-combing his hair and hoping he didn’t look too much like he’d just fucked you in the bathroom or that he was riding the absolute high of that and seeing you again. Maybe fixing what’d gone wrong, as best as you both could. The whole Valentina of it was hard to ignore when he passed by her to go change into different swim trunks.
Fuck.
He swallowed around the knot in his throat and savored that taste of you.
Goddamn it. He owed Sam a call that he probably wouldn’t answer, but if this worked out, it was because of him.
Bucky grabbed another suit from the rack and went into the changing room.
Well. At least the photoshoot didn’t end up being as awful as he’d thought.
thinking about this bit from an article by Ann Druyan in 2003:
“When my husband died, because he was so famous and known for not being a believer, many people would come up to me – it still sometimes happens – and ask me if Carl changed at the end and converted to a belief in an afterlife. They also frequently ask me if I think I will see him again. Carl faced his death with unflagging courage and never sought refuge in illusions. The tragedy was that we knew we would never see each other again. I don’t ever expect to be reunited with Carl. But the great thing is that when we were together, for nearly twenty years, we lived with a vivid appreciation of how brief and precious life is. We never trivialized the meaning of death by pretending it was anything other than a final parting. Every single moment that we were alive and we were together was miraculous – not miraculous in the sense of inexplicable or supernatural. We knew we were beneficiaries of chance… That pure chance could be so generous and so kind… That we could find each other, as Carl wrote so beautifully in Cosmos, you know, in the vastness of space and the immensity of time… That we could be together for twenty years. That is something which sustains me and it’s much more meaningful… The way he treated me and the way I treated him, the way we took care of each other and our family, while he lived.
That is so much more important than the idea I will see him someday.
I don’t think I’ll ever see Carl again. But I saw him. We saw each other. We found each other in the cosmos, and that was wonderful.”
"i miss my baby girl", i say with deep sadness about the grown ass man i love, who is deeply troubled and traumatized and who happens to be a fictional character.
emotional impermanence is so funny bc like. i forgot that i am relevant in people’s lives. my friend since i was 10 asked me if i would be in her bridal party and when i burst into tears and thanked her for thinking of me and wanting me to be there she was like “why would i not want you there??? we’ve known & loved each other longer than we haven’t.” and i was like oh yeah. i forgot ab the part where you love me too
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