summary. there is quite literally a man in the sky and he's here to save you from sidewalk disasters. 1.6k words
cw. ditzy & bimbo reader..... pls don't attack me ik many of y'all hate dumb reader......... don't read this if u do. blue collar bucky.. yum. rizzlord bucky perhaps.
a/n. i wrote this in one sitting and i'm not even gonna bother proofreading. also i'm thinking of making this kind of a series?? not one w a story but cute little oneshot/drabbles of them cuz i loveeee this dynamic
dt. @iamthatonefangirl bcs she gave me this idea on ft <3 also @chateaubarnes & @superbassbuck <3
masterlist
the sun was a hot hammer, pounding down on the sleepy suburban street, turning the asphalt soft at its edges. but you barely felt it, lost in the world of your book. you walked with a little bounce in each step as the fabric of your skirt swished playfully around your thighs. one finger, tipped with a pink polish, tracing the words on each page as you read while your lips moved silently with the dialogue of the character's latest romantic dilemma.
there was a static from above, like fat frying in a pan. you ignored it too, too invested in the will-theywon't-they.
then, a deep voice, distorted slightly by distance, but unmistakably male.
"hey there, little miss. you're gonna walk right into a world of trouble."
you blinked, stopping mid-step. you looked left to the perfectly manicured hedge. you looked right to the empty, sun-baked street. you saw nothing. no one. you shrugged with a delicate little movement, and took another step as your eyes dropped back to the page.
"i'm serious, darlin'. you wanna watch your step."
this time, you froze. the voice was clearer, more insistent, and held genuine concern. and it was definitely, undeniably, coming from… above?
slowly, as your heart started a funny little rhythm against your ribs, you tilted your head back with one hand flying up to shield your eyes from the brutal glare.
and there he was.
way, way up, silhouetted against the bright sky, was a man. a giant, it seemed, standing in the bucket of a massive cherry picker. he wore a hard hat and a grimy, sweaty grey t-shirt. he had a ridiculous set of shoulders and a broad chest. but the first thing you truly registered, the thing that gleamed under the harsh sunlight, was a metal arm. he was using it to effortlessly hold a thick, heavy power line while his other hand worked with a pair of heavy duty pliers.
and he was looking right down at you.
"oh!" you said with a little squeak of surprise. you snapped your book shut. "hello! you're… up very high!"
"hi yourself," the voice came back, now clearly, despite the electronic filter. he had a headset on, you could see it now. "you know, as charming as it is watchin' you walk and read—and it's real charming, sweetheart—it's a real good way to walk straight into a pole, or a fire hydrant. or worse, straight into traffic."
you pouted, looking at the perfectly quiet sidewalk ahead of you. "but i'm being careful! i look up every few sentences. i have a system."
you saw him shake his head with an evident smile even from a few feet up. "sure you do. that's why you did a little shutter-step over that crack in the pavement two houses back, and why you didn't even flinch when my partner revved the truck. your head's in the clouds, sweetheart, which is where i am, but i get paid to be here."
"it's a very good book," you insisted, holding it up as if he could possibly see the title from his aerial perch. "the hero is very… handsome. in my head, i mean."
"i don't doubt it for a second," he said, and you could hear the grin in his voice. "the ground's a little more important right now. for both of us." he gestured with the pliers in his metal hand towards the live wires and crackling dangerously close to his bucket. "this ain't a place for distractions, and you, darlin', are a hell of a distraction."
"are you… are you even allowed to talk to me while you're doing that?" you asked, furrowing your eyebrows with genuine concern. you took a small step closer to the truck, as if to get a better look at him. "it seems… really dangerous. shouldn't you be focusing on not getting… um, electrocuted?"
he let out a chuckle and it did something funny and warm to your insides. "darlin', i could strip and splice this line in my sleep. been doin' it for years. and i've been focusin' on this particular knot of wires for two hours. you are the first interesting, and beautiful thing that's happened all day. a sight for sore eyes, i'll tell you that much. a real live angel wanderin' through my worksite."
a blush crept up your face and neck. you had to break eye contact for a moment. "oh." you fanned yourself briefly with your book. "well."
"yeah. 'oh'." he teased, his metal fingers moving with practiced motions. "so, what's so important in that book that's got you riskin' life and limb on a tuesday afternoon? let me guess. spies? intrigue?"
"it's a romance." you confessed, feeling a little silly but also emboldened by the attention from the man in the sky. "the hero just rescued her from the castle. it was very dramatic. he swung in on a chandelier."
"a rescue, huh?" he mused. you could see him shifting his weight, the bucket swayed ever so slightly, making your heart leap. "kinda like what i'm doin' now. rescuin' you from a sidewalk disaster. feelin' swept off your feet yet? my chandelier's a little less glamourous, i'll admit."
you giggled as the sound bubbled in and out of you, unable to help it. "it's very impressive, but i don't even know my hero's name."
"bucky," he called down instantly. "name's bucky. and you, angel? what's the name of the girl who walked into my truck?"
you told him.
"pretty," he said, and the word was simple, but the way he said it—"fits you. sounds like sunshine. so what's a pretty girl like you doin' wanderin' around alone with a nose in her book? shouldn't you have a fella followin' behind you, carryin' your things, and makin' sure you don't wander into a manhole or something?"
"i don't—i don't have a… fella,"you said, twirling a piece of your hair around your finger, looking up at him through your lashes.
"that," bucky said, pausing to give a twist to something on the line with his wrist as the muscles of his forearm flexed. "is the most surprisin', downright criminal thing i've heard all week."
"maybe the fellas around here just aren't very observant," you flirted back, surprising yourself with your own boldness.
"or maybe they're just intimidated." he countered. "seeing something that looks like it just fell from heaven. they're afriad of getting burned.. or somethin'."
"are you afraid of getting burned, bucky?" you asked, tilting your head with a playful smirk on your lips.
his laughter was freer, and louder this time. "sweetheart, i work with enough live wires to know a dangerous connection when i see one. and you? from the moment i saw that yellow dress bouncin' down the street? you look like you could short-circuit a whole city block with that smile of yours. you're the highest voltage thing on this pole."
you were definitely blushing now. there was a warmth that had nothing to do with the sun. "you can't even see my smile from up there. it's impossible."
"i don't need to." he replied right away, "i can hear it in your voice. it's all sunny and bright and makes this boring job a hell of a lot nicer, i'll tell you that." he went quiet for a moment as his eyes shifted focus entirely to the particularly intricate bit of work. you stood there, watching the movement of his hands, the way his shoulders bunched with the effort, the book completely forgotten in your hands.
after a minute that felt like an hour, he spoke again. more serious, yet still tender this time. "listen, i gotta get this last connection secured and tagged. it's gonna take about ten minutes and needs my full attention. you gonna be okay? can you promise me you'll watch where your puttin' those pretty little feet for the rest of the day? for me?"
"i promise," you said, and you meant it with every fiber of your being.
"good girl," the praise went straight through you. " now, how about you do me a favour. there's a diner on the corner of maple and fifth. their cherry pie almost, almost as sweet as you. you go get yourself a slice, and i'll meet you there when my shift ends. say, five-thirty?"
your heart did a dizzying somersault against your ribs. "you're… you're asking me out? from a powerline? while you're handling enough electricity to power a small town?"
"is it workin'?" he asked, and you could perfectly picture the cocky, and irresistible grin on his face.
"well… yes," you breathed, barely a whisper.
"then i'm askin' you out. now go on, angel. get out of this sun and get away from these wires before you distract me so much i really do fry myself. wouldn't want to stand up a pretty girl for our first date on account of bein' a crispy cutter."
"okay," you grinned, clutching your book to your chest. "see you at five thirty… bucky."
"see you then, sweetheart. and for the love of all that's holy," he called out. his voice faded as the cherry picked whirred to life. "keep your eyes on the sidewalk."
you gave a little wave, then turned and started walking, making an exaggerated show of watching your feet. your heart soared higher than his cherry picker ever could. you felt the weight of his eyes on you until you turned the corner with a feeling that coursed through you. it had absolutely nothing to do with the sun or the heat and everything to do with the man in the sky.
“twin girls that are heathens” omg i imagine the girls keeping clark on his toes!! i can see them yelling at clark for calling their mama by her name instead of the usual “baby” or “sweetheart” they’d be like “no daddy mama isn’t ‘y/n’ mama is ‘sweetheart!’ don’t be mad at mama!” and he’s not even mad at his wife he just didn’t call her a pet name 😭
toddlers are around to humble us!!
pairing: dad!clark kent x fem!reader. word count: 604. content: dad!clark, toddler mayhem, them babies correct him and QUICK! nothing more!
Clark was tangled in two diaper bags, a breast pump and one toddler hanging from his arm. The family had decided the night prior — you and Clark — that a trip to the park in the centre of Metropolis would be good for the whole family; plus the twins were practically climbing the walls to leave your beloved apartment that you were growing out of relatively quickly.
He could feel the vein in his forehead begin to protrude from the strain of carrying a dozen things at once, whilst his baby girl swung back and forth on the underside of his skin on his bicep, giggling and babbling.
You were situated in the bedroom, wrestling your other daughter into a sweater that she had managed to yank over her head with a shrill scream to notify the neighbours, thrice.
It had been two hours since the prep for leaving the house. And, Clark — the man with the patience of a saint — was beginning to wear thin on it.
The twin daughter he had, managed to pinch the right amount of skin for him to call your name with urgency through gritted teeth.
He was suddenly met with immediate silence.
That was before a heartbreaking sob came from the bedroom; one of your daughters melting into her own tears with little to no warning.
Her thunderous feet slammed against the wooden flooring, eyes welled with tears and only one arm in her sweater. She shuddered an inhale before reaching Clark with her little chubby hands stretched out behind her.
TWHACK!
Her little hand met with Clark's leg.
Clark peered down from his tall stature to his daughter who began to pummel his thigh.
"Stinky, what's wrong?" He looked to his other daughter who was pouting severely, "What did I do now?"
"No, Dada!" Another hit to the leg. Now it was becoming a little sore.
"Dada, bad!" The twin that hung from his arm, waggled a finger in Clark's direction with all the intimidation an almost two year old could muster.
"Mama's name is Honey!"
There it was.
Your laughter echoed from the bedroom.
“Girls—” Clark scooped up the vicious little one at his leg into his other hand, “I called Mama by her real name. Honey is what we call a pet name.”
“Pet?” The girls said in unison with wide eyes.
“No—No. We’re not getting a pet.”
The weepy twin crossed her arms, “You’re mad at Mama.”
Clark pulled his lips into a thin line, “I’m not mad at Mama. I love your Mama very much, actually. Sometimes, Dada will call her by her real name, and that’s OK!”
The twins mulled over his words, as if they could comprehend such ideas at their young age. Their big blue eyes met each other, lips wobbled together and before Clark could ease their strong emotions; they broke out into a unified tantrum.
Hands met anything they could hit, shrill screams from the back of their throats — their sweaters yanked over their heads.
Clark was exasperated, balancing both girls and all items required for the park.
He really wanted to have a family trip out.
“Could I get some help, please?” Clark called over the wailing.
You popped your head out from the bedroom doorway with nothing but amusement smeared across your features, “What’s the magic word, sweetums?”
You never called him Sweetums. It was like salt to an open wound.
“Honey.” Clark warned rather than pleaded.
“Alright, alright.” You chuckled and sauntered out into the hallway. Your daughters already reaching for you to regulate their emotions, “All you had to do was ask, honey.”
You can't say you really want to — because meeting him probably means you're in some kind of trouble. You try your best to keep out of trouble.
But when trouble finds you all on its own, you end up getting your first close-encounter with Metropolis' most beloved hero.
And he's... nice. Really rather friendly.
In fact, so friendly, you're worried you might have to let him know that you do, in fact, already have a boyfriend.
(Or: Clark debates whether to divulge his big, blue secret - until he has no choice.)
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
sequel to the love list & third part in the series :)
[ 17k, established relationship, fem!reader (and she is, as always, intended to be a bit strange :D) nsft as it gets steamy towards the end, so heed this warning! ]
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
You’re not sure what it is about Metropolis, but a lot of not very bright people seem to live here.
Plenty of bright people too! You knew your fair share of them, of course, but there appeared to be a disconnect in some people’s brains that you couldn’t quite puzzle out.
You see, some people, when there’s danger — they head towards it, instead of away.
You suppose it’s probably because of Superman.
A lot of people like him. Like, like him a lot. You’ve heard there’s even a Twitter account set up just to post live updates about his whereabouts.
People take photos pretty much constantly - though most just manage to capture a blue blur. They film with their phones during fights, creeping closer to dangerous situations just for a better view. A thousand images that make up a mosaic of Metropolis’ biggest hero.
You certainly aren’t one of those silly people.
You know that danger = run. In the other direction.
You’re fairly certain everyone had that taught to them as a child, but maybe that’s being presumptuous. Not everyone has had the same upbringing as you.
Or, maybe, Superman is the exception to that rule.
Though, you swear you’d read his statement in one of Clark’s articles, asking that people avoid active danger zones. Cited civilian injury rates, the estimated cost to the city, and everything.
Do people not read Clark’s articles? You like to think they’re pretty good. You’re definitely not biased just because Clark is your boyfriend.
(You are, a bit.)
Perhaps, it was just another thing that you couldn’t get. That the sight of Superman was enough to warrant putting yourself in danger for.
Either way, whatever the true reason was, you’ve chalked it up to brightness. Or rather, a lack thereof in Metropolis’ population.
It also means you’re probably one of the only people in the city who hasn’t actually laid eyes on the hero.
Sure, you know what he looks like… you think.
Blue suit, red cape, occasionally with a dog.
(That makes him quite a bit more trustworthy in your opinion —but you need to see him with a cat to know for sure.)
And you’re quite alright with that - with not seeing him. Because, to be honest, if you do see him, it probably means you’re in a bit of trouble.
Like—“Don’t run, don’t scream, and we won’t have any trouble.”
Like now.
You freeze on the staircase leading out of your work, hand still on the railing, a little perturbed. You’re sure you don’t know the woman who was coming up the stairs, opposite you.
Her words take a second longer to process. It’s in part due to tiredness and in part due to the noise-cancelling headphones you’re wearing.
So much so that you actually push back the headphones and say, “Huh?” before you realise what she’s said.
Ah, you’re being mugged.
A glint of the knife in her hand confirms it. Well, wielding a knife at you is a more apt description.
You blink at her, dead-tired, and wonder what the hell you’re supposed to do in this situation.
“Good,” The woman flashes you a smile, faux and worse than some of your own masked smiles. She gestures with her free hand towards your bag. “Your wallet.”
You blink again, finally some instinct kicking in to raise your heartbeat and get fear running through your veins. You grip your bag tighter and blink violently again.
Oh. You don’t want to get stabbed. You imagine it would hurt very, very, very much.
What did Clark say to do again?
Your poor boyfriend, despite his size, seems to be the pick of the litter for mugging. That’s why he comes home with cuts and bruises from time to time.
If someone threatens you, just go along with what they’re asking, okay? He’d told you, blue eyes serious. If you do, they won’t hurt you.
You listen to him because he’s survived enough muggings, so he must know what he’s talking about.
Knowing exactly where it is in your bag, your hand dives in— and stops when the woman threatens the knife again.
“Slowly!” She barks, her wild eyes darting between your hand and your bag frantically.
You eye the knife warily, pulse still skyrocketing. Then you wrinkle your nose, because it’s never nice to be shouted at, especially by someone robbing you.
Besides, she didn’t specify any speeds to begin with.
It’s hardly fair. You’ve never been mugged before.
“Okay,” You say timidly, so she knows you’re listening. “I’m moving slowly.”
Doing as she says, you move at a much, much slower pace. You’re not exactly sure what she thinks you might pull out of the bag that could constitute a weapon.
Your notebook wouldn’t stand much of a chance against a knife. Not that you would sacrifice it. Your water bottle, maybe?
“Not that slow,” The woman growls when it’s been a few seconds and you still haven’t retrieved your wallet. “Are you stupid?”
That one stings a bit, with a tinge of frustration. Have you encountered the most indecisive mugger in all of Metropolis?
You swallow back your fear with a shaky inhale. Then wonder if she’s mugged Clark before.
With a shake of your head to answer her question, you pull your wallet out at a regular pace — then hold it out to her. “There isn’t very much money in it,” you tell her truthfully.
Ignoring you, she gestures flinchingly to the ground with her knife.
You follow the motion, then follow her instructions and open your fingers, letting the wallet drop. It bounces once and lands just a couple of inches from your feet.
“Oh, you are stupid.” She hisses, beginning to advance forward, knife still wielded chest high.
You watch her, wide-eyed, breathing coming heavier as your own feet shuffle back, panic spiking. You’re probably going to get stabbed now.
Every first-aid thought you can recall rushes to the front of your mind, furiously trying to remember the acronym for RED to deal with surface wounds.
If she stabs you, you’ll keep it in, you think bravely.
The woman bends down and snatches your wallet up, her knife trained on you the whole time—
“I don’t think that belongs to you.”
There’s a third person in the stairwell with you.
The mugger stumbles back, whipping around with a ferocity that makes your heart a bit weak. She certainly has no qualms about slicing people up with her knife.
You can’t tell where the other person is, same as your attacker. You watch, eyes still wide, as she looks left, right, but there appears to be no one else with you.
Her gaze slices back around to face you, and the knife follows, raised again, trembling this time. “I don’t know how you’re doing that, but—”
“I said,” the voice repeats, sounding nearer. “I don’t think that belongs to you.”
You’re caught between floors. The library you work in sits within a high-rise building, closer to ground-level. There are several stories above you, a roundabout staircase weaving its way up to each floor, but most everyone uses the elevator.
You’d been the last one out of the library. Unless it’s someone from many stories above…?
You both locate the new voice at the same time.
It’s somewhat satisfying to hear the choked noise your mugger makes as Superman drifts down the spiral in the middle of the stairwell.
Funny how the first thought in your mind is how this opportunity is probably being wasted on you.
Sure, you’re being mugged—but apparently getting a save from Superman is a pretty coveted thing, according to the internet. Looking at him now, you guess you can see the appeal.
He’s pretty. You mean, he’s not as pretty as Clark, but, yeah, on paper, you get it.
He’s tall, he’s strong, he’s come to your rescue.
He lands without flourish, his eyes scanning across the situation with a furrowed brow. Then his eyes land on you and he does a sort of double take.
Whatever it is, he focuses instead on the woman before you, one hand held out placatingly.
He doesn’t appear to blanch in the face of the knife. You wonder if super-bravery is one of his powers.
“Ma’am,” he says calmly. “I understand that it’s hard conditions that tend to drive people to commit these crimes. I also choose to believe that you don’t want to do this.”
There’s a tense moment, then, surprisingly, the woman nods tersely. The knife is still shaking in her hand, slowly lowering.
“Alright,” Superman says, offering a comforting smile now. “What is it you need?”
The knife is completely lowered now; the woman transformed from her angry state just a moment ago. Suddenly, she’s skittish. Embarrassed.
“Money,” she murmurs. Then, louder, with a gesture of your wallet, “I need money.”
Superman nods, no ounce of judgement on his face.
“Alright,” he says again. “You don’t need to take it from others, though. There are resources for when you’re in crisis. People who can help. Tonight, I hope I can be one of them.”
He reaches back, one hand searching beneath his cape. When he pulls his hand forward, there are several crisp bills in his grip.
The woman eyes it widely.
She looks up at him as though she can’t believe he’s serious. You suppose that’s understandable - how many superheroes carry cash?
He offers it out.
You realise at the same moment that the woman does that in order to take the money, she needs a free hand.
She glances down at the knife, then your wallet — then tosses the latter at your feet.
It lands with a loud slam in the empty stairwell, making you twitch violently. Superman’s eyes dart to you, a quick furrow to his brows. It’s wiped away in the next second.
The woman steps out, reaching for the cash - but when she pulls, it doesn’t budge.
You watch closely as her gaze rolls up apprehensively to look up at Superman. There’s a tinge of nervousness to her expression now.
“I give you this—” He’s still calm as ever. He should seriously consider being a hostage negotiator, you think. You’d be much worse in this situation. He bargains, “You give me the knife.”
He tilts his head, nodding to the knife still in her grip, wavering at her side. A strand of hair falls over his forehead, curled and the colour of coal.
Again, a little bit of you gets it. He’s handsome.
Not that you’d choose to be mugged again. Or run into danger to see him.
The woman nods again, still tense.
It’s a quick transaction — she holds the knife up, non-threatening this time, and Superman releases the grip on the cash as she hands it over. He grabs the knife by the blade with seemingly no problem.
Then the interaction is done.
With the likeness of a rodent who’s narrowly escaped a trap, your mugger quickly scurries away, down the stairs and out the door you were supposed to be out of 15 minutes ago.
You watch her go, still tensed up, your heart rate still far too near tachycardia for your liking. You can’t tell if you’ve under- or over-reacted in this situation.
The door slams loudly behind her, and you flinch in surprise. You hate loud noises enough as it is.
The slam echoes up the stairwell, empty now, except for you.
And Superman, of course.
“I believe this,” Superman breaks the silence with ease, shortening the distance between you to retrieve your wallet from the ground. “Belongs to you.”
The knife has been hidden away already, as you can’t see it anywhere. When you look up at his face, he’s smiling at you, a softened and comforting expression.
His hand holds your wallet, a well-worn purple butterfly one that your mother has been begging you to throw out for years. It looks small in his grip.
You take it. Nod and make your best attempt at eye-contact, which is barely a glance up, then down.
You say, “Thank you,” but it comes out much quieter than you’d like.
Are you supposed to say goodbye before you leave?
It would feel impolite not to. There’s a good chance he just saved your life. Or at the very least, keep you from getting stabbed.
Should you give him some money?
He did sort of just pay to keep you stab-free.
But finder’s fee is a thing, right?
But, well, your wallet wasn’t actually lost. In fact, you knew exactly where it was the whole time.
Too many questions. You don’t have any answers. Unknowingly, Superman adds another to the mix.
“Are you okay?” He says, taking another step forward, bringing you closer. “Are you hurt at all?”
Fingers flexing on your wallet, you swallow heavily and force yourself to meet his gaze.
There’s a furrow in his brow that looks like concern. Combined with his closeness, the interaction feels oddly… intimate.
“Yes,” you say in response to his first question.
Alarm flashes over Superman’s face. “You are hurt?” He questions, blue eyes already scanning over your body for the apparent injuries.
“No,” you remedy, with a shake of your head. “You asked if I was okay. I am. She didn’t stab me.”
“Oh,” Superman deflates in relief, enough to drop his shoulders a few inches. You’re not sure if this is his usual memo, but you’re a bit taken aback by how much he seems to care.
A different question niggles at you. You ask it before you can think the better of it.
“You carry cash?”
Something close to surprise ripples across his face before it settles into a smile. You spot the dimples on his cheeks, and it makes you think of Clark.
“Sometimes I get hungry,” Superman says, as if admitting a guilty secret. “Can’t exactly use a card to pay, can I?”
You blink at him for a moment before — ah, yes, secret identity.
A card would have been connected to a name. Would a bank let him open an account as Superman? You haven’t thought about that before.
You nod, a little unenthusiastically, because, with the danger gone, what little energy you have is being sapped from you.
“I’m—” You wave at the door with your wallet—remembering mid-way that you still need to put it away (you don’t want to get mugged again).
You bury it away in your bag before you forget, head ducked, before looking back up at Superman.
“Um.”
Wow, no one mentioned the awkward part at the end of being saved.
The one where Superman lingers closely, an expression you can’t puzzle out on his face, and the journey back home you still have to make.
“Thank you. I have to go now.”
Then, before he can catch you with another question, you turn and head down the stairs, feet pitter-pattering rapidly.
Maybe that’s rude - or maybe he’s used to people asking for a selfie, which you really don’t want to have to explain that you’re okay without if he offers. The cringe at the mere thought of that awkwardness is enough to make your skin crawl.
You’re out onto the street in record time.
The streetlights are a little brighter. You’ve missed your usual train. Frustration irks in the back of your throat.
Shaking it off as best you can, you stride fast towards the subway station. In your back pocket, your phone buzzes with a text.
You’ve set it to only do that for important people, so it pulls you up to a stop. You fish out the device, squinting at the screen.
Clark (Lois’ Co-worker): Hey :) I miss you, can I come see you tonight?
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Clark always knocks with a special pattern, so you know it’s him, before you even open the door.
Tonight, when you hear it, it sounds a lot like relief.
You don’t move from your spot on the couch — where you’ve been since you got home — because Clark has a key to let himself in.
A moment later you hear it, his key jiggling into the lock. It clicks with its unlock. The door opens and your boyfriend follows in.
“y/n?” His voice wraps around the corner to find you in the living room. “Knock-knock.”
He comes round the corner of your front entrance into the living room in a manner of steps. Your apartment has a small front entrance. And a small everything else too.
He spots you, seems to melt a little, and a smile spreads across his face.
“There you are.” He sighs, the sound laced with relief. As if maybe you wouldn’t be here, even though you said you would.
He’s wearing his work clothes still, but one of the buttons of his dress-shirt —the one you sewed back on— has been put in the wrong hole. You wonder if it’s been like that all day. He nudges his glasses up his nose.
“Hi,” you say. You haven’t moved, but you’re already beginning to smile. “Why do you say knock-knock when you’ve already knocked?”
Clark grins wider at your question, rounding the couch and moving to sit next to you.
He pauses when he notices the boots still on your feet, and instead, he kneels beside you.
He’s going to take your shoes off for you, you realise with an ache of love.
“To be polite, I guess,” He answers you, flashing you another smile. He beckons your foot forward, and when you shift it slightly, he begins the task of undoing the laces for you. “Let's you know that it’s me who’s coming in.”
“That’s what the knock is for, isn’t it?”
Finished, he pulls on the boot, and you give your ankle a little wiggle to help him. It slides off.
He starts on the next, giving a little shrug. “Yeah, but still, it’s nice to do. Maybe you didn’t hear the knock.”
He tugs the other one off, and when it comes free, you slump a little further into the couch, happy to have one less thing touching you. Clark notices, as always.
“Rough day, huh?” He says sympathetically, pairing your boots together. “Give me a quick sec.”
He rises to his feet, your shoes in hand, and quickly deposits them at the door. This time, when he’s back, he finds a spot on the couch next to you. Close, but not touching.
“Alright for a kiss?” He asks.
It’s one of the things you and Clark do to make sure he’s not overwhelming you. Particularly after tiring days—much like today.
But a lot of your usual boundaries break down for Clark. Because he waits. Because he asks.
You nod, because yeah, a kiss sounds like something you need right now. “Yes, please.”
Clark smiles again, dimples appearing, and he leans in slowly, his hand finding the curve of your jaw. He waits for the adorable hitch in your breath.
Kisses from Clark are a bit like coffee to your system.
His lips are warm. The feeling it gives you perks you up. You sink into him, letting him sap some of your tiredness.
You don’t even realise how much you’ve let yourself rest on him until he’s pulled back and you’re still leaning into his hand. He doesn’t make a move to pull it back though, so you figure it’s alright to rest here a little longer.
“Rough day?” He asks again, a little quieter this time. His thumb swathes across your cheek dotingly.
You nod with a sigh, and it moves his hand in time with you.
While he’s still close, Clark dots a kiss on your hairline, soft as sunlight. He keeps his tone low as he murmurs, “Want to tell me about it?”
You cast your eyes downward, thinking back to the stairwell. It had been scary, but ultimately you’d been okay.
Really, you’re most miffed about the change in routine.
It’s evidently not safe to take the stairs anymore, but you don’t want to have to start taking the elevator now.
The one at your work was old. It creaked and juddered terribly before it got to any floor. It wasn’t anything like the nice one in Clark’s apartment building.
Pulling back from Clark’s gentle hold, you let yourself slump back against the couch instead. Clark follows suit, matching your position, his head leaned up against the back of your couch. His hair looks particularly tousled tonight, you note.
“I have to start taking the elevator at work.” You say.
Clark blinks, bewilderment passing across his face so fast you almost don’t catch it.
“Oh,” He says, unable to keep the surprise out of his voice. A moment later it’s replaced with his usual compassion. “Oh, honey, I’m sorry. Did something happen?”
You give a little shrug. “Not really. Like, nothing technically.”
That makes Clark squint just for a moment, thinking hard on your words. He chooses his next carefully.
“Did something… almost happen?”
Which, well, yeah, a lot of things almost happen every day.
It feels like a vague question, but you know Clark isn’t prone to asking those. Even so, you shrug again, unsure how to answer that correctly.
Instead, you tell him, “I met Superman today.”
That makes him sit up a bit straighter.
“What?” He says. “Why? I mean, what happened?”
You shrug again. You’re shrugging a lot tonight, maybe because you’re not quite sure how to put it.
You were almost mugged? You were in the middle of getting mugged when Superman stepped in and said, ‘Hey, mug me instead’?
“A lady at work had a knife,” you say candidly. Then you hear the words and quickly correct yourself, “Not a lady from work. She was just at my work. In the building.”
Clark frowns, thick brows knitting together in the middle. “A knife? Was anyone hurt? What did she want?”
He’s usually better at not asking so many questions in one go, but you forgive him this time. If anyone showed up at his work with a knife, you’d be pretty worried too.
He sounds pretty panicked as well, his voice a little more strained than usual, discomfort obvious on his face.
A bit of your stress must show on your face, because Clark’s suddenly filled with apologies: “Sorry, I’m sorry, I don’t mean to ask so many questions or overwhelm you, honey. I just — I’m surprised you didn’t call or text me about this.”
For the nth time, you shrug again.
“Technically nothing actually happened. She just tried to mug me.”
“She tried to mug you?” Clark repeats, brows raised. His voice is pitched up a bit, which isn’t like him. He breaks eye contact, staring at your coffee table with a strange intensity. “Gosh…”
Tracking your eyes to the coffee table, you check to see if there is something specific that’s caught his eyes. Finding nothing, you nod to answer his question.
“Which, I tried to tell her I don’t have much money, but she didn’t care.” You frown, recalling the interaction. “She was quite mean, too.”
That makes Clark frown too. He nudges his glasses up again.
“So, I have to start taking the elevator now. So, bad day.” You explain, with a put-out pout, already sighing at the thought. “It’s like a superpower that you knew to ask to come over tonight.”
That makes Clark laugh for some reason, a loud barked-out noise that he clamps down immediately after he makes.
“That,” He says, adjusting his glasses once more. “Ha, well, I actually wanna ask that every night. Just got lucky, I guess.”
His eyes widen. “Not that you getting mugged was in any way lucky! Just, y’know, lucky that I… happened to text.”
He’s nodding along so much, you feel you should nod too.
It feels nice to know he wants to spend every night with you - and nicer that he knows you need some nights by yourself. Tonight isn’t one of those.
“What did you think of, uh, Superman?” Clark asks after a moment. He’s stopped fidgeting with his glasses, but his fingers toy with his tie, giving away his nerves.
It’s sweet. Clark has always been a sweetheart. You also know he and Superman are sort of friends. As you’ve learned over the years, that probably means he wants you to like him too.
“He was… nice.” You say, making sure you’re not too honest.
He had been nice. He’d also been… well, a bit too nice for a stranger. Stood a little too close. Was that wrong of you to judge when he’d saved your life?
You decide that if he’s Clark’s friend, you won’t speak ill of him.
“Nice,” Clark echoes, nodding enthusiastically. “That’s good, right? I noticed you, uh, don’t have much to say about him. Not like a lot of Metropolis.”
You’re not sure if that’s a compliment or not.
“He’s… Superman,” you say with another little shrug. “I don’t think he cares too much about what I think of him. He’s busy saving the world.”
Something in your words must be funny because Clark’s grinning again, his fingers no longer fidgeting with his tie. Instead, he reaches for the knot of it, beginning to loosen it.
“I’ve got a feeling he cares,” Clark says, blue eyes bright. “He cares what everyone thinks. But Superman-Schmuperman, enough about him. Have you eaten yet?”
The way he says schmuperman is enough to make you giggle. Clark gets that besotted look in his eyes that you just adore. You shake your head to tell him no, you haven’t eaten yet.
He makes breakfast for dinner for the both of you.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
You do take the elevator when you head back to work the next day.
It creaks and it judders in that terrible way, but it delivers on its intended purpose and gets you to your floor. Does the same on your way home.
It’s a new normal that you’re gritting your teeth to come to terms with.
Except, surprisingly, apparently not.
Because come Friday morning, there’s a sign taped over the doors with a big arrow directing people to the stairs.
And when you enter the stairwell, you’re far from the only one taking the stairs.
“What happened to the elevator?” You ask one of your coworkers, the first words out of your mouth when you get behind the desk.
It’s Sandra, a nicer older lady who wears perfume a bit too strong for your sensitive nose. But she never yells when you wear your headphones on quiet shifts, so you decide you like her.
“Oh, didn’t you hear?” She says, eyes glittering. Sandra also loves gossip - which is a good and bad thing. Today, it’s good.
You shake your head. Sandra’s eyes shine brighter.
“Some big-shot reporter at the Daily Planet published a scathing review on how poorly kept up to code the elevators in Metropolis are. Name-dropped our building. Big advocate for us less-than-able folks.” She taps her leg, the one with the bad knee, and grins.
“Body-corp had to step in. The whole thing is being replaced.”
You feel your eyebrows raise, surprise parting your lips. You have a feeling you already know who wrote that article.
“That’s good news. Do you still have the article up?”
She nods, then waves you closer, behind her cubby at the main front desk. Her monitor has a dozen different tabs open, but like you, Sandra seems to know exactly where everything is.
She clicks her mouse, and the screen reloads.
A Daily Planet-style article fills the pixels, with the familiar globe spinning on its axis in the corner. Your eyes search, and even though you’re half-expecting it, your heart still lurches.
There, the byline.
Written by Clark Kent.
Which—oh. It never stops being unexpected, the ways in which he loves you.
Your knuckles rise to your sternum without thought, pressing in to try to calm yourself.
“That’s really good news.” You say, smile a bit wobbly. The strong dose of affection passes after a moment, and you speak a little clearer, “I hated the old elevator.”
“I know you did,” Sandra hums knowingly. “Don’t you have a boyfriend at the Planet?”
You smile because it’s nice to know other people are paying attention to you as well as those who are supposed to. Even simply co-workers.
“Yeah,” you say, pressing your knuckles harder again, just in case another wave threatens you. “Uh, yeah, I do. That’s him.”
“Oh!” Sandra lights up at that news - and you briefly wonder if it’s a mistake to have told her. But she smiles sweetly, goes to put her hand on your arm and then seems to think the better of it.
“That’s wonderful. He seems like a good egg.”
You’re not quite sure what she means by that, but it sounds like a good thing. Smiling, you give a little nod.
“Yes. He’s… very nice to me,” you say, almost bashfully. “I love him a lot.”
“How sweet,” says Sandra, though she’s already turned her attention back to the screen. You see her mouse move, drifting up to Clark’s name, blue and linked. She left-clicks with a satisfying click!
That feels like your cue to leave. Quietly, you readjust the bag on your shoulder, treading past Sandra and her oogling stare, now zooming in on your boyfriend’s work identification photo. Guess that's what you get for telling her.
You just catch the last of her words as you turn into the backroom.
“Well, he’s nice to look at, but he’s no Superman…”
You smile to yourself, think of your darling Clark, and quietly disagree.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Post-attempted mugging, you like to think you have a pretty uneventful week.
Beyond the elevator replacement, which started kicking in on Friday, nothing much happens that you would warrant calling an ‘event’.
Well, nothing that affects you in particular.
A kaiju finds its way into uptown. Superman and Justice Gang fight it off.
You, as always, don’t join the swathes of foolish people who run towards the dangerous sounds of battle.
It all goes down on a Sunday, the day you always go over to Clark’s to make dinner with him. Thankfully, his apartment isn’t affected, and the battle is all wrapped up by the time you'd planned to head over there.
The elevator makes your stomach swoop, as always, and you nearly knock the fresh chives in your bag loose by accident. You silently hope you picked a good enough cauliflower for tonight’s dish.
At his lime-green door, you rap your special knock — then, after a moment, let yourself in with a key.
This is usually where you’re greeted.
Tonight… You stand in the entranceway of Clark’s apartment, and he doesn’t come to meet you. So you strain your ears. There’s water running.
Wandering further in, you deposit the bag of groceries atop the countertop and pause, head tilted. The kitchen looks clean. Nothing’s been started, not even a chopping board out on the bench.
It’s odd behaviour for Clark.
You follow the sound of running water to the bathroom, walking slowly.
You’ve been here countless times, but without Clark greeting you, it feels wrong to stroll around as if you own the place. You don't call out — though you probably should, as it might help you locate him.
“Honey.”
You jump, even though he’s spoken softly. You turn to where the noise came from. Head poked around the bathroom door, Clark looks… a little worse for wear.
There’s a cut on the bridge of his nose and his left eye has definitely taken a punch, evidenced by the yellowed skin around it. He’s breathing a little heavily.
“Hi,” he says. “I know. Looks worse than it is, promise.”
It does look bad, you agree. But he smiles so brightly that you can’t imagine he’s not telling the truth.
“What happened?” You ask worriedly, especially as Clark cringes at the question. “Did you get mugged again?”
Something relaxes in Clark’s face, and you think it might be understanding. He nods ruefully. The bright smile is back on his face in an instant.
“Did you find a good cauliflower?”
You blink, surprised by the change in topic. Though, he had complimented you in the past on your particular penchant for picking perfect produce.
Maybe he likes this dish you make — cauliflower steaks — a little more than he'd let on. He's impossible to get an opinion out of sometimes; you maintain that anything you make does not qualify as a favourite food.
“I did.” You nod. “It’s in the kitchen.”
Somehow, you can’t leave without offering help. “Do you need any help? I can find the arnica, or—”
A shake of Clark’s head cuts you off, his handsome smile still at full beam. “No, no, I’m almost done. Had, uh, had some arnica already. Just give me a minute in here, and I’ll meet you in the kitchen, okay?”
Six minutes would’ve been a more accurate time estimate.
You try not to hold it against him, especially considering he's obviously had a bad day already.
You manage to mince five cloves of garlic, then wait, because you like cooking with Clark, then begin chopping the chives before he appears in the kitchen.
“All better,” he says, sidling up behind you, hands reaching out to gently rest on your waist.
You put down the knife and turn in his arms, eyeing up the new improvements.
The bridge of his nose is now sporting a light pink bandaid. The bruising on his eye already looks better — which makes you think it was just the lighting of the bathroom making it look as bad as it did.
“Was it a woman?” You ask.
“Wha— what?” Clark trips over the word.
“Your mugger. Were they a woman?”
You want to know if it was the same one who tried to take your wallet. Though, she had a knife, and Clark looks like he got punched. Unlikely to be the same perpetrator.
“Uuuh,” He draws out the sound, thinking it over, even as his hands on your waist pull you in closer. His body presses against yours, warm and firm. “I don’t think so. If I had to guess, I’d say… gender non-conforming?”
His earnest choice of words makes you smile. You reach up, hands carefully finding a resting place cradling his jaw. "Progressive," you say as a joke.
Clark laughs, and you feel his hands around your waist give an affectionate squeeze.
He leans in and kisses you quick, a hello — and you pat yourself on the back for only giving a little bit of a strangled inhale in response.
"Did Superman save you too?"
The second after you ask the question, you feel a bit silly. Superman has been uptown all day, flying around and doing whatever it is he does to fight against kaiju's. He probably couldn't have—
"Uh, yeah." Clark says after a moment, nodding. One of his eyebrows twitches strangely. "Yeah, he did."
He looks a tad apprehensive, mouth pursed, eyes not quite meeting yours.
You deduce that the mugging, as you're now familiar with, is probably not something he wants to talk about. Feeling a tad guilty, you change the subject.
"I'm worried people aren't reading your articles."
You say this as you release his face, and Clark's hands instinctively loosen their hold to let you turn back to the countertop.
Someone has to keep cooking, and you've already been sidetracked once tonight. There's not a schedule or a time limit, but there kind of is to you.
Besides, you know it has to be you keeping dinner on track.
You're pretty sure if it weren't for your insistence, Clark wouldn't mind spending all his evenings wrapping you up in his arms, doling out kisses galore.
The thought makes your face burn. You focus on your grip on the knife; instead of the vibration of Clark's surprised laugh you can feel against your back, resuming your chopping.
"You're…? Sweet girl, why are you worried about that?"
Hearing him call you something as nice as sweet girl makes you feel as though you've swallowed a firework.
It burns all the way down, hot and bright, and finds a home behind your ribs. It takes a long moment to compose yourself, hand-halted, and a bite to the inside of your cheek to do so. After a moment, you start chopping again, a little slower this time.
His surprise has made you second-guess the logic you've followed.
Maybe he'll think you're being daft. (He wouldn't). Maybe he'll entertain your theories just because he loves you. (He would). You um and ah over whether to tell him.
Clark hasn't put his arms back around you, which you're thankful for because it's distracting and it makes it harder to chop.
He's instead stepped to the side, leaning against the bench to stay close.
You finish with the chives, put down the knife and reach out, the counter digging into your stomach slightly as you pull the bag of groceries closer. You decide to tell him.
"Well, the kaiju today," you begin.
You pull out the cauliflower, handling it with two hands. It's hefty, nearly the size of your head — but it wasn't pay by weight, so it's a steal you're proud of. The market usually yields well.
"Good cauliflower," Clark compliments. You brighten up at the words. His gaze softens, his smile a little fonder.
"The kaiju, please continue."
"Right," you nod. "I was on 14th Street when it, like, arrived. So, pretty close. Maybe like four or five blocks? But I've noticed this — and this is why I'm worried that people might not be reading your articles — because you wrote that Superman piece, where you interviewed him and asked about civilian safety?"
The end of your sentence goes up a bit, becoming an unintended question. You glance over at your boyfriend, reassured when he nods to say you're correct.
You make the first slice into the cauliflower, splitting it right down the middle.
"And I remember it because you asked me to proofread that one, though I remember a lot of your articles too, but this one had that really helpful statistic about the likelihood of civilian injury rates increasing or decreasing based on civilian responses."
Carving out the 'steaks' takes a little more focus, so you stick out your tongue and halt talking for a moment. Clark makes himself useful, disappearing from your side to dive into his cabinets.
"Keep talking, I'm listening," he assures you.
"Well," you continue, "you remember the five categories?" You feel yourself over-explaining his own article to him and wince. "Sorry, you wrote the article, you know. Sorry."
Cumin, coriander, salt, and pepper find their way to the bench beside you, little glass jars glinting beneath the lights. "No need to apologise."
"Okay," you say. If Clark says it, it must be true — he's the most truthful person you know. Maybe besides yourself.
"The category, the reckless one? I can't remember the number it turned out to be exactly, but it was high. Do you remember?"
Clark has pulled one of the oven trays out and placed it beside you on the countertop, preparing to place your meticulously sliced 'steaks' on it.
A sunny-coloured oil has been drizzled along the bottom, greasing it up. You hear the whir of the oven somewhere to the side, behind you, beginning to preheat.
"Yeah, yeah," Clark says, back to his spot beside you, prodding his glasses up with a knuckle. You hope they don't hurt the cut on his nose.
"The likelihood of civilian injury increases to 70% if they exhibit reckless behaviour during an active emergency." He rattles off the statistic easily.
"Exactly," you say.
Where did this conversation start again? Your brain jumps around, trying to find it — cauliflower, mugging, Superman.
"Right," you pick up the thought. "But when I was out there today, a lot of people started going towards the kaiju. But I remember in that interview, Superman said he wanted people to do the opposite."
You realise you're still holding the knife, but there's nothing left to chop.
You place it down on the board, twisting and leaning your hip up against the counter.
Clark's tall — tall enough you have to lift your chin to look at him properly. You let your gaze roam over his face attentively.
He's so handsome. He's always handsome, and you love seeing him in his suit and tie, but dressed casually, like he is today, is a treat.
He's in loose jeans, wearing a quarter-zip jumper. You can see his white t-shirt beneath it.
His hair is tousled and loose, barely dried from the shower he must've taken earlier.
He's still smiling at you, now half amusement, half something else. His dimples beg to be kissed. You're barely restraining yourself.
You wonder if the look in his eyes is what novels would describe as starry-eyed. Either way, it undoes you in a quiet, gentle way.
"That's why you're worried?" He questions.
One of his hands snakes forward to find the curve of your neck again, cupping your face gently. It's as though he does it without thought, like his hands have a mind of their own and they're all about touching some part of you.
You feel your heart rate go up at the touch. Then you see Clark's smile widen a little — though the two can't be connected.
"Yes. Why would people go towards danger?"
Clark's thumb begins its familiar swatch across your cheek, one of his favourite motions. He tilts his head a little, giving your question some thought.
"I think some people want to see Superman."
"They'd get in danger for that?"
"Apparently," he shrugs, looking suddenly bashful. "It's good to hear that you wouldn't, honey. And to hear you're concerned about who's reading my articles, but trust me, if people weren't, Perry would've had my… backside some time ago."
That's true. While the logic you followed to assume people might not be reading Clark's work is somewhat sound, the truth of his boss is a far stronger point of reason.
You've met Perry just once. He's very to the point. You weren't fond of the smell of the cigar he carried around with him.
He'd taken a look at you, the one time you'd dropped off lunch to Clark after he'd forgotten it and raised his brows, turned to your boyfriend, and said, "Well done, Kent."
It had taken a minute before you realised he had been referring to you when he said that — which led to you fleeing the scene with haste.
Clark had made up for it with dozens of kisses later that evening.
As Clark begins seasoning the 'steaks', pushing his sleeves back to reveal toned forearms, you ponder over his words.
Ponder the idea that Superman was worth running towards danger for.
You think back to your interaction with the hero and puzzle over it, but it's not something you can seem to make sense of.
You can't think of anyone you'd do that for.
Turning back to face the countertop to help Clark, falling into that Sunday-evening rhythm, you sneak a look at him out of the corner of your eye.
He catches you and pokes out his tongue, nudging you softly with his elbow.
You laugh, such a common sound in his kitchen, and think: yeah, maybe for him.
For Clark, it would be worth running towards the danger.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Your uneventful luck runs out.
It runs out rather quickly too. It hasn't even been a month since the mugging - or mugging attempt, you should say - when something happens on the subway.
Living in Metropolis, there's a sort of intuition one gains for otherworldly interference.
Like knowing when your subway car screeches to a halt as though someone's pulled the emergency brake, it is not for maintenance reasons.
It happens jarringly.
Which, well, there isn't exactly a non-jarring way to pull the emergency brake, but it's the word that springs to mind when it happens.
The lights overhead flicker once, twice.
Then, with a most awful screech that dives under your skin, it is as though the whole subway car slides to the left.
It doesn't.
Actually, you and every other person within the subway car are the ones who move.
The half-car full of people gets shoved suddenly to the right, the force of the abrupt braking enough to knock everyone off balance. Distressed noises go up all around.
You're sitting down, on one of the edge seats, but it doesn't stop you from getting banged around.
The unanticipated halt mobilises you, pushing you harshly into one of the handrails.
You collide forcefully, not prepared enough to stop your head from snapping against the pole.
It's your forehead, right above your left eyebrow, that takes the brunt of it.
Pain radiates. It splinters across your forehead with an agonising throb, causing you to yelp in response. You clutch the pole tightly, just in case the subway car plans to throw you around again.
The lady who's sat next to you has slid over in the commotion too, ending up pressed up against your side.
She wiggles back as soon as she gains her balance, which you're thankful for, but she's focusing on you too closely for comfort.
On your forehead, more specifically.
"Shit, kid," she says worriedly, mouth downturned. "You're bleeding."
After she says it, you can feel that she's right. There's a warmness to the pain on your head that's dipping dangerously close to light-headed.
Your fingers reach up, grazing the wound—and the pain burns hot again, fiercer this time. You wince, regretting touching it.
You bring your hand down. Scarlet paints the tips of your fingers.
The lights flicker again.
Then go out for good.
It's as though you've inhaled a mouthful of smoky panic. You're not the only one, the distressed sounds of the car climbing in volume.
"What's happening!?"
"Someone's pulled the emergency brake!"
Several torches click on, phones held up to cast the subway car into moving, white lights. Shadows jump across the walls, tall and pointed.
"What? Why!?"
"Yeah, why would someone do that?"
"How the hell are we supposed to know that, dipshit!?"
You shrink down in your seat, overwhelm crowding in on you rapidly. The subway car seems suddenly far too cramped.
Is this car smaller than usual? The loud noise is enough to make you tick — having to consider what may have caused the delay in transport begins to pick at your stitching.
You try to take a deep breath, finding it too shallow.
No, it's fine. It's fine. You're travelling home, and you'll be late, but just by a little.
It's fine. You can still be on schedule. Clark won't mind if you're late.
Clark!
You remember your plans with him tonight with a sinking feeling. You fish out your phone, already drafting the text to tell him you're going to be late, but the sight on your screen stops you.
No bars. You're in a dead zone.
Cool. That's fine. No, really, it is, you tell yourself. If it had been Darren, maybe, yeah, a little worrying would be warranted.
But Clark would understand. He's late himself from time to time.
Your fingers clench tightly around your phone as you force yourself to take another deep breath.
There's an unnerving crackle over the PA of the subway, and as your eyes adjust to the dark, you see every face in the subway car tilt upwards, listening.
"Good evening, passengers on the green line." A voice filters through, the words buzzy and distorted. "We apologise for the abrupt stop. A bank on Meridian Avenue is currently undergoing a robbery, in which explosives were used to access the vault."
It's less shouting and more murmurs that ripple through the crowd, passed from one person to another. Anxiety festers, a well opening within your chest.
You exchange a glance with the woman beside you, your eyebrows creased in concern.
You regret it when your head gives another blazing-hot throb of pain in retaliation.
The subway, which had been slowly drifting, finally reaches a standstill with one final shudder.
"As you may or may not know, the green line passes directly beneath Meridian Avenue for several blocks, including beneath the bank in question. Due to the use of explosives, it is highly unsafe for any trains to continue on their route."
Unease seems to evaporate in the subway in an instant, replaced with a grumbling annoyance — as if everyone can predict what's coming next. You cling tighter to the pole for stability.
"The fire department has been contacted for your extraction, and they are on their way. Sit tight folks; we're hoping to have you out by the end of the hour."
A loud, synchronised groan erupts from the passengers. You glance down at your phone, checking the time, and grimace. It's 5.09pm.
"We'll keep you updated if anything changes, and we apologise again for the inconvenience to your day."
Then with a fumbling click, the PA disconnects and goes silent.
The subway car, comparatively, does not. Several voices burst out at the same time.
"Oh my god, so we're stuck here?"
"I can't be here, I have an appointment!"
"Lady, we all have places to be, okay?"
"The fire brigade? Can't they call in Superman?"
"He's probably fighting the robbery, idiot."
You don't much like the continued outburst, nor the idea of being here for the better part of an hour.
The lady beside you, in scrubs, you now realise as your eyes fully adjust to the dark, seems to be in agreement. She's muttering under her breath, annoyance evident in her tone.
She catches your gaze — making you feel guilty for watching her — but, surprisingly, she seems to perk up. You realise after a moment it's because you've provided her with a task.
"Let me get something for your head," she offers, diving into her purse before you can answer. "I always keep a little first-aid kit with me."
The kit she pulls out you wouldn't describe as little.
It's the size of a lunchbox, tin and has a graphic of Superman on the outside, blue, red, and gold.
She pulls it out onto her lap, unclipping the latch and flipping back the lid. Inside boasts several bandages, wipes, and bottles with labels you can't read in the low light.
She pulls out a wipe and holds it up, facing you. You blink, then realise she wants to wipe the blood from your face.
"That alright?" She asks, gesturing with the wipe.
The task is distracting you too, you realise. Feeling a bit awkward, yet thankful she's helping, you nod tentatively.
It stings like all-fire — enough to draw a hiss up your throat. The woman makes a sympathetic tut, but she's good at her job because she doesn't let it deter her.
Sterile alcohol mixes with your blood, slowly clearing it away and bringing a blistering agony to the surface at the same time. You grimace, eyes screwing shut, which only serves to agitate it more.
She makes quick work of it. You try not to look at the concerning shade of pink the white wipe turns, sullen with your blood, and watch her dig around in her kit again.
"Shine that over here, will you?" She says to the person on the other side of her - a young-looking man with a nervous disposition - and he obliges hastily, looking rather relieved to have a task as well.
A rustle of plastic as she digs around. A bandage or two between her dexterous fingers.
"Is it a bad cut?" You ask mousily.
"It's not too bad," she tells you, glancing over with a kind smile. "Just bled a lot because it's on your head. It's a little thing."
Another blister of pain rises to the surface when she presses the first bandage to your forehead, nimble fingers warm and calloused. The bandages are small and white, which you recognise as butterfly stitches.
That makes you panic a little more, but you trust in her words. She is wearing scrubs after all.
(It occurs to you that, technically, anyone can choose to wear scrubs. A glance at her clipped Metropolis Central Medical ID makes you feel better again.)
"There." She gives it one final press, making sure everything's in place. "Just to keep it closed so it doesn't keep bleeding. You got someone to check on it later, hm? I know it can be difficult putting bandages on yourself. Probably a good idea to change them sometime tomorrow."
"Yeah," The knowledge of Clark's worrisome state when he sees the state of you is enough to make you smile, still a bit shaky. "My boyfriend can help me. Thank you."
"Don't worry about it, kid."
She sets about packing her first-aid kit back up, moving slowly and precisely. You suppose she has no real reason to hurry— not with the expected 50-minute wait time.
You lapse into silence, the pain in your forehead dulling down to a quiet throb as you fold your hands up tightly in your lap.
Silence, you notice, has become contagious within the subway car.
Voices that had shouted now became muted, murmured, low and whispery. Like you're all hidden beneath a thick blanket together. One thick, concrete blanket that separates you from the bustling world above.
One minute slips into two, then five, then twenty.
You can only wait.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
There's never a day where Clark doesn't love being Superman.
He's serious. It's never a chore, never feels like a job. Some days the responsibility of doing what he can to help Metropolis, to step up and fight the battles others can't — well, it's hard not to get a little chummy over the immense honour.
Then some days it gets… a little tedious.
Not tedious in a spiteful way! More in a tiresome way.
Like, for his sake and for everyone else's, it would be nice to go more than 48 hours without criminal activity being inflicted on the city.
But there's no rest for the wicked, or so they say.
Which means, if you squint and read the fine print beneath that, no rest for Superman.
Today's villain of the week was a pack of thieves with the very original idea of robbing a bank.
There's no crime that Clark likes, but these cases he dislikes more than most.
He's been around this block enough to know the stories that will unspool in the interrogation room — raised rent, medical bills, one bad accident that dries up years' worth of savings in a single afternoon.
It's tough — one of the tougher injustices that he knows he can't fight with the cape on.
It all adds up, though. Tonight's foiled robbery marks another case in Clark's latest project at the Daily Planet, investigating the wealth disparity and the links to money-motivated crime.
As Superman, Clark's had enough run-ins with this kind of crime that he could probably estimate an accurate percentage in his sleep by now.
Unfortunately, an eyeballed number from a superhero with a secret identity doesn't fly with Perry.
So it's still a work-in-progress kind of project — and it stays shelved until people are out of danger.
For the most part, they are.
It's not imminent, but perhaps the only danger the passengers of the green line subway are potentially subject to at the moment is boredom.
Clark had tuned his ears in to a police scanner as soon as trouble started kicking up, ensuring there weren't any civilians being sent closer to the danger zone without knowing.
He'd advised the officers on the scene to send firefighters in for the people on the subway, but now, staring down at the dark, winding tunnel of the subway tracks, he knows he's beaten them here.
He sighs heartily.
It's not their fault — public funding, job cuts, the works.
Yet, at the same time, he wonders how he might explain to you why he's so late coming over tonight.
Maybe he should send you a text now — but that feels a little selfish with so many people still stuck, waiting for help.
Besides, he's since learned that flying with a phone is a recipe for disaster. His phone is tucked away in his work clothes, hidden on a rooftop somewhere — but he could reach it in a split second.
He peers down the tunnel again, X-ray vision peeling back the darkness. A scattering of human bodies present, just over 200 feet away, caged in by metal.
It's a short flight to find the first carriage.
"Man, this shit sucks," he hears a man inside say, slumped on the ground and leaning up against the seats. "Where's Superman when you need the guy, huh?"
"Did someone say Superman?"
It's as good an entrance as any — and it actually gets a few inhabitants within the subway car to perk up — but Clark can admit it's not his best.
Face forming a sheepish expression, he sucks his teeth.
"Golly, not my best. My apologies, folks." He says it all as he scans over the crowd, flicking in and out of X-ray vision, hunting for serious injury. Coming up with none, he smiles, genuinely relieved. "Now, who'd like to get out of here?"
This inspires a more merry response from the despondent crowd of people — enough that the grimy window between carriages fills up with new faces, eager to know what's causing the ruckus.
It's quick-fire from then on.
Word gets passed down, chatter and shouts of 'It's Superman!' that get the remaining passengers crowding forward into the first carriage.
Clark tries to keep it quick for everyone's sake. A brief introduction ("Hi, I don't believe we've met before; I'm Superman"), then an explanation that he can fly them ("It will be windy, and I will have to hold you - but perfectly safe"), or they can wait for the fire brigade if they would rather not fly ("You can't be on the tracks, ma'am; they're electrified").
So far, everyone's opted in for flying.
It's not slow per se, but it does take time—humans are much more fragile than Kryptonians. He can't exactly fly at his usual top speed.
But bit by bit, the crowd dwindles down until there's no one in the line to be rescued that he recognises from the initial first carriage.
He surveys the length of it, tallying up how long it might take to move them all.
The minutes stack up. The length of time between now and getting home to you is feeling immeasurably too long.
He tries not to worry about how late he is. It's futile.
He pictures his abandoned phone in the pockets of his slacks, buzzing and ringing, going unanswered. Then he pictures you on the other end, your retro landline pressed to your ear, worrying your bottom lip between your teeth in the adorable way you do.
You're good at lots of things. Unfortunately, worrying about Clark is one of them.
He sighs silently to himself. His worry doesn't speed up this darn unfortunate situation that these folks are trapped in. It does lend him some more food for the thought of telling you his big blue secret.
For now though— "Hi there, I'm Superman, in case we haven't—"
"—we have."
The familiar voice finally snaps Clark out of his distracted trance, and he turns with a haste that surely gives him away. His furrowed brows and concerned face are no help either.
Because it's you. Here. On the trapped subway, waiting in line like all these other passengers.
With a bandage on your forehead that you definitely didn't have this morning.
Several thoughts clamber over each other, each vying for Clark's attention. You're here—which means you're not waiting for him, thankfully—but you're hurt—and how do you keep getting into these situations?
He, intelligently, opts for simply staring at you and saying nothing.
"We have met." You clarify, suddenly looking a bit more awkward. "You stopped that mugger for me."
Right! Right. Because you have met Superman before, when he'd had to intervene at your work, just earlier this month.
He opens his mouth, but the strangeness of it all halts his words.
It's just… It's been months since he's seen you look at him this way.
Obviously, given he's a stranger to you as Superman — but it's a reality check like nothing else.
The way your shoulders curl in. The tightness of your mouth. You make yourself smaller, and the eye-contact you do give looks far more painful than usual.
He hadn't realised, not until right now, just how much closer you'd grown—how you usually gravitate towards him.
You glow and grin, you nudge him, touch him, you laugh like it's the easiest thing. It's apparent now, the stark difference when compared to that very first day on the train.
Except, there seems to be an extra frostiness to your character right now. Probably something to do with being stuck in a subway car for an hour or so.
Only when you shuffle on your feet, an awkward motion, does Clark realise he still hasn't said anything.
"Yes," Clark breathes, and immediately he clocks his tone as too relieved — too fond for a stranger. He clears his throat, nodding with purpose. "Yes, yes, I can recall. At the library."
You nod to confirm, expression still tight and your gaze still averted.
The question wrestles out of Clark's mouth before he can stop himself: "Is your head alright?"
There are two little bandaids on it, but there's still a bit of dried blood in your eyebrow. Concern swims up to the surface, pooling in Clark's heart, urged on by his feelings for you.
You're not accident-prone enough for this to be a common sight. The sight of your blood inspires a protectiveness he struggles to curb.
You touch your forehead gingerly, brows pinching together in pain. "Yes. That's what the bandaid is for."
Your bluntness nearly makes him laugh, like it does when you're home together.
He squashes it for a smile, for the sake of not making Superman any stranger to you. If he laughs, you'll probably think he's laughing at you.
"Alright, I'm going to have to pick you up now, if that's alright?"
You nod stiffly. Clark does a motion he's done a thousand times before— one hand around your waist, another behind your knees.
He reminds himself to treat you as a stranger, keeping his hands polite, even as they beg him to pull you in closer.
It's one of the oddest flights of Clark's life. You're stiff as a board in his grip, actively leaning away from his chest in a way that can't be comfortable.
When he reaches the platform, where people are still milling about, waiting for others from the train, he can't help checking in again.
It's with a gentleness he sets you down, the words already out of his mouth, "Are you sure you're alright?"
He expects another brush-off - that's what most civilians do, frazzled from whatever situation he's happened to save them from - but he certainly does not expect— "I have a boyfriend."
Clark blinks down at you, your standoffish posture.
He notices the step back you'd already taken and your clenched hands at your side — the same thing you do when you're working yourself up to tell a waiter your food is wrong.
And—oh.
Your standoffishness is cast into a new light suddenly, which is that you can perceive his fondness — which in itself is a feat, considering how long it took for you to get together in the beginning.
But you can tell — somehow, somewhere under the suit, beneath the hero name, some part of you intrinsically recognises him.
Knows what he sounds like trying to keep the affection from his voice, knows the ways in which Clark Kent loves.
It had been a journey to convince you of it the first time around, and now, you can't unlearn it.
You can see it, even if you don't know why.
Clark smiles, throat a little thicker with the knowledge that he's very, very well loved. "He's a very lucky man," he says, completely genuine.
You nod assertively. "He is. And me, I'm lucky too."
You seem relieved by the change in his tone, that he isn't upset with you for being unavailable. "Thank you for rescuing me. And him — you've done it a couple of times, I think. He's quite muggable, apparently."
You nod, a little jerkily, and Clark can't help but grin this time. He knows he should get back to the subway - especially with other civilians waiting on him.
He can't resist one last word, "You're welcome. Please be nice to your boyfriend if he's home late, okay? It's been a hectic day for everyone today."
You give him a strange look, eyes narrowed like you don't comprehend why he's given you advice.
Maybe you're even piecing it together, connecting the blue dots that lead to his secret. He decides that, after today, he doesn't mind the idea at all.
"Okay," you say hesitantly.
"Okay," Clark echoes, with a professional Superman nod. "I love you."
It's pure instinct that pulls from the words off his tongue - a habit that he's never broken since he first found that list, all those months ago.
Now, he'd been so caught up in his gooey thoughts of your loyalty that he didn't even consider— he hadn't thought—
Uh oh. Your face says it all. Utter surprise and that same awkwardness creeping back in, your hands clenching back up.
Damage control, quick!
"And I love you!" He says, quickly turning and pointing to another person on the subway platform. They look surprised, perking up, pointing one finger to their chest as if to say Who, me?
"And you!" Clark can't stop now; he's probably overdoing it, but your hands are still clenched up.
He gestures a bit too wildly to the rest of the crowd, who have, humiliatingly, all started paying rapt attention. "I love… all citizens of Metropolis!"
He spots the glint of a phone camera in someone's hand.
Oh, cheese and crackers, he thinks to himself in dismay — already imagining how Justice Gang will have a field day with this video.
Gosh, even his damage control needs damage control. With a stilted and awkward nod, Clark remembers he does actually have a job to finish here—taking a few steps back and taking flight back through the subway tunnel.
Wind rushing past his noticeably warmer ears, Clark doesn't doubt it'll be an interesting conversation with you tonight.
Regardless, with one final glance over his shoulder, he can't help but think of it as the final sign he needs.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
It takes you until you're at least halfway home, stopping right in the middle of the sidewalk, to remember that you should text Clark.
The love confession from Superman, the subway stopping—either could be responsible for providing a rampant distraction. You're really late now, without any forewarning.
You hope he's at least let himself in and made himself comfy in your space while he waits.
Though, you should text him about what happened on the subway.
It had worried him so much last time, not knowing about the mugging - not that he seemed annoyed with you, thankfully. You pull out your phone and narrowly avoid getting shoulder-checked by a stranger, stepping to the side just in time.
You're still sort of frazzled, so the stranger's rudeness manages to bounce right off you for once.
You're staring at your phone, eyes a bit glazed, when a text slides onto the screen. You blink, focus, and it takes another second to comprehend the words.
Clark (Lois' Co-worker): I got held up at work, sorry! Still coming over :) See you soon! I hope everything's okay with you.
It's a relief. You're not sure when he sent the text, it says delivered just now, but at least he was late too.
Acutely, you realise you'd actually have been quite miffed if there was no update from Clark, given how off schedule you are.
Which, well, that in itself was surprising—Darren had never cared about your lack of updates. Or rather, he seemed quite happy to never bother to give you any.
Obviously, it had taken some time to adapt to Clark's nature - where caring is as easy as breathing.
And now it's not him that surprises you; it's your own expectations.
The want to know there was someone waiting on the other side of the line, prepared to leave the light on for you.
It's… a nice feeling, knowing that you expect it now. Knowing that it's what you deserve.
You send off a text, short and to the point, and find yourself rushing a little faster back to your apartment.
Lights on, shoes off, coat off, lamps on, big-lights off. You go through the motions of getting yourself comfortable in your home, and it soothes your hackles the way only routine can.
You just get around to taking a peek into the fridge, though your appetite is missing, when there's a familiar knocking pattern on your door.
You know he has a key — you meet him at the door anyway.
"Hi honey," He's talking before he's even in the door, all rushing and flustered in a way he often isn't. "I'm real sorry I'm late—"
"Clark," you interrupt. In an uncharacteristic move, you're reaching out first, your hands resting on his arms, pulling him in so you can be nearer. "It's okay. I just got home too. We're both late today."
The door snicks shut behind him, and Clark matches your touchiness with ardour.
His hands slide along your arms to sit on your lower back. They're so warm. You tilt your chin up and think of how lucky you really are that he keeps coming around to see you.
"I'm still sorry, I—" He's talking as he slips his shoes off, til he notices the bandage on your forehead, eyebrows creasing. "What happened to your head?"
"I hit it," you explain. "On the subway. It stopped a bit fast."
Clark looks relieved at that. His shoulders fall, but his hands on your back tighten, tugging you in a little closer. You scuff your foot and step on his accidentally. He doesn't appear to mind.
"Didn't you get my text?" You ask.
He shakes his head. "My phone died, and I had to stay late at work but, all day, I had a bad feeling that you were in trouble."
He's not smiling like he usually is when he looks at you. His concern is still there, pulling down the edges of his mouth, changing his handsome face.
"I'm okay," you assure him, hands shifting up, sliding up to loop around his neck.
One of his hands shifts up, delicately drifting over the bandages, but not quite touching.
"You are?"
He's frowning at the wound as though he can heal it through sheer sympathy.
"I am," you say.
"You're sure?"
You can't help but smile, because usually you're the one double-checking everything. Your smile seems to settle something in Clark because it's what gets him to relax, a relieved but tired-sounding sigh escaping him.
His eyes soften on you, lashes kissing together at the ends, a sheepish smile pulling on his pink lips.
"I'm sorry to fuss. I get it from my Pa." He leans in and kisses just beside the split skin of your forehead, a quick peck.
You shrug in his hold, suddenly feeling a bit shy. "I like the fussing, I think. When it's you."
"Yeah?" Clark says, eyes brighter. "Good. Great. I love fussing over you. Did you eat?"
You shake your head. "No, but a lady on the subway gave me a muesli bar, so I'm not too hungry."
"I can make you something later, if you like." He says, easy as pie. "What about the subway? Want to tell me about what happened?"
You don't, you've decided. Now that he's here, in your arms, a part of you that doesn't arise all that often has awoken.
You shake your head, still smiling, and push up on your toes. "I just want you to kiss me."
This time, it's Clark who takes a little inhale before your lips reach his. His surprise gets muffled against your lips, but there's no part of you that can doubt his enthusiasm when he kisses back, arms tightening around your back, pulling you ever closer.
"Kiss you?" He murmurs against your lips, his smile melting into a grin. "Absolutely, ma'am."
It's like a floodgate opens. Clark's hands shift down, gifting a squeeze to your hips before— there's sudden motion, and you squeak against his lips as you're abruptly hoisted up into his arms without warning.
He carries you like you weigh nothing, strong hands gripping your thighs, bracketing you against him. The show of strength - the display of desire - sends something white-hot down your spine. You're on the same wavelength tonight, you can tell.
And he does it all without breaking the kiss.
Clark is devastatingly good at kissing you.
He kisses, kisses, kisses your mouth, like it's all that he wants, like he's envious of everything else your lips have touched.
It feels a bit unfair, you decide, that he just seems to know how to flip every switch to turn you on. Something warmer is definitely pumping through your blood, feeding itself on Clark's insatiable kisses.
But his adeptness, paired with how fervently he kisses you, strikes a sudden, uncomfortable thought in you.
The thought that he may have been holding back—for your sake.
You know couples tend to have sex a little earlier on. Some people even have sex with people they barely know. You're not one of those people.
Clark is also pretty good at not assuming. What you do or don't want— you like that he just asks.
But, still, there's some beaten-in worry from past experience. Where people get to know you and all your finicky ways, they start assuming what you want, without ever just asking.
It starts as care. It always ends as overshadowing.
Pulling back from the kiss, you ask outright, "Does it bother you that we haven't had sex yet?"
Because it's true. In the eyes of the law, if you had to pick a standard, you and Clark have fooled around but done nothing more.
In medieval times, you'd likely have brought shame on your family for not consummating the marriage.
(Not that you and Clark are married at all, in any way - though the thought brings a hot flush to your face. He'd be a very good husband.)
Clark comes to a stop, still holding you up effortlessly. His cheeks splotch a jammy colour, his expression coloured with surprise. "Wha— we've- I mean, we've had sex." He seems unsure, as if your question has perplexed him. "Haven't we?"
"I mean penetrative sex." You clarify.
Clark blinks, still holding you halfway through the doorway. His glasses are slipping down his nose and you slip your hand up to press them back up. You leave it there, cupped on his cheek.
"No," he says easily, his eyes searching yours. His brows pinch together. "No, it doesn't bother me. Does it bother you?"
You shrug.
He asks, "Do you want to?"
You find it a peculiar question.
"Do I want it to bother me?"
"No," Clark laughs - not at you, never at you - back to that ever-endeared smile you think might be reserved only for you. "Do you want to, uh, well…"
It's somewhat amusing to see Clark fumble for the right words, the pinkness of his cheeks reaching up to his ears.
"Is that something you'd want?" He says finally, cheeks still the colour of strawberries, but something more set in his expression. "I don't mean to be forward, especially if this isn't something you're interested in, but I… I would like to."
You feel like you don't think about sex as much as the average person. Well, there's thinking about it, and then there's having it.
It had been one of the points of strife in your last relationship. You've been trying hard not to measure yourself against other standards — trying especially hard not to compare it to the one and only other person you've slept with, Darren.
Clark is different. He's proven that a thousand times. You'd quite like to know what that kind of sex is like with him.
Given everything else you've tried, each and every lusty feeling Clark's managed to draw out from you with just his fingers, you can't imagine it will be anything other than maddeningly good.
"I think so, yes." You say decisively.
After a moment, with Clark still unmoving, you realise you've forgotten your manners. "Please." You tack on.
He's still as pink as ever in the face, but your politeness seems to knock him out of his train of thought.
There's a moment where his gaze roams your face with ardent affection — then he's leaning in again, mouth finding yours, a kiss that sets your stomach stirring.
"Yeah," he murmurs. "I can - we can, of course, honey. No need to say please."
His feet finally begin to wander, this time towards your bedroom.
You let yourself fall into his kisses, let him carry you to bed, let him kneel upon it and lay you back like you're a princess in a fairy-tale. You feel like one, being carried around in his burly arms.
He begins to kiss your neck. It tickles, so you giggle.
You might not quite fit as a princess in your mind, but Clark is definitely a righteous knight.
"What?" Clark asks, pulling back from your neck, eyes shining brightly.
"You're like a knight." you tell him, reaching up to bury your fingers into his hair. "I bet you'd look really good with a sword."
Clark laughs, the sound like spun-gold, and catches one of your hands trailing through his hair. He plants a kiss on the palm of your hand. "Sweetheart, you sound delirious." Another kiss, this time to your knuckles. "I love it. I love you. I'll be your knight."
You really like that idea. He's already so good at being devoted to you that you're not really sure what would change.
"I love you too. Please keep kissing me." You say, a little breathier than before.
Clark obliges, more than willingly.
Together, you fall into the familiar dance, heated and close, lips chafing as the kisses come easily.
All the while, you can feel it—the drizzle of something hotter pooling low in your gut. The buzz under your skin. The rabidness that rears up in response to being kissed so readily, so hungrily.
It's a kiss-fest.
And your neck must be a feast— is what you would be thinking if there was any comprehensible thought in your mind, with Clark's mouth on your pulse point.
He’s so good at what he does — so good at knowing just what you like.
He kisses messily, licks gently, and nibbles teasingly, and you give up a myriad of gaspy-sounding noises in response.
His hands move in small motions.
One hand stays planted on your waist, his fingers caressing in small, baby circles. Stable. Reliant.
His other hand is more exploratory. His thumb dips beneath the fabric of your shirt, drawing a slow, skirting line across the skin of your stomach. It feels like molten lava. The blood beneath his touch sings gloriously.
You shudder and clutch his back — enough to make him pause.
"Okay?" His voice is lower, his breath a bit more ragged. It never takes much for him to get like this, you've found. "Need a breather?"
You shake your head, because the last thing you want him to do is stop. There's a heat gathering between your thighs you desperately would like some relief for.
"No," you say, but it's a bit shaky.
He takes your word for it - which is still so nice. He trusts you to know yourself, even when you're unsure yourself.
But this part isn't new to either of you. Clark leaves your neck riddled with lovebites until he coaxes your shirt off you, after asking ever-so politely in a rasp that only adds to your growing lust.
He doesn't near the clip of your bra — you've told him you feel a bit sexier when it stays on — but still drags his fingers across the seam of the cups, his eyes darker, with a hum, "You're so pretty, honey."
The sheets are soft against the bare skin of your back. The sounds in the room are sweet, heavy.
Your low-light lamp paints the ceiling golden. Clark's hands are focused on the edges of your pants, fingers curling in only slightly.
It's a rhythm you know well. This lead-up, this push and pull, where you and Clark reduce each other to kiss-flustered messes in your bed.
The fact that this desire is a well-known feeling now makes you feel so damn sweet on Clark, so in love, you want to bury your face in your pillow. It's the same firework feeling as when he called you sweet girl.
You feel your hands on his back begin to tremble, so you tip your head to the side and press your face firmly into the comforter.
You don't want Clark to take it the wrong way, even if you've done this before.
You don't want this to be the time it's too much for him - not when you'd asked him. You try to swallow down the big emotion as subtly as you can.
Clark notices — because he always notices.
His mouth is pressed to the hollow of your throat, and you feel it pause, then feel him shift up, face to face with you. "Honey?"
"M'okay," you tell him honestly. You squeeze your eyes shut tight to try to control that buzzing rabidness that's running rampant beneath your skin.
You can't tell if it's making you uncomfortable, just that it's a lot - but you still know that you really don't want Clark to stop.
Especially when you move, shifting one leg up to press against his hip and feel the hard shape of him against you. A heady warmth throbs between your thighs. God, he's so hot and nice, and he's all yours.
"Just-" It comes out jittery, the word barely beating your sharp inhale.
Your eyes are still closed to keep the sensations at a minimum. Clark, lovingly, stays as still as he can for you.
"Just, it's like, being wound up. It's good. You make me feel good, just it's," A jagged exhale now. "A lot. I haven't felt it - like, it hasn't always been this way for me. I'm worried."
You finally open your eyes, and Clark's above you, his dark hair messier than usual. He's still pink in the face, dimples showing, blue eyes fixed on you.
"You're worried?" He asks sincerely.
"Yes."
A beat, his smile a little less now. "About what?"
You try to consolidate it all down into one sentence. A car whirs by outside, a kiss of wind brushing past your window.
Your hands slip forward, one holding his neck, to feel for his pulse. The drum of it grounds you.
"That it's not going to be good," you eventually say. Then, the more truthful answer. "That I'm not going to be good at it. With you."
Clark studies you for a moment, his maddening dimples disappearing as he thinks it over seriously.
There are no rushed assurances. You're thankful for that — people don't tend to mean those as much.
"Do you trust me?" He asks. "To be honest with you?"
He swallows thickly as he says it but holds his attention on you strong. You're so used to feeling unnerved by eye-contact, but Clark's gaze is like the buttery warmth of the sun. You glow beneath it.
"I do." You say. "You don't lie to me."
You watch Clark's throat as it bobs with another swallow. "Right. Well, then you know I mean it when I say there isn't anything you can do wrong."
Another car engine drones by on the street. His words take another second to sink in.
There isn't anything you can do wrong.
It's such a sentiment, such a wholly encompassing love he offers you, that you struggle to comprehend it. Surely, he can't mean…?
You're so used to it being a problem somewhere. Your different ways, your particular needs — it's always a thing.
You didn't realise you've still been waiting for it to crop up between you and Clark.
There has to be something he can't handle. Something you do wrong — because you always do something wrong.
You have to double-check. "Nothing?"
Clark shakes his head with vehemence, curls flying. He grins, dimples back on display, and gives another squeeze of your middle. "Honey, everything you do is right."
He says it like an oath. Now that's a goddamn sentiment.
One that feels less like a firework and more like a shooting star to your system. Bright, burning hot, right into your sternum. You choke on your next inhale, hoping you aren't making some ugly emotional face.
You can't really put into words what it means to hear it. You try your best.
"That's," you bite your lip, hard. "That's really nice." Despite how you try, you still sound a bit teary.
"Oh, sweet girl," Clark crowds in close, peppering kisses across your face.
He doesn't kiss you on the lips, like he can sense you need the oxygen. One dots your forehead, then your temple. His care only feeds your craving for him.
It takes a second to compose yourself enough to ask him, the words still a bit shaky when you ask, "Can we keep having sex even though I almost cried, please?"
Clark pulls back, expression earnest. "Absolutely."
He kisses you now, like he's sealing the promise.
You hum into his mouth, letting him taste the gasp in your throat when his fingers find your waistline again, deftly working open the button of your jeans.
You don't want him to stop kissing you, but it's impossible to wrangle your jeans off without it.
He works them off your ankles and then looks back up at you, warm hands resting on your calves. "Do you want to keep your socks on?"
"Yes, please."
"Okay, honey." He grins again, like every word out your mouth is endearing.
He begins working on the buttons of his work shirt, getting them off much faster than you have in the past. You get too excited to focus on such little motions.
He sheds the button-up and it makes a pale pool on your bedroom floor. He's wearing a white undershirt beneath it - that's quickly removed too.
His arms shift up, reaching behind his neck to pull it over his head. His biceps bulge. The sight of Clark's chest, tan as the rest of him, broad, and made up of pillowy muscles you know are good for sleeping on, inspires a feverish heat in you.
God, you're the luckiest girl in all of Metropolis.
You watch him, feeling like the whole world is soaked in honey, everything sweet and golden and good.
There's more kissing. Clark is so very attuned to you; it's like he can sense the tides of your desire as it washes in and out.
Too much time spent on removing clothing, however necessary, and you get finicky and worried. Kisses soothe it all away.
You're holding his shoulders, toned and strong. The cords of his muscles shift under your palms. You have the delirious urge to bite him — or give him a hickey right between the pecs, where the trail of hair begins.
He's so handsome. You love his arms, his chest, his stomach. You give thought to calling off the sex so you can spend the evening kissing every inch of him instead.
Clark discards that thought for you with a touch of his fingers.
He eases you into sex gently, deft fingers drawing a warm line up the inside of your thigh. When he reaches the apex, his fingers give a soft rub through your underwear, just the right pressure.
You burn hotly, lust brushing at the fringes of your nerves, and try not to squirm too much.
"Clark," you murmur his name — it's half a sigh of relief, half a plea for more.
"I got you, honey," he says easily, increasing the pressure, his thumb angled more precisely. His breath fans across your stomach. "M'just going slow, making sure it's gonna be good, yeah?"
The cotton between your legs grows stickier, and you can't resist shifting around. You're still not used to this - to it being this good.
He makes you feel unwound. You're not used to being so unstitched around anyone else. But it's Clark, so you trust him.
"Okay," you say breathily. "I love you."
Clark smiles— not that you can see it with your eyes closed — but you feel it against the skin of your stomach. He kisses your navel. "I love you too."
He works you open with his fingers, slow and gentle, with that coo in his voice that keeps you tethered to reality.
You can feel the sweat on your lower back, the tightness in your chest, but it's all overshadowed by the drool of pleasure that's aching through your core.
The air is heavy, swirling with the scent of lovers, imbued with the little noises that escape you.
Clark knows they'll haunt his dreams; the hiccupy gasps, the breathy groans. The sound of his name in your mouth, soaked with pleasure, makes him a little light-headed with how fast his blood rushes south.
At some point, Clark loses his pants, though if you tilt your head, you can spot them at the edge of the bed. He's wearing plaid boxers. There's a trail of hair on his stomach, leading down into them.
The quavering feeling returns, the tremble to your body that isn't so much to do with pleasure.
Clark checks in, blue eyes focused on your face, both hands stilled where they hold your hips. His fingers are still slick, and they feel cool against your blazing skin.
"You're doing good," he tells you, low and gentle. "Take your time, sweetheart."
You take a deep, staggering breath and nod to let him know you hear him. Your hair scrunches against the sheets.
It helps too. You can feel every tingle upon the surface of your skin, but you're trying to think that isn't a bad thing.
He's told you that you're doing good — he told you that everything you do is right.
The overwhelm you feel, the breathers you take — it doesn't have to be good or bad; it just is.
He loves you all the same.
It's a different sensation when he eases himself in to you, fire zinging up your spine. An ache like no other settles between your hips.
But there's something new in Clark too, a furrow in his brow, his bottom lip trapped behind his teeth. His chest heaves, and desire-drenched sounds drag from his lips, a beautiful low moan.
This is different. It's not him taking care of you. It's you together, taking care of each other.
Your back arches off the bed, chest pushed out, as he buries himself in you at a slow, sensual pace.
The shooting star feeling remains in your chest, driving your hands to wander fervently — you cup his face, stroke his neck, coax him down and finally give in to the urge to bite his shoulder.
Clark groans, a deep sultry sound that begs you to widen your legs. You whisper to eachother, admissions of love, pleases, and thank-you's too.
When it's over, the room smells like sex. It's humid in a way it wasn't before.
There's a satisfaction that's bone-deep, a happiness that wriggles through your veins and comes out in the form of a very content sigh.
Clark is much the same, his face half pressed into your pillow, back still rising and falling with his breaths. He's smiling, but he looks a bit tired.
You comb your fingers through his hair because you can't stand to not be touching him right now.
People talk of soulmates, and you think that, given the probability of that being true, combined with the statistics on finding them with all the billions of people on Earth, it's probably a bit of hogwash.
Well, you did think that. Whether or not they exist, found or made, there's some part of Clark you think might be made just right for you.
Fate, as he first proposed to you. It feels like the only explanation for this — for Clark. For the easiness in which everything comes with him.
Your nightstand clock tells you it's late, evidenced by the darkness outside too.
It's been a long day. You stroke through Clark's curls, his eyes resting closed, and the orgasm loosens your tongue. You feel compelled to tell him what happened earlier today. You don't like to keep secrets.
"Clark," you say, smiling when he makes a little mhm? in response, peeking open an eye. "Superman said 'I love you' to me today."
That gets his attention. Both eyes open, blinking at you across the bed. He pushes up, resting his head in his hand, then clears his throat.
"Oh," he says. "Well, actually, about that." He looks as though he's steeling himself, and a tinge of worry feathers through you.
But then Clark says, "The thing is… Superman didn't say I love you; I did."
You blink at him. The words don't comprehend. You know what you heard today.
"What?" You ask, genuinely confused.
He seems to realise a mistake he's made. "Crumbs. Sorry, I'm not trying to be elusive. I'm trying to tell you that I'm, uh, …I'm Superman."
You still can't understand.
You can hear the words, can understand what they mean individually, but you don't get what he's trying to tell you.
"I don't understand," you say, pressing yourself up to sitting. This feels serious.
"I'm Superman," Clark repeats gently, not rushing or annoyed. It's you instead who is getting frustrated, because saying it the same exact way isn't helping you.
"Clark," you say, voice a bit thin. "I don't understand what you're saying. Please don't just repeat yourself."
He matches your position, sitting up to face you, sheets pooling at his waist. He reaches out, a caring touch on your knee. "Superman, the superhero that flies around, saves the city, blue suit, red cape?"
You nod, following so far.
"It's me. I'm him." He says with an exhaled breath. "I'm not from Earth. I have abilities that humans don't. I spend my spare time trying to help people as best I can — which is why Superman said 'I love you' to you."
The touch on your knee rises, fingertips brushing your cheek delicately. "Because he's me. And I love you."
He chuckles a little bashfully, his eyes dancing away for a moment, his hand dropping. "And sometimes, saying it is too much of a habit to realise you still don't know this about me."
You blink, and this time, the explanation strings together in a way that makes sense.
The revelation sinks its teeth in. Clark, your beautiful, doting boyfriend, is also Superman.
Superman is Clark. Superman is your boyfriend. You're… dating Superman.
Another owlish blink. You can't help but think of all his articles.
"You interviewed him. You interviewed... yourself?"
Clark's expression turns sheepish. "Yes, I have. I- I do."
He knows to let it sit. Let you turn the new information over in your mind, shaping it into new questions and discoveries. He's Superman.
You think back to all the encounters over the last month — the almost mugging, the unexpected closeness, the way he seemed to know that you'd had a bad day. Because he did know.
"It's why you're late." You say, not a question.
For some reason, that makes Clark blush, as though he's embarrassed by his rudeness. "Most of the time, yes."
"How come you don't look like him?"
Clark reaches back to your bedside table, where he's deposited his glasses in the rush of getting undressed.
"These. They have some hypno technology, so my face looks quite different to people when I'm wearing them. Since I don't always wear them when I'm with you, you know what I actually look like but,"
He peers at you through his lashes, a kind smile on his face. "I just don't think you were looking for it."
You're not the suspicious kind, he means. You take things as they are.
Side by side, with the explanation before you, it makes sense. Superman has always looked a little like Clark. Or Clark has always looked a bit like Superman.
"You don't lie to me," you say in explanation.
Somehow, this doesn't feel like a lie either — or like you've been deceived.
You're well acquainted with putting on a new persona when you're at work, a more polished, smiley version of yourself that makes your jaw sore from holding it stiffly all day. It's a mask. This… This feels like the same thing.
Some things can't be done as Clark.
Some things have to be Superman.
And now he wants you to know — to have — both.
You twist your fingers into the sheets of your bed tightly, hoping it'll help you think.
"And I'm sorry that I had to, honey," Clark apologises sincerely, placing the glasses on the blankets between you.
He does appear to be troubled by the thought of keeping this from you. "I didn't like keeping secrets from you. You're so good at keeping out of danger, it was easy to keep this part of my life hidden from you."
You mull over his words, trying hard to analyse the emotions stirring up within your chest.
There's no rulebook or blog-post you can convene with to know how to feel about it. You're not sure you feel much of anything, other than a dim surprise. It just… makes sense.
Truthfully, if you had found out when you met Clark, it might have been too much.
Clark was already such a surprise — that he came around to see you, that he kept coming around. Someone that kind, that handsome, wanting to make the effort for you.
He'd been just Clark then.
If he'd been Superman too, beloved hero of Metropolis, coming around to deliver you freshly-baked goods and kisses, maybe you'd have been scared off. Maybe not. Somehow, you're only glad you don't have to know how to feel about that.
You just have to know what you feel now.
A different question jumps off your tongue.
"What does flying feel like?"
Clark's expression gives away his astonishment, a wide-eyed blink that melts into a genuine smile.
"It's, uh, it's very fun. It's like," His mouth twists as he considers it, before he shakes his head. "It's like nothing else. My parents had to give me strict rules about flying around the house growing up, I love it that much."
His parents. For some reason, you hadn't expected them to know.
Then you feel a bit silly — Superman has always been open about how he came to be here, on Earth. Someone had to have raised him.
You think of the photo Clark keeps on his work desk — or the one in his wallet, next to the photo of you — of Ma and Pa Kent.
The thought of baby Clark whizzing about the farmhouse he described growing up in is a delightful thought.
Untwisting your fingers from the sheets, you glance down and ask, "Why now?"
This is the first question to make him sigh.
You lift your gaze, watching as he rubs a hand across his face wearily, "Because I messed up. I didn't mean to give you such a strange encounter with Superman, but I also don't want to lie to you any more than I already have."
He shifts in the bed, shuffling closer till his knees press against yours.
He reaches for your hands, no longer toying with the sheets but still amongst the covers. He holds them tenderly, cradled in his.
"And I didn't tell you earlier for lots of reasons. It's not safe, for one." His thumbs trace over the backs of your hands, his face open, eyes a shade of blue you feel you haven't seen before. Maybe it's because you're seeing him, seeing all of him, for the first time.
"But the main reason is that I like… I love who I get to be with you.
"I'm just Clark," he says, the words softer than sweetness. "I'm just your boyfriend. I have to make a lot of hard decisions, every day, as Superman. With you, it's… it's just what makes you happy. And that's an easy decision, every time."
At some point, you've clutched his hands back. There's that same stupid sharpness back in your chest, stinging your eyes with the promise of tears.
He just wants to make you happy. Like it's a relief to come home to you, at the end of a hard day saving the world.
Like, you just might be his respite.
You try press the sharp feeling back, but you can tell he knows. He always seems to just know.
He doesn't interfere, just strokes his thumbs along the back of your hands again — and is ready for it when you burst forward into him.
His arms are around you, holding you tight, and your face tucks away into his neck.
"Okay," you say, sniffling through the word - because how else can you respond to something that magnanimous? You're the relief of a man who has the weight of the world on his shoulders. "Okay."
"Okay?" Clark echoes, the word threaded with a slight amusement. "You'll allow it?" He jests.
But you nod in response all the same. He sits back, leaning into your mountain of pillows, and takes you with him, all bundled up in his arms.
You're leaning into his chest, skin to skin, and the contentedness within you hasn't shifted. Hasn't balked at the face of his secret.
"I love you." You whisper - and feel Clark's arms tighten in response. "Thank you for telling me."
"I love you." He mirrors, pressing a long, firm kiss into your hair. He murmurs into it, unwilling to give up any distance between you. "Do you have any questions?"
"Plenty." You say automatically, dead serious — and you jostle on his chest as Clark laughs at that, because, really, he should expect this from you. "So many. I can't believe I'm dating an alien."
"I'm not sure if I should apologise…?" He says, amused.
"No," You press a kiss to his chest, above where his heart is, mumbling against his skin. "That came out bad. I don't mean it in a bad way. Sorry."
"Don't be." He kisses your head again, and sleepiness hangs above you, drawing nearer.
He's so warm. He's like a space heater. You laugh tiredly to yourself because - yeah, he literally is.
He tells you, "I'll answer any question you have."
You're melting into him, cocooned in his arms, tucked away from the world.
Still, you can hear it — another drone of a car engine, the chatter of people on the street, the honk of a faraway driver. Close, but unable to touch this bubble you and Clark exist in.
"Anything?" You ask.
It comes out as a sleepy whisper.
You feel, more than hear, the hum Clark gives in return. He draws a long, soothing stroke over your back, his hand warm.
You think of the question you want answered most.
"Will you stay the night, please?"
You don't really need to ask—he stays most nights now—but it's a habit.
There's a concerning moment where you hear the wobbly inhale Clark takes—but then you can feel his smile pressed into your hairline. You picture his dimples.
You feel him shift, one arm leave you, and the click of your lamp.
The amber saps away, and darkness blankets the both of you, wrapping you up.
"Of course, honey," he murmurs, like there's only one answer he could give. In his arms, you realise you're the safest person on the whole planet.
Huh, you think tiredly, as sleep drapes over you, gentle and warm. Guess you aren't so different from all those other citizens of Metropolis, after all.
They follow Superman into danger.
You suppose, in some ways, so would you.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
if you made it this damn far, kudos!! thank u for reading mammoth of a fic <3 i hope you enjoyed it and if you so felt inspired, i hope you wouldn't mind letting me know what you think! :)
special thanks to my beloved citrine @citrinesparkles for being an open ear, grease for writers block, many ideas contributor and cheerleader extraordinaire
some usual moots as well <3 as always, no pressure friends ! @spideystevie @sanguineterrain @headkiss @djarinova
You're similar to Bucky. It's why the two of you are good friends. You both appreciate dimly lit bars, prolonged silences, and violence being the answer to most problems. The sex isn't half-bad, either.
She's the complete opposite of you. Sunshine personified. She bakes, wears colorful dresses, and is never in a bad mood. But it seems like she might be exactly what Bucky wants, and needs.
Content Warning: FWB!Bucky x Avenger!F!Reader, mature themes, smut, angst, unrequited feelings, jealous!reader, insecurity, pining, nightmares, trauma, PTSD, i started writing this before watching thunderbolts so this is a good old-fashioned Avengers tower fic.
word count: 14k
"We head out in the morning," He tells you, his voice at a low hum. "Gonna be my longest mission in a while."
You turn your head to face him, raising a brow as your finger runs around the rim of your beer bottle. "Are you trying to bait me into saying I'm gonna miss you, Sergeant?" You ask him, pulling a smirk from his lips.
"I know better than that, gunner," He replies before taking a long sip of beer. "Just letting you know ahead of time, so you can prepare for the cold, lonely nights ahead."
"Steve's not going, is he?" You question coyly, holding back your laugh.
All you get in response is an eye roll.
You like the bar when it's empty. No lavish party being thrown, no strangers attempting to socialize with you, no pressure. Just you and Bucky making a dent in Tony's good stuff, and christening a couple of the couches while you're in here.
"So, you'll be gone when I wake up," You begin, meeting his eyes with yours. "I think that means you owe me a good night."
"Yeah?" He utters, before wrapping his hand around the leg of your stool and dragging you closer to him. "And how, exactly, do I give you that?"
"You should know by now, Serge," You reply, tracing his right bicep with your finger. His arms might be your favorite thing about him.
"No, I wanna hear it from you," Bucky says lowly, leaning in closer. "In detail. Tell me what you want me to do to you."
Your stomach flips, and your heart beats a little faster. Don't show him how much he affects you. Don't give him the satisfaction. "I want you to bend me over this bar and fuck me," You say bluntly. "Hard."
"Yeah?" He mumbles, getting that dazed look in his eyes as he places his hand on your thigh and squeezes it. "Do you deserve it?"
Unable to keep collected, you let go of your pride and give in. He's the only one who gets you like this - the only one you trust with this side of you. "Bucky," You almost beg. "Please."
"There it is," He breathes out smugly. "That's my girl. Keep going; I'm not sure you've earned it yet."
Needing to feel him against you, you get off your stool and onto his lap, legs on either side of his. "Please, Sergeant, I need you really bad," You whine, moaning as you feel his boner against you.
His lips part and a shaky breath escapes his mouth. You're the only one who gets him like this - the only one he trusts with this side of him. "Give me a kiss, baby," Bucky mumbles, his hands moving down to your waist.
And, to his credit, he gives you a fucking great night. And, like you expected, he's gone in the morning.
"Couldn't this wait until next week's debrief?" You complain as you walk alongside Natasha down the corridors.
"Tony said we needed a short catch-up; there are apparently a few important updates he wants to give us," She tells you as you approach the meeting room.
"Is he finally gonna tell the spider boy to stop eating my protein bars?" You grumble before pushing open the door to the room.
You're surprised to see not only Avengers, but SHIELD agents in the room, too, as well as some others you don't recognise. The chairs around the table are all taken, so you and Natasha elect to stand against one of the walls, next to a group of agents that are familiar to you. Everyone's talking amongst themselves as it seems Tony still hasn't arrived. Trust him to be late to his own meeting.
"Good morning, Bloodhound," An agent standing next to you says with a nervous smile on his face, making you grimace.
The name that Oscorp gave you during their experiments on you unfortunately stuck in the minds of the public and anyone else you're not close to, and though you're not fond of it, you're not sure what else you'd rather they call you. The other Avengers usually use your first name, but you wouldn't want to give the agents that same access to you. Bucky calls you gunner as a reference to your time in the army, and as a response to you refusing to call him anything but Sergeant. Though the name Bloodhound has dark memories attached to it, you've learned to live with the fact that it's what you'll always be known as.
"I, uh, saw you running in Central Park this morning," The agent continues. "I see you there quite a lot, actually."
With narrow eyes, you glare at him. Your runs are an escape from reality, so to know they're being infiltrated by a stalkerish agent isn't the best feeling in the world.
"I was thinking," He goes on to say with a small smile. "Maybe we could run togeth-"
"What the fuck are you doing?" You cut him off coldly. Have you not built up your reputation enough? Why does he feel confident enough to ask to join you on your fucking runs?
His face drops and his cheeks flush pink, and he immediately turns to face the front.
Natasha snorts before nudging you. "Be nice," She mumbles.
You turn to her with an incredulous look. "Why?" You ask her, genuinely curious to hear her answer.
It's no secret that you aren't the most welcoming or warm of people - it took you three months to let Natasha into your room - and you don't care how it comes across. Admittedly, the trauma you faced at the hands of Osborn and Oscorp rid you of any fucks to give when it comes to being nice. Maybe you sound bitter and unfair, but you've done the therapy thing and you know it's not right to blame the world for what you went through- but that doesn't mean you have to be friends with everyone.
Most people suck. You'd rather not waste your energy on them.
Finally, Tony walks into the room with Pepper. "Sorry I'm late, folks," He calls out as the hubbub in the room quietens. "We haven't got a lot to get through, though, so I promise I won't be long."
While he talks through the more boring updates, you pull out your phone to check if Bucky's messaged you. It's a bad habit, and one that's only recently started. You've found yourself anticipating him; waiting for him to say something to you. It's a bad habit.
Sergeant Barnes
Just landed in Croatia.
It's been a full ten minutes and Sam hasn't mentioned Steve yet, so you owe me twenty bucks
Your lip pulls up at the corner but before you can subtly text him back, Natasha nudges you hard.
"Is he serious?" She asks you, looking at Tony with her brows furrowed.
Deciding to listen in, you put your phone away and focus on the meeting. "There won't be a huge difference and it'll be business as usual, but a few of you are being moved into other departments as a result of the government's involvement," Pepper says, to which Tony rolls his eyes. "They think it would be beneficial to create a role specifically focused on wellbeing."
"They still don't trust that I know what I'm doing," He adds, failing to hide the bitterness in his tone. "So I'd like everyone to welcome Poppy Newton; our Team Coordination and Wellness Officer."
Everyone's eyes go to the woman sitting in the middle of the table, including yours. Her baby blue dress and yellow-rimmed glasses make her stick out like a sore thumb among the agents in their dark tactical suits. The bright smile on her face only widens as the spotlight falls on her, and she looks around at everyone while she speaks.
"It's lovely to be here, and to be part of the team," She begins. "While I will be mainly stationed in the tower with a strong focus on the Avengers, I want the SHIELD agents to know that I'm just an email away."
"Lovely," Tony says, before clapping his hands together. "Alright, that's all for today. If anyone has any questions about their changed roles, ask Pepper, not me." While everyone else begins to file out of the room, Tony points at you and Natasha. "Girls, would you please be so kind as to show Poppy around?" He asks, though you know it's more of an order.
You grab Natasha's arm. "Hey, so uh, I was planning on training-"
"No, you're not getting out of this," She cuts you off bluntly. "Come on. It'll be good to meet her. After all; she's here to look after us."
With an inward sigh, you follow Natasha out of the meeting room where Poppy is waiting. She perks up when she sees you both, flashing you another one of those bright smiles.
"It's such an honour to be working with you Ms Romanoff, and Sergeant Y/L/N," She says.
"It's great to have you with us, Poppy, and please just call me Natasha; no need for the formalities," She responds politely. "Shall we start the tour?"
"Please!" Poppy chirps, before the three of you begin walking.
The tour consists of Natasha chatting away with Poppy, while you trail close behind. You know she's a part of the team now, but you can't see yourself being friends with Poppy - she describes things as wonderful and cosy, where you just see sweaty gyms and dusty common areas.
When the tour finally comes to an end and Poppy is dropped off to her room to settle in, you let out a long sigh and rest against the wall.
"She's nice!" Natasha exclaims, already knowing what you're thinking.
"She's exhausting," You grumble. "How can one person be so constantly... on?"
"You know, there are happy people in the world," She teases, nudging your shoulder before beginning to walk away. "Not everyone is as dark and gloomy as you!"
"Nah, I've sent Sam out on a beer run, and we're about 20 miles away from the nearest town, so I'll be alone for a little while," Bucky tells you over the phone. "How's it going over there? Steve said something about a big, important meeting we missed."
"I don't know about big and important," You reply flatly while mindlessly scrolling through movies on the TV opposite your bed. "Mostly just updates for the agents that make no difference to us. Oh, and Tony's had to hire someone to look after us."
"Look after us?" Bucky repeats with confusion in his tone.
"Yeah, I'm not actually sure what her job is, but the government sent her to make sure we don't go crazy or something," You tell him absentmindedly. "So far, she's printed off everyone's schedules on coloured paper, and I think she gave Steve a massage."
"A massage, hmm? You're making me excited to come home," He says, and you can hear the smirk.
"Oh, yeah? The idea of a woman you've never even seen gets you more excited than me?" You ask dryly, not genuinely offended but still wanting to push the boundaries of whatever your relationship with Bucky is.
"Is she hot?" He asks.
You think about it, tilting your head. "She's definitely pretty," You say. "I don't know if she's your type, though."
"So what you're saying is, she looks nothing like you?" He questions, to which you snort.
"Are you saying I'm your type?" You ask slyly. "And here I thought you were just getting your dick wet with the first person who could get it hard."
"Hey, you weren't the first," Bucky says defensively.
"I was the first who managed to keep it up," You point out.
"Doesn't that technically make you my type?" He wonders.
"Maybe I intellectually turn you on because of how smart I am," You poise. "Doesn't mean I'm physically your type. But I think Poppy definitely isn't your type."
"Poppy, huh? Sounds cute," He quips.
"Oh, cute is the perfect word for her because she uses it to describe, like, everything," You say with a dry laugh. "And she wears a lot of colors, and is always smiling, and bakes cookies every night."
"Alright, I'm beginning to see what you mean," Bucky says with a chuckle. "She's not you, baby."
As much as you hate that your heart takes him seriously when he makes off-handed comments like that, you can't help it when your stomach flips. "Anyway, when are you coming back? I'm bored and want sex," You say flatly. That's it. Make it about sex. Nothing romantic or emotional at all.
"We'll be back at some point tomorrow, we just need to wrap a few things up tonight," He tells you. "Then I'll wrap my thing up tomorrow night... and put it inside you."
"That was terrible. We don't even use condoms," You utter. "But I'm looking forward to it."
"You're not leaving me, are you?" He asks.
"I have my show to catch up on," You tell him.
"But I thought, you know, with Sam gone for a little bit, we could have some fun," He says suggestively.
You smirk to yourself and sink back into your pillow. "I don't think so, Sergeant," You reply. "You know I love it when you get back from a mission with all that pent up frustration you can take out on me. I'm not ridding myself of that opportunity. Especially not when you've been gone so long."
"Fuck, you're killing me," He groans. "You're really not gonna help me out?"
"No, and you're not allowed to help yourself out, either, so don't take it out your pants," You order him sternly.
"Too late. It's been out since you picked up."
"Sergeant Barnes!"
"You know your voice is enough for me. Can't I just listen to you rant about your show, or Poppy while I... help myself out?" He inquires.
"Absolutely not; you've been waiting all week so you can wait another night. And I don't want you to jerk off while I talk about another woman," You say curtly.
"Jealous, are we?"
There it is. The stinging J word. You tease each other with it, knowing it's the second emotion you aren't allowed to feel - the first being love. You and Bucky are just friends who have a lot of sex, and emotions would just get in the way of that.
"No, it's the principle," You claim. "I'm not helping you get off to someone else."
"I don't even know what she looks-"
"Listen, Sergeant, you are not allowed to cum until you next see me," You cut him off, sick of him thinking he has you on strings. "Put your pathetic little dick away and count sheep. And when you see me tomorrow, you're gonna fuck my brains out like it's the last time. Do you understand?"
There's a brief pause and he lets out a shaky breath. "Yes."
You sigh. "Yes, what?"
Another brief pause before he responds. "Yes... mommy."
"That's a good boy," You say. "I'll see you tomorrow."
"If you haven't killed me by then," He says with a strained voice. "Fuck, I can't wait to fuck you."
"Good night, Sergeant," You sing teasingly.
"Good night, you little shit."
Team dinners are one of the first things Poppy implemented as the Wellness Officer. She claims that quality time can lead to a 25% increase in efficiency and communication in the field, and you wonder what branch of the army she learnt that from.
While the others converse among each other, you play with your stew. It's almost 8pm and Bucky and Sam still aren't back, and if you have to wait another day, you aren't sure that you'll survive. One of the reasons you and Bucky started sleeping together was stress relief, and with Poppy's delightful presence having you on edge, you're as stressed as ever.
"More bread?" Steve asks as he holds the basket out to you.
"No, thank you, Captain," You reply, unable to speak to him any less formally. Your time as a weapon for the army left you with traits and behaviors you couldn't control, most of which you therapied away, but respect for those who rank above you is one of those things that just doesn't seem to budge.
Steve knows that, and though he hates that you're constantly at attention around him, waiting for an order or scolding, he understands that it's how you're wired.
"Poppy made it fresh," Tony tells you as he takes another piece, his eyes fluttering shut as he smells it. "And it's glorious."
With pink cheeks, Poppy shyly looks down at her bowl. If nothing else, it is interesting to have her around. Though nobody is quite as stoic or cold as you (besides Bucky on his bad days), none of the Avengers are anywhere near as upbeat and joyous as Poppy, either. You wonder how it works. Where does that energy come from? Is it naivety that makes her see the best in everything? Has she never been hurt, or betrayed? What's wrong with her?
Would you be like her if you didn't go through what you went through?
"Finally," Tony says as he looks down at his watch that just flashed with a notification. "The boys are back!"
Although you want to rush to the hangar and steal Bucky away to the nearest bed, you have an image of nonchalance to uphold, so you remain seated, taking another bite of your stew. It takes almost ten minutes for Sam and Bucky to get to the dining room, each minute driving you closer to the brink of insanity.
When you see him walk in, you shift in your seat but remain sitting. His eyes immediately land on you, and he shoots you a sly wink that makes your thighs squeeze together.
"Hey, come on in, sit down," Bruce greets them, pulling out the empty chair next to him. "You must be hungry."
"Nah, we filled up on MREs on our way back," Sam tells him, to which Wanda grimaces.
"I don't know how you guys actually eat those things," She says with a look of disgust on her face.
"They're army boys; they're used to 'em," Natasha says with a laugh.
"And they're much better nowadays than they were in the 40s," Bucky adds.
"Sure? Poppy made stew and fresh bread," Tony tells them, before perking up. "Oh! This is Poppy, by the way, our new Wellness Officer. Poppy, this is-"
"Sergeant Wilson, and Sergeant Barnes, it's an honor to meet you both," She says as she rushes to her feet, shaking each of their hands.
"Please, we're just Sam and Bucky in here," Sam tells her with a chuckle. "So, wellness, huh?"
While they chat, Bucky walks over to you. "Hey, do you mind if I discuss something with you? We found some files that might be linked to Oscorp, so I wanted you to have a look at them first," He says, and you know he's lying through his teeth and just wants to get you alone so he can ravage you. And, more than happy to comply, you stand up.
"Ooh, hold on!" Poppy calls out to you both. "As Sergea- Bucky has just arrived from a mission, I need to go through the debrief with him."
"We don't have debriefs until Captain Rogers and Tony look through the intel," You point out to her with a frown.
"Oh, no, not a mission debrief, per say," She says with a soft laugh. "More of a personal debrief. Just to make sure everyone comes back feeling good."
"I feel fine," Bucky says flatly.
Poppy laughs again, and you realize it's something she does when she's nervous. "I'd much prefer to talk about it one-on-one with you, Bucky," She says. "It's a new policy that's been put in place. I'll talk to you first, and then Sam, if that's okay?"
"Sure," Sam agrees while taking a piece of bread from the basket on the table.
"It's policy, Barnes," Tony sings, giving him a pointed look.
Letting out a sigh, Bucky nods. "Alright," He says, shooting you a quick look. "We'll discuss the Oscorp files later."
"Yep," You say, trying not to let your annoyance show as Poppy leads Bucky out of the room.
"Ooh, Y/N's boyfriend just got stolen," Clint sings teasingly, making Sam snort.
A cold glare is shot his way from you. "Fuck off, Barton," You utter. "Don't you have kids to raise?"
"They're at sleepaway camp!" He exclaims.
"You two should fight to the death," Tony casually suggests, standing up. "I'm taking bets, people."
"I'll put ten on Clint," Bruce says, raising his hand.
"What? Y/N's a super soldier that can make his blood explode," Wanda says with a scoff.
"That was one time, and I still haven't figured out how I did that," You tell her, before focusing your glare on Clint. "But what I do know is how to dislocate your shooting shoulder in less than a second."
He clutches it protectively. "Alright, I yield," He says, sitting back in his chair.
"Anyway, I'm going to bed before Poppy comes back and makes us all sing kumbaya," You say flatly, standing up.
Thor snorts, shaking his head. "She's a lovely girl, Y/N," He comments while you walk towards the door. "You oughta learn a thing or two from her!" He manages to get in before you leave the room.
You grumble all the way back to your room. Learn from her? What, how to perfectly place stickers on a chart?
You manage to watch an entire episode of your show and Bucky still doesn't arrive. For some reason, even though you know it likely isn't his fault that his talk with Poppy is taking so long, you still want to punish him, so you leave your room and head to one of the common rooms you know will be empty at this time.
This common room is filled with lava lamps and low lighting; Tony said it would be relaxing. Relaxing isn't something you're capable of, though, so you pace around the couch instead, letting your mind wander to dark places. Are they fucking? Or worse, emotionally connecting? What if he falls in love with her?
"Thought I'd find you here, gunner."
You spin around to see Bucky standing in the doorway in nothing but a pair of briefs, taking you aback.
"You're naked," You utter.
"I'm sorry I took so long," He begins. "It-"
"I don't care, Sergeant," You cut him off curtly. "Get over here, already."
He obeys you without another word, striding over to you. Once he reaches you, he immediately crashes his lips onto yours, his tongue slipping into your mouth as his hands squeeze your ass. It doesn't take long for him to remove your t-shirt and pyjama shorts before throwing you onto the couch with a look of hunger in his eyes.
"I thought about this every second that I was gone," He utters lowly, sinking to his knees. "Are you nice and wet for me, baby?"
Your hips lift up in anticipation as your breath hitches in your throat. "So fucking wet for you," You whisper.
He crawls over to you before leaning up and using nothing but his teeth to pull down your panties. Once they're off, he tightly grabs your thighs and spreads your legs. When he dives into your pussy, you cry out, your head thrown back against the couch.
Bucky wasn't always this good at eating you out- in fact, at first, he was borderline terrible. It was his first time going down on someone since the 40s, and you could tell. He was happy to take on your constructive criticism, though, and now you can honestly say he's the best oral sex you've ever had - you could also honestly say he's the best sex you've ever had, full stop, but you don't want to give him a bigger ego.
"Just like that, Bucky, don't stop," You whimper, tugging on his hair. His eyes are on you, his pupils so dilated you can barely see any blue.
His hands trail up your stomach, up to your tits. While his tongue fucks you, he pulls and twists on your nipples, making your legs shake. Your eyes roll back and your back arches. The long wait for this has meant you're not lasting very long at all, ready to cum already.
"That's it, baby, let go," He mumbles before sucking on your clit.
You let out a strangled cry, pulling his hair so hard you're sure you've left a bald patch, as you reach your climax. Bucky keeps going while you shake beneath him, letting out weak whimpers.
He eventually gives you a break and pulls away, crawling up onto the couch and settling between your still-shaking legs. His hand cups your face as you breathe heavily, his thumb stroking your cheek, watching you. Many times before he's told you how much he loves watching you during this part - coming down from your orgasm. Watching as your heartbeat returns to normal, your breaths less deep, your wits slowly returning to you. Bucky lets you come down completely before kissing you. He's always been a good kisser; that was one you thing you didn't have to train him on.
"How was that?" He whispers against your lips.
"It was alright," You answer with a grin.
"Hmm. One step up from okay," He says, rubbing your earlobe between his fingers. "Ready for me to fuck your brains out, now?"
"No, I wanna suck your dick, first," You tell him. "Needa return the favor."
"That wasn't a favor; that was me doing what I wanted to you," He corrects you. "And now, I wanna fuck you."
"But I wanna suck your dick," You counter, digging your nails into his shoulders as you grind your hips, rubbing your wet pussy against his clothed boner. "Please, Sergeant Barnes, I want it in my throat."
"Fuck, I'm gonna cum if you don't stop," Bucky says with a shudder. "How do you get me like this so easily, huh?"
Using more of your strength than usual, you push him off you and get on your knees on the floor in front of him. He balls his hand into a fist and bites his knuckles, throwing his head back over the sofa. It drives him crazy when you manhandle him; it's the reason you can't spar together.
"Give me a second," He whispers, his chest heaving while you slowly peel his boxers down.
"I'm sorry, Sergeant, but I'm impatient," You say teasingly before wrapping your mouth around his thick cock and taking a few inches of it in.
"Oh, fuck!" He cries, running his hand through your hair. "Baby, I swear, I'm gonna cum so fucking fast if you don't give me a second-"
"So cum," You say, though your words are muffled due to the cock in your mouth. Pulling your mouth off him with a pop, you give him a blank look. "Cum down my throat, and then you can have two minutes to recover before you rail me."
He lets out a shaky breath, and lets out what almost sounds like a sob when you take him back in your mouth and start bobbing your head up and down. "Fuck, baby, you'll kill me one of these days," He groans, staring down at you as strings of pre cum and saliva coat his cock and your lips. "That's it, get it nice and messy. You like getting messy, don't you?" He rubs the cum onto your cheeks, shuddering when you wink at him. "You suck my cock so good, baby. My good little cumslut, aren't you?"
You let out a moan as his words send sparks through to your core. His dirty talk drives you insane, and he knows it. He could destroy you by just whispering a few words into your ear, and he especially loves doing so in public when there's nothing you can do about it.
"I'm close, baby," Bucky warns you.
As much as you would feel good about making him cum right now, it sounds like am even better idea to prolong his frustration- so you pull your mouth off of his dick.
"What the fuck?" He whispers between heavy breaths.
You stand up with a coy look on your face. "I changed my mind," You say simply. "Just want you to fuck me, now."
He clenches his jaw while you bite your lip, recognizing the dark look in his eyes. Not only is he frustrated, now he's irritated too. And he always fucks you harder when he's irritated.
Bucky stands up and grabs a fistful of your hair before forcing you face-down onto the couch. He mounts you from behind, using his metal hand to keep yours behind your back while he pushes his cock into you.
"Is it in yet?" You ask with a smirk, trying to hide your gasps as he fills you up.
"Fuck you just say?" He shoots back, lowering his head so his mouth is at your ear. "Gonna be like that, huh?" Without warning, he starts fucking you, hard.
Sex was something he was good at from the start, too, but he only gets better the more he learns what makes you squirm, what makes your eyes roll back, what makes your cunt tighten around him.
One of the other reasons you and Bucky decided to start sleeping together was the fact that, as you both had serum running through your blood, and had been through the worst kind of physical pain already, you can be as rough with each other as you want (which is a lot). Bucky doesn't have to worry about hurting you, which is what stopped him dating normal people, and you can manhandle him when he's in the mood to be submissive (which isn't often enough, in your opinion).
"Fuck, I missed you," He groans as he slams in and out of you. "Did you miss me, baby? Tell me."
You turn your face so your cheek is smushed against the couch. "I missed you, Serge," You let out weakly. "So fucking bad."
"Yeah?" Bucky presses, his lips nibbling at your earlobe. "Bet you couldn't stop thinking about me. Because I couldn't stop thinking about you."
Your heart flutters at his words. Don't take him seriously. It's just horny sweet nothings.
He slows down his thrusts but still fucks you just as hard, letting out a grunt each time he bottoms out in you. His face is buried in your neck, while you feel your second orgasm quickly approaching.
"Bucky," You whimper.
"Tell me, baby," He whispers softly, though his thrusts are anything but.
"I'm- I'm gonna-"
All of a sudden, you hear it. Footsteps. Then you smell it. Strawberry perfume. Bucky's thrusts stop at the exact same time your sentence is cut off - someone's coming.
The second he pulls out, the doors open. Bucky gets off you and tosses you your shirt, which you rapidly put on.
"Oh!" A familiarity grating voice chirps. "I wasn't expecting anyone to- oh."
You pull on your shorts before standing and turning to see Poppy, and you can't help the way your eyes narrow at her.
"Sorry, Poppy," Bucky says as he uses a pillow to cover his bare chest, his boner poking through his briefs.
"No, I'm sorry!" She says. "I'm just doing my nightly sweep of all the common areas to make sure they're fit for use in the morning- I assumed everyone was in their rooms by now."
"It's barely 9pm," You point out flatly, frustrated that she interrupted when you were so close to finishing.
"I'm so sorry for just bursting in like that," Poppy said, hugging a decorated clipboard to her chest. "There's never anyone in these rooms past 8."
"You've been here a week, so how would you know?" You question her.
"Alright," Bucky utters sternly, giving you a pointed look before turning back to her. "It's our fault, Poppy. We shouldn't have been... doing that here."
She nods slowly. "I wasn't aware that the two of you were a couple," She says. "There's actually a policy in place for this kind of thing - you know, to keep the both of you safe."
"I think we're plenty safe, Newton," You utter curtly. "We don't need a color-coded schedule for when we're allowed to fuck."
Bucky hides his snort with a cough.
"Of course not!" Poppy exclaims with flushed cheeks. "I don't expect you to have to schedule... that. I just want to make sure you're both alright."
"We're fine," You tell her, folding your arms across your chest. "Neither of us rank higher than the other, so there's no abuse of power. We're both consenting adults. You don't need to be involved. At all."
She winces at your words, but keeps that damn smile on her face. "I completely appreciate that, but I really do need to follow policy and speak to you both alone, just a quick catch up so we're all feeling comfortable," She says. "Bucky, could we please have the room? I'll speak to you tomorrow."
Bucky glances at you and nods. "Uh, sure," He replies, before coming closer to you and whispering in your ear. "I'll be in your room."
You clench your jaw as he walks out, watching as Poppy shyly looks down when he walks past her.
"So, that's nice! You and Bucky!" She exclaims as she closes the doors and walks further into the room. "Now that we're alone, I can ask you some questions to make sure everything's fine- which I'm sure it is."
You say nothing, your fingers twitching.
"This won't take long at all," She assures you. "Let's get started - how did this all begin?"
"Do you really need the whole story?" You ask her.
A nervous laugh escapes her mouth. "I guess not. It's just that, with you having a relationship with someone on the team, we need to ensure a healthy and respectful workplace," Poppy explains.
"I was horny one night. Bucky was there. The rest is history," You say bluntly.
Her cheeks flush pink and she nods quickly. "Right. Uh, to begin, I'd just like to ask if there have been any concerns raised by your fellow teammates about your relationship with Bucky?"
A sigh leaves your nose. "It's not exactly public knowledge," You tell her. "We've never explicitly told anyone, anyway. And to be honest, I'm not sure anyone cares."
"...Right," She says, before scribbling something down on her clipboard. "And if the relationship was to come to an end, do you foresee this resulting in any conflict, if you're still expected to work together?"
"No," You utter. "We're mature adults. I think we can handle it."
"Right, and um, just to make sure we protect you in the case of a pregnancy, would you be happy to do a monthly test?" She asks you with a raised brow.
"That won't be needed," You tell her flatly. "Oscorp didn't think it was necessary for their weapons to be able to reproduce."
Her lips part and she sucks in a sharp breath, before pursing her lips together and nodding quickly. "Right. Right."
"Will that be all?" You ask.
Poppy nods at you. "Of course. Oh, one more thing," She begins. "I would really appreciate it if you and Bucky kept your... relations... strictly in your own rooms, and not in the common areas. Alright, you're free to go!"
"I hate her," You mumble as you repeatedly open and close your switchblade. "I fucking hate her."
"She's not that bad," Natasha says. "You just need to get used to her."
You let out a grumble, staring at the breakfast counter. It's a quiet Sunday in the tower, which you're grateful for. Bucky's looking through the cabinets while Natasha paints her nails next to you. Suddenly, he gasps.
"No way. Chocolate cookie mix," He says, holding the box up. "Check it out!"
"Looks like it's been in there for years," You comment.
He reads the back and shakes his head. "It's not expired yet," He tells you, before giving you a grin. "Wanna help me make them?"
As much as you wouldn't mind baking with Bucky, you can't. Domestic, romantic tasks like that are exactly what will cause you to slip up and do something stupid like catch feelings for him. And you'll also look like a total sap in front of Natasha.
"Come on, gunner," He presses. "I'll even let you crack the eggs."
"I'm good," You say, standing your ground.
Bucky pouts at you, and before he can beg you further, someone else enters the kitchen. And of course, it's her.
"Hey, gang!" Poppy greets with a grin, her eyes widening when she sees what Bucky's holding. "Ooh, what do we have here?"
"Uh, chocolate cookie mix," He tells her. "Just in the mood for something sweet, so I thought I'd make 'em."
"That sounds like fun!" She exclaims. "Can I help?"
"Sure," He replies quickly. A little too quickly for your liking.
"First - aprons," Poppy says with a giggle, tossing him one of the aprons hung by the oven before putting on her personalised pink one that has 'Pop!' embroidered onto it. She takes the box from Bucky and reads the back. "Hey, these kind of cookies were pretty popular back when you were a kid, right?"
A warm smile grows on Bucky's face. "Yeah, they were. My grandma made the best chocolate cookies," He tells her. "I, uh, thought it might be nice to have a taste of home."
Fuck. You feel awful for rejecting him now, knowing he wanted to share a heartfelt memory with you. Shit.
"Judging by these ingredients, I don't think this box mix will taste anywhere near as good as your grandma's," Poppy says, before tossing it in the trash. "I happen to have my own recipe for chocolate cookies, passed down my family through generations. Wanna give me a hand making them?"
"Of course," Bucky says, his face absolutely lit up.
You feel a little nauseous, watching them bake together. You've never seen this side of him before. He looks... happy. At peace.
Sometimes, you wonder if you make him worse. If every time he looks at you, he's reminded of his own sordid past. If every time you refer to what you went through, it gives him his own traumatic flashbacks. He tells you his nightmares aren't as bad anymore, but he could easily be lying. At first, with everything you had in common, it made sense for you to spend time with him. But maybe he's grown out of you. Maybe he needs someone more like Poppy to show him everything good in the world, rather than remind him of all the bad.
Maybe it's best for you to withdraw.
"You okay?" Natasha asks with a whisper before blowing on her nails.
"Perfectly fine," You mumble, your eyes still on Bucky who's laughing while Poppy places balls of cookie mixture on the tray.
"All you gotta do is tell him how you feel," Natasha says.
"I don't feel anything," You state adamantly.
"Sure," She says with narrow eyes. "I see through you, ice queen. You gotta melt before you lose him."
With a huff, you leave the kitchen and make your way to the living area just outside it, slumping down on the couch. Natasha may be right, but she's also wrong. It's not about you telling him how you feel or admitting that you want more than sex - it's the fact that he deserves better than you. Someone who will light him up. Make him feel joy and excitement, not bring him down.
You're watching a mind-numbingly boring documentary when Bucky walks out into the living room, smiling when he sees you. "There you are," He says, walking over to where you're sitting.
"Here I am," You reply, your heart racing the closer he gets. Get a grip.
"Thinking about me?" Bucky asks you, standing next to the couch.
"Not at all," You lie through your teeth.
He leans down and lowers his voice. "Are you sure about that?" He questions you teasingly, before leaning in and giving you a soft, slow kiss.
His hand slips under the band of your shorts and bypasses your panties, and he rubs his fingers up and down your wet pussy. A whimper escapes your mouth, and he pulls away from the kiss with a smirk.
"I knew it," He utters, taking his hand out of your panties. "Always wet for me, aren't you?"
"No. It's this documentary," You claim stubbornly. "I'm really into... the process of making sheet metal."
"Oh, yeah?" Bucky asks with a smirk. "Got it. That's my next Halloween costume settled."
"Sorry for not making cookies with you," You say, blinking up at him. "If I knew you'd emotionally blackmail me with the dead grandma thing, I'd have said yes."
A grin spills out on his lips. "Gunner, are you feeling bad for me right now?" He wonders with a look of delight in his eyes. "Don't worry, baby, I got my cookies in the end. Poppy is a wonderful baker, by the way."
"So I've heard," You say with your eyes on the TV screen.
"She's also got a great ass," He adds, trying to get a reaction out of you.
"Yep."
"And is probably a great kisser."
"Mhm."
"Baby," He mumbles in your ear, rubbing your thigh as he finally gives up trying to lure you into an outburst. "Let's fuck."
You snort. "We're not allowed to fuck in common rooms anymore," You remind him.
"So, let's go to my room," He suggests.
This wasn't the plan - but how are you supposed to withdraw from him when he looks at you like that? Maybe he is happy with you. He's been a lot less stressed out and snappy ever since you've been sleeping together - everyone can see that. He seems happy right now, anyway.
"Fine, but you're carrying me," You say, holding out your arms.
Just before he can pick you up, Poppy bursts into the room with a wide smile. "The cookies are done!" She sings, waltzing over with a plate which she places on the coffee table. "Everyone, dig in!"
Natasha's behind her, already chowing down on a cookie. Bucky immediately reaches out and picks up two, handing you one. Hesitantly, you take a small bite. You hate that it tastes amazing.
"Oh, my God," Bucky says with a mouthful of cookie, swallowing before he continues. "Poppy, this tastes exactly like grandma's."
"Ah, I'm so happy to hear that!" She gushes.
"These are incredible," He all but moans, sitting on the arm of the couch next to you. "You sure you shouldn't be a baker, instead? I'd pay good money for these."
"Oh, no," Poppy says bashfully. "I like taking care of you guys too much."
He chuckles at that, while you bitterly eat your cookie.
He wouldn't be happier with her. He wouldn't. He would not be happier with her. He categorically would never be happier with her.
That's the mental mantra you find yourself repeating as you stare at yourself in the mirror. You're not insecure about your looks. You believe him when he says you're the most attractive woman he knows. You know you're great in bed. Your physical strength is one of his biggest turn-ons. Besides your inability to love, you're the full package. But Bucky doesn't want love, anyway. He's never asked for it. That's not what this is. The both of you are traumatised beyond belief, so all you want is a warm body and orgasms; not a fragile emotion that could fall apart at any moment.
"Done checking yourself out?" Grant cuts in dryly as he stands behind you, his arms folded across his chest and an unimpressed look on his face. "I came all the way up here to spar, Bloodhound, not watch you fall in love with your own reflection."
With an eye-roll, you turn to face him. Grant is the only Agent you semi-get along with, and the only one you'd ever spend time outside of work with. He doesn't ask stupid questions, pry into your personal life, or try and suck up to you, which is more than you can say for the rest of the agents.
"Alright, Ward, let's do this," You say, walking over to the boxing ring.
Grant gets a lot more out of these sessions than you - you have to hold back your strength to make sure you don't kill him, while he gets to go as hard as he can to test his own strength and agility. The only reason you agreed to these sessions is because you've learnt that it's good to have a high-up agent in your pocket for when you need information about a mission or target that you wouldn't otherwise be able to get.
The gym's empty when you begin to spar, and slowly fills up with your teammates as the sun rises outside the window. Among the agents, you spot Bucky walk in at some point too, unable to help his wandering eyes from watching you fight. You barely break a sweat while Grant is fighting for his life, before he eventually taps out.
"Alright, alright, I'm done," He says between heavy breaths. "Next time, you can go a little harder."
You snort and raise a brow. "Are you sure about that, Ward? Know what you're getting yourself into?"
He just nods, grabbing his water bottle from the side of the ring and chugging.
"Oh, Y/N! It's great to see you here!"
You can't help but immediately roll your eyes at Poppy's chirpy voice, slowly turning to face her.
"I know you usually train alone, so it is brilliant to see you working with the agents," She goes on to say with a grin, before craning her neck to look behind you. "I hope she didn't go too hard on you, Special Agent Ward!"
"Not at all," Grant replies, wiping his sweaty forehead with a small towel as he stands next to you and wraps his arm around your shoulder. "Bloodhound looks after me very well."
With a grimace, you shove him away from you. "Consider it charity," You tell Poppy.
"Well, it's very kind of you," She says, before her eyes light up. "But if you want a more challenging partner, why don't you spar with Bucky? I know he's been complaining about Steve missing their last few sessions, and he'd likely appreciate training with someone more on his level."
"Good luck with that," Natasha calls out to Poppy with a smirk. "Barnes and Y/N don't train together."
Poppy frowns at Natasha's words. "But why not?" She asks.
"He's scared of me," You throw out as Grant clambers out of the boxing ring.
From the other side of the gym, Bucky snorts. "You fuckin' wish, gunner," He calls back smugly. "I'd have you on your back in seconds."
Ignoring his quick wink, you shoot him a glare. "You'd be knocked out before you even realized what was happening," You fire back.
"Well, why don't we find out?" Poppy asks with a grin. "It'll be good for you both to train with someone at your level so you can really give it your all. Holding back on training will only weaken you."
"Does this really fall into your remit?" You wonder.
"Of course!" She exclaims. "I need to look out for your wellbeing on the field, too!"
The truth is, the reason you and Bucky don't spar - or rather, can't spar - is because he gets far too excited whenever you exhibit your strength against him. You've sparred him exactly once, and when that ended with him jizzing in his pants, you both agreed it would be best to train separately from then on. And that was before you started sleeping together.
"I'll tell you the truth, Poppy, about why they don't spar," Sam inserts as he strolls over with a smirk on his face. "Because they're both too scared to find out who number two is."
"Number two?" Poppy repeats with a confused look.
"You know; Steve is the strongest on the team in terms of human physical strength," Sam explains. "He's beaten both Bucky and Y/N in strength tests before. So, he's number one - and if Bucky and Y/N ever fight, we'd find out who number two is."
"And they're both too scared of the shame they'd feel if they ended up being number three," Natasha adds with a shrug. "It's all very juvenile."
You hold back your smile. It's cute that they think Steve is number one. The only reason he's beaten you in training sessions is because you don't use your full strength against him - he's your Captain, your senior, and you've frustratingly got it stuck in your head that you're to be subordinate to him, and beating him would be disrespectful.
"Alright, fuck it," Bucky states as he makes his way over. "Let's do this, gunner."
You raise a brow as he climbs into the ring, and admittedly your heart flutters. Though you're much better at hiding it, there's no denying you get just as excited as Bucky at the prospect of being manhandled by him.
"This is gonna be good," Sam says with a smirk. "Tasha, get your hundred bucks ready, because Barnes is going down."
Moving closer to Bucky, you lowly warn him, "You better keep your shit together, Serge."
He clenches his jaw as you walk circles around each other. "Go easy on me, baby," He whispers.
Although you know it's best to do as he requests, you can't ignore your competitive streak - especially knowing that Natasha's bet against you. You and Bucky start slow and carefully, but it quickly turns into a brawl.
You've forgotten how much fun it is to use your full strength in a fight when you know your opponent isn't actually trying to kill you. At one point, you slam Bucky onto the ground and straddle him, pinning him down. His eyes darken and you feel his boner poke against your inner thigh.
Bringing your lips to his ear, you whisper, "You're far too easy, Sergeant."
With a huff of frustration, Bucky all but throws you off of him. He's slower and weaker than he can be, too turned on to think straight. His new goal is to pin you down, to take control, in an attempt to drive you as crazy as he feels. You fight back against his attempts, catching on to what he's trying to do.
Meanwhile, Natasha nudges Sam from the sidelines. "Is it just me, or is this incredibly sexually tense, right now?" She mumbles.
Sam just continues watching on with wide eyes.
When Bucky grabs your waist, it immediately gives you flashbacks to all the times he's grabbed it before - and you falter. He takes the opportunity to grab you and throw you down, crashing down onto you and pinning your arms down on either side of your head.
His eyes burn into yours, and suddenly, all you can see is him. The world melts away as his crystal blues hook you in, holding you captive. His boner rubs against you, stealing your breath.
With a new wind of determination, you rip your right hand out of his grip and wrap it around his throat, before pushing up your waist against his and forcing him onto his back, sitting on top of him.
He lets out a grunt and shudders beneath you, to which you grin.
"That was a new record," You mumble. "You lasted a lot longer than usual. I'm proud of you, Sergeant."
"Fuck you," He hisses through gritted teeth.
"Well, we should probably go," Sam calls out awkwardly as he claps his hands together. "I think you owe me a hundred bucks, Romanoff."
"Are you sure?" She asks, tilting her head. "I have no idea what just happened."
"I think I do," Sam grumbles before him and Natasha share a look and leave the gym.
"That was exhilarating to watch!" Poppy exclaims, entirely unaware as to what Bucky just did in his pants. "Bucky, do you want another shoulder massage? You said it really helped after your last training session."
Your eyebrows fly up. He didn't mention a fucking massage to you. And he let her touch his shoulder?
"Uh, no, I'm alright, Pop," He replies. "Think I need a shower more than anything."
Pop? That bastard.
Before he can leave first, you climb out of the ring and speed-walk out of the gym, refusing to be the one left behind.
This is a dream. This is a dream. This is a dream.
So why aren't you waking up?
You see flashes of their faces. The innocent lives you took without hesitation. The families you destroyed.
And you see the faces of your captors. The doctors who experimented on you, pushed the limits of pain until you forgot what comfort felt like, who turned you into an inhuman weapon. Not only do you see their faces, you feel them. Their fingers, their grip, their pull.
And you see him. Bucky. He looks soft and sweet and everything you know him to be.
But you're hurting him. Chasing him down like one of your victims, watching as his skin is coated with his blood, destroying him. He's screaming. Begging you to stop. Asking you why you're doing this to him.
You sit up in bed with a gasp, breathing heavily. A sheen of sweat sits on your skin. The bed feels cold and empty, and you think you might have a panic attack if you don't get proof that Bucky is safe, so you rush to your feet.
The clock on the wall tells you it's 2am, so you know it's likely that Bucky isn't in his bedroom. He'll be in one of the common rooms, the one with the lava lamps, probably recovering from his own nightmare. You've told him numerous times that you don't mind him waking you up when he needs to, but he says he'd feel too guilty to wake you up in case you're actually having a good night's sleep; a rare occurrence for you both.
You make your way to the common room, making sure to grab a packet of Bucky's favorite cookies from the kitchen on your way. As you get closer to the common room, you can hear his breath, but you stop in your tracks when you hear someone else.
"That's what I do, anyway," Poppy says softly. "That, or a warm glass of milk and counting sheep - my mom's method."
They laugh gently together, and you lean against the wall in the dark corridor so that you can peek through the crack in the door. He looks beautiful, his skin free of any blood, his face free of any pain. He's smiling. He looks at peace. He's safe, so you can rest easy.
But it still kills you that it's not you who he's safe with.
"If you ever need to talk, about anything, I'm always here," Poppy goes on to tell him, making your stomach churn.
Slowly, you back away. Thankfully, it doesn't seem like Bucky heard you at all; a testament to your sneaking skills. Though the feeling of panic and dread isn't quite fully quelled, you at least you know he's okay. Maybe even happy.
And you know you're selfish and a bad person for resenting Poppy for being the one to make him feel that way. It should be you - but you know you can't be that for him. So now you're stuck in a cycle of hating her but also hating yourself and appreciating her for being what you could never be for him.
It's painfully conflicting, so instead of thinking too much about it, you leave the tower, hoping to find some lowlife criminals you can beat up instead of yourself for once.
No matter how many fancy parties Tony throws, you'll never get used to the sight of yourself in a nice dress. You opted for a silky, black number, and you're glad when you see the myriad of colorful outfits that help you blend into the background as you enter the bar. Making a beeline to where Sam and Steve are chatting by the balcony doors, you avoid making eye contact with Tony's annoying business partners.
"Hey, here she is," Sam calls out with a wide grin, holding him arm out. You give him a quick side hug before standing up straight when you face Steve.
"Evening, Captain," You say firmly.
He sighs. "What's it gonna take for you to call me Steve, huh?" He asks, to which you glance down.
"I'm sorry, Captain Rogers," You say sheepishly. "It's built in."
"Maybe you two need to spend more time together so that you can see what a goof this guy really is," Sam suggests with a laugh. "All that respect will drop real quick."
"I'd really like that," Steve says, holding his arm out to you. "C'mon, Y/N, let's get you a drink."
With a nod, you link your arm with his and allow him to lead you to the bar.
"Y'know, I've been meaning to spend more time with you anyway," Steve admits. "With how close you and Bucky are getting, I figure I better make more of an effort."
"Oh, it's not like that between him and I," You assure him.
"No? Could've fooled me," He says teasingly as you reach the bar. "What's your poison?"
"Uh, just a whisky for me, please," You say, feeling entirely odd. It's not like you to engage in casual chit-chat with Steve, let alone get him to order you a drink.
Once the bartender slides your glass over, Steve takes your hand and walks you over to the floor-length windows. "This is killing you, isn't it?" He asks with a chuckle. "Holding your Captain's hand?"
You squeeze your eyes shut, using all your will-power not to pull your hand out of his and give him a salute instead. "I'm fine, Captain Rogers. This is fine," You claim.
"Alright, I'll be nice," He says, dropping your hand with a grin. "Anyway, I don't want to be holding your hand when Buck gets here. He'd probably throw me through this window."
You laugh at that, shaking your head. "I'm sure he wouldn't. He'd be too busy dodging all the women fawning all over him, as per usual," You say with a smile.
"Crazy how that's changed, right?" Steve says with a playful frown. "I used to be the one fighting off the attention, and now he's come in and stolen it all."
"I'm sure you still get plenty of attention," You mumble without meaning to.
"Are you flirting with your Captain?" He asks in a stern voice, making your eyes widen.
You straighten your back and look up at him. "No, Captain Rog-"
"I'm messing with you," He cuts in with a chuckle. "I'm sorry. That was mean." He then takes out a flask from his inner jacket and looks around to make sure no-one's watching, before pouring a splash into your glass. "Asgardian. Consider it a gift."
As much as you didn't think so, Sam seems to have been right, and the more time you spend chatting with Steve, the more comfortable you feel around him.
"Alright, as much as I'm enjoying this, I should go speak to some of Tony's partners," He says reluctantly. "Save me a dance later, yeah?"
"Will do, Capt- Steve," You say, smiling when his face lights up.
He puts a hand on his heart as he walks backwards. "We did it!" He cheers, before leaving you alone.
You turn towards the bar in search of another drink when you almost bump into Poppy, who looks equally as surprised to see you.
"Oh, hello!" She greets you cheerily, before looking you up and down with wide eyes. "You look absolutely gorgeous!"
"Oh, uh, thanks," You reply curtly, taking in her lilac dress. "You look nice, too."
"You're too kind," She says with a grin. "Hey, I've been meaning to speak with you a little more, one-on-one. I feel like I don't give you as much of my time as I do the others."
"That's not a problem," You assure her quickly. "I don't need therapy, or anything like that."
"Well, that's not all I offer!" She claims. "I'm here to help you meet whatever needs you feel aren't being met. That could be anything and everything."
"Right," You mumble. "My needs are being met, Newton, so I don't need you."
She looks disheartened at your words, but you don't care. "Um... how are you and Bucky doing?" She questions you carefully.
"What?" You ask, getting more irritated by the second. "Bucky and I are nothing, so you don't need to keep asking."
"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that," She says, taking your words to mean that you've ended it between yourselves.
And then you get an idea: if she thinks you and Bucky are over, she'll stop pestering you about it every week.
"Well, it was only ever sex between us, so it's not a big deal," You say casually. "I'll find someone else to screw."
"Right," She utters.
"So, like, what's wrong with you?" You can't help but ask, the Asgardian ale loosening your tongue.
"What? What do you mean?" Poppy asks you with wide eyes.
"I mean, what's your deal?" You question. "You're just always happy, and upbeat, and seeing the brighter side. What's up with that?"
She looks taken aback by your words. "Oh. I guess... I just like being happy? There's far too much sadness and gloom in the world as it is, so why add to that? I just want to make sure everyone's comfortable to be themselves, and remind them that there is so much beauty and joy to be experienced if you just let it reach you."
Taking in her words, you nod slowly, and realize exactly how different you really are to her. Where you see failure, she sees opportunity. Where you see disappointment, she sees a second chance. Even now, with you being cold and closed off, she's still trying with you. She hasn't rolled her eyes or gotten annoyed at how stand-offish you are. She listens and engages and, even though she never could, she does her best to understand.
She's the complete opposite of you.
Suddenly, you get that sixth-sense feeling. You smell his aftershave as he approaches the room, combined with the perfume he only wears on special occasions. Your stomach flips. You're facing the doorway before he even appears in it, and it's like the whole room quietens down by twenty decibels when he walks in. Everyone turns to look at him, just as you look away, refusing to give him the satisfaction of knowing you're anticipating him. Instead, you look at Poppy, and you instantly recognize the look on her face.
Her eyebrows are raised slightly, her lips parting. Her eyes are locked onto him as if he's the only thing she sees.
And you can't blame her for feeling that way. You'd be a hypocrite if you judged her at all.
She starts fidgeting, looking down at her dress and smoothing down any creases, tucking her hair behind her ear and taking in a deep breath. Almost as if she's preparing for him to-
"Hi."
Your breath hitches in your throat. With your focus solely on Poppy, you didn't sense Bucky getting closer. You turn to him, his all-black suit destroying any sense you had left in your head, and just stare at him dumbly. He's looking back at you, warmth in his eyes.
"Hi, Bucky," Poppy replies nervously.
You look back at her. She's good. She would be good for him. Better than you could ever dream of being for him.
So you pat his shoulder and give him a nod as if he's nothing more than a colleague to you, and walk away, leaving them to it.
It feels like you're being torn apart as you hear them talk, so you speed to the balcony, focusing your heightened hearing on the wind, instead. Regretfully, you take a look back just as the French doors shut behind you, only to see Bucky laughing at something she said. It's his genuine laugh; the one where his eyes light up and his eyebrows fly up in delight.
She'd be good for him. For his mental health. How could you come in the way of that? If you truly care about him, how could you stand in the way of his health and happiness? He'd probably lose the abs from all the baked goods, but he'd be happy. How could you stop that?
"Hey," A voice calls out from behind you.
You turn to see Wanda who has a knowing look on her face. "Get out of my head, Maximoff," You utter sternly.
"I couldn't help it. You looked so... sad," She says, walking over to where you're standing by the railings and looking out at the city.
"That's none of your business," You say with a bitter tone. You're angry that she's read your mind, but a part of you is slightly relieved to know it isn't just your secret anymore.
"He really, really cares about you," She claims. "It's very obvious."
"That doesn't matter," You reply, tightening your grip on the railings. "He could be in love with me, for all I care. It doesn't change the facts."
"And what facts are those?" She pushes.
"That I'm bad for him," You reveal. "I'm... I'm just a walking reminder of everything he went through. At the start, it was nice to have someone who truly understood what we went through, who could genuinely relate. But now... he's come so far, and all I do is drag him back to the past. I can't keep doing that to him. It's selfish."
"Is that how you feel?" Wanda asks you. "That Bucky just reminds you of your past? Does speaking to him, being around him, take you back to your days at Oscorp?"
"No," You answer instantly. "Never. Even when he talks about HYDRA, all I can think about is how... angry I am at them for hurting him. How much I want to make him feel better."
"So why do you believe it's any different for him?" She questions with a quirked brow.
You let out a long sigh, staring up at the sky. Barely any stars are visible thanks to all the light pollution, but the moon's still shining. "He still has a chance. There's still light and love in him; I can see it. It comes out around... people like her. She brings out the best in him. Makes him smile and laugh, and bakes fucking cookies with him. I can't do that. Her magic doesn't work on me. I'm too far gone," You tell her, the Asgardian alcohol allowing you to open up in ways you wouldn't usually dream of. "I could never be like that. In fact, I'm so unlike her that I resent her for how happy she is. How positive her outlook on life is. I'm... jealous and I wonder why the fuck she gets to be like that. Why didn't she have to go through what I went through? Why does she get to live her life in a bubble? Why does she get to be happy and patient and kind? I hate her for something that she can't control, and convince myself that it's fine for me to treat her like shit because nothing I do to her will ever even come close to they did to me. It's like I'm... punishing her. Which makes me a bad person, with a rotten soul. And proves that Bucky deserves better."
"I think you'd be surprised at how wrong you are," Wanda says simply, before squeezing your shoulder and leaving you alone again.
After a few more minutes of listening to the traffic below, you decide to head back into the party. It's warmer inside, though seeing that Bucky is still talking to Poppy sends a cold shiver down your spine.
"I was wondering where you were," Steve says as you approach him and Natasha in the middle of the room.
"Just needed some fresh air," You tell them casually.
"I'm gonna head to the bar; I think Bruce is trying to play bartender again," Natasha says with a grimace before she walks away.
Steve gives you an expectant look. "Come to give me that dance you promised?" He asks.
"Sure, Steve," You say, still feeling incredibly weird using his first name.
"That's it; you're learning," He teases before taking your hand and leading you to the makeshift dance floor.
You dance to the slow rock song for a short while without speaking, your mind racing with a hundred thoughts. Would you be able to watch Bucky with her? It would probably kill you to see them kiss. You'd need to move out of the tower, and maybe even leave the Avengers as a whole.
"What's on your mind?" Steve asks, interrupting your overthinking.
"I don't know," You answer dumbly.
"Is everything okay?" He questions with concern on his face. "You and Bucky all good?"
A dry laugh leaves your mouth. "I don't know," You repeat.
"What did he do?" Steve utters, looking around the room in search of his idiot best friend.
"Absolutely nothing," You assure him. "Bucky is... perfect."
A warm smile takes over and he leans in closer. "I have it on good authority that he feels the same about you," He whispers.
Your chest tightens but you keep the pain off your face. Instead of responding, you rest your head against his shoulder. It does feel nice, being friends with Steve and not having to be on edge around him just because of his status in the army all those years ago.
Once again, you feel it - that sixth sense. Bucky's approaching. You remain as you are, hoping he's just walking past, not sure you're able to handle a conversation with him right now.
"Uh-oh. I'm about to be thrown through a window," Steve mutters, to which you snort.
"You could take him any day," You say, purposely loud enough for the brunet to hear as he reaches you.
"Is that really how you feel?" Bucky asks from behind you. You lift your head off of Steve and turn to face him, everything inside you stilling as you see the small smile on his face. All you want is to melt into him.
"I mean, I've never seen you pull down a helicopter, Sergeant," You say teasingly, to which Steve chuckles.
Bucky's smile gets a fraction bigger, before he gives Steve a nod that says, alright, your time's up, leave us alone. And Steve, knowing his friend well, bids you both farewell before doing exactly that.
"You're avoiding me," Bucky says bluntly once Steve is out of earshot.
With a sigh, you place your hands on his shoulders. "Let's dance," You say, not giving him a choice as you start swaying to the beat.
His hands find your waist and he pulls you closer. "I don't dance," He utters bluntly.
"Neither do I," You return.
"Why did you tell Poppy we broke up?" He questions you with a frown.
"Broke up?" You repeat with a confused look.
"You know what I mean," He says with an eye-roll. "You told her you're not screwing me anymore."
"Just wanted to get her off my back about it," You answer casually.
He purses his lips and nods slowly. "But I... you are still screwing me, right?"
A breathy laugh leaves your mouth, but then you falter, and don't reply.
Bucky stops in his tracks. "Okay. You're scaring me now," He says lowly.
"Let's go talk about this outside," You say, taking his hand.
"What? No," He replies stubbornly, planting his feet on the ground. "Tell me what's going on, right now."
You look around the dance floor at all the other guests before looking back up at him. "I don't think this is the best place to-"
"I don't care," He cuts you off, his brows furrowed. You can hear that his heartbeat has quickened. "Just talk to me. What is going on?"
You run a hand through your hair and let out a sigh. "I just... I've been thinking lately, and..." You trail off, hoping he'll jump in and say something, but he just looks at you expectantly. "Bucky. I don't think we should do this anymore."
His hands fall from your waist. "You can't do that," He mumbles. "You can't just do that to me, gunner."
"It's for the best," You claim, feeling like your insides are being ripped apart.
"What the fuck does that mean?" He asks, getting the attention of a few people around you.
With a wince, you shake your head before running away, like a coward. He chases you out, obviously, grabbing your arm just as you press the elevator button.
"You have to explain yourself," He says, his eyes filled with rage and pain. "You can't just... you don't get to just drop me like I'm nothing and leave me to find out from the fucking Wellbeing chick."
"And? You're just gonna give me up without a fight?" Bucky asks you incredulously. "As if I'd ever just step to the side cause some other guy had a crush on you? You're not gonna tell her to fuck off, and that I'm yours? I mean, this is Poppy we're talking about; who the fuck is she compared to you?"
You hear a short gasp and turn your head to see none other than Poppy standing at the entrance, her eyes wide. Fuck.
Bucky glances over at her, but he's too mad to even acknowledge her presence. "C'mon, let's go upstairs and talk about this," He says as the elevator arrives and opens up, and pulls you into it before pressing the button for your floor.
The doors slowly shut just as you see Poppy wiping away a stray tear. And for the first time since you were a child, you feel bad for someone.
"That wasn't nice, Buck," You say lowly, surprising yourself with your empathy.
"I'm not a nice man," He says bluntly.
"Yes, you are!" You claim, turning to face him. "You can be. If you're with someone like her."
He gives you an incredulous look. "Is that seriously what you think?" He asks, offence in his tone. "What, you think she can fix me?"
"You don't need fixing," You retort. "But she can make you happy."
"You make me happy," He shoots back at you.
"I'm just a warm body; I can't help you feel better," You say, feeling sick to your stomach.
"What are you talking about?" Bucky asks as the elevator comes to a stop.
The doors open up and you step out, with him hot on your trail as you walk towards your room. "I'm like you, Bucky. Exactly like you. Too much like you," You say as you reach your door. "I just... I don't want to bring you down. Remind you of all the... all the shit we went through. We fuck, and it's great, but I can't... I can't bake fucking cookies with you. I can't go on dates to Coney Island. I can't wear dresses like this every night and... I can't marry you or have kids. I'm nothing like her. Maybe... maybe if I wasn't taken by Osborn and turned into a weapon, I'd be more like her. But I was. And you deserve to feel normal and safe. And to go on cutesy fucking dates and eat homemade brownies and... she'd be so good for you, Bucky. And if not her, then someone like her."
"So, you'd be happy with someone more like her, too?" He asks you. "Someone more normal?"
"No, and that's the point!" You exclaim, entering your room. "She asks me to do pottery painting and I'd rather smash the clay over her head. She wants to go on fucking nature walks and play board games and I'm too bitter and resentful to play along. It's like I... I don't want to be happy. I'm fine the way I am. But you're... I see the way you laugh with her. I can imagine it. Maybe not her specifically, but someone you could have a picket-fence life with. A healthy relationship that fulfills you in every way, not just sexually."
He doesn't say anything, processing your words as he follows you into your room. You collapse onto your bed with a heavy sigh, lying back and staring at the ceiling. He shuts the door with a soft click before pulling off his jacket and tossing it onto your drawers. For a short while, neither of you speak.
"I don't even know where to start," He mutters, taking a seat at your desk. "I... I had no idea you felt like that. As if you've been doing anything but bringing me peace."
You let out a dry scoff. "Buck, I cry to you almost every Saturday night about all the fucked up shit I've been through," You remind him. "I dump my trauma onto you as if you don't have more than enough of your own. That can't be healthy."
He stands back up and sits on the opposite site of your bed, lying down so his head is next to yours. "Remember that first time you opened up to me, all those months ago? When you first had Thor's beer and were drunk for the first time since you were a teenager, and all you could do was cry?" He asks you, making you cringe.
"All too well," You whisper.
"And I kept you in my room because I knew you wouldn't have wanted everyone to see you like that. And the next morning, I thought you'd just leave, but you stayed. And you talked to me. Opened up to me about your feelings and your triggers and... fuck, you were hugging my arm so tight, and..." He shakes his head, letting out a short sigh. "That was the first time in a long, long time that I felt like I could help someone. The fact that you felt comfortable enough around me to speak about your deepest wounds... Letting me hold you while you cried, like I wasn't a monster. Like I could be someone that protected you."
"You were that person," You mumble. "You are."
"And since that day, I've never stopped wanting to be that for you," Bucky tells you, turning his head to face you. "That's how you make me feel. When you trust me with your secrets and let me carry the burden of your past, I feel more human than ever. This isn't just sex to me, my girl. You mean so much more than that."
You turn your body to face him and rest your hand on his chest, feeling each of his breaths with a rise and fall. "I'm not the kind of girl you can take bowling, and I'd rather die than kiss you in public," You point out. "I'm not gonna be your Valentine, or celebrate anniversaries. I'm-"
"I'm not asking for anything to change between us," He cuts in, placing his hand on top of yours. "I'm just telling you that... you're it for me. This is it for me. I don't need anyone else or any other kind of woman. As long as you want me, I'm yours. You fit me, more than anyone ever has and ever could."
You lean forward so your noses touch. "I... I'm not going to say this often, Barnes, so take it in while you can," You pre-warn him. "I love you."
A grin spills out on his lips. He doesn't try to hide it. "I love you, my girl," He whispers back. "We're all we need."
You smile back at him.
"I didn't get the chance to tell you how incredible you look tonight," Bucky says softly. "When I walked in, all I could see was you. It's like that every time I walk into a room. Even when you're not there, I look for you. Just... wanna be wherever you are."
"I, uh, have this weird thing," You begin with a laugh. "You know how we can tell when someone's about to walk in? We hear the specific weight of their footsteps, or smell their perfume, or whatever? Well, with you, it's like... I know it's you before I even hear your footsteps. And not just because I recognize your aftershave. I just... feel you. And it puts me at ease, knowing you're nearby. I'm not exactly a damsel in distress, but I feel safer when you're with me. I've never depended on someone like that. Even though it terrified me at first, I've grown to appreciate it."
Bucky's eyes flutter shut as his grin stays up. "You have no idea how much it means to me to hear you say that," He says, turning his body to face you and cupping your cheeks in his hands. "And I know it's hard for you to drop your guard. I'll never do anything to make you regret it."
"I know," You mumble, before laughing. "You look weird upside-down."
"I was just thinking whether I'd be able to kiss you in this position," Bucky admits with a chuckle.
You lean forward and shuffle down so your lips are level with his. Slowly, you close the gap between you, and though it's slightly odd at first to be kissing his mouth upside-down, you quickly get the hang of the tongue logistics.
"As much as I love you in it," He begins saying between kisses. "How about we get you out of this dress?"
You grin into the kiss, tugging on his hair. "I thought you'd never ask, Sergeant."
a/n: eek so this has been in my drafts for a good few months. been a concept i've wanted to write for soooo long. reminds me a little of one of my first ever (potentially my first ever) bucky fic, silent girl and the winter soldier. hope you enjoyed <3
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Rating/Warnings: 18+ for canon-typical violence, swearing, severe mental health issues, mentions of rape/non-con and past abuse, and sexual content.
Tags: Bucky Barnes/Female Reader, enemies to friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, smut, angst, fluff, eventual happy ending.
Series Summary
You are not a saint. You are not a hero. You’re barely even a living person, because living people have lives that extended beyond work and their apartment. But you’re not quite nobody, either. You’re too much, and not enough, and just in the shadows with a prayer to be saved that isn't genuine and secrets that mean nothing.
They should’ve meant nothing.
Yet here you are. In more danger than usual, being threatened by Hydra without knowing why, and being assigned a security detail you don’t want by Captain America.
Bucky Barnes is good at his job. You’re not going to die.
But you might end up strangling him before Hydra gets to either of you.
Author's Note
This story is a non-canon compliant, taking place after the Falcon and the Winter Solider and diverging entirely from the canon universe. This means two things:
1) Any movies or TV shows released after No Way Home didn't happen in this universe, and that will become more and more relevant as we go on.
2) We're playing a little fast and loose with Marvel lore because there's so much of it, and I'm trying my best but I've also added a few thing for the sake of this story, so if you have questions, please ask!
I hope you enjoy the story!
Chapter List
Chapter 1 - I Can't Get Clean
Chapter 2 - Hell to Raise
Chapter 3 - Burning in the Lava
Chapter 4 - Too Much Green
Chapter 5 - Know Who You Are
Chapter 6 - It Rises Fast
Chapter 7 - Have You Noticed
Chapter 8 - What I Can't Have
Chapter 9 - All I've Learned
Chapter 10 - Always On My Mind
Chapter 11 - Twice the Heart
Chapter 12 - You Can Take All the Pain
Chapter 13 - I Can Take You Higher
Chapter 14 - Inside and Out
Chapter 15 - Wait for It
Chapter 16 - Till A Star Breaks Through
Chapter 17 - Through the Thunder
Chapter 18 - Don't Let It Out
Chapter 19 - Trapped In The Light
Chapter 20 - Things Are Better
Chapter 21 - Until I Smile At You
Chapter 22 - Everyone Pulls Away
Chapter 23 - Want to Need You
Chapter 24 - Just For Me
Chapter 25 - I'm the Same, I'm Trying to Change
Chapter 26 - If Your Love Is In Trouble
Chapter 27 - A Single Sound
Chapter 28 - Lights Go Out
Chapter 29 - Lights Passing
Chapter 30 - Here You Are
Chapter 31 - All My Ugly
Chapter 32 - With Your Fists For Once
Chapter 33 - Give No Love
Chapter 34 - All That I Wanna Be
Chapter 35 - Once I Was Blind
Chapter 36 - Make The Best
Chapter 37 - It Rains And It Pours (12/6)
Summary: All you wanted was a simple life with your high school sweetheart. But your rose colored glasses shattered to a million pieces. When Eddie, your friend from high school, shows up to help fix your broken down car, turns out, he’s fixing a lot more than just that old car.
Warnings: No use of y/n, vague descriptions of reader, domestic violence, abuse, physical altercation, reader is a tattoo artist, jealously, angst, Eddies protective, drinking alcohol, reader cheats on fiancé (sorry not sorry)
—
You turned the key once. Nothing. Tried again, just in case the universe decided to be merciful for once. Same result. No clicks. No lights. No engine coughing awake. Just dead silence.
You let out a long, defeated sigh and dropped your forehead against the cold steering wheel, bracing yourself for the inevitable meltdown. It quickly bubbled from your chest and ripped out of your throat.
You screamed and slammed your fist against the wheel. The car was so dead, it didn't even have the capability to let out a honk.
When you finally shoved the door open, the morning air slapped you in the face. Your breath drifted out in pale, white plumes as you stared at the car like it had personally betrayed you.
Of course this would happen. Your fiancé had already left for work—which meant you were stuck until he got home around 6:30. Assuming he didn’t decide to grab drinks with his work buddies. Again. Which was highly unlikely.
Back inside, you kicked off your shoes, tossed your jacket over the back of the couch, and grabbed your phone. Your dad picked up on the second ring. Garages were out of the question. Always trying to charge an arm and a leg. Money was tight, wrapped up in home repairs, Your fiancé had sworn he’d look at the car while you were away visiting your parents over the weekend. But clearly that had gone the same direction as most of his promises—nowhere.
Your options were painfully limited, but that crappy little ’82 Honda Civic was your only taste of freedom. How pathetic was that? A grown woman, and the only time you felt alive was behind the wheel, windows down, screaming along to your favorite songs.
And yeah, you knew exactly how you ended up here. You’d worn rose-colored glasses all through high school and straight into adulthood. Still with your high school sweetheart. Wasn’t that supposed to be the dream?
Wake up next to your One True Love. Get the cute little house. Have the cliche white picket fence. Pop out a couple of kids.
But somewhere along the line, the glasses cracked. Then shattered. And you were stuck sifting through the pieces, realizing there had to be more to life than this. Now, every time he rolled over in bed and wrapped himself around you, you wanted to scream. Push him off. Run. Every time he shoved his tongue in your mouth, bile clawed its way up your throat.
Shame it took breaking for you to notice—after both your names were already printed on the deed to this house that felt less like a home and more like a well-decorated prison.
“Well,” your dad said, tone thoughtful, “you could try calling Wayne’s boy. Last I talked to Wayne, he mentioned the kid was working in a garage. Maybe he can work something out. Payment plan or somethin’. I’ll talk to your mother and see what we can help with.” Y
ou thanked him and scribbled down Wayne’s number.
—
You were trying to tidy your living room when a knock at the door made you jump. You hurried over, expecting maybe a package or a neighbor—but when you swung the door open, Eddie Munson stood there on your porch like your own personal savior.
A cigarette dangled lazily from his lips, smoke curling around the loose strands of hair escaping his messy bun. His hands were shoved deep into his leather jacket pockets, shoulders hunched against the cold. He gave you a crooked grin, the kind that always looked like he was half a second away from laughter.
“Well,” he drawled, cigarette bobbing, “I don’t normally make house calls, but Wayne said a pretty lady needed help. And who am I to deny a damsel in distress?”
You rolled your eyes, but the smile tugging at your mouth gave you away. You stepped forward and wrapped your arms around him. He was cold from the weather, but he hugged you back firmly, cigarette angled away in a practiced motion. You pulled back slightly, just enough to look at him. The familiar mischief in his eyes made your chest tighten in a way that wasn’t just nostalgia.
“You haven’t changed a bit,” you said, smirking. “Still look like trouble with a cigarette permanently glued to your lips.”
He grinned wider, leaning his head back slightly. “And you,” he said, tilting his head, “still look like someone who refuses to admit she’s secretly a sucker for trouble.”
You laughed, shaking your head. “Maybe. Depends on the day.”
There was a beat of silence, the kind that only happens with people you’ve known for years. No awkward small talk. No forced politeness. Just… familiarity.
Back in high school, you had admired him from a distance. Not because he was flashy or an outcast, but because he had this magnetic chaos about him—effortless confidence mixed with some hidden depths only the people paying attention could see. You were both in different crowds, but that didn’t stop him from being the first person you looked for when you went to a house party. And normally, you’d find him tucked away in a corner, making a deal with someone.
You had spent hours in the library together, slouched in uncomfortable chairs, arguing about the direction the group project should go or the chemistry of explosives, or whatever the hell he convinced you was relevant that day. Once school business was out of the way, the topic changed to mutual interests.
When your dad went to the trailer, you tagged along. Knowing it meant a walk to the woods and a shared joint. It had always been easy with Eddie. Even when he disappeared for a week into his own little adventures, you never questioned that he’d show up again—usually with a story that was part wild, part completely unbelievable, and yet, heartbreakingly honest.
Now, standing here in the doorway, November air biting at your cheeks, you realized how little had really changed. The chaos was still there, sure, but so was the ease. The unspoken understanding. The way you didn’t have to explain yourself, and he didn’t have to pretend to care about anyone else’s rules.
“We should probably get to working on my car before the neighbors start to gawk. Wondering why trouble is standing on my porch, brewing up whatever gossip they can.” you said, trying to sound casual.
“Pffft. Let them talk. I’ve got your back. And your engine’s back. Probably.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Probably?”
He shrugged, flashing that crooked grin that made your stomach do flips you refused to admit to anyone. “Hey, life’s more fun with a little suspense.”
For a moment, the morning’s frustration—the broken-down car, your fiancé’s broken promises, the grinding hum of a life that felt stuck—slipped away.
“I really appreciate this, Eds,” you murmured as you wrapped your arms around yourself for warmth. “Last time I got anything quoted to fix her, it cost more than she’s worth.”
“Yeah, lot of sleaze bag mechanics in the area,” he said “but we can figure something out.”
You grabbed your jacket from the couch, shoved your arms through the sleeves, and led him outside. The cold air wrapping around you as you walked down the driveway. You unlocked the car with the familiar, stubborn click of the old Civic’s door. “There she is,” you sighed as you handed him the keys. “Be nice to her. She’s sensitive.”
Eddie circled the car with a little whistle. “’82 Honda Civic? Ohhhh sweetheart,” he said to the car, patting her roof. “You’ve put this girl through hell.”
“Me to the car, or her to me? ‘Cause either way, you have no idea.” you muttered.
He popped the hood with a metallic thunk, propped it open, and leaned in. The engine bay looked like an abandoned science project to you—wires, hoses, belts, all the things you pretended to understand whenever a mechanic spoke to you. Eddie moved with confidence. He nudged wires aside, poked at connections, tugged a tube here and there—muttering under his breath like he was holding a private conversation with the car herself.
Eventually he straightened, dusted off his hands, and pulled his van up in front of yours. The sloppy crunch of gravel under his tires made you wince, but Eddie lined the vehicles up perfectly. He clipped the jumper cables on with careful precision—much more cautious than his usual chaotic approach to life.
“Alright,” he said, stepping back. “We’ll give her a jump, try to get her going, then go from there. I need a starting point.” A few minutes later, with a reluctant rumble, the Civic finally roared to life. You cheered, practically launching yourself at Eddie in relief.
“Hold on, hold on,” he laughed into your shoulder. “Don’t throw a parade yet. I’m gonna drive her around the block and see what she screams at me about.”
He was gone for barely two minutes—just long enough for you to dart inside and make two steaming mugs of coffee to fight off the cold bleeding into your bones. When he pulled back into the driveway, he kept the engine idling, listening to it groan and rattle. Then he hopped out and went right back under the hood.
“Okay,” he announced, voice muffled slightly as he leaned in, “seems she’s got a bad alternator, and judging by those god-awful noises and… whatever that smell is? The tranny’s on her way out too.” He paused. “Also possible, maybe even a raccoon spirit haunting the air filter. All equally likely.”
You held onto the two mugs, watching him. “How long you think this’ll take?”
Eddie straightened, wiping his hands on the thighs of his jeans until the grease left two hand prints then took a mug from you, carefully taking a sip. “Well,” he sighed, “fun part is waiting for parts. After that, it’s just however long it takes me to put her back together. She’s fixable. Just maybe a little dramatic.” You nodded, but the uncertainty sat heavy in your stomach.
He turned off the car then leaned against it, arms crossing. “Sooo, that brings us to payment.” His tone shifted—more serious, but still gentle. “Your folks can cover about a hundred, which takes care of the alternator. But the transmission? That’s… about five times as much. Don’t worry, I got it, but it might be a little before I can purchase the thing.”
You groaned, pinching the bridge of your nose hard enough to see stars. Willing the stress tears to stay at bay. Eddie hesitated, then cleared his throat.
“So, with that being said… I’ve got some tattoo ideas I’ve been sitting on.”
Your head snapped up. Your heart dropped into your stomach. You had never told Eddie what you did for work. Honestly, you barely told anyone. Your fiancé certainly didn’t know. The last time you’d even suggested wanting to tattoo for a living, he acted like you were volunteering for eternal damnation. And if he found out you were the one condemning other people for an eternity in hell? That was an argument you weren’t emotionally equipped to deal with.
So you told him you worked some boring little office job down the street from the studio. Secretary. Filing. Phones. Simple. Clean.
He never once questioned why you came home smelling like disinfectant and green soap. Being a tattoo artist with virgin skin got you plenty of weird looks, sure—but the second your portfolio hit the counter, all doubts evaporated.
Eddie jogged to his van, rummaged around, and came back with a folded piece of paper. He handed it to you with a little, almost shy flourish. Unfolding it, you found a drawing straight out of that tabletop game he used to play. It looks like an alien and a bat had collided midair and fused.
“It’s called a demobat,” he said, pointing at the creature proudly. “And I was thinking a bigger version-” He lifted his arm, brushing his fingers from his ribs down his side. “-here.”
You couldn’t help the smile stretching across your face. The drawing wasn’t half bad. You’d definitely have to tweak it, sharpen the lines, give it shape to fit where he wants—but the bones were solid. You were excited to draw it to a bigger scale.
“Eds,” you said, folding the paper neatly, “you’ve got yourself a deal.”
He grinned like you’d just given him Christmas early.
—
A few days passed in a blur of gray mornings and long, silent evenings. Eddie called you a handful of times—always about the car, always with some update on parts he’d ordered or a delay the shop hit. At first.
You told him he didn’t need to keep you so informed, that you trusted him. And you did. But if you were honest with yourself? You didn’t want him to stop calling.
Because every time you saw his name flash on the caller ID, a little spark lit up in your chest—one you hadn’t felt in years.
The calls always started off businesslike. Tracking number came in. Part shipped from Cincinnati. Might be here Tuesday, could be Thursday depending on how competent the driver is.
Then, once the update was given, he’d sigh dramatically—like he’d been waiting his turn—and ask,
“So, how was your day?”
You’d give the simplest version you could manage. The version that didn’t show any cracks. And he’d hum thoughtfully before launching into a loud, animated, borderline theatrical rant about whatever assholes he’d dealt with that day.
One guy insisted on speaking to a “real mechanic” when he didn’t like Eddie’s answer. Some woman tried to use expired coupons. Expired coupons for a completely different shop. A man attempted to pay for an oil change with a bag of quarters and a coupon for free fries.
And Eddie made them all sound like characters in a play he was performing for your entertainment.
From there, the two of you drifted into old memories, catching up on the years that had quietly stacked between high school and now. You kept your side light. Glossy. Edited. But Eddie? Eddie talked like he wasn’t afraid of you knowing him. You found out he was living in a rented house with Gareth and Jeff.
“Wait—Gareth and Jeff?” you’d asked, shifting the phone between your shoulder and chin. “As in… your Corroded Coffin guys?”
You heard it instantly—the smile in his voice. Warm. Pleased. Maybe a little surprised. “Sweetheart,” he crooned, “I am flattered you remembered my band.”
You laughed, twisting the phone cord around your fingers. It was becoming a habit—something to ground yourself while talking to him. “Well, remember my friend from school? Ashley Meyers?”
“Uh… glasses? Too much perfume? Constantly eating fruit snacks in class?”
“That’s her. She had this obnoxious crush on Gareth. Dragged me to The Hideout a few times when you guys used to play.”
There was a short beat of silence. Then— “Holy shit,” he burst out. “Wait—you used to go to the Hideout? To see us?”
“Yup,” you said, popping the ‘p.’ “Every other Tuesday. Ash didn’t want it to be too obvious we were there for you guys.”
“Oh my god, why do I not remember that?” he groaned dramatically. “Gareth’s gonna lose his fucking mind over this. Meyers liked that dork?”
You laughed harder than you meant to, leaning against the kitchen counter, warmth blooming in your chest despite the cold outside. “Don’t be mean.” you scolded lightly.
“I’m not being mean,” Eddie argued. “I’m being factual. Gareth was a string bean with big fluffy hair in high school.”
“You weren’t exactly a Calvin Klein model yourself.”
“Hey!”
You heard the grin in that, too.
“I’ll have you know, I was the height of metalhead chic.” You rolled your eyes, but your smile didn’t fade.
Somehow, the calls stretched longer each night. Thirty minutes. Forty-five. An hour. On lucky nights, you lost track of time.
Long enough for you to forget you were supposed to be waiting for someone else to come home. Long enough that it felt like you were right back in high school. And long enough for you to realize— Maybe you didn’t just like hearing from him. Maybe you needed to. Each time you heard the car door slam from outside, you’d sigh, disappointed you didn’t have more time.
“Time to go?”
“Yeah, unfortunately.”
“Okay. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Same time. Goodnight, sweetheart.”
—
Eddie slammed the hood shut with a satisfying clunk, grabbed the rag from his back pocket, and scrubbed his hands like he was trying to erase the entire concept of grease.
“Alternator replaced,” he declared. “Which means your battery should actually hold a charge now.” He turned to you, pointing a dirty finger, trying—failing—to look stern.
His lips kept twitching, betraying the smile he was trying to hide. “But,” he warned, “you are still not allowed to drive her. Yes, she’ll start, yes, she’ll move, but if you take her anywhere other than the end of the driveway, you could fuck her up worse. Got it?”
You nodded so fast your hair bounced, the grin on your face impossible to hide. You even rocked a little on your feet—too full of excitement to stand still. It was progress. Real, actual progress. One step closer to breathing again.
You were so tired of having to walk a block from that random office building to your real studio every morning—just to keep the lie alive. Your fiancé dropping you off like a kid at school.
Today had been different. Today, Eddie had picked you up. He’d even helped load some of your equipment into the back of his van, neatly packed despite the chaos that usually lived in that vehicle.
“Alright, sweetheart. Let’s go ruin my kitchen.”
You groaned. “I still hate the idea of tattooing someone in a house that contains three adult men.”
“Psh.” He waved you off. “I cleaned.”
“You? Cleaned?”
“I even used bleach,” he said proudly, like he’d performed a miracle. “All the surfaces. Threatened Gareth and Jeff with bodily harm if they touched anything.”
“That part I believe.”
—
The drive to his place was short, filled with Eddie drumming on the steering wheel and singing loudly over whatever metal cassette he’d shoved into the deck. Singing off-key. You found it endearing for some reason. You knew when he actually tried to sing, he sounded amazing. But this relaxed, not caring what he sounded like side? It might just be your favorite.
When he pulled into the driveway, he killed the engine and grinned at you like his house was something to brag about, even though the place looked like it had been through a mild apocalypse.
“Welcome to Casa de Disaster.” he said, hopping out before helping unload your belongings.
Inside, though? You had to admit—you were impressed. Counters cleared. Kitchen table wiped spotless. Fresh trash bag in the bin. Even the floor looked mopped.
“You actually cleaned,” you said, genuinely shocked.
Eddie puffed his chest. “Don’t sound so surprised. I literally just told you I did.”
You snorted.
“Alright,” he said, “give me like ten minutes to shower. Go ahead and set up wherever you think would be best.” He disappeared down the hallway, boots thudding.
You started unpacking. The water kicked on in the bathroom. A minute later, the sound softened—Eddie singing under the spray, loud and unashamed. He always did everything like nobody could ever judge him for it.
You continue laying out machine parts, setting up your portable padded table, wiping surfaces, wrapping all the different tattoo paraphernalia in plastic, arranging needles and gloves and everything else with the practiced muscle memory of someone who takes cleanliness very seriously.
You were taping the few sheets of your stencil paper together when you heard the bathroom door open. You didn’t look up immediately—busy smoothing out the sheets—until movement caught your eye. And there he was.
Hair damp, curls clinging to the back of his neck. Steam drifting out behind him. Shirtless, except for a towel slung over his shoulder, jeans hanging a little too low on his hips, as if he’d thrown them on without buttoning them all the way. You froze. Just for a second. Just long enough for your stomach to drop and spark and twist—all at the same time.
You forced your eyes back to the table like nothing happened. Play it cool. Play it cool. Play it—
Eddie stopped beside you, hands on his hips, looking down at your setup with total obliviousness. His back was inches from your hands. Warm. Bare. Sculpted more than you expected—built from years of hauling amps and engines and god knows what else.
And with a stencil soaked in blue transfer ink between your fingers, you stepped into his space—steadying your breath, steadying your hands— Trying desperately not to let him see the way he was unraveling you. You got the stencil placed on him.
He beemed and muttered a “fuck yes” when he looked at the placement in the mirror.
“Alright,” he said cheerfully, “where do you want me?” Not a helpful question, your brain screamed. You cleared your throat, keeping your gaze firmly on the workstation.
“Uh—here,” you said, tapping the padded surface. “On your side. Shirt off.”
He smirked. “Shirt’s already off, sweetheart.”
You gave him the most deadpan look you could manage. He just laughed and flopped onto the table, stretching out on his side exactly how you’d instructed. Eddie peeked over his shoulder, grin softening into something almost shy.
“You okay?”
“Yep,” you said too quickly. “Totally fine.”
He chuckled and rested his head in the crook of his arm. “Take your time,” he murmured. “I trust you.”
You and Eddie worked for hours—long enough that the sun outside shifted into darkness. The recent time change and the sun setting earlier made it feel a lot later than it really was. The stencil had fit perfectly along his ribs, curling down his side like the creature was clinging onto him.
He hissed only once when the needle first touched skin. After that, he settled in, his breaths going slow and steady… until they didn’t.
Every time you hit a sensitive spot along his ribs, a soft sound escaped him—a quiet whimper, a low hum in his throat, sometimes something dangerously close to a moan. His eyes would squeeze shut as he powered through it. He tried to play it off, tried to bury his face in the crook of his arm like he could hide the noises, but each one slipped out anyway, warm and raw in the small kitchen.
“Shit—” he gasped under his breath when you traced a line down his side.
“You okay?” you asked, forcing your voice to stay even.
Eddie peeked back at you with a flushed grin. “‘M great. Really great. Just-uh-very ticklish. Sensitive. Y’know. Rib stuff.”
You bit back your smile, knowing getting a tattoo on your ribs was painful. You tried to continue focusing on the machine, on the ink, on anything but the way heat curled low in your stomach at the sounds he made.
He clutched the edge of the table like a champ, knuckles white, breath catching every so often in those soft little noises he clearly couldn’t stop. And yet—he didn’t ask for a break. Didn’t flinch away.
He just trusted you, wholly and without hesitation, riding out every line with you. Although, he did decide to light a cigarette halfway through.
By the time you wiped down the last mark, the demobat’s outline was crisp, clean, and already gorgeous. Eddie let out a long, shaky exhale—half relief, half satisfaction—and grinned up at you like you’d done him some great, intimate favor.
Eddie twisted around to look at it, eyes widening. “Holy shit,” he whispered. “That’s… that’s sick.”
You smiled—quiet, shy in a way you weren’t used to feeling. “Wait ‘til we shade it.”
“Oh, sweetheart, I am showing everyone this fucking masterpiece.”
—
You made a pitstop at the studio to drop off all of your equipment, waved goodnight to your coworkers still on the clock, then climbed back in the van with Eddie.
The ride back was quiet in a comfortable way. He had you dig through the center console for sometime you knew. Smiled when you held up the most recent Metallica tape. You watched the blur of streetlights pass the windows and tried not to think too hard about the warmth in your chest. When he pulled into your driveway, he turned down the radio and twisted in his seat to look at you.
“I’ll call you. Same time tomorrow?" he asked, voice hopeful in a way that made your heart clench.
You nodded, trying not to look as flustered as you felt. “Yeah. That works.”
He smiled—soft this time—and waited for you to grab your bag before lifting a hand in a casual little wave. “Night, sweetheart.”
You stepped inside before you could accidentally say Goodnight, Eddie, in a tone that would give everything away.
—
The house was quiet. It was always quiet when he was gone. You dropped your bag by the wall, kicked off your shoes, and let yourself sink onto the couch. For the first time all day, you were alone with your thoughts.
And God—you hated it.
Because every time you closed your eyes, you saw Eddie laughing with his head thrown back, or felt the heat of his skin beneath your gloves, the noises that the tattoo pulled from him, remembered the way he said I trust you like he meant it. You felt… confused. No. Worse than confused. You felt alive.
And that made everything ten times more complicated, because you were engaged. Engaged to a man whose touch made your skin crawl now. Engaged to a man who hadn’t looked at you the way Eddie did in years—if he ever had.
Youu pressed the heels of your hands to your eyes and tried to breathe. You weren’t supposed to like anyone else. You weren’t supposed to want someone else’s voice, someone else’s laugh, someone else’s—
The front door slammed so hard you jerked upright. Scott stumbled in, keys landing on the floor with a metallic clatter. He smelled like whiskey and stale bar air, cheeks flushed, eyes sharp.
“Where the hell were you?” he demanded.
Shit. You swallowed. “Eddie was helping with the car again. I told you I’d be out.”
He scoffed, sarcastic and mean. “Yeah. Helping. Sure.” He kicked off his boots with so much force they hit the wall. “You’re spending a lotta fucking time with him,” he snapped. “More than with your fiancé.”
You stood slowly. “Scott, he’s fixing the car. I can’t get to work without-”
“Bullshit,” he spat, stepping closer. “You think I don’t notice? The giggly phone calls you suddenly end when I walk in? And now he’s driving you around?”
“Don’t do this.” you said, voice tight.
“Oh, I’m doing this.” He pointed at you, eyes wild with jealousy and booze. “You’re fucking him. Aren’t you?”
Your stomach lurched.
“Are you serious? No! I-Scott, listen to yourself.”
“I am listening,” he snarled. “And what I hear is you lying.”
The room felt too small. Your chest felt too tight. And beneath the fear, the anger, the exhaustion—a tiny spark of defiance flickered. Because the worst part? You hadn’t cheated. But for the first time in your relationship… You wanted to.
“You know, you have got a lot of fucking nerve, Scott,” you snapped, the words hitting the air before you could think twice. “You’re out running around with god knows who, spending money we don’t have on getting fucked up. You wanna talk about where I am all the time? What about you? You get off at six. Yet you don’t come home until close to midnight some nights.”
Scott blinked, thrown off by the fact that you were actually talking back. He scoffed—loud, ugly. “Oh, so now I’m not allowed to have a life? I’m not allowed to blow off steam?”
“You’re allowed,” you said, taking a steady step forward, “but you’re not allowed to accuse me of cheating because I finally have something going on outside this house. Especially when you come home smelling like perfume and cheap whiskey half the week.”
His jaw tightened. A muscle jumped. “You’re being dramatic-”
“No,” you cut him off, voice sharp. “I’ve been silent. Big difference.”
He tried to laugh, but it came out forced. “You seriously getting all worked up over Munson? That loser? That drug-dealing dropout?”
The words hit you harder than you expected. But you didn’t back down.
“You don’t get to talk about him like that,” you said, and even you were surprised by the edge in your tone. “You’ve got this all fucking wrong. He’s helping me with my car. And you didn’t seem to mind him when you used to buy pills off him.”
“Oh my God,” Scott threw his hands up, pacing away from you. “So that’s it. You’re into him now? Jesus- this is insane.”
“I didn’t say that,” you shot back. “But even if I were? Even if I was catching feelings for someone-” your voice cracked, but only for a second “-it would be because of how he treats me. Because he sees me. Because he actually listens when I talk. Unlike you. I don’t even fucking know who you are anymore.”
He stopped pacing. Turned slowly. “So you’re admitting it.” His voice lowered into something dangerous. “You are cheating.”
“No,” you said firmly, grounding yourself. “I haven’t done anything wrong. But stop pretending like you’re accusing me because you care. You’re accusing me because you’re guilty. And because you want to feel better about all the shit you’ve been doing.”
Red crept up his neck. “You’re unbelievable.”
“And you’re a coward,” you said quietly. “Blaming me is easier than looking in the mirror.”
For a moment, silence fell—tense, suffocating. Your heart hammered in your chest, but you didn’t look away from him. You didn’t fold. You didn’t apologize. For the first time in a long time… you stood your ground.
“Scott,” you said, voice lower now, calmer but no less firm, “I need you to get out of my face. Go sleep it off or go back to the bar-whatever. Because I’m not doing this with you tonight.”
He stared at you, stunned—because you’d never told him no. You’d never pushed back. And it terrified him. You were always the first to crumble. To apologize even if you did nothing wrong. Saying anything to get him to calm down.
“Unbelievable,” he muttered again before grabbing his jacket off the couch. “I’m not staying here and being attacked.”
“You’re not being attacked,” you said. “You’re being told the truth.”
He didn’t respond. Just put his boots back on and slammed the door behind him when he left. Leaving you alone in the sudden quiet… chest shaking, adrenaline buzzing through your veins, realizing that you weren’t as helpless as you’d always acted
—
The next few days were hell. The house felt smaller somehow, like the walls had crept inward during the night. Scott didn’t speak to you—not really. He didn’t apologize, didn’t bring it up, didn’t even pretend to be interested in fixing things. But he hovered.
If you walked to the kitchen, he’d suddenly need a drink. If you picked up the phone, he’d appear in the doorway. If it rang—Eddie’s number popping up on the caller ID—Scott would stare until you let the answering machine get it.
You kept the conversations with Eddie short when he called about your car—surface-level, careful, nothing that would set Scott off. You knew he was listening. You could hear that he had picked up the other landline to eavesdrop.
Eddie didn’t push, but you could tell he knew something was wrong. He’d pause a little too long, his voice going soft in places.
Five days of that. Five days of tiptoeing around your own home. Five days of not hearing Eddie laugh. By the sixth day, you were exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with sleep.
You slipped into your studio, flipped on the lights, and prepared for another shift where you’d pretend everything was fine. The steady buzz of tattoo machines drowned out your thoughts for most of the morning.
Around noon, while you were cleaning your station between clients, the bell above the front door chimed. You didn’t look up at first—another walk-in, probably. Then you heard it.
“Hey, sweetheart.”
Your head snapped up.
Eddie stood there in the middle of your shop—hands shoved into his jacket pockets, hair pulled back in a loose bun. He was wearing blue overalls covered in grease and oil, the top half tied around his waist. He had no business being this much of a relief to see.
You couldn’t help but smile at him. “Eds? What are you doing here?”
He shrugged, casual. Too casual. But his eyes swept over your face, reading every bit of the stress you thought you’d hidden.
“I was in the neighborhood,” he lied blatantly. “And I figured- my car girl’s seeming a little… off.”
You laughed under your breath, shaking your head. “Your car girl is fine.”
“Well,” he said, leaning on the counter, “her face says otherwise.” The words came out quiet. Concern disguised as teasing. Before you could come up with a deflection, he cleared his throat and asked—gentle, almost careful.
“You wanna hang out tonight?”
You blinked. “Tonight?”
He grinned. “Yeah, tonight. I’m kidnapping you, actually- sorry, should’ve led with that.”
Your smile cracked through before you could stop it. “Eddie-”
“No pressure,” he added quickly. “I just… thought maybe you could use a night where you could let loose.”
You silently cursed at the betraying warm flutter your stomach had done. He knew something was wrong. And he wasn’t asking for details. He just wanted to get you out.
“Okay,” you said softly. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
—
Eddie picked you up after your shift, his van rumbling with its usual personality. He didn’t ask if Scott minded. He didn’t mention Scott at all. He just smiled when you slid into the passenger seat, as if your presence alone fixed something in him.
“You hungry?” he asked. “Because I’m getting you food. That’s non-negotiable.”
You laughed. “Bossy.”
After a quick food stop, he drove you to a dingy little bar-venue on the edge of town—one of those places with mismatched chairs, bad lighting, and surprisingly impressive local bands trying to get their name out in the world.
“Eddie… this place is-”
“A dump,” he finished proudly. “But the music’s good. And the beers are cold. And you,” he nudged your shoulder, “look like you need something loud to drown out your thoughts.” Inside, he bought you a drink—just one, for now—and ordered a Coke for himself.
“You’re not drinking?” you asked.
He shook his head. “Nah. Someone’s gotta make sure you don’t fall off a barstool. Or jump onstage. Both feel equally possible once you get a few in you.”
The music started—gritty guitar riffs, pounding drums, energy that filled your bones as the bass vibrated in your chest. It was impossible not to loosen up. You let yourself sway to the beat, sip your drink, and laugh when Eddie dramatically air-guitared beside you.
He watched you more than he watched the band. Not in a heavy way. Everytime you looked at him, he just smiled, dimples and canines on display. Like he was making sure you were actually having fun.
“Feeling any better?” he asked during a break between bands.
You nodded, leaning your elbows on the sticky table. “Yeah,” you admitted. “Actually… yeah.”
He smiled—slow, warm, proud. “Good,” he said. “Because you deserve a night that doesn’t suck.”
The drinks went down easier than you expected. A little too easy. Two bands in, the music buzzing warm in your veins, you felt pleasantly loose—your shoulders relaxed, laughter bubbling out of you at things that weren’t even that funny.
Eddie stayed next to you the whole time, sipping his Coke, nudging it against your arm each time you hesitantly reached for your drink like he was reminding you he was keeping watch.
By the end of your third drink—and maybe halfway into a fourth—you weren’t just relaxed. You were honest. Painfully, sloppily, heartbreakingly honest.
It all started when the band onstage began a slower, heavier song. Something about feeling stuck in a life you didn’t choose.Your face softened, and you stared at your hands on the table.
Eddie noticed immediately. He leaned in, voice low, just for you. “Hey. You okay?”
Your throat tightened. The alcohol loosened something in you that had been held shut for months.
“Eddie…” You swallowed. “I’m not happy.”
His eyes widened a little—not in shock, but in recognition. Like he’d suspected… but hearing it still hurt on your behalf.
“Yeah?” he said softly. “Talk to me.”
And you did. It all came spilling out, words tumbling over each other: “How the hell am I supposed to be happy, Eds?” you said, rubbing your face with both palms. “I’m stuck in that house with Scott, and everything feels—heavy. Everything feels wrong.”
He didn’t interrupt. Not once. You stared past the stage lights, tears stinging but not falling.
“He treats me like I’m… like I’m not even a person anymore. Like I’m some accessory to his life. I cook, I clean, I’m home when he feels like being home, and when he’s off drinking, I just… wait.” Your voice cracked. “I don’t even know when I started doing that. Waiting, shrinking myself down to be the perfect little house-wife.”
Eddie’s jaw tightened, the muscle ticking—but still he stayed quiet, letting you speak. “And I can’t leave,” you said, a humorless laugh slipping out. “All because he wanted to buy that stupid fucking house. There’s no savings. I’m barely making it with the shop. I feel like I’m stuck in this stupid place with this stupid man who’s just—just draining the life out of me.”
Your hands trembled, and Eddie immediately covered one with his, grounding you. You didn’t pull away. “I feel trapped, Eddie,” you whispered. “Like I’m… disappearing.” He squeezed your hand, thumb brushing your knuckles in quiet reassurance.
You took a shaky breath. The music picked up and thumped around you, but the moment felt strangely still. “And the worst part?” You laughed—small and heartbroken. “I don’t even think he likes me anymore. Not really. I think he likes the idea of me. Of what I’m supposed to be.”
You swallowed, almost whispering now. “And I’m so tired of being what people expect.”
Eddie’s eyes softened—too soft. Dangerously soft. Your next words slipped out before you realized they were forming.
“I just want to be myself again,” you murmured. “I want… someone who lets me breathe. Someone who-who laughs with me. Who actually wants to hear me talk about stupid shit. Who doesn’t get angry if I’m five minutes late or forget to start the dishwasher. Someone who’s proud of the work I do and isn’t afraid to show it off.”
Your gaze lifted to Eddie, unintentionally tender. “Someone who doesn’t make me feel like a burden.”
He froze—not in discomfort, but in this stunned, aching kind of stillness. Like he heard more than you said. Like he understood every unspoken thing woven into your words. You dragged in another breath, letting it out in a shaky laugh.
“Someone like you,” you added, voice soft, almost slurred with truth. “You… you make things feel light. I can breathe around you, Eds. And you let me. You just let me exist and be myself.”
His lips parted—but no words came out. You were too drunk to notice the way his cheeks flushed, or the flash of something warm—and scared—in his eyes. You looked down at your drink instead, swirling it lazily.
“I’m not saying-“ You shook your head, trying to correct yourself through the haze. “I’m not saying anything crazy. I just… I like how I feel when I’m around you. You make me feel free. Like maybe I don’t have to stay trapped forever.” You laughed again—sad, soft, tired. “I just wish I wasn’t such a coward.”
Eddie leaned forward. His voice was barely above a whisper. “You’re not a coward.”
You lifted your eyes to him—and he held your gaze like it was something precious.
“You’re hurting,” he said gently. “And you’re trying your damn best. That’s not cowardice.”
You swallowed hard, suddenly emotional in a way alcohol made impossible to hide.
“Eddie… I don’t know what to do.”
He exhaled, steady and calm, guiding you back from the edge with nothing but his presence.
“You don’t need to have all the answers tonight,” he said. “Just… breathe. Let yourself breathe for one night, okay?”
You nodded, tears finally slipping free. And Eddie, without hesitation, reached out and wiped one away with his thumb. His touch lingered. Just a second too long. But neither of you pulled away.
“Hey, do you still like to skate?”
Your brows knit. That wasn’t a question you expected, not tonight, not after everything that spilled out of you. “Yeah?” you answered cautiously.
He stood and held out his hand, the corners of his mouth lifting. “Thought so. Let’s go.”
You let him pull you up—his hand warm, steady, grounding you in a way nothing else had lately.
The cool night air sobered you just enough as he guided you out of the bar and into his van. The drive wasn’t long. You recognized the street before he even turned into the parking lot. The old skating rink.
Still glowing neon pink around the entrance. Still open late. Still the same place you used to beg your parents to take you as a kid. You hadn’t been here in over four years.
“Eddie,” you laughed, “are you serious?”
“Deadly.” He popped your door open with a flourish. “C’mon. You need to have some fun.”
Inside, everything smelled like popcorn and nostalgia. Kids clattered around, teens held hands, the disco lights flickered above the glossy rink floor. Music thumped—some 80s rock ballad that didn’t quite match the mood but somehow fit perfectly.
Eddie paid for both of you before you could argue. “I’m kidnapping you, remember?” he said, bumping your shoulder. “Everything is on me tonight.”
You snorted and pulled on your skates. Despite the alcohol still humming warm in your chest… your muscle memory took over the second your wheels hit the floor.
You pushed off— And your body remembered everything. You felt like you were flying. Smooth, effortless, like your feet were meant for this. Eddie stepped out onto the rink behind you… and immediately flailed.
“Whoa-whoa-okay, how the hell do you move like that?” he yelped, pinwheeling his arms.
You burst into laughter so hard you nearly doubled over. He looked like a newborn giraffe being shoved onto ice.
“Shut up!” Eddie barked—except he was laughing too, loud and unrestrained.
You skated backward in front of him, grinning. “Need help, Munson?”
“No,” he said with false dignity. Then his ankle wobbled, and he lurched sideways. “Actually-fuck-maybe.”
You reached him in two strides, catching him by the forearms before he hit the ground. His hands grabbed your waist in instinct. Hard.
Steadying himself with a force that knocked the breath from your lungs. “Eddie- careful-“
“Trust me, sweetheart, I’m trying not to take us both ou-” He slipped again, weight tipping, pulling you closer. You clutched arms, laughing and breathless, trying to help him find his balance—but he swayed forward.
Your noses brushed. And the world stopped. The music. The lights. The other skaters drifting by. All of it faded when Eddie looked at you. His breath hitched. Yours tangled with it. He held your gaze for a moment before he slowly leaned in. Soft, warm, hesitant…
And everything inside you snapped awake. The alcohol evaporated from your bloodstream. Your heart roared to life. Every nerve lit up like a struck match. Dormant for far too long. This wasn’t a drunk mistake. This was clarity.
You kissed him back, fingers curling into his sleeves, pulling him closer, wanting—needing—more of the warmth he offered, the freedom he made you feel.
But Eddie pulled away first, breath ragged, eyes wide and terrified. “Shit-” he whispered. “Shit, I’m sorry.”
You blinked, still holding onto him. “For?”
“You’re drunk,” he said, voice hoarse. “I shouldn’t have- I shouldn’t- you didn’t mean-”
“I did.” The words came out steady, shockingly steady. “I meant it.”
He froze. The disco lights flashed blue across his face—catching the worry etched there, the guilt, the longing he couldn’t quite hide.
“Sweetheart…” He shook his head, swallowing hard. “You’re engaged.”
Your chest tightened. “I know,” you whispered. “But when I kissed you? I wasn’t drunk. I feel…more awake right now than I have in months. Fuck that, years.”
He searched your face, desperate to find some trace of hesitation, some sign you didn’t mean it. But you did. You were painfully, terrifyingly sober in this moment. And he knew it.
“Fuck,” he breathed, voice breaking just a little. He still held your waist. You still held his forearms. Your bodies stayed close enough for your skates to knock together. You didn’t let go. Neither did he.
The rink spun lazily around you, but you were perfectly still— Caught between the life you’d been suffocating in… and the one that suddenly felt possible in Eddie’s hands.
Eddie didn’t let go of you right away. Even after the kiss—after the apology, after the breathless, terrified look he gave you—your fingers stayed hooked in the fabric of his jacket. His hands hovered at your waist like he wasn’t sure whether to hold you or back away.
But you made the choice for both of you. You stepped back slowly, effortlessly gliding, still holding his gaze… then you turned, skating away a few feet. Just enough distance to give him space— But not enough to lose him.
“C’mon, Munson,” you teased, voice lighter than it had been in months. “Try to keep up.”
He huffed a laugh, running a hand over his face. “Oh, fuck off.” He muttered—but he was smiling, that wide Eddie grin that crinkled the corners of his eyes.
You circled around him first—slow, graceful loops that made him shake his head in disbelief.
His skates wobbled with every attempt to turn, his arms flailing dramatically as if the floor itself was out to get him. “Show-off.”
You only laughed as you passed him. “You love it.”
And his answering smirk? God. It awoke something deep inside you.
Another song poured through the rink—some pop love song. The purple lights flashing across the floor. You swooped back toward Eddie, skidding to a stop right in front of him. He startled, knees shaking, hands flying out to catch anything—preferably you.
You caught him by the wrist.
“Okay,” you giggled, “before you break a hip, give me your hand.”
He hesitated, staring at your extended palm like it was something dangerous. Then he placed his hand in yours. Warm. Rough in places. Steady in a way he’d never admit.
“Just trust me.”
“Sweetheart, you know I do.”
He let you tug him forward. You skated backward effortlessly, guiding him with both hands, pulling him into easy motion. His eyes stayed locked on yours—not on his feet, not on the terrifying floor—just you.
He kept laughing—loud, bright, unable to hold it in each time he stumbled and you reeled him back upright with a quick tug.
“Stop- stop smiling at me, I’m trying to survive!” he sputtered as he nearly drifted sideways.
You burst into laughter so hard your knees buckled. “Am I distracting you?”
He tightened his grip on your hands, pulling you closer to stabilize you. For one dizzy moment your chests brushed, breath mixing, faces inches apart— “Always.”
Then you spun out of the moment, twirling away, letting the momentum carry you into a loop around him.
“Show-off!” he called again, but it sounded more like admiration than complaint.
The two of you spiraled around the rink—your graceful gliding, his chaotic stumbling—like a mismatched pair from some romantic comedy that didn’t know it was writing your lives.
At one point, he tried to mimic your backwards skating. Big mistake. He got about three feet before tipping backward. You caught him again—hands gripping his arms, letting his weight settle into you. His forehead bumped yours. Both of you breathless. Both of you laughing.
“It’s not fair,” he said softly, cheeks flushed red, “how good you are at this.”
“It’s not fair,” you murmured back, “how hard you’re trying for me.”
His smile faltered—not faded, just grew smaller, more genuine. Like it meant something he didn’t know how to say. You lifted his hand, threading your fingers with his, and pulled him into another lap. The laughter between you never dipped—light, easy, alive in a way you hadn’t felt in years.
For one night, in that rink filled with neon lights and strangers and bad music… There was no Scott. No house, mortgage, or debt. No broken down car. No weight of the world crushing your ribs. Just you. Just Eddie.
Just two people finding the edges of something new—something terrifying, something reckless, something that made you feel like you weren’t trapped at all…
but finally, finally free.
The night wound down slowly, like neither of you wanted to admit it was over.
You skated until your legs ached—until Eddie nearly took out a fifteen-year-old and declared, “That’s it, I’m retiring. Loser’s hall of fame. Zero wins, forty-seven losses.”
You laughed until your stomach hurt.
He laughed because you laughed.
And eventually, the rink lights came back on, no more black lights or neon colors, signaling closing time.
The ride home was quieter. A warm afterglow settling over the both of you. The kind that follows too much laughter, too much honesty, too much something that feels like hope.
Eddie kept one hand on the wheel, the other drumming gently on his thigh to the music humming from the radio. You watched him in the glow of the dashboard, the curve of his smile still lingering, the flush of skating and adrenaline warming his cheeks.
He parked in front of your place but didn’t turn off the engine. The van idled beneath you, heat blowing gently through the vents.
“Thanks for tonight,” you said, voice low, almost shy. “I… needed it more than I knew.”
Eddie looked over at you then.
Something in his eyes shifted—something you felt more than saw. A pull. A want. A decision.
He leaned over the center console before your mind could even catch up.
There was no hesitation this time.
His hand cupped the side of your face—warm palm against your cheek, thumb brushing your skin like he was memorizing the shape of you.
And his mouth met yours. Slow at first, then deeper—intentional. Certain. Hungry in the quietest way.
You inhaled sharply, hand finding the space between his jacket and shirt, resting on his side, pulling him closer as the kiss deepened. There was no alcohol fog. No confusion. Just heat, clarity, and the feeling of being wanted—truly wanted—for the first time in a long time.
When he finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, breathing a little unevenly.
Your chest tightened around something warm and aching.
“Eddie…”
He pulled back enough to look you in the eyes—really look at you.
His voice dropped to something rough but gentle.
“Listen to me.”
You nodded.
“You don’t have to rush into anything,” he said softly. “Not for me. Not for anybody.”
You swallowed hard. “I know.”
“I mean it,” he insisted, brushing your cheek with his thumb again. “I know you’re unhappy. I know you feel trapped. But I don’t want to be the reason you burn your whole life down unless you’re a hundred percent sure that’s what you want.”
Your throat went tight with emotion. He wasn’t telling you to stay. He wasn’t telling you to leave. He was telling you to choose. For once, just choose for yourself.
“I don’t want to be some escape hatch,” he murmured. “I don’t want to be something you run to because everything else feels shitty. You—” He inhaled sharply. “You deserve to make a choice because it’s what you want. Not because of him. Not because of me.”
His hand slid down to your jaw, holding you gently, almost reverently.
“If you decide you want out,” he said, voice barely above a whisper, “I’ll help however you need. But if you walk away from him… I want you to be sure you want what you’re walking towards. But you gotta choose for yourself.”
You felt a tear slip down your cheek before you even realized you were crying.
Eddie wiped it with his thumb immediately.
“No more making yourself small,” he said softly. “Not for him. Not for anybody.”
Your breath trembled and you tried to nod again. Letting him know you understood.
Then another quiet kiss found its way to your lips—just a soft press, reassuring, steady.
A promise, not a plea.
When he finally pulled back, he rested his hand against your cheek one last time.
“Go inside,” he whispered gently. “Get some sleep.”
You nodded, though it took everything in you to pull your hand away from him, to open the van door, to step out into the cool night air.
You turned back once as you reached your porch. Eddie was still watching you. Not possessive. Not expectant. Just… there.
Waiting.
For you to decide your own life.
—
The next day moved in a blur. A slow, aching hangover of emotion—not alcohol. Eddie’s kiss lingering on your lips, his words echoing in your chest.
Choose for yourself. For once, you wanted to.
By midday, that restless heat under your skin pushed you into the chair at the shop when it had been too slow. Shorts hiked high as your coworker, Mac, placed a stencil on your thigh.
You didn’t tell Scott. You didn’t ask him. You didn’t care.
You just sat there, heart pounding, breathing deep as the stencil settled against your skin—an original piece you had been doodling over and over for years, finally mastered into something beautiful for your first tattoo.
The buzzing needle started, and you relaxed into the pain like it was a release.
And that’s exactly when the bell above the shop door jingled.nYou didn’t look up at first.nFootsteps. A familiar cadence. Then a familiar voice—
“Hey, I brought—”
Silence.
You blinked, looked over your shoulder.
Eddie stood frozen in the doorway, paper bag in one hand, soda cup in the other. His eyes were wide for a split second, then narrowed in something like shock… then pride.
He set the food on the counter and came to your side, careful not to get in the artist’s way. His gaze dropped to your thigh—your bare thigh—and the design being carved into it.
“What made you pull the trigger?” he asked quietly, like he already knew.
You shrugged, though your heart thudded hard.
“I got tired,” you admitted. “Of waiting for permission to do things I want. Of worrying what Scott’s gonna say. Of… shrinking.”
Eddie’s jaw flexed, a small muscle ticking.
“Yeah,” he muttered. “You’ve been doing that for a long time.”
You looked up at him. Really looked.
“I don’t want to anymore.”
Something almost like relief flashed across his face. He sank into the rolling stool beside you, and watched as Mac continued to work.
“I’m proud of you,” he said, soft but certain.
Mac glanced between you two, smirked, and kept working.
Eddie leaned forward, elbows on his knees, watching every line being inked onto your skin like it was the most important thing he’d seen all week.
“What’s it mean?” he asked.
You shrugged.
“It means, I thought it was pretty. And I wanted it on my body.”
Eddie didn’t move for a moment, just laughed at your absurd answer.
Then he reached out—slow, giving you every chance to pull away—and laid his hand over yours on the table. Warm. Solid. Grounding.
“Good,” he murmured. “You deserve that.”
Your fingers curled into his automatically.
—
The house felt different. It had for too long. Colder. Quieter. Like the walls were waiting for something to crack. And Scott… Scott seemed to sense something shifting in you.
He hovered. Called constantly. Came home angrier every night, demanding to know what you had done when not at work. If you felt like you were in a prison before? That was nothing compared to now.
It built slow at first—snapped replies, accusations muttered under his breath, slamming cabinets. Until it wasn’t slow anymore. Tonight it exploded.
You had barely stepped through the front door when he started in on you, voice already slurred from the bar.
“Oh, look who finally decided to come home,” he sneered. “Where were you? With Munson again?”
You hadn’t even seen him today. You had stayed late at work, trying to pocket extra money from a last minute walk in. Then walking home after a long day. You found your old Walkman yesterday. It wasn’t as fun as driving with windows down, screaming your heart out, but it was a close second.
You tried to walk past him, You really tried.
You had nothing left to give him—no energy, no explanations, no excuses.
He followed you down the hall.
“Don’t fucking ignore me.”
“Scott, I’m not doing this right now—”
“Yeah? Why not? You don’t deny it anymore? You just run off with him now?”
“Stop.” Your voice broke. “Just stop.”
But anger rolled off him in waves.
“You think I’m stupid? You think I don’t see what’s going on?”
You turned on him then, exhausted, shaking.
“You know, maybe if you put half as much effort into this relationship as you do into drinking and accusations, we wouldnt-”
His hand shot out. Fingers closing around your forearm. Hard. A yelp came out of you. You weren’t sure if it was from the pain, or the surprise itself.
“Don’t talk to me like that.”
You yanked, but his grip tightened until it burned.
“Let go, Scott! let go!”
He shoved you back. Your hip hit the counter. Your balance faltered. His hand closed tightly around your upper arms, shaking you, slamming your lower back aggressively against the counters edge.
And then the world flashed white as his fist connected with your face.
A crack. A burst of stars.
You didn’t even remember hitting the floor—only the ringing in your ears and the sickening thud of your heart slamming against your ribs.
When you came back to yourself, everything was still. Scott staring down at you, chest heaving, face twisted.
Then—fear crossed his features.
“I-fuck- just-just stop making me so angry,” he snapped, like you were the problem. “If you didn’t provoke me-”
You didn’t hear the rest.
You quickly scrambled to your feet, grabbed your keys, and bolted out the door while he kept yelling, excuses tumbling after you.
You didn’t look back. You were crying by the time you reached the car. Crying harder once it was in drive. And by the time you pulled up to Eddie’s house, you were shaking so violently the keys rattled in your hand. You quickly got out of the car, then ran to his front steps, pounding on the door.
“Hey- what the hell, I told you not to drive her until I replaced the-”
But the words cut off instantly. His whole body froze. His face drained. Then darkened.
“Sweetheart,” he breathed—but not softly.
You tried to wipe your face, but that only made the pain flare around your eye.
Eddie’s jaw clenched so tightly a muscle twitched.
His hands hovered, like he wanted to touch you but was afraid of hurting you worse.
“What happened,” he said—not asked.
His voice was low, deadly still.
“Eddie—”
“What. Happened.”
You clutched your sleeves over the red marks on your arms, but he gently lifted your sleeves high.
The moment he saw the bruising fingerprints, his expression shattered into something feral.
Then he saw your eye. The swelling. The forming bruise. The tiny cut where skin split.
A tremor went through him—like every muscle in his body tensed at once.
“He hit you.”
It wasn’t a question. Your breath broke. That was all the confirmation he needed.
Eddie’s expression turned lethal. Not loud, not explosive—cold. The kind of cold that terrifies.
“I’m going to fucking kill him,” he said quietly, already walking around the house for his shoes and keys. “I’m going to rip that piece of shit apart-”
You grabbed his sleeve. “Eddie, please.”
He spun back toward you, eyes burning.
“He put his hands on you.” His voice cracked. “He hurt you. He-”
He stopped. Breathing hard. Hands shaking.
“Sweetheart,” he whispered, stepping closer, carefully cupping your cheeks with both hands like you might crumble. “He hit you.”
Tears spilled again.
Eddie pulled you gently—so gently—against him.
You sobbed into his chest, your fingers fisting his shirt. His arms wrapped around you, protective and trembling.
“I’ve got you,” he whispered into your hair. “You’re safe. I promise you’re safe.”
You felt him press a furious kiss to the top of your head. Eddie finally pulled back, just enough to look at you. His thumb brushed your cheek—careful to avoid the swelling.
“Get in the van,” he said softly, but there was steel beneath it.
You stiffened. “Eddie, I can’t go back there. Not tonight. Not like this.”
“We’re not going back there to talk,” he said. “We’re going to get your things, and then you’re done. You never have to step foot in that house again. We’ll figure the next steps out later.”
Your breath wavered. “He’ll be there.”
“I’m counting on it.”
There was something different about his voice now. Not reckless. Not wild. Just… certain. He wasn’t scared of Scott. And he wasn’t going to let you be either.
“Come on,” he murmured, grabbing your hand and leading you to the van before opening the passenger door for you. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere. And when we get there, he’s not getting anywhere near you.”
You slid into the seat, heart pounding, hands shaking.
Eddie circled to the driver’s side, jaw set, knuckles white on the wheel as he pulled out of the driveway.
He didn't blast the radio. He didn’t talk. He was too focused. Too ready.
By the time you reached your house, his anger had settled into something calm and razor-edged.
“Stay behind me.” He said as you walked up the steps.
You fumbled with your keys, but Eddie took them gently, unlocked the door himself, and pushed it open.
Scott was waiting.
He stood in the living room, bottle on the coffee table, eyes dark and mean the moment they landed on Eddie.
“Oh look,” he spat. “The fucking mechanic showed up.”
“She’s here to get her things.” He stood between you and Scott, motioning towards the hallway for you to head to the room.
Scott laughed, ugly and sharp. “The hell she is. This is our home.”
You stepped out from behind Eddie. “Not anymore.”
Scott’s face twisted, red and blotchy with drunken anger.
“You’re really doing this? You’re throwing everything away for him?”
Your stomach flipped.
The way he said him felt venomous.
“She’s leaving because you hit her,” Eddie cut in before you could respond, his voice low and trembling with the kind of anger that didn’t explode—it ripped open.
“And if you put your hands on her again, you’re not gonna have any left.”
“Eddie—” you tried, panic rising up your throat.
Scott took two deliberate steps forward, chest puffed out, getting in Eddie’s face.
“And what the fuck are you gonna do, Munson? Huh?” he hissed. “You think you’re tough?”
Eddie didn’t move. Didn’t blink.
“Back up.” he warned, voice soft but lethal.
Scott shoved him—hard.
Eddie rocked back half an inch, boots scraping against the hardwood. Still didn’t flinch.
“You done?” he asked, head tilting just slightly, tone terrifyingly calm. “Or you wanna try that again?”
Scott swung.
And then everything exploded at once.
“STOP!” you screamed, your voice shredding from your throat.
But neither of them heard you.
Eddie moved first—fast. Not reckless, not swinging blindly like Scott. He ducked low, grabbed Scott by the collar and slammed him into the wall with such force a picture frame clattered to the floor, glass shattering across the wood.
Scott’s fist came out of nowhere, connecting with Eddie’s mouth.
You gasped, hands flying to your face.
“Please-stop, stop, stop!”
Eddie barely reacted to the hit—his lip split, blood blooming instantly—but it only turned his head for a fraction of a second before he was driving a fist into Scott’s gut.
Once.
Twice.
Scott choked on a breath, stumbling. You reached for them again—pointless, useless.
“Eddie! Ed, please, PLEASE-”
Scott lunged, drunk and sloppy, trying to tackle him. His fist connected with Eddie’s jaw, but Eddie held his ground.
Then Eddie shoved him—one heavy, intentional push that sent Scott flying backward into the coffee table. The old wood gave out with a loud crack, collapsing under him as he crashed to the floor with a painful thud.
The room went dead silent except for the sound of Scott’s pain filled groans, your uneven breaths and Eddie’s, heavy and adrenaline-thick.
Eddie stood over Scott, chest rising and falling like a storm, a smear of blood at the corner of his mouth. His eyes—not wild, not out of control—were burning with something far colder.
“You’re done,” he said, voice low enough to feel in the floorboards. “She’s leaving you.”
Scott groaned again, trying to roll onto his side, breath knocked completely out of him.
Eddie crouched slightly—just close enough for Scott to hear, just far enough to avoid giving him another opening.
“And if you ever come near her again,” Eddie said, voice dropping to a deadly whisper, “I swear to God- next time you leave this house, it’s in a fucking body bag.”
You didn’t breathe. You didn’t blink. The threat hung in the air like smoke.
Then Eddie stood, turned his back on Scott—because the fight was over. Scott wasn’t a threat anymore. He was nothing.
Eddie walked straight to you, wiping his lip with the back of his hand, blood smeared across his knuckles.
His voice softened instantly.
“Hey,” he said quietly. “Come on. Let’s get your stuff.”
Your hands were shaking. Your chest was tight. But when he took your hand, it was gentle and careful, the complete opposite of the scene that just played out before you.
Your legs felt unsteady, but Eddie’s hand settled at the small of your back, steadying you as you walked to your bedroom.
Once inside, you grabbed the suitcases under your bed and set it on top of the comforter.
“Take your time. Pack whatever you need,” he said, checking the hallway once before closing the door behind you. “I’ll help carry everything out.”
You started packing—trembling hands grabbing clothes, a few essentials, your sketchbook.
Eddie didn’t push you to move faster. He didn’t tell you what to take or leave. He just helped you fold, grabbed hangers, occasionally brushed your hair back when it fell into your face.
At one point, you paused, hands tightly gripping the dresser’s knob. Eddie placed a gentle hand over yours.
“I’m sorry if I scared you.” he said quietly. “I’m sorry you had to see that. But I won’t let anything bad happen to you ever again.”
—
Eddie didn’t speak the entire drive back. One hand gripped the wheel, the other rested on your thigh. Not possessive. Just letting you know he was still there and you were still safe.
When he pulled into his driveway, he killed the engine and turned to you.
“You don’t lift a damn thing, alright? I got it.”
You nodded, too wrung out to argue.
He unloaded everything from the van—your suitcases, your bag, your sketchbooks, even the small box of toiletries you’d thrown together. He carried it all in one trip, shoulders tense, jaw tight from the fight, breathing a little harder than normal.
Inside, the house was quiet.
Gareth and Jeff must’ve been out.
But instead of heading straight to the bedroom, Eddie gently placed his hand on the small of your back, guiding you like he had done earlier.
“C’mere. Kitchen first.”
You didn’t argue—your head felt heavy, your eye throbbing with each heartbeat. You followed him to the kitchen, and he flicked on the overhead light, the fluorescent buzz filling the silence.
He motioned to the counter.
“Up.” he murmured.
When you hesitated, he lifted you by the waist just enough for you to settle onto the cold surface. Your breath caught—embarrassed, exhausted, aching.
Eddie didn’t say anything about it.
He went to the freezer, dug around for anything he could use as an impromptu ice pack, then returned with a bag of peas, gently pressed it to your eye with the softest touch.
You sucked in a sharp breath.
“Too cold?” he asked.
“No,” you whispered. “Just… tender.”
He nodded and shifted closer, letting his hip rest against the cabinet so he could stay level with you. His fingers brushed your cheek each time he adjusted the bag, and each time your stomach flipped for a reason that had nothing to do with pain.
After a moment, he exhaled, removed the peas from your cheek then pressed them to his jaw.
A faint bruise was already forming there. You reached out instinctively.
“Eds…”
“I’m good,” he said quickly, giving you a crooked smile. “Hits to the jaw build character. Or so Wayne says.”
You managed a small laugh, but your ribs protested immediately. Eddie noticed. He noticed everything.
He tilted your chin up gently with two fingers, checking the cut on your cheekbone.
“You’re gonna have a nasty shiner,” he murmured, voice low, “but nothing’s deep. It just looks worse than it is.”
“So do you.” You whispered back.
He huffed a soft, disbelieving laugh.
“Yeah, well, I don’t give a shit how I look right now.”
He took the peas from his jaw and held them to your face again, switching hands so he could steady himself. For a moment, you sat there trading the cold pack back and forth—eye, jaw, eye, jaw—like two kids trying not to admit how badly everything hurt.
Except it wasn’t funny. It was intimate. Too intimate. You both felt it.
Finally, Eddie brushed a loose hair from your forehead and stepped back.
“Alright,” he said quietly, voice gentler than you’d ever heard it. “Let’s get you into bed.”
He walked you down the hall, carrying your things into his room. He pushed the door open with his hip and set everything carefully on the floor—like each item was something breakable.
You started to peel off your hoodie, insisting, “Eddie, seriously, I’m fine-”
But the moment the fabric lifted over your ribs, pain shot through your side and lower back. A sharp, hot ache that stole your breath for a second. The adrenaline had worn off and allowed the pain to take its place. You flinched hard.
He was in front of you instantly. “Hey- hey, stop,” he murmured, voice low and steady. “Let me.”
You let your arms drop, cheeks warming with embarrassment. You didn’t want him to see you like this—shaken, hurting, small.
But Eddie wasn’t looking at you like that. He lifted the hem of your hoodie slowly, carefully, watching your face the whole time.
“Tell me if it hurts, alright?”
You nodded.
He eased the hoodie up inch by inch, guiding it over your ribs without tugging, without jostling. When the sleeves caught around your wrists, he murmured “Hold on,” and gently helped you slip your arms free.
He folded the hoodie and set it aside like it mattered. You turned around trying to unclasp your bra. You hissed out in pain, then dropped your arms in defeat.
“Do you need help…?” he asked, voice suddenly soft, careful. “Only if you want me to.”
Mortification crawled up your chest. But the thought of lifting your arms again made your ribs throb.
“Yeah,” you whispered. “Just… the clasp. I can’t—”
“You don’t have to explain.”
He stepped towards you with zero hesitation. His fingers were warm but gentle as they found the hooks at your back. He didn’t fumble. Didn’t linger.
He unclasped the bra in one smooth motion. The straps slid down your arms. You held the cups against your chest yourself, grateful he didn’t try to help with that part.
“Got it?” he asked quietly.
“Yeah… thank you.”
He nodded and looked away while you slipped under the blanket and pulled the bra free from under the covers. He kept his eyes on the floor the entire time—respectful in a way that made your heart stutter.
Then came your jeans. You winced the moment you touched the waistband. Eddie knelt in front of you.
“Sweetheart,” he said gently, “let me do it.”
Your face burned hot, but you nodded.
His fingers brushed yours as he took over. He unbuttoned the jeans slowly, watching your expression, making sure he wasn’t hurting you.
“Lift a little,” he murmured.
You pushed up with your good side. He slid the denim down carefully, avoiding bruises, avoiding pressure, avoiding making the moment anything other than what it was.
Someone taking care of someone they refused to see suffer alone. Once your jeans were off and he’d tossed them aside, he didn’t look at your legs or your underwear.
He grabbed the blanket, pulled it up to your chest, and tucked it around you like he was protecting something precious. Only then did he back up and exhale.
“Alright,” he said softly. “You’re safe. You’re warm. You’re in bed. That’s step one.”
You watched him in the dim lamp light, his curls falling into his eyes, his split lip darkening, his jaw bruising—and this version of him, quiet and careful and heartbreakingly tender, felt like the safest place you’d ever been.
“Do you need anything?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper. “Water? Ice? Heat pack? I can run to the store if- ”
“No.” Your voice cracked embarrassingly. “Just… stay.”
He gave you a small smile—the fragile kind, the one he only used when he was trying not to break. He reached to grab an extra pillow off the bed.
“Sweetheart, I’m not going anywhere. I’m just gonna crash on the couch so you can get- ”
“No.” You swallowed hard. “I meant… stay. In here. With me.”
He froze completely, pillow dangling from one hand. Want flashed across his face—bright, unguarded, raw—before he swallowed it down and forced himself to breathe.
He set the pillow back down slowly, like any sudden movement might crack the air between you.
Are you sure?” he asked, stepping a little closer. “I don’t want you to feel—”
“I don’t feel anything except safe with you,” you whispered. “Just… stay. I want you next to me.”
That undid him. His shoulders dropped. His eyes softened. And whatever restraint he’d been holding onto slipped just enough for him to step closer, then sit on the edge of the bed—close enough for you to feel his warmth, close enough that you could breathe again.
“Okay,” he murmured. “I’ll stay.” And he did.
When he finally slid under the blanket beside you— still giving you space, even as he stayed close.
You scooted toward him until your shoulder brushed against his chest. He immediately melted into you. Wordlessly, he lifted an arm, letting you decide if you wanted it.
You did.
You curled against him carefully, mindful of your forming bruises, your forehead resting against his collarbone.
Eddie let out a breath you didn’t realize he’d been holding. His arm wrapped around you—gentle, protective, warm. His other hand found the back of your head, fingertips stroking your hair in slow, grounding movements.
“You’re safe,” he whispered into your hair.
You felt it more than heard it.
“You’re safe with me. I swear.”
And for the first time in so long, you actually believed someone. Your eyes drifted shut, breath syncing with his.
Eddie pressed a soft kiss to the crown of your head—barely there, like a promise he wasn’t allowed to speak aloud yet.
“Sleep,” he murmured. “I got you.”
And you did. Wrapped in Eddie’s arms, in Eddie’s room, with Eddie refusing to let the world hurt you anymore
BOYFRIEND!CLARK KENT coming over for a movie night at your apartment.
you told him the dresscode was ‘comfy’, so he arrives at your doorstep in a casual white t-shirt and charcoal joggers, pushing his glasses further up the bridge of his nose after he knocks on your door, listening to you fiddle with the lock for a second before you open it.
his breath catches in his throat at the sight of you in your pajamas: plaid pants and a superman t-shirt… his lips part, eyebrows raised as you’ve piqued his interest. you let him inside.
he cocks his head to the side curiously as he follows you into the kitchen, “y-you have a superman shirt?”
you reach for the box of microwave popcorn.
“yeah,” you shrug, “everyone does,”
clark can’t keep his eyes from widening, everyone?
he scoffs, “why?”
you glance at him over your shoulder as you prepare the snack, “‘cause he’s cool,”
you say it so causally, like it’s something everyone knows. of course, clark knows superman is cool, but he’s in his head already. you really thinks he’s cool?
“and— I-I don’t know… he’s kinda cute,” you add with a shy giggle.
you don’t know why this is such a big deal.
but you realize that you don’t care once he’s got you pinned down on the soft couch cushions, your pants kicked down and puddled right behind where clark is kneeling between your thighs. you didn’t even get to click play on the remote before he’s on top of you.
his hands move slow as they caress your curves gently over your top, not daring to rush this moment. it contrasts deeply with his aggressive mouth, sucking purple bruises into your jawline in between eager licks into your gasping mouth.
your arms rest over your head to sprawl yourself out under him, giving him complete control over you. his fingers dip down to play with the hem of your shirt, still cold from the outside when they make contact with your abdomen. his touch ghosting across your stomach makes you shiver as he makes his way up to your soft breasts, cupping one in his palm.
he kneads it gently, massaging the muscles against your chest before his thumb and forefinger find a nipple, carefully tweaking it side-to-side with barely-there pressure, just enough to tease you, to work you up like you’ve already worked him up.
you arch your back up to him eagerly, moaning into his mouth. your pussy aches as it presses against the outline of his hard dick in his sweatpants, wetness bleeding through the cotton of your panties. you whimper.
you sure as hell didn’t know what got him so worked up, but you knew you’d be wearing this t-shirt way more often.
Academic rival!bucky x reader where reader works really hard to keep up her grades because her parents pressure her but Bucky’s naturally talented and doesn’t have to try and he also likes to rub it in her face because he knows she’s jealous
So in like one of the more important tests Bucky beats her to a high score and reader is like distraught because her parents are lowk evil asf and do bad stuff to her but then Bucky finds out and idk the rest I just had to pitch the idea to someone who can actually put it into words
You don’t have to write it I just had to tell it to someone!! Love your nerd Bucky work btw!!🤍🤍
the essence of fourier's law
college!bucky barnes x reader
summary. you had never truly liked james buchanan barnes. he somehow beats you at every single rivalry you could ever have, but he doesn't deserve it. not by the slightest bit. 1.5k words
a/n. this is like buying into that whole thing of "boys are mean to u bcs they like u." dont date mean men. it doesnt matter why, or how. dont date mean, emotionally unintelligent men. this is me going back to my roots of college/nerdy bucky fr
cw. NONE.
the scent of desperation was a familiar one. the library had grown to be your fortress, the place where you went to wage war against your textbooks and lecture notes. the silence was broken by the scratching of your pen and the breathing you were trying so hard to suppress.
you'd lost. again.
by half a point. a mere 0.5.
it felt like one big cosmic joke, a precise measurement of your inadequacy. professor helder had handed back the advanced thermodynamics exam with that smug smile, and there it was, in a red ink: 98.5. a brilliant score. a score to be proud of. and then, your absolutely traitorous eyes, flicked to the paper on your left.
bucky barnes, slumped in his chair as if he found the whole affair terribly boring, had a paper that read 99. he hadn't even looked at you but instead shoved the exam paper into his bag with a smug, victorious look, "tough break," he murmured as he passed your desk. "almost had me that time. if 'almost' only counts in hand grenades."
the words hit you in the face like an explosion. you kept your spine ramrod straight, and your chin held high, until you gathered your things and marched out with what you hoped was dignified fury. you made it all the way to your sanctuary before the dam broke.
now, you were hunched over the oak table. it was cold beneath your forearms. a single tear plummeted onto the open page of your textbook, landing squarely on the script of fourier's law. the ink bled, letters of the integral blurring into a galaxy of sorrow. you swiped at your cheeks with an angry motion but it grew useless. the tears were a leak you couldn't plug like a critical system failure in your carefully maintained posture.
"you know," a voice you grew to hate had started, "for someone who spends so much time in here, i'd have thought you'd learned how to cry quietly."
you froze as your blood ran cold. you didn't need to look up to know it was him. the universe, it seemed, was not done mocking you.
bucky barnes leaned against the bookshelf, like a mockery. the golden glow of the distant lights shined on him. his hands were tucked into the pockets of his pants and his posture was the epitome of confidence, contrasted to your own crumpled form.
"go away, barnes," you managed to let out a watery voice, muffled by the curtain of your hair. you kept your head down, like a prisoner behind the bars of your own making.
but he didn't go away. he took a few steps closer. "can't. i was looking for a book. 'the collected works of someone who isn't a sore loser', but i think it's checked out."
you let out a shaky breath that was both a sob and a laugh with undiluted frustration. "you're a real poet, you know that? did you come up with that by yourself or did it come to you fully formed?"
"see, there's that spark," he said, losing its mockery. he pulled out the heavy wooden chair opposing to you, the legs groaning against the floor. he folded his arms on the table, leaning forward and invading your space of misery without apology. "that's the girl i know. the one who fights back. so why the waterworks over a little decimal point? that's not even a full point. it's a half."
"it's not the decimal point," you snapped, lifting your head. your eyes were red-rimmed and swimming, but held a fire that made him blink. "it's the principle. it's you. you don't even try. you come into class half asleep with sweat and coffee clinging to you. you never take a single note. and you still… still…" you gestured helplessly at the space between you, as if the 0.5 difference was taunting you over the air.
he was quiet for a moment. his blue eyes, the colour of a deep winter lake, studying you in a way he never studied the subjects you took. "you think i don't try?"
"you know you don't!" the confession tore from you. "you love rubbing it in. 'tough break.' 'almost had me.' you treat it like a game, a little diversion between naps. this is my future. i have to work for this. i have to bleed for every single point, i have to carve my understanding out of stone with my hands, and you… you just exist, and it all falls onto your lap." the words tumbled out honestly. it was a confession you had never intended to make, not one to james buchanan barnes, laying your bruised ambition and ego bare on the table between you.
bucky's eyes dropped to your textbook, the tear stained page where your sadness had physically altered the text. he reached out to gently traced the warped paper with his finger.
"you're right," he said, so softly you didn't almost hear him. "it is a game to me. but you're wrong about the rest."
you stared at him, sniffing. "what?"
"i don't just exist," he said, surprisingly earnest. "my brain just works differently. it connects things, sees patterns. it's fast. it's the one thing i've always been able to count on. and when i see you.. with your colour coded notes and your highlighted flashcards and force of will.. when i see you working ten times harder than i ever could, it…" he trailed off, dropping his gaze as he searched for the word.
"it what? it amuses you?" you asked, the fight slowly draining out of you as curiosity replaces it.
"it intimidates me,"
the silence that followed was a vacuum that sucked all the sound from the world. the only sound was the eternal hum of the ventilation system.
"what?" you repeated out of disbelieving exhale.
"you heard me," he looked almost embarrassed, running a hand through his dark, messy hair. "you're like this force of nature. you're relentless. you're disciplined. you're going to change the world because you'll outwork everyone in the room, you'll outlast them. what do i have? a trick. a parlor trick my brain does. it doesn't mean anything. not really. not compared to what you have."
you were honestly stunned. the entire foundation of your rivalry, a constructed narrative of a lazy genius versus a hard-working striver, was crumbling around you. the dust of it settled quietly around you. the symbolism wasn't lost; the tear on fourier's page, a law about heat transfer and dissipation, and here you were, feeling suddenly warm and letting it spread through you, defying all known principles.
"so.. you mock me to make yourself feel better?" you asked in a whisper, the sound so quiet in the vast of the library.
"i tease you because it's the only way i know how to get your attention," he admitted with a faint blush creeping up his neck. "because when you get all fired up and your eyes flash and you start throwing scientific insults, it's the most alive i feel all day. it's the only time you, or anyone for that matter, really looks at me, and i mean really see me, not just the guy coasting by."
you closed the textbook slowly, the thud of the cover marked the end of an era, the end of a war. "so what you're saying is you'r really an idiot, barnes?"
a smile slowly spread across his face, transforming it and softening the lines of his jaw. "see? there she is."
you shook your head, a real, albeit watery, smile finally touching your face. "you found me crying in the library. you have a terrible, terrible way of showing you like someone."
"i never said i liked you," bucky countered but his eyes were dancing with a light playfully lit. "i said you intimdated me. there's a difference."
"is there?" you joked. there was suddenly a new equilibirum between you, a delicate balance that was both thrilling and terrifying. this wasn't a battle of wits anymore; it was a conversation of a terra incognita.
he leaned back onto his hciar, the old bucky smirk returning but it didn't have the same effect anymore. less a weapon and more an invitation. "guess you'll have to study me a little more to find out. though, given our history, i'd say variables are in my favour."
you rolled your eyes but didn't look away. "you're impossible."
"and you," he said, dropping to that lower rumble. " are still 0.5 points behind me. i believe that means you owe me coffee as a trophy."
you laughed then, startling the sound of the library. "in your dreams, james."
"constantly," he said, and this time there was no mistaking what he said. "meet me at the campus cafe in ten. we can, you know, debate the finer points of the second law of thermodynamics. i'll even let you take notes."
he winked and turned to leave. but he stopped by the doors to say, "oh and wipe your face. a rival of mine should always look good."
as he disappeared into the stacks, you were left alone with the scent o fold books and the quiet of a new beginning. you looked down at the tear-stained textbook of the blurred equation. it no longer was a symbol of defeat but just a simple water damage.
and you had a feeling that the next chapter was going to be much, much more interesting.
When all else fails, you call for the one person who would always show up for you — the superhero who'd been chasing you.
cw: 18+, smut, pwp, vigilante!reader, banter, mentions of blood and injury, handjobs, x-ray vision/super-hearing mention, fortress of solitude, frenemies, sleepy banter (1.9k wc)
It was looking bleak for you.
All exits blocked, back-up gear burnt to a crisp after a last-minute escape from the wrongly timed explosion. It was as though every humanly possible way to get out of the mess you were in was out of question.
Crap. Where did you put it?
The tiny square-shaped pager tumbles out of your back pocket, clattering onto the floors at your clumsy grab — there wasn't much time left, not with how quickly your vision was fading with the freshly blooming scarlet at your abdomen.
You clutch around your sides, flexing around the sticky warmth pooling beneath your jacket. Breathing felt like sharp stabbing pricks through your lungs. Eventually, the shallow gasps of oxygen just weren't enough. You drop to one knee, then the other — pager just out of reach. Blinking faintly like a beacon, mocking with the distance. With your last few ounces of strength, you drag forward, leaving behind smeared, bloodied hand-prints.
"Come…on…"
The device beeps, flickering back to life after months of disuse.
You weren't sure if you'd hit the right buttons before gravity pulled you right in. Shoulders hitting the ice-cold marbled tiles. You grunt at the impact, eyes growing heavier by the second.
Somewhere between the blaring alarms and your blurring vision, you hear your mother's voice surface in your mind.
Take a break, sweetheart. They're working you to the bone as is.
Maybe you should've listened to her when she'd suggested it.
Go somewhere where the water's blue. You know your father would hate to see you like this.
Take a vacation, out where the sun kissed your skin. If you survived this, you would. But who were you kidding? What awaited you was likely solitary confinement in maximum-security prisons. It was a pipe dream at best.
Right now, you just needed to close your eyes for a while.
The alarms felt like they were miles away, and you finally feel your eyelids flutter shut. But just before everything went dark — you catch it.
Faint, unmistakable red & blue flickers from the pager in the distance.
Bbbzzzzzttttt.
Clark snaps out of his daze. He thought he'd hallucinated the sound at first. The buzz sounded from a frequency that could only mean one thing. His jacket pocket faintly glows a green light — nearly toppling over while trying to grab the device he carried around like a security blanket.
The copy room blurs at the initials that reflect onto him. Within seconds, he leaves nothing but fluttering papers in his wake. He's perched himself on top of the helipad of The Daily Planet, struggling to hop out of his loafers.
This wasn't normal. You had to be in some sort of danger to be calling him.
Clark shuts his eyes, steadying his breath.
Focus, you need to find her.
When he opens them, the city fractures. His vision fades to blue, steel frames of buildings emerge, glass and metal beams that take the place of infrastructure. He sees moving bodies in them, down to their anatomical builds and the circuit wires twisted all over Metropolis, keeping the city alive.
"Shoot…this isn't working."
He takes another deep breath. The air shifts, and he takes it in. Millions of heartbeats, the screech of metal wheels of the subway, down to the hums of billboard signage. He sifts through every noise, combing through them.
Then, Clark isolates a particular noise. A faint buzzing from a smaller electronic device. It had to be you. He's already cutting through the skies, towards the sound that was barely holding on.
—
You woke up in a cold sweat.
Panting, taking in the icy air. Beads coat the sides of your cheeks, forcing strands to stick to your neck uncomfortably. Your eyeline follows downward, fingers tracing over the bandages curving around the swell of your chest, to your abdomen.
The memory of the paralysing pain feels distant, and you weren't sure if it was from the numbing cold or the weirdly professional bandage work done. It's then you feel a hard, cold grip on your bare shoulder.
You flinch hard, jerking against the foreign grip.
"…!"
Instincts take over when you briefly identify what seemed to be a threat. The thing lets out a gasp of surprise at your sudden movements, twisting her arm and pinning her to the ground with a deafening clank.
"P-Please, calm down!" The robot pleads with an uncanny, human female voice, spoken through a modulator. Number twelve was etched to her chest, and she trembles beneath, as though she were sentient. You were still holding her down firmly, but it echoes. The rasp of her voice was distinct.
It stops you cold.
You narrow your eyes, tumbling back on your fours. Accusatively pointing at her, "you…why do you sound like her?"
Twelve tilts her head, "my speech settings were modified for your comfort."
"By who?"
"By Superman," her eyes glow as the mechanics snap her limbs back in place to stand up. You follow suit, in a defensive stance.
"He….modified you to sound like my mother?"
"Superman said you would respond well to a maternal voice as you regained consciousness."
Jesus. Of course, he'd do something like that. With a strained sigh, you slump back, willing yourself not to let yourself be affected by the pretence, not looking at twelve. "Where…is he?"
Twelve turns to walk ahead on her own, and you follow closely behind with a light limp to your steps.
"He has not left your side since your arrival, but only recently entered a low-energy state."
You raise a brow as you peek down the dimly lit, crystalline corridors into what seemed like a laboratory. Following the faint whirring, you step into the vast space. Half-drowned in cold blue lights, mostly from the refraction. Clark was soundly passed out by the tables — surrounded by consoles that were lit up by holographic projections.
On the largest screens, sat some vitals. You squint at the name at the topmost side. Hums of the monitors grow louder, syncing with the mirrored rhythm of your own. Heartbeat levels, oxygen concentrations, neural scans — oh god.
Was this of you?
You glance back at Clark, puzzled. It must've been nearly a week since you were out. And here he was, with his arms folded tight across his chest, with a posture so rigid that it made it certain he'd only reluctantly got shut eye.
"Bit of an overkill…" You mutter, quietly, hovering beside Clark while you rake your gaze through the stacks of folders and handwritten notes on schedules. Most of them part of a rehabilitation plan he'd set in place for you.
You lean down, peeling off the metal frames of his glasses sit crooked on his nose. He wrinkles his nose immediately.
The flare in your abdomen makes itself known when you sit yourself onto the arm of his lounger. You wince, preemptively pressing over the wound, but you remain nonetheless.
Without thinking, you reach out — brushing your forefinger down the crease of his brows. It relaxes on instinct. There were faint wrinkles at the size of his cheek where his cheeks would annoyingly dimple at the sight of you —refusing to fade even in the state of rest.
Then, while he was still half-asleep, he shifted. A pair of bigger hands, heavy with sleep, blindly feels around your thighs, sliding up your hips. Before you could even react, he tugs you flush onto his lap.
A slight groan leaves you at the exertion as you steady yourself onto his thighs. The motion sends a frenzy through your readings. Spiking with the irregularity of your heartbeat and pain indicators.
The sound stirs him awake by instinct. Clark jerks upright, blinking blearily. It was a sound he'd essentially pavolved himself in responding to while you were still recuperating from your injuries.
But you were on his lap. He sighs, slumping back.
"You need t'stop." He murmurs quietly, rubbing his palms lazilly dragging down your sides, settling at your hips.
"Stop what?"
You frown in confusion when he relaxes his hold around you, smiling dorkishly. pointing at you before it drops on your lap.
He doesn't answer right away, rolling his shoulders back, eyes half-lidded with a dorky smile curling at the corner of his lips. "Appearin'…" You raise a brow at the finger wagging at you, "… n'…touchin' me in…m'dreams…"
"Uhuh…and what exactly am I doing in these dreams of yours?"
"Mmmmm…" His lashes flutter when he blinks stubbornly, shaking his head with a crooked and boyish grin, "can't say."
"Can't or won't?" You humour, knuckles brushing his curly locks away from his forehead.
His fingers flexes around your wrist, pulling it downs tinge, murmuring low into them.
"..'f I tell ya…dreams gonna end."
Your other palm slides lazily down his chest, rested where it was the loudest.
"Was I touching you here?"
He hums, the grip he had around your wrist turning to a placeholder. Clark shakes his head, mumbling quiet lower.
You follow the notion, tracing your fingers down to rest on his abdomen, "here?"
Clark looks up at you, expression turning a little more serious when he tightens his hold, guiding your palms until they rest on his warm bulge.
"Then what?" You whisper, words brushing past his prickly jaw.
"Then…it ends. An' I wake up."
You snort at the pouty tone he takes. Biting down on your lower lips, your fingers flex — a soft grunt leaves him when you squeeze his bulge.
"Awake now?"
Clark shifts, "…I…am." He follows up, unsure if the vision of you before him was still a dream. But you'd felt far too warm for it to still be.
He takes your name, hesitantly, and you hum. Grinding the heel of your palm onto his bulge, slowly responsive.
"You're awake. Gosh, you're awake," his voice is barely above a croak, panting through the steady stimulation.
"H-How long?"
"A while." You finally say, slipping your palm beneath his waistband.
Clark groans audibly at the admittedly dry rub of his cock. But it quickly twitches to life with your strokes.
"I…you were…out for days —"
"Shh…" You lean in, lifting his hands away from where it was tightly gripped around the armrest, letting it rest on the curve of your chest.
"Later," you urge, coaxing him to squeeze the softness beneath. Clark relents nearly instantly, his larger palm spanning the entirety of your breasts, kneading and squeezing the fat there.
His moans then louder, breathier with every stroke.
"I-I'm sorry, I don't think…I'm gonna…last…"
Clark doesn't complete his words, slumping back to grope your tits with both his palms. The fabric shifts at his motions — wrinkling to his touch.
Your softer moans mirror his as you're soon able to drag the wetness of his pre-cum. You're grinding on his thigh as well as you could, taking in the little friction.
You knew he was close the second he began to buck his hips into you, chasing the tightness of your fists.
"It's okay," you promise, pressing a peck at his pulse. Clark tenses without warning, and you feel a warm, thick liquid bubble over your knuckles in deep spurts.
He grunts low in your ears through it, taking deep inhales of you. You tilt your head to his when he nudges you to face him.
"This…really isn't a dream…is it?"
You press another kiss at the corner of his lips, and he parts them with a shaky breath, shutting his eyes to welcome yours before you part from him.
⟡⨾ pt 2. of bruised but when you get back from the gyno the next day
nsfw content | 18+ read at your own risk!
warnings: non-accurate anatomy talk blehhh, smut, “just the tip” trope, clark being a lil nerd, reader lwk being a full on sub (first for me btw), and let’s throw in a lil bit of creampie in there for good measure 👅
a/n: sigh Clark my big dicked man #needsupershitinmybedtonight
“It’s all your fault.”
Was the first thing you said as you walked through the front door. Clark was sitting on the floor in the living room, with a half finished puzzle splayed across the coffee table as he looked up, scrunching his nose to try and fix his glasses that had been slowly falling down his face.
“Huh?” He furrowed his eyebrows as he watched you pull off your shoes and place them onto the shoe rack. You then hung up your coat and purse before stomping your way over to him with your arms crossed over your chest.
“You’re bruising every organ in my body with your dick… And all of my doctors are laughing at me for it!” You furrow your eyebrows as you look down at him, tapping your foot on the carpet lightly.
“…Right. So… What did I do?” He raised an eyebrow before you huffed in irritation, plopping onto the couch as you melted into the cushions.
“I went to the gyno today for my Pap smear, right?”
“Right.”
“She said my cervix was in good shape. No abnormalities whatsoever,”
“Isn’t that good news?”
“It is… But then she was like, ‘Oh! Looks like your cervix has a bit of bruising!’… I almost died out of embarrassment, Clark,” You groaned as you shrunk into the cushions even more, burying your face in your hands.
Clark’s eyes widen just a bit as he scoots towards you, resting his chin on your thighs as he looked up at you, with his hands wrapped around your calves.
“Bruised? I thought you said there weren’t any abnormalities—”
“Clark.”
“What? You literally just said that there weren’t any and now you’re saying you were bruised—”
“It’s because of you, Clark! Your freakishly huge dick was bruising my cervix!”
Clark pressed his lips together as he stared up at you, “Oh.”
You hummed before sighing, running your hand through Clark's curls as you threw your head back. "She said if I 'don't take a break', the bruising could start actually hurting."
Clark huffed out a sigh as he rested his cheek on your thighs, trailing his fingers up your legs before fidgeting with a lone string at the hem of your shorts.
“I don’t have a problem with that. As long as you’re not in any pain.” He mumbled with his cheek smushed against your skin.
You furrowed your eyebrows as you looked down at him.
“You’re fine with not having sex with me?” You question as you narrow your eyes.
“I— What?! I never said that!”
“That’s basically what you said!”
“Baby— I said, I don’t have a problem with taking a break if it meant you won’t get hurt. That’s all I said—”
“Same fucking—”
“Just because you’re angry, doesn’t give you an excuse to swear.” Clark holds his index finger up and shakes it just a bit as you roll your eyes.
You groan in frustration as you collapse back into the cushions. “Well I’m not okay with it.” You huff as your fingers splay across his cheek bones.
You felt Clark’s hand slow their movements just a bit, tilting his head up to look at you.
“Ya’ know what… Neither am I.” He mumbled softly.
“…What? You just said—”
“I take it back.”
You raised an eyebrow as you ran your hand through his hair, your manicured nails lightly scratching his scalp. “Okay…”
“Ya’ know that one thing people say? The… uhhh— golly it’s at the tip of m— Oh right! Just the tip!”
You blink at him as he smiles up at you, pulling his head up from your lap as he rests his hands on your thighs instead.
“…What?”
“That saying! Just the tip. It’s like… You only—”
“I know what that means, Clark. My question is, what in the world made you think about that?”
Clark huffs out a breathy chuckle as he smiled widely.
“Well, I was thinking, we could still have sex, but it’d be just the tip. I wouldn’t bruise you and you won’t get hurt, but you’d still feel good. I don’t know…” He shrugs as he rests his head on your lap again.
He must be going crazy. You thought.
Good thing you like him a bit insane.
“M-more, Clark—” Your breath hitched as Clark fucked into you, just barely.
Thrusting his tip in just to take it out was really not what he wanted to be doing, but he was being cautious. If he actually hurt you, he’d probably go and find Kryptonite and swallow it himself.
“C-Can’t, b-baby— Have t-to keep you s-safe—” He grunted as the grip he had on your waist tightened slightly.
You whine softly as you grip the pillow behind your head, staring down at his cock short thrusting into your cunt.
“Clark— p-pleaseeee—” You reach your hand up to cup the side of his face. “Need i-it so b-bad…”
Clark breathes shakily as he stares down at you, sweat beading down the side of his face with his curls sticking to his forehead. He’s so pretty.
And you knew Clark could never say no to you. Not with you like this.
Your body sheen with sweat as your tits bounced with each thrust, his thick cock drilling into your pussy which felt like he was nearing the gates of heaven, your face flushed with your mouth slightly agape as you stared up at him with those eyes that captivated his soul from the moment he met you.
With a single huff, he agreed.
“…O-okay. Just— Just m-make sure t-to tell m-me if it h-hurts…” He stumbled across his words before burying his face in your neck, pressing the softest of kisses to your skin.
You nodded, despite him not directly seeing it. You wrap your arms around his shoulders as you feel him push into you completely, “C-Clark—”
“I k-know, baby… Doing s-so g-good for me…” He mumbled into your skin as his hips rolled into yours, the squelch of your walls gushing around his dick lingered in the air, egging Clark on to keep fucking into you like a man starved.
Your body shivered as you felt the tip of his cock press against the spot so deep inside you that made your eyesight blur, nails scratching down his back muscles as red lines cascaded down his milky skin.
“B-Baby— I’m—”
“S’okay… C’mon, love— C-come all over me… N-need it so bad—” He whined against your neck as the coil in his belly tightened with each pulse of your walls around his cock.
You dug divots into his skin as your climax washed over you, with Clark’s following suite. Clark softly whimpered into your neck as heavy breaths filled the room.
Yeah… um… Let’s hope the cervix bruising isn’t too bad.
a/n 2: i’m in desperate need of him omg omg someone sedate me, lock me up and throw away the key— actually not even that will stop me yall just gonna have to kill me— actually that won’t stop me either. just run.
⟡⨾ when you have a dentists appointment and they point out how bruised your throat is, you know it could only be from a… certain someone.
nsfw content | 18+ read at your own risk!
a/n: so upset thinking of big dick clark not being in my bed at 12am at night this is SICK AND TRIFLINGGGUHHHH
part 2
You were so. fucking. embarrassed.
You knew your boyfriend, the Clark Kent, was big in the… nether… regions.
He’s huge, in fact. I mean—fuck he could break you in half with his dick alone!
So of course you were aware of how well endowed he is. What you completely forgot about though, was that other people could know that too. . .
“And you’ve been flossing regularly?” Your dentist asks as she pulls her mask and gloves on, her trainee gathering the tools for your monthly checkup while you nod.
“Just like you asked. Or more like complained about.” You joked as she chuckled lightly, reclining the seat back as her assistant came into view with the tray of tools.
“It’s either floss or cavities. Either way, I know I’m getting paid.” She says as she sits down in her chair. “Alright, time to see those pearly whites.” She says after clipping a dental napkin onto your shirt,
You look up to the ceiling as you open your mouth widely.
“Looking good! Turn your head more up to the ceiling for me.” She mumbled under her mask. You do so without another thought as you tilt your head up more.
“Perfect as always! And—” Her voice cuts off abruptly as you feel her pull away for a second, sensing her still hovering over you with a random dental tool in her hand as you furrow your eyebrows.
You hum in question, as you glance at her, watching in confusion as she glances at the trainee. You do the same as you watch the trainee (terribly) stifle a giggle. You look back at the dentist as she shakes her head lightly before continuing.
“And… how are you and Clark?” She asks as if she didn’t have a metal tool stuck down your throat.
You hum ‘good’ as best as you could as you glance back at the trainee, her hand moving to cover her masked face as she turned away for a second as small giggles left her mouth.
“Gretchen, enough— That’s good…” The dentist scolds the trainee before quickly turning back towards you and nodding. “Well, your teeth are in amazing condition.” She says as she reclines the chair back up as you close your mouth, eyebrows furrowed as the trainee clips off the dental napkin.
“…But?” You raise an eyebrow as you swing your legs to one side of the chair.
The dentist pulls her mask off as she looks at the trainee, a small grin on her face as she then pulls her gloves off before turning to you.
“But your uhh… the inside of your… throat… has… um… a little… bruising…” She presses her lips together in a tight line as the trainee bursts into a fit of giggles.
Your eyes widen in horror as you bring your hand up to cover your mouth.
“Oh my god—”
“Don’t worry. I’ve seen that many times… but I see it the most with you.” The dentist holds back laughter at your expression. “Just be more careful, in the future, hm?”
When you told Clark the story, you could tell he was trying to hold back a smirk.
“I’m sorry, baby… I didn’t know I was… uhh… doing… that.” His words slightly muffled as his hand covered his mouth, despite the fact you could see the corner of his mouth curved up just a bit. This fucker.
“This isn’t funny, Clark! Do you know how embarrassing that is?!”
“I know it’s not funny! That’s why I’m not laughing!”
“Yes you are! I can see you smiling!”
Clark let out a sigh as he stood up from the couch, uncrossing your arms as he intertwined one of his hands with yours as he looked down at you, his other hand resting on the side of your face.
“M’sorry, honey. Didn’t mean to embarrass you.” He cooed as he pressed a kiss to your nose, brushing a strand of hair from your face with a smile.
You huffed as you looked up at him. “It’s fine… At least my dentist and her trainee know my boyfriend has a big dick.” You shrug with a small grin.
Clark huffs out a breathy chuckle as he shakes his head softly. “What a relief, huh?” He trails off as he stared down at you, his blue eyes scanning your face before whispering.
“Can I make it up to you?”
And his way of ‘making it up to you’, was, instead of bruising your throat, it was bruising your fucking cervix.
“O-oh my god—” You huffed shakily, one leg thrown over Clark’s shoulder as his fat cock pounded into you, your hands tightly gripping the pillow under you as the bed frame creaked from his thrusts.
“Y’f-feel so g-good, baby— gosh—” Clark whined as he wrapped his arm around the leg that was over his shoulder, his other hand resting on your stomach.
“Y-You’re so d-deep—” Your hand rested on his abdomen that flexed with each thrust.
Your cunt squelched as he drilled into you, a white ring forming at the base around his cock as you felt the tip consistently hitting the entrance of your cervix.
Clark smiled softly before leaning down towards you, his large body swallowing you as his cock bullied its way into your pussy, heavy breaths leaving his lips as he pressed kisses to your neck.
“M-M’gonna c-come, Clark—!” You breathe out shakily as you wrap your arms around his broad shoulders, and snake one of your hands around the back of his head with the other scratching crimson down his back.
“Golly— c-come a-all over me, baby… N-need you t-to—” He hisses through his teeth as you both glance at your meeting sexes.
Your essence coating his length as his hips smacked down into your thighs.
You trailed your eyes back up to him through half lidded eyes, sweat beading down the side of his face as he drilled his cock into you, your hand still wrapped around the back of his neck and scratching marks down his back muscles— Wait…
You have a gyno appointment tomorrow.
a/n 2: AUGHHHH NEEEDDD DATTTT NEEED DATT SO BADDDDDUUUHHHH
"Yes, you are! You have that look on your face whenever you disregard anything that — …Oh, I'm talking to myself, aren't I?"
True to form, he turns, only to catch your crouched self quickly shifting closer toward the commotion ahead in the archive room.
"Gosh darn it — " Clark's already at your heel, nervously looking around, "get back here!"
There was no way he could have slipped into his Superman persona, not when he had to make sure you didn't end up killing yourself. He shuffles awkwardly beside you, behind the desks, pulling at your arm insistently. "Please, just —"
You click your tongue sharply, repeatedly, thwacking his hands that were trying to tug you back. "No, look, all we need to do is fry the circuit. They're obviously trying to duplicate the files."
Clark hisses your name sharply, "I'm not letting you go five feet near them. They could be armed."
"Oh my god! I've never seen a six-foot dude act like such a pussy."
He gasps in pure offence as soon as you say that, "don't say stuff like that." You roll your eyes at the whiny delivery of his words, attention snapping back ahead where the thud of the footsteps grew heavier. Clark stares past the desk, focusing his vision before everything fades to blue, "four or five men out there. Armed…darn it."
This just wouldn't do.
You briefly turn to look at him after having caught his hasty mutters, then, without warning, he wraps his arm snug around your neck.
"C-Clar —mmph!" Your surprised gasps were ignored by him, and you lost balance. Squirming in protests, hurling curses, until the span of his palm covers your face.
"Shhh." That made you frown even more.
Before you could protest, a sharp crackling noise jolts you quiet momentarily. Sharp scents of fried wiring filled the air. The sound of the intruder's whispers grew panicked, and you slip out of Clark's hold in that exact moment, only enough to catch a glimpse of a red glow fading from his eyes, before the room goes dark.
"…What was —"
You feel him yank you back into his chest, pulling you backwards with him, plopping you beside him with scary ease. "Listen to me for once."
The argument you had died in your throat with a wince, the urgency in his words, and the fraction of his grip that bordered on painful had you complying. "W…What are you gonna do?"
"I — …calling for help. Stay put."
You didn't love taking orders, especially condescending ones, but Clark was gone before you could even cough up an argument. Vanished.
A loud crash rings through the halls. A particularly loud jerk snaps you upright, heart thumping wildly in your chest as you wearily peek from the antique. You couldn't see much, but the sounds. Jesus. Wood splintering as they hit the ground, followed by curdling screams that certainly weren't caused by Clark Kent of all people.
Instinct and concern for your hopeless colleague had you creeping out of your hiding spot, following the commotion. Flicker of moonlight glazed over the space from the floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating the carnage before you. Heavy conference desks were overturned, furniture smashed to isolated pieces, and several men clad in black rendered unconscious.
"Whoa…" There was no way he could've done this…right?
Heavy footsteps creep up behind you, twisting around halfway in shock before a heavy arm hooks around your waist.
A sudden rush of air whipped past your face, blowing your hair and everything away from your face. The suffocating press of the stranger's body on yours jerks once, hard. Slowly, you peer up at a wall of chest, following the ridges of muscles leading up to his extended arm, elbow curved like he'd just whipped something.
The offending intruder layers in the ground, groaning.
His scolding hits you first.
"A-Are you kidding me? I told you —…"
Annoyed, whiny, and way too familiar.
Clark's lips press taut when he picks up on your surprise when you're left in stunned silence and an elevated heartbeat. There was a brief pause, and he tenses — debating whether or not he should say what he really wanted to. He settles for the latter with a rough clearing of his throat.
"Miss, are you okay? Are you hurt anywhere?"
You frown, straining your head up at the obvious tonal change.
It's then the flashing of lights from helicopters passing by the Planet that shines some light on the stranger, and your lips are left gaping at the blue and red that settles.
"Superman." You say, breathlessly. Then tilt your head with a confused squint when your gaze lands on his face.
"…Clark?"
His hand snaps up to his nose, fingers meeting metal that sat there still. A soft groan escapes him.
By the time the next flash of light comes, Clark — no, Superman's stiffly smiling at you, glasses hidden behind him in a crushing hold.
"He…uh…went to get help."
"Do I look stupid to you?"
"W…hat?"
"Clark."
"Miss…—…" He swipes at his nose, then steps away. "Like I said, Clark went to —"
"He — you wouldn't leave me here on my own", you interrupt impatiently. "Cut the shit."
"I-I'm sure you must be confused."
"Oh, don't even try to gaslight me!" Your voice grew louder, understandably so, but he picked it up. The faint thuds in the distance.
"Keep your voice down," he tries.
You scoff loudly, "ME? You're telling ME to keep it down when you're lying — no, you've been lying to my face this entire time."
Clark winces as he's holding both his palms out, "shh. Please, you'll get yourself killed —"
You'd jabbed at his chest impatiently, "don't you shush me."
"I didn't shush, just please —" He brings his fingers up, and you feel it rest on your lips. Followed by an obnoxious shhhhhhhhhh.
The slap to his hand was instant.
"Ow! Hey!" He whispers in offence, slapping your hand right back, far more gently than you had.
You thwapped his wrist in retaliation — and he does the same. When you miss your third jab, your elbows knock his jaw right up, and he whines. In a weak attempt to get you to stop, he tries to cover your mouth, but you only mirror it with a rather painful flick to his hands — petty little slaps begin echoing in the space.
"Would you stop —"
"You started it!"
"Shhh!"
"Don't tell me to shush, jerk!"
"OW! That really hurt!"
Clark's head snaps upright suddenly, rendering you into a stunned silence. He was staring ahead into the darkness after seemingly having picked up on something. Not that you head a thing, but before you could even question it, his hand clamps around your mouth again.
It wasn't gentle this time, and the dread filled you this time at just how much he was actually holding back. His other arm encased your lower half, pulling you back into his chest. "Mmh — C—mmh!" Clark's chest turns rigid at your muffled protests, and you feel his breath right next to your ear, low and reverberating deep.
"We aren't alone."
Your feet barely touched the ground when he was dragging you backwards. Twisting around to see what was going on proved to be futile when he lifted you again. It felt like you were weightless, the way a strong palm pressed right onto your sternum, guiding your movement, and the other, stubborn, over your mouth.
For a moment, you allowed it, gripping around what seemed to be his biceps, trying hard not to think about how it was rippling and tensing beneath your touch. You hear a door creak open, a jerk of his hips, and he half-lifts you, depositing you where he needs you to stay. Your knees hit the floor first, then your hands.
Clark's movement follows yours, crowding you in what was already an awkward position — forearms pressed against his chest, and thighs parted impossibly wide. You don't realise why until he hikes you toward him, sheltering you from the metal bucket that clattered above the shelving. You felt the vibrations of the object hit his back with a dull thud, but he barely reacted to it.
Your breath hitches as the proximity of him finally settles; he essentially had his thighs boxing you in, and the other, braced to keep him from tumbling into you further. Blindly, his hand slides down your arm, steadying you as you attempt to push up.
"Easy." He mutters, planting a firm palm on your hips.
"Where…"
"Supply closet."
"Careful, there's a tub of bleach…um…next to you."
"…How would you know? It's dark."
"I…can see…still."
You frowned. Then, rolled your eyes.
"Of course. You're Superman." The biting tone you said it in has him slump his forehead into the metal rack he propped you against.
"Not like this. I promise I'll explain when you're safe."
You reluctantly slump back in his earnest plea. Letting the dust truly settle of the weird situation you'd gotten yourselves in. It's then you really notice the warmth of his steady breathing against your neck.
Clark shamelessly lets his gaze fall to your lips when he pulls back enough to scan over your vitals.
"…Are you…scared?"
You whip up with a frown, "no," it comes out far too defensive. Nervously, you swipe at your nose. "What…makes you say that?…"
"Just…your heart is thumping really loudly."
"Clark."
"Yes?"
"Can you get the hell off me?"
His throat bobs, "I-I'm sorry. I would, but…I'm sort of…holding the shelf up."
"Right…" with a strained clear in your throat, you attempt to stay as still as you can. Clark was doing his best not to feel affected. But god, he really hates the fact that he can see right down your cleavage. In an effort to stay respectful. He holds his breath.
That seems to concern you. You were sure he was still there, considering the warmth of his thigh. In a less-than-thought-through choice, your lips curl into an 'o'.
And you blow.
Clark jolts like an electric bolt struck him. A brief clutter of what seemed to be bottles of cleaner falls next to you before he finds his hold. You could feel him panting, confusedly.
"W-What was that for?!"
"Just…checking if you're there."
He sees the stupid, cheeky grin creeping up your expression, but chooses not to point it out.
"Where would I go?" he mumbles bashfully. "After all, said so yourself, right?"
You tilt your head up just in time as he lowers his head. The curve of his nose grazes yours with a softness that had you stiffening up.
"…That…"
Clark doesn't pull away from you, sighing softly when he notices your gaze drop to the source of his voice. You feel him nudge his nose against your cheeks, but never follow through with what he was for sure thinking.
" — you'd never leave me," you continue softly.
You tilt your head a fraction, and his lips catch the tip of your nose. He lowers his head, considering. It's not until he sees you twitch forward that he presses his lips onto yours tentatively.
"This…doesn't mean I'm not mad at you."
Clark pulls back with an exhale as he tucks a lock of your hair behind your ears.
"I know."
"I'm still mad."
He presses another peck, then at the corner of your lips.
"I know."
"You lied to m —"
This time, he doesn't let you finish, freehand casing your jaw to tilt it up, dragging his tongue past your bottom lip, to roll it with yours. You let out a softer gasp, nudging your face forward to kiss him, deeper.
"G-Gosh I —"
You silence that breathy whine of words he lets out — sliding your palm up and down his biceps, feeling it flex beneath your touch as you fight to breathe against his kisses. Clark's hands restlessly wander from your jaw to your collarbone, relishing in just how hard your heart was thudding.
He's bolder with it when you visibly shudder everywhere his fingertips graze; it's not until they rest on your thighs that you pull away from his face with a pant.
"Wait, that —…."
Clark seems to notice the pause in your words, his thumb idly circling at your thigh, close to the apex.
"Too much?"
"No," you say quickly, twisting your fingers around his wrists, pulling them further down.
The irony wasn't lost on him. Getting to have you, and he wasn't able to touch you the way you deserved. "Wait." Clark sighs exaggeratedly, resting his forehead on your shoulders. "I don't…want us, n-not like this."
You blinked, grip on his wrist loosening. "Are you kidding me?" A pause, then, "you're…you're blue-balling me?"
"N-No! I mean, I do want to, but — geezus, I'm holding a shelf up!" His voice grows pitchier, whiner even, but it stills when you let his palm rest on your inner thigh.
"This hand…works. Doesn't it?" He grows tense when your nose finds the base of his jaw, your grazing your lips past his cheekbones as he shifts.
"Mhm." He manages, fingers twitching as they graze the thinner, lacier fabric beneath.
"So…are you gonna leave me like this?"
Clark's thumbs hook at the hem of your bottoms, bunching them up to meet the damp spot beneath. You gasp once in surprise, shaky hand holding over his knuckles.
"…No…"
"Touch me, please." You croak.
There's a gentle gust of wind when Clark nods far too excitedly. Dragging his thumb up to your clit, pushing the wetness further.
"How do you want it?"
You grit, shifting uncomfortably when he cages you in further. The heel of his boots nudges your feet further apart, going slack at every gentle graze of the pads of his fingers.
"T…there."
He nudges beneath the fabric, groaning at just how wet you were.
"All this from kissing me?"
You clamp your thighs instinctively, but his palm barely moves an inch. Clark slides his fingers down your folds, taking in your breathy gasps. "R-Right ther —…!"
Clark groans at the sound of footsteps that grew louder for the two of you, along with panicked, hushed whispers. His fingers tear away from you all at once. "Gosh. I feel like such a jerk. I'm sorry, I-I need to —…"
pairing: teenage dirtbag!bucky barnes x popular girl!reader
warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, college setting, banter, enemies w/ benefits, pining but semi unrequited, yearning, angst, miscommunication is heavy in this one, fluff, p in v sex, jealousy, mean soft dom!bucky, aftercare, praise, degradation, dirty talking, pet names: "pretty princess" "angel" "loser"
word count: 14.5k
this is pt 2. find pt 1 on my series masterlist
a/n: thank you so much for all the love for pt 1. i love this concept sm so i decided to write a pt2. dt to @blowingbarnes for geeking out over emo music w/ me and saying "this is so dirtbag barnes core"
the song that bucky and his band were playing in the garage was "hit or miss" by new found glory.
synopsis:
Once your situationship with “dirtbag Barnes” becomes more public, everyone around you only seems to widen the gap—filling both your heads with the wrong ideas until communication completely falls apart. And if things weren’t messy before… well, sugar, you’re both going down swinging.
Bucky could only stare in awe as he watched you standing there in the middle of the crowd, glowing in the pink band tee he made just for you.
He had never played the drums this hard, this passionately in his life. Was this how Ringo Starr felt when he saw his wife in the crowd at their shows? He started to let his imagination run wild—maybe in the future, if Civil War ever got big, he could bring you—as his partner—along on their tours.
Maybe even make you a backup-lead singer, just like Bruce Springsteen and his wife Patti Scialfa.
He let his imagination run wild as he rocked out hard on the drum set. Every word that Steve sang out, every word that Bucky had written in his song journal, was a word that was written for you.
When he looked up from his sticks, his eyes only found you. His eyes traced the way you danced and smiled—your pretty Mac lipstick spread wide just for him. It reminded him of the night when he first saw you like this, and just that sight alone was enough for him to fall in love all over again.
Performing was his favorite thing to do, but he wanted nothing more than to pull you backstage and fuck you right behind the curtains—to rip the shirt that he designed off your body and press sloppy kisses all over you.
Their set finally came to an end, and the crowd was cheering wildly. Steve yanked the mic off the stand, the sharp feedback only seemed to rile the crowd up even more. These weird kids loved loud noise.
“Alright, alright!” Steve beamed into the mic. “Thanks for stickin’ around and listening to our...” he turned, motioning to the rest of the band, “very mediocre playing.” The crowd laughed. “We’re Civil War, which sounded way cooler when we came up with it at two a.m.! Thanks, and goodnight!”
The crowd erupted into the loudest cheer Bucky had ever heard. He was pretty much stumbling over the drum kit as he made his escape. Steve usually insisted on a band debrief post-concert with a side of beer and cigarettes, but Bucky couldn’t wait for any of that.
He had to get to you.
“Buck, where are you going?” Sam called from the stage, lifting the strap of his guitar over his shoulder.
Bucky paid him no mind. He jogged down the backstage steps and pushed the side door open, intent on getting to you. But the moment he stepped out, he collided with a group of girls camped right outside, and they all reeked of stale beer.
“It’s Bucky!” one girl gasped, and the rest swiveled toward him like a school of fish suddenly spotting a regular piece of white bread.
“Oh, fuck,” Bucky muttered, his hand flying back to the doorknob, twisting it urgently to escape.
Locked.
“Bucky, you were amazing out there!”
“I could see your muscles through your shirt. You were banging on the drums really hard—”
“Bucky! I’ve got something else you can bang on—”
“Jesus Christ,” he groaned.
This wasn’t the first time Bucky had been swarmed by girls trying to get laid by a band member. He used to be fond of the popularity and attention that came with being in a rock band. But ever since he met you, the only attention he craved was from the girl who gave him nasty side-eyes and snarky comments all while clutching a pink handbag.
He spun around, pounding on the door with his fist and rattling the knob. “Sam! Let me in!” he shouted. But his prayers were left unanswered. Seriously—that guy was shouting his name just a few seconds ago, and now he’s up and vanished?
Bucky stiffened when he felt a surprisingly strong hand clamp down on his shoulder, spinning him back around to face the girls. They stepped closer, pressing him against the door as the girl’s hand lingered on his bicep, giving it a firm squeeze through his shirt.
“He really is strong!” she said gleefully.
“Get your hands off of me,” he gritted, his hand immediately wrapping around her wrist and prying it away from his arm.
“You don’t have a girlfriend, do you, Bucky?” she frowned. “I did my research. All of the members in Civil War are single.”
One of the girls behind her gasped. “Is that true?”
He swallowed hard. Maybe if he gave this girl an answer—any answer—they would finally leave him alone.
“Not necessarily—” the word barely left his lips before his eyes caught on something at the end of the dim, packed hallway.
You.
You were standing right there, square in the middle, blocking people’s paths with your arms crossed tight. Your hip was slightly jutted out, your mini-skirt rising and falling as you tapped your heeled toe impatiently against the floor. Your manicured fingers were gripping your arms tight as you glared directly at him. Your pretty face was twisted up into the sourest expression he’d ever seen, your lips pursed in utter disgust.
Normally, that look of yours would give him a raging hard-on. But right now? He was absolutely fucking terrified.
The overheard light flickered once, and he swore that if he looked away for even just a second, you would slit his throat with your fingernail.
“—shit,” Bucky muttered under his breath. He straightened up quickly, forcing a nervous grin. “Hey, I was just—uh, on my way to find you—”
“Oh, I’m sure you were,” you interrupted, your eyes narrowed into a searing glare aimed at the girls. “You don’t want to sleep with him, girls. Trust me. I’ve also done my research. Heard he has the smallest dick size in the band and can last about thirty seconds max. Try Rogers instead.”
Silence fell as all the girls just blinked. Before Bucky, or any of them, could utter a word, you spun on your heel and stomped out of the hall. Your hips swayed and your hair swooshed like a stuck-up princess making a grand exit. The girls all took a step back as your words processed in their minds.
Fuck, you were mean.
You got the girls off his back at the expense of his pride, but Bucky didn’t care about that. He knew you were pissed. He knew you were possessive of anything that belonged to you. And although you would never say it out loud, you were most particularly possessive of him—because he belonged to you too.
“Hold on—” Bucky pushed his way through the crowd of girls, calling out for you. “Hey, baby—wait!” He caught up to you in quick strides, grabbing your arm and stopping you.
“Don’t ‘baby’ me,” you snapped, spinning around angrily in the middle of the bar and jabbing a finger square into his chest.
He furrowed his brows. “Don’t tell me you’re actually upset—”
“Upset? Why would I be?” you scoffed, clearly upset. “How do I know I’m not the only one you call ‘baby’?”
Bucky sighed, running a hand through his shaggy hair. He should have expected this. Steve was right when he said girls came throwing themselves at him after every show. Since this was your first time watching him play, he should have warned you. But to be fair, he hadn’t expected you to even show up at all.
“Come on, baby,” he flashed the smile he knew you loved. He grabbed your hand, pulling you close until you nearly collided with his chest. “Can’t you just tell me how good I played? I’m so happy you showed up, really. I mean—I played extra hard for you,” his hand slinked around your waist, pulling you closer. “And I know how much you love it when I play hard. If you know what I mean—”
You pushed him away and let out a frustrated groan. You crossed your arms again, glaring at him. Bucky had to bite his lip to keep from smiling, because... how could he not? Especially when you were standing there, dripping in designer pieces, yet wearing a cheap cotton T-shirt that read, “CIVIL WAR” in bold lettering.
“That shirt looks so damn cute on you.”
“Yeah? Why don’t you go make your little groupie a couple of matching shirts, then?” you sneered.
Bucky blinked. This was the first time he had witnessed you like this. You had been protective over your designer bags and shoes, but never over him. You were feisty, crude, yet for some reason, he was drawn to it. He felt an overwhelming sense of pride knowing that he could make you—a girl with her head so steady on her shoulders—jealous.
“I can’t believe the pretty princess is actually jealous,” he took a step closer, immediately closing the pitiful distance you created.
“It’s not like we’re... really in a relationship, are we?” He questioned, and immediately regretted his words once he saw your face twist.
Although the question sounded more like he was the one who needed reassurance, it seemed you took it the wrong way—like a taunt. He realized now just how terrible he was with words. Writing songs came naturally, but saying things out loud was another thing entirely.
He tried to backtrack before it was too late. “Okay, hold on. I didn’t mean—”
You barked out a harsh, humorless laugh. “No,” you shook your head. “You’re right. We’re not in a relationship. So really, I don’t know why I’m here in the first place.”
Your face was starting to flush, and Bucky was smiling before he could stop himself. He knew he wasn’t helping the situation, but he genuinely couldn’t hold back when you were standing there looking like Tinkerbell with a scrunched-up, angry red face. He didn’t know what possessed him to say the next words—maybe it was the adrenaline from playing just moments ago, or the insistent pressure of his cock against his zipper at seeing you riled up.
“Wait, princess—don’t you want to at least give me a kiss for playing so good?”
Your eyebrow twitched with annoyance. “I can’t believe you,” you spat, rolling your eyes and spinning on your heel, leaving him standing in the middle of the room alone with all eyes now turned on him.
Bucky continued to call after you, but you refused to listen. You were here, in his space—the odd one out—and he was taunting you rather than defending you. You knew Bucky was bad with words, but you weren’t going to stand here and let yourself get humiliated for any longer.
As you left, Steve, Sam, and Natasha were standing by the bar in silence, a drink in each hand, their faces stunned.
Natasha scrunched her face up, looking utterly confused, while Steve’s jaw hung open. “I can’t believe Bucky is—”
Sam cut in with the same realization. “—they’re screwing each other?”
“I can’t believe you’re actually playing around with her,” Sam huffed, his arm resting lazily on the couch. “I mean—when did this happen? How did this happen?”
It was the next day, and Bucky could not hear the end of it. After your little jealous outburst at the bar, the band had discovered his relation-not-so-ship with you, and since then, he had been subjected to their unrelenting teasing.
“Barnes is not unattractive,” Natasha said, her fingers idly plucking at the strings of her bass. “I’m not surprised he was able to snag one of the popular girls dressed in pink.”
“Thanks, Nat,” Bucky said, his chest rising and falling after he downed a water bottle. “I don’t know why Sam is acting like I haven’t touched a woman in my life—”
“Though I bet she tops him.” Natasha included.
“What the fuck, Nat.”
Steve snorted, letting himself fall into the open space next to Sam. “So, all the times you’ve ditched practice in the middle of the night, was for her?”
Bucky tried to hide his flushed grin, feeling sheepish. “Yeah,” he admitted bashfully, smiling behind his drum set like an idiot.
“Unbelievable,” Sam groaned, tossing a throw pillow at him, hitting the cymbal on the way. “Our boy Barnes is out here ditchin’ practice to get laid—”
“Shut the hell up, Sam,” Bucky hissed, cheeks burning as he threw the pillow right back even harder.
“She’s like the last person I expected you to be with,” Steve chuckled, grabbing an opened beer bottle on the floor and taking a swig. “How long have you two been seeing each other?”
Bucky rested his hands in his lap, fiddling his fingers like a child. “For a few weeks now. I saw her at one of the backyard gigs,” he shook his head as he recalled the fond memory. “She looked so beautiful that night.”
Sam had to hold back a laugh while Steve gave him a smack on the back, shutting him up. Steve nodded his head, urging him to continue. “Jesus, Buck. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this head over heels over a girl since, like—” he tapped his chin, “the third grade.”
“You must really like this girl, don’t you?” Sam questioned.
“Shut up, guys,” Bucky mumbled, though the red shading on his ears and the smile he wore were clear signs he didn’t mind the teasing—because to him, it meant he got to talk about you more.
Natasha finally looked up from her instrument. “So, you two have been screwing around for a few weeks—nearing a month... and you two are... what?”
“What do you mean?”
Natasha just shrugged. “Like talking, or just hooking up?”
Bucky finally lifted his head, and his fingers stilled. “Uh—I don’t know.”
Steve and Sam exchanged a look before looking back at Bucky.
“We heard you at the bar—I mean, everyone heard you at the bar. You said you two weren’t ‘really in a relationship,’” Sam said, using air quotation marks. “But then she got jealous when you were surrounded by chicks. What’s up with that?”
Bucky shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck. “I mean… she has every right to be jealous,” he said casually, as if it were obvious. “Even if she isn’t officially mine or I’m not… hers.”
There was a brief pause, where the three of them just exchanged glances, already all thinking the same thing.
“Hold on,” Sam shook his head, trying to wrap his head around it. “You’re telling me that she gets the right to be jealous even though you two aren’t official? Is that what I’m hearing right now?”
“We don’t need a title to feel things.”
Steve exhaled slowly, fingertips idly tapping against the glass bottle. “Okay, but do you two even talk about what you are? Or are you just hoping she’ll eventually call you her boyfriend?”
Bucky’s jaw tightened, his smile slowly fading. “It’s not that simple, Steve.”
Natasha turned to him, one hand resting on the neck of her bass and the other on her hip. “Then explain this, Barnes,” she tilted her head. “If she gets to be jealous, you get to be jealous too, right?”
“Look,” Bucky sighed, resting his hands on his legs and leaning forward as he eyed each and every one of them. “If this is about Walker—she already told me they aren’t dating.”
Natasha pressed her lips together, like there was more she wanted to say but the right words wouldn’t come out—so instead, Steve spoke up first. “It’s just… every time we see her walking around campus, she’s always with Walker,” he started, eyeing Bucky’s reaction carefully.
Bucky stayed quiet, keeping his jaw tight as he picked up his drumsticks. “We should just rehearse—”
Natasha scrunched her face, oblivious to Bucky’s growing unease. “He’s practically glued to her hip. Like—every hallway, every table in the dining hall—he’s always right there. He’s like some emotional support frat boy.”
“Guys,” Bucky cut in with an awkward laugh, “we should—”
“And,” Sam added, “he keeps bragging about having her at his side. Didn’t he say something like—what was it? ‘She’s practically mine, she just doesn’t know it yet’?”
Natasha nodded. “Yeah. That.”
Bucky let out a low and agitated exhale. “Walker is full of shit. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.” He scratched his temple, his foot tapping impatiently against the floor as he kept his gaze steady on the drum set. “Look—can we just fucking practice already? We’re wasting time here.”
Steve leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, and adopted a softer, gentler tone. “Buck, we’re not trying to piss you off. We’re just worried about you, you know? You ditch our practices to go to her every time she calls you—and apparently, you two have been screwing around for weeks, and we didn’t know about it until—” he looked at the rest of the group, “now.”
Sam nodded. “And she won’t put a label on you, but she’ll happily be seen with Walker?”
Bucky kept his head down, pretending to be occupied with the marks on his snare drumhead. “It’s more complicated than that,” he muttered. “You guys wouldn’t get it.”
Sam opened his mouth, likely to push further, but Steve clamped a hand on his shoulder—a silent warning to stay quiet. “Alright,” with a groan, Steve sat up and took another swig of his beer. “We’ll drop it.”
With one last swig, he set the glass down on a crooked side table and picked up his Fender. “Let’s practice.”
Steve adjusted his strap, rolling his shoulders back. Natasha stood up straight, her hands already over the strings of her bass. Sam sat up and grabbed his pick off the table. Bucky’s grip tightened on his sticks—his palms slick and clammy. He leaned forward, trying to settle in as Steve counted them in.
“One…”
Bucky shut his eyes, his leg already bouncing up and down as he tried to keep his hands tight around the sticks.
As much as he hated to admit it, everything his friends said was true. The entire time you two had gotten close, he was your dirty little secret. You didn’t want to be seen with a guy like him. You claimed you didn’t want a title—yet you were prancing around with John fucking Walker?
“Two…”
You told him you and John were nothing—just like all the guys before—and he believed you. He wanted to believe you. Hell, he thought he could see it in your eyes every time you hung around those frat boys. Bucky knew he was special to you—otherwise you wouldn’t have shown up to his gig, wearing the shirt he made you… right?
But then your reaction to the girls after the show had thrown him off. You wanted to keep whatever you two were a secret, yet you were openly jealous—and then you hadn’t spoken to him since.
Neither of you had.
“Three…”
All the words the band told him were racing in his mind, his heart already beating faster than the tempo of the song they were about to play. His palms grew sweatier despite not having hit anything. He imagined you—hanging out with God knows who—someone who wasn’t him.
Maybe after seeing how many girls were interested in him, you grew uninterested.
Maybe he should have tried reassuring you that there was no one else but you. Maybe he shouldn’t have mocked your anger as a joke.
But why would you have the right to be jealous when you couldn’t even call him your boyfriend?
“Four!”
The song started off with Sam’s strumming—a tight rhythm, quick downstrokes. Then Bucky smacked the snare and hit his cymbals, kicking off the beat. Natasha’s bass followed right behind, and then Steve leaned into the mic as his lead guitar part came in.
Then, Bucky’s drums came in hard.
The drums were supposed to match the upbeat, punchy tempo that everyone else was following—those crisp snare hits and rapid-fire pop-punk bursts that kept the momentum alive. But Bucky slammed into the kit like he was trying to blow through the song rather than play it.
Sam tried to maintain his rhythm, but Bucky was already pushing the tempo.
Natasha held the groove, but Bucky kept speeding up.
Steve tried to sing in time, but Bucky’s snare cracks nearly swallowed his voice.
“The needle on my record player has been wearin’ thin…”
Another hit—too sharp, and too damn loud.
“This record has been playing since the day you’ve been with him—”
Bucky’s jaw clenched, his face scrunched up into an ugly sneer as he kept banging on the drums. He hit the crash cymbal hard enough that the whole kit rattled. Steve glanced at him over his shoulder, giving him a look that clearly signaled he was offbeat, but he kept singing.
But Bucky was no longer just playing the beat.
He was attacking it.
His hi-hat hits were sharper than they needed to be; it was more like he was trying to dent the cymbals. The snare cracks turned into heavy, punishing smacks that echoed through the entire garage. His fills came in too early, too strong, slamming across the toms instead of sliding cleanly through them.
Every time the chorus hit, instead of tightening the groove like the original track, he opened the crash cymbal with an explosive force, the ringing so loud Steve actually winced mid-strum.
It wasn’t a song anymore.
It was Bucky’s heartbeat—rushed, uneven, and utterly pissed off. Pissed off over the fact that still, to this day, after everything you two have been through, you still weren’t his.
The audacity to get upset seeing him with other girls—when you had a new frat boy on your hip every week. His kick drum hammered the floor like he was trying to kick his foot right through it. His shoulders were locked, his arms were flexed, and his knuckles were white from gripping the sticks too hard.
Steve’s voice was muffled by the ringing in Bucky’s ears—his face warming up with anger.
“Have I waited too long?”
“Have I found that someone?”
“Have I waited too long, to see you?”
Bucky raised his arm up and hit the snare—once, twice, and then another way too hard.
Then his sticks snapped.
The wood split clean in his grip.
“Fuck!” he shouted, the sound ripping straight out of his chest and echoing through the garage. He hurled the broken sticks; they clattered across the concrete. Steve’s guitar cut off mid-chord. Natasha’s hands froze over her strings. Sam stopped entirely.
All three turned toward him with cautious, wide-eyed glances. Then it went silent. A heavy, stunned, and tense silence. The only sounds were Bucky’s breathing, his chest heaving as he ran a hand through his hair in frustration. His leg was still pacing up and down—but he was desperately trying to keep his breathing in check.
“Buck?” Steve said softly.
Bucky didn’t look up. He just swallowed hard, made a face, then spoke through clenched teeth.
“Take five.”
Before any of them could get a word out, he quickly scrambled out of his kit, heading to the door and swinging it wide. He left a puff of angry, tension-filled air in his wake as he exited the garage and retreated back into the house.
They all looked at each other—and they didn’t even need to speak to know what to do.
With a quiet exhale, Steve slipped off his guitar, set it gently against the amp, and followed him inside.
Bucky was already pacing back and forth in the living room, his thumbs shaking as they hovered over the keyboard on his phone.
He knew he was being selfish. Irrational. Messy. But how the hell was he supposed to walk back into that garage and pretend he wasn’t falling apart? His hands could bleed from splintered sticks, he could break a dozen more, but none of it compared to the ache clawing through his chest at the thought of you—so close, yet so far from him in every possible way.
“Buck—” Steve’s voice came in rough, cutting through the static in his head.
“I have to text her, Steve.” Bucky’s voice came out hoarse and desperate. He didn’t even look up, scrolling through his contacts until your information sat there, staring back at him. “I can’t just let her walk away. I can’t let her go. Not to John fucking Walker—”
“Bucky. Hey—” Steve stepped closer, placing a solid and grounding hand on his shoulder. “Calm down.” He squeezed gently, forcing Bucky to meet his eyes.
“I hear you, man, I really do—we all do,” Steve sighed, choosing his words carefully. “You’re head over heels for this girl—I can see that. But Buck, our band is finally getting some traction. We’ve got gigs lined up, real offers coming, people finally paying attention to us. This is what we’ve been working our asses off for.”
Bucky swallowed hard, his eyes landing back down on his phone.
“And we can’t afford to lose you to this,” Steve continued gently, “to a girl who—look, I’m not saying she’s a bad person. But she’s caught up in... all that.” He waved his hand around vaguely, making a displeased face. “Handbags, social circles, cliques, who’s-who on campus. That stuff matters to her.”
Bucky’s jaw clenched. “You don’t know her like I do.”
“I know you’re hurting,” Steve said softly, leaning in closer. “And I know you’d probably burn the whole campus down for her if she asked... but Buck, she’s not giving you the same thing back. She doesn’t need you right now, man. We do. The band needs you.”
Bucky stayed silent, chewing the inside of his cheek. There was so much that Bucky wanted to say. He wanted to fight for you, to defend you, because only he knew who you truly were. But how could he? When all his friends had seen was you only giving him half your heart?
“We need you here,” Steve continued. “Not half here. I mean, we can’t even get through the first song without you—”
“I get it, okay?” Bucky finally said, the words strangled in his throat—tight, shaky, like there was a lump trying to claw its way out.
His fingers curled around his phone one last time before he let out a slow, and defeated breath. The screen dimmed and went black, and he shoved it deep into the pocket of his jeans.
Steve frowned, taking a step back and giving him some space. “I’m sorry, Buck.”
Bucky let out a dry and humorless laugh—one that didn’t reach his eyes. “Don’t be.” He forced himself to look at Steve, holding his gaze even though every part of him felt like it was splintering apart. “You’re right. You are. We should just… get back to practice.”
And before Steve could say anything—to offer comfort, an apology, anything—Bucky brushed past him. Shoulders tense, jaw clenched, and his heartbeat loud in his ears as he forced himself to pick up his feet and move back to the garage.
You didn’t know why Bucky’s sudden popularity bothered you so much. The entire time you’d known him, he was always surrounded by the same three people; Steve Rogers, Sam Wilson, and Natasha Romanoff. It was always those same people with the same hole-ridden T-shirts, ripped jeans, and dirty shoes. That’s how it had always been. That’s how it always should be.
So, to see him surrounded by those girls—girls dressed like him, girls who loved his music, girls who seemed like they would be a better fit for him than you—it absolutely pissed you off. You didn’t like it when people touched things that were rightfully yours.
Being in that bar, surrounded by Bucky’s crowd, you felt like the dirtbag in his world this time around—and you weren’t sure you were a fan of that, either. You were used to people flocking to you, looking up to you for attention. You were never the odd one out.
You hadn’t talked to Bucky in what felt like months, even though it had only been a week. A painfully long week.
And it wasn’t like you didn’t try. You did text him—once. Your pride was already shattering from sending the first message, so you drafted a short, simple message that sounded like you didn’t care as much as you truly did.
👑: hey, we should talk.
He saw it.
You knew he did, but he never replied. That was the part that shocked you the most, because Bucky always answered you—instantly, annoyingly, and reliably. It was like he was always waiting for your name to pop up on his phone.
Maybe you had overreacted when you saw him drowning in attention from those other girls. Or maybe your stupid pride made you say the wrong thing, walk away too fast, and slam a door a little harder than necessary. But ignoring you? That wasn’t like him at all.
Your mind was so occupied with these thoughts that America’s Asshole had to snap his fingers to bring your attention back to him.
“What, John?” you muttered, poking at your lunch.
“You weren’t at the party last Friday night,” he pointed out. “We missed you after the game. What happened?”
“I had better things to do,” you replied flatly. “I was at a show.”
“A show?” John’s face scrunched up, almost in disgust. “What kind of show? What show could’ve possibly been better than my party?”
John’s voice drowned out just as face as it came as you caught a familiar, grungy, and broody figure in the corner of your eye. Your head turned instinctively in the direction, and you caught sight of the same man who never failed to send butterflies through you since the day you’d met him.
“Bucky,” you muttered under your breath, nearly inaudible.
“Sorry, what was that?” John asked, leaning in closer to hear you.
Without further explanation, you quickly got out of your seat, abandoning your lunch and John Walker entirely as you made your way toward him. Déjà vu hit you hard as John shouted your name—which you made it a habit of ignoring.
“Bucky, wait—” you called out, your heels clicking sharply against the dining hall’s floor and catching the attention of other students. “Bucky. Hold on—”
His shoulders tensed up at the sound of your voice, and he paused for a second. But instead of turning around to face you, he continued walking.
As if you didn’t exist.
You furrowed your brows, frustration bubbling as you picked up your pace until he was finally within reach. You clamped a hand on his shoulder, his body stiffening immediately.
“Bucky, Jesus—” you huffed. “I told you to wait—”
Slowly, he turned to finally face you. He didn’t have that usual sparkle in his eyes that he usually had when you two locked gazes from across campus. He didn’t have that obnoxious and teasing grin or sheepish smile when he’d see how beautiful you are.
No words, no greeting, no warmth.
Just a look.
A look so sharp and unrecognizable that it actually knocked the breath from your lungs. Bucky had never looked at you like that—not even on the day you insulted his entire outfit to his face.
His jaw was clamped tight, his eyes flat and unreadable, a tension in his expression that felt almost... guarded. Like he’d put up a wall between you while you weren’t looking.
A part of you wanted to step back and leave him be, but pride straightened your spine before anything else could.
Plus, you missed him.
“Why didn’t you answer my text?” you asked, crisp and direct—like you hadn’t spent the last week losing your mind over it.
Bucky’s eyes flicked past you, over your shoulder, and toward the table you’d just abandoned. With John. His jaw ticked slightly, then his eyes fell back on you.
“Been busy with the band,” he said flatly.
You crossed your arms. You knew it was bullshit. Every time you texted him—even for one simple text—he was always there for you. And standing here, underneath his cold gaze, you’re realizing just how much you’d taken all that—taken him—for granted.
“Busy,” you repeated, nodding once sarcastically. “Right.”
He didn’t respond. His shoulders slouched slightly, and his hands were shoved deep into the pockets of his denim jeans. His entire body language screamed that he didn’t want to be here—and that hurt.
“Look, I’m trying here,” you said, forcing your voice to steady. “I texted you. I tried to talk to you. I know things got... weird after your gig, okay? But you don’t usually just ignore me like this.”
Still no response.
“Bucky,” you tried again, firmer. “I’m talking to you—”
“What?” he interrupted you coldly, his voice coming out louder than expected. “You expect me to always be there, answering your every call or text like some kind of lap dog?”
You blinked at the unexpected tone.
“W-what?”
Bucky pressed his lips together, looking around warily, making sure no one was close enough to hear—because that’s what you cared so much about, right? People hearing about you two, discovering you two.
He took a step closer, leaning in slightly. You thought he was going to apologize, press a kiss to your head right here in the middle of campus, and grovel at your feet. And you’d laugh, call him an idiot, and tell him to get up.
But he doesn’t. He doesn’t apologize. He doesn’t do anything of that.
“The band and I have been talking,” he started, his voice so quiet you could barely hear. “We’re actually picking up momentum. We’re starting to get recognized. And I can’t afford to—” he hesitated slightly. He swallowed hard before continuing. “I just can’t afford to waste my time with you.”
“Waste your time with me?” you repeated, as if giving him the opportunity to take his words back.
He kept his head down at your shoes, his thumb rubbing anxiously along the seam of his pocket as he exhaled hard through his nose.
“Bucky,” you leaned in closer, lifting your hand to reach for his cheek, but he leaned back slightly—just enough for you to get the hint.
“They’re right,” his voice was strained, “You and me—it’s not a good idea.”
You stared at him, stunned. Every sentence felt like a slap to the face—humiliating and unexpected. Your lips parted to speak, but his voice pushed on through.
“I just can’t understand it,” he continued. “We won’t talk for days, and then you’ll come crawling back to me when you need me. You get jealous, but you won’t put a title on us?” He shook his head like he was trying to clear it. “I can’t keep up with it anymore.”
Your throat tightened so sharply you had to swallow around the burn. “Bucky, that’s not—”
“And let’s be real,” he cut in, lifting his eyes to meet yours for half a second before they darted away again. “This would be easier for you too.”
“Bucky—”
“You can hang out with any guy you want without me holding you back. No arguing, no hiding, no getting mad at each other because some asshole looks at you or someone at my show says hi to me.”
Your face scrunched up, your bottom lip trembling slightly.
“Bucky… I never—I don’t—‘holding me back’? That’s not—”
“You were literally sitting with John Walker not even ten minutes ago,” he snapped quietly, but still loud enough to catch the attention of some people nearby. “So don’t stand here and act like I’m saying something you don’t already know.”
His eyes finally lifted to meet yours—tired, hurt, and cold. It was a look you’d never seen from him, a look you never wanted to see ever again, and a look you were already beginning to hate.
“I’m just… trying to make this easier,” he muttered. “For the both of us.”
But it didn’t feel easy.
It felt like he had clawed his way into your chest, dug deep, and pulled your heart right out.
You felt the blood drain from your face, the sting of tears suddenly sharp behind your eyes. You searched his cold gaze, refusing to accept the words you had just heard.
“You don’t actually think that way, do you?” you whispered, your voice sounding weak and brittle. “You know our relationship is more complicated than that, Bucky. They don’t know—”
“A relationship?” Bucky scoffed. “Can you even call it that?” He took one step back—just one small step, yet it felt like miles.
“I can’t do this right now,” he said, shaking his head. He didn’t sound angry anymore—he sounded tired, defeated. “I’m done making excuses for you. For myself.” He swallowed. “Just let it go.”
You wanted to reach out to him, to apologize for everything you’d done wrong, to yell at him for not fighting for you because of a few words from his friends who didn’t understand the whole situation, to hug him and never let go.
But he didn’t wait around for an answer. He turned slowly, then he walked off. No more lingering over-the-shoulder looks, no second thoughts, and no chance for you to grab his hand before it slipped away.
Just the sound of his boots thudding against the floor as he left you standing there in the campus’ dinging hall—where everyone, including John Walker, stood and sat staring at you.
Since that day, the tension between you and Bucky was palpable. You both hadn't spoken to each other—not even a single text. But whenever you two saw each other in passing, you would steal glances.
You would catch him staring at you right before he forced himself to look away, and every time he did, he swallowed hard, his face shifting into a grumpy expression—the look he’d always give to people he didn’t like. He never gave those looks to you before, and now he is.
You hated this. You hated how he was always within reach—just barely close enough to graze, yet too far to hold onto.
Was this how he felt when you kept backing away from turning the relationship into something more serious?
At first, you were heartbroken when he essentially broke off your non-official relationship. But after days of subtle glances and side-eyes from across the campus—always watching, always curious—you couldn’t take it anymore. Especially when he sat and laughed with his friends, the very ones who filled his head with doubts about you without giving you the chance to even explain yourself.
He continued playing with his band at gigs, and every time you weren't present, your mind traced back to the night he was surrounded by girls. But one thing really set you off.
Seeing Bucky laughing with some girl outside the music building.
And then jealousy filled you. Hot, white, burning jealousy filled you from your toes to the very top of your head.
Like a mental switch flipped inside your head, you started telling yourself, “If he doesn’t want me, then fine.” You were going to do what you did best, and that was pissing him off from a distance. If Bucky wanted to act cold, then you’d act unbothered.
You started dressing even hotter than usual—short skirts, and the heels you knew would always catch Bucky’s attention—he told you himself. You always made sure to walk near him, because the clacking sound of your heels against the floors always seemed to “turn him on.”
“Those heels make your legs look so fucking hot,” he’d said to you. “Wanna see them hiked over my shoulders, heels dangling in the air while I fuck you stupid.”
“Stop being a pervert, Barnes.”
You drowned yourself in the perfume that you knew he loved—the scent was another weapon. Every time he held you in his arms, his nose would find the crook of your neck and inhale deeply, his hands coming up to cup your cheeks, tilting your head to the side as he kissed and suckled on your sensitive column.
“So good, pretty princess,” he’d groan. “Always smellin’ so sweet—lookin’ so pretty. Can’t ever get enough.”
And you would always giggle. “Bucky, stop. You’re tickling me.”
Those methods partially worked. You would catch his eyes taking you in up and down from a distance—tracing your legs and calf muscles accentuated by the heels. He’d inhale deeply, his chest rising as you walked past him, your sweet perfume lingering in the air.
Just when you thought his patience would finally snap, he’d reel himself back in, going back to hanging around with his friends as if nothing ever happened.
But you knew one thing would really get him riled up. And that was wearing his shirt. The shirt he made for you.
Next to John Walker.
You were standing near the door of the union, wearing the soft pink cotton shirt with “CIVIL WAR” spread across your chest, loud and proud. John glanced down at it, raised a brow, and looked back up at you.
“Uh,” he started. “What’s with the shirt?”
In the corner of your eye, you saw Bucky, sitting with his friends as per usual. Except this time, instead of sneaking glances, he was glaring daggers at you. Sharp, cold daggers. And instead of doubling down, you took a step closer to John, batting your lashes at him.
“Well,” you twirled your hair, smiling. “Do you like it?”
Flustered, John only smiled back. “Yeah—I mean, I guess it’s cute. But what’s Civil War?” he asked, acting as if he had totally forgotten the time he was face-to-face with Bucky and his band posters.
Your eyes flickered back to Bucky’s at a distance, and this time, he didn’t look away when you caught his gaze. Your smile grew wider, and you looked back at John, raising your voice loud enough so Bucky could at least make out a few words.
“Oh, Civil War? Maybe some one-hit wonder band that disbanded? I don’t know—this shirt was passed down to me.”
Bucky still had his chin resting against his fist, glaring down at you two from across the union, his other finger tapping against the table and his leg bouncing impatiently.
Sam was talking—probably about their performance for the football game’s halftime. He should’ve been stoked for it, playing in front of the whole damn school, yet no words registered in his ears.
He had tried to get over you these past few days, but how could he when you were tempting him with those damn high heels, the sweet scent of you, and now the so-called one-hit wonder band tee shirt he made for you?
Bucky knew you were purposefully taunting him, and he didn’t know if he could take it anymore.
“—so since we’re only able to play two songs, I think we should choose—”
“I’m writing a song,” Bucky cut back into the conversation.
The rest of the band just blinked at each other. Sam chuckled awkwardly. “Uh. What?”
Bucky’s leg stilled, letting out a low exhale as his jaw remained clenched. He faced Sam slowly, almost intimidatingly. “I’m going to write a song.”
“Why?” Natasha furrowed her brows. “When we already have our own songs—”
“Trust me,” he grunted, grabbing his notebook and backpack and slinging it over his shoulder. He glanced back at you, his glare still cold as stone. “It’ll be good.”
Later that day, the band was back in the garage, practicing for the football game. Bucky had been working on a song all day, a song he had written with pent-up emotions that developed after failing to get over you. A song written out of pure, unadulterated pettiness.
And a song that would likely make the athletic director never want to bring them out to perform again.
But he didn’t care. He knew you were going to be there. And it was a song for you.
Bucky pulled out his battered notebook, tore a page out, and handed it to Steve.
“Read it,” Bucky said, crossing his arms.
Natasha exchanged a look with Sam, both leaning in as Steve lifted the paper. There were scribbles everywhere, crossed-out lines, and arrows pointing to rewritten lyrics, but it was fucking good.
“Jesus,” Sam breathed. “This has got to be a diss track or something.”
“Yeah,” Natasha huffed. “No shit.”
Steve shook his head in disbelief. “This is... we could get attacked for this, Buck. I don’t know if we—”
“But it’s good, right?” Bucky interrupted, leaning against the wall and grinning. “Even if they won’t let us perform again, people will dig it, and they’ll start coming to our gigs outside of school.”
Steve shrugged. “I suppose you’re right. Okay. Let’s practice—”
“But,” Bucky pushed himself off the wall. “I want to sing it.”
Natasha raised a brow. “But you’re our drummer. You really think you can sing this without getting winded? You can barely scream backup without losing the beat.”
Bucky shrugged. “So? Don Henley sang ‘Hotel California’ while drumming.”
Sam snorted. “Does that make your girl Stevie Nicks in this little fantasy of yours?”
“That’s not the point,” Bucky glared. “I’m singing it.”
Steve stepped forward, raising the page and scanning the lyrics again. “Buck… ‘Hotel California’ is a seventy-four BPM song. This song—” he flicked the page, “—is eighty-seven. That’s a big difference. And you’ve never sung while playing before. Are you sure you can even keep up?”
He knew it was petty. He knew it was a risk. But man, did he want to perform that song. He wanted to see your pretty little face, eyes wide when you heard the lyrics.
And he couldn’t wait to see your boy-toy all pissed off and riled up after hearing it, too.
“Alright,” Steve said, picking up his guitar. “Take one of Bucky’s song.” He squinted at the title written messily at the top.
“’Johnny Doesn’t Know.’”
You had spent the rest of the week feeling like your insides were scraped hollow.
You kept waiting, and hoping, that Bucky would crack. You hoped he’d text you at two in the morning like he used to, sending some stupid meme or asking what color your nails were that day. But not a single text went through, and every hour that passed without him felt like a painful reminder of every time you pushed him away.
You hated how close he felt just days ago, how easy everything had been—how warm he looked when he smiled at you. And now he was gone, because you pushed him. Because you didn’t want to put a label on it. Because you let your ego talk louder than your heart, and because you let his friends fill his brain with things that weren’t true.
You missed him so bad, it hurt.
The night before the football game, you sat at your desk with a pink stationery card, something you typically received, not wrote on. For the first time in your life, you were writing someone a heartfelt letter.
The pen shook as the words came out. Messy apologies, confessions, secrets about yourself that even he didn’t know. Little things you remembered about him—his smile, the way he fiddled with his drumsticks and bounced his legs when he was nervous, his dark and torn-up clothes and dirty Converse. You wrote that you were wrong, that you missed him, that you wanted him, even if the thought of being in a relationship terrified you.
You folded the letter carefully, slid it into the pink envelope, and sealed it with a cute heart sticker before you could chicken out and tear it up.
Then you added the real surprise.
Two tickets to Iron Maiden.
You’d hunted them down the second you heard they were selling locally—Bucky’s favorite band. The same one he’d rambled about for an hour while lying beside you, tracing patterns over your stomach and promising he’d drag you to a show “one day.”
Today was the day of the football game, and you’re standing in the bleachers next to a group of girls you could hardly call your friends. You clutched your purse tighter against your body—the purse carrying your sacred letter. You knew his band was going to perform today. You knew he was going to be there, and you’d stand there, holding that pink envelope, and tell him everything you should have told him weeks ago.
You were going to tell the biggest dirtbag Bucky Barnes that you were sorry, that you wanted him back, that you wanted to become something more—even if it scared you, even if he walked away again. Because for the first time, the idea of losing Bucky completely terrified you more than putting a label on whatever the hell you two were.
At first, the crowd hesitated—because everyone knew Civil War’s reputation. The misfit band that wouldn’t play anything “family friendly.” The band that made the athletic department nervous every single year. Civil War wrapped up their first song, and the crowd was now cheering loudly, fully won over. Steve stepped away from the mic, grabbing his water bottle. Sam adjusted his strap. And Natasha re-tuned her bass.
But Bucky was doing something different.
He was pulling the mic stand toward his drum kit. Your brows furrowed. You had never seen him touch a mic onstage—ever. He told you once he hated singing on stage, and that you only ever heard his voice along to the radio when he drove you home at night. He was adjusting the height, angling it perfectly toward him, his breath steady and focused, his eyes flicking up toward the bleachers—
Toward you.
Your stomach dropped. A slow, warm flush crept up your neck. You didn’t think he had noticed you at all, but now he was staring right at you. Steve mouthed a count, and instead of the usual instrument buildup they did, the song started with Bucky yelling into the mic and Steve’s heavy guitar riff—immediately hyping the crowd up once more.
And the words that Bucky started singing made your jaw drop to the bleachers.
“Johnny doesn’t know.”
“She tells him she’s out shopping.”
“But she’s under me and I’m not stopping.”
“Johnny doesn’t know.”
“I can’t believe he’s so trusting, while I’m right behind you thrusting.”
“She’s got John on the phone, and she’s trying not to moan.”
“It’s a three-way call and he knows nothing.”
“Johnny doesn’t know. Don’t tell Johnny.”
Heat exploded across your cheeks so fast you genuinely thought you might faint. Those lyrics weren’t suggestive, it wasn’t subtle, and it wasn’t a hint. They were filthy, scandalous, and a direct message to Walker—messages explicit enough to make half the student body choke on their popcorn. Your jaw hung open, your eyes wide, your pulse pounding against your throat. Because Bucky Barnes—the quiet, broody, never-sings-in-public dirtbag Bucky—was onstage in front of hundreds of people, singing about being inside you behind Walker’s back.
You probably should have felt embarrassed or shameful, but your entire body went warm because that meant he’d been thinking about you. Thinking about you like that these past few days. Angry, jealous, petty, needy, and he wasn’t hiding it anymore.
If people didn’t know you two were a thing, then they most certainly do now.
A chorus of gasps shot through the bleachers. One girl next to you gave you a side-eye, whispering to the friend beside her, “Is this… about—” “Yeah, I think it is. That’s so gross.” Meanwhile, the students behind you cheered on, simply enjoying the music.
Down on the field, John Walker’s entire face scrunched—first confusion, then dawning horror, and finally, an angry, red explosion of humiliation. He threw his helmet to the ground and took a furious step forward, like he wanted to rip the entire drum set apart with his bare hands, but his teammates grabbed him by the shoulder and stopped him. Meanwhile, the faculty area was in shambles. The athletic director’s headset nearly fell off as he sputtered into his mic, and the cheer coach looked like she was two seconds away from fainting.
Once the song ended, the crowd, if they weren’t already standing, erupted into a loud cheer—a cheer so loud it made your ears hurt. Steve delivered his outro, the band started to wrap things up, and the football teams were getting ready to play again while the cheerleaders resumed their routine.
You didn’t want to waste another second. Your mission, the messily crafted letter, the fear of losing him—all of it came rushing back, amplified by the public display of his hurt.
You raced down the metal steps, eyes scanning the area behind the makeshift stage. You moved toward the exit ramp where the bands typically packed up, and you spotted him, packing up his kit.
“Bucky!” you called out, but his friends turned to face you first. “Bucky. I need to talk to you—”
“We’re busy,” Sam cut you off, but you ignored him.
You weren’t going to let anyone or anything block your way.
“Bucky, please,” you pleaded, catching your breath. “I just want to talk.”
Bucky paused, looking up from the wires he was looping around. He gave a brief glance at the rest of the band and nodded. “You guys go ahead. I’ll catch up with you later.”
You watched as the group left; all of them threw hesitant glances at you over their shoulders. Once they completely disappeared, Bucky turned his body to face you, giving you his attention. You started digging in your purse for the letter.
“I know we’ve gone through a lot together, and I—”
“What’s the deal with you and Walker?”
You paused, furrowing your brows. “I’ve told you this a million times over. There’s nothing going on between Walker and I—”
“So then why the hell is he still attached to your hip?” he interrupted coldly again, taking a step closer with crossed arms. “And why the hell are you walking around with these damn high heels, flaunting your legs to half the fucking school?”
He took another step closer, and you took another one back.
“And that perfume, that sweet fucking perfume that you only ever wear around me,” he took another step, closing the distance until you were pushed up against a column. “I could smell you from across the campus—taunting me, teasing me.”
His eyes lingered down to your shirt. “And this shirt,” he muttered. “This shirt that got passed down to you—was that what you said?” He taunted. His rough fingers trailed down to the hem of the soft cotton, pinching the fabric.
You felt the roughness of his knuckles graze against your lower belly, making you shudder.
“Wearing the shirt I made you around Walker just to piss me off,” he scoffed. “You knew I couldn’t get over you, huh?”
His fingers tightened in the fabric of your shirt, just enough to make you gasp, tugging you closer.
“Answer me,” he demanded quietly. His voice was low, rough, a rasp of jealousy and frustration that made your knees weaken. “You knew exactly what you were doing, didn’t you?”
His forehead nearly brushed yours, his breath warm against your lips. When you were planning on confronting Bucky, you expected him to push you away or not even hear you out. You hadn’t expected this—him standing toe-to-toe, your nose brushing against his as his fingers played at the hem of your shirt.
Your body couldn’t help but naturally react to him—to his possessive touch and his words—even your body knew you missed him.
And yet, even found in a compromising position, you also couldn’t help but taunt him yet again.
“Aw,” you tilted your head, smiling. “Jealous, are you?”
A low snarl escaped his lips as he leaned in, his lips grazing yours, but not exactly kissing. “Fuck,” he growled, his hands sliding beneath your shirt and up your stomach. You wanted to break the distance right then and there and slam your lips right on his—right where they belonged, but you held back.
If Bucky was going to make a song about fucking you and perform it in front of the whole school, then he had to make the first move.
“And here you are, after everything, still trying to bait me in.” His words came out cold and crude, like he didn’t want you. Yet his eyes looked like he could eat you right up.
“I missed you, Bucky,” you teased again, your hands coming up to the back of his hair and giving it a tug. “Didn’t you miss me?”
Something flickered across his face—annoyance, or maybe pride, or that stubborn self-control he always tried to hide behind. His jaw clenched, and he tried to take a step back, to break the tension between you two for good and leave this all behind.
But you still had your fingers tangled in his hair.
And he still had his hands under your shirt.
He fucking missed you, and you were standing there, batting your eyelashes at him.
“Goddammit,” he mumbled, before he leaned in and slammed his lips against yours.
You had kissed Bucky plenty of times in the short period you’d known him, but this kiss didn’t feel like any other. It was a kiss that conveyed his anger, his frustration, and his hatred for you. But it was also a kiss fueled by pent-up hunger, longing, and love.
His mouth moved against yours wildly, his fingers digging into your waist and dragging you closer until there wasn’t an inch of space left. He held you tight, like he never wanted to let you go again, but his mouth moved like he was punishing you for making him want you this badly. You tried to breathe, tried to keep up, but you were no match against his desperation.
A soft sound slipped out of you, and the second he heard it, you felt his lips curve up into a smirk, because that little, helpless sound confirmed that you’d been needing him just as much. His other hand circled to splay shamelessly across your lower back, his touch hot against your soft skin.
Bucky’s lips broke away from yours just slightly, and you let out a soft whine at the loss of contact, already leaning in for more of his touch. His thumb dragged a slow, burning line along your waist, fingertips slipping under the band of your skirt.
“Christ,” he murmured, resting his forehead against yours, “...are you sure you didn’t miss me?”
Your breath hitched, and the smugness in his eyes sharpened instantly. He angled his head just enough to brush his nose against your cheek, lips grazing the corner of your mouth without giving you a real kiss.
“Because you’re shaking,” he whispered, dragging his hand up and down your spine, your back instinctively arching. “And that cute little sound you made tells me how much you need me.”
“Bucky…”
He leaned in closer. “Should I fuck you right here, right behind the stage, where anyone could walk by and see?” His hand trailed down to the short hem of your skirt. “Lift this tiny skirt up and have you crying my name? How about it, princess? Want this pathetic loser’s cock deep inside you again?”
Your face flushed in hot embarrassment. He wasn’t the same man who was too shy to kiss you when you were sitting in his passenger seat. He wasn’t the same man who stood there helplessly while your “friends” tore him to shreds when he gifted you the band shirt he made for you.
No. Bucky knew what he wanted from the very beginning, and that was you—the gentle, pink light in his dark days. Your soft, feminine laugh that contradicted the loud and gritty music he listened to. You were the luxury brand to his torn-up shoes with frayed laces.
You were everything he needed. And he was yours.
Your dirtbag.
Your mouth parted, ready to tease him again, but the sounds of footsteps shuffling against grass filled your ears. Sounds that were too loud, and way too close. Bucky’s hand immediately flew to cover your mouth, pressing you back hard against the column. His eyes narrowed, warning you not to make a sound. His breath on your cheek did nothing to soothe the building ache between your legs.
Bucky leaned in, lips brushing your ear. “Quiet,” he whispered, low and raspy.
You nodded against his hand, your heart pounding, and he smiled down at you.
“My dirty little secret.”
And that only made your stomach flutter even more.
He waited until the voices faded, tilted his head to make sure the coast was clear, then grabbed your hand. “Come on.”
Before you could ask, he tugged you away from behind the stage. Your heels clicked frantically behind him as you could only stare at him from behind in awe. Him dragging you out away from everyone else just to keep you to himself—it felt like it was straight out of a corny romance movie scene. And when he looked over his shoulder to make sure you were keeping up and flashed you a warm smile, you knew you were done for.
He didn’t stop tugging you along until he found the first unlocked door he could get his hands on. A small, tucked-away storage shed that was mostly used by staff and the athletics team. He pushed it open, pulled you inside with him, and kicked it shut behind you.
The lock clicked, and for a moment, the two of you just stood there—breathless, with hearts pounding in sync. Then you laughed, an exuberant, bubbling laugh that had your hand flying to your mouth as you tried to quiet yourself, which only made him laugh in return.
Bucky’s hair was slightly messy from your fingers, his lips flushed and stained with your lip gloss, his chest rising fast. He was smiling, that cute boyish smile he had when he would watch your reaction after teasing you.
You felt like a girl falling for him all over again.
And before you could think the better of it, the words slipped from your mouth as if you had said it a million times before.
“I love you.”
Then Bucky stopped laughing. His smile lingered for a second, but his eyes... they burned into yours, wide and stunned, as if all the warmth and tension you’d been feeling with him just now was nothing but a silly figment of your imagination.
“I—” you started, suddenly aware of what you had just said.
But he didn’t give you the chance to backtrack.
In one sudden, hungry movement—even hungrier than before—Bucky grabbed your waist and hauled you against him, his lips crashing into yours with a force that knocked a gasp right out of your lungs. The storage shed suddenly felt so tight; the only space that was left was completely occupied by Bucky. His mouth moved against yours—urgent, desperate, like he had been waiting longer than he knew you just to hear those three words fall from your lips.
“Say it again,” he whispered, his voice shaking, almost feral. “Please.”
“I love you,” you repeated, breathless. “I love you so much, Bucky.”
“Fuck—I knew it,” he groaned, his calloused hands coming up to gently caress your face. “I knew you’d come back to me. You were always meant to be my girl—my angel.”
He leaned back in, closing the distance as his mouth found yours again. His lips devoured yours—messy, sloppy, and wet, your favorite type of kiss from him, because it showed how much he needed you. His hands wandered your body greedily, your handbag long forgotten somewhere in this dusty shed as he pushed you up against the wall, the whole shed shaking.
“I love you too,” he moaned against your lips. “I love you so much—you have no fucking idea.”
Bucky had touched you and fucked you in ways that made your mind dizzy—but hearing those three little words come out of his mouth only made your legs tremble and your heart flutter rapidly.
“Bucky,” you clung to his shirt, pulling him impossibly closer. You hooked one leg around his waist, trapping him against you as you pleaded. “I need you.”
“Yeah?” he nuzzled his nose against yours, his voice raspy. “What do you need, baby? Tell me.”
“I need you so bad,” you whined, leaning in closer to try and kiss him again, but he pulled away just slightly, his hand tight on your thigh that was wrapped around his waist.
You groaned, your face twisting. “Stop taunting me, Barnes—”
“Oh, you’re being a spoiled little princess,” he taunted, giving your leg a squeeze. “I always give you what you want, don’t I?” He leaned in, pressing a chaste kiss to your cheek, just barely grazing the corners of your lips. “You’re always making demands and you can’t even say ‘please.’”
You swallowed hard, heat spiraling low in your stomach and pooling between your legs as Bucky held you firmly against the wall. Your thigh was still hooked around his waist, keeping him close—so close you could feel every breath he took—yet he still refused to give you what you were begging for.
“Please,” you whispered, your pride crumbling at his feet. “Bucky… I need you. Please.”
His eyes darkened, a slow, cocky smile tugging at his lips. “There she is,” he murmured. “My sweet girl. My little angel.”
His hand slid up your thigh, pushing your skirt higher until his fingers found the waistband of your panties. He hooked them, pulled once hard, and the thin fabric gave way with an audible rip, falling to your knees.
Your breath hitched, your cheeks burning. “Jesus, Barnes,” you huffed. “You owe me a shopping spree with how many pairs of panties you’ve destroyed.”
He unhooked your leg around his hip, setting it down gently as his hands started to fumble and work at the buckle of his belt and the zipper of his pants. “I’ll buy you new ones—turn around,” he gritted through clenched teeth. “Turn around. Hands against the wall.”
When you hesitated for just a second, his hands found your waist again, turning your body around roughly, making your hands scramble against the wall to keep your balance. His grip on your hips tightened as he pulled your bottom out, forcing you to arch your back and present your bare slit to him that was barely covered by your skirt.
“That’s it,” he encouraged, his hands going back to tug his belt and pants down—the sound of it making your legs tremble. “Look at you, already archin’ for me. You’re so pretty, baby."
You couldn’t take it anymore. You rocked your hips back, seeking any form of friction, and once your bare ass rubbed against his cock—hard and warm—you couldn’t help the pitiful whimper that escaped your lips. It wasn’t nearly enough, so you started to rub your ass up and down against his cock that was barely peeking out of his jeans.
“Jesus,” he groaned, his hands tight on your hips. He tried to hold you still, but the minute your wet and puffy slit ground against his pulsing shaft just right, he couldn’t help but tip his head back into a moan. “Fuck—you desperate little slut.”
He started to palm your ass, giving it a firm squeeze that made you yelp. He wrapped a hand around his cock, freeing himself completely from his pants—giving himself a couple of steady pumps that made his breath go heavy as he positioned the tip against your slit, coating himself in your slick arousal.
Your knees nearly gave out as he probed and teased the entrance, pushing just enough to make you gasp and flutter around him—your walls already ready to accommodate his size, but he doesn’t give you the satisfaction.
“Bucky—” you breathed, your fingers trembled against the wall. Your hips pushed back, desperate for more than just the teasing slide of his tip.
“That’s right,” he rasped, his breath hot against your neck as he leaned over you. “Beg for it. Beg for me for once.”
You whimpered, your forehead pressing against the cool wall. “Please—please, Bucky, I need you—”
He dragged the head of his cock slowly through your folds again, gathering the slick that was dripping down your thighs. His free hand came up to your shoulder, gripping you firmly, keeping you perfectly in place as he pushed forward just an inch.
“You didn’t fuck anyone else while I was gone, did you?”
You shook your head.
“No?” he gave you a shallow and short thrust, his tip going past your entrance and making you gasp. “Not even Walker?”
You squeezed your eyes shut. “N-no…” You tried to rut your hips back, but he held you firmly in place, unmoving.
“Are you sure about that?”
You made a frustrated sound, a whine and a sob that made him chuckle darkly, savoring your sweet torture. His hand slid from your shoulder to your throat, wrapping around it gently, tilting your head just enough to force your back to arch even deeper. “You didn’t fuck anyone else—and you will not fuck anyone else. Not while I’m here. Got it?”
“Bucky—please,” you begged, your voice cracking. “Please—for the love of God.”
His hips moved forward, pushing excruciatingly slow, your walls stretching around his length. You hadn’t given yourself the courtesy of pleasing yourself while you and Bucky were on a 'break,' because you knew nothing could replace the real thing—the real feeling of him splitting you open on his cock.
“Christ,” he groaned, leaning forward until his whole body blanketed yours, his nose buried in your hair as he breathed you in. Your scent made his breath stutter, his voice roughening. “Still…” he pushed deeper, inch by devastating inch, “…still so goddamn tight for me.”
It had only been a few weeks since he was last inside you, yet it felt like years.
“Give me all of it, Bucky—please, I need it—”
He let out a dark, low laugh that vibrated against your back, the condescending sound making your walls flutter around him. “So fucking spoiled. You’re such a spoiled little princess.” He pushed forward until he was almost fully sheathed—one sharp thrust away from filling you completely—but he didn’t give it to you.
“I keep calling you a princess, but you always seem to be—” his hand cracked against your ass, the sharp smack echoing in the tiny shed and forcing you to gasp, hands scrambling against the wall. “—getting fucked in the dirtiest places.”
He pulled back just enough to make you whimper—then slammed in, burying himself to the hilt. You choked on a cry as he grabbed your hips and began ramming into you, hard and hungry.
“Getting fucked in the bathroom… in my car…” his rhythm turned punishing. “And now in some—fuck—some dusty little shed...”
His voice dropped lower, smug and vicious. “If it were any other frat boy, you’d want him to take you all soft and sweet on a bed like the princess you pretend to be.” His fingers dug into your hips. “But with me? You’d let me fuck you anywhere. Isn’t that right?”
Your body answered for you; squeezing, fluttering, dripping around him with every brutal thrust.
He groaned, hips snapping forward, your pussy clutching him as though trying to pull him even deeper, welcoming him back exactly where he belonged. Your body went soft and trembling under him, your breath coming out in broken, needy gasps. And Bucky heard every single one—fed off them and drank them in.
“My little fucking princess,” he rasped against your ear, his hips slamming hard. “All dressed up, walking around campus like you’re too fucking good for me.”
His hand slid up your back, fingers tracing your spine before curling around the back of your neck. “—but you always come running back to me. You always do.”
You whimpered, pushing back helplessly against him, chasing every hard thrust. “Bu—Buck…”
“Aw,” he chuckled darkly. “You’re whining. My pretty little princess is whining for it.”
You whimpered again even louder, and he groaned like it was the sweetest song he’d ever heard.
“God, you’re such a fucking mess,” he breathed. “All that attitude, all that sass—but the second I get inside you, you melt. Don’t you?”
You nodded frantically, your hands sliding down the wall as your legs trembled.
“Nuh-uh.” He tightened his grip on your neck, tilting your head up. “Use your words.”
“I—I melt,” you stammered pathetically. “I always melt for you—only for you…”
“Fuck,” he moaned, his hips losing their rhythm at the sound of your helpless and sweet voice. “Cute… that’s real cute, angel.”
Your knees buckled, and the rasp of his voice alone was enough to make your eyes roll back, your cunt clenching helplessly around him as he fucked you just right. “Fuck—Bucky, I’m—”
He smirked against your ear, his stubble scraping your skin deliciously as his hand slid down your stomach and found your clit. His fingers circled it in tight, fast patterns that made your whole body jolt. And if that wasn’t enough, the way his other hand groped your breasts through your shirt—shameless and filthy—sent a shiver up your spine.
“Oh, now you’re close?” he teased, voice condescending. “My sweet girl wants to cum already?”
You nodded so fast it made you dizzy. “Please,” you gasped. “Please, Bucky— I’m gonna—”
“No, you’re not.”
Then both his hands disappeared.
Your legs shook violently, a sob ripping from your throat. You looked back at him over your shoulder—mascara streaking down your cheeks, lip gloss smudged over your chin. “Wha— Bucky, please—!”
He grabbed your hips, holding you perfectly still as he pulled halfway out—only halfway, because he knew if he pulled out all the way, you’d throw a tantrum like a brat. And as mean as he was being, he still wanted to stay buried in your warmth.
“You think you get to cum before I say so?” he murmured, voice soft but every word sharp. “Just ’cause you’re my princess doesn’t mean you get special privileges, baby. You earn them.”
You nearly collapsed, a desperate little cry shaking out of your chest. “Bucky—I can’t— I need—”
“Oh, you need.” He laughed, breath hot at your ear. “You sound so pathetic.”
He snapped his hips forward, burying himself to the hilt again. Your cry echoed off the metal walls.
“Look at you,” he mocked, tangling his fingers in your hair and yanking your head back. “Shaking. Dripping. You want it so fucking bad you’re about to cry.”
“I am,” you choked. “B-Bucky, please—”
“Beg better.”
His fingers returned to your clit—barely brushing, and frustratingly light.
“Please—please, let me cum,” you sobbed. “I’ll do anything—Bucky, please, I’m your princess, I’m your angel, I’m— I’m yours—”
He inhaled sharply, his grip on your hips turning bruising.
“Say it again.”
“I’m yours,” you cried, breaking apart. “I’m yours, Bucky—please let me—please, I love you. Fuck, I love you, and I need you so bad.”
A small, almost broken groan croaked from his throat at the sound of your words. He was buried so deep inside you, the tip of his head pressing against your cervix. His fingers dug deep into your waist, pulling you impossibly closer against him.
“Fuck,” he cursed. “You can’t just say that to me when I’m inside you—” he thrust hard, losing control. “You can’t tell me you love me and expect me to stay gentle.”
Your breath shattered as he dragged out of you, then slammed right back in—deep, hard, and possessive.
“Say it again.”
“I—I love you,” you cried.
“That’s it,” he rasped. “My girl. My fucking girl.” His fingers dropped to your clit again. No teasing this time—tight circles enveloped you, fast and desperate, making your whole body jerk in his grasp.
“God! Bucky—”
“You want to cum?”
“Please,” you nodded hard, crying. “Please—please, let me—”
He thrust hard, pinning you to the wall, his pace brutal and relentless. “Good girl. Cum for me, baby.”
“Fuck, Bucky!”
Then your vision went white. You tossed your head back, your back arching even deeper against his thrust as you fluttered and came undone. You spasmed around him, clenching hard, wet and messy.
“Good girl—fuck, that’s it,” he groaned. “Squeeze me—just like that…”
You trembled uncontrollably, your orgasm rolling through you in sharp, shaking waves, making your release drag him with you. He tried to hold on, tried to make this last longer than it should, but that broken little “Bucky” that left your lips, and the way you’re squeezing him so tight, it was impossible for him to hold back—especially when him and his body missed you so much.
“Fuck—sweetheart—” his hands clamped down on your hips, pulling you back into him. His forehead dropped to your shoulder, his whole body shuddering through each deep, hard pulse of pleasure. “God—” he rasped, his voice shaking, “you feel… you feel too good. I can’t—”
You squealed again, and it made him want to fill you with nothing but filth.
“Shit, shit,” he groaned. “I’m gonna cum inside—fuck, baby. Take it, princess.” He grabbed your hips hard, making you whimper as he held you still, his cock jerking and pulsing inside you as he let himself go—his cum, hot and thick, filling you to the brim as he stuffed you with his love.
Your eyes rolled back, your lips parting in a sharp gasp as he filled you completely. He stayed sheathed inside you, breathing hard as his hands roamed your body lazily, grasping for you as if making sure you were still there with him. Your clothes were a mess, Bucky was sweating above you, and you felt his release trickling down your thigh.
“Jesus,” he moaned, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder. “Mine. All fucking mine.”
You tried to turn around, to pull him out of you so you could face him, but he held you still, completely inside you. “Don’t…” he mumbled, his voice breaking slightly in short pants. “Don’t move... just stay with me. Okay?”
And for a long moment, neither of you moved. The only sounds were your breathing and the occasional shuffle of feet and student voices just outside the shed.
Bucky’s chest rose and fell against your back, his breath warm as he pressed one last lingering kiss to the side of your neck. His hands smoothed up your sides, his touches gentle and kind now.
“You okay?” he murmured, his voice scratchy.
You nodded, leaning back into him, letting his weight, his warmth, his presence fill your senses. “Yeah,” you whispered. “More than okay.”
He let out a quiet, relieved sound like a laugh, and wrapped both arms around your waist from behind, hugging you tightly. His nose brushed your cheek as he held you close.
“I missed you,” he confessed, barely audible. “So fucking much.”
He didn’t let go until your breathing evened out and your heart beat at a steady, slowing pace. Only then did he ease back, turning you gently to face him. His thumbs brushed your cheeks tenderly, wiping away smudged mascara like it was something precious. Then he pressed a soft kiss to your forehead—so achingly gentle after everything that your chest tightened. He adjusted your skirt, putting it back into place.
“No panties,” he smoothed your hair down, giving you a soft smile. “But you’re still so beautiful.”
When he finally stepped back, he zipped himself back up. His eyes swept the room—and landed on your handbag discarded on the floor.
He huffed a frustrated laugh and bent down to grab it. “This thing is way too expensive to be sitting on the ground of a dusty-ass shed.” He lifted it by the straps, dusting it off. “You treat this bag worse than you treat me.” He joked.
“I treat you great, actually,” you crossed your arms with a grin.
He didn’t deny it. He grinned as he adjusted the bag, about to hand it over to you, but his hands paused in the air as he caught sight of something pink—a small envelope sticking out of the open zipper. The neat handwriting on the front read: To: Bucky.
He looked up at you slowly, his blue eyes wide. “...You wrote me something?” he asked quietly.
And before you could reply, he pulled the note out, eagerly tearing the envelope open and pulling the letter out. Suddenly, all the confidence you had in delivering him the letter before this backfired. You stood there, face flushed and embarrassed as you watched his eyes trace over each word carefully.
His face shifted into a disbelieving smile, even chuckling at your ridiculous string of words.
“Wow,” he let out a low whistle. “Did you make one of your friends write this?” He teased, though the smile and red flush on his ears said otherwise. He looked up at you, trying to hide the grin that he was failing to compose. “This doesn’t sound like you at all.”
His teasing smirk only widened when he saw how red your face got. You stepped forward to snatch the letter back, but he lifted it easily out of reach.
“Give it,” you hissed.
“Uh-uh.” He wagged the paper, backing up a step. “Not after you wrote—what was it?” His voice pitched up dramatically as he read a line from memory. “‘Your music makes me feel safe.’” He pressed a hand to his chest, pretending to swoon. “You trying to make me fall in love with you even more, sweetheart?”
You groaned, mortified. “Bucky—”
“And this?” he tapped another part. “‘I miss you even when I’m mad at you.’” He held the paper to his heart. “That’s so fucking adorable. You really wrote this for me? Little ol’ me?”
You crossed your arms, your face scrunched up into that bratty look. You nodded, unable to meet his eyes. That cute little gesture only made him want to tease you more—but he held back. He stepped closer, nudging your chin up with one knuckle. “Thank you,” he whispered. “I’m gonna keep it forever.”
You swallowed hard, and he gave your cheek a soft kiss—warm, reassuring—before finally grabbing your bag and holding it out to you.
But when he tilted it slightly to get a better grip, the envelope slid in his hands—
And two glossy tickets fluttered out, landing at his feet.
He blinked.
Then slowly, very slowly, he crouched and picked them up.
“...Iron Maiden?” he breathed.
You shrugged, trying for casual but failing miserably as you still had that embarrassing flush on your face. “They’re, um... really good seats,” you mumbled. “The Book of Souls Tour—or whatever it said online.”
He stared at the tickets. Then at you. Then back at the tickets.
“Baby,” he held up both of them. “Do you... do you know how hard these are to get?”
You shrugged again, starting to be fond of the way he was beginning to swoon over you. “I have connections.”
“You do not have connections,” he said, stepping closer, pointing an accusing finger at you. “You fought Ticketmaster to the death. You went to war for this.”
“I did not—”
“You absolutely did.” His grin stretched ear to ear, so wide it looked like he couldn’t contain it. “Holy shit. You got us Iron Maiden tickets.”
Bucky didn’t even try to keep the grin off his face anymore. He just stepped into your space and wrapped his arms around you so suddenly, so tightly, that your bag slipped from his hand and thudded onto the floor. You froze for half a second, caught between wanting to shove him away for being so dramatic... and wanting to melt right into him like you always did. He didn’t give you much time to think anyway.
Because Bucky Barnes—outcast drummer, campus dirtbag—was kissing you everywhere.
Your cheeks. Your jaw. Your forehead. Your nose. Your lips, soft and quick and warm.
You felt his smile against your skin, felt the barely controlled tremble in his hands as if he still couldn’t believe you were here—choosing him for good.
“Bucky—stop,” you muttered, trying to shove him with zero effort behind it. “It’s not that serious—”
“Oh, shut up,” he laughed. “It is serious. You care so much. You love me. It’s adorable.”
You rolled your eyes, but your fingers curled into his shirt anyway. “I do not—”
“You do,” he cut in smugly, brushing a kiss to your collarbone. “And I love you back, princess.”
Another kiss to your cheek. Another to your hairline. Another to the corner of your lips that had you biting back a helpless smile.
You huffed, trying to salvage your dignity. “You’re so obsessed with me, Barnes.”
“You bought Iron Maiden tickets,” he countered, lifting you slightly off the ground as he hugged you again. “You’re the one who’s obsessed.”
You smacked his shoulder, your cheeks burning. “Put me down!”
He finally loosened his arms—only for your eyes to land on your handbag abandoned on the filthy shed floor.
“Bucky,” you said flatly. “What happened to ‘this thing is too expensive to be on a dusty-ass floor’?”
He paused, an eyebrow raising in confusion as his eyes followed yours to the ground. There, lying forgotten on the dusty concrete, was your expensive handbag.
“Oh shit,” he scrambled immediately, dropping into a crouch like a loyal, panicked puppy. “Baby, I swear I didn’t mean—this was a moment—I got distracted—don’t look at me—”
You couldn’t help the grin as you watched him scoop up your bag like it was a wounded animal. He dusted the straps as he stood up, handing it back to you with both hands. “There,” he said earnestly. “Pristine. Untouched. Immaculate. Better than me, honestly.”
You laughed, shaking your head as you grabbed your bag, putting the strap over your shoulder.
“You’re so lame.”
“You know I’d do anything for you,” he grinned.
“Oh. Actually—there is one thing.”
His brows lifted, head tilting slightly as curiosity flashed across his face. “Yeah? What’s that?”
You made a face—scrunched nose, dramatic disgust—like the memory alone annoyed you. “You need to make a shirt that says ‘I love my girlfriend’ or something.”
He blinked. “…Girlfriend?”
You tapped your chin thoughtfully, ignoring him. “Or maybe I’ll print my face on it. Huge. Right across your chest. So every girl knows you’re taken.”
Realization hit him in real time—then he couldn’t help the slow, boyish smile that spread across his face. “Okay,” he nodded. “Yeah. Fine by me.”
“Just something that tells them the drummer is not up for grabs.”
He snorted. “Of course.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Are you making fun of me?”
He shook his head quickly, a soft laugh escaping. “What? No. I’d let you stamp your kisses with lipstick all over my face before I get on stage if you wanted.”
Your cheeks warmed instantly, and you rolled your eyes like you weren’t the one who started this.
“You’re such a loser.”
Bucky smiled, wrapping a tight arm around your shoulder. “And you’re dating me.”
guys.... i finally did it... i finally finished pt 2...... this chapter definitely had more musical influences so if you care to take a gander...
ticket two: hit or miss - new found glory mr. brightside - the killers sugar, we're going down - fall out boy scotty doesn't know - lustra
thank you for reading and indulging in my rodrick x regina hyperfixation. i hope you enjoyed it <3
masterlist
summary: You're a simple Brooklyn florist when Bucky Barnes enters your shop and changes your life forever.
word count: 34.1k+
pairing: mafia!bucky barnes x fem!reader
notes: DON'T ASK HOW IT'S 34K WORDS I DON'T KNOW HOW THAT HAPPENEDDDDD
this is technically the prologue to he was chaos, he was revelry, but you do not have to read that to understand this! i merely liked that short fic i wrote and wanted to write more of them
warnings/tags: no use of y/n, mafia au, sweetheart!reader, shy!reader, bucky is the mafia boss and rich, fluff, slow burn - once again i am who i am you can pry slow burn out of my cold dead hands, reader may be shy be she is not someone who bucky can just control or claim as his, mentions of blood but no violence, bucky is soft only for you, possessive!bucky, yearning!bucky, so much fluff
The bell above the shop door chimed, the sound bright and ordinary against the quiet hum of the rain outside. You glanced up from the counter, half-expecting to see one of your regulars—Mrs. Kowalski with her weekly lilies, or the young man who always bought roses on Thursdays.
But instead, a stranger stepped inside. He didn’t look like he belonged here. The small, cozy flower shop was all pastel blooms and the faint scent of lavender soap, but the man at the door was sharp black and steel. Broad shoulders filled out a tailored suit, dark hair slicked back from a face that looked carved from stone. One gloved hand tugged the door shut behind him, the other slipped casually into his coat pocket.
His eyes swept the shop once, quick and assessing, before they landed on you. You froze under the weight of his stare. He wasn’t handsome in the way movie stars were handsome. He was… something heavier. Older. His presence pressed at the air like thunder waiting to break.
“Hi,” you managed, your voice smaller than you wanted it to be. “Welcome.”
For a long moment, he didn’t answer. Just watched you from across the shop with those sharp blue eyes, as if you were the only thing in the room worth noticing. Then, slowly, he stepped forward. The sound of his boots against the wood floor was too loud, even over the rain.
You forced yourself to smile, tucking your hands against your apron. “Looking for anything in particular?”
His gaze flicked to the flowers around him—the rows of tulips, daisies, carnations—but came back to you almost instantly. “No.” His voice was low, rough-edged. “Just looking.”
Something about the way he said it made your stomach flip. You nodded quickly, reaching for the small bouquet you’d put together that morning—bright daisies and sprigs of baby’s breath, wrapped in soft brown paper. You always kept a few by the counter, little gestures for the shy customers. “Here,” you offered, holding it out. “On the house. For the rain.”
He stared at the bouquet like it was a puzzle he couldn’t solve. Then at you. The silence stretched until your hand began to tremble, and you almost pulled it back—when he finally reached out. A black leather glove brushed your fingers as he took the flowers from you, and you had to bite down on a startled gasp. “Thank you,” he said, the words careful, deliberate. He pulled a roll of bills from his coat pocket and slid one across the counter. A hundred-dollar bill for a five-dollar bouquet.
“Oh, no—you don’t have to—”
His gaze cut into yours again, silencing you. Not cruel, not harsh. Just… final. “Take it.”
Your throat tightened, and you nodded, tucking the bill away quickly. “Alright. Thank you.”
He didn’t move for a moment. Just stood there, flowers in hand, watching you like he was committing every detail to memory—the tilt of your head, the nervous twitch of your fingers, the way you couldn’t hold his gaze for long. Finally, he gave a small nod, turned, and left. The bell chimed again, the rain swallowing him whole. You stood frozen for a long time, the shop suddenly too quiet, the hundred-dollar bill burning in your apron pocket. You thought it was a one-time thing. Just a stranger passing through on a rainy afternoon.
---
The bell chimed again the next morning, bright against the quiet rustle of petals you were arranging on the counter. You looked up—and nearly dropped the stems in your hands.
It was him.
The man from yesterday. The one who’d filled the shop with his thunderstorm presence, left with daisies and a hundred-dollar bill. He stepped inside like he owned the space, though he said nothing at first. His suit was different today—charcoal instead of black—but the gloves were the same. His eyes swept the shop in that same quick, assessing way before settling on you. You found yourself smiling automatically, though your voice wobbled. “Hello again.”
He nodded once, moving closer. “Morning.”
You fiddled with the ribbon in your hands. “Back for more flowers?”
His mouth twitched, just barely, like the question amused him. “Something like that.”
The air felt charged. You cleared your throat and reached for a bouquet of tulips. “These are fresh today. Spring colors. They’re lovely.”
He didn’t even glance at them. His eyes stayed on you, steady and unreadable. “I’ll take them,” he said.
You wrapped them quickly, fingers fumbling with the paper under the weight of his stare. He laid another bill on the counter—another hundred—for a bouquet worth maybe fifteen.
Your cheeks burned. “Sir, this is too much—”
“Keep it.” His voice left no room for argument.
You tucked the bill away, heartbeat quickening, and slid the bouquet toward him. “Alright. Thank you.”
For a long moment, he didn’t move. Just stood there, flowers in hand, gaze lingering on you. It was different from yesterday—less curious, more deliberate. As if he’d come here with a purpose, and the tulips were only an excuse. Finally, he asked, “what’s your favorite?”
You blinked. “Favorite?”
“Flower.”
“Oh. Um…” You glanced around the shop, suddenly flustered. “Gardenias, I think. They’re… simple, but beautiful.”
He nodded once, filed it away. You could see it in the set of his jaw. Then he turned and left, the bell chiming in his wake. You stared after him, unsettled but oddly warm. The next morning, there was a box of white gardenias sitting on the shop counter when you arrived, no note. But you already knew who had left them.
---
The gardenias weren’t the end. They were the beginning. The next time he came in, he didn’t go straight for the counter. He lingered. Walked slow between the rows of flowers, hands clasped behind his back like he was inspecting something delicate.
You pretended to be busy, fussing with the stems in a vase, but your eyes kept drifting back to him. He didn’t look like anyone else who came through here—too sharp, too dangerous, too… magnetic. He stopped at the counter at last, resting one gloved hand on the polished wood. “You like gardenias.”
You startled a little. “I do.”
“They suit you.”
Your cheeks warmed. “They’re… simple.”
His eyes narrowed slightly, as though he didn’t agree with the word. But he didn’t argue. Instead, he leaned in just a little, his presence heavy and steady. “What else do you like?”
You blinked. “What else?”
“Food. Music. Where you go when you’re not here.”
Your stomach flipped. The questions weren’t casual, not the way he asked them. His voice was too low, too intent, as though he planned on remembering every answer. You swallowed. “Um… I like reading. I usually just go home after work. I’m… not very exciting.”
Something flickered in his eyes then—something sharp, almost dangerous. “Good.”
You frowned softly. “Good?”
“Means you’re not wasting your time on people who don’t deserve it.” He pushed a bouquet of pale roses toward you. “These. Wrap them.” You obeyed, fingers fumbling with the paper, conscious of his eyes on you the entire time. He paid, again far too much, and lingered a second longer before he finally said, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
And he did. The days bled into weeks. He became part of your routine, though you never said it out loud. You’d unlock the shop in the morning, set out the displays, and brace yourself for the moment that bell chimed and he walked in.
Sometimes he bought flowers. Sometimes he didn’t. Sometimes he just stood there, leaning against the counter, asking you quiet questions about your day. And slowly, the questions became instructions.
“Don’t walk home alone tonight.”
“Eat more than just a muffin for lunch.”
“Don’t talk to the men who loiter outside.”
You told yourself he was just being kind. Just looking out for you. But when you spotted his black car parked across the street one night, headlights off, and realized he was watching—waiting until you got safely into your apartment—your chest tightened with something you didn’t want to name. The scariest part wasn’t that he was watching. It was how safe you felt knowing he was there.
---
The office smelled like you. Not you exactly—he wasn’t that lucky—but the flowers you touched every day, the ones you told him you loved. Gardenias, roses, tulips, bundles of wild lavender tied up in neat twine. They crowded the corners of his office, spilling over in vases and pitchers, climbing along windowsills that used to be bare.
It was ridiculous. He knew it. The head of the Barnes Syndicate didn’t decorate with flowers. His men were already whispering, smirking behind their hands when they came in for orders and found the place looking more like a garden than a war room.
But he didn’t care. Every stem reminded him of your hands. The way you handled them so gently, trimming, arranging, never rushing. He’d caught himself staring more than once, smiling faintly as if the flowers were your private secret. He wanted to burn the image into his skull.
“Boss?” Bucky glanced up from the papers on his desk. Natasha stood in the doorway, sunglasses hooked on her shirt, one brow raised. Her eyes flicked over the room—the gardenias on the shelf, the tulips by the window, the roses near his chair. “You planning on opening your own shop?” she asked dryly.
“Shut up.” He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temple with his metal hand.
Natasha smirked, stepping inside and dropping a file on his desk. “You’re getting soft. All this for a girl who sells daisies.”
His jaw tightened. “Careful, Romanoff.”
“I’m not saying it’s bad,” she countered, folding her arms. “I’m saying you’re obvious. Half the crew knows you’ve got a flower girl now.”
He stilled. The words hit something sharp in his chest. “She’s not—” He stopped. His voice dropped low, darker. “She’s mine.”
Natasha tilted her head. “Does she know that?”
His eyes narrowed, blue hard as ice. “She will.” The room went quiet except for the faint hum of the city outside.
Bucky reached over, plucked one of the gardenias from the vase, and turned it slowly in his fingers. He remembered the way your face lit up when you told him they were your favorite. That soft smile. The little stammer in your voice when he leaned too close.
The world was chaos, betrayal, blood. He’d spent his whole life building walls of steel and shadow. But you—your shop, your quiet, your kindness—were untouched by it. And he wasn’t about to let anyone, anything, change that.
“Make sure the shop’s covered,” he said finally, voice flat with command. “No one bothers her. Not a single soul.”
Natasha studied him for a long moment before nodding. “Understood.”
When she left, Bucky leaned back in his chair, the flower still turning in his hand. He should’ve felt stupid, surrounded by petals and stems. But all he felt was calmer, steadier, knowing some piece of you was in his world now. He wanted more. He’d take more.
---
The bell chimed, right on time. You were bent over the counter trimming stems when his shadow crossed the shop. You didn’t even need to look up anymore—you knew the weight of his presence, the way the air seemed to shift when he walked in. “Morning,” you said softly, glancing up with a small smile.
His eyes warmed just enough for only you to notice. “Morning, doll.” The nickname slipped out as if it had been waiting on his tongue. You blinked at him, surprised, but didn’t correct him. That alone sent something hot curling in his chest.
He moved toward the display of carnations but didn’t so much as glance at them. He was looking at you—always you. The flowers were a thin excuse by now, and you both knew it. “What’d you eat for breakfast?” he asked suddenly, voice low, casual only on the surface.
You hesitated, trimming another stem. “Just… coffee.”
He frowned, a line cutting between his brows. “That’s not breakfast.”
“It’s fine—”
“No.” His voice had that edge again, quiet steel that brooked no argument. He leaned on the counter, closer than before. “You need more than that.”
You bit your lip, looking down at the stems. “I wasn’t really hungry.”
His jaw flexed. He straightened, pulling out his phone. “What do you like? Pastries? Eggs?”
“Bucky, you don’t have to—”
“I asked what you like.” His tone softened, but it was no less insistent.
You murmured something about croissants before you could stop yourself, and he was already typing. Ten minutes later, a man you’d never seen before slipped inside, dropped off a white bag with a bakery logo, and left without a word. Bucky nudged it toward you. “Eat.”
You blinked. “You… you just had someone bring this—?”
“Of course I did.” His eyes softened again, watching you like you might vanish if he looked away. “You think I’m gonna let you starve?”
Your cheeks burned. You opened the bag and pulled out a still-warm croissant. His gaze followed every movement as you took a shy bite. “Good girl,” he murmured, almost to himself, but you heard it, and the rest of the day, you couldn’t stop thinking about it.
Later, in his office, Natasha raised an unimpressed brow when another delivery came in—this time boxes of delicate pastries stacked beside the flowers. “You feeding her now too?” she asked, smirking.
Bucky didn’t look up from his paperwork. “She doesn’t eat right.”
“You checked?”
“I asked.” His pen stilled. He glanced at the gardenias on the windowsill, the new croissant bag on his desk. His voice dropped, quiet, certain. “She’s mine to take care of.”
Natasha leaned against the doorframe, lips twitching. “You sure it’s not the other way around?”
But Bucky didn’t answer. He was already reaching for his phone again, thumb hovering over your number he hadn’t even asked for—but had anyway.
---
The bell had barely gone silent when you heard it: the click of heavy footsteps against the wet sidewalk. You turned the shop’s sign to closed and reached for your keys, glancing out through the window. He was leaning against a lamppost across the street, hands in his coat pockets, suit jacket darkened slightly at the shoulders from the drizzle. Your breath caught. Bucky didn’t wave. He didn’t call out. He just waited. The way a mountain waits—immovable, unbothered by the storm.
You stepped outside hesitantly, locking the door behind you. “Are you… waiting for someone?”
“For you,” he said simply, pushing off the lamppost.
Your fingers tightened around your keys. “Bucky, you don’t have to—”
“Doll,” he interrupted, falling into step beside you before you could finish. “It’s dark. You think I’m gonna let you walk home alone?”
You opened your mouth to argue, but the weight of his presence swallowed the words. He wasn’t touching you, but somehow he filled the space around you completely. The streets were quiet, rain slicking the pavement. You tried to ignore the way his stride matched yours, the way his eyes scanned every shadowed alley and passing car like they were threats only he could see. “Do you do this often?” you asked softly.
“Do what?”
“Walk women home.”
His jaw tightened. “No. Just you.”
Your heart skipped a beat. At your building, you fumbled with the keys, aware of his eyes on the back of your neck. When you finally got the door open, you turned to him. “Thank you. But really… you don’t need to go out of your way.”
He leaned one hand against the doorframe, caging you in without touching. His gaze held yours, steady and unyielding. “This is my way,” he said quietly. “You’re not out here without me again. Understand?” The words weren’t loud. They weren’t even harsh. But there was no mistaking them for anything but a command. You swallowed hard, nodding before you could think better of it. His eyes softened then, the steel melting to something warmer. He dipped his head, brushing his lips against your temple, a ghost of a kiss. “Good girl.”
And just like that, he stepped back into the rain, leaving you breathless in the doorway, your heart pounding too hard to ignore.
It became a ritual. You didn’t even question it anymore—when the bell above your shop chimed closed for the night, he would be there. Always. A dark figure leaning against the lamppost, waiting to fall into step beside you. He didn’t ask if you wanted the company, and you didn’t ask why he bothered. The silence between you was enough.
That night, the rain had stopped, leaving the streets slick and glowing under the yellow streetlights. You walked side by side, the only sound the steady rhythm of your footsteps and the occasional hiss of tires on wet pavement.
You tried not to look at him too often, but it was impossible not to notice the way his hand would occasionally flex at his side—as if itching to touch you but holding back.
As you passed a small boutique on the corner, something in the window caught your eye. You slowed without meaning to, gaze snagged by the display: a delicate glass lamp, its shade painted with tiny pressed flowers. Soft light glowed inside, warm and golden, spilling petals and stems across the glass like a garden frozen in time.
It was beautiful. For half a second, you let yourself imagine it on your nightstand. The way the light would spill across your room, soft and comforting. The way you could fall asleep beside it, safe. But the thought made your chest ache. You dropped your gaze quickly and kept walking, quickening your pace until you matched him again. He said nothing, just glanced once at the boutique window before his eyes slid back to you.
At your building, he stopped as always, waited until you were safely inside. You whispered a soft “goodnight,” and he lingered a moment longer before vanishing back into the shadows.
You thought nothing more of it. The next morning, when you opened your shop, the lamp was waiting on the counter. The exact same one. You froze in the doorway, keys clutched in your hand. There was no note, no explanation. Just the lamp, plugged in and glowing faintly in the early light, casting warm petals across the shop walls.
Your breath caught, throat tight. The bell chimed, and he walked in. Calm. Steady. Like he hadn’t done anything at all. Your eyes snapped to him. “Bucky… did you—”
He set a paper bag on the counter. You caught the smell before you even peeked inside—croissants, still warm. He leaned one hand on the wood, watching your face. “You liked it,” he said simply. Not a question. A fact.
Your cheeks warmed. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t have to.” His eyes softened, but there was steel in them too—an unwavering certainty that made your heart stutter. “You want something, doll, you get it. That’s how this works.”
You swallowed hard, glancing at the lamp again. Its soft light seemed to fill the whole shop with a kind of warmth you didn’t know how to accept. “I can’t just—”
“Yes, you can.” His voice lowered, a command wrapped in velvet. He reached across the counter, brushing his fingers against yours just long enough to make your pulse trip. “Don’t hide from me. If you want something, I’ll know.”
He left you standing there, the lamp glowing at your side, the croissants still warm in the bag, your heart pounding too loud for the quiet shop. And you realized something terrifying and undeniable, he was watching. Always watching.
---
The lamp glowed soft and golden on the counter, petals painted across its glass shade, when you finally found the courage to speak. He was there again, leaning his weight into the wood as if the whole shop belonged to him. His gloves were off this time, thick hands resting easily against the surface, blue eyes pinned to you in that steady, unblinking way that always left you a little breathless.
But today, the warmth in your chest twisted into something sharper. “You can’t keep doing this.”
His head tilted just slightly. “Doing what, doll?”
“This.” You gestured to the lamp, to the bag of pastries he’d brought without asking. “Showing up every day. Buying things I didn’t ask for. Acting like…” Your voice wavered, but you forced it out. “Like you own me.” Silence dropped between you, heavy and sudden.
No one ever told him no. No one ever raised their voice to him, not his men, not the people who feared his name. He could see your fingers trembling where they gripped the counter, but you still held his stare. The corner of his mouth twitched—something between amusement and disbelief. “Own you?”
“Yes.” Your throat felt tight, but you pushed on. “You don’t ask me out. You don’t… talk to me like a normal person would. You just decide things. You decide to walk me home. You decide I don’t eat enough. You decide I want a lamp. And I—” You swallowed hard. “I didn’t agree to any of it.”
For the first time since he’d stepped into your life, he looked caught off guard. Just for a flicker of a second, his eyes widened, like the ground beneath him had shifted. Then the surprise hardened into something else. His voice dropped, low and even. “You think I don’t know how to ask? You think I don’t know how to take a girl to dinner, buy her flowers, wait for her to say yes?”
You opened your mouth, but he cut you off, leaning closer, his gaze like ice and fire all at once. “I don’t do that with you because I don’t want to give you the option to say no. I don’t want you to walk away. I couldn’t stand it if you did.”
Your breath hitched. He exhaled slowly, raking a hand back through his hair. For a moment, he looked almost… raw. “You don’t get it. You’re already mine. Always were, the second you looked at me with those soft eyes and handed me daisies like I wasn’t a monster.” His gloved hand brushed the lamp, a subtle reminder. “You think I do all this because I don’t know how to court you? I do it because I can’t stand the thought of you needing something and not having it. Because I want to see you safe. Fed. Smiling.” His voice broke on that last word, just barely.
Your heart pounded so hard you swore he could hear it. You should’ve been terrified. And maybe you were. But under the steel in his voice was something else—something aching and desperate. Still, you held your ground, even if your voice shook. “Then ask me. Like a person. Not like… this.”
The room went still again. He studied you for a long, tense beat, and you could see the war in his eyes—control versus obsession, command versus care. Finally, his lips curved into something softer, almost rueful. He leaned in close enough for you to feel the warmth of his breath against your cheek. “Fine, doll. I’ll ask.” His voice was rough, but there was a flicker of something new in it. “Dinner. Tonight. With me.”
The way he said it still didn’t sound like a question, but for the first time, you knew he was trying. And that unsettled you more than anything else.
---
Dinner with Bucky wasn’t what you expected. He came to the shop just before closing, dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit, his hair combed back, his usual gloves on. He didn’t wait for you to lock up—he did it himself, sliding the key from your fingers with a quiet, “I’ll take care of it.”
The car waiting outside wasn’t the same sleek black one you’d seen lurking near your building before. This one was even darker, windows tinted, the kind of vehicle that made people cross the street when it pulled up. He opened the door for you, and his hand lingered on your lower back as you climbed inside.
The restaurant was one of those places you’d only seen in magazines—low lights, white tablecloths, the quiet murmur of money in every corner. The maître d’ didn’t even ask for a name; he bowed and led you straight to a private table at the back.
You shifted uncomfortably as you sat, smoothing the fabric of your dress. You hadn’t had time to change, still in the simple sundress you wore to work. Compared to the glittering couples around you, you felt out of place. But Bucky leaned back in his chair, eyes on you like there was no one else in the room. “You look perfect.”
Your cheeks warmed. “You didn’t even let me change.”
His mouth curved in that faint, dangerous smile. “Didn’t want to give you the chance to run.”
You frowned, half-playful, half-serious. “You can’t just say things like that.”
“Why not? It’s the truth.” He poured you a glass of wine himself, ignoring the hovering waiter. “If I let you walk away, you’d start thinking too much. You’d talk yourself out of me. And I can’t have that.”
You looked at him, really looked. The way his metal fingers tapped lightly against the stem of his glass. The way his eyes stayed fixed on you, hungry and unblinking. “Bucky…” you whispered. “You don’t even know me.”
His jaw tightened. “I know enough.”
“That’s not the same.”
He leaned forward then, voice dropping. “I know you hate crowds but love little kids buying flowers for their moms. I know you hum to yourself when you sweep up the petals at night. I know you wear that same sundress every Wednesday because it makes you feel put-together.”
You blinked, startled. “You—”
“I pay attention.” His gaze softened, but the edge in his voice stayed. “More than anyone else ever has. Tell me I’m wrong.” You opened your mouth, closed it again. Your pulse raced under your skin. He reached across the table, taking your hand gently but firmly in his, thumb brushing across your knuckles. “I might not have asked the right way before. But I’m asking now. Let me have this. Let me have you.”
Your breath caught once again. The waiter appeared with menus, but Bucky didn’t even look at his. His eyes stayed on you, unwavering, as if the answer was the only thing that mattered. “Order something,” he said, tone clipped, smooth, the way he probably gave orders to his men.
You blinked, lowering your gaze to the menu. “You could say please, you know.”
His brows furrowed slightly. “I just did.”
“No, you told me,” you said quietly, the edge of a shy smile tugging at your mouth. “Telling isn’t asking.” That made him still. His head tilted, studying you as if you’d just spoken in another language. No one corrected him. No one pushed back. Certainly no one teased him. You turned a page in the menu, forcing your shoulders to stay loose, though your pulse hammered. “If you want me to do something, maybe try asking. Like a normal person.”
For a long beat, his eyes stayed locked on you, the muscle in his jaw ticking. You thought you’d pushed too far—until the corner of his mouth curved, slow and dangerous. “Normal, huh?” His voice dropped low, velvet-dark. He leaned across the table just slightly, one hand resting near yours. “Alright, doll. What would please you tonight? Salmon? Steak? Or do you want me to ask sweeter?”
Your cheeks heated instantly. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Sure it is.” His thumb brushed across your knuckles, light but deliberate. “You want me to say the words. ‘Please, sweetheart, pick something so I can watch you enjoy it.’ That what you want?”
You swallowed hard, caught between flustered and indignant. “It wouldn’t kill you to try it.”
For a long moment, he just watched you, silent, eyes burning into yours. Then, softly, deliberately,
“please, doll. Order something. For me.”
Your lips parted in surprise. The weight of the words, the fact that he’d said them—not barked, not commanded—hit you harder than it should have. You ducked your head quickly, hiding your flush in the menu. “Okay,” you murmured, finally pointing to something on the page.
His grin widened, wolfish, triumphant. He sat back in his chair, content now, as if coaxing that small concession from you meant more than anything else on the table. But you caught the way his eyes lingered, sharp and possessive, even when his voice had softened. Like no matter how politely he phrased it, he still thought the end result was the same: you, bending to him. And part of you wondered if you minded as much as you should.
The dinner stretched on in a haze of soft light and low voices. The waiter came and went, but Bucky barely acknowledged him—every ounce of his attention stayed fixed on you. He did try, though. You could see it in the way he caught himself before giving another clipped order, the way he reshaped his words into something that almost sounded like a request. “Try the wine, doll,” he started to say, then stopped himself. His eyes softened, a little sheepish for once. “Would you… please try the wine?”
You bit your lip to hide a smile, lifting the glass to your lips. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”
He chuckled low in his chest, shaking his head. “Don’t get used to it.”
But he kept doing it. Through dinner, through dessert, through the awkward-lovely rhythm of you teasing and him adjusting. He was clumsy at it, but he tried—for you. When the plates were cleared and the check was slipped onto the table, and ignored by him, you expected him to take you straight home. Instead, he offered his hand as you slid from your chair, steady and warm at the small of your back as he guided you out into the cool night. The city hummed around you—cars hissing down wet streets, neon signs buzzing faintly in the dark. You walked together in silence for a while, his stride matching yours, his hand never quite leaving your back.
Finally, you glanced up at him. “You really don’t ask for things, do you?”
He looked down at you, brow furrowing slightly. “I do now.”
“You tell me what I’m eating, what I’m wearing, when I should go home—”
“Because you don’t look after yourself the way you should,” he cut in, voice steady, but softer than usual.
“That’s not the same as asking,” you insisted, your tone gentle but firm. “You keep saying I’m yours. But you never asked me if I wanted to be.”
That stopped him cold. His steps slowed, then stilled entirely. He turned to face you fully, the glow of a nearby streetlamp carving hard shadows across his jaw. No one ever pushed him like this. Not his men. Not his enemies. And yet here you were, standing there in your simple dress, looking at him with those soft eyes that had undone him from the start—and daring to tell him no.
For a moment, he didn’t speak. His jaw worked, his chest rising and falling with controlled breaths. Then, slowly, he reached for your hand. His voice was low, rough-edged, but stripped of command. “Do you?”
You blinked. “Do I what?”
“Want to be mine.”
The words were plain. Honest. Asked, not ordered. Your heart lurched, caught between fear and something warmer, heavier. You didn’t answer right away, and you saw the tension in his shoulders, the way his grip on your hand tightened as if bracing for rejection. But you didn’t pull away. You held on. “I don’t know yet,” you admitted softly. “But if you keep asking instead of telling… maybe I’ll figure it out.”
The silence between you stretched, charged and alive. Then, for the first time in longer than he could remember, Bucky let out a breath that wasn’t weighted with control or calculation. He brought your hand to his lips, kissed your knuckles once, reverent. “Then I’ll ask,” he murmured. “As many times as it takes.” And when he walked you home that night, he didn’t touch your back, didn’t cage you in with his presence. He just walked beside you, his hand holding yours, as though that was enough.
The walk back to your apartment was quieter than usual. His hand stayed in yours, heavy, grounding, but he didn’t say anything more after that promise. The city’s neon glow flickered across the wet pavement, painting the silence in color. At your building, you stopped at the door, fingers brushing the keys in your pocket. He didn’t reach for them this time, didn’t lean against the frame and cage you in. He just stood there, watching you. You hesitated, then looked up at him. “Are you… coming in?”
His jaw worked once. You saw the war in his eyes—possession urging him to say yes, control telling him to wait. For the first time, he looked almost… uncertain. “I want to,” he admitted, voice low, rough. “But I’ll ask. Do you want me to?”
Your chest tightened. The way he said it—like the words were foreign, dragged out of him against instinct—made something inside you ache. You shook your head gently. “Not tonight.”
For a flicker of a second, you thought he’d argue. That steel-blue stare locked on yours, intense enough to burn. But then he nodded once, sharp and deliberate, like it cost him something. “Alright,” he said quietly. “Not tonight.”
You slipped inside, heart pounding, and leaned against the door after you closed it. His shadow lingered on the other side, unmoving, until you heard his footsteps retreat down the hall.
The next morning, the bell chimed right on time. You looked up from the counter and there he was again—sharp suit, gloves, eyes only for you. But there was something different about him. The usual possessive certainty was still there, but now it was tempered, measured. He set a small bundle on the counter—gardenias again, perfectly fresh. But this time, he didn’t say take them. Instead, he watched you closely, voice low. “Do you want them?”
Your lips parted. You blinked, then smiled softly, shy but certain. “Yes.”
His shoulders eased, just barely. He nodded once, satisfied, though the glint in his eyes still promised he’d never stop wanting to give you more than you asked for. And as you placed the gardenias in a vase by the window, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted. He was still the storm hovering over your quiet life—but now he was learning how to ask before he struck.
---
The bell chimed when you left the shop that Sunday morning, keys tucked into your pocket and your bag over your shoulder. The sun was out for once, the kind of warm golden light that made the city feel softer, less sharp around the edges. You’d planned on wandering down to the farmer’s market, picking up fresh bread and maybe some fruit for the week.
You weren’t surprised when you felt him before you saw him. Bucky fell into step beside you like he always did, hands in his coat pockets, eyes scanning the street. He didn’t say he’d been waiting, but he didn’t have to. “Going somewhere?” he asked, voice low and even.
“The farmer’s market,” you said. “Do you… want to come?”
It slipped out before you could stop it. You weren’t sure why you offered—maybe because it felt strange to keep pretending you didn’t see him watching you. Maybe because part of you wanted to see what he was like outside your shop, outside dim restaurants and shadowed sidewalks. His lips twitched, just slightly. “Yeah. I’ll come.”
The market was buzzing with people—kids tugging at their parents’ hands, couples wandering between stalls, vendors calling out prices. The air smelled of warm bread and herbs, the kind of scent that made you feel like the city wasn’t so heavy after all. Bucky stuck close, but not in the looming, possessive way he usually did. Today he just walked beside you, his broad frame making space for you in the crowd. He looked… normal. Or as normal as a man like him could look.
You stopped at a bakery stall, eyeing the fresh loaves stacked high. “These are always gone by the afternoon,” you explained, pulling a bill from your bag. Before you could hand it over, Bucky passed cash to the vendor instead, his gloved hand steady.
“Bucky—”
“Don’t argue,” he said softly, almost smiling. “Consider it me asking.”
You rolled your eyes but accepted the bread, and his smile deepened like he’d won something. At the flower stall—of course there was a flower stall—you noticed his gaze linger on you as you inspected the bouquets. For once, you didn’t feel self-conscious. You just let yourself enjoy it. Then you spotted a row of little jars at another table a few stalls away—local honey, the labels hand-painted with tiny bees. Without thinking, you grabbed his arm, tugging him along. “Come on, look at these—”
You let go as soon as you reached the stall, too focused on the honey jars to notice the way he froze for half a second when your hand touched him. His gaze dropped to where your fingers had been, his jaw tightening. He didn’t comment. Didn’t tease. But the weight of that touch lingered in his chest, hot and heavy, long after you’d pulled away. You picked out a jar, holding it up with a little smile. “Isn’t this cute?”
He nodded slowly, but his eyes weren’t on the honey. They were still on you, watching the way your face lit up in the sunlight, the way you smiled without thinking. And for once, he didn’t feel like the man everyone feared. He just felt like a man walking through a market with a girl who made him want things he’d forgotten he could have.
The market felt different with him beside you. Normally, you drifted through the stalls without much notice—just another face in the crowd—but with Bucky there, people stepped out of the way. Vendors straightened. Conversations dipped quiet for a moment before picking up again. You pretended not to notice, but you did. And so did he. His hand brushed the small of your back once or twice, subtle but guiding, as though keeping you in his orbit. At a food stall, the scent of frying dough pulled you in. You lingered over the handwritten sign—fresh fritters dusted in sugar—and before you could even reach for your bag, Bucky was already paying. “You don’t have to keep buying everything,” you said, exasperated but a little amused.
He handed you the warm paper bag, eyes steady. “I know. I want to.”
You bit into a fritter, the crunch giving way to soft, sweet warmth. A smile tugged at your lips before you could stop it. Bucky’s eyes softened. He didn’t take one for himself—he just watched you, like the sight of your smile was enough. You found a bench near the edge of the market, shaded by a tree. Sitting side by side, you let the crowd blur into background noise. For a while, neither of you spoke. Then you glanced at him, curious. “So… what do you do?”
He tilted his head, eyes narrowing just slightly. “Why?”
You shrugged. “I don’t know. We’ve been… spending time together. You know a lot about me, but I don’t know much about you.”
His jaw tightened, as if weighing how much to say. Finally, he leaned back against the bench, gaze fixed on the crowd instead of you. “I run things. Businesses. Keep people in line.”
“That’s… vague,” you said carefully.
He huffed a quiet laugh, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Yeah. Vague’s safer.”
You studied him for a moment, the sharp set of his shoulders, the way he scanned the people moving through the market like he was cataloging threats. “You don’t have to tell me everything. Just… something. Something real.”
His eyes flicked back to you then, and for a beat, the weight of his stare pinned you in place. “Something real?”
“Yes.”
He was quiet for a long time, then finally said, “I don’t sleep much. When I do, I keep the lights on. Always have.”
You blinked, surprised at the intimacy of the admission. He hadn’t given you facts about his work, but he’d given you something raw instead. Something closer to the truth. You nodded softly. “That’s… real.”
His shoulders eased, just slightly. The silence stretched again, but it felt different this time—warmer, less guarded. You shifted, brushing sugar from your fingers, and without thinking, offered him the last fritter from the bag. He didn’t take it right away. He just looked at you, eyes flicking down to your hand, then back to your face. Finally, he reached for it, his fingers brushing yours deliberately. “Thank you.” The words were simple, but they carried weight.
As you sat there together, sharing sugared dough in the sunlight, you realized this felt almost like a normal second date. Almost. And though you didn’t notice it, he did—the way your shoulders leaned just slightly toward him, the way your knee brushed his. To anyone else, it was nothing. But to Bucky, it was everything.
The walk back from the market felt easier than you expected. Maybe it was the sunlight softening the edges of the city, maybe it was the paper bag of warm bread under your arm, or maybe it was simply that Bucky wasn’t looming as much as usual.
He carried most of the weight without asking—jars of honey, bundles of herbs, a carton of fresh eggs balanced in one hand. He hadn’t made a show of it; the moment you’d started to juggle too many things, he’d quietly relieved you of them. “You don’t have to carry everything,” you said, hugging the bread close to your chest.
“I want to,” he answered simply. Then, with the faintest curve of his mouth, “besides, you’re terrible at hiding how heavy it is.”
You ducked your head, a little embarrassed, but the teasing softened the moment instead of sharpening it. The streets thinned as you left the crowded stalls behind. For once, he didn’t rush you. He let you stop to admire the painted mural on a corner building, the stray cat curled in a sunbeam on the stoop. His gaze followed everything you touched with your eyes, memorizing it silently. “You seem… different today,” you said after a while, glancing at him.
“How so?”
“Less…” You searched for the word. “Commanding. More like…” You gestured at the bags in his hands. “This. Normal.”
He was quiet for a beat, then let out a low breath. “Maybe I just wanted to see what it feels like. Doing this with you.”
You blinked. “Feels like what?”
“Like I’m not who I am,” he said, eyes straight ahead. “Like I could just… be a man walking home from the market with his girl.”
Your steps faltered. He noticed immediately, his head turning, sharp blue eyes locking onto you. But he didn’t backtrack. He let the words hang there, bare and heavy. You didn’t know what to say to that, so you didn’t. Instead, you shifted the bread under your arm and kept walking. As you reached your building, you touched the edge of his sleeve lightly, without thinking, to slow him. “Thank you,” you said softly.
“For what?”
“For coming with me. For trying.”
His gaze softened, more than you’d ever seen. He leaned down just slightly, his voice quiet, meant for you alone. “I’d try for you, doll. Always.”
He didn’t kiss you. He didn’t push. He just pressed the bags into your hands and waited until you were inside, standing guard in the shadow of your building until the door closed. And though you couldn’t see him, he stayed there for a long time, staring at the place where your fingers had brushed his arm, replaying it like a man clutching his first breath after drowning.
---
The weeks passed quietly, the rhythm of your little flower shop unchanged in all the familiar ways and altered in one very specific one. The bell still chimed at odd intervals, children still pressed coins into your palm for bouquets for their mothers, and old women still lingered at the counter to gossip. But now, James “Bucky” Barnes was a fixture.
He came every day. Sometimes in the morning, sometimes at closing, sometimes both. At first, he’d only bought flowers. Now, more often than not, he was simply there—watching, asking you questions in that low voice of his, or taking up a quiet corner of the shop where his looming presence managed to make the whole space feel smaller.
What surprised you most was how quickly he adapted to your routines. One evening, as you were dragging a heavy bucket of water toward the back room, you heard a faint scrape. When you looked up, Bucky was already carrying it with one hand, like it weighed nothing. “You’ll hurt yourself,” he said when you frowned at him.
“I’ve been doing this for years,” you reminded him.
“Not anymore,” he replied, setting the bucket down and fixing you with that firm stare that made arguments slip off your tongue.
After that, he just started doing things. Sweeping up petals after closing. Refilling water vases. Straightening displays. The strangest sight of all was him in his immaculate suit, sleeves rolled to his elbows, carefully trimming stems with the clumsy concentration of a man who had never held shears before. You caught yourself smiling one evening when he leaned too hard on the broom and nearly knocked over a pail of carnations. “What’s funny?” he asked, narrowing his eyes at you.
“You’re… bad at this,” you admitted, covering your mouth with your hand.
His lips twitched as though fighting a grin. “Maybe. But I don’t mind being bad at something if it’s for you.”
That made your chest tighten. Later, when he tried to lock up the shop himself, you shook your head. “You can’t just decide things, Bucky. You have to ask.”
He paused with the key in his hand, blue eyes sharp on yours. “Ask?”
“Yes. Like a normal person.”
For a long moment, he just stared at you, silent. Then, with the barest hint of a smile, “may I lock up for you, doll?”
You blinked, heat rising in your cheeks, before nodding slowly. “Yes.”
He turned the key with a satisfied twist, and though he said nothing more, the look in his eyes told you he was storing that moment away, filing it under things he would never forget.
And that became the new pattern. The man everyone else feared—the man you still didn’t fully understand—swept floors and carried buckets in your flower shop. Not because you asked him to, but because he wanted to. Because it meant being near you, being part of your world, even if it meant stumbling through tasks that had nothing to do with his.
---
The idea came to you while restocking vases one quiet afternoon. Bucky had settled himself on the stool by the counter, jacket draped over the backrest, sleeves rolled up as he trimmed stems with more concentration than skill. It was still strange seeing him like that—this man who radiated danger, carefully adjusting the angle of scissors to keep a daisy neat. “You’re free tomorrow, right?” you asked, keeping your tone casual.
His head lifted, blue eyes narrowing slightly. “Why?”
You hesitated, fingers brushing water from your palms. “There’s an exhibit at the museum. I thought… maybe you’d like to go with me.”
Silence. You felt suddenly foolish. Of course a man like him wouldn’t want to wander through quiet halls, looking at paintings. You opened your mouth to take it back, but he spoke first. “When?”
You blinked. “Noon?”
He nodded once, decisive. “I’ll pick you up.”
The museum was quieter than the farmer’s market, but no less alive. Families moved from gallery to gallery, tourists snapped photos, students sat on the floor sketching. You bought tickets at the front desk, and when you glanced over, Bucky was already scanning the lobby like it was a threat he had to neutralize. “You don’t have to look so suspicious,” you teased gently.
“I don’t like crowds,” he admitted, his voice low enough that only you could hear. “Too many hands. Too many eyes.”
You offered him a small smile. “Then just look at me instead.”
Something flickered across his face at that—something raw and unguarded—before his expression smoothed again. He followed you into the first gallery without a word. The space was filled with soft light and framed canvases, oil paintings that stretched from floor to ceiling. You paused before one, studying the brushstrokes, and realized after a moment that he wasn’t looking at the painting. He was watching you. “You’re supposed to look at the art,” you said, glancing at him from the corner of your eye.
“I am,” he replied.
Heat crept up your neck, and you busied yourself reading the plaque beside the painting. As you moved from gallery to gallery, he stayed close, his hand brushing your back whenever the crowd grew too thick. He didn’t say much, but when he did, it surprised you. He had opinions—sharp, quiet observations about color, about shadow, about how one painting seemed “lonely” while another looked like “noise trapped in a frame.” His voice was low, thoughtful, nothing like the clipped commands he usually gave.
You stole glances at him while he studied the paintings. He didn’t fidget, didn’t check his watch or his phone. He looked, really looked, the same way he looked at you in the shop—like he was memorizing every detail.
At one point, you wandered ahead into a side gallery where a massive sculpture stood under a skylight. You stopped, tilting your head, trying to make sense of the twisting stone form. A moment later, his shadow fell across yours. Without thinking, you reached back and caught his hand, tugging him closer. “What do you think this is supposed to be?”
His hand stayed in yours, warm and steady. He didn’t pull away, didn’t tease. He just let you hold him, his gaze dropping briefly to where your fingers curled against his before answering. “Doesn’t matter what it’s supposed to be,” he said quietly. “Matters what you see in it.”
You didn’t even realize you were still holding his hand until you let go to gesture at the sculpture, your cheeks heating. He didn’t comment, though his eyes lingered on you a moment longer than necessary. By the time you stepped back into the sunlight outside, the afternoon was waning. He carried the museum’s little pamphlet in one hand, folded neatly, like it was something precious. “Thank you,” you said, hugging your arms around yourself. “For coming.”
He studied you for a long moment, then nodded. “You ask, I’ll come.” And though his voice was steady, you couldn’t miss the way his fingers twitched at his side—like he was resisting the urge to reach for yours again.
The walk home after the museum felt different than any other evening you’d shared with him. Maybe it was the soft glow of the setting sun bouncing off the buildings, or maybe it was the quiet between you—comfortable, not weighted the way it usually was.
You carried a little bag from the gift shop, a postcard print of your favorite painting tucked inside. He’d insisted on buying it when you lingered too long at the rack, ignoring your protests. Now it swung lightly from your fingers as the two of you turned down your street. He stayed close, as always, scanning shadows and corners. But he wasn’t tense. Not like usual. His shoulders looked looser, his jaw softer, as if he’d finally let himself breathe for once. At your building, you stopped at the door. He reached for the key the way he always did, but this time you didn’t hand it over. Instead, you turned it yourself, then hesitated. When you looked up at him, he was watching you, waiting. “Do you…” You bit your lip, suddenly nervous. “Do you want to come in?”
For a flicker of a moment, something raw crossed his face—surprise, then hunger, then something softer. His eyes searched yours as though trying to find a trick hidden there. “You sure?” His voice was low, almost rough. He was asking, not telling.
You nodded, stepping inside and holding the door open. He followed, quiet as a shadow, and the door clicked shut behind him. Your apartment wasn’t much—small, cozy, smelling faintly of lavender and bread. A few books stacked on the coffee table, a blanket draped over the couch, a vase of flowers by the window. His eyes swept the space once, but not with the sharp calculation you were used to. This time it looked like he was… curious. Taking in the pieces of your life he hadn’t been able to reach until now. You slipped off your shoes and gestured awkwardly. “It’s not much, but… it’s home.”
He stepped further in, silent for a moment, before his gaze found the vase by the window. White gardenias, still fresh, but starting to droop a little. “You kept them,” he murmured.
“Of course,” you said softly.
Something shifted in his expression then, subtle but undeniable. His shoulders eased even more, and when he finally sat down on the couch—careful, as if he didn’t want to disturb anything—he looked almost human. Almost ordinary. You brought him a glass of water, and he accepted it with a quiet, “thank you,” fingers brushing yours deliberately. The lamp he’d given you glowed faintly in the corner, casting its warm petals of light across the room. He noticed, of course. His eyes lingered on it for a long moment before he turned back to you. “Feels like you,” he said.
You tilted your head. “What does?”
“This place. The light. The quiet. All of it.” He leaned back into the couch, watching you with that same intensity he always did, but softer now. “I like it.”
Bucky didn’t sit like a guest. He sat like he belonged there, broad shoulders sinking carefully into your couch, his hand resting heavy on his knee. The lamplight painted him in soft gold, blunting the sharpness of his jaw, but nothing could dull the intensity of his eyes. They tracked you as you moved—setting the bread on the counter, tidying the little bag from the museum gift shop, fussing with nothing at all just to give your hands something to do.
You finally settled across from him, tucking your legs under yourself. He was too large for your space, all dark edges against your quiet home, and yet… he didn’t look out of place. Not anymore. “You’re quiet,” you said softly.
“I like it here,” he answered simply. His gaze flicked around the room again—the flowers on the sill, the stack of books on your table, the blanket folded neatly over the back of a chair. “Feels like you.”
Your lips curved, though you tried to hide it. “That’s because it is me. It’s my space.”
He studied you then, blue eyes sharp but not unkind. “You let me in.”
The weight of those words settled heavy between you. He didn’t sound surprised. More like he was… marveling at it. Testing the shape of the truth on his tongue. “I trust you,” you admitted before you could stop yourself.
His jaw tightened. His hand flexed once on his knee. “You shouldn’t,” he said, voice low, raw. “Not with me.”
The honesty in his tone chilled you, but it also pulled at something deeper. You leaned forward, resting your arms on your knees. “Then tell me why.”
For a moment, he didn’t move. His eyes stayed locked on yours, unblinking, like he was deciding whether or not to let you see past the walls he kept so carefully built. Then he shifted, elbows on his thighs, leaning closer. “Because I don’t stop. Once I want something—once I want you—I don’t let go.”
Your breath caught, heat rising to your cheeks. But instead of recoiling, you held his gaze. “Then maybe you should ask me if I mind.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “Do you?”
You hesitated, heart pounding, before whispering, “no.”
The silence that followed was thick, humming with unspoken things. He leaned back slowly, the tension in his body still coiled tight, but his expression softened—just barely. “Good,” he murmured.
You didn’t know what possessed you then, but you rose and crossed to the kitchen, pouring him another glass of water, setting it down beside him like it was the most natural thing. He accepted it without breaking eye contact, his metal fingers brushing yours deliberately.
The night stretched longer, the city outside dimming into quiet. At some point, you found yourself curled in the chair across from him, head resting against your hand, listening as he told you little things—not about business, never that, but about the food he liked, the places he couldn’t stand, the way he hated the sound of clocks ticking. Small truths, but truths nonetheless.
When he finally stood to leave, it was later than you realized. He lingered at the door, one hand braced against the frame. “Next time,” he said softly, “I’ll stay.”
You didn’t argue. When the door closed behind him, your apartment still felt full. Heavy with his presence. And when you went to bed, the lamp he’d given you cast its warm glow across the room, reminding you that letting him in once meant you’d never be rid of him again.
The next night, he didn’t wait on the street. You closed up shop, locked the door, and there he was—already leaning against the brick wall, arms folded across his chest. The way he looked at you made the air feel heavy, like he’d been waiting for this moment all day. “Come on,” he said quietly, falling into step beside you.
The walk to your apartment was silent, but not tense. His hand brushed yours once or twice, and though he didn’t take it, you felt the weight of restraint in every step he took. When you unlocked your door and pushed it open, you hesitated. He didn’t ask this time. He didn’t have to. The question was in his eyes, and the answer was already in yours. “Stay,” you said softly.
Something uncoiled in him at that word, something he’d been holding too tightly. He stepped inside without hesitation, shedding his jacket and draping it over the back of your chair like he’d done it a hundred times before.
Your apartment filled with him—his size, his presence, the faint spice of his cologne. You made tea because it gave your hands something to do, and when you handed him a mug, his fingers brushed yours deliberately, lingering just long enough to make your pulse trip. He sat beside you, close enough that your knees touched. He drank the tea like he wasn’t used to it, sipping carefully, his eyes never leaving you. “Feels different,” he murmured after a while.
“What does?”
“This. Here. With you.” His gaze flicked around the apartment, then back to you. “It’s quiet. No one watching. No one waiting on me. Just… you.”
Your chest tightened. “Is that what you want?”
His jaw flexed. He set the mug down, metal fingers tapping once against the porcelain. “Yeah. More than I should.”
The silence stretched. You shifted under his stare, then finally leaned back against the couch, letting your shoulder brush his. He stilled at the contact, then eased, as if the world had just given him permission to breathe. The hours slipped by. You talked about nothing—books, music, the weather—and sometimes you didn’t talk at all. The quiet wasn’t uncomfortable. It was heavy, warm, almost domestic. When the clock ticked past midnight, you stifled a yawn. His head turned instantly, eyes narrowing. “You’re tired.”
“I’m fine,” you said, though your voice was drowsy.
He stood, towering over you, then offered his hand. “Bed,” he said.
You arched a brow, heat rushing to your cheeks. “Excuse me?”
His mouth curved faintly. “To sleep, doll. I’ll take the couch.”
You hesitated, then nodded, leading him toward the small bedroom. He didn’t linger, didn’t push. He just pulled the blanket up to your chin once you were settled, his hand brushing your cheek in a gesture so gentle it made your throat ache. “Sleep,” he murmured.
You closed your eyes, the glow of the lamp warm against the walls, and the last thing you felt was the weight of his presence just outside the door—silent, steady, keeping watch.
The smell of coffee pulled you awake before the sunlight did. For a moment, you thought you were dreaming—the rich, dark aroma, the soft clink of ceramic from your kitchen—but when you sat up, the lamp still glowed faintly on your nightstand, and the blanket tucked under your chin smelled faintly of his cologne.
You padded quietly to the doorway, pausing when you saw him. Bucky stood at the counter, broad shoulders hunched slightly as he poured steaming coffee into your favorite mug. His jacket was still draped over the back of the chair from last night, his sleeves rolled up again. On the counter beside him was a loaf of bread you’d bought at the market, neatly sliced into even pieces, and butter softening in a small dish. It looked… domestic. Almost ordinary. And it made your chest ache in a way you weren’t prepared for. “You don’t have to do that,” you said softly, leaning against the doorframe.
He looked up instantly, sharp as always, but his expression softened when he saw you. “Couldn’t sleep,” he admitted. “Figured I’d make myself useful.”
You smiled faintly, stepping closer. “You’re really bad at pretending this is normal.”
“Maybe,” he said, setting the mug in front of you. His voice lowered. “But I like pretending with you.”
The warmth of the cup seeped into your palms. You took a sip, humming at the taste—it was stronger than you usually made it, but good. He watched your reaction like it mattered more than anything else. “See?” he said, almost smug. “Better than what you usually drink.”
You narrowed your eyes at him playfully. “You think you can just take over my kitchen now?”
His grin widened, wolfish but soft around the edges. “If you let me.” For a long moment, you stood there, sipping your coffee while he leaned against the counter, watching you like the morning belonged to the two of you alone. When you finally set the mug down, he reached past you, brushing your wrist deliberately as he moved the butter closer to the bread. “Eat something,” he murmured.
You rolled your eyes but picked up a slice anyway. “You know, most people say ‘please’ when they want something.”
He chuckled low, the sound warm and rough. “Please, doll. Eat something for me.”
You laughed then, quiet but real, and he looked at you like he’d just won a war without firing a single shot. And as you sat at your tiny kitchen table, him across from you with his coffee, you realized you weren’t just letting him into your apartment. You were letting him into your mornings, your routines, your life. He seemed to realize it too. Because when you reached for another slice of bread, he leaned back in his chair, eyes soft and possessive all at once, and said quietly, “get used to this. I’m not going anywhere.”
You thought he’d leave after breakfast—slip out the way he usually did, shadow heavy but fleeting. Instead, he stayed, long after the last crumb of bread was gone and your coffee had cooled. He didn’t hover, not exactly. He followed you with his eyes as you moved around your apartment, tidying plates, straightening cushions, feeding the little plant on your windowsill. Every small domestic motion seemed to hold his full attention, as if he were cataloging it all for later.
When you bent to pick up a book that had slipped under the table, he was suddenly there, crouched beside you. His metal fingers brushed the spine before yours could reach it. “Got it,” he murmured, handing it over. His eyes lingered on the cover—an old paperback, spine worn soft. “You like this one?”
“It’s a favorite,” you admitted, hugging it to your chest. “I’ve read it more times than I can count.”
He nodded slowly, eyes sharp, as though he were etching the title into his memory. You retreated to the couch, curling into the corner, and he sat at the other end—close enough that your knees brushed when you shifted. He leaned back, stretching an arm along the top of the couch, watching you like you were the only thing worth seeing. “You’re different here,” you said quietly.
“How?”
“Quieter. Softer.” You hesitated. “Like you’re not carrying the whole world on your shoulders.”
For a moment, something flickered across his face—something raw, almost vulnerable. “Maybe it’s because I’m with you.”
Your cheeks warmed. You turned your gaze toward the window, pretending to fuss with the flowers on the sill. “You say things like that too easily.”
“I don’t say anything easily,” he said, voice low, firm. “Not unless I mean it.”
The air grew heavier, thick with unspoken things. To break it, you stood and gathered the empty mugs. “I should wash these.”
“I’ll do it.”
Before you could protest, he was already in your tiny kitchen, sleeves pushed up, broad frame bent over your sink. The sight of him there—dangerous and untouchable to the rest of the city, carefully rinsing soap suds from your favorite mug—sent a strange ache through you. “You really don’t know how to act normal,” you teased gently, leaning against the counter.
He glanced at you, lips curving faintly. “This is normal. For me. If you let it be.”
You swallowed hard, suddenly aware of how easily he was weaving himself into your space, your life. When the mugs were clean and drying on the rack, he returned to the couch, looking far too at ease in your home. As though the line between visitor and resident had already blurred. And when you finally told him, half-awkward, that you needed to open the shop soon, he only nodded, standing slowly. His eyes swept the room one last time before settling on you. “I’ll see you tonight,” he said, not as a command but as a promise.
And when the door clicked shut behind him, your apartment still felt full.
The second time he stayed, it felt less like a choice and more like inevitability. He didn’t even ask if it was alright—he simply slipped off his jacket, folded it neatly over the arm of your couch, and stretched his long frame across it like it was a habit he’d been keeping for years.
You went to bed with the lamplight still spilling warm gold into the hallway, the faint hum of the city outside, and the comforting knowledge that he was only a few steps away. It was deep into the night when you woke. Thirst pulled you from sleep, groggy and heavy-limbed. Padding into the living room, you found him still on the couch, blanket pushed low around his waist, one arm draped over the edge.
For a moment, you thought he was sleeping peacefully. His chest rose and fell, steady. But then you noticed the twitch of his fingers, the faint sheen of sweat on his brow, the low, almost inaudible sounds escaping his throat—half-formed words, broken whispers.
You froze. A nightmare. Your first instinct was to leave him be, let him fight his shadows alone. But something in the way his jaw clenched, in the way his breath hitched, made your chest ache. “Bucky,” you whispered, stepping closer. “It’s alright. You’re safe.” You reached out, intending only to brush your fingers across his shoulder, to anchor him in the present. But the instant your skin touched his, his metal arm snapped up, lightning fast, clamping around your wrist.
The pressure was startling, firm enough to hurt, and you gasped softly. His eyes flew open—wild, unmoored, glassy with panic. For a heartbeat, he wasn’t here with you. He was somewhere else. Then recognition hit. His grip loosened instantly, his chest heaving. “God—doll—” His voice cracked. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
You sank down onto the edge of the couch, cradling his arm with your free hand, your voice low and steady. “It’s okay. You’re okay. You didn’t mean to.”
But he was already shaking his head, his flesh hand scrubbing hard over his face. “Shouldn’t—shouldn’t touch you. Not when I don’t know where I am. Could’ve hurt you. Could’ve—”
You caught his wrist before he could pull further away. “You didn’t. You didn’t hurt me.”
His metal fingers trembled against your skin, so different from the usual deliberate steadiness you knew. He kept repeating it, almost under his breath, like a mantra breaking apart. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
“Hey,” you whispered, sliding closer, resting your other hand lightly against his chest. His heart thundered beneath your palm. “Look at me.” It took a moment, but his eyes finally lifted to yours—blue and raw, stripped of every layer of command and control. “You’re here,” you said softly. “With me. You’re safe.”
The tension in his arm eased by degrees, until his grip was nothing more than a loose circle around your wrist. He swallowed hard, his breathing uneven. “You shouldn’t have to… deal with this.”
“I don’t mind,” you whispered. And you didn’t. Not when it was him.
For a long time, you just sat there, your hand still against his chest, his breath slowly steadying under your touch. When his grip finally fell away completely, it wasn’t because he pushed you—it was because he let go, trusting you not to move. You didn’t. You stayed.
And when he drifted back into sleep, your wrist still tingled from the weight of his arm, but it wasn’t fear that lingered. It was the way his voice had broken on your name, the way he’d clung to your presence like it was the only thing anchoring him in the world.
By the time the apartment grew quiet again, you hadn’t meant to fall asleep. You’d sat there with him, your hand still resting over his chest, listening as his breath evened out beneath your palm. You told yourself you’d move once you were sure he was settled.
But your eyes grew heavy. The couch was warm beneath you, his body warmer still, and before you knew it, you were sliding sideways, cheek pressed against his shirt. His heart was a steady thrum beneath your ear, his arm—flesh, not metal—loosely draped over your back as though even in sleep he couldn’t help but hold you close.
The couch was small, too small for the both of you, but you didn’t notice. Not with the weight of him grounding you, not with the lamp’s glow painting soft gold across the room.
When you woke, morning light was spilling through the curtains, pale and thin. It took a moment to realize where you were—why your pillow was too firm, why your blanket smelled faintly of his cologne. You shifted, groggy, and felt his chest move beneath you. He was awake. His breathing was shallow, controlled, the way he sounded when he was trying not to disturb you. “Morning,” you whispered, voice rough with sleep.
His chest rumbled under your cheek with a low, uncertain sound. “You shouldn’t… have stayed here.”
You lifted your head just enough to meet his eyes. They were sharp, but not cold. There was guilt there, deep and quiet. “Why not?”
“I could’ve hurt you,” he said. His metal hand flexed once against the blanket, as though the memory of gripping your arm was still burning through him. “I did hurt you.”
You shook your head, propping yourself on your elbow. “You didn’t. You scared me for a second, but… you didn’t hurt me.” His jaw worked, but he said nothing. You studied him for a moment—his hair mussed from sleep, the faint shadows under his eyes, the way he looked so much younger like this, stripped of the armor he wore in daylight. “Bucky,” you said softly, “I wouldn’t have fallen asleep here if I didn’t feel safe with you.”
That silenced him. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, his eyes flicking away for a moment as though he couldn’t bear the weight of what you’d just given him. Slowly, carefully, he brushed his knuckles across your cheek, his touch light, reverent. “You shouldn’t trust me that much.”
“Maybe not,” you whispered, leaning into his hand. “But I do.”
For the first time in longer than he could probably remember, his mouth curved into something almost fragile, almost grateful. You stayed like that for a long moment, the morning wrapping around you both like a secret. The couch was still too small, your neck was already sore, but you couldn’t bring yourself to move. Because for the first time, you weren’t sure if you were comforting him, or if he was comforting you.
---
The bell chimed as usual when he stepped into your shop, but today felt heavier somehow. Maybe it was the memory of the night before, of waking up in his arms on your too-small couch. Maybe it was the image of his wide, haunted eyes as he whispered apology after apology, and the way your chest had ached to soothe him.
You’d been thinking about that all morning. About how much he gave you—his presence, his protection, his steadiness—even if he never admitted it aloud. And for once, you wanted to give him something back. So you’d worked quietly before he arrived, hands steady even as your heart raced, trimming stems and tying ribbon. Now, as he approached the counter, you wiped your palms on your apron and brought the bouquet out from behind you.
It wasn’t like the ones you usually sold. This one was deliberate, personal. Deep blue delphiniums, soft cornflowers, pale forget-me-nots woven together in layers, all tied with a silver-gray ribbon. The colors matched his eyes perfectly—sharp and striking at the center, softer and gentler around the edges. You held it out shyly. “For you.”
He froze. For a man who seemed to always know what to do, what to say, he looked completely undone in that moment. His eyes flicked from the flowers to your face and back again, as if he couldn’t quite process what he was seeing. “You made this… for me?” His voice was rough, low.
You nodded, your fingers twisting the edge of your apron. “You’ve brought me so much. I just thought—maybe you’d like to have something, too.”
He reached out slowly, almost reverently, and took the bouquet from your hands. His metal fingers brushed the ribbon with surprising gentleness, as though afraid he might crush the delicate stems. For a long moment, he just stared at it. Then his jaw worked, his throat bobbing with a swallow. “No one’s ever…” He trailed off, shaking his head slightly. “No one’s ever given me flowers before.”
Your heart clenched. “Then I’ll just have to make sure it’s not the last time.”
His eyes snapped back to yours, something raw burning in them. He set the bouquet carefully on the counter, then reached across with his flesh hand, curling his fingers around yours. “Thank you, doll,” he said, voice unsteady. “You don’t know what this means to me.” But from the way he held your hand, from the way his thumb brushed slowly across your knuckles like he was memorizing the feel of you, you thought maybe you did.
Bucky carried the bouquet back with him, cradled more carefully than the files his men handed him daily. When he entered his penthouse, the first thing Natasha noticed wasn’t the flowers themselves—it was the way he set them down gently on his desk, like they were priceless.
She leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, a smirk tugging at her mouth. “Boss, if you keep this up, you’re gonna need a bigger office. Between the vases and bouquets, it’s starting to look more like a conservatory than a headquarters.”
He shot her a sharp look, but it lacked real heat. Instead, his gaze drifted back to the bouquet, fingers brushing over the ribbon like he still couldn’t believe it was real. “You got a problem with flowers, Romanoff?” he asked, voice low.
Natasha’s smirk softened into something almost approving. “Not with flowers. Just with you hiding in here behind them.”
Bucky’s jaw tightened. “I’m not hiding.”
“You’ve skipped the last three meetings,” she countered, stepping further into the room. “You can’t keep pushing them off. People are starting to notice. And this next one—you can’t get out of it.”
His eyes darkened, steel sliding back into his expression. “When?”
“Tomorrow night.” Her tone left no room for argument. “Seven o’clock. You’ll be there, and you’ll sit through it, whether you like it or not.”
For a long moment, he said nothing. His metal fingers tapped once against the desk, the sound sharp in the quiet room. Then he let out a slow breath, eyes flicking back to the blue bouquet. “Fine,” he said. “Tomorrow night.”
Natasha tilted her head, studying him. “You’ve got her making bouquets just for you now?”
His lips curved faintly—dangerous, but softer than usual. “Yeah. She did.”
Natasha’s brows lifted. “And you’re going to tell her where you’re going tomorrow?”
His gaze sharpened again, voice dropping low. “No.”
“Bucky—”
“She doesn’t need to know.” His eyes lingered on the flowers, something fierce burning beneath the calm. “Not yet.”
Natasha studied him for a long beat before finally sighing. “One of these days, Barnes, you’re gonna realize she’s not just another thing you can keep in the dark.”
But he didn’t answer. He was already reaching for the bouquet again, his hand steady, his mind already far from the meeting Natasha had chained him to.
The following evening, Bucky was restless. He’d shown up at your shop like he always did, the bell chiming as he stepped in, but his presence felt heavier than usual. He leaned against the counter, silent, eyes fixed on you while you arranged fresh stems in a vase. His gloves were still on—he hadn’t even rolled his sleeves the way he sometimes did when he helped close up. “Long day?” you asked, glancing up.
His jaw flexed once. “Not finished yet.”
Something in his tone told you not to press. But you noticed the way his gaze lingered on you a little too long, as though he were memorizing everything about you—the slope of your shoulders, the curve of your hands as you tied ribbon.
When you locked up for the night, he was there as usual, walking you home. His stride was slower, though, deliberate. Like he didn’t want the walk to end. At your door, instead of leaving with his usual “goodnight,” he lingered. His eyes traced your face with an intensity that made your heart race. “You’ll stay in tonight,” he said softly.
You blinked. “I was planning to, yes. Why?”
He exhaled, the faintest flicker of relief passing across his features. “Good. I need…” He hesitated, words sticking like they were foreign in his mouth. “I need to be somewhere. But I don’t want you worrying.”
Your brows furrowed. “Where?”
His eyes softened, but the steel never left them. “Not a place you need to know about.” It stung, a little, but before you could respond, his flesh hand cupped your cheek, thumb brushing lightly along your skin. His touch was warm, but his grip was firm, almost desperate. “Promise me you’ll stay here tonight,” he murmured. “Lock the door. Don’t open it for anyone but me.”
You swallowed hard. “Bucky—”
“Promise me.” His voice was low, commanding, but under it was something raw. Fear.
Your heart twisted. “I promise.”
Only then did his shoulders ease, just slightly. He leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to your temple, lingering there longer than usual. When he pulled back, his eyes burned with something unspoken. “I’ll be back,” he said simply. And then he was gone, melting into the shadows of the city.
You stood in your doorway long after he’d disappeared, the bouquet you’d given him still fresh in your memory. Whatever world he was going back to tonight, it wasn’t one you were part of—not yet. But the way he’d looked at you before he left made you wonder how long he could keep the walls up.
It was late when the knock came—so late the city outside had gone quiet, even the hum of traffic muted. You woke with a start, heart pounding, blinking against the faint glow of the lamp in your bedroom.
For a moment, you thought you’d dreamed it. Then it came again, firmer this time. Three heavy knocks that rattled the wood. You slipped from bed, pulling a sweater over your shoulders, bare feet whispering across the floor. When you peered through the peephole, your stomach dropped. Bucky. He stood close to the door, shoulders squared, hair mussed, suit rumpled. His jaw was tight, his eyes burning with something fierce and unsteady. And his knuckles—flesh and metal both—were streaked with blood.
You unlocked the door quickly and pulled it open. “Bucky.” He exhaled your name like a prayer, his chest rising and falling hard. For a moment, he didn’t move. Then he stepped inside, filling your small apartment with his presence, the door shutting behind him with a dull thud. You reached for his hand automatically, the blood stark against your skin. “What happened?”
“Doesn’t matter,” he said roughly, pulling back just enough to keep the mess off you. “It’s done.”
“Bucky—”
“I didn’t want you to see me like this.” His voice cracked low, raw, like he’d used up every ounce of steel at that meeting and had nothing left to shield himself with now.
You guided him toward the couch anyway, ignoring his protest. “Sit.” He hesitated, then obeyed, sinking down heavily. His shoulders were still tight, coiled with tension, his fists flexing and unflexing as though he hadn’t yet come down from whatever storm he’d just walked out of. You fetched a cloth and warm water from the bathroom, kneeling in front of him. He tried to take the rag from your hand, but you shook your head. “Let me,” you said softly.
For once, he didn’t argue. He let you cradle his hand, your smaller fingers working gently over the bloodstains. His skin was rough under your touch, his palm scarred, but you treated it like something fragile, as if the violence hadn’t seeped into the lines of his hand at all. He watched you in silence, blue eyes intent, following every stroke of the cloth. “You shouldn’t…” He trailed off, swallowing hard. “You shouldn’t want to do this for me.”
“Maybe I want to anyway,” you whispered.
The corner of his mouth twitched, but his eyes stayed dark. “You’re gonna ruin yourself, doll. Being close to me.”
You wrung out the cloth, wiping gently at his other hand, this one colder, harder. His metal fingers twitched under your touch, then stilled. “Maybe you don’t get to decide that,” you murmured.
His chest rose sharply, his eyes snapping to yours. The intensity there was almost unbearable—possessive, desperate, aching. “I came here,” he admitted finally, voice hoarse. “Because after it was over, all I wanted was you. Just… you.”
You finished cleaning the last smear of blood from his knuckles, then set the cloth aside. Without thinking, you reached up and pressed your hand against his jaw, tilting his face toward you. “I’m here,” you said simply.
And for the first time that night, his shoulders dropped, the fight bleeding out of him. He leaned into your touch, eyes closing, as though your palm was the only anchor he had left.
You didn’t let go of him right away. Even when his shoulders eased, when the fury and tension in him finally started to drain, you kept your hand at his jaw, kept your body close enough that he could feel your steadiness. When you finally shifted to stand, he caught your wrist—not tight, not desperate, but firm enough to stop you. His eyes opened, and there it was again: that raw, unguarded fear. Fear of you walking away. “Stay,” he murmured.
“I’m not going anywhere,” you said softly. “But you need to rest. You can’t keep carrying all of this on your own.” You tugged gently until he let you go, then stood and gestured toward your bedroom. “Come on. You take the bed tonight.”
His eyes narrowed immediately. “No.”
“Bucky—”
“I’m not putting you on the couch in your own home,” he said sharply, rising to his feet. “I’ll take it. Always.”
The finality in his tone made you hesitate, but then you stepped closer, meeting his intensity with your own. “You came here for comfort, didn’t you? Then let me give it to you. Please.”
The word hung between you. You almost never asked him for anything. His jaw worked. He glanced at the bedroom door, then back at you, his expression caught between resistance and something almost… longing. Finally, he exhaled slowly. “Fine. But only if you stay too.”
Your breath caught. “Bucky—”
“I won’t sleep otherwise,” he admitted, voice low, hoarse. “Not without you.”
The ache in your chest deepened. You nodded once, quietly, and guided him into the bedroom. He moved carefully, stripping off his bloodstained shirt and leaving it folded on the chair before slipping under the covers in just his undershirt and slacks. He looked out of place in your small bed, too large, too coiled with silent tension.
You slid in beside him, the lamp’s glow soft across both of you. At first, he kept to his side, stiff and deliberate, as though terrified of crowding you. But when you reached out—just the lightest brush of your fingers over his wrist—he shifted closer, inch by inch, until his forehead rested against yours. “Sorry,” he whispered again, the word barely audible. “For last night. For tonight. For all of it.”
“You don’t have to be sorry,” you whispered back, eyes closing. “Not with me.”
His breath stuttered against your cheek, and then his arm—warm, heavy, trembling slightly—wrapped around you, pulling you against his chest. It was a long time before his breathing evened out, before the tension bled from his body completely. But when it did, he slept deeper than he had in years, anchored by your presence.
And you stayed there with him, awake for a long while, listening to the steady thrum of his heart and wondering if maybe, just maybe, he was learning how to let someone share the weight he carried.
---
You woke to the sensation of warmth. Not the sunlight—though that was spilling pale and soft through the curtains—but the solid weight of the man beside you. His arm was still around you, heavy and steady, his chest pressed to your back. For a moment you stayed perfectly still, afraid that moving would shatter the fragile quiet that had settled over him in the night.
Eventually, you stirred, stretching carefully. His arm slipped away immediately, as if he’d been awake already, holding himself too tightly so as not to trap you. “Morning,” you murmured, rolling to face him. He was lying on his side, head propped on his hand, blue eyes fixed on you. His hair was a little mussed, his undershirt wrinkled. But his gaze was sharp, searching, as though he were trying to read the truth in your expression. “You slept,” you said softly, surprised by how certain you were.
“Because of you,” he admitted.
Something in your chest squeezed. You brushed your thumb lightly across the back of his hand. “I’m glad.”
But he didn’t relax. His eyes narrowed slightly, his jaw flexing. “You don’t regret this? Letting me stay?”
You blinked, caught off guard. “No. Why would I?”
“Because you saw me last night.” His voice was rough, low, like he hated the words even as he forced them out. “Bloody. Angry. A mess. That’s who I am, doll. That’s what I do when I leave you here. And I don’t…” He trailed off, eyes flicking away for a moment. “I don’t want you to look at me different because of it.”
You pushed yourself up on your elbow, leaning closer, catching his gaze. “Bucky. I saw you. And I still asked you to stay.”
His throat bobbed, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “You shouldn’t have to comfort me.”
“Maybe I want to,” you whispered, echoing the words you’d spoken when you cleaned his bloodied hands.
The silence stretched, heavy but not unbearable. His hand lifted, brushing lightly over your head, fingers catching gently at the nape of your neck. “You’re not afraid of me,” he murmured, almost to himself.
You shook your head. “Not even a little.”
His eyes closed briefly, as though the weight of that truth was too much to hold. When he opened them again, they burned with something softer than you’d ever seen in him, something dangerously close to hope. And though he didn’t say the words, you could feel them in the way he held your gaze, in the way his fingers lingered against your skin.
For once, he wasn’t just the man who haunted your shop, who walked you home, who carried storms in his chest. For once, he was just Bucky.
---
The day had been quiet, the steady hum of your little shop wrapping around you like a familiar blanket. You were working at the counter, arranging fresh lilies into a tall glass vase, humming softly under your breath. Bucky had slipped into the back earlier, muttering something about moving crates that were too heavy for you, though you hadn’t asked him to.
You balanced the vase carefully in your hands—just a little too tall, a little too slick with condensation—and then it happened. The glass slipped. You gasped, a sharp sound breaking the quiet as the vase hit the floor and shattered. Water splashed across your shoes, stems splayed in every direction, and shards of glass glittered in a jagged circle around your feet.
“Doll?” His voice was immediate, sharp, and then he was there, bursting from the back with all the force of a man expecting the worst. His eyes swept the scene in an instant—the water, the flowers, the glinting glass around your shoes—and then locked onto you.
“I’m fine,” you said quickly, holding your hands up like surrender. “I just—”
“Don’t move,” he snapped, the command biting. But his eyes softened a heartbeat later, voice lowering. “Please. Don’t move.” You froze, biting your lip. Shards glittered dangerously close to your ankles, one sliver already catching at your sock. Bucky’s chest rose hard with a deep breath. Then he stepped closer, gaze flicking up to yours. “Do you trust me?”
The question startled you—so direct, so weighted. But your answer came without hesitation. “Yes.”
In one smooth motion, his hands found your waist, strong and steady, and he lifted you up out of the circle of broken glass. You startled, legs instinctively tightening around him as he held you against his chest, the strength in his arms effortless and certain.
Your heart hammered, breath catching as the world tilted. You could feel the hard lines of him through his shirt, the steady thrum of his heartbeat pressed to your chest. For a moment, you were frozen, caught in the intensity of his eyes as he looked at you—so close, so intent, like you were the only thing in the world. Then, before you could stop yourself, a quiet giggle slipped out. You ducked your head against his shoulder, cheeks warm. “You’re… really strong.”
The corner of his mouth curved, slow and dangerous, but softer than you’d ever seen it. His grip tightened just slightly at your waist, not enough to hurt, just enough to remind you how easily he held you. “Damn right I am,” he murmured, voice low against your ear. “Strong enough to carry you as long as it takes.”
Your breath caught, the teasing words laced with something heavier, deeper. You clung to him just a little tighter, not because of the glass scattered on the floor, but because of the way he said it—as though he meant more than just this moment.
And when he finally set you down on the counter, out of harm’s way, his hands lingered at your waist, eyes locked on yours like he wasn’t quite ready to let go. His hands lingered at your waist even after he’d set you safely on the counter, his eyes locked on yours like he was trying to convince himself you were unharmed. Only when you shifted slightly—cheeks warm, fingers fiddling with the hem of your apron—did he finally step back. “Stay there,” he ordered softly. It wasn’t harsh, but it brooked no argument.
You opened your mouth to protest, then caught the flash in his eyes, the steel under the softness. You nodded instead, watching as he crouched to gather the scattered stems first, setting them aside with almost comical care before he tackled the glass.
He worked in silence, broad shoulders bent, muscles shifting beneath his shirt as he swept every shard into a neat pile with practiced efficiency. He didn’t let you come near—every time you shifted on the counter as if to hop down, his gaze snapped to you, sharp as a warning. “You’re acting like I nearly lost a limb,” you said lightly, trying to break the tension.
“You could’ve cut yourself,” he muttered, scooping the last of the glass into the dustpan. “Slipped, fallen—”
“Bucky, it was a vase.”
He dumped the shards into the bin and straightened slowly, eyes narrowing. “Doesn’t matter. Anything that touches you—anything that could hurt you—it matters to me.”
The words hung in the air, heavy, possessive. Your heart thudded in your chest. When he finally crossed back to you, he brushed his hands down, metal glinting faintly in the shop’s light. Then, to your surprise, he reached out and gently lifted your ankle, checking your sock, then the other. His touch was careful, almost reverent, like he needed proof with his own eyes that you were unscathed. “I told you I was fine,” you whispered, heat curling in your chest.
“I had to see for myself,” he murmured. His hand lingered at your ankle, thumb brushing lightly against the bone, before he finally let go.
You giggled then, nervous and shy, but unable to hold it back. “You really are strong, you know. Picking me up like that…”
His lips curved into something sharp and slow, a smile that was equal parts dangerous and softened just for you. “You liked that?”
You ducked your head, embarrassed, but nodded faintly. “Maybe.”
His grin widened, eyes darkening as he stepped closer, caging you gently where you sat on the counter. “Good. Because I’m not done showing you how strong I am.”
The words made your breath hitch, your pulse skittering wildly. And though he didn’t touch you again, though he only lingered there in your space, the promise in his voice wrapped around you like a second heartbeat.
The shop closed later than usual that evening—the broken vase had set you behind, and you insisted on mopping every last drop of water yourself while Bucky loomed nearby, pretending to help while really just watching you like a hawk.
By the time you stepped out into the cooling night, the streets were already washed in shadow. He fell into step beside you, as always, but tonight felt different. The air between you was warmer, charged, still echoing with the memory of his hands lifting you clear of the glass, your legs around his waist, your breathless little laugh against his shoulder.
You stole a glance at him as you walked. His jaw was set, his gaze sharp on the street ahead, but there was something softer in the curve of his mouth, something unspoken simmering in his eyes when they flicked toward you. “Thank you,” you said quietly, breaking the silence.
He turned his head slightly. “For what?”
“For earlier. For making sure I didn’t… get hurt.” You smiled faintly, shy. “And for carrying me. Even if it was just across a puddle of glass.”
The corner of his lips curved, slow and wolfish. “I’d carry you farther than that, doll. Anywhere you wanted.”
Your heart thudded, and you ducked your gaze to the pavement. When you reached your building, you turned to face him, suddenly reluctant to let the night end. He stood close, close enough that the heat of him brushed your skin, close enough that the city noise faded into nothing. He studied you for a long moment, blue eyes intent, then lifted his hand. His knuckles brushed along your cheek, light as a whisper, before he leaned down. The kiss wasn’t on your lips. It was at the corner of your mouth, feather-light, lingering just long enough to steal your breath. When he pulled back, his gaze was burning, fierce and possessive but softened in a way you’d never seen before. “Goodnight,” he murmured, voice low and rough.
You managed a quiet, flustered, “goodnight,” before slipping inside, leaning against the door once it clicked shut. Your pulse was still racing. The ghost of his touch still lingered on your cheek. And you knew, with startling clarity, that something between you had shifted again—deeper, closer, and far harder to resist.
---
The last customer had barely left when you flipped the little sign on the door to closed. The shop was quiet, petals scattered on the counter, the air still thick with the mingled perfume of roses and lilies. Bucky was already there, leaning against the wall near the register, sleeves rolled up, watching you sweep the last of the day’s mess into a neat pile.
It was almost habit now—him staying until you locked up, walking you home like a shadow no one could shake. But tonight, as you tied off the trash bag and wiped your hands on your apron, you found yourself blurting something out before you could second-guess it. “Do you… want to come grocery shopping with me?”
His head lifted, eyes narrowing as though you’d just offered him something strange and dangerous. “Grocery shopping?”
You nodded, a little shy. “Yeah. Just the corner store, nothing big.”
For a moment, he just studied you, unreadable. Then his mouth curved, the faintest tug at the corner of his lips. “You’re asking me on a date to a grocery store?”
Your cheeks warmed. “Not a date. Just… normal. Something normal.”
That seemed to strike something in him. The teasing faded, replaced with that sharp, focused look he always gave you when he was paying too much attention. Finally, he pushed off the wall, slipping into his jacket. “Alright. Let’s go.”
The store was half-empty when you arrived, aisles humming faintly under fluorescent lights. You grabbed a basket, but before you could even step forward, Bucky plucked it from your hands, carrying it himself without comment. “You don’t have to—”
“I want to,” he said, same as he always did when you tried to argue.
You shook your head with a smile and wandered down the first aisle. The ordinary act of choosing bread, fruit, milk felt almost surreal with him beside you. People glanced your way—some because of his presence, some because of his sheer size—but he ignored them, his attention fixed entirely on you. You paused at the shelf of pasta, biting your lip as you compared prices. He frowned. “What’re you doing?”
“Deciding which one to get.”
“Just grab both,” he said flatly.
You laughed under your breath. “That’s not how grocery shopping works.”
He arched a brow. “When I’m here, it does.” And before you could protest, both boxes were dropped into the basket.
A few aisles later, you spotted a display of apples, glossy and red under the lights. You reached for one, but he plucked the apple from your hand. “Too bruised,” he muttered, discarding it for another. Then another. Until finally he chose one and handed it to you, his expression deadly serious.
You bit back a giggle, putting it into the basket. “You’re very picky.”
“I don’t want you eating anything that isn’t good enough for you,” he said simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. Your heart gave a little squeeze.
At the checkout, the clerk gave you both a curious look, eyes flicking from the man built like a soldier to the flowers still faintly clinging to your apron. Bucky ignored it, pulling out a roll of bills before you could reach for your own wallet. “Bucky—”
“Don’t,” he warned softly, sliding the cash across the counter.
You sighed, but your lips curved despite yourself. When you stepped back into the night, bags in hand, he shifted most of them to his own arms, leaving you only one light sack to carry. As you walked back toward your apartment, you realized your chest felt strangely full—like the simple act of buying apples and bread with him meant more than any extravagant gift could. And when you glanced up at him, his eyes already on you, you wondered if he felt the same.
The bags rustled quietly between you as you and Bucky made your way back to your apartment. He carried almost all of them, his broad frame cutting through the dim streetlight glow like a shield. Every so often, you’d catch him glancing down at you, his gaze lingering on your smaller bag as if he were annoyed you had any weight at all to carry.
By the time you reached your door, he was already fishing the key from your pocket—something he’d made a habit of, though tonight he looked at you first, waiting. You smiled faintly and gave him a nod. He unlocked the door, nudging it open with his shoulder, and followed you inside.
The apartment felt warmer with him in it, crowded but not in a way that unsettled you. He set the bags on the counter, already rolling up his sleeves like this was second nature. “You don’t have to help put everything away,” you said, slipping off your shoes.
“Not letting you do this alone,” he countered, already unpacking a bag.
You laughed softly, shaking your head. “You’re terrible at letting me do anything.”
“Only because you deserve better than doing it by yourself.”
The simple certainty in his tone made your chest flutter. You busied yourself with the pantry shelves while he stacked cans and jars, his movements precise, almost military. Every so often, he paused to ask where something went—not in his usual commanding tone, but softer, quieter, like he wanted to get it right. When you turned to find him awkwardly holding up a carton of milk, brows furrowed, you giggled. “That goes in the fridge, Bucky.”
He smirked, shaking his head as he set it inside. “Not my strong suit, doll.”
You tilted your head, teasing. “And here I thought you were strong at everything.”
His eyes flicked to yours, sharp and knowing, but softened quickly. “I am. Especially when it comes to you.” Heat crept up your neck. You ducked back toward the pantry, pretending to fuss with the bags.
When the last of the groceries were tucked away, he leaned against the counter, watching you tie the bags into a neat bundle. His presence filled the small kitchen, his eyes steady and unreadable. “This is…” He paused, exhaling. “Nice.”
You glanced at him, smiling softly. “It is.”
“I could get used to this,” he murmured, almost to himself.
Your heart skipped. You didn’t answer, not with words. Instead, you brushed past him on your way to the sink, your arm grazing his, a tiny, wordless acknowledgment. The evening stretched out lazily, the two of you lingering on the couch after the groceries were tucked away. You’d made tea, steam curling faintly between you, and at some point your head had drifted to the back cushion, eyelids drooping while Bucky sat beside you, quiet and watchful. “You’re falling asleep on me,” he said after a long silence, his voice low and almost amused.
“M’not,” you mumbled, even as your head tilted a little to the side, threatening to nod off completely.
His lips curved, subtle but there. “Doll, go to bed.”
You groaned softly, rubbing your eyes, and gave a small pout. “Don’t wanna move. It’s too far.”
The faintest laugh rumbled from his chest. “Too far? It’s ten steps.”
You cracked one eye open, playful despite your exhaustion. “Then carry me.” You hadn’t expected him to take you seriously. But before you could blink, his hands were at your sides, sliding under you with practiced ease. You let out a startled little gasp as the world tilted, your arms instinctively wrapping around his neck. He gathered you up without effort, cradled securely against his chest in a full bridal carry. Your breath caught, a laugh bubbling out as your cheek pressed against his shoulder. “Bucky—”
“Don’t pout at me if you don’t mean it,” he murmured, his voice quiet but edged with satisfaction.
He carried you through the small apartment like you weighed nothing, each step steady and sure. You didn’t protest—you couldn’t, not with the warmth of him surrounding you, not with the way he held you like you were something precious. By the time he set you down gently on the bed, pulling the blanket up over you, your heart was racing too fast for sleep. He lingered at your side for a moment, his eyes soft in a way they rarely were. “Better?” he asked quietly.
You nodded, cheeks warm, your voice a sleepy whisper. “Much.”
He exhaled slowly, almost like relief, before straightening. “Sleep, doll. I’ll be right outside.” And as you drifted off, you could still feel the phantom weight of his arms around you, carrying you like you were the only thing in the world worth holding onto.
---
It started with a lightbulb. You were balancing on the edge of a chair, stretching on tiptoe to reach the fixture above your counter when Bucky walked in. He froze in the doorway, eyes narrowing like he’d caught you dangling off a cliff. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Changing a bulb,” you answered, squinting up at the socket. “It burnt out last night.”
He stalked forward, plucking the box from your hand. “Get down.”
You turned your head, giving him a pointed look. “It’s just a lightbulb, Bucky.”
“Get down,” he repeated, voice soft but firm, like the sound of a lock clicking shut.
You sighed dramatically but stepped down, brushing dust off your apron. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re reckless,” he shot back, climbing onto the chair himself. It creaked under his weight, but he made quick work of the fixture, replacing the bulb in seconds before hopping down. He set the empty box on the counter like he’d just conquered something monumental. “See? No problem,” he said, smug.
You rolled your eyes, though your lips twitched. “You act like you saved me from falling off a building.”
His gaze softened as he brushed a speck of dust from your shoulder. “Doesn’t matter how small it is, doll. I don’t like seeing you in danger.”
The habit stuck after that. A loose hinge on your cabinet? Bucky fixed it before you even realized it needed repairing. A crack in the paint near your window? He brought in supplies and patched it one evening, sleeves rolled and shirt clinging to his back while you tried not to stare too obviously. And it wasn’t just repairs. One night you came home with groceries, and before you could even set the bags down, he was unloading them, stacking cans with soldier-like precision. He held up a carton of tea, frowning. “You drink this?”
“Yes?” you said slowly, tilting your head.
He dropped it into the cupboard. “Not anymore. I’ll bring you something better.”
You crossed your arms, trying to look stern. “You can’t just replace my tea without asking.”
His mouth curved faintly. “Then I’ll ask. May I replace your tea with something that won’t taste like dishwater?”
You laughed, covering your mouth with your hand. “Fine. You win.”
But the moment that stayed with you came later, when you offered something back. You’d picked up a box of his favorite pastries—something you’d noticed he always lingered over when you passed a certain bakery. When you handed it to him shyly at the shop, his expression faltered. He blinked down at the package, then at you, as if the gesture didn’t compute. “For me?” he asked, voice quiet.
“Of course,” you said, suddenly nervous. “You’re always helping me. I thought… you might like them.”
He opened the box, stared at the neat row of pastries, then at you again. His jaw worked, and when he finally spoke, his voice was low, almost reverent. “No one does this for me.”
You reached out, brushing your fingers over his wrist. “They should.” His eyes darkened, burning with something fierce, something hungry—but instead of pulling you closer like you half-expected, he only nodded, as if committing the moment to memory.
---
It happened on an ordinary night, the kind where the city felt half-asleep and the shop was already dark behind you. Bucky walked you home as usual, his hand brushing lightly at your back whenever the sidewalk narrowed. The streets were quiet, the glow of the lamps stretching long shadows across the pavement.
You were telling him about a customer who’d come in earlier, half-laughing at their confusion between carnations and camellias, when your foot caught on an uneven crack in the sidewalk. You stumbled, breath catching as your balance tipped forward.
Before you could even react, his arm was around your waist. It wasn’t just a steadying touch—it was a full, protective pull, yanking you against his chest so hard your breath whooshed out. His other hand splayed across your shoulder, holding you there, shielding you as if the cracked pavement had been a bullet. “Careful,” he rasped, voice rough, too sharp for the small stumble.
Your heart raced, half from the fall, half from the intensity in his eyes when you looked up. He wasn’t just steadying you. He was possessing you, holding you so tightly you couldn’t have slipped away if you tried. “I’m fine,” you whispered, though your voice wavered.
He didn’t let go right away. His grip stayed firm, the muscle in his jaw ticking as though he was fighting some deeper instinct. Finally, slowly, his fingers loosened, but his hand stayed at your waist, lingering even as you stood straight again. “You scared me,” he admitted, voice low. The honesty in it startled you more than the stumble.
You swallowed hard, shy under his gaze. “It was just a crack in the sidewalk.”
“Doesn’t matter,” he said, the words sharp but weighted with something else—something you couldn’t quite name. “Anything that could hurt you… I won’t let it.”
You didn’t know what to say to that. The silence stretched, heavy and electric, until you finally let out a small laugh to ease it. “Bucky,” you teased softly, “you act like you’re my personal bodyguard.”
His lips curved faintly, but his eyes never softened. “Maybe I am.” You didn’t argue. Not when your heart was still racing from the feel of his arms around you, not when the memory of his grip lingered like fire on your skin. And for the rest of the walk, his hand stayed at your waist, steady and sure, as if he didn’t trust the world not to trip you again.
---
It was late when you noticed it. The soft scrape of the couch, the low creak of springs shifting—quiet, but not quiet enough. You blinked awake in your bed, the faint glow from the lamp spilling into the hall. For a moment, you thought maybe you’d dreamed it. But then you heard the sound again, the unmistakable weight of someone moving restlessly.
You padded out into the living room, bare feet whispering on the floor. Bucky sat on the couch, shoulders hunched, elbows braced against his knees. His hands were clasped together so tightly the tendons stood out, and his jaw worked as though he was chewing back words. The blanket you’d given him earlier was pushed aside, rumpled like he’d tried to settle under it and failed. He looked up sharply when he heard you. His eyes softened, but only a little. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”
“You didn’t,” you whispered. You took a step closer, watching him carefully. “Nightmare?”
His throat bobbed. He didn’t answer, but the silence was loud enough. Your chest ached. You crossed the small space and lowered yourself beside him. For a long moment, you just sat there, shoulder to shoulder, letting the quiet settle. Then, slowly, you leaned into him, resting your head against his arm. He went very still. You could feel the tension thrumming through him, the way his breath hitched, the careful restraint in the way he didn’t move. “You don’t have to do this alone,” you murmured.
He exhaled, a shudder slipping out despite himself. His arm shifted—hesitant at first—then wrapped around your shoulders, drawing you closer. You let him, curling instinctively against his side, your body fitting against his with surprising ease. The silence stretched. His breathing steadied, slow and deep, but you could still feel the echoes of the storm lingering in him. So you stayed, quiet and warm, letting your presence do what words couldn’t.
At some point, your eyes grew heavy again. The steady rhythm of his chest beneath your cheek, the weight of his arm holding you—it was too much comfort to resist. Sleep pulled at you until you gave in, drifting off curled against him.
When you stirred again, it was to the strange awareness of being shifted. His arms were around you, lifting you easily. Your head lolled against his shoulder, and you blinked blearily up at him. “You should be in bed,” he murmured, voice low and rough, though his eyes softened when he saw you awake.
“M’fine here,” you mumbled, not fully conscious of the words.
His lips curved faintly, but he didn’t set you down. Instead, he lowered himself back onto the couch, letting you settle against him, your cheek pressed to his chest this time. His hand brushed down your arm, steady and grounding. You drifted again, half-asleep, your last hazy thought the realization that he was calmer now—his heartbeat steady, his breathing even—as though holding you was the only anchor he needed.
---
The first thing you noticed when you woke was warmth. Not the blanket—you realized quickly it had slipped down in the night—but the steady heat of a chest under your cheek, the quiet rise and fall of someone breathing. It took only a blink to remember where you were, who you were on top of.
The early light from the window cut across the room, spilling soft gold on his face. His head was tipped back against the couch, lashes low, jaw unshaven and rough. He looked younger like this, stripped of the sharp edges he carried in daylight. Vulnerable.
You shifted slightly, the motion enough to stir him. His arm—still heavy across your waist—tightened instinctively, pulling you back before you could move away. His eyes cracked open, blue and still hazy from sleep, but the moment he realized where you were, they sharpened. “Morning,” you whispered, your voice catching at how close you still were.
His gaze searched yours, careful, guarded. “You’re still here.”
You smiled faintly. “Of course I am.”
He swallowed, his throat working, but he didn’t release you. His fingers brushed lightly along your side, almost tentative, as if waiting for you to flinch. “You don’t… mind this?”
Your heart skipped. You shook your head, whispering, “No.” The silence that followed was thick with things neither of you were saying. You could feel his pulse against your palm where it rested on his chest, steady but a little too quick. He was waiting—waiting for a crack, a sign that you’d regret what happened. Instead, you curled closer, nestling against him. “You slept,” you murmured, half teasing. “Didn’t even wake me this time.”
A ghost of a smile tugged at his lips. “That’s ‘cause you were here.”
The words landed heavy, unpolished and raw, and for a moment neither of you breathed.
You didn’t say anything, didn’t break it. You just stayed there, your cheek against his chest, his arm secure around you, until the sounds of the waking city crept through the window and the day forced you to move. But even then, when you finally pushed yourself up, he let his hand linger at your wrist, reluctant to let go.
The morning moved slowly, like it didn’t want to let go of the quiet night before. You padded into the kitchen first, hair mussed, blanket still slung around your shoulders. Bucky followed a moment later, barefoot, his undershirt clinging faintly to his chest. He looked out of place and yet so settled, as if he’d been here a hundred mornings before.
You went for the kettle, but his hand slid past yours, already reaching for it. “Sit,” he said simply. You gave him a look, but he was already filling it with water, movements efficient, deliberate. You sank into a chair at the table, hiding a smile as you watched him. His broad shoulders bent under your too-small cupboards, his frown of concentration as he searched through your cabinets until he found the tea. He set it down with a grunt, muttering under his breath about “organizing this better next time.”
By the time he brought you a mug, he’d also sliced a piece of the bread you’d bought together, setting it on a plate with a seriousness that made you bite back a laugh. “You don’t have to take care of me every second,” you teased, wrapping your hands around the warm mug.
“Yes, I do,” he answered without hesitation, pulling out the chair opposite you.
You blinked, heat rising to your cheeks. “That’s not very normal, you know.”
His gaze sharpened, then softened again, and he leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I don’t want normal. I want you safe. I want…” He trailed off, jaw tight. “…I want mornings like this.”
The honesty in his voice stilled you. Your throat felt tight, but you smiled anyway, shy and warm. “Then I guess I’ll let you keep making tea.”
For a long while, you just sat together in the small kitchen—the hum of the kettle, the creak of the chair under his weight, the soft sound of his breathing across the table. Ordinary, but not. Intimate in ways that left your chest aching. When you finally stood to rinse your mug, he was there instantly, taking it from your hands. “I said sit,” he reminded, his mouth curving faintly.
You rolled your eyes but went back to the table. Watching him wash the single mug at your sink, sleeves rolled, shoulders filling the space, you thought that maybe—just maybe—this was what he meant when he said he wanted mornings like this. And you thought, maybe, you did too.
--
It was one of those nights where the air felt restless, heavy with the promise of rain. The shop had closed hours ago, but Bucky lingered like always, walking at your side while the streets shimmered under the faint orange glow of the lamps. The first drop landed on your cheek just as you rounded the corner to your street. You brushed it away, glancing up at the dark sky. “Looks like we’re about to get drenched.”
Bucky’s gaze flicked upward, then back to you. “We’ll be fine. It’s not far.”
But by the time you reached the halfway mark, the drizzle had turned steady, cool drops soaking through your clothes. You let out a startled laugh, clutching the bag you carried tighter to your chest. “So much for fine.”
He caught the sound—the way you laughed, bright and unbothered—and something softened in his face. “You think this is funny?”
“A little,” you admitted, tilting your head back to the rain. “Feels kind of… freeing.” He watched you for a long moment, his jaw tight, his shoulders tense. The city blurred around you, people darting for cover, but he stayed rooted, unmoving, his eyes fixed only on you. “Bucky?” you asked, blinking the rain from your lashes.
He stepped closer, slow, deliberate, until his hand lifted—hesitant, almost reverent—and cupped your cheek. The rain beaded across his glove, slid down his wrist, but his palm was warm, steady. You froze, heart hammering. “I shouldn’t…” His voice was low, strained, like he was fighting himself. “But I can’t keep pretending I don’t want this.”
Before you could answer, his mouth was on yours. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t demanding. It was slow, careful, almost cautious, as though he was giving you every chance to pull away. His lips were warm against yours, tasting faintly of rain and something darker, something entirely him.
For a moment, you were too stunned to move. Then you melted into him, your hand curling lightly into his shirt, your body leaning closer without thought. His thumb brushed along your jaw, grounding, steady, while his other arm slipped around your waist, drawing you nearer.
The world narrowed to the rhythm of the rain and the steady thrum of your pulse, the rest of the city fading away. When he finally drew back, his forehead rested against yours, his breath ragged, eyes burning through the thin veil of water between you. “You don’t know what you’re doing to me, doll,” he murmured, voice rough and reverent all at once.
Your lips curved, trembling but sure. “Maybe I do.” He huffed a quiet, disbelieving laugh, brushing another kiss—softer, fleeting—against your lips before tucking you firmly against his chest. The rain poured harder, but you barely noticed. Not with his arms around you, not with the weight of that kiss still lingering between you.
The walk back to your apartment was quieter than usual, but it wasn’t the silence of strangers or awkwardness. It was charged, heavy with something unspoken—like every step still echoed with the kiss you’d just shared.
Bucky kept you tucked firmly against his side, his arm secure around your waist as though the rain or the night itself might try to take you from him. His head bent closer than usual, his hair damp and curling at the edges, his jaw tight with something you couldn’t quite read.
You caught him looking at you more than once. Not in the way he always did—observant, calculating—but softer. Like he couldn’t believe you were real, that you’d kissed him back, that you hadn’t pulled away.
By the time you reached your door, the rain had soaked through your clothes, dripping onto the floor as you fumbled with the lock. His hand covered yours, steadying, guiding the key into place. When the door clicked open, you stepped inside, turning back to him.
For the first time since you’d met him, he hesitated on the threshold. His shoulders were squared, his expression composed, but his eyes betrayed him—something raw flickering there. “You should get dry,” he said at last, his voice low, almost hoarse.
“So should you,” you countered softly. “Come in.” For a beat, he didn’t move. Then he stepped inside, the door shutting behind him with a soft finality.
Inside, the apartment felt smaller than ever, the air thick with rain and warmth and the weight of what had just happened. You peeled off your damp sweater, tossing it over the back of a chair, and glanced up to find him watching you, his own jacket hanging heavy in his hand. Neither of you spoke for a long moment. Finally, you whispered, “Bucky…”
He crossed the space in two strides, his hand lifting again to your cheek. You froze, heart hammering, as his thumb brushed a drop of rain from your skin. “I shouldn’t have kissed you,” he murmured, though his voice betrayed no regret.
You tilted your face toward his palm. “But you did.”
His lips curved faintly, a hint of something dangerous and tender all at once. “And I’ll do it again if you let me.”
You didn’t answer with words. You rose on your toes, closing the small space between you, your lips meeting his once more. This kiss was different—hungrier, deeper, the careful restraint from before crumbling under the weight of what you both had been holding back. His arm wrapped tight around your waist, pulling you flush against him, while his other hand cradled the back of your head like you were something breakable.
When you finally broke apart, both of you breathless, he rested his forehead against yours, murmuring your name like it was a vow. And in that moment, with the rain still dripping outside and his heartbeat thrumming against your chest, you knew something had shifted for good.
The rain had stopped by morning, leaving the city washed clean, the air sharp and cool when you cracked the window above your sink. Your apartment, though, was warm—warmer still with the weight of what had happened the night before. You padded into the kitchen, hair mussed from sleep, still in the oversized shirt you wore to bed. The smell of coffee hit you before you even saw him. Bucky was already there.
He stood at your counter like he owned the space, sleeves rolled, steam curling from the pot he’d set on. His jacket hung neatly on the back of the chair, his damp clothes from the night before draped over the radiator to dry. He glanced up when you entered, and for the first time in all the mornings he’d lingered here, his gaze softened in a way that made your breath catch. “Morning, doll,” he murmured.
You sank into a chair, watching him pour a cup. “You’re getting comfortable.”
He set the mug in front of you, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. “Maybe I am.”
You wrapped your hands around the cup, letting the warmth seep into your fingers. The silence that followed wasn’t awkward—it was weighted, thick with everything that had changed between you. Every glance lingered a beat too long, every brush of his hand near yours deliberate. When you finished your coffee, you stood to rinse the mug, but his hand caught your wrist lightly. “I’ll do it.”
“You don’t have to,” you said, smiling.
“I want to,” he countered, voice steady, his thumb brushing once across your skin before he released you.
Later, you opened the shop as usual, but the rhythm of the day felt different with him around. He stayed longer than he usually did, claiming a spot in the back to “keep out of the way” but emerging whenever he thought you needed him—hauling a box, adjusting a display, even holding the ladder steady when you climbed up to reach a high shelf. “You know I’ve done this before,” you teased, glancing down at him.
“Not on my watch,” he muttered, knuckles white on the ladder. By the afternoon, he’d drifted closer, sitting on the counter while you arranged a bouquet for a customer. His eyes tracked every motion of your hands, and when you tied the final ribbon, he murmured, “blue suits you better than those roses.”
You blinked up at him, flustered. “That wasn’t for me.”
“Doesn’t matter,” he said, his voice low. “You’d make it look better.” Your cheeks warmed, and you quickly turned back to the flowers.
That evening, after you locked the door, he walked you home again. The air was still damp, the sky clear now, but his hand stayed at your back the entire way. At your door, instead of pulling back like usual, he lingered. “Let me in,” he said softly. Not a command this time, not quite. You hesitated only a moment before opening the door. Inside, you both shed your coats and shoes, the small apartment wrapping around you in its familiar warmth. He stood close, too close, his gaze locked on yours with an intensity that made your heart stutter.
For the first time, you didn’t look away. And though he didn’t kiss you again right then, you both knew it wasn’t because he didn’t want to. It was because the night before had changed everything—and you were both still learning how to live in that new space.
---
The first time he left, it felt strange. Bucky had woven himself into your days without question—closing the shop with you, carrying groceries, claiming the corner of your couch like it was his by right. He didn’t linger on the edges of your world anymore; he stepped directly into it.
But then one morning, he kissed your forehead at the door and said quietly, “I’ve got business I can’t put off any longer.” His eyes lingered on you like he hated the words coming out of his mouth. “I’ll be gone a while.”
You didn’t ask how long. You’d learned by now that some answers weren’t yours to demand. You only nodded, letting him go. When Bucky walked back into his penthouse, the silence struck him like a fist. It was too still, too immaculate, the air faintly cold from being shut up for days. Natasha was already there, perched on the arm of a chair like she’d been waiting. “Thought you’d moved out,” she said dryly, arching a brow.
He shrugged off his coat, dropping it onto the back of the sofa. “Didn’t realize you were keeping tabs.”
She tilted her head, eyes flicking toward the fresh bouquets lined along the window ledge. Some were old—petals curling, stems leaning—but the colors still painted the room in soft life. Your flowers. “Hard not to notice,” she said. “Your fortress looks like a greenhouse.”
Bucky’s gaze lingered on the fading blooms, something tight twisting in his chest. He’d meant to bring them home, to replace them, to keep them fresh—but the shop, the walks, your laugh, your soft hands pressing tea into his grip… it had been easier to stay in your world than return to this empty one. Natasha’s voice pulled him back. “The meeting last week—you missed it. Again.”
He grunted. “Send them my apologies.”
“You don’t have apologies big enough for the people you’re brushing off.” She stood, crossing her arms. “You’re slipping, Barnes.” He shot her a look, sharp enough to silence most. But Natasha only raised a brow, unshaken. “What happened to you?” she asked, quieter now. “You used to live for this. Now I have to drag you back here by the collar.”
Bucky didn’t answer. He poured himself a drink instead, his eyes drifting once more to the flowers. One in particular caught his attention—a small blue bloom tucked into a vase. You’d given it to him, shy and smiling, saying you’d picked it because it matched his eyes. His jaw tightened, fingers curling around the glass. “I’m not slipping.”
“Then what do you call it?” Natasha pressed.
He looked at her then, his expression sharp, dangerous—but his voice was low, certain. “I call it finally having something worth more than this.”
Natasha studied him for a long beat, then huffed a quiet laugh. “God help her if she doesn’t know what she’s getting into.” Bucky said nothing. His eyes lingered on the blue flowers, softer now, before he turned back to the empty penthouse.
Bucky didn’t last the night. He’d tried—sitting in the penthouse office, staring at the stack of reports Natasha had dropped on his desk, the kind of paperwork he used to burn through without blinking. But the silence pressed in, suffocating. The city sprawled below him, restless and alive, but all he could think about was the warmth of your little apartment. The way your voice softened when you teased him, the way your hand lingered on his wrist when you passed him tea, the way you’d kissed him in the rain.
He set the pen down, unfinished page abandoned, and leaned back in his chair. His eyes found the vase on the windowsill again—the flowers you’d given him. The petals were curling now, the blue fading, but the sight of them punched straight through the cold shell he wore in this place. “Fuck this,” he muttered. Ten minutes later, he was gone.
It was well past midnight when the knock came at your door. You blinked awake, heart thudding, but you knew who it was before you even checked. The weight of his presence pressed through the wood like it always did.
You opened the door to find him there—damp from the mist outside, hair mussed, eyes burning with something fierce and restless. He didn’t say a word at first, just looked at you, drinking in the sight of you like he’d been starved. “Bucky?” you whispered, confused but soft. “It’s late.”
“I couldn’t stay away,” he admitted, voice rough. The honesty in it knocked the air right out of you.
You stepped aside without thinking, and he slipped in, shutting the door quietly behind him. He stood in your living room like he was both too big for the space and yet exactly where he belonged. His jacket hung heavy on his shoulders, but his gaze was only on you. “I thought you said you had business,” you murmured.
“I did.” He exhaled, a sharp sound, shaking his head. “But none of it mattered. Not when all I could think about was you.”
Your breath caught, and you wrapped your arms around yourself, trying to hide the warmth creeping up your chest. “You came all this way in the middle of the night… just to see me?”
His jaw tightened, but when he spoke, his voice was steady. “I came because I needed to know you were here. Safe. Real.” The vulnerability under his words left you starstruck. For once, the weight he carried wasn’t hidden behind commands or possessive glares—it was just him, raw and unguarded, standing in your apartment like the man he didn’t show the world. And when you stepped closer, reaching out to brush the damp from his sleeve, his hand caught yours, holding it against his chest like an anchor. “I don’t care how late it is,” he said, voice low. “If you’ll have me, I’ll come back every night.”
The clock on your wall ticked quietly, the only sound filling the space between you. Bucky still hadn’t let go of your hand, his thumb brushing absently against your skin as though he couldn’t stand to stop touching you. His presence was steady, grounding—but you could see the faint lines of exhaustion etched into his face, the way his shoulders slumped despite his stubbornness. You rubbed at your eyes, fighting the pull of sleep. “Bucky,” you whispered, your voice small, rough with drowsiness.
He tilted his head, gaze softening instantly. “Yeah, doll?”
“Carry me back to bed?” The words slipped out before you could second-guess them, half a murmur, half a plea.
For a heartbeat, his expression flickered—surprise, something darker, something warmer. Then his mouth curved, slow and deliberate, into the kind of smile that always made your heart stutter. “You got it.” Before you could say anything more, his arms were around you. He scooped you up easily, strong and certain, bridal style once again. You gave a sleepy little sound of protest, more out of instinct than anything else, your arms looping around his neck as you curled against him. “You like makin’ me do this, don’t you?” he murmured, voice low, almost teasing as he carried you through the dim apartment.
“Maybe,” you whispered, smiling faintly against his shoulder.
The bedroom door creaked open, and he nudged it wider with his foot. The room was still warm from earlier, the blankets rumpled. He lowered you onto the mattress with infinite care, like you were something fragile that might break if he wasn’t gentle enough.
But when you caught his wrist before he could pull back, your voice soft but certain, his entire body stilled. “Stay with me?”
His eyes flicked to yours—blue, burning, conflicted—and then he nodded once. “Always.”
He toed off his boots, shed his jacket, and slid onto the bed beside you. The mattress dipped under his weight, the space between you vanishing when his arm slipped around your waist, pulling you back against his chest.
You sighed, nestling into him, your hand curling around his forearm where it lay heavy across you. His breath was warm against your hair, steady and sure, but you could still feel the tension in him, the way he held you like he was afraid you might disappear. Sleep tugged at you again, and just before you slipped under, you whispered, “feels right… when you’re here.”
He pressed his lips to the back of your head, a kiss so soft you almost missed it. “Good,” he whispered. “’Cause I’m not going anywhere.” And for the first time in a long time—for both of you—you fell asleep without a trace of fear.
The morning crept in soft and unhurried, sunlight spilling across your bedroom in pale strips. You stirred slowly, awareness tugging at you in waves—the warmth pressed against your back, the steady weight of an arm looped around your waist, the faint tickle of breath brushing against your hair. For a moment, you simply lay there, cocooned in the quiet. Bucky’s chest rose and fell against you, solid and reassuring, his arm heavy but comforting, like he couldn’t bear to let you go even in sleep.
When you shifted slightly, he made a low sound in his throat, not quite awake but not fully asleep either. His arm tightened, pulling you closer, his face burying against the curve of your neck. The bristle of his jaw grazed your skin, and you bit back a laugh. “Bucky,” you whispered, your voice still husky from sleep.
“Mm,” he rumbled, voice low, heavy with drowsiness. “Stay still. Too early.” You smiled into the pillow, letting yourself melt into him. But when you wriggled again—just to tease—he huffed, pressing a kiss against your shoulder, lazy and soft. “Thought I told you to stay put,” he murmured, lips brushing your skin again, this time slower.
Your breath caught, warmth spreading through you. “You’re not usually this… affectionate in the morning,” you teased, your voice barely above a whisper.
He gave a faint laugh, the sound vibrating against your back. “Don’t usually get mornings like this.” Another kiss followed, lower along your shoulder. Then another, featherlight at the back of your neck.
You giggled quietly, tucking your chin as if you could hide from the press of his lips. “That tickles.”
“Good,” he murmured, nipping lightly at your skin just enough to make you squeak. His arm tightened again when you shifted, holding you flush against him. “You’re not getting away.”
Your cheeks warmed, but you let out a breathy laugh, turning your head slightly to glance back at him. His eyes were half-lidded, blue softened by sleep but burning with something tender. The sight made your stomach flip. “You’re ridiculous,” you whispered, smiling despite yourself.
“Maybe,” he said easily, brushing his nose against your hair. “But you’re mine.”
The words should’ve sounded possessive, but in his voice—low, almost reverent—they were softer, gentler, like a confession instead of a claim. You didn’t argue. Not when his lips found yours a moment later, lazy and unhurried, like he had all the time in the world to kiss you. And for once, maybe he did.
The lazy morning stretched long, unhurried, as though the world outside had decided to pause just for you. Bucky didn’t let you go right away. Every time you shifted like you might get up, his arm cinched tighter, his lips brushing your temple in silent protest. Eventually, though, your stomach growled loud enough to make you both laugh. “Fine,” he muttered, finally loosening his hold. “But only because you’re hungry.”
You padded into the kitchen barefoot, tugging him along behind you by the hand, which he allowed with surprising docility for a man who barked orders at everyone else. He leaned against the counter while you rummaged through the cupboards, watching with that intent gaze that always made you feel both flustered and oddly cherished. “Eggs, toast… maybe fruit?” you mumbled.
“I’ll do it,” he said, already reaching for the pan.
You tried to argue, but he shot you a look over his shoulder—the kind that dared you to push back. You rolled your eyes but smiled, sinking into a chair as he worked. He wasn’t polished, but he was efficient, moving with the kind of quiet precision that said he’d cooked for himself far too many times in silence.
When he set a plate in front of you—scrambled eggs, toast buttered just the way you liked—you blinked, warmth spreading in your chest. “You didn’t have to—”
“I wanted to,” he cut in, his voice soft but firm.
The meal wasn’t fancy, but you couldn’t stop smiling as you ate together at your tiny table. He asked about your week, listened with rapt attention as you rambled about flowers and customers, and even smirked when you teased him about hogging the pepper.
The rest of the day unfurled lazily. You cleaned the shop’s ledger at the table while he stretched out on the couch, half-reading, half-watching you. At some point, he disappeared into the kitchen and came back with tea, setting the mug by your elbow without a word. Later, you both ended up tackling laundry, and you laughed when he insisted on folding with military precision. “You’re ridiculous,” you teased, holding up a perfectly squared shirt.
“Efficient,” he corrected, lips twitching.
By mid-afternoon, sunlight spilled through the windows, and you both ended up back on the couch. You leaned into him, your head resting against his chest while his arm draped lazily around your shoulders. He pressed the occasional kiss to your hair, to your temple, slow and lazy, as though he couldn’t help himself. One kiss landed just behind your ear, ticklish enough that you giggled, turning to nudge at him. “Bucky…”
He smirked faintly, kissing you again, this time softer, lips lingering against your skin. “What?”
“You’re… distracting.”
“Good,” he murmured, nuzzling lightly against your hair before kissing you again, this time catching your lips in a slow, lazy press that left your cheeks warm.
You tried to hide your smile against his chest, but he felt it anyway, his thumb brushing lazy circles over your arm. The day melted into evening like that—quiet, ordinary, yet threaded with something so tender it made your chest ache.
Evening settled gently, the last of the sunlight fading from your windows, and for a while it felt like the day might slip into night without disturbance. You and Bucky lingered on the couch, your head nestled on his shoulder, his arm looped comfortably around you. His thumb traced lazy arcs against your arm while your favorite show played faintly in the background.
It was quiet. Too quiet, maybe, because the knock at your door startled both of you. Bucky’s arm tightened around you instantly, his body going taut beneath your cheek. The easy warmth that had colored the whole day dropped from his face, replaced by sharp alertness. “Stay here,” he murmured, voice low, already rising to his feet.
You frowned, but before you could protest, he’d crossed the room. He opened the door a crack, blocking the entrance with his body. Natasha’s voice slipped in, calm but cutting. “You’ve been hard to reach.”
Your brows shot up, but you stayed where you were, listening. Bucky didn’t move aside, didn’t open the door further. “Not an accident.”
“You’re expected tonight,” she said, and though her tone was casual, there was no mistaking the weight behind it. “You’ve dodged the last two. That’s not an option anymore.”
“I said I’d handle it,” Bucky bit out, jaw clenched.
From your angle on the couch, you could see Natasha tilt her head, eyes narrowing slightly. “You can’t handle it from here.”
The silence stretched, heavy and uncomfortable. For the first time, you realized just how little you knew about what “business” meant in his world. Bucky’s body blocked you from the door, but the tension in his shoulders told you enough. “I’ll come,” he said finally, voice clipped. “Tomorrow night.”
Natasha arched a brow, then glanced past him toward you. Just for a second, her eyes softened with something unreadable before she nodded once. “Tomorrow,” she confirmed, and then she was gone.
Bucky shut the door with a quiet finality, leaning against it for a moment before turning back to you. His expression had softened again, but not all the way. There was still a shadow there, still a reminder of the part of him you didn’t see when he was folding laundry or kissing your shoulder in the morning. You sat up a little, hesitant. “Was that… work?”
He crossed the room, his jaw tight, and sank back onto the couch beside you. His hand found yours almost instinctively, like he needed the contact to ground himself. “Yeah,” he said at last. “Work.”
You studied him, unsure whether to push, but the look in his eyes stopped you. Not because it was cold—but because it wasn’t. It was protective, desperate, like he’d do anything to keep you from the parts of his life that led Natasha to your door.
So instead of asking, you curled against him again, letting your fingers twine with his. “Tomorrow,” you murmured softly, repeating his promise. His arm wrapped around you tightly, his lips brushing your temple. “Tomorrow,” he echoed. But the way he held you, fierce and unwilling to let go, told you that if it were up to him, he’d never leave your apartment again.
The night he finally went, the shift in him was immediate. You’d gotten used to a certain softness around him—the lazy mornings, his arm around your waist as you drifted through the farmer’s market, the way his mouth curved when you teased him. But when he stepped out of your apartment that evening, dressed sharp and dark, there was nothing soft about him. His jaw was set, his eyes hard, his whole body coiled tight like a man walking into battle.
You tried not to worry. He’d promised he would be back. Still, when you finally drifted to sleep on the couch, the clock ticking toward midnight, the sound of a knock at your door jolted you awake. You knew it was him before you even opened it.
Bucky stood in the hall, shoulders broad, coat collar turned up against the chill. His hair was damp with mist, but it wasn’t the weather that made your heart lurch—it was his hands. His knuckles were split raw, streaked with blood, some dried, some fresh. His face was drawn, exhaustion and something darker carved deep into his features. “Bucky,” you whispered, reaching for him before you could stop yourself.
“I’m fine,” he muttered, brushing past you into the warmth of the apartment. But the words rang hollow.
You shut the door quickly and followed him into the living room. He dropped heavily onto the couch, elbows braced against his knees, head bowed. For a moment, he just breathed, the weight of the night settling on him like armor he couldn’t shed. You crouched in front of him, your hand hovering near his without quite touching. “You’re not fine. You’re bleeding.”
His eyes lifted, blue and tired, searching yours. Something in them softened, cracked, and for a moment he looked less like the untouchable man everyone feared and more like the one who’d spent the morning teasing you with kisses. “Doesn’t matter,” he said quietly. “I’m here.”
“It matters to me.”
He closed his eyes, jaw tight, but he didn’t pull away when you reached for his hands. Carefully, gently, you guided them into your lap, your thumbs brushing over the torn skin. You fetched the first aid kit you’d kept tucked away since the first time you’d seen him like this. As you worked, dabbing at the blood, his gaze never left you. His eyes followed every movement of your hands, every soft touch, every careful breath. “You shouldn’t have to do this,” he murmured after a long silence.
You looked up at him, meeting his gaze steadily. “Maybe not. But I want to.”
His breath hitched, something raw flickering across his face. He leaned forward then, his forehead resting against yours, the distance between you vanishing. “Sweetheart…” His voice broke low, rough. “I don’t deserve this. Don’t deserve you.”
Your fingers tightened around his, careful not to hurt him but unwilling to let go. “That’s not your choice to make, Bucky.”
For a long moment, you stayed like that—forehead to forehead, his battered hands in yours, the room hushed around you. And though he never said what had happened out there, the way he clung to you told you enough.
Bucky was quieter than usual after you finished bandaging his knuckles. His eyes tracked every movement you made, like he was memorizing them, but he didn’t speak. Not when you cleaned up the kit, not when you coaxed him toward your bedroom. When you tugged gently at his hand, he followed without resistance. His shoulders looked heavier than they had all week, but the set of his jaw eased the moment you reached the bedroom door.
You crawled into bed first, expecting him to take his usual place at your side, but when you looked back, he was still standing there. His eyes softened, shadows clinging to the edges of his expression. “C’mere,” he said quietly.
You frowned. “I’m already here.”
He shook his head once, low and deliberate. He sat on the mattress, leaning against the headboard, legs stretched out. His hand patted his chest. “Here. Want you here.” Your breath caught, heat rushing to your cheeks. The request was tender, almost vulnerable, but it was also so very him—not asking, but needing, like the idea of you saying no had never crossed his mind. Still, you didn’t hesitate. You climbed up, settling carefully between his legs, your back against his chest at first. But when his arms wrapped firmly around you, pulling you closer, you shifted, turning just enough to lay half across him, your cheek pressed to the solid warmth of his chest. His heartbeat thudded steady beneath your ear, faster than it should’ve been for a man trying to rest. His chin dipped, lips brushing your hair as he murmured, “That’s it. Stay right there.”
You shifted shyly, your fingers curling lightly into his shirt. “You’re comfortable like this?”
His arms tightened, pressing you flush against him. “More than comfortable.”
For a long while, neither of you spoke. You just breathed together, your body melting into his, his warmth sinking into you until you couldn’t tell where you ended and he began. The tension in his frame slowly unwound, his muscles relaxing bit by bit as though your weight anchored him back to the earth.
When you tilted your head slightly, you found his eyes already on you, blue and intent even in the dim light. Without a word, he dipped down, his lips brushing yours in the gentlest, laziest kiss you’d ever felt—more a question than a demand, more a sigh than a claim. You smiled against his mouth, shy and soft, and he kissed you again, this one lingering, his thumb tracing idle circles at your waist. You giggled when his stubble scratched your cheek, and his lips curved faintly against yours.
“Sweetheart,” he murmured, low and rough, “don’t giggle when I’m trying to kiss you.”
You flushed, hiding your face against his chest, and he chuckled quietly, his mouth pressing into your hair instead. It wasn’t long before your breaths synced again, the weight of the day pulling you toward sleep. But this time, when his body stilled beneath you and his chest rose and fell in the deep rhythm of rest, you knew he was holding you not out of fear, but because—for once—he could.
---
The fight started small—like most things between you and Bucky did. It was late afternoon, and you’d decided to run down the block to grab milk before closing the shop. Harmless, ordinary. When you returned, juggling the bag in one hand, Bucky was already waiting at the door, his expression sharp, his shoulders rigid. “Don’t do that again.”
You blinked, startled by the clipped tone. “Do what?”
“Leave without telling me.” His voice was low, edged, the kind that made most people freeze.
You frowned, setting the bag down on the counter. “Bucky, I was gone ten minutes.”
“Ten minutes is long enough for something to happen,” he shot back, stepping closer. “You can’t just walk out without me knowing where you are.”
Your chest tightened—not with fear, but with frustration. You’d had this conversation with him before. The way he framed things like orders, the way he seemed to assume he had the right to tell you what you could and couldn’t do. You drew in a breath, steadying yourself. “You didn’t ask me, Bucky. You told me.”
His brow furrowed, confusion flashing across his face. “So? I don’t want you at risk. I’m not gonna apologize for that.”
“That’s not the point.” You stepped closer too, your voice rising just slightly. “I’ve told you before—I need you to ask me. Not command me like—like I don’t have a choice.” For the first time, he faltered. His mouth opened, then shut again, his jaw tightening. You could see the flicker of surprise in his eyes, like he hadn’t expected you to push back this hard. Your heart hammered, but you pressed on, quieter now, more vulnerable. “If you want me to tell you where I’m going… then ask me. I’ll tell you. Gladly. But don’t bark orders at me, Bucky. That’s not how this works.”
The silence stretched, thick with tension. His hands flexed at his sides, metal fingers clenching once before he exhaled slowly. “No one talks to me like that,” he admitted finally, his voice rough. “No one pushes back.”
You softened, your frustration edged with something gentler. “Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe you need someone who will.”
His eyes locked on yours, something raw flickering there—anger, yes, but also respect. And maybe, just maybe, a trace of relief. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, careful. “…Will you at least tell me next time?”
You bit back a smile, though your cheeks warmed. “See? Was that so hard?”
His lips twitched, not quite a smile, but close. And though the tension didn’t vanish completely, you knew you’d broken through something important—that he’d actually heard you. And Bucky, for all his control, didn’t know what to do with that.
The shop was already locked for the night, the ledger closed, and the soft glow of your single lamp lit the room. You’d expected Bucky to be restless after your argument—brooding, maybe even distant—but instead he lingered in the doorway, watching you curl up on the couch with a book.
When you looked up, you caught that same flicker from earlier—the one that said he’d actually listened. He crossed the room slowly, sitting on the edge of the couch. For a moment he just sat there, silent, his hands flexing once on his knees. Then, in a voice quieter than you were used to hearing from him, he asked, “can I hold you?”
Your breath caught. The simple question, asked instead of commanded, made your chest warm. You set your book aside and smiled softly. “Yes.” Relief flickered in his eyes. He shifted back, opening his arms. You climbed into his lap carefully, your knees bracketing his thighs, your arms looping around his shoulders. He drew you in immediately, strong arms banding around your waist, pulling you flush against him like he’d been starving for this.
For a long moment, neither of you spoke. You just curled into him, your cheek pressed against the solid warmth of his chest, listening to the steady thrum of his heartbeat. His breath stirred your hair, slow and deep, as though the tension had finally bled from him.
His hand slid up and down your back, not possessive now, but gentle, grounding. When he tilted his head down to press a kiss to your temple, you giggled quietly, shyer than you meant to be. “What?” he murmured, lips brushing against your skin.
“Nothing,” you whispered, though your cheeks warmed. “Just… it tickles.”
His lips curved against your hair. “Good.” He kissed you again, lower this time, at your cheekbone. “You’re sweet when you giggle.”
You hid your face against his shoulder, and his low laugh rumbled through his chest. “Don’t hide from me, doll,” he said softly, shifting to tip your chin up with his finger. His eyes were softer than you’d ever seen them. “I like seeing you happy.”
The moment stretched, warm and quiet, until your lashes fluttered and you leaned forward, brushing a quick kiss against his jaw. His arms tightened, his breath catching, but instead of claiming more, he held you steady, letting you settle against him again. And there, curled in his lap, you realized that maybe—just maybe—he’d heard you after all.
---
It was a quiet afternoon in the shop, the kind where the sun streamed lazily through the front windows and you could hear the faint hum of the city outside. You were trimming stems at the counter when Bucky walked in, his presence filling the room the way it always did—solid, steady, magnetic.
But instead of his usual lean against the counter or wordless offering of help, he paused. His hands slid into his pockets, his eyes scanning the flowers before finally settling on you. There was something different in his gaze—not sharp or commanding, but hesitant. “Doll,” he said quietly, and when you looked up, you noticed the faint tension in his jaw. “Can I ask you something?”
You smiled faintly, setting down the shears. “Of course.”
He shifted, almost like he wasn’t sure how to phrase it. “There’s a gallery opening. Tomorrow night. I was thinking…” He trailed off, then forced the words out, softer now. “Would you come with me?”
The question caught you off guard—not because of the invitation itself, but because of the way he asked. Not a command, not an expectation. A question. You tilted your head, curious. “A gallery?”
“Yeah,” he said, lips twitching faintly. “Art. Paintings. You like that kind of thing, don’t you?”
Your chest warmed. “You remembered.”
“Of course I remembered.” His voice was low, steady, but his eyes flickered away for a moment, almost shy. “It’s… not really my scene. But I figured maybe you’d like it. And I’d like to take you.”
Your heart skipped. For all his power, his control, this moment felt different. Vulnerable. Human. You stepped closer, brushing your fingers lightly against his sleeve. “I’d love to.”
Relief flashed across his face, subtle but undeniable. His hand covered yours, warm and solid, and he exhaled slowly, like he’d been holding his breath. “Good,” he murmured. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow. We’ll make a night of it.”
The promise in his voice lingered long after, and for the first time, you realized this wasn’t just about keeping you safe or close. This was him trying—awkwardly, earnestly—to give you something that felt like a real date. Something normal. Something yours.
---
The night of the gallery opening, the city felt different—brighter, sharper, like it was holding its breath. Bucky picked you up just as he promised. You’d taken care with your appearance—clean lines, a favorite dress, a touch of perfume—but as soon as you stepped out of the car and saw the crowd, you realized it wasn’t the same kind of “dressed up.”
Everyone else glided past in tailored suits, glittering jewelry, gowns that looked like they’d cost more than your entire rent. The women’s heels clicked against the marble entrance, men’s watches caught the light, champagne flutes sparkled in elegant hands. They looked polished, untouchable. A different world entirely. And you? You felt… small. Pretty, yes, but simple.
You faltered just a little at the entrance, but Bucky noticed immediately. His hand slid firmly into yours, anchoring you. “You’re perfect,” he said, low enough that only you could hear. His eyes caught yours, steady and unflinching. “Don’t even think about it, doll. They’ve got nothing on you.”
Heat crept up your neck, but you nodded, letting him lead you inside. The gallery itself was stunning—high ceilings, gilded light fixtures, and walls lined with canvases that demanded silence. The crowd murmured in low, cultured tones, laughter muffled behind polite smiles. It felt like stepping into another universe.
You noticed quickly how people looked at him. Heads dipped in acknowledgment, eyes flicking toward him as he passed. A few men approached with polite greetings, their voices threaded with deference. Women gave him longer looks, curious, measuring.
You didn’t know their names, but you could feel it: he belonged here. Even if he stood a little apart from the crowd, he carried himself with an authority that made people move out of his way without realizing they had.
And then there was you, clinging to his hand. For a moment, you worried you looked out of place—until you caught him watching you. His gaze softened, his thumb brushing across your knuckles. The look in his eyes made you forget the polished crowd, the crystal chandeliers, the undercurrent of wealth and power humming through the room.
“This one,” you whispered after a while, pausing before a painting of blue-gray waves crashing against dark rocks. The colors pulled you in, fierce and haunting, yet strangely calm. “I like it.”
Bucky leaned close, his hand still around yours, his voice a low rumble in your ear. “Because it looks like my eyes?”
You flushed instantly, glancing up at him in surprise. The smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth told you he’d said it on purpose. “Maybe,” you admitted shyly, but your smile gave you away.
He chuckled softly, his arm sliding around your waist. And just like that, the crowded room, the expensive clothes, the stares—they all faded. Because no matter what world he belonged to, in that moment, he was looking at you.
The gallery opening stretched on, the crowd shifting like a tide of silk and crystal. Every so often, someone approached Bucky—men in sharp suits, women draped in jewels, people who clearly knew who he was. Their greetings were subtle, respectful, often accompanied by a dip of the head or the briefest handshake. You noticed how quickly their eyes slid to you afterward, measuring, curious, but no one dared to say much beyond polite murmurs.
Bucky’s arm stayed around your waist through it all, his touch steady, grounding. He answered their greetings in clipped tones, a man who knew he didn’t need to waste words. The difference between how they treated him and how you knew him in the quiet of your apartment made your head spin.
At one point, a server passed with a tray of champagne. You hesitated, unsure if you should take one, but Bucky plucked a glass easily and offered it to you, his lips twitching faintly at your shyness. “Go on, doll. You’re allowed.” You took it, fingers brushing his, and felt oddly proud when you managed a small sip without feeling out of place. He leaned down, his voice low and meant only for you. “You doing okay?”
Your heart fluttered—not just at the words, but at the way he asked them. Quiet, careful, not assuming. “Yeah,” you whispered. “I’m okay.”
For a while, you walked together through the halls, pausing before a few pieces of art. He didn’t say much about them, but you could feel his eyes on you as you spoke, listening as though your thoughts mattered more than the art itself.
And then, almost before you knew it, he was steering you away from the noise, out onto a balcony strung with soft lights. The city sprawled below, glittering, alive. Out here, the hum of conversation dimmed, replaced by the quiet night air. You set your half-empty glass on the railing, exhaling slowly. “They all know you,” you said softly, more observation than question.
Bucky glanced at you, his expression unreadable. “They know of me.”
The correction made your stomach flip. You turned toward him, searching his face. “And what should I know?”
For a long moment, he didn’t answer. His hand reached for yours instead, fingers lacing with deliberate slowness. “Just that I wanted you here with me. That’s all that matters tonight.”
The way he said it—firm, certain, yet soft enough to make your chest ache—kept you from pressing further. You squeezed his hand, letting the quiet stretch between you, filled only by the glow of the city lights. When you finally left the gallery, his hand never let go of yours.
The car ride home was silent but not heavy. His hand rested over yours the entire drive, his thumb brushing absentminded circles against your skin, and every so often his eyes flicked to you, as if reassuring himself you were still there.
It wasn’t until he walked you upstairs, the city hushed around you, that he finally broke the silence. “You looked beautiful tonight,” he said simply, voice low, the words meant only for you.
Heat flooded your cheeks, but you smiled shyly, your fingers tightening around his. “Thank you for bringing me.” His lips curved faintly, and for once, the powerful, untouchable man from the gallery was gone. It was just Bucky—your Bucky—looking at you like you’d given him more than he’d ever thought to ask for.
---
Bucky’s office was dim, the blinds drawn against the daylight. Papers were stacked neatly on his desk, though a closer look would’ve shown smudges of ink on his knuckles where he’d signed contracts and notes. He’d spent the whole morning hunched over the desk, phone pressed to his ear, voice sharp and clipped as he handled one matter after another. The work never stopped; it simply waited for him to return.
Natasha leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, her gaze steady on him as he hung up the latest call. She’d been patient—quiet even—but her silence was its own kind of weight. When he finally looked up, she pushed off the wall. “You’ve been slipping,” she said, matter-of-fact.
Bucky’s jaw tightened. “I’ve been managing.”
“Managing?” Her brow arched, cool and unimpressed. “You’ve been avoiding meetings. You skipped the last sit-down with the heads. You didn’t show up to the import check. That’s not managing, Bucky. That’s negligence.”
He leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking under the shift of his weight. “Everything that needed to be handled was handled.”
“Not by you.” Natasha’s tone sharpened. “And people notice. You can’t disappear into that flower shop every other day and expect them not to talk.” At the mention, his eyes flickered, a spark of something softer breaking through. Natasha caught it instantly. “There it is,” she said, quieter now. “You’ve been different. Lighter. Hell, even I noticed. But you can’t keep living in both worlds without one swallowing the other.”
Bucky’s hand curled into a fist against the desk. “She doesn’t know.”
“And she shouldn’t,” Natasha countered. “Not unless you’re ready to bring her in. Because if she stays in the dark, she’s a liability. Not because she’s weak—because she’s unprepared. And unprepared means vulnerable.”
He exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over his face. The thought of dragging you into his world, of letting you see the blood and steel behind the quiet moments you shared—it twisted something in his chest. He wanted to keep you untouched. Untouched and his.
Natasha’s voice softened, though it never lost its edge. “You’re at a crossroads, Bucky. Either you pull back, or you let her see who you really are. But you can’t keep her in the middle. That’s where it gets dangerous.”
His eyes narrowed, jaw working, but he didn’t argue. For once, he didn’t have an answer. Because she was right. The silence stretched, heavy as the air between them. Then finally, his voice came out rough, low. “I can’t let her go.”
Natasha tilted her head, unreadable. “Then you’d better figure out how to keep her safe. Before someone else decides she’s the best way to get to you.” The words hung in the room like smoke, impossible to ignore. And for the first time in years, Bucky Barnes felt something he didn’t allow himself often: fear. Not for himself, but for you.
That night, you noticed something was different the moment Bucky walked through your apartment door. Usually, when he came to you after a day of work, there was a rhythm—sometimes tired, sometimes sharp-edged, but always softened the moment he saw you. Tonight, though, he lingered in the doorway longer than usual. His coat stayed on, his posture stiff, his eyes shadowed in a way that made your chest tighten. “Hey,” you said softly, trying to draw him in. “Long day?”
“Yeah,” he muttered, his voice rough. He shut the door quietly, almost too quietly for a man who usually moved with certainty. His gaze flicked over you—like he was making sure you were really there—before he crossed the room.
When he pulled you into his arms, it wasn’t like before. Not just affection, not even just need—it was desperation. His grip was tight, almost crushing, his face buried in your hair. You froze for a moment, startled, before sliding your arms around him, holding on just as firmly. “Bucky,” you whispered, trying to lean back enough to see his face. “What’s wrong?”
He didn’t answer right away. His jaw flexed against your temple, and you could feel his heart hammering through his chest. Finally, in a low rasp, he said, “you don’t understand how dangerous it is.”
Your breath caught. You’d always known, in some quiet corner of yourself, that there was more to him than the man who carried your groceries and folded your laundry with military precision. But hearing it now, in that tone—it was different. “Dangerous… for me?” you asked carefully.
“For you,” he confirmed, his hands tightening on your waist as though to prove his point. “Being with me… it paints a target on you. And if anyone ever—” His words cut off, sharp, like the thought itself was unbearable.
You stayed quiet for a moment, letting his words sink in. Then, softly, you said, “and if you left? If you pulled away?”
He finally lifted his head then, his eyes finding yours. They were raw, unguarded, and the sight of them nearly broke you. “I can’t,” he admitted hoarsely. “I’ve tried to think about it. Tried to imagine it. But I can’t, doll. I can’t stay away from you.”
Something in you cracked open at the confession, equal parts fear and tenderness. You lifted a hand, cupping his cheek, your thumb brushing gently over the stubble there. “Then don’t,” you whispered. “Don’t stay away. Just… let me be here. With you.”
His breath shook, his metal hand lifting to cover yours where it rested against his cheek. He leaned into your touch like a starving man, his eyes shutting for a moment. When he opened them again, his voice was steadier, though still low. “If I do this—if I keep you close—it means you’ll see things. Parts of me, parts of my life… I’ve kept them from you on purpose.”
You swallowed hard but nodded. “Then show me. I’d rather see than be left in the dark.”
For a long moment, he just stared at you, searching, as if weighing the truth of your words. And then, finally, he exhaled, pulling you back against his chest. “Alright,” he whispered into your hair. “But once you’re in, sweetheart… there’s no going back.”
And though his tone carried warning, his arms held you like he already knew you weren’t going anywhere.
---
It started with a question you hadn’t expected. A few days had passed since that night in your apartment—the night Bucky had admitted he couldn’t let you go. He hadn’t said much more about it, but you felt it in the way he hovered a little closer, in how often his hand found yours, in the quiet determination that lingered in his eyes.
So when he showed up at your shop one afternoon, leaning against the counter with that intent look of his, you thought he was there just to keep you company. Instead, he said, “there’s a gala this weekend. I want you to come with me.”
You blinked. “A gala?”
“Big one. Everyone who matters will be there.” He didn’t elaborate who everyone was, but the weight behind his words made it clear. Then, softer, “I want them to see you with me.” The warmth in your chest almost made you forget to breathe. Official. That’s what it sounded like.
He didn’t waste time. The next day, you found yourself swept into a world you’d never touched before. The tailor’s boutique looked more like an art gallery than a store—marble floors, velvet curtains, rows of gowns shimmering under soft lights. You hovered near the entrance at first, your fingers twitching nervously at your sides. The place smelled faintly of leather and perfume, expensive in a way that made you want to keep your hands tucked safely away.
Bucky, on the other hand, looked perfectly at ease. He guided you forward with a hand at the small of your back, his voice steady as he spoke to the attendant. “Something for her. For Saturday night.”
The attendant’s eyes widened just slightly, recognition sparking as she nodded quickly. Within minutes, you were being ushered into a fitting room with armfuls of gowns in every shade and style. The first dress was sleek, dark, clinging in ways that made you self-conscious. You stepped out hesitantly, smoothing your hands over the fabric. Bucky’s eyes lifted instantly. He didn’t blink. He didn’t even breathe for a moment. His gaze swept over you, slow and deliberate, before he finally said, “beautiful.”
Heat flooded your cheeks. “It’s… too much, maybe?”
“Not enough,” he countered smoothly, his voice rougher than usual.
You ducked back into the fitting room, your pulse racing. The next dress was brighter, softer, with delicate embroidery along the bodice. When you stepped out this time, he leaned forward slightly in his chair, his elbow resting on his knee as he looked at you like you were the only thing in the room. “This one’s good,” he said, but his tone wasn’t casual—it was thoughtful, assessing, almost protective. “But I want something that makes them stare.”
You bit your lip, trying not to smile. “That sounds… intimidating.”
“Good,” he murmured, eyes locked on yours. “They should be intimidated.”
By the third dress—a deep navy that shimmered when you moved—you felt the air change. Bucky stood this time, crossing the room in a few strides. His hand lifted, brushing along the fabric at your waist, not quite touching you, but close enough to make your breath catch. “This one,” he said, voice low and certain. “Matches your eyes. And when you walk in with me wearing this, no one’ll dare forget it.”
You giggled softly, nerves twisting with warmth. “Bucky… it probably costs more than my whole apartment.”
His lips curved faintly, but his gaze stayed steady. “You let me worry about that.” And in that moment, as the silk whispered around your legs and his hand hovered at your side, you realized: this wasn’t just a dress. This was a declaration.
The attendant had just whisked the navy gown away to be pressed and boxed when something caught your eye. Off to the side, away from the racks of shimmering evening wear, hung a small collection of lighter dresses—soft fabrics, airy shapes. The kind of thing you’d wear in the shop on a warm day, not at some glittering gala.
One in particular made you pause. A simple sundress, pale with little embroidered details along the hem. It wasn’t dramatic, wasn’t dripping with jewels or stitched with silk. It was… sweet. Something you could actually see yourself wearing, not just trying on for someone else’s world. The attendant followed your gaze. “That’s from a quieter line,” she explained with a professional smile. “Not evening wear, but if you’d like to try it, you can.”
You startled slightly, glancing back at Bucky, who was still flipping idly through a lookbook the attendant had left with him. He looked up at the hesitation in your posture. “Try it,” he said simply. Not a command this time, but a suggestion—an invitation.
You hesitated. “I couldn’t… it’s not—”
His brow arched, the faintest curve of a smirk playing on his lips. “Doll, if you want to try it, you try it.”
So you did. The fabric was soft against your skin, the cut loose but flattering. When you stepped out, you felt lighter somehow, less like you were playing dress-up in someone else’s world and more like yourself. Bucky’s gaze lifted immediately. For once, he didn’t move, didn’t speak right away. His eyes roamed slowly over the dress, then back to your face. You fidgeted under the weight of it, tugging gently at the skirt. “It’s simple. Too simple, probably. Not for…” You gestured vaguely to the opulent boutique around you. “This.”
Still, he didn’t say anything. Just stood, crossing the room with quiet steps until he was right in front of you. His hand reached out, brushing the edge of the fabric at your hip, his thumb pressing lightly into the material. “You look…” He trailed off, shaking his head slightly, almost frustrated with himself. “You look like you.”
Your cheeks warmed. “That’s… good?”
“It’s perfect.” His voice was rougher than usual, sincere in a way that left no room for doubt. “The gala needs the navy gown. But this one? This one’s for me.”
Your heart fluttered, and before you could argue—before you could even tell him you couldn’t possibly afford something like this—he was already glancing over his shoulder at the attendant. “We’ll take both.”
Your mouth fell open. “Bucky—”
His hand lifted, brushing against your cheek, silencing the protest before it could fully form. His eyes softened, that steady, unyielding gaze fixed only on you. “Let me.”
And standing there, wrapped in a simple sundress in a boutique that reeked of money and power, you realized it wasn’t about the price. It was about him wanting you to have something that made you feel yourself, even in his world.
Bucky didn’t let you change out of the sundress. The attendant had neatly packaged the navy gown, slid it into a garment bag, and made a note of the transaction, but Bucky had waved her off when she offered to take the sundress back to the fitting rooms. “She’s keeping it on,” he’d said, casual but with the kind of finality no one ever argued with.
And so you found yourself leaving the boutique hand-in-hand with him, the evening air brushing against your legs as the hem of the simple dress swayed with each step. It felt strange—like you were supposed to be polished and expensive after a store like that, but instead you felt like yourself. More than that, you felt like his.
He opened the car door for you, but instead of giving the driver an address for home, he leaned down and murmured, “let’s take a walk first.”
The driver pulled away a few blocks later, leaving you and Bucky in a quieter part of the city. The streets were lined with little shops and cafés, the kind that glowed warmly in the evening. He guided you toward one tucked between a bookstore and a flower stall, the kind of place you might’ve gone with friends—if you’d had the time.
Inside, the café smelled like coffee and sugar, the hum of conversation gentle and low. No one looked twice at you. No one cared that you weren’t in glittering gowns or pressed suits. And Bucky—your Bucky, who had filled a marble-floored boutique like he owned the world—looked almost out of place here. His broad shoulders crowded the small table, his hands too large around the delicate porcelain cup. But the way he watched you, leaning forward as though you were the only thing that mattered, made the rest fade away. “You like it here?” he asked, his voice softer than the quiet jazz playing in the background.
You smiled, stirring your drink absently. “It feels… normal.”
“Normal,” he repeated, like the word was foreign on his tongue. His lips curved faintly, not quite a smile. “Guess I could get used to that.”
For a while, you sat together in that small café, talking about nothing and everything. He asked you about your favorite flowers—not the ones that sold best, but the ones you secretly kept for yourself. You teased him about how he never drank his coffee until it was practically cold. He listened, his hand finding yours across the table, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in steady circles.
And when you left, walking slowly down the street, he didn’t rush you. He let you stop at the little bookstore window, linger at the flower stall, laugh at the sight of a dog sticking its head out of a taxi. At one point, you tugged his hand without realizing, pulling him closer to something that caught your eye—a display of postcards painted with watercolor scenes of the city.
He didn’t comment on the gesture, but you felt the weight of his gaze as you flipped through them, your fingers brushing over the colors. When you finally slipped back into the car, the sundress soft against your skin and a paper bag of postcards in your lap, Bucky leaned close enough that his breath tickled your ear. “You looked beautiful in the gowns,” he murmured, his tone low, almost possessive. “But this? This is what I’ll remember.”
And you realized it wasn’t the marble floors, or the glittering chandeliers, or the navy silk that made the night feel important. It was him. It was this.
---
The gala was nothing like the gallery. From the moment you stepped into the ballroom, it was clear this was a different level of opulence entirely. Crystal chandeliers spilled golden light across the space, polished marble gleamed beneath your heels, and the air hummed with the low thrum of strings from a live orchestra. Guests glided past in gowns stitched with gemstones, tuxedos pressed to perfection, diamonds glittering at throats and wrists.
You’d taken extra care tonight, wearing the deep navy gown Bucky had chosen for you, the one that shimmered with every movement. It hugged you in ways that made you nervous at first, but when you saw the way his gaze lingered on you before you left your apartment—sharp, reverent, possessive—you knew you didn’t regret saying yes.
At first, you kept to his side, your fingers woven with his, your steps perfectly matched as he led you through the crowd. His presence was magnetic; people parted for him instinctively, their eyes darting toward you with open curiosity. Some smiled, others whispered, but all of them looked.
The first introductions came quickly—men with quick, firm handshakes, women with perfectly painted smiles. They greeted Bucky with respect, almost deference, and then turned their attention to you. The questions came in polite tones—your name, how long you’d been in the city, whether you enjoyed the gala.
You answered as best you could, but each new set of eyes made your chest tighten. You weren’t used to being the center of attention, and in a room like this, the stares felt heavier than silk gowns and diamond necklaces combined.
So you inched closer. It was subtle at first—your hand tightening on Bucky’s, your shoulder brushing his arm as someone else struck up a conversation with him. He didn’t move, didn’t draw you in, just let you settle where you wanted. But as the night stretched on and more people gathered, you found yourself tucking yourself closer and closer into his side.
By the time he was cornered by a trio of older men discussing investments, you were practically pressed to him, your arm sliding around his. His body was solid against yours, steady in a way that kept you grounded. He shifted slightly then, not pulling you in but adjusting just enough that you fit more comfortably against him. You realized you were hiding. And that he was letting you.
Between conversations, he leaned down just once, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as he murmured, “you okay, doll?”
Your breath caught, but you nodded quickly, whispering back, “Just… a lot of people.”
His hand slid down, resting against the small of your back, warm and firm. “Stay close, then.” And you did. Through introductions, through polite laughter, through glasses of champagne that you barely sipped. You stayed tucked into his side, your cheek brushing his shoulder once when you leaned in to whisper something shyly, and his answering smirk told you he didn’t mind in the slightest.
It was overwhelming, yes. But the whole night, Bucky’s presence wrapped around you like armor. You weren’t just there as a guest—you were there as his. And judging by the way people looked at him, then at you, that message was loud and clear.
The gala bled into night, the golden chandeliers giving way to the hush of the city as you and Bucky slipped into the car. The door shut, muting the noise behind you, leaving only the soft hum of the engine and the faint rustle of your gown as you shifted against the seat.
For the first time in hours, you exhaled, your shoulders slumping slightly. You hadn’t realized how tightly you’d been holding yourself until now. Bucky’s hand found yours almost immediately, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in a steady rhythm. “You did good,” he murmured, his voice quiet but certain.
You smiled faintly, though your cheeks warmed. “I didn’t really do anything.”
His eyes slid to you, blue and intense even in the low light. “You were with me. That’s everything.”
The words settled heavy in your chest, warm and strange, like they meant more than you knew how to hold. The car turned, and instead of heading toward your apartment, you noticed the streets getting sharper, quieter, the buildings taller and glinting under the city lights. You glanced at him, curious. “This isn’t the way home.”
He didn’t look away, didn’t let go of your hand. “No. I want to show you something.” When the car pulled up to a gleaming tower, you felt your breath hitch. This was the kind of place you’d walked past before but never imagined entering. The doorman nodded the instant Bucky stepped out, opening the door like it was second nature. No questions, no hesitation. Just respect.
He offered his hand to help you out of the car, steady and sure, and guided you inside. The lobby was marble and glass, understated yet impossibly expensive. The kind of wealth that didn’t need to shout. The elevator ride was silent except for the low hum of the machinery and the sound of your heartbeat thudding in your ears. His hand stayed at the small of your back, grounding you. When the doors opened, you stepped directly into his penthouse.
It was breathtaking. Floor-to-ceiling windows stretched across one entire wall, the city sprawled out beneath like a living map of light. The furniture was sleek, dark, carefully chosen—luxury without clutter. A bar lined one side of the space, glassware gleaming faintly under soft recessed lighting. There was a piano, too, its polished surface reflecting the skyline. You turned slowly, taking it all in. “This is… yours?”
“Mine,” he confirmed simply, watching you carefully as you moved further inside.
It felt surreal, like stepping into the part of him he’d kept hidden. The part that wasn’t coffee shops and farmer’s markets, but glass towers and quiet power. You drifted toward the windows, resting a hand against the cool glass as you looked out over the city. Behind you, you heard his steps, deliberate and steady, until his reflection appeared beside yours. “Why tonight?” you asked softly. “Why show me now?”
He didn’t hesitate. “Because after tonight, there’s no pretending. Everyone saw you with me. They’ll keep seeing you. And I don’t want you walking into this blind.”
You turned, looking up at him. The shadows in his eyes were still there, the weight of his world, but so was something else—something softer, rawer. “I told you I’d rather see than be left in the dark,” you whispered.
His hand lifted, brushing lightly against your cheek, his thumb tracing your jaw. “I know,” he murmured. “That’s what scares me.”
And then, before you could answer, he bent his head and kissed you. Not the shy, tentative kisses of your apartment, but something deeper, firmer, threaded with everything he hadn’t said aloud. His arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you flush against him as though he needed to remind himself you were really there. The city stretched endlessly below, but in that moment, all you could feel was him.
Bucky didn’t stop at the kiss. When he finally drew back, his forehead resting against yours, his hand slid down to lace with your fingers. “C’mere,” he murmured, tugging you gently away from the windows. “Let me show you around.”
The penthouse unfolded like something out of a dream. He guided you first through the living space—sleek lines, soft lighting, and a bar stocked more like a high-end lounge than a home. Past that was a dining area, the table long enough for ten but polished to a shine that suggested it wasn’t often used.
Then he took you down the hall to the master suite. The bedroom was spacious but not ostentatious, anchored by a bed large enough to swallow you whole. It was softened by details you hadn’t expected—heavy curtains, a worn leather chair in the corner, books stacked neatly on a nightstand. Not the kind of impersonal room you imagined in a man like him.
But it was the closet that stopped you cold. The space was larger than your entire bedroom at home, walls lined with dark wood shelves and neatly arranged clothing. His suits, pressed and orderly, filled one side. On the other, though—where you expected emptiness—were rows of neatly folded soft fabrics in your size. Pajamas. Sweaters. Undergarments in delicate lace and cotton, still with tags. Even shoes, flats and slippers and a pair of heels you knew you hadn’t bought. Your steps faltered. “Bucky…”
He watched you carefully, his hands tucked in his pockets, his jaw tight. “I didn’t want you to come here and not have anything.”
You turned slowly, looking at him. “You… bought all this?”
“I had someone pick it up,” he admitted, shrugging one shoulder like it was nothing. But the way his eyes never left your face told you it wasn’t nothing. Not to him.
Your throat tightened. It wasn’t just that he’d thought of it—it was that he’d prepared for the possibility of you being here long before you ever were. You smiled softly, shy but earnest. “Thank you.”
His shoulders eased just slightly, and he stepped closer, brushing his knuckles along your arm. “Just want you comfortable, doll. Always.”
Before you could answer, a voice carried from down the hall, low but sharp. “She’s here, then?”
You turned, startled, as Natasha appeared in the doorway. She was different from how you’d pictured—tall, poised, her red hair a striking curtain around a face that gave nothing away. She leaned casually against the frame, though her eyes, green and assessing, flicked over you in a way that made you straighten unconsciously. Bucky didn’t flinch. “Yeah. She’s here.”
Natasha’s gaze lingered on you another beat before she gave the faintest of nods. “Good. Better she’s here than in the dark.”
You weren’t sure what to say, so you offered a small, polite smile. “It’s nice to meet you.”
Her lips curved, just barely. “We’ll see if you still think that later.” Then, with a glance at Bucky, “she’ll need to know more. Sooner rather than later.”
Bucky’s jaw worked, but he nodded once. Natasha’s gaze softened—if only slightly—before she slipped away as quietly as she’d come. The silence left behind felt heavier than the closet full of clothes, heavier than the glittering view outside. But when Bucky turned back to you, his eyes softened, grounding you once more. “You okay?” he asked. And this time, he phrased it like a question.
You let out a shaky breath, smiling faintly. “Yeah. I think so.”
Once Natasha’s footsteps faded, he tugged you gently back into the hall, his hand warm and steady around yours. “C’mon,” he said, softer now. “There’s more.”
The penthouse was larger than you’d realized. He showed you the kitchen first—polished stone counters, state-of-the-art appliances, cabinets so tall you wondered if he ever actually used them. But there were signs of him here too: a coffee mug left out near the sink, a half-empty bottle of scotch on the counter, a dish towel folded with military precision.
From there, he led you to a smaller sitting room, tucked away from the sweeping skyline. It felt more lived in than the main space—cozier, with a blanket folded across the back of the couch, a chessboard set up mid-game. You wondered if he played with Natasha, or if the board had been waiting for an opponent he hadn’t found until you.
He showed you a study too, lined with dark shelves and heavy books, the scent of old paper lingering faintly. A few leather-bound journals lay stacked neatly on the desk, a fountain pen resting perfectly parallel beside them. You didn’t ask, but part of you wondered what he wrote in them.
By the time you circled back to the master suite, the nerves that had knotted your stomach earlier had softened into something else—curiosity, warmth, and the quiet awe of realizing this was his space. And now, in some way, yours too. He paused at the bedroom door, his eyes flicking to you. “You should get ready for bed. The pajamas are in the closet.”
You bit your lip, shy but smiling, before disappearing into the walk-in again. The set you chose was simple—soft cotton, a pale color trimmed with delicate lace. It fit perfectly, hugging you without clinging, comfortable in a way that made your breath catch. He hadn’t just guessed. He’d known.
When you padded back into the bedroom, barefoot, tugging self-consciously at the hem of the pajama top, Bucky was already waiting. He sat at the edge of the bed, his tie loosened, his sleeves rolled up, the city lights spilling across him through the windows. His gaze lifted the moment he heard you. And it lingered.
You froze for a moment under the weight of it, heat rushing to your cheeks. “They… fit,” you murmured.
His lips curved faintly, but his eyes stayed intent, almost reverent. “Told you. I just want you comfortable.”
You crossed the room slowly, and when you stopped in front of him, he reached for your hand, pulling you gently between his knees. His metal thumb brushed over your knuckles, his touch careful, grounding. “Stay here tonight,” he said quietly. Not a command. A request.
You nodded, your chest tight, your heart racing. “Okay.”
He exhaled softly, his hand sliding to your waist as he pressed a kiss against your stomach through the thin cotton. Then he looked up at you, his eyes blue and raw. “You look like you belong here.” And for the first time, standing barefoot in silk-soft pajamas in his penthouse bedroom, you believed him.
---
The bed was cold when you rolled over, your hand brushing against rumpled sheets where Bucky should’ve been. For a moment you thought maybe you’d imagined it—the weight of his arm around your waist, the warmth of his chest pressed to your back—but the faint indentation in the mattress told you he’d only slipped away recently.
You sat up slowly, tugging the pajama top tighter around you, and padded out into the hall. The penthouse was hushed, the city beyond the windows muted in its endless glow. You followed the faintest sound—paper rustling, a pen scratching—to the study.
There he was. Bucky sat behind a heavy desk, sleeves rolled up, a lamp casting sharp shadows across his face. Papers were spread across the surface, neat columns of numbers, ledgers, notes scrawled in his firm hand. He didn’t look up at first, but the moment your bare feet padded against the rug, his gaze lifted. “Doll,” he murmured, his voice softening instantly. He set the pen down and held out a hand. “C’mere.”
You crossed the room, shy but certain, and when you reached him, he tugged you gently onto his lap. You settled sideways across his thighs, your head resting against his shoulder. His hand smoothed along your back, slow and steady, grounding you. “You should’ve eaten first,” he said, brushing his lips against your temple. “I’ll text Natasha, have her send something up.”
You hummed, your voice muffled against his shirt. “I didn’t come looking for food.”
His brow furrowed slightly as he angled his head to see you. “No?”
You shook your head, cheeks warming. “…I missed you. In bed.”
For a moment, the silence stretched. Then his chest rumbled with a low exhale, almost a laugh but not quite. His arm tightened around your waist, pulling you closer. “Sweetheart,” he murmured, voice rough. “You’re gonna kill me saying things like that.”
You smiled shyly against him, and after a moment, curiosity tugged at you. You shifted just enough to glance at the papers scattered across the desk. Numbers, neat rows and totals, some underlined, some circled. “What’s all this?”
“Work,” he said simply, but when you didn’t look away, his mouth softened. “Keeping track of everything. Shipments, money in, money out. Making sure it all balances.”
You blinked, surprised. “You do the books yourself?”
“Trust’s hard to come by,” he said dryly, though his thumb traced idly over your hip. “Don’t like letting anyone else touch the numbers.”
Your lips curved faintly. “I do my shop’s books too. Every night before I close.”
That earned you a glance, one brow raised, a flicker of amusement breaking through his guarded expression. “Yeah?”
You nodded. “Yeah. It’s not as complicated, but… numbers don’t lie. You can see the whole picture if you know where to look.”
His smirk deepened just slightly. “Smart girl.” He tapped one of the ledgers with a calloused finger. “Wanna help me, then?”
You looked at him in surprise, then back at the papers. The idea of being folded into this part of his world, even in something as simple as numbers, made your heart beat faster. Slowly, you nodded. “Alright,” you whispered. “Show me what you’ve got.”
And for the next hour, you sat curled on his lap while he walked you through the ledgers, his voice low and steady, his arm always around you. It was strange—intimate in a way you hadn’t expected. Not just the touch of him, but the trust of it.
Bucky’s voice had become a low murmur in your ear, patient as he explained the rows of numbers. You tried to keep up, scribbling a few notes in the margin of his ledger, but the warmth of his chest and the steady rhythm of his hand tracing circles over your thigh slowly lulled you. Your head grew heavier until it finally settled against his shoulder. He noticed the shift instantly. Your pen slipped from your hand, rolling across the desk. Bucky caught it without looking, setting it aside, his gaze softening when he realized your breaths had evened out. You’d fallen asleep on his lap, curled up like you belonged there.
For a while, he just let you rest, one arm wrapped around you protectively, the other turning pages with a deliberate quiet. Every so often, he brushed his thumb over your side or adjusted the blanket he’d pulled down from the back of the couch. A knock broke the silence. Sharp, precise. He didn’t even raise his voice when he answered, “come in.”
The door opened, and Natasha stepped inside, a tray balanced in her hands. Steam rose from a pot of tea, plates neatly covered. Her sharp gaze flicked over the scene in front of her—you asleep, Bucky’s arm wound firmly around you—and her lips curved just slightly. “She’s out,” she said softly, setting the tray down on the corner of the desk.
“Mm,” Bucky grunted in agreement, his hand still smoothing idly along your back.
Natasha straightened, crossing her arms. “You should put her in bed.”
His jaw tightened, and he shook his head once. “She’s fine here.”
The redhead studied him for a beat longer before nodding. “I’ll leave you two, then.” She turned to go, but paused at the door, glancing back with a raised brow. “You’re softer than I thought you’d be, Barnes.”
Bucky didn’t answer. He just shifted slightly, holding you a little closer, his gaze fixed on your sleeping face. Natasha’s faint chuckle followed her out of the room. The penthouse grew quiet again. He leaned back in his chair, eyes tracing the curve of your cheek against his chest. His hand stilled over your side as he bent to press the gentlest kiss to your hair. “Sweet girl,” he whispered, so quiet you didn’t stir. “I’ll keep you safe. Always.”
The breakfast tray sat untouched on the desk, the tea growing cooler by the minute. But Bucky didn’t care. You were warm, you were breathing steady, and you were here.
on the Nepo baby reader and having John Carter as an ex….one day she invited him over to her shared home with Michael for dinner, to reminisce and all that, cue the awkward silence, but also, Michael finds out shit he’s never heard about reader.
“you used to have a pet tiger?!”
i actuallt love this idea so much nonnie i love your brain
recap for those who missed: john carter is in his intern year (but he has the beard cause its sexy), and in this universe he was born and raised in pittsburgh, went to med school in chicago, came back for residency
John feels queasy when he walks into the lobby of your appartment building. He'd made good on his promise to you, taking your out to your favourite spot in the city. It had been nice, catching up and laughing with you about old times, reminded of why the two of you had spent a large portion of your lives together. Afterwards you'd messaged him and asked him to come over for dinner on his next set of days off, so you could get to know her new boyfriend.
You know, his attending. The attending that had been practicing medicine before either of you were born, and now held the fate of his medical carreer in his hands.
The elevator door dings and opens up into a large spacious foyer. You've got a gorgeous view of the city, the sunset casting the whole appartment in a golden light. He can smell whatever dinner you've gotten your chef to prepare and his stomach rumbles.
"Hello?" he calls out, unsure of where you are in the appartment.
"Johnny?" you respond, head poking over the balcony, still in your robe. There's no walls upstairs, from his angle he can only see a bit of your bed, "I'll be down in a minute, I'm still getting dressed. Michael's in the kitchen, you'll find it."
John wanders for a minute, following the smell to the kitchen where Robby is standing at the stove, something sizzling on a pan. He nods his greeting which Carter returns.
"I didn't realize you were cooking," John says as he takes a seat at the barstool, "I thought she would have got her chef to make something."
"She was going to, but I told her to give him the day off," he stirs something, "Hope you like soup. I've been wanting some since the temperature dropped."
"I love soup," no he doesn't. But he's not stupid enough to say that right now.
He hears a little bell jingling and turns in the direction of the noise to be greeted by the fluffiest gray-white cat he’s ever seen. John gets down and kneels on the floor, letting her sniff his hand and scratching her head when she approves.
“Oh I see you’ve met Togepi,” you say when you enter the room. You’d told him to dress casual, and yet you look like you could go eat at a 4 start restaurant, “I got her after we broke up.”
“Oh what? You didn’t want to get another tiger from an endangered animal sanctuary this time?”
Robby looks stunned, “You had a pet tiger? You hate people owning exotics.”
You groan, “It wasn’t me it was my idiot brother. I placed 3rd in a skating competition that I worked really hard for, and was super sad about it and I loved Jasmine so I went over to his appartment after school one day and he had a tiger named Rajah for me.”
Robby blinks, “A tiger?”
“He was actually really cool. We were what 7? 8? He got to be as big as me before he got taken away,” John says, still scratching Togpei’s ears
“A Tiger for an 8 year old?”
“It was for my 7th birthday,” you clarify, “I was really sad and my brother always says I’m like his first born child so he wanted me to be happy. Luckily once Rajah started getting bigger and ripping up his furniture he realized he was in over his head.”
“Your parents let a tiger live in their house.”
You shake your head, “He was on his own. My parents thought he had a regular house cat cause that’s what he told them so we’d go over all the time and play with him.”
John moves lifts up his shirt to reveal an old silver scar along his torso, “When he got bigger Omar would wrestle him so I tried to that and i got this wicked scar now.”
Robby looks between you two, “Just how rich are you two?”
You shrug, “Rich enough that my brother smuggled a tiger then donated it to an endangered animal sanctuary and no one ever found out. But that’s why I’m against owning exotics, Johnny almost died.”
“Gamma was so mad,” he laughs remembering her face upon finding him in the hospital gurney.
˗ˋˏ$ˎˊ˗ ˗ˋˏ$ˎˊ˗˗ˋˏ$ˎˊ˗
Dinner goes surprisingly smoothly. John doesn't know if he's surprised about that fact or not, he’d always gotten along with Dr. Robby before he’d found out that he was dating John’s ex/childhood best friend.
“You can stop talking now,” you say, annoyed but still laughing.
John ignores you, “So she finally gets her license after the what the 3rd try? Next day she tells me she’s picking me up and we’re going for a ride. Sweet, I’m ready and I sit down in her car and she’s like let’s get coffee which I expected. So we get in line for the drive though and guess who turns her wheel too hard and drives directly into the menu. Totalled the car.”
Robby’s jaw falls open, “Totalled? The brand new mercedes? How fast were you going?"
"Listen, there's a reason my driver takes me anywhere that's more than 10 minutes away," you groan.
As you sit there, looking between the two men, you realize that they they kind of look alike? Obviously Robby is older, but you're sure if you were to put John's face into one of those aging filters he would look probably eerily similar to Robby. It's something you might not have noticed if John was still clean shaved, the beard highlights how similar their noses are, the same rich chocolate brown eyes you love on both of them - robby just has the additional crows feet that you love kiss, even their goddamn bone structure looks like they used the same mold.
"Oh god, I have a type, don't I," you say as the realization sets in, causing both men to look at you with a raised eyebrow, really hammering the point home, "you two look the exact same."
"Took you long enough to notice, peach," John laughs, "Patients ask me what it's like to work with my dad all the time - Santos is basically convinced that I'm some secret lovechild."
"A confused old lady came in the other day and said that we reminded her of her husband and son who worked together and both died, so as far as she's concerned, we are," Robby concludes with a snort.
˗ˋˏ$ˎˊ˗ ˗ˋˏ$ˎˊ˗ ˗ˋˏ$ˎˊ˗
You hug John goodbye and wait for the elevator doors to click shut before turning to Robby.
"I'm not jealous," you mock, dropping your voice several pitches.
"I'm not," his response is short.
"I told you he didn't like soup and you made it anyways?" you laugh, wrapping your arms around his body, leaning up to kiss him.
He returns it with more force than expected, nipping at your bottom lip, "He calls you peaches still."
"It's not his nickname for me, it's my brother's. When I was little I'd go through boxes of peaches in a week, everyone in my family calls me that."
"Cute," he his hands start to creep up under your sweater, "Doesn't change the fact that he still has feelings for you."
"Michael, please, he's over it and so am I. Besides, he broke up with me."
"He looks at you the way I look at you. And I can't say I blame him, but doesn't mean he can look at what's mine, though."
"What's yours?" you raise an eyebrow, "I feel like I should object to that but it's sexy when you're possessive."
You kiss him again, and his hands tangle themselves in your loose hair as he walks you backward towards the stairs.
"Besides," you say, when you break for air, "You're much better in bed than he was."
Michael laughs, smile reaching the corners of his eyes, "I know I am. I've been fucking since before you two were born."
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