SUMMARY Since he first came into your life, two things have always been true: you've been in love with Bradley Bradshaw from the moment you laid eyes on him and he's been in love with your sister from the moment he laid eyes on her. But passing years and unforeseen circumstances find you and Bradley married—unfortunately, both your truths remain the same.
CONTENT little women au, fem reader (no use of y/n, but reader has a last name), angst, fluff, slow burn I guess, historical inaccuracies (read: I kinda just made up a time period that's whatever I want it to be and we're all gonna go with it), toxic family dynamics, eventual smut, chapter specific...
STATUS last updated 5/30/26
PART ONE
PART TWO
PART THREE
PART FOUR
PART FIVE
PART SIX
PART SEVEN
PART EIGHT
PART NINE
PART TEN
PART ELEVEN
PART TWELVE
PART THIRTEEN
PART FOURTEEN
PART FIFTEEN
PART SIXTEEN
PART SEVENTEEN
PART EIGHTEEN
PART NINETEEN
PART TWENTY
PART TWENTY ONE
PART TWENTY TWO
EXTRAS
none yet…
please don't copy, repost, or feed my work into ai, thanks!
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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warnings: mdni, forced proximity, exes to lovers, grovelling, minor teasing, vague mentions of sex, kissing, light groping, all plot and feelings my bad, bucky is down astronomically bad, feelings realization, banter carries the first half, player!bucky turned loverboy!bucky, sam and joaquin for comedic relief, fluff, a little bit of angst with a happy ending!
author's note: this is my humble contribution to @artficlly's moodboard event! i ripped my hair out every step of the way!💞this is only about 80% proofread because it's 10pm and i'm tired; i've been working on this for three months. 😩
The air felt sticky. It wasn’t surprising, given the humidity was sky high. But that didn’t make it pleasant. Your thighs stuck together, sunscreen working somewhat like glue from your spot in your chair. The water glistened like a great, vast jewel, the sun overhead making white beams, the foam of the ocean looking like frosting with each crest. Small dots broke up the blue, in various bright colours, beach goers enjoying the gorgeous day. You could just barely make out the floaties of the little kids right on the surf, parents watchful and close by.
A few teenagers were clustered around the rock pool, poking into its depths with a long piece of driftwood. Umbrellas and towels covered the beach like litter. You’d be walking the beach soon, but right now, your post was up here on the chair. You’d only had one encounter so far wherein you’d had to scale the ladder of the chair and sprint through the sand, kicking it up behind you as it scalded your feet, ignoring the shock of cold water as you dove into a forward stroke to get to the little girl who’d gotten a bit too far into the waves. It had been an adrenaline pumping moment, even after you’d brought her back to safety.
You’d been a lifeguard at the local pool in your last year of high school, but this was a step up. Back from college, you’d known immediately how you wanted to pass the time. Though some found the heat stifling, you enjoyed it. You felt like you withered away in the winter, and you’d take all the summer air you could get until you were forced to hide away in the ivy covered buildings on your campus again.
You loved this job, actually. The other lifeguards ranged in age, but the ones you were on shift with the most, Sam and Joaquin, were your favourites. It was never a dull moment with those two, and you’d seen both of them in action. You’d thought you were fast, but you had nothing on either of them. Sam seemed to fly through the sand when he had places to be, Joaquin hot on his heels. It was very clear that they were some of the most perfect people for the job.
It wasn’t like you were always stuck on the chair, up high where only the seagulls could reach. You’d stay on your perch for a couple of hours at the most before coming down, walking a circuit on the beach, and then disappearing into the shack a little ways down. It was a rule, actually, to get into the shade every two hours. What good was a lifeguard with heatstroke? Bruce was normally in there, sitting at the shabby desk with his glasses slipping down his nose. He was always poring over the schedule and checking to see if he needed to order more life jackets, rafts, or anything else that was necessary to function as a busy, popular beach. And you’d sit in one of the rickety chairs, grab one of the paper fans on the side table, and try to remember what ‘room temperature’ felt like.
This job was a dream for you, aside from one glaring issue. It wasn’t something you could easily fix—you couldn’t just ban someone from the beach if they weren’t doing anything wrong except for to get on your last nerve.
Bucky Barnes came to the beach.
Every. Single. Day.
Bucky Barnes, your former high school sweetheart, who broke up with you at your graduation, when the plan had been to stay together. You went to sister schools, after all. It would have actually been quite easy to stay together. But he’d wanted to sow his wild oats, as it were. Starting with head cheerleader Natasha.
It shouldn’t have been a problem. You’d seen him a handful of times—you shared friends, after all—but you hadn’t had to speak to him, or look at him for longer than a minute. You didn’t want to see his stupid perfect face, to remember what it felt like when he kissed you. You would stubbornly say there was no love lost there, only a wound that had been hard to heal. You had cried all night, your first evening in your dorm. The original plan had been for him to help you move in, and for you to help him, and then to tour both of your campuses to see what buildings you would be in, where the best spots to wait for each other would be.
It would have been fine if he was just on the beach because he liked it there. Unfortunately you knew, with a sinking feeling in your gut, that that wasn’t the reason. He was simply there for your attention. The first time you’d been alerted to his presence, you’d been walking the beach, heading to the chair, or Overwatch, as you and the others liked to call it. You’d seen him from the corner of your eye, and started walking more briskly, hoping to get past without him noticing, but he fell into step with you easily.
You’d tried to put all your force into pushing him away from your side, but he just laughed, immovable, keeping your pace. “Will you just talk to me?” he finally said, though he sounded amused at your ire.
“No, fuck you. I’m working.” you said crossly, not bothering to censor your words. You weren’t about to scream and shout at him, but you were very much unimpressed by his lack of contriteness.
“Yeah, I know. I’m here because I know how good you look in a bikini.”
You cut a glare his way, annoyed beyond belief that he was looking you up and down. You were actually wearing a pretty conservative suit, the top a black band around your chest, not unlike a sports bra, the bottoms high waisted and full coverage. You’d worn skimpier for sure.
You ignored his navy blue shorts, his lack of shirt. He was already halfway to a decent tan, sunglasses perched on his head rather than over his eyes. You could see the twinkling, mischievous blue of them even when you weren’t looking directly at him. “What do you want?” you hissed, almost at your destination.
“I think we should talk.” he said simply, reiterating what he’d first claimed. But you knew that it wasn’t as easy a request as he made it sound. Because how could you talk to him while ignoring your shared history?
“I don’t think so.” If he was about to ask you to be friends with him again, something you hadn’t been since you were fifteen years old, when that that word had changed, the prefix of ‘boy’ and ‘girl’ added to the front of it, then he was in for a surprise.
“Come on,” he said, drawing out the words, arms spread wide. “You’re already doing it right now!”
“Fuck off, Bucky, I’m working.” At last, you reached Overwatch. You scaled it with ease, grimacing to yourself all the while, because you just knew he was checking out your ass.
“I’m gonna be here all summer, sweetheart.” he called up to you, cupping his hands around his mouth. You gave him a withering stare. He’d projected his voice loudly enough that a few heads turned in your direction. “Can’t avoid me that easily.”
Then he’d smiled at you, smug, like he thought he’d be able to corner you easily. Well, he was about to find out how wrong he could be.
You hadn’t expected him to actually come to the beach every day. The first two weeks, sure, you guessed. Bucky was one of the most determined people you’d ever met. But you thought that eventually, even someone as tenacious as him would get tired of it.
But no, he rolled up sometime after you, without fail, even going so far as to park in the spot next to yours when it was available.
He’d lay out on a towel, or join whoever was playing a spirited game of volleyball, or try his hand at surfing. You’d begrudgingly watched him, alert as ever, to make sure he didn’t get a lungful of saltwater and drown. You were not looking forward to the prospect of giving him mouth-to-mouth. You thought it would be much more entertaining if one of your male colleagues got that pleasure.
If you weren’t up at Overwatch, he was chasing you down, pestering you to take five minutes to talk, though you still didn’t know what exactly he wanted. You’d already complained to Sam about it at length. Nonplussed, he’d told you, “Just see what he wants, and if he’s being an asshole, I'll throw him in the sea,” to which Bruce had looked up from the desk disapprovingly, and said quietly, “I don’t want to hear about any threats to someone’s life.”
You didn’t want to talk to Bucky, though. You knew that if you did, he could easily swindle you into something in under five minutes. He was very good at that—he’d always excelled at turning your brain into mush with a few carefully persuasive words and a gleaming white smile.
You didn’t think that you had ever affected him nearly so much. If you had, he probably wouldn’t have broken up with you. Regardless, you continued to ignore him to the best of your abilities. Until…
Bruce liked to have meetings every two weeks to make sure everyone was still up to code, and to mention anything important like upcoming events that might make the beach busier, or harsh weather warnings. It was standard procedure, and everyone would trudge into the office, whether they were on shift or not, to listen in.
When you got there, canvas bag hoisted on your shoulder, you stopped short. Joaquin walked into you, not noticing you'd stopped, and let out a soft “oof!” You’d only come to a halt because standing in the middle of the office amidst a handful of the other lifeguards, was Bucky.
“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.” you muttered.
Bucky noticed you right at that time, and his pensive, distant expression melted into a charming grin. “Guess we’re coworkers for the rest of the summer. Isn’t that great?”
“You know that I can’t change the schedule to favour any of you over the other.” Bruce sat at his desk, watching you pace back and forth. There was sand caked into the worn floorboards. “You’ll be on shift with him at one time or another.”
Your hands were fists behind your back, your head down, looking at your flip flops. “But isn’t there some way we can look at it more strategically?”
“Look, I know that you have some kind of history with this guy—”
“Does he even have his certification?” you interrupted, unable to stay neutral any longer.
At this, Bruce frowned. He was very thorough of course, so it had been a silly question to ask. But you were grasping at anything, anything that could bar him from being around you 24/7. “Of course he does. And even if he didn’t, we’re doing the CPR drills on Saturday morning, remember? He would have got it then, if not.”
You stayed silent, trying to refrain from screaming.
Bruce said your name, quiet as always, and you looked over at him. “Did this guy… did he hurt you?”
You could see the concern on his face, and you sighed, defeated. “No, not physically. Just… emotionally.”
You both sat with that for a moment. “I’m sorry about that. But there’s nothing I can do. You know that I don’t tend to double you guys up unless I have to, but I can’t guarantee that you’ll never have to work with him. I know you’re professional, so I’m not worried about you,” he paused, pushing his glasses back up, “but if he goofs around or something, I’ll get rid of him. okay?”
You didn’t allow your shoulders to slump like they so wanted to. “Okay.”
It looked like your nightmare was about to begin.
Something you hadn’t anticipated, something far worse than what you’d imagined, was that Sam and Joaquin got along with Bucky like a house on fire. It had you spitting mad. Those were your friends, your work buddies, not his. At least Joaquin had the sense to look guilty when you caught the three of them laughing it up at the end of a shift.
You stomped to your car, shaking sand from yourself, as you cut past them. You didn’t hear footsteps jogging behind you until you were on the asphalt, just a few feet from the safety you were banking on.
“Hey, wait!” you scrunched your face up at the sound of Bucky’s voice and started to fumble blindly in your bag, looking for your car keys.
He caught up with you right as you fished them out. “Hey, I just wanna talk.”
“Yeah, so I’ve heard.” you said icily.
“Well, can you just hear me out?”
“No.” You unlocked your car, throwing your bag in the backseat. Once you’d slammed the door closed, you turned to face him. He was blocking the driver’s side. “Move.”
“Not until you talk to me.”
You crossed your arms. “Move right now, or I swear, I’ll—”
“I want to get back together.”
“Are you fucking joking?” You were incensed. The fact that he had the balls to say that to you…
His expression was serious, pleading. “Look, I know I made a mistake—”
“A mistake?” you screeched. “You broke up with me right before I took grad photos with my mother!”
You’d made her banish them to a cupboard behind all the other photo albums, unable to bear the sight of your red rimmed eyes and streaky makeup.
He winced. “I know. Shitty timing on my part, I’m sorry. But I regret it. I regret all of it. I miss you. I’ve been missing you.”
“What, Natasha not giving enough in the sack?” you said sarcastically, a vicious bite.
You thought he went a shade paler as you continued on. “Yeah, I know about that. We hadn’t even been broken up 24 hours before you slept with her.” You sounded hysterical, and for good reason. You’d never had the chance to scream and shout at him before. Now seemed to be as good a time as any. You didn’t care if you drew a crowd. Hell, the entire beach should know what a piece of work he was. “I gave you almost three years of my life, Bucky, and you stepped all over it like it was dirt. Why the hell would I take you back?”
“Well, you never dated anyone after me, did you?” he asked, though he knew the answer.
You flushed, your skin hot, and it had nothing to do with the sun beating down on you. “What’s your point? I was pretty busy studying.”
“Now, you and I both know that’s not why.” he said, leaning down and getting close to your face. You could smell his breath, peppermint. You knew he kept Lifesavers in his glove compartment—it seemed that hadn’t changed.
“You haven’t dated anyone because you still love me. And I still love you. And I’m not going to stop fighting for you.”
If he’d said it to you any other time, maybe it would have cracked your exterior, exposed your gooey center. Maybe. But right now, it was only proving to you that he didn’t even get it. That just because he said he still loved you, didn’t mean you’d drop everything. Because if he’d loved you even at all, he never would have broken up with you.
“The only thing you miss is having a girl sneak into your room at night and warm your bed.” you said, disgusted.
At this, he had the audacity to look wounded. “No, I—”
“Move out of my way, or I will scream.”
The wild look in your eyes told him you were serious, and he stepped to the side. You got in the car, shoving your key so hard into the ignition you thought you might have damaged it, and then tugged your seatbelt with enough force that it got stuck. You put the car in reverse and heard tap tap tap against your window. He was still there.
You rolled it down, just a crack. “Back up or I’m gonna run you over, I swear to God, Bucky.”
“I’ll show you how sorry I am. I swear. I’ll make it up to you. I’ll be good to you for the rest of my life.”
“Go fuck yourself, Bucky.” And then you were speeding out of the lot, feeling your eyes burn with unshed tears.
That evening, as you laid in your bed, the window wide open to let in the outside air, you closed your eyes and thought of drowning Bucky in the ocean. You were sure you could lure him out there late at night, with the promise of being understanding. You could play the game, lead him out into the water under the guise of being playful. He was stronger than you, but you thought your rage might be enough to hold him under water for long enough.
You felt a small stab of peace at the idea.
Of course, you couldn’t do it—it would be just your luck that you’d land in jail because of him—but thinking about it was nice.
Instead, you would do the next best thing.
You’d make him regret ever looking in another girl’s direction. If he wanted to play, you could play. He didn’t realize what the game really was. You just had to wait for the right moment.
You had the next day off, and thank God for that. There was no way you could face Bucky so soon after what he’d said to you—you hadn’t calmed down enough yet. But you did spend the day with a couple of girlfriends at the mall. You hoped he was disappointed to pull into the lot and not see your car. After all, he might have gotten the job just to bother you, but it still meant that he had to actually work when he was there, whether or not you were scheduled.
On Saturday morning, you arrived a little after sunrise. You weren’t working that day, either, but the drill was necessary, so there you were in light, loose clothes over your bathing suit, your hair a tousled mess, prepared to spend the next couple of hours in the sand. You weren’t the first one there, but you’d beat Bucky at least, so you had a few minutes of calm before he showed up.
The drills were meant to work as refreshers and to also help team building. After all, in a real crisis, you’d all have to be synchronized with each other well enough to administer help as quickly and efficiently as possible.
As well as standard CPR on the beach, you were being tested on pulling people from the water. It was harder for someone like you, not built like Bucky or Sam, but you still always aced that part of the drill. There were also some drills based on call and response times among yourselves, and when and how a two person job should be administered. It would be a piece of cake, you thought to yourself. You were never worried about tests like these.
Your sunny mood threatened to sour when you saw Bucky, long and lean, loping across the beach to where the rest of you were gathered. Bruce and one of the older lifeguards were off to the side, speaking quietly. The drills would start in the next five minutes, but you wished it would be in the next five seconds.
Taking a deep breath, you willed yourself to be calm when Bucky entered your orbit. You knew that he’d make a beeline for you. He stood by your side, hands on his hips, as he admired the ocean. “Missed you yesterday,” he commented.
“Okay.” You were plain in your response. There was nothing to say, really, and you figured that for now, one word answers were the best you could do.
“I remember you telling me about these types of drills when you still worked at the pool. Is it gonna be similar to that?”
You pursed your lips, eyes to the sea line. You didn’t want to think about last summer, or the one before that. “In the act of saving lives? Yes.” you said drily.
“I got my certification last week,” he admitted.
you bit the inside of your cheek. So he had definitely planned this, not just taken the job up on the fly. It had been his goal all along to force you into his proximity. “Okay.” you repeated, back to the safety of a single worded answer.
“I never told you before, but I think it’s really cool that you care about this sort of stuff.”
If he thought a compliment was going to get him anywhere, he was sorely mistaken. You were saved from saying “okay,” for the third time by Bruce striding forward and clasping his hands in front of him. It had been noiseless, but it may as well have been a clap, because everyone straightened and turned in his direction. “Alright, everyone. We’re going to get started now. You know how to do this, so we’re skipping the demonstration. Just show us that you remember the right protocols, okay?”
And with that, the drills were underway.
It had started out fine. You were quick, and you knew exactly where all the extra equipment was. You knew what you should have on your person, what should be secured at Overwatch, and where any emergency backups were. You knew the best way to get them without leaving your victim. Communication was key in this sort of situation. The walkie-talkies were waterproof, but you tended to know exactly what you were dealing with before you were too far out in the water, able to call and anticipate what you’d need, or if you would require assistance, before reaching your target.
For most drills, you used dummies, though some were with your fellow lifeguards acting as helpless swimmers. So far, you’d been able to keep well away from Bucky.
That was, until it came time for the last one. It was a two person drill, and Sam, despite his newfound friendship with Bucky, was still your number one for group situations when the choice was possible. You high fived each other as you got ready on the presumed start line, right by Overwatch. The idea was that in this particular drill, two people would be needed to bring the person back to land and administer CPR or anything more serious.
The only hitch in this was that you were supposed to be saving Bucky, who had eagerly volunteered to float in the ocean and wait for his rescue. It irked you, but you pushed it to the side, ready to show that you were worth your salt. Bruce stood off to the side with a stopwatch. “Alright, ready…?”
At your determined nod, he clicked the button of the watch. “Go!”
You took off in a dead sprint. You were in only your swimwear by now, your clothes discarded in a pile along with everyone else’s. The water was still cool at this time of morning, though you’d been in and out enough that it didn't slow you down. Sam matched your pace pretty evenly, his legs longer, but you had a killer breaststroke, and got to Bucky first. He grinned at you, flicking water from his eyes. “My hero.”
“Shut up and don’t make things difficult. If you screw this for me, I’ll kill you.”
Sam got to you both right as you finished the threat, and Bucky allowed himself to be pulled to land. Once you got him down on the sand, far enough away from the lapping waves, there was a brief, hesitant pause. You were already on your knees beside him. It had been automatic. The thing was, one of you was supposed to administer CPR while the other went for the first aid kit. You and Sam hadn’t discussed who would be doing what. Inwardly, you cursed. You thought maybe somewhere in your subconscious, you were anticipating mouth-to-mouth. What you wouldn’t have given to let Sam do it instead, to leave Bucky spluttering as you held in a laugh.
But you didn’t have time to switch now, because in a real situation, that wouldn’t be an option. Sam took off towards Overwatch, and Bucky blinked up at you innocently. “Save my life, angel. What are you waiting for?”
“Shut up!” you whispered harshly. “Drowning victims usually don’t talk!” Then you started with chest compressions. You were using a bit more force than you really needed, especially since Bucky could breathe, but you didn’t care if he wheezed a little. He deserved it.
Even still, his eyes seemed to sparkle when you stopped after the count. “Do not enjoy this,” you warned, before pinching his nose and covering his mouth with yours.
You weren’t supposed to actually breathe for him, but mimicking the motions was supposed to do the trick. Why, oh why did you not get to use a dummy for this? It was because all your other compatriots were currently performing the same drill, and there were no more left, but it felt like some cruel twist of fate to you, like the universe was having a laugh at your expense.
To your utter relief, he let you do the first set without issue. Then you went back to the chest compressions, where mercifully, he stayed quiet. It was when you did the second set of mouth-to-mouth that things went south. You felt the barest twitch of his fingers against your knee. Then he was snaking his hand up your thigh and to the dip of your waist. You sucked in a breath, moving to pull away, but not before you felt his tongue breach your lips and touch the inside of your mouth.
You stared at him, stunned by his boldness. How in the world had no one noticed the obvious violation of the drill? Instead, he only smiled at you lazily, head pillowed by sand. “You taste just like I remember.”
“Oh, I’m gonna kill you,” you glowered at him, putting your hands on his chest and pressing down with all your weight. He only looked pleased.
“Hey, don’t break our dummy. He’s not one that we can replace.” Sam’s voice snapped you out of it, the first aid kit dangling from his hand.
You sat back on the sand heavily. “Work away, Wilson. I did my part.”
“And you did it so well,'“ Bucky cooed, ignoring the daggers in your eyes.
You excused yourself as soon as you could, under the plea of a bathroom break. It was a short jog down to the cabanas where the stalls were. The lighting was dingy, the four by four room made up of blue tiles. You stared at yourself in the mirror. The drills were almost done, and it was still early in the day. After this, you could go home and put Bucky out of your head, at least until tomorrow.
You still couldn't believe that he’d kind-of-sort-of kissed you. It shouldn’t have been a shock—he’d made his motivations to win you back somehow very clear—but still, you didn’t think he’d put your job at risk in order to do it. Okay, maybe that was a bit dramatic… the most Bruce would have done would be to give you a deeply disappointed stare. But even still, that wasn’t something you wanted to be on the receiving end of.
When you walked back out, the sky had started to cloud over, just a little. You thought you could smell rain on the horizon. It didn’t matter to you. You’d already been in and out of the water a dozen times. You hoped the sky would open up and pour all over Bucky after you left.
The rest of the drills were a breeze. You stayed far away from him, choosing to stick with Ava instead, though you could feel Bucky’s eyes on you. At the end of the circuit, Bruce, pleased with everyone’s efficiency, began handing out coupons. They were a dollar off for the ice cream stand, redeemable any time during the summer. You usually gave yours to Cassie, the stand owner’s daughter, but you decided to keep it this time. You deserved the treat for dealing with Bucky all morning.
You stuffed it in the pocket of your shorts before throwing your clothes on and stealing away to your car while Bucky was distracted by pats on the back from Sam and Joaquin, glad to be away from him, though you had a feeling the memory of his mouth would plague you for the rest of the day.
You settled, reluctantly, into the routine of seeing Bucky often. If you weren’t filled with bubbling annoyance, you would have felt almost like you had in high school, being in his proximity all the time. From the way he kept finding excuses to be close to you, it really did remind you of high school. Back then, when you’d been surrounded by teachers and other students, he’d had to be subtle with his affections. You remembered your hands being linked together behind your backs, or his shoe touching yours, arm to arm. Him scooting his chair closer, or pulling yours across the tile until your knee knocked into his. Back then, you’d mooned over each other like any other lovesick couple. You’d frequently been told to ‘get a room’ even when all you’d been doing was sitting on the bleachers under his arm, leaned against him, or resting back against his chest under one of the trees outside.
It was different now, of course. He’d get close to you, kicking up sand and disturbing the pecking gulls, and you’d simply move away. You had the excuse of surveying the beach, at least. Being around others didn’t really deter him either—any time you were in the middle of a laugh with Sam and Joaquin, he’d join right in, and you’d abruptly stop your giggling and become stone faced for the remainder of the interaction.
You thought you’d at least get some peace and quiet when you ventured to the ice cream stand on your break. You liked Scott—he and his daughter ran the stand all by themselves, sometimes with a volunteer on really hot, busy days. He was always very silly normally, even more so to the little kids, and there was usually a line about a mile long to get a rocket pop or ice cream sandwich. You were lucky to be the last of a rush of customers, and stuck around as you started in on your vanilla cone. You were half leaned into the window, making conversation with Cassie and enjoying the cold that you could feel blasting from the deep freeze. The stand was really more of a little hut, decorated in a Hawaiian theme. Scott always wore the most goofily patterned shirts he could find.
Your fun was short lived when you felt the heat of a warm body at your side. You felt yourself stiffen, knowing exactly who would be that bold. You barely had to turn your head to see Bucky, looking innocently at Cassie. “Is this where I redeem my coupon?” He held the paper between two fingers, and it waved lazily in the breeze.
She grinned at him and took the coupon, and it was only a matter of seconds before Bucky was mirroring you, ice cream cone in hand. “I should have known this was where you’d be hiding.”
You straightened and pulled away from the stand, offering a half-hearted wave to the Langs. “And now I need to find a new spot.”
As you spoke, you felt the slow drip of vanilla curling over your fingers. It had started an instant melt the second you’d moved away from the window. Without thinking, you licked the offending melt away, grimacing at the stickiness you knew it would leave behind, and glanced back at Bucky.
The look on his face was comical. Eyes wide, mouth slightly open, completely ignoring his own melting ice cream. His eyes had been locked in on your hand, and more specifically the trip your tongue had taken. You snorted. “Oh, grow up.”
He tried and failed to school his expression. “That was hot.”
You wrinkled your nose and resumed eating, trying for bites instead of licks—you were almost down to the cone now, and you didn’t really feel like eating vanilla soup, but his eyes tracked your every move. “You’re so gross.”
“Do you remember that night… at that John kid’s party?” Bucky asked, eyes still on your mouth.
You rolled your eyes. “Seriously—”
“When we stole wine from his dad’s cellar and hid in the pool house, and you started hiccupping so much that you couldn’t breathe, but you kept laughing and laughing and laughing?”
You did remember, though it was fuzzy. You’d drank way too much that night. It had been about two months before graduation, and the nerves had been getting the better of you for weeks. But Bucky had convinced you to go, to try and get your mind off of it. “I remember. But I remember what happened after more than I remember that part,” you admitted.
He gave you a half-smile. “Yeah, me too.” The ‘after’ had been very rushed, very giggly sex, and your ‘B’ necklace had kept smacking you in the chin every time you’d moved. And then Bucky and you had snuck out, slinking behind patio furniture, hands tightly clasped, when another drunk couple had stumbled in there. And he’d taken you to a fast food drive thru, and you’d sat on the hood of his car eating ice cream and looking up at the stars.
You didn’t want to get sentimental. It was a road you’d already travelled far too many times, and you didn’t want to drive the familiar path to your dead relationship again. You didn’t want to eat your ice cream anymore, either. You threw the cone in the trash, felt the stickiness between your fingers, and looked at your hands in distaste. Your break was over soon, anyway. Bucky was still staring at you, with eyes as blue and warm as the Southern sea.
“Well, this was fun and all, but I’m gonna go wash my hands before I get back to Overwatch.” You moved to sidestep around him, but he moved with you, cutting you off.
“I miss hearing you laugh.” His voice was quiet, almost drowned out by the shriek of a gull.
You bit your tongue before saying, “Well, that’s a privilege only my friends get to hear. And you’re not my friend, Bucky.”
You left him there, with ice cream dribbling down his wrist, and a bitter taste in your mouth.
You were subject to moments like this all throughout the week. There were days where you almost reached salvation in the form of not being scheduled with him, but every time you thought you were free from Bucky’s pleading stare, he’d show himself. You really thought he’d have better things to do with his summer, but if you were at the beach, then so was he, without fail.
One of the hottest days of the year had approached. Bruce had scheduled many of your for that weekend, encouraging frequent breaks and eagle eyes on the beach goers to ensure that heatstroke was at a minimum. You’d worked days like this before, the sun no joke. The ocean shimmered like a disco ball. It was almost painful to look at, especially from your vantage point on Overwatch. Your stint up high was almost over, with only a few minutes before someone switched with you. Your little handheld fan was losing the battle with the heat, only serving to blow more hot air your way.
You caught sight of a group of girls around your age, a striped blanket held between them as they squealed at the burn of the sand on their feet. They set up not far from you, before pulling off their beach coverups. Obviously, they were intent on getting their tan on. If that hadn’t been clear already, their bathing suits were little more than floss and scraps of fabric. It left nothing to the imagination, that was for sure. You idly watched them lay out, before scaling Overwatch when one of the other lifeguards came to take over.
You were totally unsurprised to see Joaquin and Sam a little further down the beach, not hiding their ogling in the slightest. Joaquin’s eyes were so huge that they looked like dinner plates. You rolled your eyes. Typical men. You approached and lightly shoved Joaquin’s arm. “How about you look at the rest of the beach too, and not just the hot girls, hmm?”
“But—
“Oh, come on. Lighten up. It’s not every day we get to see girls that hot just laid out like that.” Sam complained, gesturing at them.
You gave him a look. “Actually, it is every day. This is the fucking beach, Sam. Hot girls are kind of a dime a dozen.”
You dragged them both along with you, hands firm on their elbows. “You’re just jealous that no one’s making eyes at you.” Joaquin muttered petulantly.
It wasn’t worth commenting on, so you just sighed and shook your head, but then Sam said, “Well, that’s not true… Bucky’s been checking her out all day.”
Your head whipped to the side to stare at Sam. Today had been a day that you’d mercifully not seen much of your ex. You’d covered up today. The UV was high, and you’d worn your rash guard, not wanting to risk a sunburn. Compared to the group of girls, you might as well have been furniture. Sure, maybe Bucky was doing his standard eye-fucking, but there was no way he’d be checking you out over those girls. You weren’t blind—even you knew they all looked like they belonged on the cover of Sports Illustrated.
You arrived at the cabana and immediately sat down on the floor in front of the dinky little air conditioner, letting it blow in your face. Sam fished in the cooler for some bottles of water and tossed one to you, which you caught with a grateful look before chugging half of it. Joaquin rounded Bruce's desk to look at the schedule, before letting out a whistle. “Well, good luck, because you’re walking the shoreline with Bucky in like, ten minutes.” He said to you.
You grimaced. “I know.”
You’d looked at what the day would bring for you when you’d first arrived. Walking the perimeter wouldn’t be so bad. And if Bucky really got on your nerves, you’d just push him into the surf and keep walking.
“Are you ready to forgive him yet?” Sam asked, slouching in one of the chairs.
You glared at him over your shoulder. “Why on earth would I do that?”
“I don’t know, maybe so we don’t have to hear him pining over you or whatever. Dude’s got a heart boner for you so strong that it makes me nauseous.”
“Shut up, Sam.”
“It’s true,” Joaquin admitted with a shrug of his shoulders. “He won’t shut up about you. I know things that I should never know.”
That gave you pause. “Like what…?” You were afraid of the answer.
“Like for your one month anniversary—lame, by the way—you made him a giant skillet cookie and stuck a sparkler in it. Why do I know that? I didn’t want to know that.”
“Or,” Sam added, “that your yellow sundress with the lemons on it is what shows off your legs the best. Why do I care? It’s gross. You’re like a sister to me. I don’t wanna know that.”
“Oh my God.” You groaned, covering your face with a hand.
“Yeah, think of how we feel.”
“Well maybe you shouldn’t have gotten so buddy-buddy with him, ever think of that?” you snapped, looking between them.
“When he’s not waxing poetic about how your eyes look like the stars, he’s a cool guy. But my God, he’s so down bad for you.” Joaquin laughed at your disgusted stare. “So either forgive him, or put him out of his misery. Seriously.”
But it wasn’t up to your friends to decide whether you should forgive and forget. They weren’t the ones that had had to nurse a broken heart between shifts at your part time job and 8am lectures. You sniffed disdainfully. “Sounds like it’s gonna be a long summer for you two, then.”
You spent the remainder of your inside time sitting back against the wall, finishing your water and reapplying sunscreen to your face and your legs, listening to Sam and Joaquin talk about something or other, before you stood with a sigh. “Off to serve my sentence,” you said, stretching your arms.
“Good luck out there.” Joaquin said with a mock salute.
When you pushed open the cabana’s door, you almost screamed in surprise, your hand flying to your chest to calm your racing heart. Bucky had been standing right outside. “Jesus Christ, Bucky. Were you lurking out here like a feral raccoon the whole time?”
He shrugged one shoulder. “No, only the last two minutes. I saw you guys come inside but I didn’t want to crash the party.” His eyes flicked over your form, before he said, “Are you ready to go?”
“I guess.” You blew hair out of your face, then started walking, not waiting for him to catch up.
You basked in miraculous quiet for all of three minutes, the walk around the shoreline barely started, before you noticed that you were the only one with your head on a swivel, watching the water and the beach. Bucky had been staring at you almost the entire time.
“Ugh, god, Sam was right.”
Bucky met your eyes. “Huh?”
“He said you kept checking me out. How about you check out the beach instead? You know, seeing as it’s your job.”
“I can’t help it,” he held his hands up, giving you puppy eyes. You were pretty sure he was pouting a little, too. “I only have eyes for you.”
You scoffed, turning to look at the sea, the group of kids splashing around nearby. “Yeah, right.”
“It’s true!”
“Pretty sure you’d be singing a different tune if Natasha was here.” You sounded bitter, and you knew it. You hated it. You didn’t want to keep bringing it up, to keep bringing her up, but the whole thing was like a splinter in your palm, one that had gotten so deep under your skin that you couldn’t remove it.
There was a moment of silence between you both. You felt the sand under your feet. You were closer to the water than he was, the waves lapping at your ankles as you walked. Your footprints were washed away after every step.
“What do you want me to do,” Bucky finally said, a heavy breath escaping him, “do you want me to beg?”
And to your embarrassment, he got on his knees right there, stopping you in your tracks in front of a large family, who all turned to stare. You looked left and right, mortified as any other surrounding beach goers started turning your way as well, keen interest in their eyes.
“Oh my God, get up.” You flicked your hands, beckoning him to stand, your voice strangled.
“I’ll beg, I’m not above it. I’ll do whatever it takes. I have no shame. I know how I feel about you.” He said steadily, looking up at you like you were the sun.
Oh, no… you had a terrible feeling that he was about to begin a whole speech. “Bucky—”
“I was a total idiot. I’m gonna be kicking myself for it for the rest of my life. I was stupid and scared and everything was changing, and you were my only constant. And instead of clinging to you like I should have, I did the dumbest thing I could possibly do, and I hurt you. And I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I know forgiveness isn’t easy, but I’m asking you to consider it.”
You weren’t really listening, too focused on the heat under your skin, heat that had nothing to do with the warm weather and everything to do with being in the spotlight of a bunch of strangers.
“If you don’t get up right now, there’s no chance in hell.” You whispered harshly.
To your surprise, he stood immediately, latching on to hope. “So there’s a chance?”
“That’s not what I said.”
Bucky grabbed onto both of your hands, and you fought a shudder. It had been a long time since he’d touched you, and even something as innocent as this sent you into a tailspin. When you looked at his face, your eyes slow to move from where he’d been kneeling, you saw a horrible amount of earnestness there. You pulled your hands away from his, rattled. He didn’t usually let you see his true feelings, not when you were together. It had been pretty rare.
“Can we just… can we just finish the perimeter, please?” you asked. People finally started looking away, disappointed that there hadn’t been more of a spectacle.
“Okay. Whatever you want.” But Bucky stayed standing in front of you for a moment longer, before stepping to the side and falling in line next to you.
The rest of the walk was quiet, but his words kept echoing in your head anyway.
It didn’t take you long to notice, after that, that Bucky had started to switch shifts to see you. Even if he didn’t necessarily get to work with you directly, you had noticed names being scribbled out and switched with his. He was always working when you were, now. He was everywhere. Even for things as unnecessary as helping you down from Overwatch. You’d climbed that chair dozens of times without any need for assistance, but all of a sudden, there he was with an extended hand to help you down. You always ignored it, but he did it anyway.
Frankly, it was unnerving. You had to believe that was it, because if you thought about it further... you were worried a small piece of you would find it sweet.
You could no longer ignore him quite so easily. Not when he was being so nice. You could only be so much of a bitch, and it was getting harder and harder to do when he’d bring you water or a snack, or offer to take over so that you could have a couple of minutes inside. He was certainly doing the most to win you over. And you were just a little bit worried that you’d fold like a house of cards if he pushed some more.
Unfortunately, being around him so constantly also made you aware of things you didn’t really want to be aware of. Like the consistent sunburn between his shoulder blades. Bucky refused to wear a shirt, not on any of the days that he’d worked. He technically wasn’t required to, but you thought it was silly to risk a burn just to show of his Adonis-like figure. It was hard to look at him without remembering what it had been like to trace your fingers over his abs. But eventually, the perpetual red mark between his shoulders and up his neck had you taking pity on him.
The next time you were working together, you saw him wince when Sam clapped him on the back in greeting, before trading off. You’d just arrived yourself, your bag on your shoulder. Suddenly, it felt heavy with the weight of sunscreen. “Bucky, doesn’t that hurt?” You touched your own shoulder for emphasis.
He bit his lip, frowning. “Yeah, but I can’t reach there.”
You hesitated before biting the bullet. “Do you want me to—”
“Yes.” He answered before you could even finish the question, his eyes locked onto you.
You regretted asking. You fumbled with the lid of the sunscreen before squeezing some out onto your hand. Standing behind him like this made you think of all the times he’d given you a piggyback ride, walking you from his car to your house. You’d pepper the side of his face with kisses and he’d dig his fingers more firmly into your thighs, keeping you strapped to him like a backpack. You willed the memories from your head at the first gentle touch of your fingers to his skin. You could feel the heat of the burn and winced, imagining the pain. It only took turning into a lobster one time for you to always slather yourself in sunscreen and light layers of clothes, and you thought he’d do well to remember it too, but you said nothing as you rubbed the lotion in. Bucky let out a soft hiss of discomfort but stayed still otherwise. Even though it was overcast today, it was still worth the protection.
Once you were done, you gingerly patted his shoulder. “Okay, you’re good.”
You went to put the bottle back in your bag when he turned to face you. “Can I… return the favour?”
Your instinct was to say no, absolutely not, he was never getting his hands on you again. But the way he’d asked was so distinctly unlike him, it made you reconsider. There was no bravado, no cockiness. Just that same earnest look from the day he’d gotten on his knees, and a soft undertone of shyness that you’d never heard from him before. Usually, you got one of the other female lifeguards to help you with any spots you missed. But as you observed him now, his lack of flirtatiousness made you believe that he’d be on his best behaviour, for once. No lingering touches of heady stares. “Okay.” The answer left you on an exhale.
You had a racerback one-piece on today, meaning it was really only your shoulders on display. You’d done your arms and legs already. You turned away from him after handing him the bottle.
The first touch of his fingers on your skin had you fighting a shiver. This had been a bad idea. It was impossible for Bucky to touch you without your brain catapulting you to the past. All he was doing was rubbing sunscreen into your skin, and yet it was making you think of when you’d been hunched over textbooks for hours, making flashcards, and he’d sat behind you and massaged your shoulders, pressing kisses between your shoulders and to the side of your neck. You were glad that you weren’t looking at him right now—you were sure that your thoughts would be written all over your face. It was making you feel skittish, too self-aware of where your mind was spiraling. He carefully swept your hair to one side, his hand stroking against the back of your neck. You didn’t like how comfortable you felt, how easy it was to sink into the feeling of his hands on you.
When he was satisfied with his application, he let his hands linger on your shoulders before murmuring, voice close to your ear, “All done.” A flurry of butterflies exploded in your stomach. You didn’t want to turn around. You knew exactly how close he’d be.
“Thanks.”
And you both stood there for a moment longer, him behind you, hands still on your shoulders, and you staring down at your sand-filled sandals, suspended in a single stretch of time where he hadn’t hurt you and you hadn’t refused his apology, before someone called your name in greeting, and then it cracked like glass, and you were hastily shoving the sunscreen in your bag and striding across the beach like you were on fire.
Each time you found yourself alone with Bucky after that, it all felt compromising. He didn’t even have to necessarily be close to you, but you felt some sort of intangible spark between you that kept trying its hardest to flicker to life, despite your attempts to smother it. Keeping your distance wasn’t working, and almost all of Bucky’s earlier bravado seemed to have melted away in favour of more genuine connection. He’d stopped flirting with you like he had at first, stopped trying to take advantage of how he could fluster you. It made it worse when he’d stand right beside you, not touching, but only an inch or so away. The heat on your skin had nothing to do with the weather.
You started to wonder, as you observed him, if your time apart had been… good for him.
Not with the way he’d ended things, no, but he hadn’t had anyone in his corner, you believed, except for his best friend, Steve. You had always been the third person in that friendship, even before you’d started dating. And you had long since known that Steve had been the most studious of the three of you. It made you consider the long nights Bucky would have spent alone, without your company or Steve’s to keep him grounded. Something that Bucky had never done much of was stand alone. And whether you liked it or not, your break up would have forced him to do things by himself.
You found yourself thinking about it every time you saw him when he wasn’t aware of you. When he’d been getting off shift, but he’d stopped to help an elderly couple fold up their beach chairs and take them to the car. When he’d helped a lost kid find their mother, holding their hand and then wiping away their tears when they’d cried, accepting the mother’s profuse thankfulness with nothing more than a smile. The Bucky you’d known before wouldn’t have bothered with going out of his way to help people. He’d been totally absorbed in your bubble, your world with the population of two. Maybe he’d grown up more than you’d originally thought.
It was hard for you to reconcile the fact. The boy you’d loved, who’d been all of your firsts, who’d broken your heart, had changed. You wondered, if you were still together, if he’d have still become who he was now. If you’d love him more than you thought possible. But you’d changed, too. You weren’t so trusting, you weren’t so open to new things, like you’d been with him. When you’d been together, you’d felt utterly fearless. Bucky had always been good at entertaining your every whim. But you’d become a little more guarded in his absence. Your rose-tinted glasses weren’t so pink anymore.
Still, you weren’t quite ready to consider taking any steps towards anything more than a working relationship. You didn’t think you could be friends. It would never be just that, not to you. You’d always be thinking of before, when you’d been more. And he’d already made it clear that he wanted you back. You entertained the idea of telling him you wouldn’t take him back, that you could only be friends in the same capacity that you were friends with Sam or Joaquin. You didn’t know if he’d be able to respect your wishes or not or if he’d cross the line. All you really knew was that it would be too easy for you to fall under his spell if you gave in. That was the real reason for your continued distance. Falling back into Bucky would be as easy as wrapping yourself in an old, well-loved blanket, and snuggling so deeply that you’d fall asleep and never wake up again. And you couldn’t do that to yourself. Not now.
The bonfire happened every year, apparently. It was after hours at the beach, no swimming allowed, just the promise of a fire and food and music. It was always at the beginning of August. Almost everyone from the lifeguard team was going. You felt somewhat nervous at the prospect, like there was some sort of anticipation under your skin, but you couldn’t figure out why. After all, you’d spent most of your summer days with these people. You knew what to expect—Sam had filled you in, having attended these things with a cousin a couple of years in a row—but still, you couldn’t shake the feeling. It was just supposed to be a fun, lighthearted evening.
You’d heard through the grapevine that Bucky wouldn’t be attending. You felt a strange sense of disappointment, though you tried to convince yourself that it was actually relief. But when the night of the bonfire came, and your tires slid smoothly across the sand that had blown over the lot, you noticed that his car wasn’t there. You wiped your palms on your shorts, even though they were dry, a nervous tic that you had, and made eye contact with yourself in the rear view mirror. You were just going to have a nice evening, probably attached to Sam and Joaquin the whole night, indulging on hot dogs and popsicles and drinks, and then you’d go home. It sounded like a perfect summer memory to capture and keep like a firefly in a jar.
When you moseyed on over to the beach, you were greeted warmly by your fellow lifeguards. It was just after eight, the sun low in the sky, setting the entire beach ablaze. The last stragglers that had been out enjoying the day were departing, rolling up towels and gathering toy shovels and buckets into bags. You could just barely make out Bruce standing by Overwatch, having taken over so that the rest of you could start your night. You were handed a lemonade and hustled over to the metal fire pit. Some chairs were scattered about, as well as a wooden bench that had seen better days. One of these years, it would probably serve as kindling. The breeze was subtle, carrying the scent of the burning logs across the open air.
Everything was very relaxed, with no expectations but to have a good time. The stars slowly woke up over the course of the next hour, brightening up the darkening sky in soft blinks. Marshmallows were being roasted over the open flame, but you were content to sit on the bench listening to the idle chatter. The evening carried on lazily, most all of the lifeguards present, each of them weaving between each other. A Bluetooth speaker had been set up on a towel, music pumping steadily, a couple people swaying to the melody. The songs were all popular ones, whatever was trending for the summer. The chorus of one was broken up by the distant slam of a car door. You looked around the beach, but you didn’t think anyone had left yet. It was too soon, you thought.
And then you saw him, on the other side of the flames. First a long shadow, then more concrete, more real. Bucky, in a t-shirt and shorts, swinging the his keychain around his finger as he strolled up to the rest of you. He had a sweatshirt hanging over one arm. He was late, but he was here. You tried to tamp down the feeling spreading through your chest at the sight of him. He didn’t see you right away, sidling over to Sam and accepting a drink. They were hovering around the grill. You saw Bucky laugh, but you were too far away to hear him over the music, the roar of the flames, and the swish of the waves. He clapped Sam on the shoulder before turning to survey the rest of the beach, raising his red solo cup in greeting to whoever waved or shouted in his direction.
Then, predictably, his eyes came to rest on you. He stayed staring at you as he took a sip of his drink, and you broke the contact to stare into the fire. You weren’t surprised when he sat down beside you. Out of the corner of your eye, you could see him resting his cup against his knee. “I thought you weren’t coming,” you said, the words leaving the side of your mouth.
“I was always coming. I just had to drop off Becca at a sleepover first. And you know how long she takes to get ready. She ran back and forth from the car to the house like ten times before she was ready.”
With a pang, you silently agreed that yes, you did know how Becca got. She always forgot something. Dates with bucky had been interrupted dozens of times because she’d called him, begging him to bring her something she’d left behind. And he’d always say yes, and then look at you apologetically, and you’d only smile and kiss the tip of his nose before standing and offering a hand. Becca had sort of been like your little sister, too. You had been the one she’d always come to about boy troubles. You missed her.
“How is she?” you asked. It was easier to talk about someone other than yourselves.
“Oh, you know, same as always. Still taking her dance classes way too seriously.”
You hummed, remembering the recitals you’d attended with Bucky’s family. “She’s got the talent for it. Is she still thinking of going to Julliard?”
“‘Course. It’s on her wall. She made this, uh…” he trailed off, searching for the word, “vision board thing. I don’t know. A bunch of pictures all stuck together?”
You nodded. “Right. It’s supposed to manifest your hopes and dreams, remind you of your goals, that sort of thing.”
He snapped his fingers, pointing at you in confirmation. “Yeah, that. God, can’t believe she’s gonna be applying for universities this year.”
“I remember when she still had frizzy hair and braces,” you said, your voice wistful. If you closed your eyes, you could see her clearly. The summer she’d gotten blonde highlights and cried because she thought they were too chunky, you’d helped her dye her hair back to brown. You used to give her your old clothes, ones you’d outgrown or no longer thought suited you. She would raid your closet and call it thrifting.
“And now she’s got her learner’s permit and a part-time job.” Bucky sounded equally pensive.
It was easy to talk about Becca and the passage of time. Bucky filled you in on what she’d been up to. It was nice to hear. No matter what had happened between you and Nucky, you’d always have a soft spot for his family. “…And then her and my mom called me in tears. I was almost late for my mid-term.” he laughed, looking at you.
You smiled at the tale. It was a classic case of dramatic teenage girl versus worried mother. You tried to ignore the fact that Becca probably would have called you, if you’d been around. Bucky seemed to think of it too. He swallowed, and you watched the line of his throat. “You know, she was uh… she was really mad at me, when we broke up. She didn’t talk to me for two weeks.” You could barely hear him over the crackle of the fire, but the words seeped into your skin, regardless. “She would have picked you over me, if she could have.”
You looked away from him, crossing your arms. You didn’t quite know what to say. “Mom, too, actually.” Bucky added after a moment. “She slapped me upside the head.”
You bit your lip to keep from smiling at the idea. Wilhelmina was one of the gentlest women you knew, who only had to threaten to count to three to get her children to fall in line. The idea of her making Bucky see stars with a smack to the skull was admittedly funny. The words left you before you could consider them. “You know, that was almost the worst part for me. Not only did you break up with me, but I lost my second family because of it.”
He said your name then, and you heard the remorse laced in it, but you cut him off before he could say another word. “I wasn’t gonna be the ex-girlfriend that kept making your life hell by keeping up with your family. You might have deserved it, but any future girlfriends didn’t. But I missed them so much.” Bucky’s family had always been much more hands on than yours. They’d never been upset by your presence, they’d just wanted to know if you were staying for dinner so that they could get an extra plate out.
A cool breeze came in from the shoreline, and it made you shiver as your hair caught on it, blowing across your face. The weight of fabric pressed against your legs a moment later. “Here, take it.”
It was Bucky’s sweatshirt. I was a bad idea to accept it, especially when you were quickly approaching melancholy and introspectiveness, but another gust of wind hand you hastily pulling it over your head. The maroon fabric nearly drowned you, the sleeves hanging past your fingers. It smelled of him. His cologne had always had a little bit of a lavender smell to it. You resisted the urge to pull the hem over your nose, to breathe him in more. You could almost believe it was like old times. You’d constantly stolen his clothes. You liked them more than your own, the way they felt so lived in. The way he always felt close. You’d taken no less than three of his shirts with you when you’d gone to France the year before, away from him for spring break. It had made the time difference bearable.
You pushed your hair back behind your ears even though you knew another billow of wind would send it flying loose around your face again. You wished that someone else would come by, pull you into a more mundane conversation, save you from reliving the past. But it was just you and Bucky on that bench. Everyone else seemed oceans away. When you looked at him again, you regretted it. His eyes were dark in the night, but every time the bonfire flickered, you saw that telltale blue. His mouth was pursed in a line, his forehead creased. He turned to the side, resting his elbow along the back of the bench so that he could look at you with the full force of his gaze. “You know my mom would still love to see you, even if we’re not together, right?”
“I know,” you said softly. “But it’s too hard for me. I can’t… I can’t go into that house anymore. I can’t look at your picture on the wall. Because then I’ll remember that I was there when she took it, and all the others.” You sighed, your eyes fluttering closed for a second. “It’s all just a reminder of before. And I can’t keep looking back on it.”
His fingers touched his mouth as he considered, then nodded. “I understand.” For once, you thought that he actually did.
You both sat in the silence of what had broken you apart, before he nudged your knee with his. “Tell me about school. Straight A’s?” The subject was an abrupt, obvious change, but you grabbed it with both hands.
“Of course. like I'd ever get any less.”
He laughed. “Wish I could say the same. got a D- on a first year seminar.”
At your look of dismay, he held up his hands. “You made all my study guides for me. I tried to recreate them the way you do, but it just didn’t really work.”
“Did you colour code everything?”
“I tried. But orange and red kept getting mixed up.”
You shook your head. “Novice move.”
The smile on his face faded then, his eyes going serious. His hand paused in the air between you, before he followed through, brushing your hair back again from where it had, predictably, come loose. “I want to kiss you right now.”
It was the wrong thing to say. The tentative, easy spell of camaraderie broke, and you shied away, ignoring the sparks on your skin from where he’d touched you. You could see regret swimming in his eyes. You stood suddenly, placing your half-finished lemonade on the bench. “I should go. I wasn’t gonna stay long, anyway.”
You took a stumbling step backward when he tried to reach for you, his lips forming your name. There were no two ways about it, you were shaken. You’d thought for a brief, shining moment, that maybe you could just enjoy the evening as something close to friends. That you could just pretend, for one night. But your feelings had risen in you like an unsteady tide, threatening to spill from your mouth. You felt like you had salt water in your lungs, the way they burned. You patted at your pockets frantically, almost at your car. It was too much, it was too soon. You didn’t know what you wanted. For a second, all you’d wanted was him. You sat in your car for a full moment, both hands on the wheel, staring blankly ahead, before finally shifting into drive and backing out of your spot.
You just hoped you’d get to your room before you started to cry.
The country road ahead was dark, with only your headlights to guide the way. It was a ten minute stretch before you’d reach suburbia again. You drove with no music, only the sound of your breathing and the car rumbling over the road. Your fingers were tight on the wheel.
You supposed you should have expected him to say something like that. It was Bucky, after all. No matter how genuine he seemed, his goal had always been to get back in your pants. Maybe that was cheapening what your relationship had been, but when you had the foundation of your love crumbling because he’d wanted to chase down some tail that wasn’t you, what else were you supposed to think? You were sure it would take nothing at all to re frame every action he’d taken over the course of the summer and twist it into something that hurt.
A flash of lights caught in your rear view mirror. The road had been empty, but there was a car behind you now. If they wanted to overtake, they could. But the lights flashed again, and you could just barely make out the shape of it. it was Bucky’s car. He was following you. “Shit,” you murmured to the air freshener hanging from the mirror.
You couldn’t let him follow you all the way back to the house. Your mom was home, and she’d ask questions. Hell, she’d probably invite him in. He flashed them again, keeping pace. You slapped the indicator with your hand, letting out a resigned sigh, and pulled onto the shoulder. He copied you, pulling in neatly behind you. You parked but stayed in the car, one hand on the wheel, the other clutching at your seatbelt where it rested over your chest. You stared straight ahead, blinking away any glassiness from your eyes.
From the edge of your periphery, you saw him lean down by your window, observing you for the space of three breaths, before he knocked gently on the glass. Your hand left the wheel to push the door open, but you stayed in the car. “I'm sorry,” were the first words out of his mouth. “I shouldn’t have said that. I didn’t mean—I'm sorry.”
You chewed your lip, eyes flicking to him and away. “And to be clear, I don’t mean that I regret the fact that I want to kiss you. I still do. I always do. But I'm sorry for saying it and making you upset. It’s the last thing I wanted to do.”
His hand gripped the top of the car’s door. You wouldn’t even have to extend your arm the entire way to touch him. Belatedly, you realized you were still wearing his sweatshirt. “Do you want this back?” you asked absently, waving the long sleeve at him.
“What? Oh, no. You can keep it. Colour suits you more, anyway.”
“Bucky,” you said on a sigh, turning your head to look at him finally, “I'm not gonna keep it. It’s not mine, and neither are you.”
“You’re wrong. I'll always be yours. Even if you don’t want me.”
The admission left you in stunned silence. He’d already said to you in so many words that he was intent on getting back together. But to hear it like that… to hear him say it with honest eyes and no expectation… Your next breath was shaky. You refused to cry.
“What can I do? I’ll do anything. Anything to make it up to you. To start making it up to you.'“
You didn’t even know how to respond. Your mind had drawn a total, perfect blank, like someone had taken an eraser to the whiteboard that was your brain, any ideas completely gone.
“Do you know why I really failed that class?” A cricket chirped between the words of the question. “Yeah, it was partly because I suck at studying without you. But it was also because I missed you, so damn much. God, I was still so gone for you—I kept a photo of you on my nightstand.”
At this, your eyes went wide, a look he caught. He gave you a grim smile. “Yeah, that’s right. It’s you on that tire swing. You know, the one at my uncle’s lake house? And the sun was in your eyes, but you looked like you were glowing. Same one I keep in my wallet.” He pulled said wallet out of his back pocket and unfolded it, sliding a creased photo from its depths. He flipped it in his fingers to face you.
It had been warm that fall. So warm, unseasonably so, that his family had hosted Thanksgiving at the lake house that year, and you’d come along. The next day had been a complete and utter downpour. You remembered because he’d forgotten to roll up the windows on his car, and the drive back had been extremely soggy. Bucky tucked it back in his wallet. “You were the last thing I saw at night, first thing I saw in the morning. I wasted hours I should have spent studying just thinking of you, trying to remember your voice. Old videos aren’t the same. I was gonna come to your house over winter break, you know. I was gonna beg you to take me back then, but then I heard from Stevie you weren’t comin’ home.”
Yes, you and your parents had flown across the country to spend Christmas with your grandparents, instead. And you’d been relieved. You hadn’t wanted to come back to town, worried you’d bump into Bucky with some new girl on his arm. “I knew that for the last three summers, you’d worked at the pool, so I was planning to just show up there. But then I heard you were being a hero at the beach instead. And the first day I saw you, it took everything I had not to just run across the sand and hold you until you forgave me, until you told me everything was okay.”
His voice broke a little on the last word. “Stop.” you whispered.
He didn’t. “I miss you so much, baby. I miss you when you’re standing right in front of me. I miss when you used to tell me everything you ate in a day. I miss when you’d tell me what dumb thing your dad said. I miss all of it. I was such an idiot. I got cold feet and I didn’t think it through. I didn’t need other girls, or time apart. I just needed you. I'm so sorry.”
You felt his sadness like you were swimming in a sea of it. You felt his regret, his anger at himself. And even though he’d hurt you more than you’d thought he ever could… he wasn’t entirely right. Time apart, whether you liked it or not, had forced you both to grow without the other, instead of tangling your roots together and staying intertwined.
The click of your seatbelt coming undone went unnoticed.
His hands hovered in the air between you again, like they had on the beach. He settled his palms on the sides of your face gingerly, like he was afraid you’d duck away. This time, you didn’t. Looking into his eyes hurt, it burned. But you wanted to ignite, you thought. You wanted to smoke and smolder and disintegrate. “Please,” he whispered, “please give me another chance.”
Each word had brought his face closer to yours. Your head was tilted up to his. He was outlined by the silvery moon, you both were. You didn’t know which one of your closed the gap, only that your hands came to rest over his. You both tasted like lemonade, but underneath it was his distinct flavour, the one that awakened your senses like an ember sparking on dry leaves. Suddenly the forest of your memories was aflame. It was a kiss both delicate and searching as well as frantic and pleading, like Bucky was pouring every single regret and wish into the same shared breath. His forehead knocked against yours. Your teeth grazed his bottom lip. The sound he made, one you thought you’d never hear again was what made you come to your senses. You pulled back, breaking the connection of your mouths, but his hands stayed on your face. His eyes stayed closed for a long moment and you were free to admire the way his lashes embraced his cheeks.
“How do I know you won’t hurt me again?”
“You don’t. but I'll spend every day proving to you that I'm worth your trust.” His eyes were still closed, like if he didn’t open them, he wouldn’t have to see what you’d decided flying across your face.
He looked at you again when your silence became the clear answer. His fingers stroked across your temples. “I have to think about it.” you said honestly.
In truth, you were unsure. You weren’t ready to trust him yet, even though your nervous system was screaming at your to dive off the board and into the deep end without a life vest. You saw his chest deflate on a long exhale, his breath fanning across your lips. “Okay. Okay, take all the time you need. I'm not going anywhere. You know that.” He seemed reluctant to let go of you. “You know that, right?”
You nodded as much as you could with his hands on your face. “I know.”
That was what made him drop his hands. “I love you.”
You didn’t say it back, and you thought you saw a flicker of pain in his eyes, before he shook his head. He knew you weren’t about to reciprocate. “I'm sorry I ruined your night.”
Your laugh was born of nervousness more than humour. “You didn’t ruin it. I really wasn’t planning to stay long. You should go back, though.”
He shook his head again. “I think I got what I came for.”
“And what’s that?”
“A foot in the door.”
He stood up straight then, hand on the door. “Drive home safe, okay? I'll see you tomorrow?” The question was full of unrestrained, naked hope.
“Yeah. I start at 12.”
He moved to close your door, but ducked down at the last moment, leaving a lingering kiss on your forehead. “See you at 12.”
Then he closed your door, and you were alone in the car, the scent of him overwhelming, the taste of him even more so. It took a long time for you to buckle your seatbelt again and start driving.
It took Bucky even longer, staring at the empty space your car had been in, before he got on the road, too.
You didn’t really know what to do with yourself in the morning. You’d been on total autopilot the night before, after you’d gotten home. You didn’t remember crawling into bed, even, but you had woken up still wearing Bucky’s sweater. The faint trace of his scent was still on it. You’d let him kiss you last night, you remembered, but you couldn’t summon the strength to be horrified. You had never, never seen him so emotional before. You couldn’t believe, after that admission, that he was just trying to bed you. He had to be serious. There was no way he wasn’t.
But that didn’t mean you were ready to pick up where you left off. You needed time to wrap your head around it. You supposed you had a month before you were back on campus. You had to decide whether you wanted him haunting the hallways of your dorm or not. You didn’t want to hold onto hope only to be crushed by ‘cold feet’ again.
You didn’t remember getting ready for your shift. You only noticed as you were doing a final check of your bag that you’d gotten dressed and brushed your hair, and your teeth as well judging by the minty taste on your tongue. Somehow, you’d blown through the morning in a total fugue state.
You blacked out on the drive, too, only realizing where you were with sudden clarity as you pulled into your usual spot. Bucky’s car was already there. He’d started before you—your shift only overlapped with his for about an hour. You were nervous to see him. What if last night had actually been a cruel dream?
You drummed your fingers on the strap of your bag where it rested over your shoulder, striding over the sand and heading to the cabana. Bruce glanced up at you from over his glasses and murmured a greeting before turning back to whatever paperwork had graced his desk, and you sat heavily on one of the rickety chairs. You fumbled with your water bottle just for something to do. Even though you were wearing a loose t-shirt over your bathing suit, you felt like the fabric was pressing against you like a second skin. You couldn’t even blame it on the humidity.
You basked in the silence for all of five minutes before slinging your bag on one of the hooks by the door and heading back outside, throwing your hair into a ponytail. It was overcast today, and you had a feeling you’d get rained on at some point, but you found yourself welcoming the possibility. Maybe you needed to get in touch with nature a little more, despite the fact that you’d been spending your days surrounded by it. You were scheduled to walk the perimeter and then cover Overwatch for a while. The beach was fairly empty today. You understood—if you’d had the choice, you would have spent the day inside. Everything was awash in shades of gray, the waves looking choppy and rough.
Bucky was almost right in front of you before you noticed him, too lost in thought, too busy trying not to think of him, because if you did, you’d remember the feeling of his hands on your face and the way he’d kissed you and the sound he’d made, along with a million other tiny things he’d done last night. But then he was there in the light of day, hardly a foot from you. You stopped, narrowly avoiding kicking up sand. “Hi,” you already sounded breathless. You hated it.
“Hey,” he said with a nod. His expression was guarded, like he was afraid you’d come to your senses and decided not to take a chance on him.
You both observed each other. “Was it busy this morning?” you asked. It was a lame, easy out.
He shook his head. “The standard early morning swimmers, but otherwise, no. I’ve actually been bored out of my mind. It gave me too much time to think.” It was a leading statement, but you decided not to pull at that thread.
“It’ll probably be more of the same for you. It’s supposed to rain around three.” he added, glancing skyward.
You mirrored him, taking in the gathering storm clouds. “It’s been a pretty dry summer.”
You knew things were awkward when you were discussing the most basic of topics. You could almost picture an elephant there on the beach, a sign on its neck saying ‘address me!’
You pointed at the shoreline. “Well, I should probably get to it. Are you taking a break?”
“Yeah.” But you both stayed standing there for another few seconds, before you ducked your head and started to move.
Right as you were about to pass him, Bucky snaked a hand around your front, settling it on your hip, and kissed the side of your head. It was a small gesture, a simple one. He let go of you and walked away right after he did it, not keeping you there, but it was enough to send your heart ricocheting around your chest like it was taking a turn in a pinball machine.
For your sake, you hoped it would suddenly get very busy on the beach, just so you would have something else to focus on.
The month continued on in a slow crawl, and all of your interactions with Bucky felt like a tentative, shy dance. Sometimes he’d leave you alone, with nothing more than a cursory hello, a searching look, and a small smile, which you’d return. Other times, he’d hover in your orbit like a little lovesick fly. When you’d gone to check the schedule at one point, he’d stood right behind you as you leaned over the desk, not saying a word. You could feel his body heat radiating in waves. You wouldn’t have had to take even a full step back to lean back against him. You imagined if you did, he would have put his arms around you.
You’d started quietly pulling him to the side with no fanfare, turning him around by the shoulders, and slathering him in sunscreen without saying anything about it, though you’d only let him return the favour once, because he’d trailed his finger down your spine and your shiver had been so obvious, you couldn’t look him in the eye after.
The well of longing that you’d boarded up with nails and plywood had flooded, and it felt like it was pushing against the barrier of your skin with insistent, needy hands, begging to be let loose and consume. You were aware of the grains of sand running down on the hourglass. Your personal benchmark of the end of August was approaching, and you felt it looming over you like a vast shadow.
You were running out of reasons to deny Bucky. He’d continued to show up every day, continued to do his job as if he’d wanted to be a lifeguard all along. He was still coming to the beach on most of the days that you worked, though he’d started to give you a little more space. You’d unblocked his number from your phone, and there were now disjointed strings of texts between you. Short things like confirming each other’s schedules, even though you both new the other’s as well as you knew your own. Messages from him wishing you sweet dreams. But the ones that had you holding your phone to your chest with heated cheeks came in the middle of the night, when Bucky would send you things like, “I can’t sleep so I’m looking at your picture,” and “I think I was dreaming of you. I couldn’t see your face, but it was you. It couldn’t be anyone else.” Sometimes he’d tell you what Becca was up to, and pass on messages from you to her as well.
You had started to entertain what the fall might look like. If you took Bucky back, would it be exactly how you’d envisioned it the year before? Would you stop by each other’s campuses, have lunch and study dates together? Would you sneak him back to your dorm, tugging him along by the strings of his hoodie? Would you be one of those couples lazily making out in the quad? Or would you keep this strange tightrope of distance between you? You could picture it just as easily, telling him you still weren’t ready. Him nodding, swallowing whatever he wanted to say, but asking if he could still visit you. You had a feeling that would be worse. You’d be so distracted by the possibility, wondering if he’d make some sort of grand gesture or if he’d keep down this new path, respecting the distance and the time and your hesitation.
With two weeks to go before you needed to get packed up and head three hours away to your school, a couple of new lifeguards were being trained. The off-season was approaching, but the beach was still bound to be busy on weekends all through September and some of October. The heat loved to linger before the cold snap came closer to Halloween. Your hours had started to scale back, or else you’d be in the company of a newbie. Training Kate was somewhat of a challenge. She was good—quick, sharp, determined—but she was also akin to a dog seeing a new toy with the way her attention would shoot elsewhere. Oftentimes, you’d have to repeat yourself or try to get her to refocus. It left little time for Bucky and you, and whatever was going on there.
It was why you were so caught off-guard by Kate asking you one day, “So is that Bucky guy your boyfriend, or what?”
You dropped the bundle of life preservers that had been looped over your arm. “What?”
She pointed at the cabana. Bucky was outside of it, leaned against the wall. He was talking to Sam, but his eyes were on you. He didn’t look away when you made eye contact, and you felt your heart flutter at his open stare. “There’s something going on there, right?” she probed, crouching to pick up some of the preservers.
You joined her, knees in the sand. “We um, we used to date, yes.” You were doing a piss-poor job of picking the red and white rings up. Your fingers suddenly felt slippery.
“Used to date? How long ago?”
“A year ago, give or take.” you said mildly, hoping she’d drop it.
But Kate latched onto it like it was a bone. “A year? Then why is he looking at you like that? Oh! Are you the one that got away?” she sang the last part with enthusiasm, eyes twinkling as she looked at you.
You bit your lip and dusted sand from one of the preservers, a useless thing to do. “In a manner of speaking, I suppose.”
“Are you getting back together? No one looks at a person like that.”
“I know.”
“No, no, I mean… no one looks at a person like that.” she said, grabbing your arm. “My grandparents have been together sixty years, and I don’t think I’ve ever even seen them look so love struck. He’s looking at you like you’re keeping his heart held hostage in a box or something.” To make matters worse, she pointed at him very obviously, then at you. It couldn’t be clearer what you were talking about if she’d started twirling a baton and carrying a neon sign.
When you meekly looked up at him, he hadn’t taken his eyes off you. And damn it, Kate was completely right. You felt stripped bare under his gaze. “Well, it’s sort of complicated,” you muttered.
“What’s so complicated? He looks like he’d get down on one knee right now. It’s actually sort of gross.” She mimed throwing up. Then she looked at you. “And besides, you look equally struck by cupid.”
“What? No I don’t!” You touched your face as if you could confirm or deny her accusation.
She grinned at you, successfully collecting all the preservers and tying them together with a section of rope—the thing you’d been trying to do when you’d dropped them. “If you say so.”
As the rest of the day went on, you couldn’t help thinking about Kate’s question. What’s so complicated? Yes, you’d been hurt beyond belief when Bucky had broken up with you. Yes, it had also sucked extra hard to know that he’d boned Natasha that same night at one of the grad parties. You’d stuck your fingers to the edges of that seeping wound many times over, feeling it bleed over your hands, feeling the pulse of your veins, the hurt pumping through them. But with some level of surprise, when you put your palms over the wound now, you were met with a scar instead. It was puckered, marred, not pretty and clean. But it had healed over, nonetheless. You were sure you’d always feel the phantom ache of the slice, but you found it wasn’t something you were at risk of bleeding out over.
Did that mean you forgave him? You imagined that if you told the whole sordid tale to a council, there’d be varying levels of both outrage and passiveness. You’d seen how girls got ridiculed for going back to men that had done them wrong. But this was the only wrong thing Bucky had done to you, if you thought about it. Any argument you’d ever had, even at your immature ages, had been smoothed over. You had never been the high school couple that broke up every other week. You’d been solid. And it shouldn’t matter what other people thought of your actions, should it? If things went poorly again, you only had yourself to blame for making the choice. You didn’t want outside influence to muddy the waters of your thoughts.
And, you had to admit that as soon as Bucky realized that trying to be suave and charming in order to win you back wouldn’t work, he’d put a stop to it. Since then, he’d been nothing but sincere. He’d prostrated himself before you. He’d tried to meet you where you were at. Maybe it was something worth considering. If you were honest with yourself, you’d never fallen out of love with him, even when you’d had your heart broken, even when you hadn’t seen him for months. As soon as you had, all those feelings came rushing back in a tsunami.
You’d just stepped inside your house, shaking sand from yourself and throwing your keys on the table. At that moment, like he’d known you’d been thinking of him, Bucky sent you a text.
There was no expectation of anything, just an offer of help. and he was right—you were a serial overpacker. It was one of your more endearing qualities, apparently, or so he’d told you once. You considered the offer, considered him. And miraculously, you came to a decision.
You had a week to go, and four shifts left. You only had two days between your last one and your return date to school. You’d asked for it to be that way—you hadn’t wanted to haunt the house with your overthinking.
You had what was considered a closing shift, though it wasn’t a very long one. Four to nine, and the promise of a gorgeous sunset. You knew that Bucky was closing alongside you. After eight o’clock, you’d be on your own with him.
You managed to keep your distance for most of it—the beach was busy that evening, and you’d had to rescue some kids that had gotten a little too far from shore and started to panic. It had all been fine, nothing except for a few tears, some shaken pride, and some furious parents, but you’d kept a sharp eye on the water regardless. You were here to do a job, after all, not moon over your ex, no matter how great he looked with no shirt and dark red shorts that brought out his tan. You’d had the luxury of other lifeguards at the beginning of the shift, but as time went on, they dropped off one by one.
Ava was the last to leave, a couple minutes after eight. You had an hour to kill. You were staying up on Overwatch and keeping an eye on the dwindling beach goers while Bucky started clean up duty, making sure all the essential gear was in its right place, checking the batteries on the walkie talkies, and making sure none of the off-limits areas had been breached. You tried your best not to watch him, but it was hard when the beach was slowly emptying.
Right at nine, the soft clearing of Bucky’s throat alerted you to his presence. He stood next to Overwatch’s stilts, a hand extended up like he was a knight waiting to assist his princess down from her horse. You accepted his hand when you were low enough, your jump down the last remaining foot of the chair noiseless. “Did you lock up yet?”
“Not yet. I wasn’t sure if you needed anything else from there.” He’d already grabbed your bag and was holding it over one shoulder.
You nodded, waiting for him to pass you your bag, but he seemed utterly content to just follow along, continuing to hold it. “I just want to double check the schedule. I think my next shift is my last one with Joaquin.”
He fell into step with you easily, trudging through the sand in the twilight. The sun was gone but the sky was still a few shades lighter than black. You could see the outline of him from the edge of your sight. At least he’d put on a shirt now. It made him just a fraction easier to deal with. He followed you into the cabana and stayed hovering beside you while you ran a finger down the schedule tacked to one of the walls. The different times of day were highlighted in varying colours. You nodded to yourself. “Yeah, last one with Torres.”
“Mine was Tuesday,” Bucky said.
In the back of your head, you’d known he was going back to school, too, but it still jolted you to be reminded that you’d be drifting apart again if you didn’t do something about it.
You flicked the lights off and ushered him from the cabana, locking it and tucking the key in the mailbox, which latched when you closed it. Bruce would be able to unlock it with the master key in the morning. The walk to the parking lot was quiet. Only yours and Bucky’s cars remained, tucked side by side together. You both stopped at the edge of the lot, and he turned to you. You could see the moths thumping their tiny bodies against the street light above him. He was limned in warm gold as he handed your bag back to you. This wouldn’t be the last time you saw him, and you knew it, but you felt rooted to the spot like your brain was trying to trace his exact shape and height and leave it as an imprint behind your eyelids.
“Well, I guess I’ll see you,” you finally said.
He’d been doing the same as you, twirling his car keys in his hand but otherwise making no move to go. He nodded. “Good night.”
You turned to go, but you only got halfway to your car before stopping. You felt like you’d stepped into a thin pocket of time where only the two of you existed. There was no sound except the crash of the waves and the moth bodies against the street light’s glass. You turned, your flip flops skidding on the asphalt. He was still standing where you’d left him, still watching you. He didn’t say a word as you walked back over, right into his proximity.
It was time to be brave and take a chance, you supposed. You let your bag slip off your shoulder and down to the crook of your arm before letting it fall in a pile by your feet. There was the barest hint of a question in Bucky’s eyes, and they flared wide when you put your hands on his shoulders, before you slid your arms around his neck. This was the closest you’d been to him in over a year, barring the mouth-to-mouth incident. This was real. You rolled up onto your toes. Your vision was overtaken by his eyes, so dark in colour but so bright in a sudden gleam of hope.
“I’m not saying we can pick up where we left off,” you started, your voice hushed, “not like we were before. I’m not even saying I want to dive in headfirst. But I’m… I’m willing to try, if you can take it slow with me.”
There it was, your heart on a platter. You didn’t know if Bucky would readily accept it or if he’d have a counteroffer. He was slow to put his hands on you, like he was afraid that if he did, you’d pop like a bubble and disappear. You thought you felt one single tremor as his fingers landed on your waist, before the full weight of his palms branded you. “I’ll take whatever you give me. Even if it’s just phone calls and texts. I can’t do another year without you in my life.” You shivered under his touch, his words, his gaze.
“Can I just ask for one thing? It’s the only time I will, I swear.”
You tilted your head to the side just a little. “What is it?”
“Please, for the love of God, can I kiss you?”
You felt like you were going to be swallowed whole by those dark blue eyes. “Yes—”
The word wasn’t even fully out before your mouth was claimed by his. Your noses bumped together. The kiss was chaste, demure, even. The first one, at least. But each time his lips parted from yours, he came back, like he wasn’t satisfied with just one taste. Like he was parched and you were a full cup of water and he couldn’t resist chugging you. It wasn’t that you’d forgotten what kissing Bucky—really kissing Bucky—was like, but all your memories seemed to pale in comparison when you got to experience the real thing in full sound and colour again. There was the telltale taste of peppermint in the brush of his tongue. The slow exploration of your mouth felt like he was kissing you for the first time ever, not like he was revisiting an old haunt. It made you feel weightless.
When you really did part, your breaths fanned over each other’s faces, your heads bent together, your foreheads touching with each exhale. “Please don’t let that be the last one before we go back to college,” he muttered. The tiniest hint of the Bucky you’d known and loved before was threaded through the words, the smallest, softest whine of disgruntlement.
You couldn’t hold back your laugh. “Maybe not, we’ll see.”
As silly as it sounded, it felt like a weight had been lifted off your shoulders. You practically floated all the way home, a dreamy smile on your face—you’d seen it when you’d gone to brush your teeth. Your phone had been lighting up almost nonstop after you’d gotten into bed. It was all texts from Bucky, ranging between sweet messages he’d apparently been dying to say all summer and had kept in his notes app, and plans for the future. Those ones were more tentative, more shy. He sent you a couple of links to restaurants between your two schools, mentioned some of the events happening on his campus. He didn’t expressly invite you, but… the implication was there, and it was clear. Now that he had the chance, he wasn’t going to make light of it.
And it continued on, all through the week. He did end up helping you pack your things, throwing your last suitcase and storage box into the trunk of his car and promising to bring them to you sometime in the first week. In between packing and plans, you’d allowed him to steal some sweet, shy kisses. You couldn’t help it. Your resolve had officially crumbled. And you didn’t think you wanted it any other way.
Your days at work were dwindling down. You were right on the finish line. Unfortunately for you, when you got there for your next shift, Sam took one look at you and groaned before fishing out his wallet and slapping twenty bucks to Joaquin’s chest. “God damn it, Torres, you won.”
You’d frowned and cocked your head, confused. Sam had gestured up and down at you. “You forgave Bucky.”
“How do you know?”
“I can just tell. If you could see you right now, you’d know. It’s really obvious.”
You looked down at your clothes, your bag, your lotioned legs. You didn’t seem any different, you thought. You felt different, but that wasn’t visible to the naked eye… was it?
But it became impossible to ignore when Bucky came sauntering across the sand. He wasn’t working, but he held two ice cream floats in his hands, and handed one to you before slinging an arm around your waist. “What’s going on?”
You had been smiling goofily at him as soon as he’d come into your eyeline. And that was when you knew that your happiness was as clear and obvious as a stain on a white shirt. You gave Sam a look. “You placed a bet?”
He snorted. “Of course I did.”
Your last day on shift was bittersweet. Bruce had thanked you for your time, and asked if you’d consider coming back the next year, which had been an easy yes. You’d had one last ice cream at the Langs’ stand, chatted with Cassie and Scott, and joked about how the former would probably look totally different in a year’s time.
Bucky swung by in your last hour. He’d already been reprimanded the previous time when he’d corralled you into the showers. You’d admittedly been playing hard to get that day, revelling in the wild look in his eyes, but you’d ultimately been mortified when he’d pinned you to the shower’s wall, a handful of your ass in his grasp, and heard a small, disapproving, “Ah-hem…” from Bruce. You wouldn’t have been surprised if he hadn’t invited you back next year.
You were still fully intending on taking it slow. You didn’t want to burn too bright, too quick. You thought being on different campuses would help with that. You were doing your very last walk of the perimeter, Bucky in tow, his hand sweaty in yours, but you kept a firm grasp on him anyway. The sun was beating down on your head mercilessly.
You came to a complete, sudden halt, hand loosening from Bucky’s, when you saw a flash of copper ahead of you. Attached to the copper was the body of a model in a black and white striped bikini, doing what could only be described as a Baywatch-eqsue run into the water.
It was Natasha.
You went cold all over, despite the heat. You hadn’t seen her since your graduation. She still looked great, as always. You were fairly sure she could wear a garbage bag and still turn every head on the beach. But then you were pulled back to reality by Bucky tugging on your hand. “Why’d you stop, love?”
You looked between him and Natasha, 50 feet away. “Natasha’s here,” you said limply, gesturing to the waves.
He frowned, a look of genuine surprise on his face. “Huh, you know, I didn’t even notice.”
It seemed crazy—even you had been ogling her. The crazier thing was, you believed him. He really had been looking at you the whole time. As you resumed your walk, his eyes flicked over to her once, as you passed. But then they slid forward, to the next swimmer, and the next, and the next… Just a cursory glance. There was nothing there, no heat, no fire. And then when he looked at you again, he smiled. “Do you want to grab dinner when you’re done? Nothing crazy, just, I don’t know, burgers? At that one place?” Then he lifted your joined hands and kissed the back of yours.
bonus author's note: a special thank you to @pinksplace, who helped me cook up a plot/trope while i was floundering; you threw me the life raft, for real. um, in the end i didn't really work with any of our spicy, rated r for radical think pieces, and it ultimately came out much more yearning-forward and with none of the planned smut... i hope you're not disappointed, the place that is pink.
✦summary: You know Steve doesn't see you like that. You know because you asked him, and he said no. So it's not really fair, that he'd reject you and keep making you love him after, is it. ✦
✦warnings/tags: steve rogers x female!reader, modern!au, no use of y/n, pining, rejection (at the start, off page, and steve's a liar about it), no description of reader (pictures for aesthetic only), fluff, angst, love confessions, some plot to get to all that porn, feral level smut, (dry humping, teasing, making steve lose control, fingering, light spanking, praise kink, manhandling, big dick steve, squriting, p in v sex, creampie, breeding kink, soft!dom steve), soft!steveoutside of smut✦
✦wc: 10.9k✦
✦Author's Note: this one hit ME too hard bc i based it on real life too much. oops. all the better for the horny ig. Enjoy!✦
You’re not looking for him in the crowd. And if anyone says you are, they’re a big, fat liar.
Active scanning is not looking. It’s a part of the job, to see who’s here. What kind of interviews you’re going to be able to get, who’s already closing in on who, who’s snuggled up and gossiping and might not notice you eavesdropping. If you’re smart about this—and you always are—you’re going to walk away from tonight with a comment from Secretary Ross, Pepper Potts, or even an Avenger themselves.
But not him.
You have no interest in walking away with a comment from him.
“They’re here.” Your coworker Stacy bumps your shoulders, her eyes wide and fixed across the room. “Holy shit, they’re actually here-“
“It’s their fundraiser.” You mutter, keeping your attention on a senator bumbling about near the drinks. “It would be crazy if they weren’t here.”
“Yeah, but- It’s all of them. I’ve never seen all of them-“
“Yes, you have.”
Stacy glares at you. “Well, not so close.”
You glance over, pointedly only looking at their feet. “They’re not that close.”
“I could touch one.” Stacy breathes, and you snort.
“You should go try that.”
That earns you another glare, and a smack on the arm. And you deserve it, but you just laugh and look back to your target. The tipsy, red-eyed senator who’s going to have a few more drinks, and tells you all about that bill congress is trying to pass about the Enhanced. You’ve read it three times, and it’s a disgusting invasion of privacy, but those documents were off the record. If you can get a Senator, talking about how he wants to force all superheroes to either be sterilized or record their sex lives-
Stacy pinches your arm, and you squeak so loudly it echoes off the domed, ballroom ceiling. Some attention darts in your direction, but everyone quickly loses interest when they realize it’s nothing all that interesting. Your face is burning as you smooth your dress, and it doesn’t stop burning. It feels like someone is tending to the hot embarrassment, fluttering in your tummy and restless in your fingers. Like someone is looking right through you, monitoring you, watching you-
“He’s looking at you.” Stacy hisses in your ear, buzzing with so much excitement you’re sure she’s about to turn into glitter and explode like fireworks, and you’re going to throttle her.
“He is now, because you,” you shove her shoulder. It doesn’t do anything to stamp out her thrill at your worst nightmare. “Fucking made him notice-“
“No, he was looking before-“
“No, he wasn’t-“
“Yes, he was-“
“No, he wasn’t-“
“Who wasn’t what.”
You freeze, and Stacy looks over your head with a fawning, dazed expression. You’re going to kill her. You’re going to cut her up into tiny pieces and burn them all in separate furnaces, and then you’re going to steal her dog and make it forget all about her, and marry her husband and make her cute little kid your Cinderella as bloodline punishment-
“Hi, Mr. Captain Sir.” She giggles, looking back down to you with a wide-eyed it’s him expression.
I’m going to kill you. You mouth. She doesn’t seem all that bothered by the threat.
“Uh- Hi. You don’t have to-“ You hear him shift on his feet behind you. “Steve is alright.”
You can picture him rubbing the back of his neck, trying to look smaller. More humble and approachable, when he’s a modern walking Hercules. A better version, who doesn’t kill his wife and kids. Who gets you drinks and tries to be your friend and is so stupidly polite and kind and you hate him, you hate him so much-
He says your name. You plaster on the widest, most plastic and sickly sweet smile you can manage. You want him to feel like you’re a bit of plastic that’s stuck between his teeth. To give up talking to you, because it’s not fair.
Steve’s just as handsome as the last time you saw him. And the time before that. And the time before that. If anything, he’s more handsome. You don’t know how he does it, changing absolutely nothing about his appearance and looking hotter every time you get eyes on him. His hair is styled the same as always, but it looks so soft. You could run your fingers through it and it would probably feel like a cloud. His stupid, sharp jawline is slack as you glare up at him, and he’s so tall it makes you dizzy, and he’s fixing you with that puppy look that makes you feel like you’re important to him.
And you’re not. You know you’re not.
You went down that road once. You tried to be important to him, and he said no. And he’s Steve, so he was sweet and perfectly kind about it, and still wanted to be your friend, and you’d thought you were already over it so you’d said yes.
You thought you could just be his friend. He hadn’t made anything weird. Neither of you had ever even brought up your failed attempt to ask him out again. And at the time, you’d thought you were over it.
But Steve is Steve. And he’s got some titanic hold over your heart that’s left finger marks dug in through the landscape. There’s a depression over the cavity of your chest, and your ribs have molded to fit it, and now it’s far too late to go back. You only know how to have feelings for him. You’ve tried to get over it. To ignore it. To forcibly re-mold your love into something platonic, or clawed your way through some relationships in the hope they’d help you move on.
They don’t. They won’t. Nothing can.
The big stupid boy-scout standing over you owns you completely, and you can’t even tell him without making it a problem.
Your new strategy had been to ignore him. Stacy ruined that.
She thinks he secretly has feelings for you. You tune her out every time she starts to crow and preach about it, because you know your heart is going to take it as gospel and not parody, and you can’t afford false faith. All you have is what’s grounded between your fingers.
Steve’s right here. He’s smiling at you, all pretty and nice, and you have to smile back or else it will make him feel bad. He’s got a drink in his massive hand for you. You’ve had a million wet dreams about that hand around your throat or cupping your pussy.
You’re aching thinking about it. In an ideal world, this would be the part where you ran without looking back.
In an ideal world, you’d be standing on his arm right now, instead of all stiff and weird in front of him.
You need to get a fucking grip.
“Hi.” You say, and it’s sounds lame and idiotic and pathetic-
Steve’s face splits into a big, happy smile. “Hi. How’s the night going for you, do you have your victim picked out?”
You scowl. “It’s not- They’re not victims-“
“You treat them like they’re victims.” His grin widens. “Sometimes I feel like I should be saving them.”
“They’re all fine. It’s not like I’m drugging them or something.”
Steve’s brows raise. “That makes me think you are drugging them.”
“Nuh uh.” You stick out your tongue, and he laughs under his breath.
“One day you’re gonna say something that actually gets you in trouble, you know.” He holds out the drink he brought you.
It’s your favorite. It’s always your favorite.
You told him what your favorite drink was, the very first time you attended one of these parties. He’s never forgotten since, and it makes you love and hate him all the more.
“I don’t think I will.” You mumble, both trying and desperately failing not to brush his fingers. His skin is warm. He’s warm. He’s like a walking furnace, and you’d like to just bury your face in his pecs and breathe him in and-
“Kid, you already have.”
Steve looks at you like you’re the only thing in the room. His eyes are sparkling, and in the background you think Natasha Romanoff is circling like a shark, trying to get his attention, but if he notices he pretends he doesn’t. He just looks at you and calls you kid, and the word plummets like a cold stone into your gut.
Kid. That’s all you are to him. Kid.
“But if I got in trouble, you’d save me.” You take a long sip of your drink, and you like to torture yourself.
With his presence. His closeness.
How fast he nods. How certainly he answers.
“’Course I would. Already saving you by pretending I don’t see you getting all those Senators drunk.”
You laugh softly, but the sound hurts. When you look over your shoulder, Stacy’s abandoned you for the food table. You catch her eye, and she shoots you an excited thumbs up. She probably thinks this is going great.
“Are you feeling alright?” Steve says suddenly, and he sounds like he really, really cares. “You been looking kind of sick- Not that you look bad- You look good, uh- Really good, but-“
“I’m fine.” You turn back to Steve, and you wonder if he can see it.
The pain, leaking down like a toxin from your eyes. Everything kind of blurry. You’d throw up, if you didn’t think he’d take care of you after.
“Everything’s fine.”
Steve’s lips twitch. You’re not sure he believes you.
But it doesn’t really matter anyway. You’re not his to get an answer out of. He decided that.
And you’re just doing exactly what Steve wants, all the time.
“You do look nice.” He mumbles, taking a sip of his own drink, as if it could even do anything to him.
You smile, and there it is again. The shameful, unrelenting heat in your stomach. “Thanks.”
I dressed up for you.
“I think he’s in looove with you.” Stacy says, spinning around in her chair. You flip her off, not looking up from your computer.
“Is the printer out of paper still?”
“I don’t know, you print everything for me.” She pokes your chair with her foot. “Pay attention to me, I said Steve’s in love with you-“
“No, he’s not.”
“Yes, he is.”
“No, he’s not-“
“Yes, he is-“
“Is this the same thing you were fighting about last time?” Steve’s voice comes from over your shoulder, and you freeze. “Or is that just… How you two talk.”
Stacy looks awfully fucking pleased with herself for a dead woman. “It’s the same fight as last time.”
“Oh.” He pauses. You can hear his concern, and it makes you want to vomit. “Is everything okay?”
“Mhm.” Stacy beams. “Hi, Steve.”
You glance up, and Steve looks properly bemused and adorable about her whole demeanor. It makes you want to hold his face and kiss the tiny, pouting frown off his lips. You smack yourself internally. Get it together.
“Hi, Stacy.”
She almost glows. “You remember my name?”
“Yeah.” He glances down at you. “I try to remember most people’s names.”
Stacy swoons. “Of course you do.”
Steve blinks, and you clear your throat.
“What are you doing here?”
“Uh-“ He rubs the back of his neck, giving you a small smile. “Lunch, remember? We planned it last week.”
Oh. You did do that. “I told you to wait outside, my boss is going to try to interview you-“
“Oh, she already did.” He laughs. “But I’m here for you, not a front page.”
You flush, and Stacy giggles like she’s watching TV.
“So…” Steve shrugs. “Lunch?”
Right. Lunch.
“How’d you even get in the building.” You grumble, grabbing your jacket as you stand. He shrugs sheepishly.
“I took a photo with the guards.”
“Steve, I told you to stop doing that-“
“It made them really happy, okay? And I went through all the metal detectors, same as everyone else-“
“I know, but you hate taking the photos, you can tell them no.”
Steve frowns. “It’s not that big an inconvenience for me-“
“But you hate it.”
“I don’t hate it-“
“Steven Rogers.”
You glare at him, arms crossed over your chest. Steve sighs, slumping like a scolded child.
“I don’t love them.” He mumbles, and you nod.
“Next time, tell them no.”
“But then I can’t come upstairs.”
You shrug, starting at the door, your shoulder bumping against his. “You can text me. Like you’re supposed to-“
“Or I can just do the photos-“
“No-“
“Bye, guys.” Stacy calls from behind you, and you look her with wide eyes. You’d forgotten she was there.
“Um… Bye.” You wave awkwardly, and she grins.
He’s here for you. She mouths, and you roll your eyes.
No hope. It just makes everything else harder.
If Steve wanted you, he’d say something. And you’re a big girl. You can handle just being his friend, because he won’t leave you alone long enough for you to properly avoid him. You can handle it.
His hand finds your lower back, when he opens the door for you. You almost trip over your feet from the dizzying touch.
You can’t handle this at all.
The most annoying part about having undying feelings for Steve Rogers is that it’s Steve Rogers. Captain America. Golden Boy Number One. Mr. Perfect Specimen.
You’re in love with the little blond boy with abs and a dopey smile and sweet blue eyes. You’re obsessed with Mr. Muscles. You lose sleep over the guy who looks like he could crush you in a headlock then kiss you to sleep after.
Incredibly original. Groundbreaking, even. The love of your life is the masculine celebrity who’s respectful and kind. Never before heard of stuff. You’re really shattering glass ceilings with that one.
You want to shoot yourself in the face.
It’s impossible to avoid even thinking about him, when he’s everywhere. You go out to the corner store, and he’s on the little TV mounted in the corner. Avengers brand yogurts line the grocery store, and you glare at Strawberries and Cream and Justice until your head hurts. He told you about that. He was pretty proud of how all the proceeds were going to charities.
“It’s a stupid name, though.” You’d said, and he’d shrugged.
“Tony says the name doesn’t matter, as long as it’s got our faces on it. Apparently that’s what people are buying for.”
He’d frowned at that, and you’d given him an affectionate smile. He hates the glory of all of this. You know he does, and you’d told him gently you’re sure people will also buy for charity.
You’d been lying through your teeth, though. When you grab the yogurt and shamefully shove it into your basket, it’s not for cancer research or orphans or to save the bees. It’s because Steve’s face is smiling at you from the plastic, and you’re no better than the fangirls who get all doe-eyed over his every breath.
Not that you’re much better about that, either.
“I could give you an interview.” Steve offers on day, when you’d been complaining to him about slow news. “It can be about whatever you want-“
“I don’t want your pity journalism, Steven.”
He frowns. “It’s not pity. I’m trying to help you.”
You shrug, wrapping your arms around your stomach. “Well, I can’t accept your help.”
“Why not-“
“It’s unethical.”
“I… don’t think that’s true-“
“Well, I didn’t earn it.”
“You don’t have to earn it.” He says, all earnest and sweet and kind, and you want to die. “You work hard, I know you work hard, and if this can help you- Here, we can do it right now-“
“I don’t have questions ready.” You cut in quickly. Flatly.
Steve just shrugs. “Make some up. I know you can.”
You wish he’d stop believing in you. It makes your heart flutter.
“I have nothing I want to ask you.” You mumble hopelessly, and he frowns.
“I don’t believe that.”
“Why not?”
“Because you always have something to ask me. To ask anyone.”
You flush, turning to the side to avoid his gaze. “Maybe I just know everything about you,” you mutter, and he snorts.
“No. You don’t.”
That gets your attention. You snap your head in his direction, and he smiles at you. Like he already knows he won.
“There she is-“
“Shut up.” You lean across the table, and his smile widens. “What don’t I know about you.”
“A lot.”
“Like what-“
“You have to ask me to find out.”
You narrow your eyes. He keeps fucking smiling.
“You suck.” You grumble.
He shrugs. “I know you think that.”
You’re both leaning across the table. If you reached up, just an inch, you’d be able to trace the line of his nose. He’s so handsome. It’s unfair, and you can feel a smile tugging at your lips in response to his.
“I’m going to punch you in the face-“
“I’d like to see you try, kid.”
Kid.
You lean back, ice water feeling like it was poured through your veins. Steve notices the shift. He frowns, but you don’t give him the chance to question it. You just push on.
“I need a napkin.” You mutter., leaning back into your seat. “To write questions.”
“Yeah. Right.” He rubs the back of his neck. Opens his mouth, then closes it again, shaking his head slightly. “I’ll go get that for you.”
Of course he will.
And when he’s talking to the waitress—paper and a pen in his hand—she twirls her hair and giggles. Same as you would, if you got to know him where he didn’t know you. Where he might just find you pretty, and give you a chance, because you were friends first and you think that’s where you all went wrong.
This all might’ve been easier, if he really was just a celebrity crush. If you loved him because he was Captain America and not Steve. Your Steve. Who brings you back two pens in case you don’t like the first, and shares his food with you while you gloss through the interview—feeling little detached from your own body, like he’s a million miles away—and touches your lower back again when you finally leave lunch.
You might’ve gotten to touch him more, if he didn’t mean something to you.
But you wouldn’t trade knowing him for the world.
And that just makes it all hurt even more.
Steve’s been trying to get you out with his team for years. You’ve said no, over and over and over. You don’t need to feel even more mortal than you already are. Don’t need the reminder that he probably rejected you because you’re not even a quarter of what he and his friends are.
Not that you think Steve would think you’re any less because you’re not enhanced. You know he wouldn’t.
Consciously.
But that doesn’t change the reality of it. He wouldn’t want you, when he’s surrounded by other Gods, like he himself, far more worthy of his attention. You can be mean and sharp, but you don’t have the cool, collected, deadly beauty of Black Window. And you’ve heard the rumors about them.
You’ve heard all the rumors. About Steve with everyone, because people like to talk. There isn’t a pair of people on the Avengers that the public hasn’t theorized about secretly dating.
And you know none of it’s true. Steve’s told you himself.
But that doesn’t make it hurt any less, when you think about him with someone else more worthy. Someone he wants.
Which is why you didn’t want to do this. And Steve had always respected that—because he’s perfect, and he respects everything—so you’d thought you’d never have to. He asks. You say no. He doesn’t push it, or demand to know why. He waits months before asking again, and you know he only does that because he thinks you’re just too busy to go out the other times. That you’re saying no because you simply don’t have the energy, and not because the idea makes you feel itchy. And you don’t want to tell him. You like that he asks you. It makes you feel important.
But you still kept saying no.
Until Stacy overheard him ask you, and said yes for you. And Steve beamed, and you couldn’t stand to burst the delicate little bubble of his joy, and now you’re here.
Huddled in the corner of a bar with the fucking Avengers all around you. Hawkeye and Thor are throwing darts in the corner. Hulk, Black Widow, and Falcon are playing pool. The Vision is eating onion rings, and everything feels like a very, very bizarre dream.
Steve hasn’t left your side since you got here. It’s been the only anchor you have. You’d been able to hide in his shadow and duck under his arm, avoiding pressing questions and conversations you don’t really want to have. It’s not too weird for him to bring a civilian friend, at least. None of them have commented on it, besides throwing you passing looks. Steve mentioned that they all do it, from time to time.
But you’re the only one here right now. And if you could, you’d sew your hand into Steve’s so he couldn’t leave you alone.
And that’s always a little true. You want that all the time.
More than usual right now. But all the time.
“I’m going to get drinks.” He mutters, and you grab his bicep like a scared child.
“Wait- I’ll come with you-“
“Don’t worry, I’ve got it.” He grins down at you, patting your head like you’re a dog or something. “You don’t have to stand up.”
You want to shout at him that this isn’t about him being a gentleman, it’s about him not leaving your sight. But you’re weak. And pathetic. So you just nod, and Steve smiles at you before walking away.
You try to hide in the shadows, avoiding any attention. It doesn’t work.
“You’re the journalist.” A cool, lazy voice cuts through the air, and you look up to find Tony Stark standing over your table.
“I’m a journalist-“
“No. You’re Roger’s journalist.” Stark drawls, sliding into the booth. You stiffen, but don’t dare to move away.
That’ll make it seem even more obvious, when Steve comes back and you don’t inch away from him.
“I understand what he’s been going on about.” Stark continues, looking you up and down slowly. “Didn’t know they made them like you anymore.”
Your eyes narrow. “Like me?”
“Mhm.” Stark smirks, and you raise your chin.
“What am I like, Mr. Stark?”
He chuckles, leaning back. “Little spitfire, aren’t you-“
“Only to people who deserve it.”
That makes him laugh louder. Everything feels more and more like a fever dream by the second.
You look out to the bar, trying to find Steve. Internally begging him to come back. He’s by the bar, your drink already in his hand. It’s the same one you always get. He’s holding it close to his chest, like it’s something priceless.
There’s a woman standing next to him. Just another random girl, in a tiny dress with some pretty good makeup, giggling and batting her lashes at him.
And Steve’s entertaining her. smiling at her.
The same way he smiles at you.
You don’t want to be here. You didn’t want to be here. You don’t want to see how it’s not even the Avengers that he’d want more than you, it’s everyone else. She’s getting the same attention you try to drown yourself in, but you’re not the one who might go home with him. His grin is a little tighter with her, because he’s probably restrained and trying to play his cards right. She looks like she’s talking sweet, and he’d probably want that more than you, poking and mocking him all the time. He’s a God. He’ll say he’s not but he is, and what kind of god would want to be worshipped by someone who shows love with insults and eye rolls.
There’s a tight feeling, around your throat like rope. Your eyes are burning, and the world is blurring, and you don’t want to see this. You can’t see this.
You tried to be his friend. You really tried.
But you can’t.
“What’s wrong with you?” Stark asks, and you look over to find him watching with a strange expression.
“Nothing.” You clear your throat, fumbling for your bag. “I just- Remembered something. That I have to go do.”
You glance over to Steve again. He’s laughing at something she’s saying without shaking his head and tipping his head back, without looking away from her. Like he does with you.
“Right now.” You mumble. “I have to go do it right now.”
Stark hums, tapping his fingers on the table. “Right now, huh.”
“Yep.” You stand up, and he gives you an almost amused look.
“What is it? If it’s so urgent.”
“Stuff.” You snip.
Stark chuckles, shaking his head. “Jesus, he’s batting in a whole other sport with you.”
“What the fuck does that mean-“
“Nothing.” Stark smirks again. Like he knows something. “Go on. I’ll tell Cap you had stuff.”
You scan over his relaxed features, and he just keeps grinning, lazy and unworried. You could get an answer out of him, if you tried.
But you look up, back to Steve. And he’s grabbing his own drink from the bar. Still chatting with the girl. If he brings her back to the table, you’re going to vomit.
You have to go now.
“Thanks.” You mutter, giving Stark a tight grin. “Have a good night.”
And Stark laughs, as you turn away.
“Oh. I’m sure I will.”
You avoid Steve for a week.
Properly avoid him.
He calls ten times, just the night you leave the bar. He texts almost every hour for the days after that, and you mute him. If you look at the messages, you’re going to respond to them. If you respond to them, he’ll convincing you to talk to him. If you talk to him, or see him, or even stand near him, you’re never going to get over him.
You’re going cold turkey on him, like he’s a drug.
To you, he is. And you need to get clean. You need to move on.
Steve doesn’t come into the building to steal you for lunch, but he calls you every day. Your fingers fidget, still trying to pick up the phone.
You don’t know how you manage not to, but you do. When you ask the guards downstairs, they say he’s walked through the door and walked back out five times. You force yourself not to think about it, and somehow manage to do that too. And you’re going to be able to do this. You’re finally going to move on.
Moving on means moving. Not staying in the same little pit, waiting for his sun to change its path and shine on you. You have to climb out, and find a new place to be. Someone new to want.
You’ve done this part before. The whole dance of downloading the apps and going on the dates and telling yourself you want them, even though they aren’t Steve. But this time is going to be different. If you tell yourself that enough, it will feel more and more true.
There’s a guy you’ve been chatting with all week, and he seems sweet. He compliments you, and he was polite when you met for coffee, and he’s far from bad to look at. And it’s not like you’re going to marry him. You just need someone to be close to you that isn’t Steve.
And maybe this guy—you can’t really remember his name, but you’ll learn it—is blond haired and blue eyes and broadly built. Maybe you swiped through photo after photo, looking for a phantom of him, but that’s nobody business expect yours, and your pillow’s. It knows better than anyone that there’s only one way you can fake it.
Which is exactly what this game is. Faking it until you make it. Until you’re over Steve, and there’s never any temptation to look back.
You dress up, telling your brain you’re going on a date with Steve himself so you put in all the effort. Another thing that’s nobody’s business. You’re doing what you need to, and it’s going to get you over him. You’ve got lashes and glossy lips and heels that are going to hurt in the morning, and this guy doesn’t seem strong enough to carry you like Steve would, but that’s where you need to shut your brain up. There’s not going to be anyone who’s like Steve. This guy looks like him enough to get you out the door, but it’s not him, and that’s okay. That’s good. It’s going to help you move on. You’ve got your jacket, and your purse, and you’re going to do this and move on-
You yank the door open, and freeze.
Steve stares at you, hands his pockets, mouth hanging open.
This is usually the part where one of you says hi, but you can’t remember how to speak. He’s here. Why is he here. He’s been giving you space, because he’s amazing and polite, and it had been so much easier to pretend it was just because he didn’t care when he wasn’t right in front of you. Looking like you’d just punched him in the face, all pale with sagging shoulders and sad, dull eyes. As if he’s lost sleep.
He scans over you. Over your revealing outfit and makeover. His throat bobs, and you could swear he slouches further. When he meets your gaze, he doesn’t smile. It makes you want to cry.
“Steve-“
“You’ve been avoiding me.” He mutters, the words thick and low. “And- I’m not here to fight about it. I didn’t think you were going to open the door, I didn’t- I wasn’t going to bother you. Just- Never mind.”
You blink. “I- What are you-“
“You got a date?” He nods to your outfit, and something in his pockets shift. He’s fisting his hands.
“Um-“ You glance to his pockets again, then back to his weighted gaze. “Yeah. I do.”
“With whom.”
Shit. You still can’t remember. “Someone I met on an app. Steve, what are you-“
“On an app.” He echoes, the words sounding hollow. He chuckles under his breath. “You know, Stark made me try those once.”
You swallow. You don’t want to hear about his dating life. “How did that go.”
“Bad. And I tried, I just…” He trails off, shaking his head, and you think you can feel his stare burrowing into your heart, shaping it even further in his name.
This is exactly what you were trying to avoid. Seeing him makes you love him more, think about him more, need him more. He’s got a gravity over you, and he doesn’t know it, and why is he here.
“Is he nice.”
Steve’s voice is low. Pained. You don’t understand the question.
“Who?”
“Your date.” He grunts. “Is he nice to you.”
“Oh.” You forgot about that part. “Yeah.”
“Good.”
Neither of you speak for a second. Steve stares at you so hard our head spins, and you can’t look him in the eyes.
“What did I do?”
His voice breaks suddenly, and you feel the crack in your ribs. It yanks your gaze up, and you’ve never seen him so sad. Frustrated and annoyed, sure. Tense, all the time. But never just… Sad. Defeated. Like even he isn’t sure what to do. It feels wrong. Like the world is bleeding together and caving over itself.
“You didn’t do anything-“
“I must have.” He scans over your features, his own so openly aching. “You’ve never been mad at me before, and- Now you’re-“
He waves to your outfit, and you frown.
“It’s just a date-“
“Just a date.” He mutters under his breath, and your mouth falls open.
“I’m allowed to date, Steven-“
“I know you are!” His voice raises for a second, but he quickly pushes it back down. “I- I know, but that’s not- Why are you avoiding me?”
He’s pleading. It’s almost bleeding out of his voice, staining all over you, and you wrap an arm around your stomach like you can stop yourself from bleeding back. This isn’t fair. Steve’s not stupid. He can’t have just forgotten your mistake of expressing your feelings, he’s not nearly oblivious to be unable to put two and two together, and he certainly can’t be dense enough to not tie together that you’re avoiding him, and going on a date. You don’t go on dates. You’re usually too busy trying to steal some love from his shadow.
Yet here he is. Looking at you like he really doesn’t understand. Being so nice about it, when it’s clearly been bothering him. No demanding to understand. No shouting about how hurt he was. Just pleading.
Because he’s golden and perfect. All respectful, like you’re just another lady to him.
Like you’re not worth enough for him to fight a little dirtier for.
A lump is pressing up your throat. It’s a battle to hold his gaze.
“Why do you think I’ve been avoiding you.” You mutter, and he shakes his head.
“I don’t know, that’s why I’m asking.” Steve rubs his face, working his jaw. “I can’t fix it if you don’t tell me what I did-“
“Steve-“
“And I’ll fix it, whatever I did, I’ll fix it-“
“You can’t fix it!” You shout.
He stumbles back like you slapped him, and tears burn at your eyes.
“You- You can’t fix it, Steve.” You whisper, staring down at his shoes. “Just- Stop.”
“Stop what?” He rasps. “I- I know I messed something up, but-“
“Stop being so nice to me.”
He’s silent for a moment. You don’t even know how to justify that one. It sounds pathetic to your ears.
“I... I’d rather not.” He mutters, and you sigh.
“Then please leave me alone.” The words hurt, but you push them out like an apple lodged in your throat. “I- I tried, okay? I really tried, but I can’t.”
“Can’t-“
“Can’t be your friend.” You whisper. The tears burn on your cheeks. “I can’t be your friend, Steve, it’s too hard. I- I-“
You sniff, and Steve rasps your name. You have to shake your head. He can’t talk right now. It’s already too hard.
“I love you.” You say, barely a breath. It doesn’t matter. He’ll hear anyway. “I love you too much, and- It’s not your fault that you don’t- That it’s not the same. But please.” You shift on your feet, hugging yourself tight. “I- I need space.”
Steve doesn’t say anything. There isn’t anything he could say to make it better, not anymore. But something in you still fractures, when he just steps to the side. Giving you a path out.
Letting you go.
You think it’s hope. The hope that one day he might feel the same, the dream that you’d tried so hard not to feed, but tended to bloom on its own. That one day he’d look at you and realize he made a mistake.
But he steps to the side. And that’s all it’s ever going to be.
A dream.
You bow your head and shuffle past him, face burning and skin crawling with shame. You’re going to go on this date and pretend like everything is fine, if you can even make it out of the hallway without breaking down. Your knees are wobbly and tears are coming faster than you can wipe away, but you just need to get out. Out of this hallway with its suffocating air.
Away from Steve, and your heart, broken at his feet.
You’ll get over it. You’ll get over it. It’s hard to breathe right now but you’ll get over it-
“God- Screw it.”
A strong hand wraps around your wrist. It takes you by such surprise you don’t even think to fight.
Steve spins your around, grabbing your jaw and picking you up in a single movement. You gasp as his lips slam over yours, sudden and demanding. He kisses you like he doesn’t know he’s already got a claim on you. Like he’s trying to brand your lips with a bruising, hungry desire. All you can do is breathlessly kiss him back, scraping at his shoulders and trying to keep up with what’s happening. Steve tastes a little like honey and salt, and you’re sure he ate something earlier but you don’t really care what. His hair is just as soft as you thought, and you’re being crushed under the force of him but it’s intoxicating and exhilarating and you feel like you’re being remade-
It’s over. Just as fast as it started. Steve stumbles back, fumbling with his hands like they’re still trying to reach you against his will. He braces them on his hips, staring at you with wide eyes.
You gape at him, trying to catch your breath. You reach up to brush your own lips, trying to make sure the tingly feeling there is real. Maybe press it deeper in, until you can feel it forever.
Steve clears his throat. You blink at him through the slowly drying tears, not really sure what’s happening.
Neither of you dare to speak. Or move. You’re breathing shallowly, like anything too big is going to tip the whole world over, and it will all slip through your fingers.
He takes an uncertain step forward, and you should take one back.
But you’ve never been all that good at moving away from him before. You have no interest in learning that skill now.
This time, you grab him at the same time he grabs you. You stumble into each other, uncoordinated and desperate, unbothered by bumping noses and smushed limbs. You just need to be close to him. To feel him as much as possible, as fast as possible.
He’s never been a drug. You’d been getting a secondary high, but this-
This is a hit.
And you need to have more.
You grab at his collar, pressing up to meet his every kiss, and you’re quickly making out with teeth and tongue in the middle of the hallway. Steve’s arm wraps around your ass, lifting you effortlessly off your feet, and you moan into his mouth.
He trips as he walks back into the apartment, and you end up pressed against the wall at least three more times before you make it through the door. Every time Steve slams you back, devoting all his attention to kissing you until you’re drooling and sloppy and just trying to push further into his open mouth. At one point he slots his knee between your thighs, and you start to shamelessly grind down as he sucks your lower lip between his teeth.
You giggle, dazed and sore with overflowing need for him. He kicks the door closed behind you, and you think you’re going to end up riding his thigh against the wall, but he starts down the hall. To your bedroom.
He makes it about five steps before you rake your nail through his hair and start kissing over his jaw. Steve moans into your ear, lagging a little sideways, and you shriek as you both topple down onto the couch.
It takes you a second to catch your breath, and that’s all Steve needs to get the upper hand. He grabs your jaw, tipping your head back as he starts to suck and nip at your neck. You squeak, grabbing his head, and he moans against your skin. His knee pushes back between your thighs, and this angle is even better than before. You can’t help the roll of your hips, down onto the muscle of his thick leg.
“St- Steve-“ You voice is high, and he hums, licking up your throat before making out with a soft spot under your jaw. “Jesus fucking- God-“
“I know.” He mutters, dragging his hand down your thigh and grabbing under your knee. He squeezes gently, hiking it up to your chest, pushing his knee down even harder than before.
“Fuck- You-“ You gasp, your pussy clenching around nothing as your clit gets rubbed through his jeans, through your panties.
At this angle, you’re almost exposed to him. Your dress pooling around your tummy, the wet spot on your underwear growing bigger and bigger. You grasp at the skirt, trying to tug it down a little. It’s one thing to be riding his knee, another for him to see you.
Steve grabs your wrist, pushing the fabric further down than it had been before. Your eyes almost cross when he starts to rub his knee back and forth, the pressure overwhelming and perfect. You didn’t think you could cum like this, but there’s a familiar pressure building up in your stomach, and you have to bite your tongue to stop a wanton moan from escaping your lips.
He sits up to look at you, and you’re sure it’s a shameful, lewd sight. Your makeup smudged, your hair ruined, a picture of depravity and sin as you chase pleasure on his leg. This isn’t the kind of thing you thought he’d be into. He’s too perfect, too good, and maybe you’ve wanted to be put in a headlock and manhandled and used, but Steve’s all about honor. You’d been so sure that, even if you got to have him, it would be lovely, vanilla sex that was filled with such emotion it would make up for the simpleness.
But that’s not what you see in Steve’s eyes. They’re hooded and black with lust. His jaw is clenched as he watches you, and he pushes your leg further up with a gentle squeeze.
“Oh-“ You gasp, trying to reach up to grab him.
Steve grabs your second wrist without letting go of the first. Holds him in one hand, and leans over you as he pins them both over your head. Your mouth falls open, breathing fast and needy.
His own chest is heaving. He looks down to his knee against your core, and a deep sound rumbles from his chest. You’re wound so tight you’re certain you could snap, sudden and fast like a rubber band. You strain against Steve’s hold, and his attention snaps back up.
“You’re good, doll.” He coos. “Relax for me.”
You blink at him, shaking your head. You can’t stop grinding against him, but you need him close. Need to be under the pressure of his body, to feel like there’s nothing else in the world.
Steve picks up the speed of his knee, almost drilling it down into your cunt without touching you at all. You gape, head lolling to the side, and he grunts.
“Look at me.”
His voice is deep. Not a suggestion. An order.
You blink up at him, almost drooling, and he leans down until his lips are ghosting over yours.
“I don’t want space.” He mutters. “I want you.”
You swallow, still rubbing your pussy up into his knee. “You- You can’t just-“
“Shh.” He pushes further down, until it feels like he’s almost inside of you. You snap your mouth shut. “Is that all I did?”
“Wha- Oh-“
He drags his knee in slow circles, and you make an incoherent, starved sound. Steve doesn’t even break a sweat.
“You and me.” He mutters, studying your every expression. “That’s it. That’s what was gonna make me lose you.”
“You- You didn’t lose me-“
“Almost did.” He squeezes your knee. “You walked.”
You glare up at him. “You let me-“
“No, I didn’t.”
Steve’s lips slam back over yours, and you can’t really argue with that. Your eyes flutter as you give into the kiss, your body sparking with a million, delighted nerves. Steve groans against your lips, fucking his knee against your core, and he’s hitting your clit just right, the fabric soaked and filled with rough friction.
Your back arches off the couch as you cum, and Steve lets go of your wrists. You grab his face, trying to pull his lips closer, and he wraps around your back, holding you up. Your toes curl, body shaking as the pressure becomes sensitive, your pussy gushing and clenching around nothing.
Steve rubs your spine, kissing along your shoulder, up your neck, over your cheeks. You hum softly, floating down and tucked into his arms. He leans back against the couch, taking you with him. You slump over his chest, burying your face in his neck as his hand slips under your dress. Thick, calloused finger pads gently graze your hips and waist, and you squirm.
“I- I didn’t want to ruin something.” He murmurs in your ear, and you pause.
“Ruin…”
“Us.” Steve’s face presses into the curve of your neck, warm breath tickling your skin. “You were my friend, we work in a lotta the same places, and I just- I didn’t want to risk that.”
You swallow, leaning back and waiting until he meets your glossy, sad gaze. You take his face between your hands, and he covers them with his own.
“I was willing to risk it.” You whisper, and he sighs.
“I know. But-“ He looks away, words choked and low. “I thought it was a crush. That you’d get over.”
You laugh weakly. “Well, it wasn’t.”
“I know.” He sighs. “Mine wasn’t either.”
You lips part with a sharp breath, and Steve looks back to you with nervous, hopeful eyes.
“I love you.” He squeezes both your hands, guiding them to his lips. “It is the same. So- Tell me that fixes it. Please.”
It does.
Just as fast as they’d shattered, your dreams weave themselves back together. They’re clearer than before. More colorful. It’s no longer like looking through a mist, or watching a reflection in the water. When you touch Steve, he doesn’t ripple away. And that’s more than enough.
You lean down and kiss him. It’s slower than the other kisses. Steve grabs your hips, but lets you press his head down. You wrap your arms around his neck, tracing his lips with your tongue, and he hums in content. Drags you further forward in his lap.
Something thick and hard presses right against you, and you almost go limp. Like your body is already trying to get ready to take it. To take Steve’s cock that can’t be as large as it feels, straining against his jeans and twitching when you drag yourself slowly back and forth.
“Hey.” Steve grunts, grabbing your hips firmly. You hope he’s holding tight enough to leave a bruise. “Easy.”
You snort, leaning back to give him a pointed look. “Easy?”
“Yeah, that’s what I-“
“I just came on your knee.”
His ears turn a little pink, and he coughs. “I, uh- Fair.”
“Mhm.” You hum, smiling smugly, and you take all the strength in your jelly legs and grind right now onto his clothed cock.
Steve hisses, his fingers digging into your soft skin. “Jesus- Baby-“
You brace your arms on either side of his head, dragging back and forth as slow as you can. Steve’s eyes flutter, his tongue darting over his lips as he watches you move on him. His muscles flex with the effort not to grab you.
You’d very much like to see him give up.
“Does that feel good?” You whisper, making your voice sweet and innocent.
Steve grunts. You’re going to have handprints on your body in the morning. The thought just makes you move faster.
“I don’t want to go slow, Stevie.” You purr, and his chest heaves under you. “I want you to fuck me. Pleeease.”
You whine dramatically, thrusting forward, and Steve’s face drops against your chest.
“Jesus, woman.” He lips graze over your breast, and you moan. “Come on, ‘s not playing fair-“
“Don’t wanna play fair.” You hum, slowly reaching between your bodies. “Wasn’t fair how you turned me down.”
“’M sorry about that-“
“You should be.” You kiss under his ear. “Hurt my feelings.”
“Thought-“ He grunts as you palm his balls through his jeans. “Thought I was helping-“
“You weren’t.”
“I got that now-“
“But you know what would make it better?” You lean back up, holding Steve’s gaze with a lazy smile.
He nods quickly, and you giggle, wiggling down onto his bulge.
“Fucking me.”
Steve looks down, and a rumble echoes through his chest when he sees it.
You’d peeled off your ruined underwear without him noticing. Leaving your bare, sweet and soaked pussy pressed against him. You moan, watching him as you grind down, and he’s so close to snapping. You can see it in the tension of his jaw, feel how his fingers keep twitching on your hips. You smile at him, licking your lips, and that dark look flashes over his features. The same one from earlier, that had him overtaking you like a storm.
Steve’s a good boy. A sweet boy.
He also doesn’t like things that he can’t account for. Used to pick fights in alleys as a kid, always wanted to be the person everyone looked to for help.
You’re sure that, between the two of you, you can let him have a little fun without compromising his moral compass.
He has to, if you’re begging him for it. Not very chivalrous, to ignore a lady in need.
“Pleaseee.” You whine again, ghosting your lips over his. “Fuck me, Stevie, fuck me until I can’t walk-“
He mutters your name under his breath, and you just pout at him.
“Make me yours, make me cry, fuck-“ You throw your head back, the teasing him going straight to your own core. “God, fucking- Please, Steve-“
That does it. The explicit, wet cry of his name seems to snap something in Steve’s resolve, and he’s on you in a blur of hands and lips. Grabbing a fistful of your ass before hauling you up his chest, kissing you breathless as he stands. He keeps carrying like you weigh nothing, and you want to be trapped in his arms forever.
“Steve- Shit-“ Your jaw drops he tosses you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. “Fuck, slow down-“
“You said you didn’t want to slow down.” He reminds you in a deceptively soothing voice, big hands rubbing on the back of your thighs. “Said you didn’t wanna play fair.”
“I- Um- Ooooh-“
You drop your head against Steve’s shoulder, biting at his shirt as thick, strong fingers tease the lips of your pussy.
“Wet fuckin’ pussy.” He muses, spreading you open so the cold air hits your cunt. “Knew you got soaked for me, princess. Didn’t know it was this bad.”
“You- You-“ He needs to stop humiliating you and touching you at the same time. It makes you feel like you’re burning alive in the best way possible. “You knew?” You squeak, and Steve chuckles.
“Always knew. Told you, thought it was a crush.”
You try to twist and glare at him. “And you didn’t tell me-“
“Like you would’ve wanted me to tell you I could smell how badly you wanted my cock.” Steve smacks your ass with a scoff, and you flop right back over his shoulder.
“Fuck-“ You whimper. He’s right. You can barely even stand that right now. “Steve, please- Please-“
You’re not even sure what you’re begging for anymore. Mercy, maybe. More mocking attention. Anything he can fucking give you, because you feel like you’re about to explode.
Steve spanks you again, this time on the other cheek, and you moan.
“’Course you like that.” He mutters. “Dirty girl, testing me every fucking day.”
He drags his thumb through the mess between your legs, and your pussy clenches, trying to drag him in. He laughs, pushing down for half a second before dragging down to your clit and rubbing in quick, tight circle. You gasp, pushing uselessly at his back, already overstimulated and still needing more.
“Felt that.” Steve flicks your clit, and your whole body shakes. “Greedy, princess. You’ve been waitin’ this long, you can hold it a little longer.”
“Ca- Can’t-“ You gasp, pressing your cheek against the broad muscle of his back. “Can’t, Steve- Can’t wait-“
“Yeah, you can.” He grunts. “Christ, you’re dripping all over my hand. Going to take me no problem, aren’t you, baby.”
He’s playing with your clit like it’s just a little button for his whims, and you have to bite your inner cheek to stop yourself from falling apart all over his hand.
“Steve- I- I’m going to- Oh my god-“
Steve slaps right over your pussy, the wet sound echoing in your ears as he shoves those two fingers right into your pussy. He finds your G-spot in a second, crooking his fingers and dragging them over your sensitive walls. You cum with a cry of his name, sudden and harsh. White dancing at your vision, your body seizing up as Steve dumps you down onto the soft mattress.
He presses his wrist further, folding your body up. You grab his neck for an anchor, and he kisses your wrist as he slides a third finger into your dripping mess of a pussy.
“Getting you ready.” He mutters, wiping some hair from your face. “It’s okay, babydoll, you’re doin’ real good.”
You whimper, the orgasm still shaking through you. You’re struggling to breathe when Steve finally pulls his hand away, and the loss makes you whimper.
Steve laughs softly, leaning down to kiss you all sweet and loving, like you haven’t been turned to a puddle under his hands.
“Breathe.” He murmurs, squeezing your breast gently, and you take a loud, stuttering gasp. Steve kisses your nose, smiling like he’s being offered ice cream, and you watch him in a starry-eyed daze.
You hear the click of his belt, and as much as you’d like to reach down and feel him, you can barely manage to hold onto his shoulders right now. Steve pulls slowly up with one last chaste kiss on your lips, and your breath hitches in your throat.
He’s massive. That’s the kind of dick you’ve only seen in cartoons, because even the porn industry can’t replicate it. You’re not sure how he gets around so easily in his tight suit, with that fucking horse cock acting like a third leg. Thick and veined, already beading with pre-cum as he strokes it slowly in his hand, a sheepish expression on his face.
“I was… Endowed.” He mumbles, ears red. “Before the serum. Then…”
He nods to his cock, and you laugh breathlessly.
“Jesus, Steve-“
“It won’t hurt you.” He says quickly. “I know there are those rumors ‘bout be being a virgin, but-“ He sighs, pouting slightly. “God forbid a man tell Tony Stark he doesn’t want to talk about his sex life, suddenly he’s never even touched a boob-“
“Dude.” You smile up at him, and he cuts himself off. “Look me in the eyes and tell me if I still think you’re a virgin after that.”
You tilt your head to the hallway, but Steve just frowns.
“Dude?”
“Um-“
“Don’t call me dude when I’m about to fuck you.” He grumbles, and you’d laugh at him if that didn’t make your heart skip. e
“Sorry, sir.”
You say it half to mock him, half to test something.
Steve’s jaw ticks, and his already rock-hard cock twitches in his hands. You giggle as his eyes narrow, and you’re still laughing as he prowls over you, that dark, hungry look back on his face.
“You think something’s funny?” He grunts, and you shake your head.
“No, sir.”
Steve groans, dropping his face between your breasts.
“Gonna be the death of me.” He mutters under his breath, and you’re still laughing softly.
“Sorry.”
“No, you’re not.”
You laugh again, because you’re really not. It’s hilarious, and he’s adorable, and this is going to yield some fantastic results.
Steve assesses you like you’re a mission to be accomplished. And you know him.
He never does anything halfway.
“Alright, princess.” He mutters, tapping the head of his cock on your clit. “Open.”
You squeak, still giggling, and spread your legs slowly.
The last laugh is pushed from your chest as Steve slowly starts to sink himself into your heat. Your mouth falls uselessly open as you bow off the bed, your body almost unable to rationalize how full you are.
Steve splits you open, his cock slowly driving through you and hitting spots you didn’t even know you had. He grinds slowly down into your pussy, bullying you further open, and you think he’s found a button inside you that just makes you a limp, sensitive fuck-doll, because you whine out his name but it takes everything you have.
“I know.” He grunts, the tip of his cock pressing into your cervix. “You’re taking it, baby, there you go.”
“Steveee-“
“Feels good, doesn’t it.” He presses at sweet kiss to your lips as he bottoms out. His fingers lace slowly through yours, and you nod.
You’ve never had so many pleasure points being hit at once. Steve’s still got a hand on your breast, rolling your nipple between his fingers as you try to breath around him. He’s patient. You don’t want him to be.
“More.” You push out, and he raises his brows.
“Sweetheart-“
“More.” You roll up into him, moaning loudly as he hits even deeper. “Fuck me, Steve- Mmm-“
He kisses you, passionate and messy, and you almost scream in satisfaction as he starts to move.
He’s unrushed. Completely in control of you, and aware of it. His dick pulls almost all the way out before slowly pushing back in, the torturous pace making you feel like a live wire.
“Yeah, that’s it.” He coos, pressing a sweet kiss to your lips. “Pretty girl, you like being stuffed up with my cock, don’t you.”
“Ye- Yes-“ You tip your head back into the pillows, your free hand grasping at the sheets. “Yes- Oh my god, yes-“
Steve’s started to grind against your g-spot whenever he hits it, letting his thickness press and drag over the sensitive, gooey spot until you’re moaning and writhing around him.
“Feel that, don’t you.” He mutters, pushing in a little harder than last time. “Feel my dick inside you, baby, feels so good, doesn’t-“
“So good.” You babble, but who can blame you. “So good, Steve, you’re so-“
Your words turn into a broken moan as Steve drives back into you, and he’s going harder and harder every time. Still pulling almost fully out slowly, letting your arousal gather and drip down your thighs and ass, but then slamming back into you so hard it makes you think the world is shaking.
A breathy sound escapes your lips, maybe a plea, and Steve moves your tangled hands between your bodies, pressing you down into the mattress as he rises up for a better angle.
“You’re so fuckin’ wet.” He growls, pounding into your cunt like he owns it. “If I’d know you wanted me this bad I woulda had you all over this city.”
You whine, squeezing around him. Steve chuckles.
“Oh, you like that. Like the idea of being my good little cockslut, letting me play with you wherever I want.”
Big, steady hands press your knees up, letting Steve hit even deeper than before. A strange, tight feeling is building in your gut, but it feels good. All of this feels so good. You’re spent and cockdrunk, but you feel used in the best possible way. The filth Steve is drawling in your ears makes your brain go all quiet. You’re just a happy, humming bundle of pleasure, Steve’s massive body draped over yours, and you’d probably do anything he wanted, if he just fucked you like this after.
“You were made for me.” He groans, lips wandering all over your face as his cock drills into you. “I’m gonna take such good care of you, baby, swear it, just sing for me, come on-“
You moan, long and loud. Steve grins, kissing under your ear.
“Good girl.” He coos. “There you go, just like that. Come on, doll, I know you’re getting close.”
You are. You’ve been close the whole time, but this feels more and more different by the second. There are wet, sinful sounds filling the room as your skin slaps together, and Steve’s breath is hot in your ear as he starts to lose a little control of himself.
He moans when you start mindlessly humping up to meet him, forcing his cock into the tightest spot into you that makes everything all colorful and hazy. You gasp softly, chasing up from a little more, and Steve wraps and arm around your back.
“Fuck- Fuck- You feel so good,” he groans your name in your ear. “So good, it’s- Christ-“
That strange pressure in your tummy is going to burst. It feels like Steve is driving right against it, daring it come undone.
“Steve.” You breathe out. “Steve- I- I’m gonna-“
He growls, deep in his chest and rolling through you. Steve grabs you and wrestles you down into the mattress, pushing your legs up to your chest and fucking you fast and brutal.
It’s a sight above you. Steve, panting and moaning as your pussy sucks him in, glistening arousal shining all over his cock when he pulls out and smearing on your tummy. Your tight walls are starting to contract, and he doubles over, groaning your name as his thrust become shallow and unmeasured.
Tears start to stream down your face. Steve looks at you like you’re an angel, fucking you like you’re just a toy, and you can’t even remember how to tell him how good it feels.
“Steve…” You wiggle below him, crying out as he just fucks you hard. “Steve- Ooooooh-“
Your eyes roll back, the tears burning on your cheeks from the impossible to handle pleasure. Steve leans down and kisses them off your cheeks, the softness in such contrast with how he’s turning you into a bundle of nerves and tears.
“My pretty girl.” He mutters, kissing your lips sweetly. “Close. We’re so close. You can make it. Make it for me.”
You nod, almost hypnotized into agreeing. And Steve’s abusing that spot inside of you. Sensitive and overwhelming, making your toes curl and eyes cross.
“Steve- I- I can’t-“
“Yes, you can.” Not a suggestion. Steve’s thumb finds your clit, rubbing it back and forth as he ruts into you. “Come for me, now.”
The command rolls through you, and that pressure bursts. Heat washes over you, making you bow off the bed as a funny, wet feeling gushes out between your thighs. Steve groans, slamming his mouth back over yours, groaning your name as you start to milk his cock.
“Fuck,” he groans, and you wrap your arms tight around his neck. Tight enough to strangle him, if he was a normal man. But Steve just splays his hand possessively over your back and moans against your lips, driving home into your cunt as his release rippling through him.
It’s almost as good as your own orgasm. You’re tucked into a shaking, flexing heat of muscle, his deep voice moaning your name in your ear, his cock still thrusting and twitching inside you. Over, and over, and over-
You can barely breathe in the best way. You’ve never had a man cum so much. It starts just hot and sticky, then it’s drooling out, down your ass and onto the sheets. You can feel it in your throat, almost taste it, and even after Steve pulls out it’s everywhere. Painting your pussy creamy and white, branding your abdomen, your tits, your thighs.
Steve stares down at you with a gaping mouth as you both come down from the high. You laugh, hoarse and breathy.
“Woah.”
“Shit.” Steve mutters, grabbing at the remainder of the clean sheets and wiping them over your body. “I- I didn’t- I usually pull out, you just-“
“Steve-“
“We need to get you in the shower, it’s everywhere-“
“Steve-“
“I’m so sorry-“
“Steven.” You smack his shoulder, and he stops dead.
You’re already bridal style in his arms, naked and covered in his cum, some of it dripping all over the floor. You’re going to need to hire a cleaner. Or invest in really, really big buckets that you’ll keep next to the bed.
“Does that happen every time?”
He swallows, and nods.
“Uh- Not that much.” He mumbles. “But yeah.”
Pride glows in your chest. You get the most of him. “Okay.”
Steve blinks. “Okay?”
You nod, and he shakes his head.
“I ruined your room-“
“I liked it.”
He stares. You smile.
Steve rolls his eyes, and presses a kiss to your brow.
“You’re impossible.” He mutters, and you giggle.
“Yeah, but you love me. And you can’t take it back now, you already said it-“
He grabs your chin, turning it so he can fully capture your lips.
“I do love you.” He mutters against your lips. “And no one could make me take it back if they tried.”
You smile. You have no plans to do that.
Steve is somehow more than you ever dreamed. And there’s no way you’re letting him go now.
✦End note: this was so fun for me to write i love a puppy dog man. i hope you enjoyed it!✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
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warnings: 18+ NSFW, smut, fluff, light angst, enemies to lovers, bantering, lowk grumpy and man-hater reader, sam playing matchmaker, arguments, bucky has nightmares, semi-public sex, spanking, brat-taming, degradation and praise.
wordcount: 14.9k
a/n: i've never been to louisiana, so i tried my best to do research to keep it as accurate as possible. i apologize for any mistakes.
main masterlist
synopsis:
Sam has been trying to get you and Bucky to get along—or at least tolerate each other—for the longest time. And what better way to do that than by inviting you both back home for a weekend in Louisiana?
It was always hard to decline the Wilsons every time they invited you over to visit them in Delacroix.
They always made sure to show you a fun time, whether it was something as simple as a boat ride on Paul & Darlene’s — God bless them — shooting water guns with the kids, going fishing, or just grabbing some folding chairs to watch the sun set past the lake line with cold Heinekens in hand.
It was AJ’s—Sarah’s son—birthday this weekend, and Sam had invited you to stay over for a full weekend of nonstop partying and celebration.
How could you possibly resist when you have your very best friends waiting for you across the states with good music and food ready at their doorstep?
You showed up at the top of the steps with a heavy weekender bag slung over your shoulder. When you pushed through the front door, which had been left unlocked, the last person you expected to see was standing right in the middle of the room.
Bucky.
He looked like he had just arrived, too. A simple dark backpack sat squared and centered on the couch—as if he were already claiming his spot.
Bucky slowly turned toward you, his eyes widening as if he hadn’t expected you to arrive either.
“What are you doing—”
“What are you doing—”
You both spoke and stopped at the same time, eyes glaring at one another. Bucky’s shoulders were tense, his discomfort obvious, while your own brows were furrowed and lips scrunched in disdain.
Your first impression of Bucky hadn’t been great—and it still wasn’t.
When you first met him, you walked in on him talking to Sam about his flirting with Sarah. Sam had warned Bucky to back off—that typical overprotective brother routine—but Bucky insisted he was “merely joking around” and “wasn’t looking for anything serious.”
The two of them might have found it funny, but Sarah was your best friend, and you were extremely protective over the people you cared about.
While Sam was busy in New York, you had stuck by her side like glue. You were there for her through the divorce, you were there to watch the kids when Sam wasn’t around, and you were there for every single one of her and the boys’ milestones.
Sarah was a woman who deserved to be taken care of, just as she took care of everyone else.
To Bucky, pursuing her and tossing out flirtatious comments was just a joke.
You knew Sarah was strong, and that maybe she wouldn’t let things get too far with Bucky, but the way she’d chuckle and giggle at his words filled you with doubt.
Bucky wasn’t a man who would take care of her or her kids. He was just like Sam—he’d always be away, too occupied with other things across the country to actually show up for her and her needs. You didn’t want her to get hurt and left in the dust again.
Bucky let out a patient exhale, running a hand through his hair. “Sam invited me to stay the weekend for AJ’s birthday.”
You crossed your arms. “That’s funny. Sam invited me over to stay, too.” You glanced at the couch. “They don’t have a spare bedroom—so that couch is going to have to be mine.”
He huffed an incredulous laugh, the corners of his mouth twitching into a disbelieving smile.
The gentleman in him told him to give up the couch and let you have it, even if he had arrived first. But the petty part of him didn’t want to give in that easily—not with how cold you have been towards him.
“What?” Bucky motioned to the sofa. “You don’t think the couch is big enough for the both of us?”
You didn’t laugh, and he let out a frustrated sigh.
“Look, I—”
“Mom! Uncle Bucky and Auntie are here!” Cass’s voice rang from around the corner. His happy brown eyes, so much like Sarah’s, peered between the two of you. “AJ, come here!”
Bucky’s shoulders eased slightly, his expression softening at the sight of Sam’s nephew.
Cass ran to Bucky first since he was closer, throwing his arms around his waist as he knelt to meet the kid halfway.
“Good to see you again, kid,” Bucky murmured.
Then Cass lunged at you for a hug next, nearly sending you stumbling backward from the impact. You laughed, wrapping your arms around him and squeezing tight. “Hey there, Cass!”
AJ rounded the corner next, his footsteps thudding against the floorboards before he collided head first into Bucky, catching him in a bear hug.
Jealousy started to boil in your blood. It was infuriating how much Bucky had these two kids wrapped around his stupid vibranium finger after knowing them for such a short time. Meanwhile, you have been around forever. You might as well have been their biological aunt, for fuck’s sake.
“Uncle Bucky!” AJ beamed.
Bucky laughed, giving his head a playful ruffle. “Well, if it isn’t the birthday boy. Hey, I got you something—”
“Aren’t you going to say hi to your aunt, AJ?” you cut in, catching the boy’s attention.
AJ’s excitement for whatever gift Bucky had for him faded slightly as he turned his attention to you. He smiled, walking—not running—to greet you with a hug. The polite gesture did nothing to soothe your jealousy or your emotional attachment to these kids.
“It’s nice to see you, Auntie,” AJ said politely.
You forced a smile anyway. “Happy early birthday, AJ. Are you excited for the weekend?”
AJ grinned and nodded, but before he could answer, the sound of Sam’s footsteps approached from down the hall.
“Well, well, well,” Sam said, a hand on his hip and a smirk on his face. “If it isn’t my two favorite people in the world—standing in the same room.”
The little boys glanced at each other, already starting their own silent game of tag before they pushed through the front door and disappeared into the yard.
“Sam,” you greeted, finally dropping your heavy duffel bag on the floor. “There isn’t enough space for Bucky and me to stay.”
Bucky was already reaching for his backpack. “I’ll just let her take the couch. I’ll sleep on the floor.”
“What?” Sam huffed, shaking his head. “No, no, no. None of that. I bought an air mattress that we can set up right here.” He motioned to the floor in front of the sofa. “We’ll just move the coffee table. It’s big enough to fit the both of you. No one is sleeping on the floor.”
Big enough to fit the both of you?
“We are not sharing a bed,” you interjected sternly, trying to hide the embarassment on your face.
Bucky glanced at Sam casually. “I’ll just take the couch, then. She’ll take the bed.”
The tension in the room was thicker than the Louisiana humidity. Sam and Bucky traded a knowing look—one that typically meant they were thinking the same thing but didn’t want to say it out loud.
“Where’s Sarah?” you asked suddenly, breaking the silence. There was too much testosterone in this room.
Sam pointed a thumb over his shoulder. “She’s out back.”
You nodded and walked past the two men, heading for the backyard. Sam and Bucky watched you retreat, waiting until the sound of the screen door clicked shut before Bucky finally let out the breath he had been holding.
“She doesn’t like me much, Sam,” Bucky muttered.
“You think?” Sam mused sarcastically, folding his arms over his chest. “Look, man, it’s my nephew’s birthday. Sarah and I want both of you here this weekend, and I’m going to make sure it stays a good weekend.”
Bucky pressed his lips together, his right hand coming up to tug at the stubble on his chin as if he were trying to calculate a solution.
“Alright, well...” He shrugged. “Guess I’ll just make sure to stay on the opposite side of the room—”
“No,” Sam interrupted, stepping closer. “That’s not how we’re doing things. It’s a celebration, man. I’m not having you two avoid each other like the plague the entire time. My nephews and everyone else around us will catch on.”
Bucky made a face. He knew Sam well enough to know he was already plotting something. “What do you propose we do, then?”
“There are plenty of things to do down at the bayou,” Sam explained. “Not even just the bayou—all over the damn state. Activities you two can do together.”
Bucky was terrible at hiding his expressions. He grimaced immediately at the thought—enduring constant nagging, side-eyes, and petty one liners from you while he just had to sit there and take it for Sam’s sake.
This wasn’t a fun vacation at all.
“I don’t know about this, Sam—”
“We’re supposed to be a family, Buck,” Sam cut him off, raising a hand to silence the protest. “You’re going to spend time with her, and you’re going to enjoy every second of it.”
You were down at the docks, the sun beaming down as sweat began to trickle from your temples. The humidity in Louisiana was suffocating, but the occasional lake breeze, the cold beers, and the company were enough to keep the heat at bay.
Paul & Darlene’s was swaying gently against the waves, looking as rusty as ever.
“Is she ready for a ride?” you asked Sarah, who was currently engrossed in a clipboard. “Are you seriously still working on your son’s birthday weekend?”
Sarah didn’t reply, mumbling to herself as her eyes traced the words on the paper. You sighed, your fingers gently nudging the clipboard down.
“Sarah, enough,” you said gently. You glanced over at AJ and Cass, who were sitting on the benches playing with action figures. “Take the weekend off like the rest of us and spend time with the kids. Take them out on the boat.”
Sarah looked at the boys, her brown eyes filling with guilt. “You know I would, but the boat’s still broken—”
“Stop with the sulking,” Sam’s voice shouted from the end of the dock.
He squinted against the sun as he approached, carrying two boat paddles, while Bucky trailed behind him with a third.
“We still have three perfectly good rowboats we can take the kids on,” Sam grinned, handing you one of the paddles. “Ever rowed a boat before?”
“Of course I have,” you said, taking it. “That sounds like fun.” You smiled, turning toward the boys. “Which one of you lucky boys wants to ride with your super cool aunt?”
Bucky lifted his paddle up to Sarah with a small, stupidly charming smile. “Want to ride with me, Sarah?”
You felt your eyebrow twitch.
“AJ, you’re with me,” Sam called out, cutting Bucky off. “Cass, you’re with your mom.”
“What? No fair!” Cass made a face, throwing his hands up. “I want to ride with someone cool!”
“You better watch your mouth, boy,” Sarah warned, completely ignoring Bucky as she snatched a paddle from Sam’s hand, already heading toward the end of the dock where the boats were tied.
Sam didn’t bother hiding his grin. It was wide, unabashed, and entirely too fucking satisfied as he ushered the boys toward the edge of the dock.
“Alright, move it or lose it! First one to the sandbar gets the first slice of cake on Saturday!” Sam shouted. AJ and Cass scrambled past you, their sneakers slapping loudly against the wooden planks as they raced toward the smaller rowboats, leaving giggles in their wake.
You and Bucky stood frozen, paddles in hand like two statues, blinking as the Wilsons walked off without you.
“Wait, what?” you finally managed to choke out, your head whipping between Sam’s retreating back and the boats. “Sam, hold on. There are only three boats.” You stumbled after them, desperately trying to create space between you and Bucky.
“Yep!” Sam called over his shoulder, not slowing down at all. “One for Sarah and Cass, one for me and the birthday boy…”
He paused to hop into a boat, the wood creaking under him. He looked back at you and Bucky, his eyes sparkling mischievously.
“And one for the two of you. Try not to tip it.”
You turned slowly to look at Bucky. He looked just as dumbfounded as you felt, his vibranium hand gripped tight around the handle of his paddle.
“He’s kidding,” you muttered. “He’s definitely kidding.”
Bucky didn’t say anything, mostly because he knew Sam wasn’t kidding at all. He looked at the third rowboat—a small, weathered piece of wood that bobbed innocently at the end of the line.
It looked incredibly small.
It looked too intimate.
It looked like a disaster waiting to happen.
“Sam!” you yelled, taking a step forward. “This is ridiculous! I can just stay back and help Sarah with the—the decorations! Or the food!”
“Decorations are done! Food isn’t being prepped ‘til tomorrow!” Sarah shouted from her own boat, already pushing off from the dock with Cass sitting across from her.
You couldn’t believe it. You were stranded.
You were stranded with Bucky fucking Barnes.
Bucky let out a long, slow breath through his nose. He glanced at you, taking the way your jaw had hung open as you watched Sam and Sarah float away. A fly could’ve flown in at any moment.
Without a word, Bucky started walking toward the last boat, his heavy boots thumping against the dock. He stepped one foot into the boat to steady it and extended a hand toward you.
“Come on,” he muttered. “I’ll help you down.”
You blinked, snapped out of your disbelief as you looked down at Bucky—propped up like a knight in shining armor helping a fair maiden onto his trusty steed.
“I can help myself just fine, thanks,” you scoffed.
You stepped down into the boat, and it tipped slightly under your weight. The both of you quickly got settled, undid the rope, and assembled the paddles at the sides. Without a single word being exchanged, you both reached for the handles at the same time.
Except Bucky’s hands landed first—and your hands landed right on top of his. You both stared at each other, gazes hard and unwavering.
“Let go,” you said.
Bucky didn’t budge at all. “I grabbed them first.”
“Yeah, but you don’t know how to row a boat, do you?” you immediately countered.
He paused. The only sounds were the cicadas buzzing in your ears and the gentle thrashing of water as the rowboat swayed.
“I do know how to row a boat,” Bucky argued back pridefully.
He didn’t.
He probably had during his Winter Soldier days—and maybe the muscle memory would have come back—but definitely not for a teeny, tiny little rowboat like this.
You grinned, a little taunting chuckle escaping your lips as you silently called his bluff. “Oh, yeah?”
You knew that stung his pride. He mumbled incoherent, grumpy words under his breath as he started to paddle away from the docks and toward the center of the lake, trying to follow Sam and Sarah’s lead.
The two of you sat in an awkward, tense silence as he worked the paddles. The sun was beaming in your face, and you lifted your hand to provide shade—but it was also a discreet method to help shield the way you were staring intently at Bucky’s muscles as he pushed the paddles.
Bucky would grunt occasionally as the blades lapped through the water, and you couldn’t help but stare at the way his muscles bulged and flexed through a shirt that looked ridiculously tight on a big guy like him.
His henley was pulled up to his forearms, the vibranium shimmering against the reflections of the lake and the veins in his right arm catching your eyes with every pushing motion of the paddle.
“You, uh… you come to Louisiana often?” Bucky tried for a conversation.
You huffed a laugh that didn’t sound humorous at all. “Way more than you have, that’s for sure.”
Bucky chewed the inside of his cheek to keep from saying something smart. He had to suck it up for Sam’s sake.
“The weather’s nice, isn’t it?”
You couldn’t believe Bucky was trying to talk to you about the weather.
“It’s always hot and swampy in Delacroix,” you said flatly.
You looked around, noticing how the boat was drifting further away from Sam and Sarah. You watched as Cass and AJ shouted to each other from across their boats—how Sarah and Sam were tossing their heads back in laughter.
A frown settled on your lips as you began to feel left out.
“We’re drifting, Bucky,” you said, pointing toward them. “Steer in that direction.”
Bucky adjusted his grip on the paddles and huffed. “Fine.”
He started to dig the right paddle deep into the water while the left one barely grazed the surface. But instead of cutting toward Sam and Sarah, the boat’s nose jerked sharply to the right.
“What are you doing?” you snapped, your patience thinning as the distance between you and the Wilsons grew wider. “We’re not going toward them, Bucky. We’re going…” You frowned. “…nowhere.”
“I’m adjusting,” Bucky said shortly, his vibranium fingers tightening on the paddle. He tried to over-correct, pulling back hard with his left arm, but the only result was the boat beginning to pivot on its axis.
You weren’t moving anywhere. You were spinning.
The same cluster of cypress trees passed by for the third time. Sam and Sarah were becoming distant specks on the horizon, their laughter echoing faintly across the water.
An impatient sigh escaped you as you leaned forward, motioning to the paddles. “Here, move over. Let me take over—”
“I got it,” Bucky insisted, his jaw clenched and shoulders tense in that way that made him look particularly stubborn. “Just give me a second, alright?”
“Bucky, we’ve barely moved from the dock and now you’ve got us—” you motioned to the boat, “—spinning in circles. I’m getting dizzy. Just hand me the damn paddles.”
Your hands found an open space on the handles and you jerked them toward your side of the boat, causing the wood to thrash against the water. Bucky—taken aback by your unexpected strength—was pulled forward. He let out a hiss, immediately yanking the oars back toward him and making you jerk forward instead.
You both glared at each other stubbornly, muttering curses as you continued this back and forth struggle for the paddles.
But unfortunately for you, Bucky was significantly stronger, and every jerk he made sent you nearly flying out of your seat and in his direction.
“Goddammit, Bucky! Just let go!” you hissed, trying to find your balance as the boat thrashed around, water splashing everywhere.
Bucky had told himself he would try to suck up your attitude for Sam—but fuck, you were treading on his nerves every second.
“Christ, woman!” Bucky barked, his fingers tightening on the handles. “Just let me take care of it—alright? I know what I’m doing!”
“Well, clearly you don’t! Because we’re still just spinning in circles!”
The boat rocked violently, tipping precariously every time the two of you fought for the oars. The wood creaked and groaned under the movement, and water began slopping over the gunwales, soaking your sandals.
“Will you stop being such a prideful man and let a woman take over the damn oars already?” you shouted over the splashing water, throwing your entire weight into a massive yank.
The paddles lurched toward you.
“I can’t believe you offered to take Sarah for a ride when you can’t even steer the damn thing!”
Bucky’s brow twitched. He hated feeling incompetent, and every word you hurled was a direct jab to his pride. He had tried so hard to be on his best behavior for you, but his patience had finally worn thin.
“I would’ve done just fine if you hadn’t gotten in the way,” Bucky snapped back in a low growl.
His fingers clamped down so hard on the wood it was a wonder it didn’t snap. Out of sheer, petty spite, he jerked the oars back toward himself.
“Now give me these damn paddles—”
But the force of his movement caught you completely off guard. You let out a sharp yelp as you were catapulted forward, your hands losing their grip on the wood. You had zero time to brace yourself before you collided hard with his chest—it felt like hitting a brick wall wrapped in damp cotton.
With all the weight suddenly slammed onto one side, the boat lurched backward, the stern dipping dangerously low.
Pressed against his chest, you scrambled to get up in a panic. “Jesus, Bucky! Look at what you—”
“Stop squirming! Just… just stay still!”
Bucky’s grip on the oars was long forgotten as his hands found your waist in a desperate attempt to steady you, but it was too late.
With a loud, undignified splash that caught the attention of everyone on the docks, the rowboat flipped.
One moment, the sun was burning your skin, and the next, you were greeted by cold water enveloping you. Everything from above was muffled as you were completely submerged. Keeping your eyes squeezed shut against the murky water, you tried to swim upward, but panic started to flare as your head kept bumping into the underside of the wooden boat.
Suddenly, a strong, vibranium arm wrapped roughly around your waist. He pulled your body tight against his, dragging you toward the surface and back to the shore.
You gasped for air the moment you broke the surface, your skin warming as the sunlight hit your soaked face. People on the docks were smiling and laughing at your predicament, but Bucky paid them no mind. He dragged a hand down his face, wiping away the water.
“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice low.
Sam’s laughter, joined by the kids’ giggles, filled your ears as their boats drew closer.
“Oh no, what happened to you two?” Sam grinned, spinning his boat around to get a better look at you. “Let me guess—was it the wind?” He motioned to the upside down boat.
Rolling your eyes, you pushed through the water until you reached the edge of the docks, with Bucky swimming close behind. You tried to paddle faster to create some distance, but there was no point—he caught up to you in no time.
When you reached the dock, you tried to hoist yourself up, but Bucky’s hands found your waist again, easily hauling you up and over the wooden floorboards.
You sneered at him the second your feet were steady. “I didn’t need your help.”
Bucky ignored you as he hauled himself up onto the dock, his muscles rippling beneath the soaked fabric of his shirt. Water clung to his skin, dripping from the tips of his short, shaggy hair and trailing down the tanned column of his throat.
You were furious—absolutely livid—but as you watched the way his broad shoulders tensed just underneath the thin fabric, you found yourself swallowing hard.
You hated that, even in the middle of a fucking swamp, he still managed to look like that.
Bucky didn’t notice you staring at him. He stood up, shaking his head like a dog to get the water out of his ears.
“I was doing a fine job,” he bit out roughly, “until you had to butt your head in and try to take over. If you had just sat still, we wouldn’t be soaked right now—”
As Bucky finally lifted his head to glare at you, the breath caught in his throat. His eyes widened, his gaze dropping from your drenched head to your chest—and then freezing there.
You were wearing a sheer white blouse—light and airy for the Louisiana heat, of course—but now that it was drenched through, it had turned completely translucent. It clung tight to your skin, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination and revealing the lace of your bra underneath.
Bucky’s jaw went tight, his adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed hard. He knew he should look away, but he couldn’t—not even as you continued to yell and point a finger at him.
“What? Are you insinuating that it’s my fault?” you scoffed in disbelief.
Bucky couldn’t concentrate. It felt like his brain had short circuited as he stared shamelessly at the damp lace and the soft curve of your skin.
“And another thing!” you shouted, stepping closer and poking a finger square into the center of his chest. “If you hadn’t been so stubborn about the oars, we would’ve caught up to Sam and Sarah and been having a good time with them!”
Bucky winced, not because of the poke, but because you moving closer only made the view more prominent. He glanced toward the docks, noticing a few of the guys from the neighborhood whistling and laughing at the both of you.
Without thinking, Bucky stepped closer, his large frame shielding you from the view of the men. He reached out, his hands hovering awkwardly near your shoulders as he tried to pull you against him to hide your vulnerable state.
“Hey—? What the hell are you doing?” you snapped, trying to shove him back. “Why are you hugging me? Get off!”
“I’m not hugging you,” Bucky mumbled grumpily as he forced you to stay put, caging you between his big arms.
“It feels a lot like hugging, Barnes! Let go!” You squirmed, but his grip on you was tight. His face flushed as he felt your chest rub up against his.
“Stop moving,” he hissed, his face turning a deep, frustrated red as he looked anywhere but at your chest. He leaned down, his mouth inches away from your ear so only you could hear. “Your damn shirt.”
“My shirt?” You blinked up at him in confusion. “What about my—?”
You looked down, and the realization hit you. Your face got hot with embarrassment once you noticed how the white fabric of your shirt was basically invisible, clinging to every inch of your bra and skin.
Sam and Sarah pulled their boat alongside the dock, the hull bumping gently against the wood. Sam hopped out first, looping the rope around the cleat. He looked up, taking in the sight of the two of you standing so close together.
“Well, would you look at that,” Sam said, a massive grin spreading across his face. “One little dip in the lake and you two finally made up?”
Bucky felt your body tense. Sensing how uncomfortable this was for you, he was just about to step back—until you crossed your arms over your chest and huddled deeper into his shadow.
“You okay?” Bucky murmured quietly, tilting his head down toward you.
After Sarah helped Cass off the boat, she stepped onto the dock and walked straight to you, moving between you and the men. She wrapped an arm around your shoulders and gently pried you away from Bucky, taking over his job of hiding you.
“Come on,” Sarah said softly, her voice full of understanding as she began to lead you away. “Let’s get you fixed up and into some dry clothes.”
You didn’t dare look back at Bucky as you let her lead you away, though you could feel his gaze on your back until you and Sarah rounded the corner, leaving the men out of sight.
Back on the dock, the laughter died down. Bucky stood there dripping wet, looking uncharacteristically flustered.
“I take it the boat ride didn’t go well?” Sam taunted, his eyes still fixed on the corner where you and his sister had disappeared.
Bucky stayed quiet, glaring at Sam as water droplets fell from his hair onto the floorboards of the dock.
“This isn’t going to work, Sam,” Bucky muttered, wringing the hem of his shirt. “She hates me.”
“Don’t be like that, Buck.” Sam patted him on the shoulder. “She doesn’t hate anyone. Besides, we’ve got the whole weekend ahead of us, alright?”
Sam likely said that in hopes of lifting Bucky’s spirits—but it only did the exact opposite.
The sky was dark as you sat on the air mattress, applying lotion to your skin. The thought of sharing a space with Bucky felt daunting.
The rest of the day had been awkward and tense after the disaster on the lake. It didn’t help that Bucky did exactly what Sam told him not to do—which was hovering at the far end of the room, making sure to stand wherever you weren’t.
Bucky was taking his sweet time in the bathroom. As you finished with the lotion, you quickly snuggled into the air mattress, trying to fall asleep before he came back out.
Only a few minutes passed before the light from the bathroom hit your eyes as he pulled the door open. You winced at the sudden brightness but kept your eyes shut, pretending to be asleep.
A small sigh—almost a breath of relief—escaped his lips when he noticed you were out, or at least appeared to be.
You heard his heavy footsteps thud toward the couch. He crouched with his back to you, digging through his backpack for something.
Curiosity got the best of you. You peeked one eye open, and your heart nearly leaped out of your chest.
Bucky was shirtless.
You watched as he balanced on the balls of his feet, rummaging through the bag. The moonlight piercing through the window shadowed the deep lines and muscles of his back. His vibranium arm looked just as beautiful under the moon as it had in the sun.
His hair, no longer damp and scruffy like it was at the docks, was still slightly wet and brushed back neatly.
You could smell him all the way from the air mattress. He smelled soft and clean, with the underlying masculine scent of his deodorant. You knew you should have been asleep by now, but your heart wouldn’t stop racing.
Was he really going to sleep shirtless even though you were here?
Despite your heart thumping loudly in your chest, you kept your back turned to him and tried your best to fall asleep.
Hours later, you eventually drifted off, only to be jolted awake by the sound of shuffling, groaning, and mumbled curses coming from across the room.
Lifting your head, you tiredly rubbed your eyes as you glanced in Bucky’s direction.
“Bucky… can you keep it down?”
But as you focused, you realized that whatever he was doing wasn’t intentional.
Bucky’s eyes were squeezed shut, his face scrunched into a grimace as he panted heavily. A thin sheen of sweat covered the column of his neck and chest, and his fingers were digging deep into the cushions of the couch. He kept mumbling incoherent, unfinished sentences that made your heart sink with worry.
“I’m sorry,” he rasped.
“Bucky? Are you okay?” you asked, your voice rising.
“Don’t do this, please—don’t… mph… don't do this...”
“Bucky, listen to me!”
“Stop, stop!” he choked out, his body jerking against the couch.
You scrambled off the air mattress, tossing the blanket aside as you rushed to Bucky’s side at the couch.
“Bucky!” you whispered urgently, reaching out to grab his shoulders. You shook him, your palms warming from the heat radiating off his damp skin. “Bucky, wake up. You’re having a nightmare!”
When he didn’t wake, you shook him harder until he gasped awake so violently he nearly knocked you backward. His eyes snapped open—wide, unfocused, and… terrified.
He sat up abruptly, his chest heaving as he struggled to fill his lungs with air. His vibranium hand clamped onto the edge of the couch so hard the wood underneath groaned.
“I’m—I…” he stammered, his voice heavy with panic.
“Hey... hey, look at me,” you said softly, your hands finding his wet cheeks and forcing his focus onto you. “I’m here. You’re in Louisiana. You’re at Sarah’s.”
You started saying the first things that came to mind. Surely, reminding someone where they were would help in a situation like this, right?
Bucky’s head whipped toward you, his gaze darting around the dark room until it finally landed on your face again. He was still shaking, the tremors racking his broad shoulders as he tried to calm himself in your touch.
You didn’t say anything else—you didn’t really know what to say in a situation like this. But being there, holding him and simply staying in his space, seemed to be enough for now.
Slowly and quietly, he began to catch his breath, and that’s when you noticed he was trying to match his breathing to yours.
In and out. In and out, slowly, until he finally started to calm down.
“Did…” He swallowed hard, his gaze dropping to your lap—noticing how your oversized shirt hung loosely over your legs. “Did I wake you?”
You nodded gently, deciding to be truthful. “You did.”
Guilt immediately clouded his features. “I’m sorry.”
A solemn frown tugged at your lips as you leaned in closer to get a better look at him. “Are you okay?”
“I’ll be fine,” he muttered, pulling away from your touch so suddenly it made your hands feel cold.
He tried to get comfortable on the couch again, but the tension in his shoulders and the stiff way he moved made it clear that settling back into sleep would be impossible.
Your heart ached for him. You felt terrible.
“You can take the air mattress, Bucky,” you said, already rising to your feet. “Here, I’ll move my things—”
As you stepped away, Bucky’s hand immediately clamped around your wrist. “No, stop. Just—just keep the mattress, okay? I’ll be fine,” he insisted, though the wobble in his voice betrayed how he really felt.
Your frown deepened. Even in this vulnerable state, he held onto that same stubborn pride that had clashed with yours earlier at the docks. Except this time, his attitude didn’t piss you off. Standing before him while he looked so broken and tired only made you feel completely useless.
“Is there anything I can do?” you asked quietly, searching his face. “Anything to help?”
Bucky managed a small smile—a forced, tired expression that didn’t reach his eyes. He let go of your wrist, his hand falling back to the couch.
“Let’s just get some rest. We’ve got a big birthday party tomorrow. I’m sorry for waking you.”
You stood there for a second, looking at the cramped, uncomfortable couch and then back at the oversized air mattress that looked far too big for just one person.
“You’re really pulling at my heartstrings here, old man.” You reached out, grabbing the hem of his blanket. “Come on. There’s plenty of room. Let’s just share the mattress.”
Bucky froze, his eyes widening as he looked from you to the bed. “S-share…?”
You were already getting settled on your side, your back facing him, hoping the distance would help his flustered state.
“You need sleep, and I’m not going to be able to close my eyes knowing you’re over there miserable on a cramped couch,” you huffed. “Now get over here.”
Bucky knew there was no point in arguing with you further. If he had learned anything from the disaster at the docks, it was that once you set your mind on something, he was better off just letting you have your way.
With a reluctant, heavy sigh, he finally stood up and moved toward the air mattress. The mattress dipped significantly under his body as he shuffled around to get comfortable on his side. He kept a respectable amount of space between the both of you, lying stiffly on the very edge.
You both remained back to back, with only the sound of crickets outside filling the silence.
“Do you get nightmares often?” you suddenly asked.
Bucky hesitated. “Not as much as I used to,” he answered in a gravelly rasp. “But they still come and go.”
There was another pause.
This time, Bucky broke it.
“Do you care if I sleep without a shirt on?”
You couldn’t help the snort that escaped your lips. “Don’t worry,” you chuckled. “I’m not looking.”
The sound of your laughter in this awkward, tense space made his shoulders ease slightly and his heart beat a little slower. You two continued to lay quietly like that for a long moment—side by side, back to back.
There were a million thoughts running through Bucky’s head, and he felt particularly restless.
Finally, he decided to ask the very thing that had been occupying his mind since you two first met.
“Why do you dislike me so much?”
Bucky braced himself for the answer, but it didn’t come.
He waited, wondering if you were pretending not to hear him. He called your name softly and turned over his shoulder to look at you, but he stopped short.
You had already fallen asleep.
The morning light pierced through the front windows, hitting you right in the face. The quiet peace of the night before had been replaced by the chaotic, joyful energy of a house in full celebration mode.
From the kitchen, the clattering of pots and pans and the high pitched laughter of AJ and Cass bounced off the walls, forcing you awake.
You blinked, rubbing the grogginess from your eyes as you realized the air mattress felt much, much lighter. Bucky was already gone. His side of the bed was nearly smoothed over, and his blanket was folded neatly back on the couch—as if he hadn’t slept next to you at all.
“Morning, sleepyhead!” Sarah called out from the kitchen. “I’m so sorry for all this ruckus. We were tryin’ our best to stay quiet, but everyone is just so excited since it’s AJ’s big day today.”
A sleepy, lopsided smile pulled at your lips at the sight of Sarah and the kids gathered in the living room.
“It’s okay,” you said groggily, pulling yourself off the air mattress. “Happy Birthday, AJ.”
You started walking toward Sarah, meeting her in the kitchen. You took note of the trays and various types of produce lying around. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
Sarah didn’t glance up from the onions she was laying out on the cutting board.
“Oh no, no,” she clicked her tongue. “It’s a warzone in here that only I can handle. You’d only get in my way, and I don’t need two people trippin’ over each other in this kitchen—I can leave that to my kids.”
You frowned, leaning against the wall. “Are you sure? I feel bad just sitting around while you’re doing all this—”
“I’m positive,” Sarah cut you off, pointing her knife at you and then toward the clock on the wall. “The party doesn’t start ‘til five. So you can get outta here and enjoy New Orleans or somethin’ until everything’s ready.”
“But Sarah, that’s an hour drive—”
“Out!” she laughed, shooing you toward the front door with a wave of her knife. “Go breathe some fresh air. Enjoy yourself and the town. I know you miss it.”
A small smile tugged at your lips, just as the sound of Bucky approaching from the backyard—already dressed for the day—met you and Sarah in the kitchen.
“Morning,” he nodded to you curtly, as if last night hadn’t happened at all.
Then he glanced at Sarah with a smile—that stupidly charming smile. He nodded toward the counter. “Let me help—”
Before he could take a step closer, Sarah pointed the knife at him, too. She looked back at you. “And take hunky robot here with you while you’re at it.”
You had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing at the way she brushed Bucky aside.
Bucky blinked, confused. “Take me where?”
“Sarah, if I’m going out to enjoy the town, I’m doing it by myself—”
You were cut off by the sound of the screen door hitting the wall as Sam hauled a heavy box of supplies into the room. He dropped it onto the floor with a loud thud and wiped the sweat from his forehead, grinning when he saw the three of you standing there.
“Oh, perfect,” Sam panted. “You goin’ to town? Take Bucky with you. Show him around. He’s been following me around like some fly buzzin’ in my ear.”
Bucky’s jaw tightened, and he crossed his arms defensively. “A fly?”
Sam ignored him as he began to unbox. “Seriously, take him. He needs the fresh air, and I need the floor space. Go on, get out of here.”
You were about to protest—to insist on staying and offer your assistance—but Sam and Sarah were already bickering in the kitchen, talking about how Sam had to pick up AJ’s friends and run to the store for last minute groceries.
When you told them that you could be an extra set of hands, they both looked at you and, at the same time, shouted, “Get out!”
Now, you found yourself behind the wheel of Sarah’s run-down but reliable Chevy with Bucky sitting in the passenger seat.
He had offered to drive, but you didn’t allow him to—which, after the incident with the boat, was a smart move on his part.
The radio didn’t work, so you two sat in awkward silence with the windows rolled down, letting the humid breeze pass through as you drove toward New Orleans. Bucky had one arm out the window, his eyes focused on the trees passing by.
“So, where are you taking me?” he suddenly asked, breaking the silence.
“New Orleans,” you answered flatly.
The short burst of warmth that the two of you had shared in the middle of the night seemed to have disappeared completely. Bucky had his body turned slightly away from you, and maybe that was how he wanted it. Perhaps the vulnerability he had shared last night was something he wanted to keep under wraps.
“I know that,” he scoffed. “But what are we going to do there?”
“I’m taking you to my favorite spot,” you said, keeping your eyes on the road. “Monty’s.”
Bucky hummed. “That like a breakfast joint or something?”
“It’s a classic diner. They have the best crawfish and cheesesteaks you’ll ever put in your mouth,” you said, your stomach growling just thinking about it. “But the best part are the beignets. They have the best stuffed beignets I’ve ever had.”
Bucky finally glanced at you, a small grin tugging at his lips. “I’ve never had a beignet.”
Your eyes went wide, and you looked at him in disbelief. “What? You stay with the Wilsons and you’ve never had a beignet?”
He shook his head. “No.”
“Have you ever been to New Orleans?”
He shook his head again. “I’ve only ever stayed in Delacroix with Sam.”
The idea of introducing the city of New Orleans—a place you adored—to someone who had never been filled you with a sudden burst of excitement, even if it was for Bucky.
“Well, we’ve got a lot of time to spare. So we’ll park somewhere and walk to Monty’s, and since the restaurant is near Jackson Square, I’ll show you around.”
While you kept your eyes on the road, Bucky could only stare at you as you went on and on about the beauty of New Orleans.
You explained breathlessly how gorgeous the square was—about how the greenery around the cathedral was breathtaking. You mentioned the French Market a couple of blocks away and went on about the street musicians and talented jazz players on every corner. You told him about the vendors posted all around and how you could even take a trolley around the area.
For the first time since he met you, he had never heard you speak this much in one breath.
For once, you weren’t throwing petty remarks at him. You talked and talked about the things you loved about the city, and Bucky felt like his heart was swelling too large for his chest.
Before long, the two of you made it into the vibrant heart of New Orleans.
The restaurant was already loud—the clinking of silverware, loud laughter, and a jazz band playing down the street hummed in your ears.
Despite the heat, Bucky had kept his jacket on for as long as possible, but eventually, the Louisiana humidity won.
Now, with his sleeves rolled up, the vibranium of his arm caught the light poking through the window with every movement. You saw the way the couple at the table next to you whispered to each other, and how a group of tourists leaned in, pointing in his direction.
Bucky felt it, too. His jaw was clenched, and he kept his left hand tucked partially under the table. He looked like he wanted to disappear. It was no wonder he preferred staying at Sam’s.
Then, the server arrived with a tray that smelled like heaven.
“Here you go,” you said, pushing the plate of powdered goodness toward him. “The legendary stuffed beignets,” you added with a bright smile, hoping to ease his mood.
The pastries were massive, perfectly golden brown and buried under a mountain of powdered sugar. Bucky lifted one and took a careful bite, the crunch of the dough giving way to a rich and creamy center. His eyes widened, and he let out a small, muffled “mm” as he chewed.
“It’s good, right?” you grinned, already halfway through your own beignet.
Bucky nodded, taking an even bigger bite. “Good,” he confirmed mid-chew. “Very fucking good.”
As he pulled the beignet away from his mouth, he was oblivious to the thick coat of white powder smeared across his upper lip like a mustache, with a stray patch sitting right on the tip of his nose. Bucky still had that natural, broody look on his face as he chewed. He reached for his water, and as much as you tried to keep a straight face, you couldn’t help the laugh that escaped.
“Bucky,” you snickered, shielding your mouth with your hand.
He stopped, glass halfway to his mouth, frowning in confusion. “What?”
“You’ve got…” You pointed to your own face, doubling over as another giggle escaped. “Powder all over your face, old man.”
Bucky reached up with his right hand, wiping his lip only to smear the powder further across his cheek. He realized then how ridiculous he must have looked.
“Shut up,” he mumbled, keeping his eyes down as his face flushed with embarrassment. But with the way you were giggling across the table, he couldn’t help but smile, too.
“Here, let me help you.”
To save him from further embarrassment, you reached across the small, wobbly table.
Your thumb brushed the corner of his mouth, sweeping away the stubborn white powder. Any petty remark Bucky had been about to throw at you died in his throat the second your thumb made contact with his skin.
With the sunlight peering through the window and casting a soft glow on you, you looked… soft.
You looked exactly as you had last night, with the moonlight over your face while you comforted him after his nightmare.
Bucky swallowed hard. “I—”
Suddenly, a waiter rushing by with a loaded tray clipped the corner of your table. The wood jolted, the water glasses sloshing dangerously.
“Sorry, folks! Pardon me,” the man mumbled, already halfway to the next table.
You pulled your hand back quickly, clearing your throat. Bucky sat back, his hand dropping to his lap as he looked toward the door.
“Ready?” he asked, his voice a little lower than usual.
“Yeah,” you nodded. “Let’s go.”
The two of you left the restaurant. Stepping out into the warm air, Jackson Square was already vibrant and bustling with a good mix of tourists and locals.
Couples drifted past, fingers intertwined or arms slung over shoulders, soaking in the romance of the city. You and Bucky, however, kept a careful, “friendly” distance, though every time your shoulders brushed in the crowd, you both tensed up.
As you rounded the corner toward the cathedral, the soulful, brass of a trumpet pulled you toward a crowd gathered on the sidewalk.
A jazz quartet was set up near the iron gates. The music was loud and swinging. People were swaying, and some older couples were even dancing in the middle of the pavement, lost in the beat as an elderly man sang, his smooth, gravelly voice beaming through the microphone.
You stopped at the edge of the circle, smiling as you watched a young couple spin each other around.
The music was infectious, and you found yourself tapping your foot against the cobblestones. Bucky stood beside you, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, but his eyes weren’t on the musicians. He was watching the people dancing with a look of quiet, distant longing that made your heart ache just a little.
“Are you okay?” you asked softly, grabbing his attention.
Bucky—as if snapped out of his own thoughts—jumped slightly at your question. He looked down at you, a sheepish smile on his lips.
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
You motioned to the other dancers. “Do you want to dance?”
He blinked as your question processed in his mind. You were inviting him to dance?
Were you trying to pull his leg?
Bucky sucked in a deep breath, his face flushing and his eyes going wide. “… Dance?”
Before Bucky could deny your offer, the saxophone player stepped forward and got lost in a wild, trilling solo that made the crowd cheer even louder. The man on the microphone let out a joyful laugh, clapping his hands in time with the beat.
“That’s it! That’s it!” he called out. “Don’t just stand there lookin’ pretty, now! Everyone grab a partner and start dancin’ if you haven’t already—life’s way too short to be standin’ still.”
More people spilled into the center of the circle, bumping into you and Bucky. Total strangers were spinning each other around, and it was as if the old cobblestones started to shake with everyone’s footsteps dancing over them.
You looked up at Bucky—his body was tense with the clear desire to bolt in the opposite direction.
“Do you want to leave—”
“C’mon now, you two!” the singer bellowed over the music, drawing the eyes of everyone in the circle as he pointed directly at the two of you with a big grin on his face. “I see you shy young lovebirds over there. Don’t be shy, big man—take the lady’s hand and show us what you got!”
Bucky looked like he wanted to die.
His face was as red as a tomato, and his body was as stiff as a rock. You wanted to laugh at him being called a ‘young lovebird big man,’ but you knew that would only wound his pride even more.
You grabbed his hand, and his body jolted, not expecting the sudden contact.
“What are you doing?” he hissed.
“Come on,” you said, nodding your head toward the middle of the circle. “We’re going to dance.”
“What? Hey—wait—!”
Bucky let himself be dragged to the center of the circle, his feet dragging against the cobblestones.
He couldn’t believe this was happening.
Just twelve hours ago, he had been waking up from a nightmare in a cold sweat, and now he was standing in the middle of Jackson Square with a hundred sets of eyes on him.
This was worse than any nightmare he ever had, probably.
“I can’t,” he hissed, his voice cracking slightly as he looked at the couples spinning around them. “I haven’t danced since... since…”
The Forties.
“Just don’t think about it,” you said, stepping closer into his arms so he was forced to look at you instead of the crowd.
You took his right hand in yours and placed your other hand on his shoulder. His hand found your waist—respectfully. “Just follow my lead.”
You started moving your body to the swing of the rhythm, pulling him into a simple two step move.
At first, Bucky was like a statue—immovable and completely terrified—but then you caught the beat and spun yourself out. Your hand remained intertwined with his before you stepped back into his arms with a little chuckle.
Everyone around you beamed with glee. As the saxophone solo reached its peak, the notes spiraling higher and higher into the humid Louisiana air, Bucky finally started to follow along. His long legs found the rhythm, and he began moving with you.
The man on the microphone threw his head back, laughing in pure delight as Bucky finally found his feet. He pointed at Bucky with a wink before pulling the mic back to his lips.
“There he is! White boy’s got rhythm!” he cheered—and the crowd joined in—before he sung back into a smooth, jazzy verse.
As Bucky spun you around to the music, everything else became a complete blur.
In this moment, it was just you, Bucky, and the beautiful music of New Orleans.
He would occasionally step on your feet, and you would occasionally step on his. You bumped into other dancing couples now and then, but it didn’t matter. You were both laughing, getting lost in the moment and in each other.
It was the first time either of you had seen the other smile like that—completely genuine and unburdened.
After everything that had happened today, it felt like things between you would be different from here on out. There was a soft, gentle side to Bucky that you were slowly starting to notice—a side that made you realize it wouldn’t be such a bad thing if he were to… pursue Sarah.
As the song came to an end, Bucky dipped you, holding you up with the strength of his arms alone. The two of you looked at each other breathlessly, his face just inches from yours. For a moment, you thought he was going to kiss you—just like the other couples were doing, exchanging sweet, quick pecks as the music faded.
But he swallowed hard, hauling you back up and abruptly pulling his hands away from the closeness of your body.
“We should go… so we can make it back in time for the party,” he said, his voice a little strained.
For some reason, the sudden loss of Bucky’s touch hurt you more than you’d like to admit.
“I… sure,” you nodded, straightening your clothes and avoiding his gaze. “Yeah. It’s a long drive. We should go.”
This time, Bucky insisted on driving back to Sarah’s, his excuse being, “You showed me New Orleans, the least I can do is drive us home.”
With how great the day had been and the good mood you were in because of it, you had no problem letting him take the wheel.
“New Orleans is beautiful,” Bucky said, glancing at you with a small smile. “It’s busy and the crowds are loud, but I had a lot of fun—surprisingly so.”
You chuckled, letting the breeze sweep over your face as you looked out the window. “There’s so much more I have to show you. Like the steamboats—oh! And if we’d gone further downtown French Quarter, I could’ve introduced you to my favorite spot for Cajun gumbo—”
Bucky snickered. Here you were again—rambling on about your favorite things. But to Bucky, listening to you talk was, oddly enough, music to his ears.
“That all sounds great,” he said. “Just no swamp boat tours, please. I’ve had enough of those.”
You threw your head back with a hearty laugh. “Fair enough.”
The truck slowly began to lose its momentum, the engine sputtering and making strange sounds—sounds that indicated it wouldn’t survive the over hour long drive back home.
“Uh… Bucky?” you asked, sitting up straighter as you watched the speedometer needle start to dip. “What’s going on?”
Bucky’s grip on the steering wheel tightened. “I… I don’t know.”
“Well, stop slowing down! We’re in the middle of the road!” Panic started to flare as you glanced at the rearview mirror.
“I’m not slowing down,” Bucky snapped back, his voice rising in panic equal to yours. He pressed his foot harder against the gas pedal, but Sarah’s Chevy only groaned in response. “The truck is doing it on its own.”
“Well, fix it!” you shrieked. “Like… shift gears or something!”
“Fix it?” Bucky scoffed at your expectations.
He groaned, steering the truck toward the grassy shoulder. He peered through the windshield, his expression grim as the truck gave one final lurch before going completely dead. He sighed, reaching for the keys.
“Cut the engine and try again,” you urged.
He gave you a snappy look—mostly because that was exactly what he was about to do.
“No shit,” he mumbled, twisting the key to try the ignition again. He grunted, muttering curses as he tried over and over, but the truck wouldn’t budge.
“Great,” Bucky muttered, leaning his head back against the headrest with a thud. “Just great.”
“Oh my god,” you breathed in disbelief.
You had over an hour’s drive ahead of you, and with it already being four o’clock, you were definitely going to be late for AJ’s birthday party.
“You broke Sarah’s truck.”
Bucky’s eyes flew wide as he turned to you, appalled by your audacity. “I broke Sarah’s truck?”
You crossed your arms and stubbornly glared out the window, refusing to look at him. Deep down, you knew it wasn’t Bucky’s fault—the thing was a relic—but with the panic of missing the party bubbling up, you couldn’t help yourself.
Bucky let out a heavy sigh, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “Look, just stay in the truck, alright? I’ll fix this.”
He pushed the door open and hopped out, but despite his instructions, you were right on his heels.
Bucky popped open the hood, and a fresh cloud of gray smoke billowed out, forcing him to cough and wave his hand to clear the air. He leaned over the engine bay, his vibranium hand resting on the frame as he squinted at the mess of hoses and wires.
“See anything?” you pestered over his shoulder.
“I see a lot of things that shouldn’t be smoking,” he mumbled grumpily.
He reached in, his fingers grazing a radiator hose that looked suspiciously frayed. He tried to tighten a loose bolt, his brow furrowed in deep concentration, but as soon as he touched a connector near the battery, a stray spark flew up.
“It’s the alternator,” he suggested, pulling his hand back and wiping grease onto his jeans. “Or the fuel pump. Or maybe it’s just tired of living.”
“Can you fix it?” you asked, your brows furrowed.
He looked at the smoking engine, then back at the empty road, and finally at you. He let out a long, defeated breath and shook his head.
“There are no tools for me to work with.” He explained, shutting the hood.
“Oh my god,” you repeated, your heart racing. “Oh my god—wait, so what do we do? Do we call someone?”
Bucky already had his phone out—a damned flip phone—and was already dialing Sam’s number.
“What are you doing?” you pestered him, buzzing around him like a fly.
“I’m calling Sam to pick us up,” he answered shortly.
“Oh—okay… good… that’s… good.”
You crossed your arms, your thumb nail caught between your teeth as you started to pace back and forth.
You felt terrible about Sam having to go out of his way to bail you out of this mess on his nephew’s birthday—and you felt even worse about adding a broken truck to the long list of things Sarah already had to take care of.
“Sam, can you hear me? Hello?” Bucky started, raising his voice to be heard over the static. “We’re stranded on—” He looked at you. “Where are we?”
“300 East,” you answered quickly.
“300 East. Sarah’s truck broke down and we need a—hello? Sam, can you hear me?”
Bucky tried again, but the line went dead. He pulled the phone away from his ear and sighed, snapping it shut.
“Wait, what happened? Did he pick up?”
“Line went dead,” Bucky said, staring at the useless piece of plastic in his hand.
“But is he coming?” you pressed, stepping closer. “Does he know where we are? Did he hear you?”
“I don’t know.”
Your patience, already worn thin from the humidity and the stress of the entire situation, finally snapped.
“What do you mean you don’t know?!” You threw your hands up in the air, your frustration taking over. “God, maybe if I had driven, we wouldn’t have gotten into this mess—”
Bucky’s head snapped toward you, a scoff leaving his lips as he glared at you. “Excuse me? Why do you always blame things on me?”
“Because you insisted on driving! And you weren’t just driving—you were speeding! You were pushing the truck to its limits and now look at us!” Your voice rose as you stepped closer, jabbing a finger into his chest. “Look at the mess you got us into!”
Bucky’s face twisted into a sneer so ugly, it nearly made you flinch. He stepped even closer, letting your finger dig into his chest as he loomed over you, as if reminding you of your place.
“You know, I’m starting to get sick and tired of the way you’re treating me,” he growled. “We had a great day—we were finally getting along—and you went and ruined it.”
Your eyes went wide. “I ruined it?”
“Oh, you ruined it the second you opened your mouth!” Bucky barked.
He didn’t even give you a chance to argue back, stepping forward until you were backed up against the hood of the truck.
“I’ve tried my best to be patient with you—goddamnit!” he continued angrily. “I’ve tried to suck up every petty thing you’ve said about me, the way you look at me like I’m nothing but trouble, the way you’ve treated me like a burden on Sarah’s and Sam’s doorstep.”
Bucky ran a hand through his hair, a smile touching his lips—though it wasn’t a smile that held any happiness at all.
“Hell, I thought today I finally got through to that stubborn little head of yours. I thought maybe we actually enjoyed each other’s company for five minutes. But I guess not, because the second something goes wrong, you go right back to the same old script.”
You felt your bottom lip wobble. You kept your eyes down, refusing to look him in the eye.
You knew he was right—he had no idea how he was actually perceived by you, and your treatment of him was starting to feel completely one-sided and unfair.
Unable to take his yelling any longer, you shoved Bucky out of your way. He stumbled back, surprised by the force of your hand. You started walking away from him toward the truck doors without a word, but his voice followed you, sounding exhausted and completely defeated.
“Why do you hate me so much? What did I ever do to you?”
The sound of his boots scraping against the gravel caught up to you. Before you could pull away, he put a hand on your shoulder, his grip firm as he urged you to turn around.
“Look at me—”
You wrenched your shoulder out of his grasp, spinning around to face him.
“You want to know why?” you hissed. “It’s because of what you said the first day I met you. I overheard you talking to Sam—laughing about how you were ‘merely joking around’ with Sarah, and how you weren’t looking for anything serious.”
Bucky flinched, his hands dropping to his sides as the anger that clouded his eyes was replaced by a look of sheer confusion.
“Sarah is my best friend. I was the one who sat with her through the divorce. I’m the one who stays when Sam has to leave for months at a time. I’ve seen her work herself to the bone for those boys and this family, and she deserves someone who actually values her. She deserves a real man who means what he says—not someone who uses her as a punchline for a joke with his buddy.”
You stepped even closer, and Bucky looked more and more blindsided.
“You’re ‘just having fun,’ but people like you don’t realize that when you play around with someone like Sarah, you leave a mess behind for people like me to clean up. So yeah, I’ve been hard on you. Because I’m not going to let you come into her life, charm her every time you’re over, and then leave her wondering what she did wrong when men like you get bored.”
Bucky just stood there, taking in every word as they echoed in his mind.
Was this what you had thought of him all this time?
That he was some playboy with nothing but bad intentions for Sam’s—his best friend’s—sister?
“I don’t know what to say,” Bucky finally breathed out.
You crossed your arms, tilting your chin with that same stubborn scrunch of your face you did every time you were sure you were right.
“Of course you don’t,” you bit out.
Bucky huffed a dry laugh, running his tongue over his front teeth as he looked down at you. Despite everything, there it was again—that familiar, infuriating spark of yours.
Here you were, being a brat again, and as much as you got under his skin, he couldn’t ever look away.
“I’m sorry,” he admitted, his voice sincere and gentle. “I didn’t... I didn’t think it would affect her like that. Or you, especially. If I had known it was getting under your skin, I wouldn’t have kept it up.”
“If you knew you weren’t looking for a relationship, Bucky, then you should’ve known to stop. It’s that simple,” you snapped back, refusing to let the sudden softness in his voice throw you off.
“I get it. I’m sorry, alright?” Bucky said, his voice straining between genuine regret and a growing irritation.
You didn’t give him the satisfaction of an answer. You dismissively rolled your eyes and turned on your heel. Right now, you just needed to get away from him, so you reached for the truck door, intending to climb back into the cab and wait in silence until Sam eventually found you.
But before your hand could even wrap around the handle, Bucky’s vibranium arm shot out, slamming the door shut hard enough to make the Chevy shake.
He didn’t move his hand, pinning you between his body and the truck.
“Jesus Christ,” he growled, leaning down so his face was inches from your ear. “I’m apologizing, and you’re still being a stubborn brat.”
“And you’re being annoying!” you shot back, refusing to shrink away even though you were trapped. Your back pressed against his chest with every shallow breath you took.
“Oh? So not only am I a player, but I’m also annoying?” His eyes darkened as they searched yours, catching your gaze as you tilted your head back to look at him. “I can never win with you, can I?”
Your heart raced as you looked him dead in the eye, trying to ignore the way he loomed over you. “And what exactly are you trying to win out of me, Barnes?” you challenged.
Bucky’s gaze dropped to your mouth, tracing the curve of it before snapping back up. He shifted his stance, his thigh brushing firmly against yours and closing the last bit of air between you.
“Your approval,” he murmured. His voice vibrated so low in his chest that you could feel it against your own body. “I just want you to like me.”
“I… do like you,” you admitted, though your voice came out shaky. “You’re a friend of Sam’s—I respect you enough for that.”
“That’s the problem,” Bucky said, the complaint sounding like a painful corak. “You don’t like me. You tolerate me.”
With his vibranium hand still propped up against the truck near your head, his right hand trailed up to play with the ends of your hair. He twirled the strands between his fingers with a careful, almost yearning touch, his fingertips gentle against the locks.
He kept his head down, but even without looking, you could feel the burn of his gaze on the back of your head.
“I want more.”
A short, sharp breath escaped your lungs at his admission. More?
“Bucky,” you breathed, your voice barely a whisper. “What more could you possibly want from me? If I can tolerate you—isn’t that already enough?”
“No, it’s not,” he groaned. He lowered his head, nuzzling his nose against your hair and breathing you in. “I want the girl who was there for me when I was having a nightmare. I want the girl I was eating beignets with and dancing with in the middle of Jackson Square.”
Your heart was beating so fast you felt like you were running out of air.
He pressed closer, and a small gasp escaped you as you felt his thigh wedge firmly against yours. When your hand scrambled for the side of the truck for support, you gasped as as you felt a twitch coming from between his legs.
“But instead, I’m getting nothing but a real fucking brat,” he hissed into your ear.
He rocked his hips forward, letting you feel his hard erection against your bottom, forcing you to press even deeper against the truck.
You couldn’t believe it—the man you swore you hated was hovering over you, rocking his hips against yours like an animal. You were pinned hard against the truck, helpless to do anything but take it.
The worst part was that even if you tried to protest, you knew he’d see right through you. You were actually enjoying this. You craved the feeling of him, the way Bucky was grinding against you from behind right here on the side of the road, where anyone could drive by and see exactly what he was doing to you.
Despite being caught in such a vulnerable position, you couldn’t help but let that stubborn streak flare up one more time—mostly because you were dying to see how much more you could get out of him.
You tilted your head back until it rested against his shoulder, looking up at him and batting your lashes.
“Is this it then, Barnes?” you teased, rubbing your bottom against his straining, painful bulge. “You think pinning me against a broken truck and acting like a caveman is going to make me like you? You’re even more desperate than I thought.”
A broken, ragged shudder escaped his lips as he watched the curve of you settle perfectly against his cock.
It had been a long time since he had been in contact with a woman like this—much less the one woman who had been driving him absolutely crazy since the moment he stepped foot back in Louisiana.
Bucky’s hands moved from the truck to your waist, giving you a possessive squeeze.
He held you still as he continued to grind into you. A low groan escaped him as the friction of his clothes against his sensitive skin hit just right.
He felt like he was on the verge of losing it. He could have come right there from the dry humping alone.
But he wasn’t about to give in that easily.
“Desperate...” he muttered, breathless, as he continued to hump you like an animal. “Yes—I’m desperate. I’ve been desperate for you this entire fucking time, and you didn’t even know it.”
His fingers tangled into your hair, giving it a sharp tug that forced a gasp from your lips and exposed the long line of your neck to him.
“Every time I come back to Louisiana, I’m always hoping you’d be there—even if your very existence aggravates me.”
He was always looking for you?
Bucky nuzzled his nose against the sensitive skin there, his lips grazing your throat as he continued to talk filth.
“Need to kiss you,” he mumbled against your skin, peppering your neck with sloppy, wet kisses. “Need to stick my tongue down your throat—bet that’ll shut you up for good, won’t it?”
His rough hands roamed relentlessly over your body, bunching the fabric of your top and squeezing your breasts through the thin material. He was possessive, his touch leaving no doubt about who you belonged to in this moment.
You let out a breath as his fingers slid beneath the hem of your shirt, cupping your tits in his palms.
“A lot of talking, but not a lot of action,” you taunted, trying to bite back a moan as he gripped you harder. “Seems very on brand for you, doesn’t it?”
With a snarl, his grip on your hips tightened. He spun you around, nearly slamming your back against the truck. Your yelp of surprise was cut short the second his lips found yours.
The kiss was desperate, almost inexperienced in its hunger, but he moved like a man who had been starving for this very moment with you.
You couldn’t help but lean into him, your hands tangling into his hair with a tug. You moaned into his mouth, and Bucky groaned back, his tongue pushing past your lips to delve deep into the wet warmth of your mouth.
He kept you pinned firmly against the truck, his thigh between yours. You were growing wetter by the second, and you took it upon yourself to start rubbing against him, grinding your dampened cunt against his thick thigh.
Bucky pulled away to rest his forehead against yours, both of you panting for air. He watched, eyes dark and blown out, as you practically fucked yourself against his leg.
A taunting, low laugh left his lips at the filthy sight of it.
“Look at you,” he groaned. “You’re fucking asking for it now.”
Reaching behind you, he yanked the door handle and threw it open.
“Get in the damn truck,” Bucky demanded roughly.
You scrambled inside with a defiant grin, your lips puffy and swollen. You didn’t hesitate to discard your bottoms, leaving yourself in just your panties as you sprawled across the bench seat.
From your spot on the upholstery, you watched with uneven breaths as Bucky began to fumble with his belt.
“Turn around,” Bucky instructed, palming his cock through his jeans as he finally rid himself of the thick fabric. “Face down, ass up.”
Before you could even get into position, Bucky crawled into the truck right after you.
The truck dipped with all the weight shifting to one side, and he slammed the door shut behind him. He didn’t even give you time to adjust before his hands found your hips, spinning you around until you were bent over, ass presented to him with your hands planted firmly on the worn leather of the Chevy’s seats.
“God—eager, are you?” you teased.
“Shut up,” Bucky hissed as his flesh hand found the back of your hair, pinning you down so your cheek squished up against the leather.
His fingers hooked the waistband of your cotton panties, giving them a harsh tug and nearly ripping them.
With your face pressed into the seats, you couldn’t make out what he was doing from behind you—only the sounds coming out of his mouth.
“Fuck—look at you,” Bucky groaned, accompanied by the sounds of his jeans and belt being pushed down. “Dripping and completely bare—all just for me.”
Then, you heard the sounds of skin rubbing against skin.
The truck started to shake as deep, breathy little moans escaped Bucky’s mouth. Craning your head to peek at him, your eyes widened at what you saw.
Bucky was admiring the view from behind, his eyes completely glued to the curve of your ass and your wet, puffy cunt—clenching and begging for him. His bottom lip was caught between his teeth as his cool, vibranium hand spread your ass wide to get a better view, while the other was stroking his cock hard and fast.
Pre-cum already bubbled at the tip as breathy groans kept leaving his mouth. He was so big—so fucking big—and you weren’t sure he was even going to fit.
Trying to tilt your head to get a better look, Bucky’s hand immediately left his cock and went straight back to your head, pinning you in place against the seat.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he growled.
You winced. “What? I can’t even look at you now?”
“You don’t get to make demands of me anymore,” he murmured roughly. He guided his cock up and down against your slit, coating himself and spreading his pre-cum everywhere. “Not when you’re bent over like this. Bent over like a dirty little slut.”
Your pussy immediately pulsed and twitched against Bucky’s tip. He probed and teased the entrance, pushing against the tight heat of your cunt to make you moan, but never quite slipping inside.
It was enough to drive you insane.
Despite everything, you wanted him to fill you right here—right in the truck in the middle of the road, where anyone could see you getting fucked by him.
You started to wiggle your hips, your entrance catching his tip and forcing a broken groan from his throat.
“Still all this talk and no action,” you taunted, wiggling your ass against him. “You just keep proving me more right every day. You’re all talk—”
A yelp broke from your lips as his palm connected with the bare curve of your ass. Your body arched, a sting blooming across your skin and making your toes curl.
“You just don’t know how to keep that mouth shut, do you?” Bucky growled, leaning over you until his breath was hot against your ear.
Without waiting for an answer, he brought his hand down again, forcing another yelp from you as the slap echoed in the small truck.
Your bottom—bare and vulnerable—began to throb with a pulsing heat. Bucky’s right hand smoothed over the warm skin, and he mockingly clicked his tongue when you bucked your hips back for more, seeking friction from his cock despite the pain.
“Christ,” Bucky groaned, his fingers swiping your sensitive slit. “Did you just get wetter?”
“Bucky…” you whined against the leather seat. “... p-please.”
Bucky froze behind you, his eyes widening slightly as the word hung in the air. Then, a devilish little grin tugged at his lips.
Please?
Did you just say ‘please’?
He continued to soothe your burning skin with his palm, his touch gentle and taunting. “Sorry, sweetheart. What was that? I couldn’t quite hear you.”
You groaned, burying your face out of embarrassment. “You know what? Forget it—”
Another gasp escaped you as his hand came down hard against your bottom again, making your body jolt. Before you could pull away, both of his hands clamped down on your hips, dragging you back until you were pushed against him.
You could feel the ridge of his warm, throbbing cock resting right against the curve of your ass.
“Come on, baby. I think this is the first time I’ve ever heard you say ‘please.’ Say it again. I know you’ve got a voice.”
When you continued to remain stubbornly silent, he guided his cock toward your entrance, sinking just the tip in.
You arched your back, a needy sound catching in your throat. Bucky groaned, his eyes fluttering shut at the sensation of your tight hole. He wanted to grab your hips and slam you down on his cock—but he couldn’t. Not yet. He had to make you beg for it.
“Fuck—come on, sweets. Just say please like a good girl,” he coaxed, his own voice breaking. “Come on, I want to hear you say it. Just one more time for me, baby. Say please once and I’ll give it to you good—I promise.”
Just once.
All he needed from you was a simple, breathy little ‘please’— a broken whimper he could hold onto.
He knew he couldn’t make you beg for much longer, mostly because he was just as greedy as you were. He was starving, and he wanted to fuck you right here, right now, until instead of begging him with a ‘please’ you’d be begging with a ‘stop’.
“P-please…”
The word finally broke from your lips—breathless and broken. It was exactly what he wanted to hear.
With his tip buried in your tight entrance, and you pulsing and wet around him, he needed to feel more. That breathy little ‘please’ was the perfect invitation.
“Good girl,” Bucky praised, his grip on your hips tightening as he began to sink into you—slowly, making sure you felt every agonizing inch. “Good fucking girl.”
Your mouth hung wide open, drool surely spilling out and onto the seats as Bucky stretched you wide until you felt completely filled. Your breath hitched, coming in short, panicked bursts.
“God, you’re so small,” Bucky groaned, leaning over you—his chest pressing hard against your back. “Tight enough to break me.”
Even with your lungs feeling squeezed and your head light from the stretch, you couldn’t help the small, muffled huff that left you. You turned your face to glance back at him with a dazed and defiant look.
“Maybe you’re just… hah… out of practice,” you managed to choke out, a weak smirk tugging at your lips. “Forgotten what a real woman feels like?”
Bucky’s eyes went dark, his brow twitching at your words. He didn’t give you the satisfaction of a laugh. His fingers dug into the leather on either side of your head and he began to pull out, agonizingly slow, only to slam back into you completely—filling you in one hard and ruthless thrust. A thrust hard enough to make the truck shake.
“Out of practice?” he hissed. He did it again, a short, hard thrust that knocked the wind out of you. “Since you’ve got such a big mouth, I’ll make sure to fuck that one next.”
Bucky grabbed your hips, his fingers pushing into your flesh and making you gasp as he began to rock his hips back and forth. He withdrew nearly all the way, leaving you cold and aching for a split second, before fucking all the way back into you.
The truck began to rock and creak, the worn leather squeaking beneath your sweaty palms as he fucked you into it.
He made sure you felt every ridge and throb of him, his tip aiming at your softest spots until your vision swam and blurred.
“Still.. got something.. to say?” he grunted between words, his heavy balls slapping against your cunt as he fucked you.
You couldn’t even form a syllable. Your eyes—rolled back—were disoriented as he used your body for his pleasure.
All the noises that filled the small space of the truck were filthy. The wet squelching of your pussy as Bucky’s cock pumped in and out of you. The breathy grunts and groans leaving Bucky’s lips. Your gasps and mewls whimpering in the air.
“I… hah—mph—B-bucky, I—”
“Look at you,” he huffed a deep, condescending laugh. “Can’t even talk now, can you? Just laying there and taking it. God—I’ve dreamed of this so many times, you know? You, pinned underneath me, finally putting this bratty pussy to work. When I fill you up, we’re not nearly done. I’m going to use your mouth next, I’ll make sure of it.”
Every filthy word that left Bucky’s lips only made you clench tighter around him, bringing you closer and closer.
“But fuck, your pussy is so tight—feel like I could be buried here all day,” Bucky groaned.
He reached around, his fingers finding your clit and rubbing with a pressure that sent sparks through your vision. He felt you flutter around him, tightening around his cock almost painfully so.
“Fuck—you gonna cum?” he asked roughly.
“M-mph—mhm—!” you moaned against the leather, nodding your head frantically. “M’gonna cum, Bucky!”
A deep, sexy vibration of a laugh rumbled in Bucky’s chest—and you couldn’t hold back anymore.
Your body shook against the leather as your walls clamped down on him with heavy pulses. A broken, high pitched keen left your throat as you felt yourself come undone all over him, wave after wave of overwhelming pleasure crashing over you while he savored your tightness.
Bucky clenched his teeth, hissing as your pussy—already tight as it was—became restrictive and completely unbearable for him.
But despite the tightness, he didn’t stop—not even for a second.
It was too good not to.
“Shit, I’m gonna cum, baby—” Bucky gasped, his hips moving uncoordinated as his cock pulsed and throbbed. “Fuck, fuck, gonna cum… inside… gonna fill you up—!”
Bucky pushed his hips into yours, bottoming out until there wasn’t a breath of space left between you.
You felt his cock pulse inside you—and then you started to feel even fuller than you already were. His cum began to seep into your tight pussy, pumping into you until you overflowed, the excess dripping out and onto the seats.
He dropped his forehead against the back of your neck, his hot breath tickling your damp skin as he felt himself start to calm down, catching his breath.
His hands roamed over your hips, giving you a gentle rub before he pulled himself out of your abused pussy with a wet squelch. He sat back on the seat, chest heaving as he motioned for you to come closer.
“Come here, baby,” he cooed.
Bucky gently guided you toward his lap, pressing soft, lingering kisses to your sweaty forehead. Then, his vibranium hand found the back of your head, slowly—gently—guiding you down toward his cock, which was still half hard and coated in juices.
“I said I was going to use your mouth next, didn’t I?”
“You’re unbelievable,” you muttered with a shaky laugh.
You were exhausted, your body still trembling from the way he had completely ruined you, yet here he was—demanding more. Bucky didn’t look bothered at all. He just flashed a lopsided, lazy grin.
“Open your mouth,” he commanded softly, his vibranium fingers curling gently into your hair, guiding you back toward his lap.
You rolled your eyes even as you sank down, your tongue slowly dragging up his spent cock. Your tongue danced around the tip—then beneath the head—making him shudder and groan.
He was sensitive, yet he still wanted more. You stretched your mouth open, taking him in as best as you could. He was already thickening back to fullness, responding instantly to the warmth of your throat.
As you bobbed your head lazily on his cock, Bucky tossed his head back against the leather seats with a moan, rutting his hips up gently—just barely—seeking more.
“That’s it,” he groaned. “God—that fucking mouth—”
But the sound of his phone ringing cut through the truck, silencing him instantly. Bucky stiffened, his breath hitching as he felt around the tangled leather seats. He grabbed his phone, glancing at the flip-phone screen with a low curse.
It was Sam.
He answered, pressing the phone to his ear while his other hand stayed tangled in your hair, his thumb stroking your cheek as you continued to work his cock.
“Hey man! I'm halfway there,” Sam’s voice crackled through. “Just hold on for about twenty more minutes, alright?”
Bucky’s head fell back against the headrest, his eyes squeezing shut as you swirled your tongue around the head of his cock. His hips gave a small, involuntary twitch, and he had to clench his jaw to keep from crying out.
“Alright,” Bucky managed to grit out, his voice a strained, gravelly mess. “We’re here… waiting— fuck.”
He cut himself off with a sharp intake of breath as you took him deeper, his fingers tightening in your hair as a warning. There was a moment of silence on the other line.
He was sure the connection had died or Sam might’ve hung up.
“Yo, Buck? You sound hurt,” Sam said, his voice rising with concern. “Y’all good? You two aren’t fighting, are you?”
Fighting was one way to put it.
“We’re perfectly fine,” Bucky huffed, growing impatient. “You said twenty minutes, right? Okay. We’ll wait for you. Bye.”
He flipped the phone shut and tossed it somewhere behind him, his attention snapping back to you. You fluttered your eyes to look up at him, your mouth still stuffed with his cock.
“You heard that, baby? You’ve got twenty minutes to make me cum again,” he said, his voice dropping into that low, dangerous register. “Think that’s enough time for you?”
You popped his cock out of your mouth, wiping at the saliva that spilled onto your chin with a smug, little grin.
“Bet I can do it in two.”
“Oh, here you go again.”
i actually had a lot of fun writing this. now i want to book a trip to new orleans.
if you've made it this far, as always thank you so much for taking the time to read my work. interactions are always appreciated, I love reading every bit of them!
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✦Bucky Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Read on aO3!✦
✦summary: you and Bucky have been at odds since you first met. he can't stand you. you pretend you can't stand him. and if Bucky ever knew how you really felt, you think you might die. not when there's no chance he'd ever feel the same way. right?✦
✦warnings/tags: bucky barnes x female!reader, modern!au, drinking, no use of y/n, mutual pining, no description of reader (pictures for aesthetic only), fluff, angst, drunken and sober love confessions, little plot to get to all that porn, feral level smut, (dirty talk, mean bucky but you're into it, teasing, possiveness, pussy spanking, praise kink, manhandling, sex toys, overstimulation, squriting, bucky's packing, p in v sex, creampie, breeding kink), soft!bucky outside of smut✦
✦wc: 13.5k✦
✦Author's Note: i think i got possessed with this one. was barking to myself writing. Enjoy!✦
He’s the kind of beautiful that makes you want to strangle him.
Bucky walks around your apartment like he owns it, laughing all loud and musical, smiling like he fell out of a movie, running a hand through his hair and forcing you to see his sculpted torso and tanned skin. He barely fits in his shirt as it is, there’s no need for him to show off about it.
You’ve pressed yourself right to the corner of you couch, watching him silently. Watching all of them, but mostly Bucky. And his shining eyes and full lips and thick arms. Those things should be classified as weapons, or at least hazards. It’s too easy to imagine him wrapping them around you, pining you to the couch, handling you like a doll but still so gently-
“You’re staring at me again.” He drawls, and you start.
You give him an unimpressed glare, hoping your flush stays hidden in the low light of the room. “Shut up.”
“So nice to me, sweetheart.” He mocks, leaning a little further down. “Bet you dream about me, don’t you. Up all night with that rabbit Nat got you-“
You shove your foot up, slamming it square on his chest. He’d been getting too close. You’d been able to smell his cologne, and it made your head spin like opium. Bucky laughs again, walking away like you’re not even worth the argument. Your heart stings, but you ignore it. It’s an old bruise. You’re usually good at not pressing it, at pretending it doesn’t exist.
But Bucky exists only to torture you. So it never fully heals.
He’d been teasing about the rabbit thing. It had been a gag gift for secret Santa, and after Nat had even gotten you a very nice pair of shoes when you were in private. But Bucky’s clung onto it, like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever thought of. You, with a vibrator. You possibly being able to get off, when you’re the uptight little prude. The one who never brings back hookups, never dates, just sits in corners like an ivy, clinging to the shadows and watching everything else live around her.
You’ve never been fun. Never been someone Bucky would’ve chosen to know. He didn’t choose to know you. You knew a girl who worked with another girl, and that girl had a boyfriend who knew a girl who needed a roommate. You needed a roommate. You had good credit—because you’re boring—and the girl interviewing you had taken a liking to you.
Natasha rode a motorcycle. She worked in a job she was allowed to tell you about—something in black ops, that explained all the wigs in her closet—and spoke five languages. She baked calm down, and went to shooting ranges to calm down, and insisted on getting you a gun license so she’d feel more comfortable with all the hidden guns in the house.
“Hidden guns?” You’d asked, feeling your face blanch. She’d just smiled.
“You’ll never find them all. Let’s go, it’ll be easy.”
It had not been easy. But you understood how—to someone like Nat—it might be. She’d never lost patience with you, but she’d still made it look easy. When you’d gotten home and mumbled that you needed to go shower for an hour, she’d just patted your head like you were a bunny and smiled.
She might’ve been your first real friend in a while. Because it’s not that you’re not… personable. You’re just a little mean tongued. And nervous. And boring, and blunt, and you don’t like leaving the house unless someone grabs the scruff of your neck and drags you. You go to work, and you go home, and that’s mostly it. Your closest friends before Natasha had been co-workers. And you’d been really, truly happy with that.
But interesting people have interesting friends.
Natasha had a lot of friends. And they moved in and out of your apartment like they lived there.
Tony was a tech titan who you used to watch on the news, and now he left crumbs all over your couch. Wanda was a refugee and artist, and Clint worked in that same black ops thing Nat did. Steve had worked in it, but left to start his own non-profit with Sam. They all went far back, to elementary schools and playgrounds and clubs. They had history, but they were kind to you. Treated you like your little bachelor’s degree and normal person job fit in with their grand showmanship and large personalities that had been sucked right off the movie screen.
Most of them treated you like that.
Bucky didn’t.
Before you’d been introduced to him, Nat had described his as basically Steve’s brother, and it had been a striking endorsement. Steve had been kind to you. He brought you to a movie you’d really wanted to see, and never made fun of your stuffed animal collection. No brother of his could be all that bad, certainly not one even Nat described as charming and kind and not bad on the eyes.
Only one of those things was true.
Bucky Barnes is not bad on the eyes. You’d classify as maybe a medicine for the eyes, a miracle for the eyes, a blessing on a weary and tired viewer. He works in security or something, and it shows in his body. Sometimes he lets his hair grow out, and it’s frames his strong jaw and nose perfectly, all while making you want to run your fingers through each lock. You’re sure it would be like petting a very well-kept dog. He cares for it better than you care for yourself.
He’s got those eyes that knocked all the thoughts out of you, the moment you saw him. They’d sparkled and shone with his polite, white smile, and you’d just been swaying there like a lost scarecrow in a tornado. Your brain had been reduced to a fuzzy TV static and loud blaring noise, like you’d lost your own connection. Bucky had flexed his hand, a silent reminder you were supposed to shake it, and you hadn’t been able to get enough control over your body to even smile back.
His hand had been big. Calloused, with thick fingers and a lot of tiny scars. You’d shivered just at the idea of his touch. It might’ve been warm.
Might’ve been.
If Bucky had ever bothered to touch you at all.
By the time you’d dragged control back into your body, Bucky had given up and moved on. His ears had been a little red, in the moments after. You’d opened your mouth to apologize, make any excuse that would get him to offer a hand again.
He’d turned and walked away. Hadn’t looked at you for the rest of the night.
And when he looks at you now, it’s with something sharp behind his gaze. He never looks at anyone else like that. Never teases or mocks them, either. Acting like their mere presence in the room is a plague on his refined, perfect existence. He certainly never suggests they won’t be able to make it up five flights of stairs or asks if they’re sure they want to go out for the night.
You hate stairs. And you don’t want to go out for the night.
There’s only one thing more powerful than your picky little aversions, though.
The petty, blistering feeling at the top of your chest, that refuses to let Bucky win.
“You’re really coming with us?” Bucky calls your name from the kitchen, and you lift your chin, trying to look down your nose at the massive man.
“I was invited.”
“You’re always invited, you never actually get off the damn couch-“
“Barnes.” Nat walks past him, whacking his arm. “Don’t question miracles.”
You roll your eyes. “It’s not a miracle-“
“Yes it is.” She grabs your arm, hauling you off the couch like you weigh nothing. “I’ve been asking you to do this for years, I’m not letting Bucky frighten you off with his Buckying.”
That makes you giggle, and Bucky frowns. You catch him shooting Steve a look you can’t really read, and Steve just shrugs in return.
“I’m not trying to ruin it.” Bucky says, lofty and bored. “I’m just sayin’ she never comes out with us, and it might be a lot for the little doe to be shoved into the jungle or whatever-“
“You’re a poet.” Natasha says, giving him a flat glare. “Go wait in the car.”
Bucky scowls. “The car-“
“If you act like a dog, you wait in the car.”
“I am not acting like a dog-“
Sam raises his hand. “I caught him humping the furniture this mornin’ when he heard about it-“
“Sam.” Bucky hisses. “Shut the hell up before I knock your teeth out-“
“Steven.” Nat gives him a firm nod, and he sighs.
“Yeah, I got it.”
Bucky and Sam aren’t small men, but Steve grabs them by the collar and drags them out of the room without breaking a sweat. Leaving you and Nat in a suddenly very quiet apartment, a lingering smell of spice and pine still clouding the air.
Another reason you hate Bucky coming over. He’s mean to you, and he’s nice to everyone else, and he questions you then leaves the whole room stained in his presence.
“Ignore Barnes.” Natasha says it like an order, and it probably is.
You smile at her. “I always do.”
You think it comes off airy and convincing. Nat looks at you like she’s trying not to either scoff, or laugh. Before you can insist on anything, she’s grabbing your hand and dragging you into the bathroom. You did promise you’d let her get you ready. When you’d told her you could do makeup and prep yourself, she’d snorted and said maybe, but I’ll do it better.
One of the first lessons you learned was not to argue with Natasha when she’s sure of something. You let her sit you on the counter and sort through your makeup bag, finding everything she deems worthy of being on your face tonight. Your outfit hangs on the door, and you did choose that, but after Nat vetoed three others.
It’s nothing special. A short dress and heels that will blend right in a club. It hadn’t been that different from your other suggestions. But it had gotten a curt nod of approval and smirk from Nat, so it had something. You’re smarter than to question what.
“You should talk to Bucky tonight.” Nat says suddenly, and you blink at her in surprise.
“I- What?”
“Make him apologize. For being an ass to you.”
“That’s- It’s fine-“
“No, it’s not.” Nat gives you a firm look, and you sigh.
“I know, but- I don’t really care, okay? That’s just- It’s Bucky, right?”
You give her a weak smile, and this one doesn’t even convince you.
It is just Bucky. He’s charming and sweet and handsome, and he hates just you. So you hate him in return, just for being so perfect and deciding you’re the only person in the world not worthy of his attention. It would be easier if he really was a bad man. If you didn’t know he volunteered with kids and Steve’s foundation, if he didn’t advocate for his fellow veterans, if he hadn’t made his ma’s chicken soup when you and Nat had both caught something last winter, and taken the time to drop it off in person.
For Nat.
Because you’re just… Not worth it for him. Not worth his time, not worth his smiling, barely worth anything more than glowering stares and taunting words. And you’re not weak. You fight back every day, and keep all of your desires and affection buried deep in the pit of your stomach and swollen like an infection around your heart.
He never has to know that you think about him all the time. That you feel yourself bloom whenever your eyes meet, then wither when his gaze snaps away. Whenever he presses his body over yours just to tease you, the heat of his body makes your breath hitch. You spend long days daydreaming about how good a boyfriend he’d be, if he didn’t hate you. Attentive and caring and giving.
Every night you think about how giving he’d be. Flowers and coffee like he brings Wanda for galleries, or for Nat or Clint when they’ve been working late night shifts. He likes watching TV, you know, because he spends a lot of time sitting next to you on the couch and loudly making comments until you threaten to force-feed him bleach. But if that wasn’t the blunt and unforgiving knife of reality, you could just lay in his arms forever.
He could pick you up and carry you to bed. The same bed that you put that accursed vibrated between your legs, close your eyes, and dream of him railing you into the mattress. Fucking you until you can’t stand, until you can’t speak or thing, until your eyes are rolling back and your mouth can’t even figure out how to close, so he kisses you possessively or gives you some of those thick fingers to suck on-
“You should still talk to him.” Natasha’s words are blunt. If she’s noticed how you’ve been working yourself up, she doesn’t say a single word. “Before he does something stupid.”
You snort. “Bucky always does something dumb-“
“No. He does a lot of dumb things. Close your eyes.” Nat picks up an eyeliner, and you obey. “But there’s a difference between dumb and stupid. Stupid is harder to take back.”
You grunt, and you don’t think anything stupid Bucky does is going to have anything to do with you. But something scratches at your brain, and it’s green and bitter. Your fingers fidget in your lap, and you shouldn’t ask, but-
“Is he bringing someone?” You blurt, and just the idea makes you sick. Bucky with some model-type, holding her hips while she grinds onto him, all the honey he’d pour into her ears and down her throat while you just hugged yourself in the corner of the room. Her sitting on his lap in your apartment, you trying to hide the ugliness of jealousy but never being able to spare her more than a crude sneer. It’s the only reason Nat would possibly want you to talk to him. You and Bucky’s childish game of pulling each other’s hair and biting without teeth and seeing who breaks first, it ruins his picture of the perfect suitor. If you keep it up, you’ll ruin this for him, and he deserves to be happy but the thought of him being happy while you just sink into yourself like quicksand makes you want to die-
“Jesus, no.” Nat laughs. “That’s- Never mind.” She shakes her head, still chuckling about some secret you apparently don’t get to be a part of.
“What?” You try to push. “I’ve heard about his- You know. Promiscuity.”
Nat snorts. “From who?”
“Sam.”
“Sam’s an idiot.” She dismisses plainly, and you frown.
“Tony’s mentioned it too-“
“They’re both idiots.”
“Bucky’s told me, he said he leaves all his girls satisfied-“
“Bucky is the biggest idiot of all of them. Open.”
You listen again, and find Nat smiling at you with a strangely soft affection. Like you’re some wet kitten she rescued off the street.
“Put on your dress.” She says, wiping the corners of your slightly pouting lips. “Talk to Barnes.”
At the very least, you manage to follow one of those orders.
The dress is a little shorter than you thought it would be. It rides up your thighs, forcing you to pull it down with every step. In the car you cross your legs and stare at the floor, grounding yourself in the bass of Nat’s loud music as your heartbeat starts to pick up. You’re going out. You’re going out. Spiting Bucky was not a good enough reason to do this, it’s going to be loud and you can dance but not in front of strangers, and you’re going to be even more boring than usual and you feel like a fraud.
“Nice dress.”
Bucky’s voice is a low behind you, his breath fanning on your neck. You almost scream.
“Christ, calm down.” He’s grinning when you whip around, leaning forward in his seat to whisper. Sam and Steve are next to him, one very pointedly staring out the window, the other looking at something on his phone and humming like he’s already trying to drown out you and Bucky’s fighting.
“You scared me-“
“You saw me get in the car, sweetheart. Not my fault you’re jumpy-“
“I am not jumpy-“
“You are. Like a bunny.” His grin widens, and you scowl.
The shifting streetlamps make him look like an angel. Golden halo rays behind his head, long shadows that make him look even more rugged than usual. His lips look fuller, softer, eyes glimmering like a floodlight through the dark, and-
“Shut up.” You snap, turning back around. You can’t keep looking at him. It’s dangerous.
“I was just saying your dress was nice.” Bucky’s breath tickles your neck. You wrap your arms tight around your stomach.
“You also called me a rabbit.”
“Called you a bunny-“
“That’s the same thing.”
“No, it’s-“ He sighs, shaking his head. “You’re impossible, you know that?”
You flip him off over your shoulder, glaring firmly out the windshield. You can feel him retreat, but the closeness had lit up your nerves, and now they’re buzzing with hope that he’ll return.
Stupid fucking body. Stupid fucking Bucky.
You refuse to look at him when you arrive. You stumble a little bit in your heels—Natsha insisted on six inch, which is far too tall for anyone—and Bucky catches your arm, holding you upright. You brush his hand off like a fly and march on, refusing to give him the satisfaction of some other comment about how you’re like a baby deer.
When you get inside, you can smell it. The stench of sweat and alcohol and something fruity they probably use to cover the first smells. You cling to Natasha, letting her guide you through the crowd to the bar. She orders you two shots because you need them, and you don’t argue. Between Bucky and the club, you do.
You down them both without flinching, and Sam whistles from behind you.
“Damn, you took those like a champ.”
You shrug, and Sam elbows Bucky.
“You see that, Buck-“
“Yeah. I saw it.”
Bucky’s voice is lower than usual. Almost sullen. You’d examine him, try to figure out what’s wrong with him, but you’re not supposed to be letting yourself care. He’s not your problem tonight. You’re here to indulge in fun.
You’re already not very good at that as is. Bucky’s consuming presence isn’t going to help.
Another drink might.
You’re three shots in when Nat brings you out to the dance floor. The liquor is pulling you lose, the frayed knot that’s always in your chest going slack enough to allow you to dance. You’re smiling and laughing like a normal person, almost completely able to forget to check where Bucky is in the room.
Near the edge of the crowd, drinking and talking to Steve.
A fourth shot might be needed.
You’re smiling like a fool now. The room is tilted a little, all the colors neon, but they blind out your usual worried and the tilt helps your worries slide off your body. You’re able to forget about Bucky until you notice a girl talking to him, and you take a fifth shot. A sixth, when he vanishes for nine and a half minutes, and your brain starts to map everything he might be doing to that girl.
Seven, when the first stranger asks you to dance and you’re not drunk enough to forget about Bucky and say yes.
Eight, when he tries to kiss you and you shove him away, because his lips aren’t pink enough and he’s not broad enough for you to every pretend.
Nat tries to cut you off there. You slip past her, and take a ninth. The room is just a blur now. You can’t fully remember who Nat is, and why you’re trying to avoid her. There’s a man with his hands on your hips, and he’s got dark hair that looks too greasy for you to touch. Another man calls you sweetheart, but he says it a little wrong and it makes you want to cry. None of them have the right eyes, and the ones that are closer don’t have the right smile.
You feel like you’re going to cry, by the time you’ve rejected the eleventh man. Or only fourth. Numbers don’t feel real right now. Most everything doesn’t feel real.
Everything except Bucky.
Because your own name is just a sound in your head that sounds foreign, but Bucky says it and you know to turn around.
It’s less because it’s your name. More because Bucky called you.
You smile, swaying on your feet, and you’re not even sure where you are anymore. It’s somewhere with a lot of people. Loud music. It’s dark, but bright at the same time, and Bucky looks like a walking dream as he moves towards you. Your vision swims, but he’s made of clear lines and a stern expression.
He’s mad at you. Your face falls, lip wobbling, and you take a step back. You don’t want him to be mad at you. Your heart is already beating in your ears, Bucky’s anger or distain might make it burst.
“Where the hell did you go?” He snaps, and you bow your head.
“I- I dunno-“ You hiccup, hugging yourself tight.
“Nat’s been looking for you, Steve barely stopped her from trying to make the building go into lockdown, and I-“ He cuts himself off, running a hand over his face, and you blink the tears away.
You’re looking up at him under your lashes, and he’s still angry. Some distant voice in your head tells you it’s your fault entirely. That he must’ve been about to go home with someone when they lost you, and now he’s pissed he had to pause his night to find you. You sniff, wiping your nose with your arm.
Bucky’s frown deepens. He takes a step forward, and you try to step back but balance feels like an Olympic feat right now.
His arm loops around your waist, pulling you right against his chest. You stare up at him, tears streaming down your cheeks from feelings you can’t even name anymore. They’re hollow and big and full and made of a million little cuts. They burn in your heart and through your blood, but also freeze in your throat and muscles. You can’t move. You don’t want to move.
Bucky’s big hand is splayed on your back, and you don’t want to go anywhere you can’t feel him.
That voice from before reminds you that’s not allowed, so you wiggle a little.
Bucky holds you tighter, and you surrender in a split second. His frown deepens, and you think you’re still crying. Your cheeks are certainly burning, and your throat feels oddly tight.
Gentle fingers brush under your eyes, and you hum softly. Bucky’s nostrils flare, those fingers brushing hair from your face before cupping the back of your head, forcing your gaze onto his.
“Jesus, woman.” He mutters, those beautiful eyes scanning over your slack face. “How much did you have to drink.”
“I dunno.” You breathe. His brow furrows.
“Best guess.”
You shrug, shaking your head, and Bucky sighs. You want to shrink and hide from him, from his obvious annoyance and disappointment. It’s nothing new, but it’s raw like this. You can’t figure out anything, let alone how to pretend like his hatred doesn’t bother you. You try to turn and hide your face, but Bucky just pulls it right back.
“Over five?” He prompts, and his voice is so soft. Like he’s trying to coax the answer out of you.
“I- I don’t know.” You whine slightly, and he sighs.
“Yeah. Alright.” Bucky’s throat bobs, and he looks up. Glances around you, his hands never leaving your body.
You stare up at him in the dark. You’re not supposed to be looking at him, but it’s impossible. He’s magnetic, and beautiful, and you’ve never been this close to him without one of you trying to claw at the other.
But your fingers cling to the fabric of his shirt, and it’s not to draw blood. You just don’t think that if he walks away you’re going to be able to stand up.
Bucky looks back down at you, and his tongue flicks over his lips. His thumb drags slowly over your cheekbone, leaving a little trail of fire in its wake. Your breathing gets shallow, your eyes fluttering. Everything feels like a lot. Like you’re so high in the atmosphere the air is starting to get thin. Bucky’s brow furrows, and he works his jaw like he does when he’s thinking.
You’ve always wanted to reach up and touch the lines that form on his face, when he worries. They’re deep, and still handsome, but they only ever mark that he’s stressed. He shouldn’t be. It’s only you, and you’re nothing to him.
He lets out a heavy breath through his nose, his hand dragging down to cup the back of your neck. You tip your head back, waiting for him to do something. Kiss you. Bite you. Slam you back against the wall and relieve the ache, building up between your thighs. Maybe just smell you and let his lips brush over a sensitive spot on your neck, teasing you like always until you’re crying and begging for him.
Instead, Bucky just sighs. He pulls you forward, twisting you until you’re in front of him. His arms cage you to his chest, and he’s almost herding you down the hall.
“Where’re we going?” You tip your head back, and find him glowering at everyone around you.
They’re all moving so fast, stumbling in your path then scrambling away under Bucky’s glower. His eyes flick down to yours for a second, and maybe it’s the delusions of grandeur and liquor, but you could swear they soften slightly.
“We’re gettin’ you home.” He mutters, shouldering the door open. “You need to sleep this off.”
You wrinkle your nose as the chill of night air hits you. “But it’s cold-“
“Car will be warm.”
“But we don’t have a car-“
“We’re taking Nat’s.”
You scoff. “Nat would never give you her car-“
“Well, she did.” He grunts, voice dropping under his breath. “You’d never give me your car.”
“I don’t have a car.” You snap, and Bucky chuckles dryly.
“Yeah, I know.” He opens the door, giving you an amused look. “Up and in, baby.”
Your whole world stops for a second. You feel like you’re floating, a ditzy smile crossing your face, and you start to giggle because he called you baby. Bucky called you baby, like you matter to him, and he’s touching you.
Bucky sighs when you don’t move, and bends down. He scoops you up and drops you in the car like you weigh nothing. You’re still giggling when he closes the door and walks around the hood, sliding into the driver’s seat. For a second you stop, looking out the club with a frown. The world is still hazy, but you can see the neon sign, and it feels like you’re forgetting things that are very important-
“They’re all goin’ back to our place.” Bucky grunts, and you look over to find him staring at you with one of those stone-faced, unreadable expressions that he only uses around you. “It’s closer, cab will be cheaper.”
You frown. “Why aren’t they riding with us?”
“’Cause we’re going back to yours.”
“Why?”
“’Cause.” Is all Bucky offers. He starts the car before you can ask another question, and puts his arm around your seat to back out of the spot.
Nat has a back cam. He just always does it like this, and you’ve always chalked it up to his big, responsible man thing. Usually when the arm is around you, you glare out the window and pretend you can’t feel how close he is. How his fingers brush your upper arm, or how his smell gets stronger.
Tonight you can’t really remember why you do that. And Bucky does really smell good.
You turn your cheek, pressing it into his bicep. Bucky freezes, the car jerking to a stop, and you can feel his attention. It sparks a tiny fire in your core, and seeps down between your thighs. Your lips graze his skin, and he coughs.
His fingers dip down, brushing near your collarbone. You hum happily, and the car starts moving again.
When you’re out of the parking lot, Bucky doesn’t remove his arm like usual. You’re grateful. If he did, you might have chased it right into his lap.
“You have fun?” Bucky breaks the silence, voice gruff.
You nod, turning to watch him drive. He always does it in a way that’s almost unfairly attractive. He holds the wheel lazily, like he knows it’s under his control. You want him to hold you like that.
Bucky clears his throat. “You, uh- You did good.”
“Good?” You murmur, not fully understanding the praise.
You know it makes you throb, and press your thighs together. Bucky’s eyes flick to the motion, and his throat bobs.
“Yeah.” His grip on the wheel is white knuckled. “Good.”
Silence settles again, and you let yourself stare at him. He’s beautiful. So beautiful it makes you unsure that he’s real. You’d like to trace the line of his jaw, hear his smooth, deep voice again. Hear it say your name, because it’s the only thing that reminds you that you’re real. You can’t remember why you ever deprived yourself of this. Of him, and all his quiet glory. He’s a loud man, but never boastful.
He’s only really boastful to you. When he fixes the shower for Nat or someone brings up his army service, he waves them off and laughs, and you’ve always loved that about him. You love most things about him, even when he’s being insufferable. You sort of love that he’s insufferable, too. You’re not that easy either. And if you wrapped around him, you’re hoping he’d be too chivalrous to cut you off. He could mock you all he wants, you’d just hide your face in his neck and breathe him in. Grounding. Handsome. Impossible to resist.
Your fingers are itching, to touch that sad little furrow. There’s nothing for him to worry about. The world revolves around him.
“Saw you got some numbers.” He grunts suddenly, and you pause.
“Numbers?”
“Phone numbers.”
“Oh.” You reach for you bag, checking that the hard line of your phone is still there. It is. You don’t know what he’s talking about.
“You gonna call any of them?”
“Any of who?”
Bucky gives you an exasperated look, then double takes slightly. His worry lines deepen. It makes you pout, grabbing at your own hands to stop them from reaching for him.
“The guys.” He says slowly, frowning at the road. “That you were talkin’ to.”
Oh. Phone numbers. “No.”
His brows raise. “No?”
You shake your head, and Bucky prompts you with an oddly tight voice.
“Why?”
They’re not you. Even your drunk brain seems to know it’s bad idea to say that. “I didn’t want them.”
“Hm.” Bucky taps his hand on the wheel, shooting you a strange look. “Why?”
You can’t tell him that, but you also can’t think of a good excuse this time. You make a lame, half-hearted sigh, and turn your face back into his arm.
He doesn’t push it. He doesn’t talk for the rest of the drive. His thumb drags little circles on your upper arm, lulling you into a half-sleep only interrupted by the bump of the road. You’re not sure how much longer you’re in the car, and when it stops you can’t really remember what you’re supposed to do now.
Bucky helps. He slides away from you, squeezing your thigh in a silent reassurance before he steps out of the car. Your hand traces over where he’d touched you. Bare skin on skin, hands still light and gentle. He seems to have burned his handprint into you, and it spreads until you’re tingly and weak-kneed.
The door on your side opens, and his voice is low in your ears.
“C’mon, pretty girl.” A strong arm loops around your stomach, pulling you back. “Let’s get you in bed.”
You hum, and let Bucky guide you. You trust him completely, with all your heart and not a single question.
He handles you carefully. Guides you inside, holds you steady in the elevator, takes your keys from your shaking fingers and opens the door. You’re sent to take a shower, but start to trip over nothing the moment Bucky lets go of you, so he sighs and draws you a bath.
“How am I gonna stand?” You mumble, sitting on the toilet while he runs the water. “Or rinse.”
Bucky grunts. “I’ll help.”
You hum in approval, and start to pull off your dress. Bucky makes a strangled sound, eyes flying up to the ceiling, and you’ve never seen his face so red.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Getting ready for a bath?” You frown at him, and he groans.
“You- Fuck.” He takes a heavy breath through his nose, closing his eyes. “Just- Keep your underwear on, alright?”
You nod, trying to ignore the heavy sting that he doesn’t want to see you naked. Bucky won’t even fully look at you as he helps you into the tub. He leaves the room while you sit helplessly in the water, barely moving until he returns. You wrap your arms over your chest, suddenly consciously that maybe you’re not pretty enough for him to look at you. You pull your knees to your chest and sniffle, just waiting for him. You don’t even know why he left in the first place. You wanted him here.
Bucky sighs, when he opens the door to find you crying.
“Christ, I leave you alone for five seconds- Hey, woah-“ He kneels on the bathmat, hand flexing before he reaches out and wipes away your tears. “It’s alright, you’re alright. Don’t cry, sweetheart, you’re okay-“
You bite down a sob and turn your face, pressing it right into his shoulder. Again, Bucky stiffens. His arms hover for a second, breathing shallow, and you think he’s going to shove you away.
But he doesn’t. After that single, million year heartbeat of a moment, he grabs you. Holds you tight into his body, cradling your head and rocking you back and forth. The water flows under you, pushing up on the lip of the tub. A little bit flows over, splashing his pants.
He doesn’t seem to mind.
“C’mon, baby.” He murmurs, slowly starting to rise. “Let’s get you to bed.”
You nod, wrapping your arms tight around his neck. When he gets you on your feet, he stops for a second. His lips brush near your ear, and an electric rush dart through you. Then, fast but certain, he kisses the side of your head.
It’s so quick you’d think you imagined it, if you couldn’t feel the burn of his lips long after he pulls away. You reach up to brush it, when Bucky deposits you on your bed. You watch him move around the room like he belongs there.
He does.
He’d belong with you, if he wasn’t such a massive butt about your existence.
“It’s your fault, you know.”
Bucky glances up from your dresser, fisting a shirt in his hands. “What?”
“You.” You say, because it’s that simple.
He’s the reason you’re drunk. That you didn’t score tonight, that you’d been crying, that you have to be coddled like a baby.
Not that you mind that last one. It’s wonderful, having him touch and speak to you like he cares.
It’s still all his fault.
“What’s me?” He says, and you roll your eyes at the ceiling.
“All of it.”
Bucky says your name, and you wave him off with a dramatic sigh. You can hear him pad slowly across the room, and when he pulls you up gently you flop over his body. A useless ragdoll he’s trying to get a shirt onto.
But the harder you make it, the longer he’ll stay. The longer he’ll be nice, and touch you, and-
“I love you.”
Bucky stills. Your words hang in the air, but you don’t understand why. You’ve said far worse things to him, and he must have known. You know. You’re pretty sure Nat does too, with all the looks she’s always giving you after Bucky teases you and you flush, or you bicker and he marches away with a scowl.
It’s not some grand confession. You love him like the seasons turn and the sun always rises. It’s a deep, mechanical part of you that can’t be rewired, and you know because you’ve tried. But Bucky’s leans back and stares at you like the sky is falling.
“What?”
His voice is a croak, and you frown at him.
“I love you.” You say it slower this time. Maybe you’d slurred the words, and he hadn’t understood. “It’s your fault, because I love you and you’re just… There.”
He blinks at you slowly, obviously still not understanding. You roll your eyes, and flop back down.
Bucky coughs, grabbing your knee as if to steady himself. He’s sitting down, and it’s not like he’s in love. The world is perfectly under his feet. You’re the one suffering.
“I’m here?”
“All the time.” You whine, and his grip on your knee tightens.
“But you love me.”
“Mhm.”
“So why’s it problem that I’m here-“
“Because you never do anything.”
You can hear the frown in his voice. “I do things. I do lots of things-“
“You never touch me.” You prop yourself on your elbows, glaring down at him. “You just- You’re there, and you don’t like me and it- It makes me-“
“Makes you what.” Bucky’s voice is deep, his eyes dark on yours, and you stick your tongue out at him.
“You don’t get to know.”
“I don’t get to know?” He snorts. “No, you can’t just- You can’t say that kinda stuff then-“
“I wish you’d touch me.” You tell the ceiling.
Bucky grunts. “Yeah, I’ve heard. But-“
“Think I could cum just from listening to you talk.” You hum, your voice sounding like a faraway dream.
Your eyes are getting heavy, and Bucky’s gone completely silent. The words start to float out of you, like steam escaping through windows, into the warm, open sky.
“I’d like to touch you, too. Put you in my mouth, or just- ride you.” You sigh. “I want everything. I’d do- Do anything you told me too if you asked. Anything.” You look back up at him, your lip wobbling again. “But you never ask me. Why don’t you ever ask me?”
Bucky’s gaping at you, and he shakes his head, his voice a low croak. “I, uh- You’ve never-“
He swallows, glancing down, and you follow his gaze.
He’s straining through his jeans, shifting uncomfortably. You giggle, flopping back down. Your eyes start to droop, the room fading in and out. Bucky rises over you with a sigh, pulling the blankets up.
“’S nice.” You murmur. “You. Bein’ here.”
You yawn, and Bucky’s laughs. Under his breath, like an inside joke he won’t bring you into.
“Yeah. I know.” His hand grazes over your cheek, and you hum sleepily, eyes closing.
His lips press to your forehead, and it’s like a spell. The world, slowly and easily, starts to slip away.
“Sleep well, baby.” He mutters, and under that command, you do.
He’s not there when you wake up, and you have to be okay with that.
You don’t know how you’re ever going to face him again anyway. There’s a fog hanging over your brain, but it’s not thick enough that you can’t remember last night.
Bucky saw you naked. He was in your room, and put you to bed, and you-
You told him you loved him.
That you wanted him. That you could cum just from him talking to you.
You have to move. You have to change your name and move as far away as possible. Maybe Siberia, or Russia, or Romania, or somewhere he’ll never find you again. Because you told him you loved him, and now he’s gone.
He left a water on your bedside table. Mocking you with the fact that last night was real.
You force yourself to sit up, rubbing your temples, and take the glass. If you’re never going to see Bucky again, and you don’t plan to, there’s no need to spite him with ignoring it.
When you stand up, it takes a few deep breaths to start moving. Nat isn’t home yet, and she probably won’t be for a while. That gives you plenty of time to wallow before you vanish forever. You can spend the morning moping and cursing yourself, then worry about consequences.
You make cereal and put on coffee. Stare at the little bits floating through the milk, and try not to think about Bucky. If he’s thinking about you.
If he is, you don’t want to imagine what. That you’re a whore for throwing yourself at him, a fool for think he’d be open to such a confession—from you of all people—or maybe just the same as he always did. Maybe he’d known the whole time, and he just thinks you were gutsy to say it aloud when he so clearly wants nothing to do with you.
Nothing at all, but taking care of you while you’re drunk. Giving you a bath and putting you to bed, handling you like something precious and kissing the side of your head.
That could have been just more mocking. The same game he’s always played, accusing you of wanting him then laughing. Like he’d already known.
But playing that game while you’re out of it isn’t Bucky’s style. He likes you biting back, sometimes he dangles comments over your head and grins when you snap at them. So there’d be no reason for him to play when you weren’t even able to a join him. But then there’s no reason for him to act like that at all.
It’s too early to be thinking this much. You put all your hopeful bets on Bucky having somehow forgotten everything, so you don’t have to move.
The door opens down the hallway, and you glance up. It’s early for Nat to be back.
But it’s not Nat that calls your name through the house.
“Where’d you- Hi.”
Bucky walks into the kitchen, and you stare at each other. He’s wearing his clothing from last night, his hair mussed, two paper coffee cups in his hands. You swallow, and he coughs, glancing around the kitchen.
“I got you coffee.” He mutters a little bitterly, and you follow his gaze to the rumbling coffee machine.
“Oh.”
“You don’t have to- It’s here.” He puts it on the counter, and you nod, focusing back on your cereal.
You’re both silent for another long moment. There air is thick, like a swamp at the height of summer. You’re not sure how you remember to speak.
“How’d you know I was up?”
“Your door was open.” He mutters. “Made sure it was closed before I went out.”
“Did you-“
“On the couch. Just, uh-“ He rubs the back of his neck, eyes locked onto yours. “I wanted to make sure you weren’t alone, and- I think we, uh- You said some things. That we should talk about.”
You rip your gaze away as you flush, but if you’d had any hope of pretending you’d been too drunk to retain the night and just hoping he’d leave you be, that ruins it.
Bucky’s eyes narrow. He walks forward, until he’s right at your side. You can feel his presence buzzing through you, and swallow.
“You remember.” His voice is low, and he leans further down before you can protest. “Don’t lie to me. We’ve both been lyin’ way too much.”
You don’t dignify him with an answer. With even a glance.
Bucky leans closer.
“You said you wanted to touch me.” He’s almost growling in your ear. “You said you wanted me in your mouth, that you wanted me to ride you, that you’d do anything I told you-“
“James.” You hiss, twisting to glower at him.
Mistake.
He looks hungry. His eyes are blown out, only inches from yours, his tongue darts over his lips when you look down at them. He’s watching you like a dog that’s finally been told it can have its bone. Your grip on the counter tightens. It’s hard to stay upright.
“Full name.” He hums, the corners of his lips tugging up. “I’m in trouble.”
“You’re being a dick-“
“Yeah, but you like it.”
“I- You-“
“You love it.”
You freeze at that word. The air feels thin now. Your face is burning, and Bucky’s as collected as ever. Like this is all still just a game to him.
“Fuck you.” You spit. It takes everything you have.
Bucky doesn’t even flinches. “Yeah, you want to.”
Your mouth falls open, and he leans in closer.
“You meant it, right? Everything you said?”
Denying seems pointless. You try to anyway, but your lips barely prepare for the word no before Bucky’s giving you a stern look—don’t lie to me—and your voice dies.
He says your name, and it’s the same voice he used last night. Lighter, gentler, man trying to tend instead of force. You weren’t any match for it last night, but that doesn’t seem to be the drink’s fault. You give in just as easily right now.
“Yes.” You breathe.
Bucky’s eyes flash. “All of it?”
“Bucky…”
“Do you want me.” His voice is demanding now, and you try to look away.
He catches your chin, pulling you back. Forcing your gaze onto his, onto those beautiful, enchanting eyes.
You nod, and he hums in approval. The sound settles, molten and warm in your tummy.
“Do you love me?”
His words sound so sincere and taunting at the same time. You can’t look away, so you glare, and he chuckles.
“Come on, baby.” He brushes his lips over yours, his voice becoming something low. Something dangerous.
You don’t even bother to move away this time. You’re breathing in your chest, your stomach filled with too much desire to do much else. The brush of his lips let you taste coffee and mint, and his grip on your chin is commanding. You’re only putty in his hands. A lost cause that doesn’t really want to be found.
“Don’t make me fuck it out of you.”
Bucky’s eyes gleam, and he’s playing again. He knows he has you, that you want to be had.
His hand drags slowly, gently, on your waist. His fingers dip under your shirt, the soft touch making you gasp. You lean forward, and Bucky leans back. He tilts his head slightly, something stern still in his gaze. You blink hopelessly, trying to figure out what, and he squeezes your hips. It’s grounding and electric, and he presses back forward as you go still below him.
“Do you want me to fuck it out of you.” He growls, and your mouth falls open with a whimper.
Permission. He was holding himself on a leash for your permission.
Doubt drains from your head, far down south where a warm, summer storm is brewing between your thighs.
You spread your legs slowly, and grab his hand on your hips. Push it slightly down, until his attention follows.
Bucky’s jaw clenches, and his hand on your chin drops. You watch as he moves so tantalizingly slow, brushing the band of your panties before dragging down the seam at the apex of your thighs. He rubs you over the fabric, and your hips buck into the touch.
“Fuck.” Bucky hooks two of his fingers, tearing your underwear in one rip. “You’re so wet. Soaked through the panties, soaking my fucking fingers.”
You moan, pressing your face into his shoulder. Bucky dips his fingers into your heat, smearing the arousal all over your pussy, and you shake.
“Bucky-“
“You got this,” he spanks your pussy, then drags the mess down your inner thighs. “’Cause I’m here? Or just from thinking about me?”
“B- Both.” You mumble, trying to keep still as the broad pads of his fingers find your clit, rubbing in slow, tantalizing circles.
He hums. “You think about me a lot?”
Pressing hard on the sensitive button. Your knees give out, and you’re only caught by his arm around you’re lower back.
“Careful, baby-“
“All the time.” You whimper the confession, looking up at him with big, teary eyes. “Think about you all the time, Bucky, you’re- You’re so- Oh my god-“
Bucky yanks his hand from your pussy, grabbing your jaw and angling it back for a kiss.
It’s slower than you thought it would be, with how he crashed over you. You’d been expecting rough and harsh, all spit and ownership. Instead there’s a certainly behind it—a rough passion that’s demanding and hot—but it’s slow. Bucky doesn’t use his tongue until you open your mouth, and he hums in satisfaction when you grab at his hair, tugging slightly.
He grabs your ass, hauling you up on the kitchen counter. His hands wander your body lazily, tracing the softness of your hips and curve of your spine. He chuckles when you arch into the touch, deepening the kiss. Stars swim behind your eyes, and you realize you’re still grinding up into his torso.
“Bucky.” You plead, and he presses another tiny kiss to your lips, taking his sweet damn time.
“Off.” He tugs at the hem of your shirt, and you lift your arms to help him.
He leans back when you’re uncovered, and this time he isn’t trying to cover anything else. He palms one of your breasts, licking his lips before he takes the nipple between his fingers and rolls it. You squeak and his eyes dart up, almost studying how you shiver and blink at him.
“So reactive.” He switches to the other breast, and your fingers dig into the nape of his neck. “Almost came before I even really touched you, sweetheart. If you can’t hold it, you’re gonna be a fuckin’ wreck before I’m even done with you.”
You shake your head, face heating further. “It- It’s been a long time-“
“Yeah, but that’s not it.” He drags his hand down, over your abdomen. Back between your thighs. “You got that little toy keepin’ you satisfied-“
“Not satisfied.” You breathe, head lolling to the side as Bucky resumes his tight circles on your clit. “Not you, Bucky, fuck-“
He groans, dragging you back into a deep kiss. You give him everything you have in return, nipping at his lips and yanking his hair. Bucky groans and picks you fully off the counter, walking you both to your room and kicking the door shut.
“You drive me fuckin’ crazy.” He grunts between kisses, his own steps getting a little uneven. “The stuff I wanna do to you, no way we’re covering it in one night. Years to make up for, gotta ration it.”
“Years?” You pull back, and Bucky grins.
“Oh yeah. You’re not the only one who’s not satisfied, babydoll.”
“But-“
“Ah.” He kisses you, lowering you onto the bed. “Nope. Not now.”
You frown up at him. “Bucky, you said we needed to talk-“
“And now I’m sayin’ not now. And if my memory’s right,” he grins down at you. “You’re the one who said she’d do whatever I want.”
You flush, crossing your arms over your chest, and Bucky laughs. He pulls his shirt off, and you almost fall backwards on the sheets like it’s an atomic blow.
There have been glimpses. Moments. You’ve been to the pool with him before, and he’d been shirtless there too.
But he hadn’t been standing over you, massive and radiating power. You hadn’t been close enough to trace your fingers over the scars littering his muscle, remnants from his time in the army. You reach up in a trace, tracing one closer to his pant line, and he flexes under your touch. A low sound rumbles through him, and he catches your wrist with a warning look.
You giggle. “You’re not the only one who’s sensitive.”
Bucky’s eyes flash, his voice dropping impossibly low. “I’m gonna fuck you until you can’t speak.”
Your shift in the sheets, more desire building in your already aching pussy. Bucky’s attention darts to the movement, and his throat bobs. Every muscle in his body strains, and you give him a sweet smile.
“Prove it.”
Bucky makes that deep, growling sound again and grabs your face between his hands. He presses over you, shoving his tongue down your throat, and this is the kiss you’d been expecting from before. Rough and starved, almost marking you as much as kissing you. He bullies you down into the mattress with his weight, and you spread your legs wide to accommodate him.
“You’re so soft.” He mutters, kneading your thighs as his mouth starts to trail hot kisses down your neck. “Thought about touchin’ you like this forever, about how beautiful you’d be under me. And let me tell you, baby,” he nips under your jaw. “Better than I managed to dream.”
You grind up below him, trying to chase a little more friction. You keep meeting the rough fabric of his jeans, and the drag is beautiful, but it’s still not enough.
“Needy girl.” Bucky drags your legs apart, pressing his hips firmly over your core. The sudden pressure does the trick, and you moan, tipping your head back in brief relief. “Yeah, you like that. Feels so good and I’m not even doin’ anything.”
“Bucky, don’t- Don’t tease-“
“But it’s so fun.” He coos, kissing the corner of your mouth. “You get all nervous, makes me want to stuff you up with cock and see how you squirm-“
You make a loud, wanting sound, trying to fuck your hips up into the air. But Bucky’s heavy. You can only claw at his shoulders, and it just makes him tease more.
His rolls his hips, dragging the bulge in his jeans over your burning core. Your mouth falls open, and he kisses you, sneaking and arm tight around your back.
The forced arch of your back makes your legs open widen, giving him further access. He starts to rut against your bare pussy, and it’s perfect torture. Your arms are tight enough around him to choke, but it doesn’t slow him down. Bucky dry fucks you, your pussy throbbing desperately for release, arousal trickling down your ass and every thrust filling you with a burning pleasure.
You hadn’t been lying. It’s been a long time. But that’s not the only reason why you’re already so close to the edge again. Bucky’s body is everywhere around you, his thick arms holding you tight, his lips wandering over your neck and cheeks, leaving sloppy, open-mouthed kisses. The friction is everything, he’s everything, and you don’t have enough restraint to fight it.
The orgasm is sudden and harsh, shaking your whole body. You claw at his back, twitching and whining in his ear. You didn’t know you could cum that hard, hard enough to make eyes close from the overwhelming sensation, and it’s just from dry humping.
Bucky groans in your ear and pulls back suddenly. His eyes are lidded, expression lustful, and his palm flexes near his bulge like he’s forcing himself not to rub it. Your breathing is uneven, your pussy still aching, and you reach down to try and rub your clit until he collects himself.
He catches your wrist and pins it to the mattress, shaking his head. “You just fuckin’ came, baby.”
“I- I know- I just-“ You try to turn, and Bucky slaps your cheek lightly. Forces your attention back to him.
“You’re a big girl. Use words.”
You want to glare at him, but something about the slightly mocking order makes your pussy throb. Bucky raises his brows, and you barely manage not to drool.
“Want more.” You mumble, and he grins.
“And?”
“And?”
“You what?”
You stare for a second, then roll your eyes. “Oh, fuck off.”
Bucky smirks, squeezing his hold on your wrist. “’S alright. We’ll get there.”
You stick out your tongue, and he hums.
“That’s not very nice, baby. Think we need to work on your manners.”
“My manners are fine-“
“You’re a brat.” He teases, and you flush.
“I am not-“
“Yeah, you are. You’re a wet, needy little fuckin’ brat.” Bucky starts to move your hand between your legs, and you pretend to try and pull away.
He sees the challenge, and yanks it down. Presses it against your core, making you shake. Your eyes flutter, and Bucky laughs.
“Look at you.
“You really still got that vibrator?”
You nod, and he pulls your hand up. kisses your knuckles, eyes sparkling.
“Grab it.”
You scramble up the moment he lets go of you, yanking open your bedside drawer and pulling out the pink rabbit. Bucky grabs your hips before you can roll back over, pulling you backward with your ass in the air. You twist to look at him and find his attention entirely fixed on your core. On the mess between your legs.
He’s almost in a trance, as he drags two fingers through your pussy lips. You flutter, overly sensitive from before, and Bucky shoves his fingers right into your pussy.
You go limp, at the sudden stretch. Bucky’s fingers are everything you’d imagined they’d be, and more. Rough in all the right place, deft and thick, crooking right at the edges as he finds your g-spot faster than even you can sometimes. He hums like he’s figured out something interesting and kisses the curve of your ass. He starts to rub the tips of his fingers, massaging that happy, spongey place inside you, and you moan into the sheets.
“Bu- Bucky-“
“You’re tight.” He mutters, kissing between your ass and pussy, the tiny patch of skin that sends a shiver up your spine. “And wet. Gonna feel real good around my cock, babydoll. Got a perfect pussy for me to fill up.”
You make another desperate sound, and Bucky presses further in.
“Oh, that sounds good to you, doesn’t it. Getting stuffed full of my cum, being my pretty cockslut. I’d make you walk around with it after, wear a skirt so I can fuck you again whenever you run out. Fuck you until it’s stained on your legs, until everyone can fuckin’ smell it. ‘Till they know you’re mine.”
Your pussy clenches at the possessive promise, and Bucky groans.
“You wanna be mine, don’t you sweet girl.”
“Ye- Yes-“
Bucky yanks his fingers out of you unexpectedly, and you almost scream in frustration. You try to twist around again to chew him out, but he grabs the back of your neck and shoves you into the sheets. You go limp, trembling as tears prick at your eyes. Bucky arms snakes around your stomach, his thumb resting under your clit. Never touch it, or where your pussy is fluttering, desperate to be filled.
“Say it.” He grunts, and you shake your head. You’re not that easy.
Bucky doesn’t seem in any rush to give up though. He spanks your pussy, and you cry out in a mix of pain and delight.
“Say it.” He orders, and your hands fist in the sheets as he spanks your pussy again. You grind against him, chasing more, and he pinches your clit hard.
You almost fly out of your skin, a lewd, garbled plea escaping your lips as another orgasms rushes through you. This one is shorter, but no less consuming. You clench around nothing, mouth hanging stupidly open, and Bucky sucks near your throat, his teeth brushing and making the pleasure all the more intense.
“Fuckin’ brat.” He mutters, awe almost coating his voice. “I’m a damn saint, making you cum again when you’re so greedy. When you got this hungry little pussy, begging to be stuffed with cock, and I’m letting you go first.”
“Please,” you try to flip over, but Bucky’s hold on you is too strong. “Bucky, please- Please just fuck me.”
“Oh, I will.” He kisses under your ear, voice silken and taunting. “But not now, babydoll. Then we would’ve brought this out for nothing.”
“What’s-“
A buzzing sound fills the air, and your eyes widen.
“Bucky, wait-“
“You know, you get more sensitive after you cum.” Bucky drawls, dragging the thick tip of the rabbit up and down your pussy. You try to focus on your breathing, squeezing your eyes shut as your body starts to get swept away in a wildfire.
“God, fuck-“
“Quiet.” He grunts. “I’m trying to talk, sweetheart. Be good.”
You nod, biting on your lower lip, desperate to listen well. To be good.”
“Like I was saying.” Bucky drawls, shoving the vibrating dildo up against your clit, then yanking it away. “You get more sensitive. And I was thinking all night about your little confession. That you can cum just from listening to me talk.” Bucky hums, dragging the head down to rest right over your entrance. “I like a challenge, but I’m got enough on my hands with you today. And since I’m so nice.” He pushes the thick length a little inside you, and your pussy clenches around it. “I’m gonna give you some extra hands. Extra sensitive,” he gives your clit a series of tiny hits, shoving the rabbit in deeper. “Some fake fuckin’ cock to get you ready for the real thing, and me.”
Bucky drags you back into his lap, right as he shoves the dildo home. You almost scream as the smaller bit presses over your clit, the thicker part driven right against where Bucky already knew your g-spot was.
“Bucky- Holy shit-“
He pulls your face to the side, silencing you with a deep kiss as you shake. You’ve already cum twice. That’s more than usual, and you’re not sure if you’ve got another.
You don’t get to tell him that, though. You don’t think he’d care to hear it right now, and fuck, do you want to see him try.
“I said quiet.” He growls when he pulls away, and before you know what’s happening he’s shoving the same fingers that had been in your pussy into your mouth.
You melt immediately, sucking on them as your eyes flutter. Bucky groans in your ear, moving his free hand to hold the rabbit inside your gushing, oversensitive pussy.
“Good girl.” He drawls in your ear. “Didn’t even have to ask, you just knew didn’t you. Fuck, you suck my cock half this good I’m not gonna be able to last ten minutes.”
You moan, and Bucky kisses the corner of your jaw before continuing.
“I know you’d like that. What was it you said? That you wanted to touch me? When this is done we can get you on your knees. If you behave.” He nips at your sweaty skin. “I’ll let you suck my dick. I’ll even fuck your face if you ask real nice. I hope you’re nice, baby, cause I can imagine it. You crying, lips around me, fucking your fingers while you choke on my cock. My pretty baby, my sweet fuckin’ doll loving me so much.”
You slump back against him fully, hips rolling uselessly, and it’s more subtle this time. The heat building at the bottom of your tummy, winding tight and made of a strange pressure.
“You’re gonna say it.” He coos in your ear, and your pussy starts to fight against the rabbit. Like it knows you can barely take it.
But you can’t lend it much energy. You like this position well enough.
“After you cum for me again, I’ll fuck you. Fuck you properly like the brat that you are.” Bucky groans, pressing his nose into your hair. “Walking around, making me feel like I’m the asshole for wanting you, for loving you when you’re snapping off at me,you’re a mouthy fuckin’ thing, aren’t you babydoll. Lotta bark but,” he pushes his fingers further into your mouth. “Not even a little bit of bite.”
Your eyes roll back, head pressing into his shoulder, and you give him a silent look of pleading that’s only met with a mocking grin.
“So pretty like this, sweetheart. Stupid and quiet, I ain’t even fucked you yet. Won’t clean you up after you’re done, just let you walk around with it dripping. Maybe I’ll fuck you until it sticks. Until you’re mine.”
Your back arches, and you’re so close. You can feel Bucky’s dick twitch against your ass, and somewhere in the distance your thoughts manage to collect enough to tell you that he removed his bottoms at some point.
“Fuck, ‘course you’re into that. Shouldn’t have expected more from you, with how much you love this. You’re close, baby.” His lips tease the shell of your ear. “So close.”
You whimper, grinding down onto him as the dildo vibrates, and Bucky groans. He pins you down to his lap with a hiss, fingers flexing on your stomach.
“Shit- You can’t just-“
He presses his mouth where your neck meets your shoulder, kissing and sucking as his dick throbs against you, and his dirty talk becomes mumbled and deep.
“My pretty fuckin’ girl, can’t even wait for it, cum for me, babydoll, come on, fuckin’ show me how much your greedy pussy wants my dick-“
The pressure breaks like a flood. Your pussy gushes so hard it pushes out the rabbit, and your head flies back as you grind into the air. Bucky moans, fully moans, and starts to rub your clit back and forth with the palm of his hand. You grab his wrist, spasming and trying to chase it and escape all at once. You whine as it becomes all too much, batting at Bucky’s hand.
He stops, collecting your release on his fingers.
When he presses them against your lips, you open. Hum as he feeds your own juices to you. All you can do is lap at his fingers and look at him under fluttering lashes, and he smiles.
“Good girl.” He coos, and your body seizes up again. You moan around his fingers, and Bucky laughs.
He pulls them out, turning your head for a gentle, deep kiss. You’re boneless and cockdrunk, only able to let him give and give whatever he’s willing. You can’t even try to drag him close.
Bucky rolls you over, making sure your back is pressed into the mattress as he kisses you lazily. He rises up after a few moments, his gaze raking down your body, and you flush. If you had more strength, you’d cover yourself. You’ve never been good at being looked at.
But there’s nothing expect awe and affection in Bucky’s eyes. He traces a hand over your every curve and softer spot, rising slowly on his knees to part your legs.
“You’re a miracle, baby.” He murmurs, pumping his cock in his hands and for once, you feel like one. “Look at what you do to me.”
You do, and you might be about to burst into flames.
Bucky’s thick. Long, but not enough to worry you, and thick. He’s going to drag, be able to get balls deep and make you feel him everywhere.
You’re drooling, and he sees it. He smirks knowingly, and you wrinkle your nose.
“Come on.” He teases. “Say it, and it’s all yours.”
You shake your head, and Bucky hums. Crawls back over your body, notching his cock right at your entrance. His hovers his lips over yours, not quite fully kissing.
“Say it.”
When you find your voice, it’s raspy and broken.
“No.”
“But you know you want to.” He presses the first inch inside, and if you’d had any worries about not being able to take more, they’re knocked away with how good he feels.
You were right. He’s an even bigger stretch than his two fingers, and it perfect. There’s a slight ache, but it’s overwhelmed by the closeness. By how well he fits, how much you need more of this brimming, explosive pleasure already threating to take you over.
“Just say it, pretty girl. Say it for me.”
You shake your head, and Bucky pushes further in, and your hands fly into his hair like they were pulled there.
He groans, rutting into you, and bottoms out. You didn’t know you could feel this good. Be this full. Bucky moans in your ear, and you breath slowly, trying to adjust.
“You feel so good.” He smashes his lips over yours, the kiss demanding and long. “Knew you’d feel this good, always knew you’d feel this good, Christ-“
You roll your hips up, and it makes Bucky jerk. He slams into you, knocking the air from your lungs, and your toes curl in delight.
He barks your name, grabbing your jaw, and you beam at him.
“More.” You breathe, and Bucky’s eyes widen in slight surprise.
He recovers fast.
“Yeah?” He pulls out slowly, then slams back in, his tip kissing your cervix. “You like that? Like being fucked like a toy?”
You moan happily, and Bucky laughs.
“Thought you might surprise me, babydoll, but no.” He taps your cheek, and you open without a thought. “You’re just the pretty cockslut I thought you were.”
He drags all the way out again, but this time pushes in slower. You whine, but he doesn’t even acknowledge you, setting a slow pace that feels good, but is far too much. The roughness made you numb with a good, fuzzy sensation, but this makes you feel it. Bucky’s cock dragging against your gummy walls, the press of him over your g-spot and heat of him, right over your clit.
You can barely take it. You’re already so fucked out from the other orgasms, you’re barely able to hold onto Bucky properly. You think you might be about to black out from pleasure, but no part of you wants him to stop altogether, and how you’re trapped somewhere between paradise and hell.
“Look at you.” He grabs one of your breasts, palming it as he thrusts smooth and deep. “Nobody else does this to you, do they. Makes you feel so good, gets you so stupid on their cock.”
You shake your head, and Bucky taps your mouth again.
“Words.”
“Bucky…”
“Want to hear you, sweet girl.” He kisses your cheek, words pure filth in your ears. “Here you scream for me while I fuck you, hear how much you love it.”
“Can’t-“
“Yes, you can.” He slams a little firmer, giving you a pointed look. “Good girls listen. And when they listen,” he repeats the motion, holding your gaze. “They get filled up.”
You whimper, but nod. Bucky smiles in satisfaction, returning to his torturous speed from before.
“Anyone else do this to you?” He grunts, and you shake your head.
“No- No. Never, Bucky, only you-“
He groans, picking up his pace. “That’s fuckin’ right. No one fucks you like this, I’m gonna ruin you. If you wanna cum you’ll have to find me, I’m the only one who plays this perfect fuckin’ pussy- Shit-“ He groans, jaw clenching as he hits a little deeper than before. “Nobody takes care of you like me-“
“No one.” You echo, and you’re rewarded with another rough slam. “No one, Bucky, only- Only wanted you, needed you- Fuck-“ You cry out, pressing your cheek into his jaw. “You and your thick cock, needed you so bad-“
“I know. I know, babydoll, but I’m here now.” He kisses you quickly, speeding up again.
It’s enough to make you start to feel it again. Not slowly building, but being dragged out. The tip of Bucky’s cock drags through you, and that hot feeling in your core starts to fill up again.
“Wanted to do this for so long.” He groans in your ear, and a loud moan escapes your lips. “You really got no idea, I thought I was gonna lose it every time I saw you, thought you’d never let me- God-“
You clench around him, and Bucky angles your hips up, allowing him to hit deeper. You moan, and he kisses the back of your neck, sucking a dark mark.
“My girl.” He mutters possessive, and you babble an agreement. “My smart, mean fucking baby, drunk on my cock. Prettiest girl in the world, mine-“
You moan, and Bucky cuts himself off with a groan. He kisses you again, then rises over you. Bracing his arms on either side of your head as he looks to where he’s fucking into you. Your gaze follows, and the warmth in your gut flares at the sight.
It’s the most vulgar, pornographic thing you’ve ever seen. Bucky’s thick cock, sliding in and out of you with ease. Precum and your own need for him shining on the thickness of him, his chest flexing with restraint as he forces himself to keep the same pace. You watch his cock vanish into your body, and feel him deep inside you, and God-
You look up, checking if Bucky’s as strangely moved by that as you are, and find him staring at you. The moment your eyes meet, he grabs your jaw, pressing you back down into the pillows with a rough kiss. You’re unable to do anything but take it all. Bucky’s tongue pressing down your throat, his lips moving expertly over yours, his cock fucking every word but his name out of your head.
“Look at me.” He rasps when he pulls away, and you nod.
His eyes are almost wholly black, and shining. Tears prick at yours, but Bucky leans down, kissing them away before going faster again.
His balls start to slap on your ass, his cock pumping in and out of you until it’s all you can think about. Bucky deep inside you, lighting you up, how you can feel a rush up your spine with his every thrust. A lewd, wet sound is filling the room as he pounds into you. Your pussy burns and spasms every time, but it’s too good to fight.
Bucky’s too good to fight. You don’t know why you tried for so long.
“Bucky-“ You breathe, and he grunts.
“You’re close, sweetheart.” He mutters, and you don’t know how he knows, but he’s right.
You’re about to snap again. To lose it from how he’s fucking you like you’re a doll and the love of his life, all at once. You grab his wrist, squeezing tight.
“Pretty girl,” he teases. “Gonna soak this cock like a good girl, aren’t you. Give it to me, baby, show me how much you love it-“
“Love you.” You breathe out, and Bucky freezes.
Balls deep, he stills. His cock throbs in protest, but he doesn’t seem to care.
You blink at him, praying you didn’t ruin it. Bucky swallows, and rasps out your name.
“What?”
“I- I love you- Oh.”
He jerks into you when you say it, and you almost fly out of your skin.
“Fuck, Bucky- I- I love you-“
It happens again, but you don’t think he’s doing it to mess with you. He can barely seem to control himself, his attention almost feral as his cock jumps inside you.
“I- I love you- Oh my god-“
Bucky dives over you, kissing you like he’s trying to steal the words from your mouth. Like he can taste them.
“Damn right you do.” He grunts, cock dragging inside you as he starts to fuck you, shallow and brutal. “Love you, love you so much, you’re-“
He kisses you, and somewhere through the floating, hazy dreamworld his cock is fucking you into, you think he’s run out of words.
Bucky’s fucking you like an animal, because there’s nothing left for either of you to say. He pulls your hips back up to that angle from before, returning to that pace from before that pulled the confession out of you. You’re in incoherent, babbling mess, tugging at the sheets and watching Bucky above you like he’s God.
“Good girl.” Is all he’s grunting out, but it’s deep and every word of a noise than anything else. “Mine, my good fucking girl, gonna fill you up, you’re-“ He moans, doubling over your body as his thrusts become short and harsh. “You’re perfect-“
From nowhere, you find the strength to reach up and grab Bucky’s face. You pull it down, kissing him with every word you’re too ruined to say, and he moans.
Bucky slams home, muttering your name against your lips like a prayer. You can feel him everywhere. Hot and sticky, pumping deep into your own heat, coating your walls, dripping out and running down your ass. When Bucky starts to move again, slow and lazy, he presses it deeper, spreads it everywhere.
It’s hot on your clit, and Bucky’s still jerking and spraying inside of you. You’ve never been this full, it’s addicting. Your brain is empty, body alight with the feeling, Bucky’s cum so thick and demanding that you could swear you feel it washing through your whole body.
He reaches between your legs to rub your clit.
You get there all on your own.
Your vision goes white, as you cum. You’re so out of it you feel it the same way you feel a cool breeze. Light and relieving, washing over the heat inside you and pulling a happy sigh from your lips.
Bucky kisses you, and this time it’s only sweet. All his mean words and taunts so easily dissolve as you reach up, running your fingers through his hair. He smiles against your lips, and you smile back.
“Told you I’d do it.” He mutters, and you shove his chest with a weak laugh.
“Shut up.”
He grins, moving up to kiss your brow, then the side of your face. He’s still buried inside you. Neither of you are in a rush to move any time soon.
“You mean it, though.” He pauses, moving back over your body.
There are those worry lines again. You reach up with a tiny smile, and soothe your fingers over them. Bucky hums, leaning into your touch, and you smile.
“Yeah.” You whisper, and his shoulders sag.
“Thank god.” He presses his face between your breasts. “That would’ve been bad.”
You laugh, running your fingers through his hair, and he wraps his arms around your body. He’s slid out a little, but you’re still connected to him, and you never want to move again.
“How long?” He mutters against you, tilting his head to meet your gaze. “Cause mine was when I saw you.”
You flush stupidly—he’s inside you—and mumble, “Me too.”
Bucky frowns. “But you were always- “
“And were you any better?”
He snorts, leaning up to peck your cheek. “Fair shot.”
“I know.” You snip, then, “You- You meant yours, right? I mean- What you said while…”
You trail off, because you didn’t imagine it. I love you and mine, too sincere to just be dirty talk.
Bucky rises back over you, gently guiding your gaze back to his. He smiles when your eyes meet, and kisses the tip of your nose.
“With everything I fuckin’ got.” He mutters, and you smile.
“Good.”
“I know. I mean, I did really well for myself- I’m complimenting you, woman!”
You’d shoved him, and Bucky grabs your wrists, wrestling them down into the mattress. He looks at you with a rough, fond exasperation.
“You’re a gremlin.”
“You like it.” You beam up at him, and he lower back down, kissing you lightly.
“Tough curse.” He mutters. “But I’m enjoying it.”
You roll your eyes at him, and he grins. Beautiful and all yours.
“Can we stay here for a while?” You ask, just because you want to have this, and sit in it. “Please.”
Bucky nods, and you feel your heart shine like it’s been given new batteries. Beating out of your chest and comfortably all at once, as Bucky rolls you both onto your sides, wrapping tight around you.
“We can do whatever you want.” He mutters, rubbing your hips and kissing the marks on your neck.
You relax, because you believe him. About all of it.
And now, you have him with you for all the time in the world.
✦End note: big fan of that horny old man in every universe.✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
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pairing | Veterinarian!Bucky Barnes x f!Reader
summary | After years of traveling abroad, you are called back to your hometown to help settle your grandmother's estate. You expected to quickly sell the house and return to your life in the city, but an injured bunny leads you straight back to your high school sweetheart...and a life you thought you wanted to leave behind.
warnings | MDNI; 18+ Barbies ONLY please 💗 | modern AU, hurt/comfort, angst, slow burn, high school sweethearts to strangers to lovers, mentions of relative death (grandma), grief, Bucky lost his arm and it's briefly described (non-graphic), jealous partner (not Bucky), Bucky Barnes is a yearner, slight description of an animal injury (non life threatening), mentions of pet euthanasia (not described, just the feelings around it), Bucky Barnes is a beggar, but also a tease, oral f! and m! receiving, pussy pronouns, slow, passionate unprotected p in v, these two yap way too much as does the author, Bucky can lift reader and is described as being bigger than her, nicknames used: bunny and sweetheart, reader has a relevant tattoo of something, somewhere, no use of y/n, please let me know if i missed anything
word count | 18k (i did say the long way, didn't i?)
phoenix chirps | hooollllyyyyyyy fucking shit, i did it. my longest fic to date, who let me yap this much??? my second fic for the @stantastic-association Barbie collab ❤️💗 this one...i'll talk about after. there's a lore drop at the end where i'll yap your ear off even more. for now...please enjoy my favorite fic i've ever written 🫶 oh and if this flops i'm ending it all. kidding. maybe.
Main Masterlist | Barbie Dreamhouse Masterlist | AO3
When did casseroles become the standard of care when someone was grieving?
Surely there had to be something better than canned ingredients thrown into Tupperware dishes to give the surviving members of a family? The unlabeled containers felt like a tower of misguided sympathy as you stacked them in the passenger seat of your car. The reception had cleared out minutes ago, each of your grandmother's friends handing you a dish and saying "sorry for your loss" or "she's in a better place" before going off to their own lives.
Words that were meant to bring comfort, yet hit a concrete wall that you had erected around the feelings death brought. Smiling as sadly as you could, you accepted each one gratefully. Social norms telling you anything but that would be rude and inappropriate. So now, not only were you still holding back tears that you didn't want to shed in the presence of others, you had to play Tetris so they wouldn't topple over on the drive.
Still though, it was easier to focus on them than the grief that was clawing at your insides, you supposed. Easier to focus on the contents of casseroles than the oddity of returning to a place you thought you'd left in the dust when you decided to broaden your horizons.
As you drove, your mind picked out familiar things. The tree-lined streets that looked like they belonged on postcards were still the shining star of the sleepy town, impeccably manicured as always. Yet the landscape around them had changed in the decade since you'd laid eyes on it. The diner you used to get a quick bite to eat at after school had gotten a new coat of paint that made you wrinkle your nose. The library where you once pored over travel magazines and occasionally studied had gotten a new neon sign and updated the flower beds with limestone facades. The singular convenience store where everyone did their grocery shopping had gotten a modern facelift with new signage.
Time had seemed to touch everything except the layout, making everything both familiar and new at once. The nursery that was at the end of the street your grandmother lived on was just putting out their spring plants. A fresh wave of despair hit you square in the chest at the realization you wouldn't get to hear your grandmother lovingly describe what she picked to plant in her garden that season.
The stack of Tupperware leaned dangerously when you turned onto the road you learned to ride a bike on, and once knew all of the neighbors. Memory alone got you from the reception hall to now idling on the unpaved driveway of your grandmother's house, body working on autopilot the second you had passed the nursery. The house looked the same, in theory. Though there was a looming darkness where your grandma's presence would've normally brightened. Like the soul of the house had been snatched with her passing.
The plush leather seats seemed to have magnetized your clothing, your hands not able to move from the steering wheel. Of all the tasks you needed to take care of since you got the news, somehow getting out of the car and crossing the threshold to a quiet house where your grandmother no longer occupied was definitely the hardest.
Yet, it was your cross to bear as her sole heir. Her last wishes were for you to clean up the house that had been in your family for generations, and make sure whoever bought it would treat it with the same care as she did. And there was no way you could fulfill that if you didn't gather the courage to walk through the door.
Yanking your suitcase free from the backseat, you moved to face the front door, casseroles forgotten in their stacked configuration of the passenger seat. With trembling fingers, you finally unlocked the heavy wooden door and pushed in.
The scent of muted rose perfume and lemon pledge hit you first, and your mind briefly played a phantom memory of your grandmother. Rounding the corner from the kitchen, drying her hands on a tea towel before she opened her arms for an all encompassing embrace that could cure all ailments. Pressing a hand to your heart to stop the ache as you took in the dim entry way, moving to the living room. The rooms and hallways looked the same as they did in your childhood memory only…smaller. Like you had outgrown the space, but not the feeling of comfort.
A fresh tinge of guilt wrapped around your throat as you saw the signs of your grandmother's aging. Pill bottles on the small end table, lined up in an orderly fashion. A walker stood at the ready next to her favorite arm chair that had a handmade throw blanket you sent her from a remote village of Machu Picchu. An unfinished crossword sat on the small coffee table that made your lip tremble. It would likely stay unfinished for all of eternity.
With a deep breath you moved to the bedrooms, taking in the changes that you had only heard from your grandmother when she visited you or spoke about on the phone. The kitchen had gotten a much needed upgrade from the old 70s appliances that were truthfully on their last leg for awhile.
Your childhood room had amassed some boxes, but remained for the most part untouched. That's where your suitcase landed, hoping what you packed would be enough until you could get the house ready to sell.
The heels you wore to the funeral clicked on the worn hardwood, and you could almost hear your grandmother's voice asking you how you walked in those things. The last room you hadn't inspected yet was hers. And the closer you got to the door at the end of the hallway, the stronger the scent of her perfume became.
Memories flooded in one by one as you dared to reach for the door knob. Cuddling up next to her while awful soap operas played on an ancient TV with a lace doily draped over it. Gossiping about the townspeople like they were characters in her own personal drama series. Your grandmother always made it a point to know everyone's business.
Dropping your hand from the knob, you bolted for air. For space to breathe that wasn't bashing you over the head with guilt. Guilt for not coming back as she aged even though you could have. Guilt for your selfishness of always flying her to you on your travels instead of relaxing with her in the home you basically grew up in.
The sliding glass door squeaked as you stepped into the backyard oasis that was still thankfully maintained to perfection. The sun was just dipping below the trees, casting everything in a soft orange glow, and birds were calling somewhere off in the distance. Out here, your thoughts always seemed to halt.
In the summer, wildflowers would bloom along the fence line, fruit trees towards the back of the property would produce lemons and cherries for pies that would be baked from scratch or preserved. Rows of raised flowerbeds held all manners of vegetables, herbs, and fruits. Even in her old age, your grandmother had continued its upkeep insisting that it helped her feel young again.
And when her body began to wither with the throes of time, she hired trusted gardeners and landscapers from around town to keep its spirit alive. Something you were tasked to ensure the next owners of the house would do. Even now, the thought of this space still overflowing with life being redone in a trendy minimalist aesthetic brought a strange surge of anger in your veins.
Just as you took a deep breath, you heard a rustling sound from a raised flower bed to your left. Something too loud to be from the light spring breeze. Slowly making your way over, you saw the source of the sound. Nestled between the stalks of herbs that had survived the winter frost, was a small, tawny bunny with wide black eyes trying to burrow for safety. Yet, she was ensnared in what appeared to be fishing line, an angry red mark visible against her fur where it dug into her back leg. She stopped at the sight of you, going completely still except for the rapid twitching of her nose.
You shrugged off your black cardigan without a second thought, draping it over her body in hopes of keeping her warm. You couldn't bear anymore thoughts of death today if you could help it. Dashing inside, heels briefly getting caught in the grass, your thumbs were already flying over your phone screen to find the closest vet. It wasn't lost on you that you used to know this town — and the vet clinic — like the back of your hand. And now you needed to Google a place you used to call home because you didn't trust your mind to remember where it was.
Grabbing a small shoebox from the kitchen counter, you returned to the bunny. Gently snapping the fishing line so as not to disturb the wound, you wrapped the cardigan completely around her and placed her in the box. "Hold on for me, okay?" you pleaded, securing her as best you could before making your way back to the car. "I've got you."
The casserole dishes you had been too drained to move still sat in the front seat, a glaring reminder that you hadn't been able to stomach anything real since the news of your grandmother's passing. But you had more pressing matters to attend to.
Based on your search, there was still a singular vet in town. The street address was the same as well, familiar now that it was staring back at you. Summers spent at that very address using every spare minute to nurture your passion for animals. And while you should know how to get there, you didn't trust the decade old map in your head while a life hung in the balance.
Pulling up to the clinic was like opening a time capsule. The name had changed to "White Wolf Animal Hospital", proudly displayed on a wooden sign. The front facade had been redone, upgraded slightly with a modern undertone though still keeping the rustic charm. The big oak tree you used to sit underneath during hot summer afternoons still stood, branches larger and broader now.
Carefully scooping up the box, you pulled open the clinic door, a bell announcing your arrival with a faint clink. The reception area was empty and quiet, though the overhead lights were still on indicating that it should have been occupied. It was odd that no one was manning the front, a position you used to fill during your free time, so you knew how important it was.
You checked your watch to see if you were too late for their working hours (you weren't), then chanced a glance at the bunny. She was still in a state of shock, eyes blinked slowly up at you. Sighing, you set the box down on the high counter, close to convincing yourself that you could go to the back and use your limited knowledge to maybe help the little creature.
Surely this place wasn't closed yet if the door was unlocked? And if it was, what kind of person bought the clinic and was managing it so inadequately?
"Hello?" You called into the emptiness, heels continuing to click with each step. The clinic wasn't that big, surely if anyone was here, they would have heard you. Picking up the box again, you moved to start opening doors to exam rooms until you found anyone to help, when the farthest one swung open, a man in a lab coat stepping through.
"Ma'am, I'm so sorry, but we're —"
Time froze as soon as blue eyes you never thought you'd see again met yours. Your heartbeat increased wildly, just as it used to when you saw him. Of all the people you had expected to be running the old vet clinic, Bucky Barnes was the absolute last one.
He looked nearly the same as he did in your memories of him, somehow. A little older, a little more muscular, with wisps of incoming grays in his dark hair and stubble around his jaw as the only things to show any time had passed since you had said goodbye. When the relationship between two young and dumb kids couldn't stand the test of long distance and an amicable breakup followed, you thought that would be it. And the 20 year old you left behind would be the forever image you held of your first love.
But now here you were, shaking free his own memories if the way his eyes darted around your figure were any indication.
"Bunny?" he asked, breathless.
Stepping closer, you held the box out for him to see, you almost asked how he knew what you had brought him. Until you realized he wasn't referencing the injured animal. He was talking to you.
A nickname bestowed to you once upon a time. When the stars twinkled brighter and your futures weren't yet decided, a silly thing based on an inside joke of an inside joke that you couldn't remember the origin of. Hearing it from him was in and of itself, another kind of shock.
"Oh," you both said in unison, chuckling awkwardly, trying to figure out where to go next. Because, truthfully, what words were there to say to someone after ten years and barely a birthday or holiday card? You weren't even planning on looking him up, not wanting to disturb whatever peace he had built by showing up unannounced. And yet an injured bunny sent those plans to crumble.
His gaze dropped to the cardigan in the box, then to the modest black dress and heels you hadn't bothered to change out of. His features morphed, worry lines deepening as he came to a quiet conclusion as to why you had returned in the first place.
"I…found a bunny in grandma's garden. It looks like she got caught up in some fishing line," you explained, breaking the silence. You moved closer, box still held out like a peace offering in hopes of getting his calculating stare off of you and towards the more pressing matter.
"Come on back," Bucky motioned with his head to the exam room behind him, holding the door open for you and letting you go in first.
Suddenly incredibly aware of the clack you made with each step, and how you were trying to breathe calmly and not breathe in the familiar aroma of his cologne. You placed the box onto the metal exam table, stepping back to give him space to perform the exam.
"Alright little one, let's see what you've gotten yourself into." Bucky's voice still held that gentle quality you remembered falling in love with. It was surprising how much you missed it, when something that faded over time without you realizing it was suddenly back with clarity.
His hands moved carefully, cradling the small animal that somehow seemed even smaller once it was in his palm. The glint of black and gold on his left hand caught your eye then, a sleek and modern prosthetic that had your chest clenching, mind reeling with scenarios of what could have happened for him to lose his arm. Vaguely, you did remember your grandmother telling you briefly of how there was a fire at the animal clinic, and that someone had been injured. She just hadn't told you how or…who.
Bucky's voice calling your name snapped you from trying to decipher the mystery and defrost any more memories. He was looking at you expectantly, probably asked a question you didn't hear and therefore couldn't answer. "Sorry, what?"
A soft chuckle left his mouth, making your heart melt just a bit further. "Do you know how she got wrapped up like this?"
"No," you answered, arms wrapping around your waist. "I was getting some air in the backyard when I heard her rustling in between the rosemary and parsley. I'm not even sure where the fishing line came from, grandma didn't use it for this very reason."
"Well she's lucky you found her." Bucky smiled in your general direction, but he hadn't met your eyes since the nickname faux pas. Turning, he grabbed some cleaning solution and gauze.
You watched as he tried to dress the wound, but the bunny was wriggling to the point it had become a struggle of not injuring her further. "Let me help," you offered softly, already pulling on a pair of surgical gloves. Helping to hold the bunny still, Bucky was able to get her patched up. Based on your limited knowledge, the wound didn't appear that deep, but without your intervention there was no way the poor thing would have survived.
Putting the thought of anymore death out of your head, you turned to dispose of the gloves and let Bucky do a final wellness check. Ignoring the familiarity of what just happened by reaching up to fidget with the pendant of your necklace.
Bucky barely looked over at you, but still asked: "When's the last time you ate anything?"
"Oh, about…twelve hours ago," you answered truthfully, but when he leveled you with a pointed stare, you felt the need to ramble in defense. "But I have…casseroles. In the car. For…later."
"Casseroles," he deadpanned, now moving his attention to bringing out a small cage and preparing it with straw and bowls from various cupboards.
"The backseat is full of Tupperware containers. Apparently all of grandma's friends thought the best way for me to deal with her death was by pouring a bunch of ingredients into a dish and letting me play a guessing game of what I thought was in it."
His lips twitched into a barely there smile, placing the bunny into her temporary home where she immediately hopped to the corner, snuggling into a tight ball. "I'm going to keep her here for observation for a few days, and contact some wildlife rehab centers in the morning."
Shoving his hands into the pockets of his lab coat, he rocked onto the balls of his feet. "In the meantime, let me take you to dinner. We can catch up."
It was a simple request, one you could deflect again. You did have casseroles…but they likely weren't even good anymore, considering they should've been refrigerated as soon as you got to the house. But as it neared 6 pm, you'd been running on empty for hours without realizing it. And your stomach was growling in protest of being ignored.
"Okay," you agreed, continuing to fidget with your necklace. It was a simple agreement. And yet nothing was going to be simple about bridging a decade of non-communication into one dinner.
"We can go to Frankie's up the road, just give me a couple of minutes to close up," Bucky suggested, nodding towards the door to the front.
You nodded, the name of the old diner hitting you like a force field. Memories of past dates, post homecoming and prom nights, and…the night you had both decided that the relationship wouldn't work if you left. There were no fireworks, not even a fight or careless words thrown. Just two people mature enough to realize that the life you wanted was one that he couldn't follow you into. And loving each other enough to say it instead of forcing someone to give up their dream.
Initially, you thought it would be easier to sever ties completely. Considering there would be long stretches where you didn't know where you would land, you didn't want to lead him on when you also didn't know if you'd be back.
Yet every year you'd look at important dates on your calendar just a little bit longer. A birthday, anniversaries of first kisses or relationship milestones that no longer meant anything hoping that you had made the right decision by putting yourself first and that Bucky was at least happy. Because that's all you'd ever wanted for him.
"Ready?" Bucky asked, returning to you with keys twirling around a finger easily. The lab coat was gone, giving a closer glimpse of his broad shoulders stretching the plaid button-down shirt he was wearing as he grabbed a jacket from a hook behind the reception desk.
You nodded, following him out of the clinic and onto the sidewalk. The streetlights were just coming on, bathing everything in an amber glow, with the soft chirps of crickets providing ambiance as you began walking.
It was absurd if you thought about it for too long. How normal this would've been had you not had to cure the wanderlust of your soul.
"So…" you both started awkwardly, chuckling at your timing. Perhaps this sort of clumsiness was just what ten years apart does to two people who used to finish each other's sentences.
"So, how long are you in town for?" Bucky asked, keeping a respectful distance with his hands shoved into his pockets and focusing on the ground in front of him.
You matched his pace, heels scraping along the sidewalk while your hands weren't really sure what to do with themselves, the anxious habit of twisting the pendant the only thing you were able to think of. "Only until grandma's house sells. Her will specified that I need to stay there while it's on the market, something about making sure it goes to the right person," you explained calmly. "You know how particular she was about that garden of hers."
Bucky nodded thoughtfully, a few pieces of hair bouncing as he did so. The uncomfortable silence lingered again, pressing inwards like it knew it shouldn't be here. There was the sense that there were several thousand words unsaid, and yet none were rising to the surface.
"So…how long are you in town for?" you asked, looking at him out of the corner of your eye.
He smiled fully then, lines around his eyes and mouth a little deeper than you remembered. "Quite a while, I think."
You stopped next to him in front of the diner, nose wrinkling in slight disgust as you saw the new paint job it had been given. A bright cherry red and white awning with bright, electric blue signage, where there was once a soft yellow storefront with inviting turquoise accents. Who decided that your favorite diner needed to look like a bomb pop had exploded? Only…was it really your favorite diner anymore?
"Don't worry. It may have gotten a botched facelift, but the food is still good," Bucky assured, holding the door open for you, the still familiar smell of fryer grease and salt with the undertones of ground coffee even this late in the evening wafted out.
There was once a time you recognized everyone who worked at Frankie's, including the owner, who named it after his late father. But now, only new faces blinked back at you while you were shown to a booth in the corner.
Just like your grandmother's house, the booths felt and looked the same, yet seemed…smaller. You had anticipated that after ten years of growing, yet you didn't think you'd ever outgrow a place that meant so much to you.
The Formica tabletop had been refinished, probably at the same time the awful paint job had occurred outside. This corner booth was one you would frequently sit at, and one your fifteen year old self had boldly carved your and Bucky's initials into, like it was going to be as permanent as what you thought your relationship was.
"What can I get ya, Doc?" a waitress asked, stopping by the table with a pen and notepad in hand. She smiled warmly at you briefly, but her attention was focused mainly on Bucky. A habit of people from a town where everyone knew everyone.
It was strange to hear Bucky of all people be referred to as 'doc'. Technically, it was his title, and you knew that. It just took a stranger saying it out loud to make it click that the boy who used to shotgun energy drinks, demolish your high score in Guitar Hero, and whisper sweet nothings against your skin was an actual doctor. Even if it was for animals.
"Two coffees please, Joyce, and I'll have my usual," he answered, not even glancing at the menu.
You rattled off a simple sandwich and French fry order, settling on the first familiar thing you saw. A little grateful that not everything had changed.
Joyce returned with two mugs of steaming coffee, and you wrapped a hand around one, letting the warmth seep into your palms.
"So, where did you end up going?" Bucky asked, pushing the tin of sugar towards you before you had a chance to grab for it.
"Ah, all over really? Spent a couple of years traveling around central Europe picking up odd jobs. Learned how to ask for directions and where the bathroom is in about eight languages," you explained, focusing more on the slow turn of your spoon.
He nodded again, eyes finally freely roaming over you when he thought your gaze was downcast. Up until now, he'd really focused on anything that wasn't your face. It made something in your chest twist, knowing that your surprise appearance was just as big a shock for him as it was for you.
Guilt, like bile, settled in the back of your throat. You had promised to come back, in this very booth actually. Sure it was before you knew where your life would take you, but still. You could have visited.
Your eye caught the black and gold glint of his left arm again, heart hammering to know how exactly that came to be. You hadn't really stopped wondering, but didn't know how to bring it up. You tried taking a sip of your coffee, averting your eyes back to Bucky's, but he was giving you a small, knowing smile.
"About a year after you left," he began, leaning back in the booth like he was reliving the memory in real time. "A fire broke out from some faulty wiring. Almost lost the whole building."
You put that into a quick perspective, trying to figure out what you were so busy doing while something so horrible was happening to a person you claimed to care about.
"All the animals got out," he continued, drumming his fingers against the table top. "I went back in to get the old clinic cat. Stubborn thing was hiding in the back storage room. I was able to get her out, but got pinned in the process."
You swallowed thickly, guilt still radiating outward. "Grandma told me about the fire, but never the extent of it."
"She probably just didn't want you worrying," he answered, sipping his coffee.
Your eyes finally met his since the first time at the clinic, cataloguing freely the changes age and the stress of running a business had caused. And his did the same to you. "Bucky, I'm - "
You were cut off from an improvised and too late apology by Joyce, dropping the food off at the table.
Shoulders dropping, you didn't even know what you would've said anyway. Something like that should be more thought out so you could get out everything you needed to say.
"So old Doc Hensley finally retired then? Any idea where he ended up?" you asked, steering the conversation away from a haphazard apology.
Bucky huffed a chuckle, popping a fry into his mouth. "Bought a timeshare in Cabo. Left me with the clinic once he knew I could handle it after I got my degree."
The image of walking into an empty reception area had your head tilting slightly. "Can you…handle it?" you asked gently, remembering just how difficult it could be to run the whole operation by yourself.
One of his shoulders raised slightly, the corner of his mouth tipping up like he knew what you were really asking. "It's been harder recently. Lost my front desk associate after he decided to choose a different career path."
You knew he didn't mean anything by the words. That was just the story of what happened, but still, an apology tried to worm its way free again. Like he wouldn't have this problem had you stayed…
"And where did you finally end up? Or are you still traveling?" he asked, and you wondered if he could see where your mind was wandering, and he had looked for a way to bring it back to the present.
"I'm working in the tech field now, based out of New York City, where I live. Mostly remote stuff, so I could keep traveling around if I want. I took a bereavement leave to get the house sorted," you paused to look at the darkening sky, realizing you had not made a dent in packing up the house or contacting a realtor to begin the process of putting it on the market.
"Do you like it in the city?"
"It's good, I suppose. The apartment is tiny, but it's in a great neighborhood, and my - " you paused briefly because it really hadn't hit you how awkward this next glimpse into your new life would be. "- my boyfriend likes living there."
Bucky stilled, coffee cup halfway to his lips as a mix of emotions quickly flickered over his eyes., before he shifted his gaze downwards. "How long has that been going on?"
Chewing your lip at the sudden change in demeanor, hand that wasn't occupied with the coffee mug flying to the pendant necklace again. "About two years."
He nodded his head once, like it was something final, and you couldn't help feeling like you had just sucker-punched him with that news. "Is he good to you?"
It was your turn to nod with a small smile when you answered, "Yeah, he is."
You should have expected this reveal to land awkwardly, as everything else had with him since you ran into his clinic. But in practice, it felt so much worse for reasons you didn't currently want to dwell on. Especially when every single turn of events since the funeral - except for saving that bunny - had made guilt become the leading emotion for the foreseeable future.
Turning your mug in your hands, you fought against the urge to fill the silence. Even as Joyce came to take away your empty plates and drop off the check, you still wanted to say something. But what could you say to someone whose feelings you hurt twice in the span of a decade? In the very same diner, no less.
You turned to dig in your purse to put some money down, but Bucky had already placed cash on the table and leveled you with a look that crossed a decade. Enough that you knew whatever small argument was about to happen, you would not win.
"Thank you for dinner. You really didn't have to," you protested, scooting out of your side of the booth and following him out of the diner.
He smiled gently, something unguarded now in his expression. "You ran into my clinic in what I'm assuming are your funeral clothes with an injured bunny. It's the least I could do."
Out on the sidewalk, the temperature had dipped considerably now that the sun had set. The moon had risen, providing a silver haze mingling with the amber pools of light of the streetlamps.
The silence between you and Bucky no longer felt like it was begging to be filled with awkward questions and small talk, it had become slightly more manageable. The dinner was successful, if that bar was measured by divulging big life events and evading the pitfalls of a reunion neither party was prepared to make.
You shivered against the chill during the short walk, slightly berating yourself for leaving the cardigan you had worn earlier with the bunny.
Bucky cleared his throat, draping his jacket over your shoulders without question or ceremony. He used to do something similar on cold nights, walking down these same sidewalks. Only it was his Letterman jacket he'd put over your shoulders and then wrap a hand around yours. His hand didn't find yours though in the present.
"How are you doing? With…everything?" he asked gently. It was a loaded question in the loaded silence while your hand was itching with the phantom feeling of his. Gone was the formality of catching up, and he was genuinely asking. Looking for an honest answer that none of the funeral goers earlier in the day would have wanted.
You let out a shaky sigh, guilt in the back of your throat being replaced with a heavy hollowness. Tears really hadn't fallen since you got the news, and some form of robotic numbness had taken up residence where emotion should be, and you didn't want tears to fall now. "Okay, I suppose. Being back in the house was hard. Didn't really have time to dwell too hard on it when I found the bunny."
Bucky glanced sideways at you, something in his expression shifting at your answer. You must have worn your sadness plainly enough now. "Do you need any help? Boxing things up or anything?"
You were approaching the clinic's parking lot where your car was waiting. "I don't know where to start, really. I couldn't even open her bedroom door," you paused to rifle through your purse for the keys. "The whole place feels like a giant game of Minesweeper, and I just keep stepping on mines instead of flagging safe spots."
"Well…" Bucky sighed, stepping back to give you space to open the door to your car. The wafting smell of casseroles made you grimace, thankful that you had taken Bucky's offer to get some real food tonight. "The clinic could use some help. If you ever want somewhere to be that isn't the house."
You faced him fully then, leaning against the car, tilting your head back to look at him. The passage of time had been kind to him. And maybe in another life, this date - if that's what you could even call it - would've ended with him gently pressing you against the car, his hand at the nape of your neck. It would be comforting even now, yet impossible for you to ask for on several counts.
"I'm not even licensed for anything clinical, Buck," you sighed, looking back down at your shoes, worried about getting too lost in his eyes. "I'd just get in the way."
"I'm aware," he answered simply, "and no, you wouldn't."
You kicked a small pebble with your toe, watching it bounce between his feet. Deep down, you knew he wasn't expecting an answer right now. He really wasn't even expecting you to do it. It was just an offer of a distraction so you didn't wallow in grief.
"I'll think about it," you finally answered with a small smile, gaze tracking over his face.
He nodded, opening the car door for you further so you could slide in. "Try to get some sleep. It really was good to see you."
"You too."
Shutting the door and driving away with an easy wave, you mulled over the last few hours in your mind. How little building blocks had all snapped into place so you could end up here. It wasn't until you turned onto the road home that you realized his jacket was still draped around your shoulders. And now that if the heaviness of going through your grandmother's things got to be too much, you had a sliver of an excuse to show up and slide behind the reception desk as if no time had passed at all.
Sleep evaded you, like it always did in a new place. Ghosts of your childhood and the things you left behind had you tossing and turning for most of the night. If you had managed to drift off, it was dreamless, and interrupted by sounds of the house settling that you were no longer used to. You rose before the sun, intending to at least start clearing some of the easier parts of the house.
The kitchen felt like the safest place to start. Not to mention if you were going to tackle anything on your to do list, copious amounts of caffeine were going to be a necessity.
The cupboard always held seven mugs, six were from the set of china your grandmother had acquired on her wedding day. The single out of place mug was a chipped butter-yellow with lopsided daisies hand painted on it. One that you had presented her when you were no more than seven years old. And ever since then, you watched her pour coffee into it every morning, reserving the 'fancier' mugs for company.
No one was ever allowed to use it while your grandmother was alive…and you decided you'd like to keep it that way. Setting it on the counter, the flagship of the 'keep' pile, you started the ancient coffee maker and let the aroma of fresh coffee fill the kitchen.
There were only a couple of texts from Nick asking how you were. A fresh pang of guilt knocked against your ribs that you hadn't responded. That you were too busy reliving the past to fully remember the present. You sent off a simple response…
You [7:39 AM]
Morning! Slept OK, but it's been a lot to take in…hoping to make progress with the realtor today. Miss you xx
With your coffee mug in hand, your feet carried you to the solace of the backyard while you drafted an email to the local realtor in your head. The sun was still hiding behind the trees, but must've been barely over the horizon, as the sky was lightening to a pale purple.
Glancing sideways at the small herb garden where you'd found the bunny, there was a small indent in the greenery still visible. A small frown tugged at your lips. You didn't really know how the bunny was doing this morning after her little ordeal. Sure the wounds weren't that bad, and the fact that she survived the car ride alone should've been enough to calm your mind. Yet, as you moved back inside going room to room to take stock of what you needed to accomplish, the poor bunny still lingered in the back of your mind.
Along with the image of an empty reception area. If Bucky was truly short-staffed, who was going to be checking on her throughout the day? Considering you were the one to drop her in his lap, maybe you should just…
Then, your eyes landed on the borrowed jacket that had been draped over your shoulders last night, where it now laid on the back of the couch. You should return it, at least, and when you did that's when you could check in on the bunny.
You should also start adding more to the 'keep' pile and clean up a few of the more personal effects of your grandmother's so listing photos could be taken. But the thought of doing that felt insurmountable when you were worried about the little creature. And Bucky trying to run that place on his own…
So, with a half-drafted email waiting to be sent in your outbox and memories that you didn't have the mental capacity to untangle yet, you grabbed the jacket and your keys and left all responsibilities to wait.
The drive to the clinic was familiar now. You pulled into the parking lot just in time to see Bucky emerging from a house next door to the clinic, juggling a bag and a travel coffee mug, his keys held between his teeth while he situated everything into a comfortable hold.
Stepping out of your car, you waved sheepishly at him, fiddling with your own key chain. "You live around here?" you asked, once he was in earshot.
Really, you expected to surprise him, seeing as this was your second time showing up unannounced in less than 24 hours. Yet there were no signs of shock on his face, just a knowing smile and the hint of relief in his piercing gaze. "I live next door," he gestured to the house, key sliding into the lock. "Easier and faster to get here in case of an emergency. What are you doin' here?"
You held the jacket out like a peace offering, "I didn't want to steal your jacket, and…I was worried about the bunny."
His lips twitched at the corners while he held the door to the clinic open for you to pass through first. "I checked on her last night before I turned in, and she was doing great. You can go see for yourself if you'd like."
You walked to the back, lights flicking on overhead as Bucky wordlessly prepared his clinic for the day. The bunny was awake, moving as gingerly as she could through her bedding of straw to get to a small food bowl. She caught sight of you, twitching her nose as she ate. The bandages you had helped place were still intact, though you suspected Bucky would need help changing them soon.
Your cardigan had been folded carefully and placed next to the cage, no longer needed now that the bunny was safe and warm. Moving to pick it up, your eyes caught sight of a small placard that would normally get filled out during intake. In Bucky's semi-neat handwriting was the name 'Rosemary' along with a few progress notes.
"See? She's a real trooper; the first night is always the one to watch."
"Bucky you…you named her?" you asked, turning to look at him while he adjusted his lab coat over his shoulders.
"I did. Figured she might be staying a bit until she gets her strength up, and we can find a wildlife center to help us release her."
For a moment, you didn't say anything, turning to look back down at the tawny bunny - Rosemary - instead. You could sense Bucky pick up on something being wrong as he moved closer behind you. "Was that okay?" he asked, voice dipping now in concern.
Nodding quickly, you turned the cardigan over in your hands. "It's just….I mean…you named her after my grandmother?"
Bucky's composure completely faltered as he finally connected it, eyes going wide with surprise. "Oh! I - fuck - I only named her that because you said you found her in the herbs, and I didn't - I'm sorry."
You huffed a small laugh at his stumbling, really unnecessary apology. It wasn't like your grandma liked being called Rosemary anyway. She much preferred everyone call her 'Rose' or 'Grandma', even if they had no relation to her. "It's really fine, I just…wasn't expecting it. It suits her, though."
Bucky's mouth opened like he had more to say, but just outside the room, the bell jingled to announce that the first client had come in for their appointment. "Well, that's me. You'll be okay back here?"
Nodding, you glanced back at your cardigan in your hands.
"Hey," he said, hand already braced on the door to the front. "Seriously, you can stay as long as you need to."
"Thanks," you murmured, knowing what that offer was. Stay somewhere neutral if the house is getting too loud. And you really were grateful for it. The crushing weight of responsibility still sat in your chest, but it was easier here when glaring memories of the past weren't around every corner.
But sitting in a room with your thoughts while the bell jingled twice more, and the sound of an overexcited dog came from beyond the door, wasn't really helping either. A different kind of guilt hit then, when you knew you could help. You knew, roughly, where the client files were. You knew how to soothe owners when something slightly traumatic happened, and they were worried. You knew some patients would take longer, and a backlog would happen if intake forms weren't completed before Bucky saw them.
Setting the cardigan back down next to Rosemary's cage, where she had already curled up for a nap, you pushed your way to the front. Bucky was bent over the reception desk, fingers rifling through folders. "Let me," you said gently, moving to nudge him out of the way, but he had already stepped back before you got too close.
He gave a grateful smile, but didn't dwell further, showing the dog and her owner to one of the exam rooms. Orienting yourself was easy enough, or would have been. But whoever Bucky had manning the front had completely obliterated your filing system that you spent your entire last summer here working on.
"Who fuckin' organized these?" you grumbled under your breath, knowing you'd need to get this back into shape at some point. Even if you didn't plan on staying, the need to create efficiency was already eating away at you.
The bell jingled again, and you looked up to see an elderly woman with a cat carrier clutched tightly. "Well, I'll be, I didn't expect to see Rose's granddaughter here ever again."
You chuckled softly, recognizing her as one of the many whom you met at the funeral the day before. "Just getting my mind off things. What brings you in today?"
A sympathetic smile creased her face. "We're here for Figg's annual checkup." She raised the cat carrier a bit.
Nodding, you pulled the paperwork free, and began the simple process. Asking questions if anything was concerning or anything had changed since last time. "Take a seat and Doctor Barnes will be out here shortly." The line out of your mouth was standard once the paperwork was completed. Though it used to be 'Hensley' you said, and Bucky's surname coming from your lips felt a little foreign. Still, you couldn't stop the flare of warmth in your chest at knowing he fulfilled a dream he'd talked about since you were kids.
"You know, these used to be organized to perfection," you groused, sliding Figg's client folder to Bucky when he emerged from an exam room.
A look of amusement danced across his eyes as he picked up the folder. "I do know."
You settled behind the desk once they were out of sight, starting to reimplement everything back to perfection. Something about doing something menial with little emotional consequence was healing. Giving you the space to maybe come to terms with having to go through every one of your grandma's belongings.
The day began to run smoothly. You sorted paperwork, greeted patients as they came in, and tried to get your mind to clear as much as possible. It was a little alarming if you stopped to think about it too much. How easy it had been to slip back into a persona and exist in Bucky's presence. Despite the initial awkwardness of dinner the previous night, and a few moments where the space between you narrowed too close, the stiffness had dissipated slightly, leaning more towards two people who had always known how to coexist in the same space.
It wasn't until your phone buzzed under a particularly thick stack of papers that reality came to a head.
Texts from Nick asking how things were coming along had been sitting unanswered, and you'd been too caught up to respond. Right. You had been in the middle of an email when you had decided you'd needed to be anywhere else.
With a lull in the day, you opened the half-drafted email back up on your phone. But just as you were double-checking the contents before sending it, Bucky's voice pulled your attention.
"Would you mind helping me redress Rosemary's bandages?"
And just like that, your phone lay forgotten once more, a more important task needing your full attention.
Once the last patient of the day left, the clinic lights had been dimmed, and the front door locked, you returned to Rosemary for one last check-in.
"Thank you for staying. " Bucky said, with this being the first real chance the two of you had to be alone. "You really didn't have to."
"I did, though. Couldn't leave you stranded when all I was going to do was stand frozen in the hallway of grandma's house."
You were aware of his proximity as he moved closer, while he carefully deduced what an appropriate amount of space there should be between you. "The offer still stands, you know. With the house. I have the weekends free if you need an extra pair of hands."
"Speaking of an extra pair of hands, could I…come back tomorrow? It was nice getting away from the house." You hated how timid your voice sounded, asking for permission to be in a place he'd already said you could be. But you really didn't want to get in the way or cause a distraction. "I figured I'd rather sort through paperwork rather than grandma's things…"
You caught the small twitch of Bucky's fingers from your periphery. Like he wanted to reach for you in comfort, but wasn't sure if he should. "You don't have to ask, you know. Just show up if you want to."
There was a long, white box waiting on the doorstep of your grandmother's house when you arrived. Picking it up and seeing it was from a local florist, your first instinct was that this was a late funeral arrangement. Someone that your grandmother had befriended on her travels with you, who couldn't make it to this small town.
Already gathering a vase from the linen closet, your eyes were finally able to start making mental notes of what to do with the contents after clearing your head at the clinic that day. But when you opened the box, you didn't see what appeared to be a funeral arrangement. There were a few dozen pink and white tulips nestled in brown kraft paper, wrapped with a delicate lace ribbon.
Plucking the card carefully from the greenery before situating them in the vase, your heart thumped just slightly harder at the familiar scrawl on the white stationery.
Hope these help you smile. You'll be okay. - B
Your favorite flowers from an ex of the past, yet maybe… a friend of the present had your mind reeling. Though you couldn't linger on what the feeling of being seen in such a vulnerable way, without having to word it for too long.
Your phone buzzed in your pocket, another dose of reality being poured down your throat for what felt like the thousandth time that day had just arrived.
Nick [6:42 PM]
What did the realtor say?
It was never meant to be something long-term. Maybe a week of clinic work at most until your head cleared enough to tackle the responsibilities of selling your grandmother's house. But by the second week of working a structured Monday through Friday, 8 to 5…a routine had been established.
You would arrive just as Bucky stepped out of his front door. Both of you would tackle the opening tasks separately, with you checking in on Rosemary, who was getting stronger every day.
The once messy files were now put back to their original glory, ready to be handed off to whoever Bucky decided to hire for this position. Who would hopefully keep it at least more organized than when you found it.
It became easier to breathe in the charm of the small town. Most everyone who came in recognized you as Rose's granddaughter, and would want to regale you with their favorite tales of your grandmother. Sometimes you'd be able to handle it, but others, Bucky learned to step in and redirect the conversation to the pet that was being seen. You weren't sure when he'd begun recognizing your grief was about to spill over unintentionally, but it was welcome. Like he'd never stopped knowing when to protect you, but the skill had waned while not in your orbit, only to sharpen with each day you kept showing up.
Sometime in that second week, the space you and Bucky carefully kept between you seemed to shrink. Until one day, poring over the appointment book to try to find room for a last-minute call in, the distance was nonexistent. Close enough that you registered the warmth radiating off of him, and practically feel the fabric of his shirt against your arm.
Neither of you moved to fix it, or place the wedge back. But you didn't acknowledge that something had shifted from when you first showed up with an injured bunny, either. The moment fleeting, as you solved the problem of squeezing in an appointment, and both resuming your separate tasks that didn't require such tight proximity.
In the middle of the third week, you realized that bereavement for your job that helped pay rent for an apartment in the city would be coming to an end soon, and you'd need to make arrangements. That combined with an onslaught of texts from Nick had reality continuing to press in from all sides.
Nick [11:23 AM]
How's the house coming along?
You [11:24 AM]
It's coming…still kind of hard to go into some rooms.
Nick [2:47 PM]
Did you ever hear back from the realtor?
You [2:58 PM]
Not yet, I still need to get some more cleaning done :(
Nick [7:15 PM]
Let me know if you need help finding an agent, I can pull some strings.
You [7:42 PM]
I think someone more local would be best, but I appreciate it. Love you xx
Somewhere along the way, his texts had become less about with your well-being, and more concerned that you hadn't been working towards the end goal of selling the house.
You still hadn't mentioned why you weren't really able to get much cleaning done. It wasn't a lie really, just a careful omission. You still hadn't been able to work up the nerve to go into your grandmother's room. Things did need to be cleaned for staging photos to be taken, but by the time you got back from a long day at the clinic, you didn't have the strength.
Not to mention, how were you supposed explain to your boyfriend of three years that the reason you're avoiding the house is because you're essentially working for your ex? You couldn't even explain to yourself why going to the clinic saved you from an emotional spiral that would've inevitably kept you rooted to your bed, and you didn't feel like you should until you had a concrete answer.
One weekend with the clinic closed, the storm clouds of your mind finally began to clear. The haphazard boxes that you'd started to stage around the rooms didn't seem quite so insurmountable. Determination flared the moment your eyes opened to the now familiar slatted ceiling and soft light filtering through the blinds, like the soul of the house had finally awoken and said 'let's start healing now'.
The living room was an easier place to begin, and maybe if you came home to visible progress, you'd be more inclined to keep moving ahead. With a fresh cup of coffee in hand, you began with the bookshelf that stretched from the ceiling to the floor along half of the wall, filled to the brim with cookbooks, knickknacks, framed pictures, and the occasional phone book.
Three boxes marked 'donate', 'New York', and 'discard' followed you as you worked along the shelves, sneezing every so often as clouds of dust broke free. Just as you neared the top shelf closest to grandma's favorite arm chair, you spied a bundle of postcards tied with twine, wedged between two thick mystery novels. Once you got them free, a wave of emotion hit, paralyzing any more of the progress you would make today.
Dropping to the soft rug with your legs crossed you began flipping through them. Every single postcard you had ever sent your grandmother was saved in this bundle. Tangible evidence of everywhere you'd been able to explore now lay in front of you.
Lisbon, Edinburgh, Melbourne, Mumbai, Rio de Janeiro…
Reykjavík, Iceland. You ran a finger over the glossy image of a waterfall you'd seen in person, remembering the moment you got to cross it off your bucket list. Roughly a year after you left…the same time Bucky would've been -
You didn't allow yourself to finish that thought. Instead, you wrapped the postcards back up, gently set them in the New York box, and didn't sort anything else for the rest of the weekend.
That Thursday was what Doctor Hensley would call 'a hard luck kinda day'. Like no matter what happened, a disaster was around every corner. The culmination came when Bucky's last appointment ran longer than it should've. When he had to pause at the door of the exam room after some X-rays came back, and the news he had to deliver was going to be one of the most devastating things a pet owner had to hear.
Regrettably, you'd forgotten this part. How sometimes this job asked you to hold someone together while simultaneously tearing them apart. You sighed heavily, hearing a muffled cry from beyond the exam door. With no more appointments that evening, you locked the front door, dimmed the lights, and silenced the desk phone.
It never got easier, no matter how many times you'd witnessed it, but you would try your hardest to make the owner comfortable when they left.
And when they did, it was with a tear-stained face and a strangled goodbye, a leash twisted around their hands that no longer had a purpose. Bucky emerged a minute later, a look of pure devastation etched deeply into his face. "Can you - "
"I've already called the cremation facility." You answered before he had a chance to ask. "They'll be here in a half hour at most."
Bucky nodded, eyes downcast. "Thank you, bunny," he whispered before turning and making his way out of the back of the clinic. The nickname caught you off guard, touching a nerve that was connected directly to your heart. He hadn't called you that since it had slipped out when you first showed up at the clinic with Rosemary.
You left the reception desk, finding him sitting on the short concrete steps that led out of the back door. He looked smaller somehow, his shoulders sagging inwards like he'd forgotten why he'd wanted to get into this profession in the first place.
His eyes were glassy when he glanced sideways at you when you sat down on the steps beside him. Crystal clear and bluer than the sky after a rainstorm. Deciding that now was when the space between you narrowed into nothing in an attempt to comfort, your shoulder brushed his.
"They were one of the first clients that came in after I took over," Bucky whispered, looking down at his hands clasped between his knees. "I watched them grow up, and just…"
You knew no words would help at this moment in the grieving process, having heard all of the canned idioms people thought they should say when a soul passes on a few weeks ago at your grandmother's funeral. They still didn't help now if people tried to give them. Instead, your knuckles gently brushed against the back of his hand, ignoring the slight flare of anxiety and welling of emotion at the familiarity of it. When he didn't shrink back, your fingers worked in between his palms, freeing one of his hands from the other and putting yours in its place.
He didn't say anything more, but squeezed your hand a little tighter in thanks, while you both watched the sun set beyond the treeline.
That next morning, you lay in bed for longer than you meant to, replaying the scene from the evening before. Something had shifted the minute you decided to comfort Bucky with touch rather than words. Or maybe it had shifted before that, and your brain was only now catching up. Seeing each other for eight hours a day, five days a week so suddenly after a decade of silence was enough to close any distance you thought would still be here. You didn't want to examine that too closely, almost afraid of what it could mean.
So instead, you made coffee and went to the clinic like normal, pushing whatever feelings were rising back down where they belonged.
In the week that followed, Nick's texts took on a different edge. Like he was trying tactic after tactic to get you to hurry up and move on like you were a client of his he was trying to sway.
Nick [10:14 AM]
Seriously though, how long do you think this is going to take? I miss you.
You [11:58 AM]
She has a lot of stuff and I want to do this properly…I'll be back as soon as I can, I miss you too.
Nick [12:01 PM]
Well, my buddy knows a good real estate lawyer if you need a referral to see if this can get settled faster?
You [3:47 PM]
No, I think it'll be okay. There's really nothing to settle except some memories, and it's still a bit raw for me.
Nick [3:49 PM]
I just feel like I haven't properly talked to you in days…
You [6:07 PM]
I know, I'm sorry babe…I'll try to make it up to you soon.
Nick hadn't been completely wrong, when you thought about it. On your phone calls, you hadn't been fully present, and you knew it. But when the only thing he wanted to talk about was how the house was coming along and if you had emailed the realtor (you still hadn't), it became more of a performance to speak to him. Especially when you hadn't touched a single box since you had found the postcards and you still hadn't mentioned the clinic.
The realtor email was something that felt like a finality that you'd been putting off. Like the second you sent it, it was going to put into motion that you'd be leaving once again, and that there was going to be a deadline attached to your time here.
But being reminded over and over by Nick….something snapped in you during a midday lull.
The draft had been sitting in your outbox since the morning you had decided to return the jacket and check on Rosemary instead. You added a few extra sentences, that above all, whoever bought it had to have your full blessing before any papers would be signed. The 'woosh' sound that it had finally been sent felt almost like a cold bucket of water being dumped over your head.
It should have felt like relief. One less thing off your plate. But it felt like the opposite. Your sudden change in mood must've been clearly written on your face, or Bucky had simply relearned how to read you.
"Everything okay?" he asked gently, leaning against the reception desk.
"Yeah, just…just sent an email."
He didn't respond, only gave a single nod, and changed the subject. But the corners of his mouth tilted down like he already knew what the email could be and what it meant for him.
Anxiety began to loom once again as soon as the realtor responded with suggestions of open houses, staging times, and a listing price. You tried to ignore it, but it was like any excuses you afforded yourself had finally run dry. That weekend, you reached through the invisible barrier your mind had placed over your grandmother's bedroom and finally opened the door.
It looked perfectly preserved, like it had been waiting for her to come back. Her perfume was strongest in here, having been sealed in with you unable to open the door. The vintage-looking crystal bottle that held the perfume in question was sitting on the dresser, primed for use. With trembling fingers, you allowed yourself to pick up the bottle, running your thumb over the beveled edges, remembering how it was to sit in this room and watch her get ready for the day.
You sprayed a small amount on your inner wrist, the urge to bolt again for fresh air still prevalent, but not quite as urgent as it had been that very first day. And with it, every time you moved, the perfume wafted around you, like the spirit of your grandmother was indeed still here.
It helped you move through the room. Opening the closet to assess what needed to go where once the boxes were brought in, immediately placing her jewelry box in a makeshift 'New York' pile. Trying not to feel like you were snooping as you opened drawers that you would've never looked in if your grandmother were still around.
It was in the nightstand that you felt the beginning of an avalanche you didn't know how to stop.
Your grandmother's planner was in the top drawer. She always said she liked to make sure she crossed off every to do at night, and look at the day ahead when she woke up. Among the mundane things like doctor's appointments, planting schedules, and get-togethers she had planned, your name appeared every Sunday at 2 pm without fail. A weekly ritual you hadn't really forgotten, but had just chosen not to think too much on in fear of what it would do when you realized you no longer had it.
The Sunday after she passed, your name was underlined with a small note that said 'Ask her to come home.'
She never did ask you to come back. Instead, always packing a bag and making a trip to where you were in the world, and never once making you feel guilty for it. And even if she had asked, would you have brushed it off and said this place was behind you? Calling it a chapter of your life you'd already finished? Cradling the planner, you sank onto the bed, where you would often curl up against her side.
You still hadn't properly cried since you got the news and began funeral preparations. Always keeping your mind and hands busy…the clinic, filing, packing. Because falling apart normally meant that what had happened was a finality. And you hadn't been ready to let go of your grandmother in that way yet.
In the end, all it took was realizing that she wanted you to come back and that she was probably in some other plane of existence where people go when they leave, regretting that she never got to ask.
And in that moment, you lay against the pillows that had a lingering scent of her shampoo mingling with the borrowed perfume on your wrist and finally let the tears fall.
You cried until there was nothing left, whispering apologies to the room like your grandmother could hear you. Even though you knew she'd tell you there was nothing to apologize for, and that your journey would've wound up exactly where you were always supposed to be eventually.
That next morning felt lighter, once the weight of tears you'd been carrying had been shed. Only made brighter when you walked into the clinic to do your standard check-in on Rosemary. Her wounds had healed to the point that no more bandages were needed, and she had developed her own routine as soon as the lights of that room flicked on.
The moment she heard your voice, she hopped to the front of the hutch, having learned that your presence meant either food or attention. And she loved both.
"Oh, the rehab center called and said they'd be able to do an assessment on her next week," Bucky said from the doorway while you started to clean her cage. You could feel his eyes on you while you worked, quietly assessing your reaction to the news.
Nodding, you held your hand in the cage for a second longer than necessary, letting Rosemary nuzzle into your fingers before she moved to her food bowl. "I guess we'll see how she does," you smiled up at him before making your way to the reception desk to set up the files for the day's appointments.
It wasn't until you arrived home that evening, sinking onto the couch with a glass of wine, that you had the chance to finally check your phone. Your stomach dropping slightly at the number of notifications you had waiting.
Nick [9:04 AM]
Morning love <3
Any word from the realtor?
Nick [11:23 AM]
Do you know when you'll have a timeline?
Nick [3:21 PM]
I miss you…
I don't like that you're still there all by yourself.
Nick [4:10 PM]
What's actually going on over there?
Nick [5:39 PM]
When are you coming back?
Nick [6:08 PM]
Wait, did you extend your leave? How much longer is this going to take?
You [6:42 PM]
I did…I just couldn't balance that work with the house and wouldn't have been able to give it my all. My performance would've suffered.
Nick [6:44 PM]
OK…
Conflicted didn't even begin to cover the pressure in your chest. You truly didn't have an answer as to when you'd be back or how much longer it was going to take.
And the days were flying by at a breakneck speed to the point that you had become comfortable in the house and with your current routine. Gone were the days of slouching over a keyboard, staring at three different monitors while noises of the city hummed beyond your too-small apartment.
Here, there was…peace. A calm you didn't know you missed until you allowed yourself to stop and appreciate it. You weren't sure when you'd begun to miss the hustle and bustle of the city, or when the image of your apartment had become too fuzzy to remember.
Or when you stopped looking forward to the thought of leaving again.
The thing with making someone wait for your attention was that eventually…they became too big to ignore.
In the middle of sending out email reminders for appointments and vaccine schedules, the bell above the door jingled.
Not even looking up, you began your standard greeting. "Welcome in, we'll be right - "
"Finally, I've been looking all over for you."
Your fingers stalled on the keys, the voice familiar, yet didn't belong in this realm of your world because you hadn't invited him in yet.
Nick stood expectantly in the middle of the clinic, dressed like he'd caught the first flight out after a long day at the office, with the rich scent of his aftershave so out of place it made your head spin.
It took several beats for your brain to catch up with what your eyes were seeing, and that you should register the feeling of happiness of seeing your boyfriend after weeks of being apart. But you only felt confusion and a slight annoyance as to why he was here in the first place.
He cleared his throat, opening his arms further, obviously expecting a much warmer greeting.
"What….what are you doing here?" you asked, finally rounding the desk and returning his embrace.
"I missed you?" he phrased it like a question and that it was the most obvious answer before pressing a quick kiss to your lips. "I thought you could use some help so you could come home sooner."
Nick's hands landed on your shoulders to hold you at arm's length, performing a quiet assessment like he would an asset before making an offer. "And imagine my surprise when I didn't find you at your grandmother's house and," he paused to wave his hands around the space that felt smaller with him occupying it, "here."
His sharp gaze met yours, and then you realized he was waiting for you to explain what here was. "I'm just…helping out. They were short handed and - "
"You've been working here?" His dark eyebrows knit together in confusion. "Instead of - "
"Helping," you corrected quickly, placing your hands on his chest. "It's not - I really just needed somewhere to be that…wasn't the house."
"Love, you - "
That was the moment Bucky had seemingly decided to exit an exam room, cutting off Nick's sentence. "Hey, did the Bartons confirm or - oh."
It was like watching worlds collide in front of your eyes after the swinging of a door.
Realizing it was you who was in charge of introductions, you piped up to fill the awkward silence. "Oh, Bucky, this is my boyfriend, Nick. Nick that's - "
"Doctor Barnes," Bucky interrupted with the same tone you knew he reserved for difficult patients, extending a hand to Nick.
"Nick Fowler." The handshake was civil and brief, both men's smile not really meeting their eyes.
Bucky nodded. "I'll let you two catch up." And with that, he disappeared through the same door he'd just come out of.
Nick watched where he had disappeared for just a second longer than you thought necessary.
"Uhm, we can get lunch," you offered quickly, grabbing for your purse. "I'll show you the town."
Sitting in a booth at Frankie's, you quickly remembered that Nick always had loud opinions. And those were normally fine when dulled by the equally loud buzz of New York. But here, where things were quieter. And it made him stick out obnoxiously.
"It's…cute," was Nick's only praise while he barely looked up from his phone, food sitting untouched in front of him. "But I have some thoughts about the listing price of the house."
And that was all he said about a place that had been your solace for weeks. Cute. It shouldn't have landed wrong, it was a compliment after all. But he said it like it was an insult. Like he was a parent praising a child's finger painting.
That night, Nick had tried to convince you to go to his hotel. Stating something about it being weird to stay in the house and that he was already missing the amenities of the city. Strangely, he hadn't really said he missed you. You didn't push him to stay where he didn't want to be, but you felt the gap being widened between you and him even if this was the closest distance wise you had been in weeks.
The next morning, he showed up at the house bright and early, an easy smile on his face. "I figured I'd come help you pack," he offered, letting himself in without waiting to be invited. You knew he meant well, but it really was beginning to feel like he didn't want to be here longer than necessary while you were trying to get him to see the charm of this place.
"Nick, I have to go into the clinic today…"
"Oh, you're still - okay, um," he paused, hands on his hips as he looked around. "I'll go to the cafe then, I've got to get some work done anyway."
And that was that. His lips brushed yours in a rushed goodbye as he walked away, already talking on the phone to settle some sales pitch.
It wasn't until you stepped into the clinic that you realized you could breathe fully. Like you weren't walking on eggshells or performing or worried you were going to say the wrong thing. Bucky gave you a tight smile, but neither of you addressed the very clearly Nick shaped wedge that had surfaced. Instead, you worked around each other like normal. Letting the routine heal the staggering nerves that had for some reason started clawing at your insides.
That evening when Nick was helping you sort through a few boxes, taping them up and getting them ready to ship, he made the comment you'd been expecting. "You know you don't have to keep doing that. Volunteering for him."
"I know, but…I like it and the clinic does need help until someone fills that position."
Nick nodded like he understood, but you doubted he did.
The day of Rosemary's wildlife rehab assessment came, and when you mentioned it over breakfast to Nick, the only thing he managed to say was "So you'll be done at that clinic soon, then?" before directing the conversation to potential owners he had found for the house.
The foundation of your relationship with Nick continued to crack after that.
You watched with bated breath as the wildlife rehabilitator carefully took Rosemary out of her cage. He examined the now fully healed wounds where the fur was just beginning to grow back, jotting something down on a clipboard. Once she was set back down on the metal exam table, Rosemary hopped straight to you. She sat back on her haunches and looked at you expectantly, nose twitching with what you supposed was indignation of being handled by a stranger and to remind you that her breakfast was late.
The wildlife rehabilitator immediately confirmed what you'd probably already known. Rosemary had become too accustomed to humans and wouldn't survive on her own in the wild if released. You and Bucky exchanged a glance, a silent conversation happening with one single stare. "I"ll keep her," Bucky offered, watching you cradle Rosemary before gently putting her back in the safety of her cage.
Over dinner, you told Nick about your day, casually mentioning that Rosemary would be staying with Bucky for the foreseeable future.
"How well do you know him? Barnes," Nick asked, focusing on something on his fork instead of you.
You bristled only slightly, giving the bare minimum. "Pretty well, we went to the same high school, and worked at the clinic together."
He nodded, corners of his lips downturned, and didn't say more about Bucky. But did continue to make arrangements around 'the asset' as he had begun calling the house.
The cracks became fully noticeable and not something you thought you could fix when Nick showed up unannounced at the clinic the next day, offering to take you to lunch.
You had already agreed, standing to go let Bucky know that you'd be right back when he appeared from the back, head too buried in a file to notice Nick was there. "Hey bunny, did you get the Maximoffs their vaccine records they requested or - " he stopped as you stiffened. The nickname ringing through the clinic like a death knell. Ever since that evening on the steps after the euthanasia, he had tentatively begun calling you that again. And - a minor fault of yours - you let him. Allowing yourself to be swept away with the comfort it gave you.
To Nick's credit, he didn't cause a scene then and there, but there was a storm swirling behind the stare he shot at Bucky.
"I'm so sorry - didn't really realize - I'll - " and with that, Bucky disappeared to the back again, but the damage had well and truly been done. Maybe it had been done for a while, but you were trying to hold the foundation together with temporary band-aids.
Nick cleared his throat, giving you a once-over before saying, "I'll just see you tonight."
He came to the house that evening after your shift like he had been doing since he arrived. Normally, he picked up dinner, and had his laptop bag slung over his shoulder. But tonight, he was empty handed.
The door had barely shut before he said it. "Bunny."
You had been braced all day for this fight the second bunny slipped from Bucky's mouth. "It's just a nickname," you tried to play it off.
He folded his arms across his chest, head dropping like he was trying to solve some sort of puzzle. "Why did he call you that, though? That's not something you call an employee. Or volunteer or whatever the hell it is you're doing."
"It's just a silly nickname, it doesn't mean anything."
Nick shook his head briefly, still not meeting your eyes. "From when?"
He was backing you further and further into a corner. "High school," you answered.
"Did you date him?"
You looked up at the ceiling with a deep sigh. "Yep." There really was no sense in lying about it now.
"So you've been working for an ex-boyfriend for weeks and you didn't think that was something I needed to know?" his voice sharpened.
"I really didn't think you'd understand. We worked at the clinic together in high school and - "
"Bunny," he said again, cutting you off, something calculating behind his narrowing eyes once again. "Like your tattoo."
Your hand brushed over the spot on your hip almost like a shield, where you did indeed have a small bunny tattoo. No one had questioned it before, because they thought it was something you got on a silly whim. And yet here it was, the true meaning behind it being cracked open.
"How long have you had it?" he asked, eyes trained to where your hand lay over it.
You chewed your bottom lip. "A while."
His voice quieted. "Did you get it for him?"
Shutting your eyes, you nodded quickly.
"This is just," Nick shook his head again in disbelief, turning away from you. "You had a life, a real career. And you're talking about throwing it away to file paperwork for…for him."
"I came back for my grandmother. This is not about him," you clarified.
"We've been together two fucking years, and you never brought him up. Or this boring ass town. And yet all of a sudden, your grandma dies and you want to be back here? For what? Help me understand, because this all just seems like a dead end."
"See, that's the problem isn't it?" you asked, voice raising in pitch to match his. "You don't understand. All you've done since you got here is try to sell the house and belittle every fucking thing without trying to see it from my perspective first."
"I thought that's what you wanted! When you left you said you just needed to settle your grandma's estate and you'd be back."
"Maybe what I wanted changed!"
"Does that include me?"
You could hear a pin drop in the silence that followed. As you tried to reach for the most diplomatic answer. Though to Nick, your silence must have been answer enough, as you averted your eyes further. Because at this point, after watching him interact with a place you had fallen in love with again, you realized you couldn't be with someone who looked down on this town the way that he did.
"I see," he whispered. "Guess we're done then." he said it like he'd won a prize. Like he'd been expecting this and had been waiting for the culmination of it for longer than just today.
You gave a single nod, eyes looking down at the rug instead of him. "I guess so."
He scoffed, brushing past you to the front door. "I'll mail you your stuff so I don't inconvenience you by asking you to leave this place again."
And with a final door slam, rattling the pictures on the walls, he was gone. The silence he left behind deafening. But as finite and heavy as the silence felt, it was nothing compared to the weight that had been lifted off your shoulders. Of trying to live two separate lives at once while ignoring what felt like an inevitability.
Though losing a relationship in such an explosive way was never easy, and what you really needed before you spiraled into an uncontrollable mess was…
You picked up your car keys, hoping to go to the only place of comfort you had ever known.
You sat in the parking lot of the clinic longer than you probably meant to. Worried that you were disturbing Bucky after a long day. Probably made longer after your relationship with Nick silently imploded midday and you hadn't returned.
Soft light was filtering onto the flowerbeds from the curtained windows, so you at least knew he was awake and home. You approached the door like it might bite you, or tell you to get lost and that you no longer had claim to the comfort he brought you. But Bucky's words of 'if you ever need to be somewhere that isn't the house' echoed in your head. Sure he may have been talking about the clinic, but your mind had equated that to him as well, and how the thoughts quieted in his presence.
When you knocked, he opened the door not long after. Hair messy like he'd been running his hands through it repeatedly, dressed in a black t shirt that stretched across his broad shoulders, and dark sweatpants.
A look of wide eyed confusion flickered across his face while he took in your appearance, not all that different from the first time you dropped into the clinic unannounced.
"I…didn't know where else to go," you shrugged, looking down at your feet.
"That's okay, come in." he assured, opening the door wider and letting you pass.
The living room felt like the embodiment of him, warm and minimally decorated. Cozy in the same way a cup of coffee is during a fall rainstorm. A lamp was on in the corner next to a record player that was spinning something, but the needle had been lifted so no sound was coming out.
"Can I get you anything?" he offered, watching you orient yourself in his space.
Several things ran through your mind at once of what you wanted, each seemingly more and more unattainable. Sinking onto the couch with wobbly knees, wrapping your arms around your body like a shield. "A drink would be nice."
"What do you drink now?" he asked quietly. "Surely your tastes have changed from the dollar store boxed wine you used to sneak."
You mustered as close to a smile as you could , eyes watering at the fact that he remembered the rebellious teenager you used to be. "Whatever you're having is fine."
Bucky returned with two small tumblers of amber liquid, placing one in your hands. You murmured a thanks, turning the glass between your palms when you heard him fiddle with the record player in the corner of the room, lifting the needle back onto something soft and ethereal.
He settled beside you, as far away on the couch as he could, just enough to give you some space if you needed it.
"Nick and I broke up," you finally said, taking a large sip of what you deduced to be whiskey, the liquid immediately warming your chest.
Bucky nodded, slowly swirling his own glass in his hand like he had already known the second he opened the door to find you standing there. "I figured, after…my mess up earlier. Are you okay?"
"Not really," you huffed a dry chuckle, finishing the whiskey. "And it wasn't your fault."
The silence lingered like it had the first night the two of you went to the diner. But this wasn't awkward or loaded with expectations. Silence between you and Bucky had morphed over the past few weeks into something you found comforting. It's probably why you subconsciously decided to show up at his doorstep. Yet after everything that had transpired with Nick the past few days, it felt like something finally had to give and you needed to fill it.
"I owe you an apology," you sighed, leaning forward to put the glass on the table.
"You don't - "
"I do, Buck, I - please just let me," you turned towards him, something still guarded in his expression.
His eyes roamed your figure, sensing the determination behind your words and he sat back against the couch cushions. "Okay."
You stood, unable to say the hard parts while sitting still. Maybe that's why you weren't able to do it in the diner. There wasn't enough room to get your thoughts out.
"I'm sorry for never coming back like I promised," you started, beginning to walk back and forth in front of the couch where he sat. "I'm sorry I left in the first place, that was really fucking selfish, but - I should've at least called. Sent you a card or something on your birthday or the holidays instead of just - "
Your hands found your hips, eyes glaring at some nondescript spot in the dim room, before you began pacing again.
"I was in fucking…Iceland," you blurted, waving a hand at nothing. "When the fire happened. I figured it out a few weeks ago when I found some postcards I sent and - " you stopped, letting out a frustrated laugh. "I was standing in front of a waterfall I'd been dreaming about for years and you were - "
"Don't apologize for that," Bucky tried to interject, but the thread you were currently unraveling couldn't be stopped.
"I know you made peace with it, I know you know there's nothing that I could've done, but I would've…if grandma would've told me - " you stopped again, the thoughts now not coming out in the correct order, brain working faster than your mouth could move.
"She had 'ask her to come home' written in her planner for the Sunday after she died. She was going to ask me to come back. And - and she never got to. I don't know what had changed for her want to ask me that. And it just feels like - " Tears were now free falling, words tumbling out even faster.
"Hey," Bucky's voice finally broke through your own, and he was standing in front of you. "I know," he nodded. His hands raised settling on your shoulders first and then drifting up to cradle your face. "I know."
"No, that's - I don't - "
"It's okay, we're okay," he said, softer this time. Thumbs wiping away the tears that were collecting on your cheeks. His hands were a welcome weight on your skin. One familiar, one not, the cool touch of the prosthetic felt different, but not wrong. Still…him.
Bucky was now closer than he had ever been, your chest brushing his with each shuddering inhale. There was something unguarded in his expression when you opened your mouth to start the spiral again, but he shook his head, thumb brushing over your lower lip. "We've always been okay."
"You can't mean that. Not after I just…disappeared."
"We both agreed all those years ago that was best," he reminded you. "Might've been slightly misguided, but…"
His voice trailed off, something left lingering between you as he stepped closer, body pressed to yours completely. "I never stopped loving you, you know."
The words hung in the air. Suspended by the dreamlike reverb of whatever record he had chosen. Rendering you speechless after you had just spilled the contents of your heart.
A rush of memories flashed in your vision. The first time he had said 'I love you' in history class when you were barely sixteen, the times he whispered it against your hairline during school dances and beyond, the first time you'd given each other everything, the last time you had heard it in that diner booth before you started to travel…and yet, him saying it now had healed twenty-year-old you who thought you'd never get to hear those words from his lips again.
"You - " you thought about repeating it, but with everything that had happened since that morning, it was a snap decision to start acting on your feelings instead of continuing the spiral that had kept you frozen from your true desires for far too long.
Your own hands lifted to mirror his hold, cradling his jaw the way he cradled yours. His eyes hadn't stopped darting around your face ever since he had said those seven words. Like he was worried you were going to disappear when they finally registered in your brain.
And when they did, you didn't run like you had been recently whenever things got too weighted. Instead, you leaned forward, pressing your lips to his, allowing yourself to finally melt into him fully.
An explosion of time and fate, your mind had finally caught up to what you had been barrelling blindly toward for weeks now. His hands dropped from your face, arms wrapping tightly around your back like he planned to keep you there for all of eternity.
Bucky kissed you back, carefully at first, a sound of surprise escaping his throat like he couldn't believe what was happening. His lips tasted of whiskey, but underneath that, familiarity and comfort. Your arms wove around his neck, pressing your body to his, needing space to no longer exist between you.
The heat, the lingering tension of two people who had once given each other everything was rising steadily. His lips wandered from yours slowly, moving to your jaw, to your cheeks, tongue daring to erase the salt lines of your now dried tears. And you let him. Allowing him to explore the terrain of your features while your fingers twisted in the soft material of his shirt; an exploration of your own occurring along the muscles of his chest as he began to walk you backwards towards the couch.
"I've been wanting to kiss you since you walked into the clinic," he whispered, maybe more to himself than you as the backs of your knees hit the cushions. Each word was punctuated by a kiss somewhere on your skin, like his lips were magnetized and could not spend more than a second away.
A fire flared low in your belly, radiating out to your fingertips that had gotten bolder, taking the journey traveled so often underneath his shirt, tracing the ridges and dips of his skin. Once known completely by memory.
When you sank onto the plush couch, Bucky followed. His knees hit the rug, slotting himself between your thighs immediately. His mouth had moved to your neck, searching for the spots that used to leave you shaky and breathless, testing to see if they still did.
His hands radiated with unbridled tension as they trembled where they landed on your waist. Fingers dared to slide under your shirt, a sigh escaped from his mouth against your skin like he'd been waiting for this moment for far too long. "Can I?" he whispered in your ear, goosebumps erupting down your neck and arms.
You nodded quickly, leaning back so he could fling your shirt across the room. His mouth was back on you, restraint waning with each passing second, continuing a slow, almost agonizing descent. Moving over the swell of your breasts, down your sternum, teeth occasionally grazing your sensitive skin until his fingers dipped below the waistband of your jeans.
"C'mon bunny," he pleaded to the barrier of your jeans, fidgeting with the button and zipper. "Please let me, I've missed her."
Huffing a laugh, you ran a hand through his hair, reveling in the desperation behind his widened pupils and kiss swollen lips. "Go ahead," you chuckled, the sound quickly replaced by a sharp inhale when he pulled you to the edge of the couch.
A low, desperate but barely there growl sounded from between his teeth. With permission, his fingers made quick work sliding the denim off. Bucky's head lowered to continue working down your body. Until he saw the faded ink of your tattoo in the low light.
His jaw slackened on an inhale, like he wanted to say something, but words escaped him. He briefly shook his head instead, thumbs hooking into your panties to draw them down your legs.
Bucky's lips parted, tongue brushing over the tattoo briefly and then moved closer to your aching center. It was slightly frustrating, to say the least. He seemed to be taking his time, while your body had been missing his for ten years. "Bucky…" you whined softly, trying to use your thigh to push him where you needed him, but his arms were faster. Wrapping under your thighs so you couldn't move.
"When'd you get it?" he asked, not looking up, focused instead on your lower belly, kissing right above your clit.
"What?" Every one of your nerve endings was on edge and he wanted to talk about this now?
His finger tapped twice on the tattoo just as his tongue finally grazed your clit. Your body jolted, legs straining against his hold. "Please tell me when you got it," he pleaded again, voice deeper as his tongue ran through your folds once more.
"Uh - I - fuck…" you gritted out as he continued the slow, even movement. He may have forgotten how to exist in your presence momentarily, but there was no denying that he had never forgotten how to please you.
"C'mon bunny, tell me," his dark gaze lifted, meeting your glazed eyes while he continued to tease. A smirk raised the corners of his mouth, one thick finger circling your entrance, moving in tandem with the devastating pace he'd set.
"Two years after I -" you managed, but got cut off by a moan when that finger slid slowly in, lips sealing around your clit.
Bucky pulled back, leaning his head against your thigh. His blue eyes now dancing with amusement watching you squirm while his finger never ceased the slow curling motion that had your back arching for more. "After you left?" he finished for you.
He kissed along your inner thigh, stubble leaving a slight scratch in his wake while he moved back to the tattoo.
You nodded, reaching for him, to put his head back where it belonged between your thighs, but he resisted, batting your hands out of the way with his that wasn't slowly driving you to madness.
"Why?" he asked innocently, thumb now circling along the bundle of nerves with featherlight pressure.
You whined in frustration. "Do we really have to do this now?"
"Yeah, think we do. Bunny," he laughed softly against your skin, kissing the tattoo once more, and then turned his head, finally flattening his tongue along your clit. "Go on, now."
He finally stopped teasing, allowing your hands to fly to his hair in muscle memory. "I - I missed you," you stuttered out, the languid pace feeling more like he was savoring a feast.
"Mhm," he hummed, the vibrations of it making head fall back and thoughts to scatter.
"I was in - " you moaned something that might have been considered Bucky's name, "I don't remember, but I -" you stopped to cry out again. He pushed another finger in, like he thought the problem with you blanking on the story was that you weren't full enough of him.
"It was your birthday and I was sad I wasn't here for it, so I got it on a whim to make you feel closer to me while I traveled, and fuck please don't stop." The words spilled out in one breath as your thighs shook next to his ears.
Your answer seemingly satisfied his curiosity, gone was the slow pace he'd set replaced by a hunger that hadn't been satisfied in a decade. His name fell from the tip of your tongue like it had been perched there for the same amount of time, as sparks flared up your spine, release crashing over you in rocking waves.
His fingers and tongue slowed, withdrawing completely. His hands found your waist again, lips kissing the tattoo one more time before traveling back up to your mouth. Still trying to catch your breath, you draped your arms limply over his shoulders, returning the kiss. He groaned into your mouth, his own arms snaking around your middle to pull you against him.
"Bedroom?" he asked, voice sounding hopeful and wrecked while you were still hazy, mind fuzzy, savoring your own taste on his lips.
"Bedroom," you confirmed. With a deep grunt, he lifted you off the couch. Your legs locked around him on instinct while he staggered through the house until he nudged open the door to his bedroom. Turning, he sank onto the bed, situating you on his lap.
A slight impatience took over your movements, yanking the hem of his shirt over his head. It was then you caught the first glimpse of the extent of his injury, making you pause. A clean scar sat where his shoulder used to continue, where the black and gold prosthetic was attached. "Can - " you didn't finish the question, fingertips already ghosting over the raised edges. "Does - can - "
"I can feel things," he confirmed, letting you come to terms with this new part of him at your own pace. "Even if I couldn't, I don't think I could forget what you feel like."
You gently guided him down to lay on the bed, kissing his mouth first, then moving in your own familiar path down places you knew made him impatient. But not before pressing your lips against the scar tissue, offering an apology. Whispering it in your mind and transferring it from skin to skin.
Continuing down over the planes of his chest that had grown hair since you last visited them. Teeth gently sinking into the soft skin over hard muscle of his belly. A trail of coarser hair disappeared under the waistband. You didn't ask permission, as your thumbs dipped below, smiling against his skin at his sharp intake of breath. Permission was given in the form of his hips raising and you tugging his pants down.
His cock landed heavy against his stomach, flushed, hard, and leaking for you already. Mouth watering, having already wasted too much time not being here you leaned forward, tongue dragging slowly from the base to the tip.
Bucky tensed under your touch, letting out a strangled sound. Your eyes flicked up to his face, smiling while you wrapped a hand around his length, seeing the veins protrude from his neck and arm while trying to keep some form of composure. Your thumb swirled along the reddened tip, spreading the precum before your lips parted, pressing a kiss in the mess you made. A near involuntary moan left your throat at his taste.
He inhaled sharply again, his hand finding purchase on your head, brushing any stray hairs away from your face. With your tongue resting on the thick vein on the underside, you allowed your mouth to part, taking his length fully into your mouth.
He let out a dulcet grunt, fingers flexing against your scalp. "Oh fuck I've missed your mouth," he breathed while you slowly bobbed your head up and down on his cock. The taste of him had always been addictive to you, something you didn't realize how much you missed until you had gone without it for so long.
Bucky had been vocal, you remembered. But his voice was deeper now, taking on a sharper edge while you worked, sending heat rushing through you all over again. The second he hit the back of your throat, his hands moved, patting your arms and grabbing your chin with a gentle urgency. "Can't be finishing in your mouth like a teenager, sweetheart, hop up here. I need to feel you."
You laughed, letting him pull you back onto his lap. He adjusted, back hitting the headboard while your thighs landed on either side of his hips. There wasn't a preamble to be had anymore, one of his hands guiding your hips down, the other fisting his cock to line it up with your entrance.
Sinking down onto him felt like you were finally coming home. Like it was a missing piece of a puzzle you'd tried to solve in a different room. Your forehead dropped, leaning against his, allowing your body to adjust to the welcomed stretch.
"She feels just like I remember," Bucky whispered, hips bucking slightly like he couldn't help it. "Perfectly fucking made for me."
In such an intimate position, overwhelming pleasure and devotion trickled down your spine. Feeling the passion radiating from his embrace as his arms wove around your back, one warm resting on your shoulder, the other slightly cooler, holding you steady on your waist. You moved slowly, wanting to savor the sweetness of finally being where you were supposed to be for as long as possible. And he let you, allowing you to set the pace with only slight twitches of his cock when it dragged against a certain spot.
"Why didn't you ever come back?" he exhaled shakily, breath mingling with yours. You were sure he was rambling. Asking a question to the room and not really expecting an answer.
You hummed, already gasping broken moans quietly as your hips circled. "I didn't think you wanted to see me ever again." The answer honest, finally breaking free.
The hand on your shoulder drifted to the nape of your neck, coaxing you to look at him fully. "You've always been it for me, bunny." His blue eyes two crystalline pools of vulnerability, laying his emotions out raw and hoping that you wouldn't try to run again. "No matter how long you were gone.
"You've always been it for me too." You said, hands coming up to cradle his face. "I'm sorry it took me so long to realize it."
His palm guided you forward, mouths meeting again as the pace became less about savoring, more about letting everything go that you'd been holding back for a decade.
Whispered words of love, of devotion, of pleasure mixed with the sound of skin on skin. A new desperation took over. Bucky held your hips, slamming up over and over, his cock hitting the spot only he knew how to reach that had your mind blanking except for his name over and over again.
Breathless moans turned ragged, until your body clamped down on his, fingers dug into each other's skin like the fact that he wasn't buried as deep as he could be was close enough. You felt the twitch and throb of his cock as he held you against his body, the heady feeling of his own release right after yours spreading through your veins until you slumped forward into the safety of his embrace.
In the afterglow, Bucky held you close, sliding down the headboard to lay flat against the pillows. All the while peppering any skin he could with gentle kisses like it was impossible for him to not to have his lips on you. Like he was making sure you were actually here.
The only thought you could muster in that moment as sheets were pulled over your bodies and your brain was still soft around the edges was that this was what home should feel like. This was the feeling you had been chasing around the world, and it took you leaving first to realize it.
"I'm done running, I think," you whispered into the crook of Bucky's neck.
"Yeah?" even behind the tiredness of his voice, the hope that you were finally coming back here, back to him was unmistakable.
You nodded, fingers tracing over his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart that you had somehow never forgotten. The rhythm lulling you into a deep, even sleep.
One Year Later
A chipped butter yellow coffee cup with hand-painted daisies clinked down on the metal outdoor table next to a vase of fresh pink and white tulips. Steam curled into the early morning air as Bucky sat down in the patio chair next to yours.
"I found a good flight to Iceland, by the way," his voice broke through your drifting thoughts while you watched Rosemary happily hop around in her handmade hutch situated by the herb garden where she had been rescued. "We would leave right after the reception."
You smiled, twirling the ring around your left finger. Vacating your chair, you planted yourself on his lap instead. "Yeah? I can't wait for you to see it," you whispered against his lips.
Bucky's head tilted back to look at you fully. The rising sun catching the look of pure adoration and contentment in his eyes. With a slow smile spreading across his face, while he wrapped his arms further around your waist, "And I can't wait to be married to you."
Lore Drop (as promised): On August 21, 2025, I had to make the incredibly difficult and unexpected decision to put my soul dog to sleep. Anyone who's ever lost a pet knows that this emotional pain is really unlike any other. I still cry every day about him, and miss him more than I can really put into words. I named the diner in this fic after him as a small memento. Suffice it to say that when I spun the wheel we used to choose our Barbie Bucky careers and I got veterinarian, my first instinct was to channel the grief of losing an animal and having Veterinarian Bucky be there to make it better. I sincerely hope everyone enjoyed this story way more than whatever grief fest I almost dragged y'all into lmao. A massive, giant thank you to @miraclediviner again for putting this together. Another thank you to Stantastic for welcoming me in with open arms when they asked me to join. I really don't know where I'd be without any of y'all, and I'm so grateful to have all of you in my life.
warnings: 18+ NSFW, smut, friends with benefits, secret relationships, jealousy, blood and wounds, war, fluff, angst, light banter, mutual pining, slight chef!bob x reader moment, possessive sex, pussy pronouns, breeding kink
wordcount: 12.2k
a/n: based on this request. thank you sm for the suggestion because it helped me out of my slump. ohhh knight!bucky how i yearn for you
main masterlist
synopsis:
A maidservant’s only job is to tend to the princess's every whim. But despite the warnings of everyone around you, you can't help but fall for the one person you shouldn't, and that was the kingdom's trustiest knight and the princess’s sole protector—James Barnes.
Being the maidservant of a princess came with both its advantages and disadvantages.
You were constantly on your feet, up before the sun rose and down long after it set. Your body was in a permanent state of ache and strain from lifting heavy baskets of laundry up and down several flights of stairs, and your fingers were often raw from the needle poking through thick fabrics.
Princess Daphne always barked the wildest commands, keeping you and the other maidservants running around the palace to satisfy her every whim and desire.
It was hard, tedious work, but it gave you a roof over your head and a decent enough pay. And in this day and age, with the war against Sokovia, protection was the most important thing.
You could live in a beautiful home, but none of it mattered if Sokovian soldiers could barge past the kingdom gates at any moment with their weapons and horses at the ready.
With knights posted at every corner, the palace became your sanctuary.
There was one knight in particular who always seemed to linger near the maidservants’ chambers on the highest floor. A window sat right outside your room in the hallway, offering a clear view of the grounds where that same knight always stood on guard.
“James,” you greeted him with a sigh, still catching your breath from the long climb up the stairs.
He turned toward you, his usually tense, focused shoulders easing slightly at the sight of you.
A small, rare, and gentle smile tugged at the corners of his lips.
“You know—when it’s just me and you, you don’t have to call me James.”
A sheepish flush crept over your face as you approached him.
There was a true sense of family among the palace workers; the bond between the maidservants was like a sisterhood, and you were close with many of the chefs. Late at night, when the palace fell asleep, you and the other servants would gather at the kitchen tables to laugh and drink long past midnight.
The knights hardly ever got the time off or the leisure that you and the other maids enjoyed. But for Bucky, just seeing and talking to you was enough.
He stepped toward you, his heavy armor clinking with every movement. “Long day?”
“Mhm,” you mumbled tiredly.
Finally stripped away from the presence of royalty, you were free to speak as sluggishly and as improperly as you liked.
A soft exhale left Bucky’s nose. His right hand—flesh and human—came up to caress your cheek, while the other, metal and forged by the kingdom’s greatest blacksmith, cradled the other side of your face.
The touch was cold and made you shiver, but nonetheless, it was still Bucky.
Your Bucky.
“Sleepy girl,” he muttered, his thumb tracing your cheek as he stared down at you, strands of long, dark hair falling over his face. “You’ve been working so hard, haven’t you?”
A little whine left your mouth as you stepped closer into his space, letting yourself bask in his touch.
He chuckled softly, pulling you against his chest and pressing a gentle kiss to your temple.
“I should let you retreat to your bedchambers,” he spoke quietly. “But I don’t want to let you go. I haven’t seen you all day. Is that selfish of me?”
“Very selfish of you, James.”
“I told you not to call me that.”
You smiled, tilting your head back against his chest to look him in the eye. “Oh—I apologize, Bucky.” You teased.
Bucky grinned, his hand trailing down to your chin and lifting it, presenting your lips to him—the prize he’d been seeking all day.
“That’s my girl,” he mumbled.
Just as he leaned in to find the salvation he’d been starving for, the door to your bedchamber swung open. Your roommate, Yelena, poked her head out and scrunched her nose in disgust.
“Ew,” she dragged out childishly. “Is this what you knights usually do on your time off? Stick your tongue down an unassuming maidservant’s throat?”
Your face burned with embarrassment as Bucky pulled away, glaring daggers in Yelena’s direction.
He clicked his tongue. “Unassuming,” he repeated in a grumble.
He looked back down at you with a soft, disappointed sigh.
“I shall let you rest.” Using his gloved hand, he brought your fingers to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to the back of your palm. “Goodnight, maiden.”
Bucky stepped aside as you retreated toward your bedchambers. Yelena held the door open with her body, arms folded tightly across her chest as she continued to glare him down.
“Yelena,” you hissed at her quietly as you slipped inside, “stop.”
After throwing one last look over her shoulder at Bucky, Yelena finally pulled the door closed. Inside, your roommates and fellow maidservants were already settled for the night, snug and comfortable on their cots.
Natasha was brushing out her hair, a knowing, teasing glint in her eyes. “Did you have fun with soldier boy out there?”
You gasped softly at her direct question. “N-Nat—!”
“You know, soldier boy didn’t even spare us a glance when we walked up the stairs,” Wanda added, swinging her feet over the edge of her bed as she stood up. “It’s as if the knight recognizes the sound of your footsteps by heart.”
All eyes were on you, and you wished the floor would simply open up and swallow you whole to save you from the relentless teasing.
“You ladies are unbelievable—”
“Am I the only one who doesn’t find this funny in the slightest?” Yelena barked, a disapproving look on her face. She glared harshly at Nat, then Wanda, and finally you. “If word gets out that a maidservant is having an affair with a knight—no, the Sergeant himself—we’re all ruined!”
You frowned, undoing the ties in your hair as you made your way to your side of the room.
“I wouldn’t call it an affair,” you explained. “We haven’t put a title on…” You swallowed hard, twisting the hair tie between your fingers, “…this arrangement.”
Yelena ran a hand down her face. “That’s even worse!”
“Yelena, calm down,” Natasha cut in, glancing at you from her bed. “But as harsh as she's being, she is right.”
You kept your head down, trying to appear fixated on the hair ties and pins scattered across your dresser. You knew they were right—that being in any kind of relationship with one of the kingdom’s knights was nothing but trouble.
Especially when the knight in question was Sergeant Barnes—the very man entrusted to watch over the princess.
“You are in love,” Wanda pointed out gently from across the room. “We can see that. But you have to believe us—we’re only looking out for you.” She approached you, setting a gentle hand on your shoulder. “Falling in love with a knight will bring nothing but heartache.”
Words were just words until they were spoken by the right person. Yelena and Natasha could doubt you and Bucky all they wanted—but it was Wanda’s voice that truly made the realization sting.
Because Wanda was a maidservant who had fallen for a knight, just like you.
His name was Vision, and he had been felled in a battle against Sokovian soldiers. While they were deep in their secret affair, they had been told the same things over and over.
“You could get us all in trouble.”
“You’re only thinking for yourself.”
But before word could ever get out about Wanda and Vis, he passed away, leaving Wanda to grieve in total isolation.
She couldn’t even attend his funeral, and her name couldn’t be left in his will.
It pained you because, despite the sanctuary and comfort of living in the palace, you still wanted more. You wanted to be with the man who stood just outside your bedchambers.
“I know,” you said quietly, looking up at the other girls and forcing a smile to show them you were okay—that this was okay. “And I understand. I won’t let it come between us.”
It was a promise you had made countless times, but you knew you would always run back to him.
You were kneeling on the floor, adjusting the hem of Princess Daphne’s dress as her blue eyes bored into the large window to her right rather than the full body mirror in front of her.
“Is it just me, or are the roses in the garden unkempt?”
There was no one else in the room, so this was her attempt at a conversation. Most of these ended with her complaining about some minor issue, leaving you to simply nod in agreement.
You glanced over your shoulder, taking in the roses. They didn’t look out of place—maybe a few weeds were overgrown nearby, but nothing unruly.
“The roses do look unkempt these days, Your Royal Highness,” you agreed anyway, bringing your attention back to the skirts.
She hummed. “The gardener has been fruitless lately, has he not?”
“I believe Mister Alexei has been feeling unwell, Your Royal Highness,” you explained politely.
Princess Daphne raised a brow, looking down at you as you fluffed her skirt. “Whatever for?”
You pressed your lips together, glancing up to meet the princess’s eyes. “His wife passed away, Your Royal Highness.”
“I see,” she sighed softly. “That’s a shame.”
You stayed quiet as you continued to fix her dress. You finally rose from the floor, letting out a soft groan as you pulled yourself up. You smiled, admiring your own handiwork on the princess’s back, but her mind seemed preoccupied with something else.
“All finished—”
“I would like for you to tend the gardens today.”
You blinked at the sudden request. “I… the gardens?”
“You fill the vases with the most precious and stunning flowers every morning,” she said with a guileless smile. “So, I am entrusting you to tend the gardens.”
You truly didn’t know what to say.
You had never been ordered to work the grounds before—sure, you might have plucked a stray weed or offered a hand to Alexei when the days in the palace were slow and long, but never like this. That was what a gardener was for.
But knowing Princess Daphne, she couldn’t tell the difference between someone arranging a bouquet and someone maintaining an entire estate.
And you were nothing but a maidservant. How could you refuse, anyway?
“I… yes,” you bowed your head. “It will be done, Your Royal Highness.”
“Wonderful!” Princess Daphne beamed, clasping her gloved hands together as she stepped off the pedestal without your assistance. “I expect the roses to be vibrant and lively once I return from my promenade!”
Once Princess Daphne left her bedroom, you stayed behind to tidy the mess she had left in her wake. When the room was back in order, you made your way down to the gardens.
Outside, the sun was baking the garden soil. Your nostrils were immediately hit with the scent of dirt and blooming jasmines.
You managed to find a pair of old, oversized gardening gloves—likely Alexei’s—in a shed, and after tucking your skirts as best you could, you dropped to your knees before the rosebushes. The work started easy, clearing away small weeds and tossing them into a pile.
But then, a thick rooted weed tucked right at the base of a vibrant red rose was giving you a run for your money.
You gripped it tight, bracing your feet against the stone path, but it wouldn’t budge.
“Come on,” you hissed under your breath, your face heating up from both the sun and the exertion.
With a frustrated huff, you desperately heaved, putting your entire body weight into it. The root finally snapped, but the sudden lack of resistance sent you flying backward. You tumbled through the air like a fool, losing your balance until you landed with a dull thud right in the middle of a freshly turned hydrangea bed.
The Queen’s favorite flower.
You sat there for a moment, stunned, with your legs sprawled out and dirt smeared all over your… toosh.
The heavy clinking of metal hit the stone pavement, stalking closer and closer. Bucky loomed over you, his long hair catching the light from behind as his heavy cape draped over his shoulders. He didn’t offer a hand immediately, wanting to take in the sight of you sprawled out and dirty.
He rested his gloved hand on the hilt of his sword, a slow, devastatingly handsome grin spreading across his smug face.
“Don’t tell me the princess has you working her gardens now.”
You looked around to see if anyone else was near, but it was just him.
“Bucky,” you greeted with a breathless smile. “Don’t tell me the princess has you clearing the garden perimeters.”
Bucky’s grin widened as he extended a hand. When you took it, he lifted you from the dirt with ease.
“If the princess believes there are any threats out here, you can start by eradicating these,” you said, lifting the weed in your hand for emphasis.
He chuckled softly, reaching out to brush away a bit of soil that had caught in your hair.
“No, actually,” he said. “The princess sent for me. She wants me to accompany her on her promenade through town.”
“Oh,” your smile faded slightly. “I see.”
Bucky nodded, standing tall in his armor. All you could think about was how, while the man you loved was out strolling and shopping with the princess, you would be here in the dirt, working far beyond your usual station.
He tilted his head, leaning down slightly to get a better look at your expression. “Is there something troubling you?”
I don’t want you to promenade with the princess, even if it is your job.
I want you to stay here with me instead.
“Nothing,” you lied, forcing a smile as you clutched the weed tighter in your gloved hand. “It’s a lovely day outside for a promenade—I’m sure it’ll be a good change of pace from guarding the palace all day.”
Bucky furrowed his brow, noting the way your shoulders slightly slumped and how your voice had grown quiet. He reached out and caught your hand with his gloved one, running his thumb gently over your knuckles.
“The promenade won’t last forever,” he promised, his eyes searching yours. “And once you’ve finished tucking the Princess into bed, I’ll be posted near the gazebo south of the palace.”
He stepped even closer until his tall frame shadowed yours, the cold metal of his chest piece brushing against your bodice.
“Meet me there,” he whispered, his thumb still tracing slow, gentle circles over your knuckles. “Behind the willow trees. No other knights patrol that far down, and the sound of the water will drown out... everything else.”
Drown out everything else.
You knew exactly what he meant. This wasn’t the first time you two had snuck away past your working hours just to find comfort in each other’s arms.
Bucky’s gaze dropped to your lips for a quick, hungry second before he pulled back just slightly to maintain appearances.
“Tonight, after the moon hits its peak,” he murmured, quiet and low. “Don’t make me wait for you, sweetheart.”
Your heart thumped faster in your chest. Now, the only thing left to do was count the hours until you were in Bucky’s arms again—a thought that made the day drag on far slower, despite the mountains of work piled up before you.
“Tonight,” you repeated with a genuine smile. “I shall be there.”
Bucky smiled softly, satisfied with your answer. “Good—”
“Sergeant Barnes!” the King shouted from across the garden, where he stood by the shade.
Bucky’s body went stiff as a board, his hand instantly dropping from yours as he snapped into a formal salute. You quickly stepped away, desperately brushing the loose soil from your skirts and keeping your head bowed low.
“Your Majesty,” Bucky’s voice lacked the warmth he shared with you just a moment ago.
He moved toward the King, leaving you behind without another glance.
The King didn’t even spare a look at the messy hydrangeas or at you—the dirt smudged maidservant trembling beside them. His eyes were fixed solely on his most trusted knight.
“Sergeant, the Princess is ready for her departure,” the King lectured with authority. “Why are you lingering in the gardens when your charge is waiting at the carriage?”
“My apologies, Sire,” Bucky replied, a mask of stoicism and professionalism taking over him. “I was merely ensuring the perimeter was secure before leaving the grounds. I am headed to the stables now.”
The King gave a curt, stiff nod, though he didn’t look pleased. “See that you are. In these times, the Princess’s safety is paramount. We cannot have our best men distracted by trivialities.”
The King’s gaze flickered momentarily toward you—a cold, passing look that made you feel like nothing more than a piece of garden furniture—before he turned back to Bucky.
“Move along, Sergeant.”
“At once, Your Majesty,” Bucky said.
He turned to leave, but for a split second, while the King’s attention was turned away, Bucky’s gaze broke rank.
Over his shoulder, he stole one last look at you. You were already back on your knees, picking at the weeds, and Bucky’s heart clenched. He wished he could spend his days right next to you.
In his eyes, you shouldn’t be the one picking the flowers, but rather the one receiving them.
But all he could do for now was tear his gaze away and head for the stables.
With the Princess gone and the garden task finally completed, you followed the distant yet familiar sounds of clinking copper and boisterous laughter down into the belly of the palace.
The kitchens were a different world entirely. As soon as you pushed through the heavy doors, the scent of roasting garlic, fresh rosemary, and baking bread enveloped you—a welcome relief, even after being stuck outdoors in the fresh air all morning.
At the center of the room, several maidservants were perched on the edge of the prep tables, their legs swinging as they broke fresh bread and shared it with the kitchen crew.
“Look what the cat dragged in!” Yelena called out, her mouth half full of loaf. She beckoned you over with a sticky hand. “You look like you’ve been rolling in the trenches.”
Natasha looked up from where she was leaning against the counter, a cup of cider in her hand. “And it looks like you didn’t have your knight in shining armor to save you this time.”
“That’s because the Princess is strolling through town today, which means Sergeant Barnes is busy looking after her,” John, one of the cooks, mentioned from across the kitchen, not looking up from his work.
Wanda motioned for you to take the empty seat next to her. “Hours have passed, and the Princess should be returning soon. Eat now, unless you want to wait until midnight.”
Your stomach grumbled as you stepped deeper into the kitchen to claim your spot.
“I’m starving,” you groaned tiredly, sinking into the seat. “What are you all feasting on?” You smiled, taking in the mountain of bread crumbs and various loaves scattered across the table.
Yelena nodded toward the back of the kitchen. “Bob has been locked away by the ovens all morning. He calls it focaccia—” she lifted a piece of the bread, “apparently, it’s all the rage in the southern kingdoms.”
You glanced over to see Bob carefully dimpling the surface of a fresh loaf with his fingers, drizzling it with a generous amount of olive oil and pressing sprigs of rosemary into the dough.
“He’s even made a special companion for it,” John called over his shoulder, “a savory onion and fig jam.”
Wanda slid a small wooden bowl and a thick, airy slice of the bread toward you. The loaf was golden brown and glistening, pockmarked with herbs that smelled divine. The jam was a deep, thick purple that smelled of caramelized sugar.
“Try it,” Wanda encouraged. “It’s much better than the dry biscuits we usually get. He even added a bit of honey to the jam to cut the salt.”
You tore off a piece, dipped it into the jam, and took a bite. It had a satisfying, golden crunch on the outside but remained soft and pillowy on the inside.
“Mmm!” You beamed, eyes widening as you reached for another piece. “Bob—this is delicious! If you’ve been cooking like this all this time, how haven’t I had a taste until now?”
“It’s because you spend most of your free time with Sergeant Barnes rather than us,” Yelena teased, rolling her eyes, which earned her a sharp nudge in the shoulder from Wanda.
Across the kitchen, Bob’s ears turned a shade of pink that you noticed even from your seat.
“Thank you,” he mumbled, keeping his focus fixed on the dough in front of him. “I’ve been trying something new… so I’m glad you like it.”
“Aw, look at that,” Yelena teased, turning her entire body to stare at the baker. “You’ve got Bob all flustered now.”
John snickered, glancing at Bob, whose face only burned a deeper shade of red.
“Careful with that one, Bob,” he warned, pointing his whisk at you. “Getting too close to her will only get the kingdom’s mightiest soldier’s blade pressed against your throat.”
The entire kitchen barked in laughter at John’s comment. You should have been embarrassed by their relentless teasing, but instead, you just felt bad for Bob. The poor man was stammering in the corner, desperately trying to dismiss the attention.
“Hey now,” you called out, focaccia crumbs still clinging to your lips. “Don’t tease the guy. He’s the only one keeping you all fed.”
Laughter still hung in the air, and for a few minutes—away from the pressure of your chores—you were all just a group of friends rather than a squadron of dirty servants.
The enjoyment continued until the melodic tolling of the courtyard bells rang out. In an instant, as if a switch had flipped inside everyone’s head, the boisterous noise died. Everyone scrambled to their feet to collect themselves.
“The promenade is over,” Natasha said, setting her cider down and wiping her hands on her apron. “Back upstairs, girls. Princess Daphne will be expecting us.”
“I didn’t even finish my loaf!” Yelena’s complaints were ignored by everyone else as they hurried toward the doors.
Wanda stood up, giving your arm a gentle squeeze. “The Princess will likely want a bath and a change of clothes immediately. Go on—I’ll change her sheets so they’re ready for her to lie down.”
You swallowed your barely chewed bite in one hard gulp. “Right. I’m going.”
On your way to greet the Princess, you collected a set of freshly pressed towels along with various soaps and aromatic oils for her bath.
You scrambled up several flights of stairs, lungs burning, hoping to reach her chambers before she did.
With your heart beating wildly in your eardrums, you rounded the corner and stopped short.
Princess Daphne was already lingering at the entrance of her bedroom, but she wasn’t alone.
Bucky was standing right beside her.
And against your better judgment, you pressed yourself into the shadows of the wall, gripping the wicker basket tight as you listened in.
“My knightly duties do not require me to escort you all the way to your chambers, Your Royal Highness,” Bucky said, his tone formal and polite.
Princess Daphne giggled, pressing a gloved hand to her mouth as she flushed beneath the knight’s gaze.
“Please, when it is just us, you must call me Daphne,” she sighed, her voice drifting into something dreamlike. “Just as I shall call you Bucky.”
You felt your heart drop.
As far as you knew, you were the only one who called him Bucky. It was a name he had reserved for the people closest to him. You knew he had served the palace long before you arrived, but the reminder of the closeness he shared with her was a sting that never failed to make your heart ache.
“Thank you for accompanying me on my stroll through town, Bucky,” Princess Daphne continued, as you winced from behind the corner.
“Of course,” Bucky nodded politely. “With the rising tensions against the Sokovians, it is my duty to put your safety above all else.”
“You always make the gloomy days brighter and the dangers feel so much smaller,” she smiled.
“I am glad to hear that, Your Royal Highness,” Bucky hummed, his gaze flickering to the door of her bedchambers. “Shall I take my leave, then?”
The Princess frowned, her expression turning pouty. “I told you to call me Daphne.” She looked around with a sigh. “And no need—it seems my maidservant has yet to arrive—”
Your feet moved before you could think, and you rounded the corner, acting as if you had just arrived and hadn’t been eavesdropping the entire time.
“I apologize for the wait, Your Royal Highness,” you said, bowing politely with the basket still in your hands. “I made sure the towels were freshly warmed for your arrival. I can prepare your bath right away, if you’re ready.”
Bucky turned toward you, his eyes widening slightly in surprise.
“Oh,” Princess Daphne was surprised, her hands folding primly at the front of her dress. “I would like that very much.”
You stood there for a moment with a polite, awkward smile, waiting for the Princess to grant you permission to enter, but she didn’t.
So instead, the three of you remained in a tense, silent standoff.
Bucky’s eyes were fixed on you. His posture was stiff, his gloved hands tightening at his sides as if he were fighting the urge to reach out.
Princess Daphne cleared her throat, glancing at Bucky. “You are dismissed, Sergeant Barnes.”
He didn’t reply immediately—not until the Princess called for him once more, her voice sharper this time. “Sergeant?”
“I… my apologies,” Bucky said, finally turning to face her. He bowed low. “Your Royal Highness.”
He glanced at you, offering nothing more than a short, professional nod. For someone of his rank, it wasn’t customary to acknowledge a maidservant, but as he walked past you, you felt the subtle, intentional graze of his glove against your skirt.
The ghost of his touch made the hair on your arms stand up.
“The bath, then?” Princess Daphne spoke up, snapping you back to attention.
“Yes—of course, Your Royal Highness,” you stammered, scrambling to recover your composure.
You pushed into her bedchambers and moved toward the bathing area, immediately drawing the steaming water.
The Princess followed close behind, peeling off her silk gloves. She didn’t wait for you to ask about her day, as she was already glowing with excitement to recount her afternoon.
“He truly is a marvel, isn’t he?” she sighed, watching the water swirl into the marble basin. “The way the villagers part for him—he has such a presence. Or perhaps it was simply because he was standing beside me. And yet, he was so attentive today. He held my parasol the entire time we crossed the market square without me even having to ask.”
You kept your back to her, focusing on the steam radiating off the tub as your jaw clenched at the image.
“He is a man very dedicated to his duties, My Lady,” you managed to say.
“It’s more than duty,” she countered, her voice drifting into a dreamy haze. “When we stopped by the fountain, he told me that my safety was the only thing on his mind.”
Steam continued to fill the room as the tub rose with nearly scorching water.
You knew, deep down, that Bucky only said those things because it was his job—just as your job was to nod and smile at every word the Princess spoke. But a selfish part of you was seething with jealousy at the thought of anyone else walking by his side.
“Do you think he finds me charming?”
Your eyes widened and the vial of bath oil slipped from your hand, splashing more of the aroma into the water than intended. You turned to look at her, the word “I—” dying on your lips.
“It’s so hard to tell with men like him,” she continued, unlacing her bodice with a sigh. “So stoic. So guarded. But I saw the way he looked at me today!”
There was so much you wanted to say, but the words withered at the sight of her.
Having served her for so long, she had grown comfortable being nearly bare in your presence. As she let her hair fall—the silky blonde locks you had pinned so carefully earlier—her slender, graceful frame made your heart ache.
She was so beautiful, and standing in the same room as someone as beautiful as Princess Daphne felt like a cruel insult to your own heart.
But that was okay, because you would see him tonight. Unlike Princess Daphne, you would see the real version of him—the version of Bucky who gave you nothing but his warmth and his heart.
So, until then, you simply bit your tongue and nodded with a hollow smile.
“It is impossible not to find you charming, Your Royal Highness.”
The night crept on, and while the other maidservants were long asleep, you slipped out of the bedchambers. With quiet, tiptoeing steps, you made your way down the stairs and snuck out the back of the palace toward the gazebo where you and Bucky had agreed to meet.
The night air was cold and breezy, the shawl around your shoulders fluttering in the wind as you treaded through the grass.
Bucky was right—no guards were posted on this side of the palace.
As you sat down, your eyes drifted to the left. Tucked away behind the trees and bushes stood the small cabin where the kitchen crew rested. The lights were out, meaning the cooks were likely all in bed.
While you waited, the only things keeping you company were the hooting of owls and the gentle chirping of crickets.
By now, it was well past midnight, and your earlier excitement was slowly fading into exhaustion.
You found yourself yawning every few seconds, your eyelids growing heavier with each passing minute.
Had Bucky been caught up in other duties?
Had he forgotten?
Or worse—was everything Princess Daphne said true?
Had he realized his heart belonged elsewhere?
An hour had passed, and your heart began to ache the longer you sat alone without a trace of him.
You knew you had to be up early for your morning duties, so with a tired sigh, you pushed yourself off the bench and pulled your shawl tight.
As you stepped down from the gazebo, the sound of crunching grass echoed in the distance. Your eyes snapped open, your heart leaping at the possibility of him finally appearing.
But as the figure stepped into the faint, warm light of the gazebo, your shoulders deflated.
“Bob?” you asked, your voice sounding more disappointed than you intended. “What are you doing out here?”
Bob blinked, looking just as confused as you were. “I stayed behind in the kitchen,” he said, hitching a thumb over his shoulder. “I wanted to perfect the focaccia.” He lifted the loaf, which was carefully wrapped in a white cloth.
He stepped closer into the light, his eyes trailing you up and down. He took note of your thin sleeping gown with nothing but a flimsy shawl to cover the rest of you. Your face warmed in embarrassment as you wrapped the shawl tighter around you, though it salvaged nothing.
“What are you doing out here?” Bob returned the question.
“I’m… um—waiting for someone,” you replied meekly.
Bob glanced around, the crickets filling in the already awkward and suffocating silence when he found no one else near.
“… For how long?”
“I haven’t been out here long,” you lied, only finding yourself more embarrassed being caught in this predicament. “I was just starting to head back, actually.”
Bob pressed his lips together as if he wanted to say something. He knew you weren’t telling the truth, and any worker within the palace could piece two and two together.
Instead of leaving you be, he stepped up into the gazebo to meet you and lifted the loaf in his hands, changing the subject for your comfort.
“I think this is the best loaf I’ve made,” he said, unwrapping the cloth and revealing the gold-crusted focaccia with herbs laced at the top. “Want to share it with me?”
You looked back toward the palace. You really should have gone back inside, knowing just how early you’d have to rise in a few hours to tend to the Princess.
But at the thought of returning to your cold, lonely cot with nothing but the empty promise Bucky left behind, the warmth of a friend didn’t sound bad at all.
“Just for a moment,” you whispered, and Bob smiled gently.
You sat back down on the wooden bench, and Bob settled beside you, careful to maintain a respectful distance. He carefully tore the focaccia in half, the crust crackling over the chirping of the crickets.
“Here,” he said softly, handing you the larger piece. “It’s still warm.”
You took the piece in your hands and bit into it—no jam this time, but the taste was even better than the one you had earlier that day in the kitchen.
It was delicious, and you didn’t even need to shower him with compliments. The satisfied look on your face told Bob everything he needed to know. He smiled, his expression warming as he bit into his own piece.
For a moment, you two just sat there in silence. The only sounds were the crunching of bread and the wind rustling the leaves in the trees. Bob didn’t push for answers or smother you with questions like the girls usually did back in your chambers.
You two just sat there, enjoying each other’s company under the stars.
“You’re an incredible cook, Bob,” you said, gazing up at the dark sky. “I wish people outside of the palace could taste this—it’s exquisite.”
Bob wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his shoulders hunched modestly.
“I told myself that when the war is over, I want to open my own bakery one day.” He looked up at the sky with you. “It’s always been my dream.”
You glanced at Bob. He had such a faraway look in his eyes that your heart could only ache for him.
Sokovian soldiers had been sweeping through the streets, stripping people from their families and tearing down local businesses—wreaking havoc everywhere they went. For the lucky few handselected to work in the comfort of the palace, it was like a dream compared to the world outside.
But even though many workers had aspirations beyond these stone walls, they knew deep down that safety came before all else.
“Well, when you do open up your shop,” you said, nudging him in the shoulder with a reassuring smile, “I’ll be the first one in line.”
Bob smiled at you. “What about you? What do you want to do when the war is over? Will you stay here at the palace?”
“Does anyone actually want to stay at the palace?” you joked, and he chuckled softly.
“No. I want what any other woman would want. I want to get married, have my own family—” Your smile faded slightly at the thought. “Maybe a cottage somewhere deep in the forest, by a river. A place where my husband can go hunting while I stay home with the baby.”
But even if the war ended tomorrow, you knew that future was a ghost.
Even if everything went exactly as planned, the only person you could imagine sharing that life with was Bucky—and he was the Sergeant of the Howling Commandos. They were the elite, the knights specifically curated to guard and protect the royal family at all costs.
He could never leave his post, even if he wanted to.
Bob knew it, too. It was why he didn’t press you with more questions. He simply rested a hand on your shoulder, offering a silent sympathy.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
You forced a smile. “It’s okay.”
Another silence settled between you, the crickets filling the space before Bob sucked in a breath to continue.
“I know you hear this plenty of times,” he started gently, “but you deserve so much better than—”
“Hey!”
A rough voice shouted from across the yard, followed by the sound of heavy boots thumping frantically against the grass. Both of you snapped your heads up, and your breath hitched at the sight of Bucky.
He looked as though he hadn’t slept in days.
He looked angry, his entire body tense, and his left hand—the cold metal of his prosthetic—rested firmly over the hilt of his sword.
Bob scrambled to his feet, hands raised in surrender to show he meant no harm. You quickly stood up beside him.
“James—”
“What the hell are you doing past your post at this hour?” Bucky seethed. He didn’t even look at you—his icy glare was focused entirely on Bob and Bob only.
“I—I was just about to head to bed, sir,” Bob stammered, his hands still raised. “I was just finishing up some work in the kitchen and—”
“Bullshit,” Bucky spat, stepping into the faint light of the gazebo. “All I see is a mere cook who has forgotten his place—a foolish boy who thinks he’s entitled to roam the grounds after dark. You’re a cook, Reynolds. Your duty begins and ends at the stove.”
You winced at his cruelty. You knew Bucky could be rough—it was how he had earned his rank, but Bob didn’t deserve this.
“James, calm down—”
“You will not tell me to calm down, for you are interloping on palace grounds as well,” Bucky snapped, cutting you off so harshly that you flinched.
“I meant no disrespect, sir,” Bob whispered, his voice trembling.
“Then get out of my sight before I decide your presence here is a threat,” Bucky threatened, his hand tightening on the hilt of his sword. “Back to your hole, baker. Now.”
“Y-yes, sir!”
Bob scrambled down the steps of the gazebo, sparing one last, sympathetic glance over his shoulder before retreating toward the dark cabins. Bucky watched him with a tense jaw, his face twisted in disdain until Bob reached the door and shut it behind him.
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Bucky had never spoken to you like that.
Usually, your meetings were filled with the hushed, gentle tones he shared with no one else. But tonight, he spoke to you as if you were just another servant—and that hurt more than his shouting. Instead of running to him for a hug as you usually did, you stayed rooted to the floor of the gazebo, your body tense, unsure of what he would do next.
Bucky slowly turned back to you, his eyes piercing, cold, and completely unwelcoming.
He stepped fully into the gazebo, his gaze trailing down your thin nightgown before landing on the white cloth Bob had left behind on the bench. He picked it up slowly, examining it as if it were evidence of a crime.
“You broke bread with the boy?”
You didn’t dare to speak.
“Answer me,” Bucky commanded.
“I waited for you,” you said instead, your voice trembling.
Bucky fell silent, the cloth in his hands lowering at your quiet admission. For a moment, it seemed as though he had been snapped out of his defensive daze, and you took the opportunity to continue.
“I waited for over an hour,” you said, wrapping the shawl tighter around your body defensively. “I have to rise in merely four hours—you know that. And yet...” Your voice started to shake, your face scrunching as you tried to will away tears. “You stood me up.”
Bucky parted his lips to speak, but you breezed right through him.
“Not only that—but you treated Bob with such blatant disrespect! He’s my friend, and he did nothing but keep me company and feed me!”
Bucky’s eyebrow twitched at that, his voice coming out pettier than he intended. “I didn’t realize that kid was of such importance to you.”
You blinked, your face scrunching at his words. “Don’t tell me,” you scoffed lightly in disbelief. “Are you jealous?”
He made a face. He could deny it all he wanted, but the way his jaw set told you the truth.
“I am many things,” he said stiffly. “But jealous? I am not.”
You crossed your arms over your chest, shaking your head. “Oh, I’m sure.”
“And even if I was,” Bucky stepped closer, invading your space until he was looking down at you. You made no effort to move, standing your ground despite the height difference. “Is that so wrong?”
Your brows furrowed. “Funny for you to say. I heard you had an excellent time being out with the Princess today.”
Bucky’s face became a mask of confusion. “What?”
“About how charming you were,” you said with bitterness. “She said you held her parasol and that you looked at her… differently.”
Bucky let out a dry, humorless rasp of a laugh, running his gloved right hand through his hair.
“Looking at her differently? That’s unbelievable,” he scoffed. “And you know it is my job to do as I am told.” He took another step, his shadow completely looming over you. “And charming, is it? What do you think? Am I charming?”
He was taunting you now, but you refused to let him distract you from the fact that he had stood you up.
“You’re ridiculous, James,” you spat. Your hands tightened on your shawl as you tried to push past him, but he grabbed your arm firmly enough to hold you in place.
“Wait—” he sighed, his shoulders finally easing as the defensive walls came down. “I’m sorry. It was never my intention to stand you up—I swear it.”
He squeezed your arm gently—a silent plea for you to hear him out.
“I was with the General,” he spoke, his voice getting quieter. “The meeting… it went on for hours. There were maps, ledgers, reports from the front. It’s Sokovia. The news is bad, and the King is panicked.”
He met your eyes, and you could finally see the raw regret and exhaustion behind them. “The Sokovian line is breaking through the southern pass. It’s getting worse, and the General is scrambled. He spent three hours arguing over troop placements and supply routes—I… I couldn’t just walk out.”
Bucky tugged on your arm gently, guiding you to face him. His left hand moved to your chin, his thumb stroking your cheek to keep your focus on him as he explained.
“I was supposed to leave tonight. Right after the meeting adjourned, I was ordered on a scouting mission to the front lines. I wouldn’t have even had time to find you to say goodbye.”
Bucky was leaving?
You sucked in a sharp breath, a wave of regret washing over you for being so quick with your accusations.
“But… you’re still here,” you whispered, your eyes searching his.
“I am,” he nodded, tilting his head down to stay in your line of sight. “Rogers and Wilson… they volunteered to take the mission in my stead. They’re out there right now, just so I could be here—with you.”
Bucky’s hands trailed from your face down to your arms, eventually finding your hands and cradling them in his larger palms. He brought your hands up to his face and leaned down, pressing soft, gentle kisses to your knuckles.
“There is never a moment where I’m not thinking of you, and God—the thought of you waiting for me this entire time… I can’t even fathom it,” his voice broke as he pressed another kiss to your skin, looking up at you through his lashes. “I swear to you—I would never leave you alone.”
He stood tall again, releasing one of your hands while his other crept up to tangle in the hair at the nape of your neck. He tilted your head back slightly, holding your gaze under the dim gazebo light.
“And as for that outburst earlier…” He exhaled, the sharp edges of his pride finally softening into embarrassment. “I’m sorry. I’ve been on edge, is all. I never meant to take it out on you, my dear.”
Bucky didn’t wait for verbal forgiveness—he took it from the silence and the way you gazed up at him, your eyes softening in the moonlight.
He leaned in, his breath warm against your chilled skin before his lips finally met yours. It was a soft, yet desperate press, a low groan escaping him at the feeling of your warmth against his own.
When he pulled back, it was only to pepper kisses across your forehead, his eyes closed tight as if he were memorizing every inch of you.
“You are a sight for sore eyes,” he murmured against your skin, his voice a gravelly, broken thing.
He kissed your temple, then the tip of your nose, his hands sliding from your hair down to the small of your back to pull you flush against his chest, you shivered from the cold armor. “A beautiful, beautiful sight.”
You sighed softly, your body unable to help but crave his touch—to crave him.
And all Bucky wanted to do was make love to you.
He stepped back, his eyes never leaving yours as he began to remove his armor pieces one by one. You moved to take your shawl off, setting it on the bench behind you as you reached for the straps of your dress.
“No,” Bucky cut you off coldly. “Keep it on. I want to tear through it myself.”
You swallowed hard, your face warming as you obeyed. You stood there, watching him as he watched you with hungry eyes. As he stripped away the layers of leather and steel, his breathing grew heavier. When he reached his belt, his fingers fumbled clumsily for a moment before he stepped back into your space.
He closed the distance again, his lips trailing down the line of your jaw to the sensitive skin of your neck. You let out a shaky breath, your head tilting back to give him better access as his mouth explored you.
“I’ve missed you,” he mumbled, the words muffled against your throat. He began to suckle gently, marking you between words. “God, I’ve missed you so much it hurts.”
“I’ve missed you so much too, Bucky,” you moaned softly. “So much.”
Bucky groaned against your skin, satisfied by your confession as his touches grew needier. His metal hand trembled slightly as it gripped your waist, pulling you so close there wasn’t any space left between you.
He whispered sweet nothings into the crook of your neck, each sentence making you writhe beneath him. “You smell so good.” “You’re so soft.” “So pretty.”
Bucky’s hands were everywhere all at once, a contrast of heat and cold as he explored the curves he had spent all day dreaming about. His flesh hand groped at your hip while his metal fingers seared through the thin fabric of your nightgown, mapping out the expanse of your lower back.
“I’m sorry,” he rasped against your ear. “I’m so sorry for keeping you waiting, my dear. I’m going to make it up to you. I promise.”
Your heart raced as his lips found yours again. His tongue pushed past, sweeping against yours as he kissed you hungrily.
Now stripped of his armor, Bucky pressed his hips forward, and you gasped softly at the feel of him—his cock, thick and hard, straining against his pants as it poked against your lower belly.
Your body already felt so empty without him. There was a building ache between your legs that only he could remedy.
“Bucky,” you sighed softly against his mouth. “I need you.”
“I know, my dear,” Bucky groaned, rolling his hips against your stomach once more, letting you feel just how hard he was for you. “You don’t know how badly I needed you today.”
His hands wandered down to grope your bottom through your dress, bunching the fabric in his fists as he lifted it up past the curve of your ass to squeeze you more.
“Missed your legs wrapped tight around me,” he breathed. “Missed you moaning my name.”
Bucky couldn’t wait any longer.
His strong arms wrapped tight around your body, picking you up and laying you gently on the floor of the gazebo. He spread your legs, nestling himself between them. With a rough hand, he found the hem of your skirt and lifted it past your thighs, exposing your undergarments. He impatiently found the waistband, tugging them down roughly past your legs to expose you to the cool night air and his hungry gaze.
“Fuck,” he muttered, his tongue darting out to wet his lips at the sight of your glistening cunt—already puffy and begging for him, and he hadn’t even put it in yet.
“She missed me, hasn’t she?” he hummed, staring at your pussy as he began palming himself over his pants. He felt pre-cum trickle at the tip, staining the front of his trousers. “Bet I can just slide in so easily. She wouldn’t even put up a fight.”
You watched, breathless, as Bucky pulled himself out of his pants. His cock sprang forth, so thick and so heavy, as pre-cum dripped from the tip and onto the floor.
“Christ,” you said, voicing your thoughts out loud.
Bucky grinned, his flesh hand gripping the shaft as he pumped himself slow and steady. “When was the last time we fucked, sweetheart?”
You swallowed hard, trying to mask your embarrassment at his vulgar words. “I… I don’t know. Nine… ten days ago?”
Bucky hummed. “Haven’t fucked you for a little over a week and you’re already seeking attention from other men, aren’t you?”
Your eyes widened at his words, and you couldn’t help a small, huffing laugh. He really was jealous—and that jealousy only seemed to spur him on, because his cock twitched in his hand as he stroked himself.
“Gotta claim you again,” he mumbled so quietly, it was like he was speaking to himself. “Gotta remind you who you belong to.”
With his metal hand bracing his weight over you, he rubbed his cock up and down your cunt, soaking himself in your juices. Your back arched off the floor, your hips wiggling for more of him, but Bucky only clicked his tongue.
“What an eager little thing,” he taunted.
“Bucky,” you whined, wiggling your hips until your entrance caught his tip. “Pl-please...”
Bucky groaned, squeezing his eyes shut as he felt your warm, wet opening catch around his sensitive tip.
He was so hard it was nearly painful. He had planned to take his time and savor this moment—but with the war in the back of his mind, he felt a desperate, driving need to fuck you as hard and as much as he could while he was still alive.
With a low growl, his hand found the back of your thigh, hiking it up and spreading you wide. With half of his tip already inside, he adjusted himself so he could sink even deeper.
“Goddamn,” he breathed, his muscles straining with the effort it took not to fuck you into the floor right then and there. “Just as I thought—so fucking wet… can just… slide right in.”
You hissed, your hands finding Bucky’s broad, bare back and clawing at the muscle as his thick cock stretched you out with each passing thrust. You could feel him throbbing deep inside you—searingly hot as your cunt welcomed him.
“Mine,” Bucky gritted through clenched teeth as you bottomed out against his pelvis, sheathing him completely.
To him, the feeling of your pussy was like a much needed, warm, tight hug after a long, stressful day.
“Ten days,” he breathed against your ear. “Ten fucking days—don’t think I’m gonna last long inside you, baby.”
“Don’t care,” you mumbled, wrapping your legs tight around his waist. “I just want to feel you, Bucky. Every inch of you.”
Bucky groaned, his flesh hand sliding up to your neck and applying pressure. He held your gaze, his eyes dark and blown out with lust, as he began rocking his hips back and forth. He moved slowly and sensually, forcing you to feel every swollen pulsing ridge and vein.
The sound of your pussy squelching around him filled the quiet gazebo. The mating press position made you feel utterly helpless—completely and devastingly stuffed.
“Oh my—Buck, too… too much.”
“Too much?” he repeated raspily, staring deep into your eyes as he continued to fuck you slow. “But sweetheart, this is me taking my time with you. You’ve taken harder.”
“I know,” you winced, your legs squeezing him tighter. “It’s just been… ten days—”
“Ten days and you’ve already gotten so tight for me again,” he murmured, his pace increasing. “Means you haven't been fucking anyone else.”
Your face burned as you stammered, “Of course not—”
The words that left your lips made Bucky’s heart soar and his cock pulse.
With a sharp exhale, he increased the pace. His thrusts slapped harder and deeper, making you bounce against the floor as you clung to him. The wet, vulgar sound of his skin hitting yours echoed under the gazebo roof, a testament to his hunger for you.
Bucky looked down at you, taking in the sight of your dress hiked up and ruined, your hair fanned out across the floor. You looked so beautifully destroyed, and something in him only wanted to ruin you more.
“Jesus,” he muttered, his blue eyes trailing down to where your bare hips tilted to meet him. He watched in awe as his cock disappeared in and out of you, his shaft slick.
“You look so good like this,” he rasped, his metal hand digging into your thigh to spread you even wider. “Sprawled out for me. Mine. Just mine.”
Bucky leaned in, his teeth grazing your exposed shoulder as his movements became sloppier and uneven.
“Seeing you like this always makes it so damn hard to leave,” he rasped against you, his balls growing heavier with each thrust. “Makes me want to do things to make sure you stay.”
You were a babbling mess beneath him, your voice reduced to broken sobs and incoherent pleas. You couldn’t even form words anymore, just soft, high pitched whimpers that only made Bucky’s grip on you tighten.
“I want to breed you,” Bucky confessed shamelessly. “Wanna give you a piece of me—so when I’m out there fighting, or when you’re away from me, you’ll still have me. I want to pump you so full that you’ll always be carrying a part of me.”
You body clenched at the implication of his words. He groaned at your tightness, gritting his teeth as he continued.
“Need to…” Bucky thrust deep, “pump you full…” He felt his balls growing tighter, felt himself getting closer. “Going to have to make you my girl for good.”
Your eyes rolled back as Bucky used your body for his pleasure. He was so much bigger than you, so much stronger, and all you could do was be the woman he needed as he fucked himself into you. You moaned, your body getting wetter and tighter as you felt yourself getting close.
The gazebo and the starlit sky above started to blur as tears prickled your eyes from the overwhelming sensation of being fucked.
“You like that?” Bucky breathed warmly against your skin. “You like the idea of being full of me? Of my own seed... dripping down your pretty legs?”
Your head was spinning as you nodded frantically.
“Yes!” you cried out. “Yes, Bucky—please! I’m yours… all yours—I want to be full of you!”
“Fuck,” Bucky moaned. With your hands still tight around his shoulders, he circled both his arms around your waist, lifting you from the ground and pulling you flush against his chest.
He repositioned you until you were straddling his lap, held aloft by his strength alone. Bucky’s arms wrapped tight around your body—the scent of sweat and sex mingling as he buried his face in the crook of your neck.
“Bounce on it, baby,” he muttered roughly. “Fuck—bounce on me ‘til I cum.”
Your fingers laced through his long, dark hair, giving it a tug as you fucked yourself down onto his cock.
Bucky groaned, his head pressing into your shoulder as his hands moved from your waist to your hips, his thumbs digging into your skin to help guide your rhythm. Every time you moved down, he met you with a hard thrust upward that sent sparks through your body.
“That’s it, sweetheart,” he rasped, his eyes fluttering shut as you began to quiver and squeeze around him. “Just like that.”
“Bucky… I’m—I’m going to—”
“I know, baby,” he rasped, holding you tighter against his chest. “I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere.”
I’m not going anywhere.
“D-don’t go,” you whimpered against him, your body tightening as you clenched around his cock, letting yourself unravel all over him.
Bucky growled, low and deep in his throat, as his arms pinned you tight against his chest. With one last rough thrust deep into your cunt, he finally broke.
Thick spurts of cum surged from him as he began pumping you full. He slowly rocked his hips in gentle motions, letting his seed settle and mix inside the heat of your body.
“Good girl,” he praised with a gravelly rasp. “My sweet, precious girl.”
You let yourself melt into his touch as you two fought to catch your breaths.
Still perched on his lap, you felt him nuzzle his face into your chest, his hands roaming your back gently, mapping every inch of you as he came down from his high.
“So perfect,” he mumbled.
You looked down at him through your lashes, and the sight of him made your heart ache. You wanted to stay like this forever—with Bucky always by your side, holding you and making sweet love to you while he praised you with gentle words you wouldn’t want to hear from anyone else.
He told you he wasn’t going anywhere in the heat of the moment, but even you knew he could only mean so much.
“I don’t want you to go,” you said, your voice broken as you were reminded of his duties after tonight. “Please, just stay with me.”
Bucky let out a long, heavy sigh, his grip on you softening tenderly. He pulled back slightly to look at you, his thumb gently brushing away the sweaty strands of hair that clung to your face.
He didn’t pull out, he stayed joined to you, his cock still half hard and soft inside, wanting to keep that connection for as long as the world would allow.
“I know, sweetheart,” he whispered. “I know.”
He began to press soft kisses all over your face— your damp forehead, your cheeks, and your lips.
The reality was that after tonight, Bucky would have to be posted at the front lines along with his comrades, Steve and Sam. He would have to ready his blade, preparing for war at any given moment to lay his life down for a royal family instead of living on for the woman he loves.
But instead of letting that feeling take over, he gently pushed your hair back, looking deep into your eyes.
“Right now, let’s just enjoy the moment,” Bucky murmured gently, caressing your cheeks. “Me and you—we’re together now, and that’s all we can ask for, right?”
He spoke so soft, but you knew deep down he was feeling that hurt just as much as you were. You nodded, forcing a shaky smile despite the tears that threatened to escape.
“Right,” you whimpered.
“Don’t cry,” Bucky sighed softly, his thumb coming up to wipe the tear that spilled anyway, before leaning in to press another kiss to your lips. “I’m right here, baby. Right here.”
The sounds of crickets, soft breathing, and the gentle rustle of leaves filled the gazebo as you two held each other. His hands trailed down to your waist, his thumb rubbing gentle circles over the fabric of your crinkled nightgown.
“When the war is over,” you brought up carefully and quietly. “Do you think we’ll have a chance to be together?”
Bucky went still for a moment before a small, hopeful smile tugged at his lips—he didn’t have high hopes at all, but the smile you returned meant it was enough to reassure you.
“In a perfect world, where there is no war and no duties to bind us separately, I’ll always choose you.”
The sun that rose the next morning was the brightest it had ever been that month.
You found yourself in a happier mood, and everyone around you could tell.
“What’s she smiling about over there?” Wanda asked as she folded freshly washed white cloth.
“What do you think?” Natasha grinned, watching out of the corner of her eye as you hummed to yourself, handwashing towels.
“She’d usually be complaining about her back by now,” Yelena chimed in. “But she’s just singing to herself like some mentally deranged—”
“I can hear you all, you know,” you said over your shoulder without looking back. You pushed off your seat with a groan, stretching before you lifted the bucket of dirty water in your hands.
“I’m going to dump this outside,” you announced to the rest of the group. “Maybe bask in the sun for a bit—who knows. It’s a pretty day.”
“Okay, but don’t be long,” Natasha called out as she pushed the tower of folded clothes to the side to work on the next batch. “We have a lot to do today.”
“I won’t,” you reassured as you pushed the door open with your back, heading out of the cleaning chambers and into the warm sunlight.
As you dumped the water out onto the grass, birds chirped and the trees rustled gently in the spring breeze. Bucky was out there, somewhere, huddled in formation with the other knights as they scouted south of the kingdom.
After last night, Bucky had told you how he and the others had a mission that required them to be on their horses before sunrise. But later that night, he would meet you at the gazebo again.
He was the kingdom’s strongest soldier, and you knew he was more than capable of taking care of himself. But every time Bucky was out on a mission, you couldn’t help but pray for his safety.
You always hoped that he would return home without a scratch, falling back into your arms once again.
You gathered the empty, damp bucket and reached for the door, but you stopped short at the sound of horns blaring from the top of the guard posts.
Your head snapped up immediately at the unexpected sound.
Was this a drill?
The kingdom hadn’t made any announcements for a drill today—unless you had missed it?
As you raised your hand to shield your eyes, squinting past the sun, you saw the frantic movement of the soldiers at the top of the towers. The distant shouting was getting louder, and you watched in confusion as they began to ready their crossbows.
“Sokovian flags on the horizon!”
“Soldiers are pushing back from the southern bridge!”
“Alert the town! Citizens to the shelters! Get down!”
Your ears rang as everyone around you scattered in a frantic, panicked hurry. The horns continued to blare, crying out a symphony of war and ruin. Palace workers ran around, bumping into you as they retreated toward the safety of the cleaning rooms you had just stepped out of.
You knew you should run. You should follow them into the dark, stone safety of the cellars.
But the only thing you can think of was the southern bridge.
That was exactly where Bucky was stationed.
A hand clamped onto your arm, making you wince and snapping you out of your haze.
“Are you trying to get killed?” she hissed over the bustle of the crowd. Natasha yanked you backward, dragging you into the sanctuary of the cleaning chambers.
Inside, the room was unrecognizable. The neat stacks of folded white linens had been toppled and trampled underfoot. Buckets were overturned, soapy water slicking the floor as servants and workers scrambled toward the trapdoor leading to the deep cellars.
“Oh my god,” you breathed. “How—”
“They’re saying they’ve already made it inside,” Natasha yelled over the noise. “Sokovian spies were already within the kingdom just yesterday—soldiers are barging right into the palace as we speak.”
You felt your blood run cold.
Sokovian soldiers were already threatening to tear down the palace, and the kingdom’s strongest soldier wasn’t there to protect it.
“Where are the others? Yelena? Wanda? Bob—”
Natasha led you toward the trap door, cutting you off. “They’re already inside—”
The doors of the cleaning chamber shattered inward before she could even finish.
Sokovian soldiers stomped through, their armor dark and their weapons already leveled. “Clear the room!” one of them shouted, and before you knew it, the sharp crack of muskets and the whistle of crossbow bolts filled the air, splintering the wooden tables around you as the others screamed.
“Down!” Natasha screamed, shoving you to the floor as a projectile embedded itself in the wall where your head had been seconds before.
“To the back doors,” you hissed at her, pointing behind her. “Quick!”
She nodded, ducking behind you as you both scrambled for the exit. You burst out into the rear garden, the air already suffocating with smoke from gunshots and the sounds of people shouting over one another.
“The grapevines,” you shouted, pointing to the heavy wooden trellis that led to the outer wall. “We can climb over and reach the forest. The trees are thick enough to give us cover—”
Natasha didn’t let you finish before she grabbed your arm, already running in the direction you had pointed. “Let’s go, then!”
As you ran, a sharp crack sounded from your right. Natasha let out a choked gasp, her body crumpling as her leg buckled and blood blossomed through her skirt.
“Nat!”
You turned back, reaching out to grab her arm, but the world suddenly turned into a blinding flash of white.
A cannonball screamed through the air, striking the stone archway just above you. The impact was nearly enough to deafen you—a force strong enough to throw you backward.
You hit the ground hard, the air driven from your lungs.
Everything went silent, replaced by a high pitched ringing in your ears that drowned out the war. Dust and debris rained down, coating your tongue in grit and stinging your eyes. Through the haze of gray smoke and broken stone, you tried to move, but your limbs felt heavy.
You felt yourself deteriorating, the sounds fading in and out as your vision began to blur.
A concussion set in, your head aching and your body going numb while the world around you began to crumple and fall apart.
“Get the Princess to safety!” the kingdom’s soldiers shouted over the noise. “Go, Sergeant!”
Your head throbbed with an ache as you craned your neck, struggling to see the what was unraveling in front of you.
Through the thick dust, a familiar silhouette broke through the haze.
It was Bucky—his armor and silver blade flashing through the smoke. Following close behind him, a figure huddled low — the Princess, disguised under a dirty, oversized cowl to conceal her identity.
Ah, there he was.
Your heart thumped weakly in your chest as a strange, hollow peace settled over you.
Bucky was alive. Your Bucky.
He was alive, and he was protecting the princess.
You smiled faintly, and though your heart ached to reach for him, you knew it was futile. You couldn’t even feel your legs anymore, pinned beneath the heavy stone debris. The blood pooling around you was enough to tell you that the end was near.
But at the very least, in this moment as the war claimed you, you knew the person you loved was still standing.
And that was all that mattered.
In the chaos, amidst the smoke and the screaming, Bucky caught sight of you out of the corner of his eye.
His entire body froze. The soldier who never hesitated, the very man who served as the kingdom’s ultimate sword and shield, went completely still.
His blue eyes widened, locking onto your broken form, taking in the blood, the dust, and the way you struggled to even lift your head.
Any other soldier would have seen your body and deemed it a lost cause, a life not worth the delay. But for Bucky, every duty was forgotten as his feet began to move—away from the Princess, and toward you.
“Sergeant Barnes! What the hell are you doing? Get back in formation!”
“Barnes! Get over here! Protect the Princess!”
“The Princess is exposed! Cover!”
“Barnes!”
Several commanding voices roared after him, but Bucky didn’t look back. He didn’t care about the crown or the certain court martial that awaited him, or even the noose.
All he cared about was you.
Heavy footsteps thundered near your head, and for a moment, you feared it was a Sokovian guard coming to finish the job. They dropped to their knees beside you, and trembling hands cradled your neck to lift you up.
“No, no, no,” it was Bucky who rasped, his voice frantic as he wiped the dirt from your face. “Hey… hey, look at me. Open your eyes, sweetheart. It’s me—stay with me. Come on, stay with me.”
You tried to speak, but all that emerged was a soft, wet cough.
His thumb brushed the dust from your cheek, leaving streaks in its wake, while his blue eyes searched yours for any sign that you were still there.
“Bucky…” you whispered, the sound barely audible over the roar of the nearby fire.
“I’ve got you,” he choked out, leaning his forehead against yours. He ignored the shouting soldiers and the Sokovian arrows whistling overhead. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere—you have to stay. You have to stay awake for me.”
He began to pull at the debris with a desperate strength, refusing to let the world take the only thing he cared about.
“I can’t—I can’t move my legs,” you choked out, your body feeling useless as he tried to lift you.
He was finally able to pull you free and cradle you in his arms, lifting you bridal style as he ran. You didn’t know where he was going, nor did you care. All that mattered was being here, held by the person you loved most.
“Just stay awake, okay? Promise me you’ll stay awake.”
“Bucky—”
“We’ll get you somewhere safe—I swear it—”
“Bucky,” you tried again, your voice a soft, fragile thread.
As he ran, Bucky tilted his head down to glance at you, his eyes searching yours to make sure you were still there.
“I love you,” you whispered suddenly.
Bucky’s stride faltered for just a moment as a choked, broken sound escaped his throat.
For a second, the face of the stoic soldier crumbled, and his eyes grew glossy with tears that threatened to spill over. But he forced his jaw to tighten—forced himself to get back into that same resolve that kept him alive til now.
“No,” he rasped, his voice hardening from vulnerability to a command. “Don’t say that. Not yet. You don’t get to say goodbye.”
He pushed himself faster, his boots skidding over the blood slicked stone of the courtyard as he dodged the falling debris of the palace.
“You save that,” he muttered, his breath hitching as he ducked behind a crumbling stone pillar to avoid a spray of Sokovian arrows. “You save those words for when we’re back at the gazebo—you save them for when the sun is up and there isn’t a drop of blood on this grass. Do you hear me?”
He looked down at you again, anticipating a response—anything to show that you were still alive—but your breathing was growing labored in his grip.
“I’m not letting you go,” he promised. “You hold on to me, and don’t you dare close those eyes.”
Bucky continued to run, and the world around you was nothing but a darkened blur.
The sounds started to grow distant, and in this moment, even on the verge of death, at least you were held by Bucky once more.
Bucky kept his promise—and more.
Even in a world that wasn’t perfect, bound by duties that often kept you both far apart, in the end, he would always choose you.
thank you to the anon for that lovely request and for entrusting me to write it. if you've made it this far, as always thank you so much for taking the time to read my work. interactions are always appreciated, I love reading every bit of them!
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warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut (p-in-v & unprotected, oral - f!receiving, fingering, creampie, lots of dirty talk, edging, p-pronouns, light p-inspection, mentions of somno and free use), dom!Bucky, power imbalance, sugar daddy / sugar baby dynamic, age gap (reader in mid-to-late twenties while Bucky’s in his early forties), money troubles, i.e., debt, bills, etc., alcohol consumption, no mentions of y/n
word count: 10.7k
part one - part two - masterlist
summary: The arrangement is simple enough: you give him friendship, he gives you a better life. But between the private dinners cozied up in a booth and the charity galas pressed to his side, it’s getting harder for you to hold up your end of the bargain when you’re starting to feel things for your sugar daddy that were not included in the contract…
sammy speaks: wow I’m at a loss for words again. thank you so much for the love on this series! it’s been so fun going on this ride with all of you, and I really hope you enjoy this final part!!! don’t worry, sugar daddy Bucky will be back soon (;
Things are…different when you return home.
Bucky is as charming and attentive as ever, but his touches have grown fleeting, infrequent, passive. Somehow he orchestrates a healthy amount of distance between the two of you whenever you’re next to him that reminds you of your early days together.
And what he lacks for in physical contact he tries to make up for with gifts. You’ve never had such an onslaught of surprises from him before: dresses, jewelry, shoes, handbags, a new laptop, a new phone; you’re forced to draw the line at a car, a beautiful red convertible that looks like one button could turn it into a space ship.
“Bucky, I don’t even have my license.”
“Doesn’t mean you can’t look at it, doll.”
It sits untouched in his parking garage for weeks.
He still dedicates most of his time to you, he still texts you every minute of the day when you’re not together, he still deposits money into your account and makes you promise him that you’ll treat yourself.
But he doesn’t stare into your eyes while holding you close anymore. His lips don’t linger against your skin when he places a kiss on your forehead.
It’s still him, still Bucky — just at an arm’s length away. And it’s maddening. You miss him — even when he’s standing right in front of you, you miss him.
But you don’t push it. You’ve done enough. Keeping him happy is the goal, and if an added six inches of space makes him happy, then that’s what you’ll do.
Unfortunately this means sleepovers have been very rare since returning from the Maldives. Your toothbrush sits untouched next to his in the bathroom for days, your side of the bed tucked in immaculately for weeks. Your heart throbs painfully each time you look at his bedroom door, so you start avoiding looking at it altogether.
Neither of you say anything — it’s the obvious elephant in the room, but you keep it in the corner and ignore it as if you both explicitly agreed on it, even though you didn’t.
Instead, you end your nights by giving him a small smile and flashing your phone, declaring Bob’s arrived to pick you up, and he gives you a small smile back before riding down the elevator with you and walking you to the car. Before he shuts the door, a voice in your head screams at him to stop you, to ask you to come back up and spend the night cuddled up to his chest where you belong.
But he doesn’t.
It hurts every time.
You know tonight will be no different. You’ll cook dinner, you’ll sit a foot apart on the couch while you half-heartedly watch Below Deck, you’ll make small talk about his work, and then you’ll leave. Rinse and repeat.
Your night is off to a very bad start.
Bucky calls you when you’re five minutes from his place, slouched in your seat in the back of Bob’s car.
“Hey,” he says, voice low and tired. “I’m gonna be late — I’m held up at the office. The CFO quit today and our lawyers got a tip off that he’s been funneling deal information to Hydra Investment Partners for the last month. Fucking Rumlow—“ He cuts himself off with a growl. “So I gotta meet with them to go over the non-compete and start building a case.”
“Shit,” you breathe. “I’m sorry, Bucky, that’s awful.“
“Yeah. It’s a goddamn mess, and it’s only gonna get bigger.” He sighs. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”
“We can reschedule if you want—“
“No, I want to see you. I think it’s the only thing that could make this day better.”
You bite your lip. “Okay, if you’re sure…”
“Positive. I’ll see you at home in a couple hours.”
The line goes dead. You catch Bob’s questioning look in the rear view mirror and summon a smile. “All good, Bob.” He gives you a salute and drives on.
Bucky’s penthouse is dead silent when you step into it. A light is on over the stove, but the rest of the apartment is dark. A half-drunk mug of coffee sits in the sink, an unchosen tie is draped across the kitchen island, and a protein bar wrapper is discarded on the floor near the trash.
Bucky oozes out of every displaced item and unobtrusive mess around the place. You can picture him clear as day in your head creating these nuances: tossing papers to the other end of the couch when his eyes grow too tired, kicking his dress shoes off haphazardly as soon as he gets through the elevator doors. It makes you want to laugh as much as it makes you want to cry, being able to see him living his life so clearly just from an out-of-place wrapper.
Or maybe you want to cry because there’s a part of his life that exists without you around.
You shake your head. There you go again with the dramatics. You’ve been seesawing between rational and irrational since finals — you’d think you’d be leveled out by now. But you suppose unrequited love might make a person a little imbalanced.
You start on dinner before the silence of the apartment can press too hard against your heart. You turn on the TV for some background noise and hum a nameless tune to keep you company. Thankfully, you fall into the motions of preparing the dish with ease, and time slips by unnoticed.
You’re turning down the heat on the risotto when the elevator doors open and Bucky spills out of them.
He looks just shy of defeated, the color drained from his face and chosen tie askew. He shrugs off his suit jacket with a groan and it crumples to the floor. Your lip wobbles between a pout and a smile seeing it lying there.
“Hey, doll,” he mutters, sliding in beside you to place a chaste kiss against your hair.
“Hi,” you say softly. “How did it go?”
“About as good as it could go, but that doesn’t make it any easier. He’s clearly violating the non-compete, but now we have to get the evidence that he’s been passing information along, and that could take months.”
“Jesus.”
“It’s gonna be a long fucking spring,” he replies, slumping into a seat at the counter. He undoes the tie around his neck, tossing it next to the forgotten one from this morning. “Smells amazing,” he adds, voice warmer.
“You’re just saying that, I told you I’m not a great cook.”
He rolls his eyes, popping open the top three buttons of his shirt. You turn quickly back to the stove to avoid the sight of his chest hair. The fucking chest hair that started this mess.
“I don’t think you’ve ever cooked for me before.”
“You never let me.”
“I find that hard to believe when it’s my job to give you what you want.” Your stomach does a filthy little flip.
“Every time I offered, you told me to go study instead.”
“Hmm. Well I’d say that’s a pretty valid reason to say no to you, then.”
“Always taking care of me, aren’t ya?” you tease.
“I try,” he says, and his tone is more serious than before. You gulp.
Bucky asks about your day because he always does, no matter his mood or circumstances, and you fill him in on the stream of trivial events that made up your schedule: breakfast at the cafe around the corner from your apartment, vet appointment for Lucky, lunch with a girl from your class who shows promise as a new friend, you started a book you’d been meaning to read, manicure and pedicure, and also…
“I got an email from my Digital Marketing Analytics professor,” you say, stirring the risotto. “He sent me some details on this position opening up at a marketing firm next month — he knows a few of the higher ups there and thought I’d be a good fit for it. Asked if I wanted him to write me a letter of recommendation.”
Behind you, Bucky stays silent. You glance over your shoulder to find him on his phone, but his eyes aren’t moving.
“…So I took a look at it, and it seems like a great opportunity. The company’s well respected, Glassdoor ranks it high for employee satisfaction…401K, hybrid, four weeks paid time off…”
Bucky’s still staring blankly at his phone.
“And the role seems fair. Challenging, but the good kind. I’d be putting my degree to work, but that’s why I got it, right?” you say lightly.
“Hm,” Bucky grunts, barely audible.
You cut off the heat on the stove and turn to face him. “What do you think?”
He looks up at you finally, eyes distant, face neutral. “It sounds great.”
You wait for him to say more — he doesn’t. Your jaw falls open slightly. “Oh. Well…good.”
He’s back to his phone. The lines of his shoulders are rigidly straight, a muscle in his jaw ticks. You play back every word you just said, trying to figure out where you went wrong with the conversation.
“I think I’ll tell him to write me the recommendation, then.”
“Hm.”
You tilt your head. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” he says quickly, but his fingers grip his phone tighter. “I’m fine. Just…thinking about Rumlow.”
You pause before speaking, letting his words sit. “Okay…”
You begin serving up the food, your mind still analyzing Bucky’s sudden change in behavior. He was perfectly fine when you mentioned the lunch with your classmate, and he seemed smug when you admitted you treated yourself to the nail appointment.
You watch him closely when you slide his plate in front of him; he barely looks up when you set down the fork, muttering a quiet “thanks” that’s nowhere near his usual praise.
“Are you sure you’re good?” you ask as you dish up for yourself.
His phone clatters to the counter. “I said I’m fine,” he says quietly, picking up the fork and jabbing at his food. “Just stressed from work.”
You say nothing, your eyes falling to your plate. Slowly, you set it down on the counter, still empty.
“I can go,” you start, “if you need some space to…”
His head snaps up, his eyes wide. He looks like you hit him across the face. “What? Why?”
Small embers of anger begin to kindle inside of you, patience wearing thin. “You’re obviously in a mood about work,” you answer, irritation leaking into your tone. “You seemed fine earlier but it’s clearly getting to you again. I’d rather not force conversation out of you when you’re like this.”
He gapes at you, food falling from his hovering fork. He sets it down with a soft clink and closes his eyes.
“No, that’s not—“ He cuts himself off, shaking his head. “I’m sorry. It is work, but it’s also— it’s not—“
“What is it, Bucky?” you push.
“I can’t just— it’s hard to say, you wouldn’t get it—“
You see red for a second. “Try me.”
His mouth shuts with a snap. He’s got a hundred different emotions passing through his eyes, all of them unrecognizable to you. He says nothing.
“Okay, well.” You wipe your hands on the back of your jeans with crisp resignation and reach for your purse. “Sounds like you need some time to yourself to process the Rumlow situation, so I’ll just call Bob and get out of your hair—“
“Come on,” he mutters, reaching out a hand that you ignore in favor of grabbing your phone.
“It’s fine, Bucky,” you answer airily, “you’re dealing with shit, it happens to all of us. We can just resched—“
“It’s not—“ He cuts himself off with a groan and tries again. “It’s not Rumlow, it’s you.”
You whip around. Bucky’s got his head in his heads now, staring down at his plate, shoulders slumped forward like he’s facing a losing battle. Your body stills as you take him in, this deflated version of the confident man you’ve grown to know intimately over the last eight months — you’ve never seen him like this before.
“What do you mean?” you ask slowly.
He exhales deeply, and even that shakes.
“I’m sorry,” he says again, finding your eyes. “I shouldn’t have treated you like that. You were talking about something important to you, and I blew it off. Please forgive me.”
Your anger is caught between growing into a roaring inferno, or dissipating into smoke.
“Tell me what you meant,” you demand, standing firm on the other side of the island. “How is it me?”
Bucky runs a hand down his face. He looks exhausted, conflicted, desperate…but also resolute.
“I shouldn’t have said that. It’s not you, it’s…” He takes another breath. “When you started talking about the job, I think it just…hit me. That you got what you wanted. And I panicked.”
Your lips part in question, but he continues on.
“The night we met,” he murmurs, “you told me that all you wanted to do was make it through school so that you could get a job, a job exactly like this one, and then you’d get things under control again, get your life back on track. And I said I’d help you do it. That’s how this started.” The corner of his mouth lifts ever so slightly. “Now you’re here. You’ve done it.”
“I don’t have the job yet—“
“Don’t kid yourself,” he interrupts softly. “You’ll get any job you apply for — you’re brilliant, you’re headstrong, you’re hardworking. It’s not a matter of if, it’s when.”
Bucky’s head tilts, a sad smile stretching across his face.
“I think I’ve been secretly dreading the day that ‘when’ comes. The day you don’t really need me anymore,” he says quietly.
Your breath stutters out of your lungs.
It’s written plain as day across his face that it took a lot for him to admit that, and you understand; it’s a reveal of weakness, something you didn’t think Bucky possessed, which you’re almost certain was by his design. And why should he have weaknesses? With his money, success and looks, there’s nothing for him to fear.
Except, apparently, losing you.
The irony of it all doesn’t escape you. But if he can be brave, so can you. Moving on unsteady legs, you come around to his side of the island.
“Bucky,” you tell him. “I’ll always need you. More than you know.”
His eyes flick across your face, his breathing deep.
“Yes, we only found each other because of my…financial situation,” you admit softly, “but it’s grown to be so much more than that. It — it’s crazy, how much I’ve come to depend on you. And I’ll be honest, I didn’t think it would get this far, but…but somewhere along the way, you became my best friend.”
Bucky’s shoulders sag imperceptibly. For a moment, relief crosses his face, and his eyes are the warmest you’ve seen them all night. You keep going before he can say anything, though, before you can lose your nerve.
“So I couldn’t just leave you, even if I tried,” you tell him, meeting his gaze. “Even if the parties and the vacations and the gifts stopped. Even if all your money dried up. I still wouldn’t dream of leaving you.”
Bucky releases a shaky sigh that slips into a shaky laugh. Wordlessly, he reaches out his hand, beckoning you closer; you take it, allowing him to pull you toward his chair slowly but surely.
“You don’t know what that means to me to hear that,” he murmurs, other hand folding over the one holding yours. “I’m not…I never felt like this…with my other friends,” he starts delicately. “When our time together was done, it made sense. I could wish them well and move on without looking back.”
He takes a deep breath that syncs up with your own, looking up at you through his dark eyelashes.
“But with you…I can’t even picture my life without you in it. I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you here for as long as I can.”
His words hit you like a battering ram. Your heart cracks from the effort of holding back every feeling you’ve pushed down, every urge you’ve suppressed. A voice floats through your head, soft but clear.
Tell him.
And for the first time since the floodgates opened, it feels right.
You take a deep, steadying breath before moving closer to him, slipping into the space between his knees. He quickly releases your hand in favor of holding onto your waist, like it’s instinct. His brow furrows in confusion, but he gives no sign of you crossing a line, so you find the courage to slip your hands into his hair, slowly, intentionally, threading your fingers through it on the back of his neck.
“Give me all of you,” your voice is barely a whisper, “that’s how you keep me.”
You watch him process your words, and it’s like seeing the sun rise for the first time; realization dawns across his face and settles with a look of searing intensity. Your heart thunders in your chest. He tugs you closer before his hands carefully cup your jaw, eyes flitting down to your lips and back up.
“All of me?” he whispers back, searching your face.
You nod, holding your breath. Bucky whispers your name reverently, and your eyes slide shut, waiting for the other shoe to drop. One excruciatingly long heartbeat later, his lips are on yours.
You melt instantly, meeting his mouth with a soft groan, your fingers tightening in his hair. He kisses you carefully, purposefully, like he’s writing the story of you and him in real time with his lips. It’s greater than anything you thought it would be, and you vow to yourself to hold onto this moment forever.
With reluctance, he pulls back enough to allow a breath, lips tenderly brushing yours, pupils blown wide.
“Are you sure?”
You let out a shaky exhale, brain scrambling to process if the kiss was a dream or reality. “Yes, I want this, Bucky. I want the last part of you that you haven’t given me yet.”
His eyes flutter shut.
“How long?”
“Since New Years,” you answer, a flush creeping up your neck. A dry smirk crosses his face.
“You mean I’ve been holding myself back for nothing?”
You pull away further, forcing his eyes open to meet yours. “What?”
He chuckles, the sound somewhere between bitter and amused. His thumb pulls down your bottom lip, sweeping across the delicate skin.
“Sweetheart,” he murmurs. “I’ve been in love with you since the night you walked across the city in the rain just to make sure you weren’t losing me.”
There’s a pressure growing between your ears, like the feeling that comes before you pass out; if your knees weren’t weak before, they are now. Your hand slides down to his chest, over his heart, and you fist the fabric tightly.
“You love me?” you breathe.
“Yes,” he answers, strong and certain. His blue eyes honest and open.
So you kiss him, throwing all that you have into it. He gives it all back to you, mouth dancing with yours till you can taste every emotion on his lips. “I love you,” you whisper against them. “I love you I love you I love you…” He groans, pulling you closer, deepening the kiss; his tongue brushes yours, and you let him in.
The room fades around you — it’s just you and him in the world.
He tugs you onto his lap, hands moving from your face to the small of your back. His body is warm and soft in all the right places, and you sigh into the kiss from the contact. A heat is starting to spread through you, starting in your heart but growing strongest in your core. It builds slowly, like a balloon filling up with air, and the more you get familiar with how Bucky Barnes kisses, you know it’s only a matter of time before it pops.
You pull at the collar of his shirt, he slides his hands under yours. Your skin is feverish beneath his touch, and soon enough you’re in desperate need of less clothing, less barriers between you and him. His lips chase after yours when you come up for air. “Bucky…” you whisper, fingers dancing down the buttons of his shirt.
Simultaneously, you feel him harden beneath you, the mere outline of it sending a thrill down your spine while a flicker of nervousness darts across his face.
“Doll, I…” he begins softly, “you should know, I can get…carried away in these moments. I don’t — don’t usually let my friends see this side for a reason.” He swallows roughly, brushing a hair from your eyes. “I say things, I—I do things...They can be—“ He swears softly against your jaw. “They can be a lot…”
You draw closer, your nose bumping his. “I told you I want all of you. I meant it.”
There’s a quick pause as he stills. “Promise you’ll tell me if it’s too much.”
Your core ignites, as well as your curiosity. “I promise,” you say.
Bucky seals your promise with a searing kiss, tongue pushing its way into your mouth; your surprised gasp is cut off and swallowed by him when he lifts you effortlessly from his lap, depositing you on the edge of the counter. His mouth parts from yours as he pushes you back gently, until your spine kisses the cool marble, his plate shoved out of the way and landing with a crash on the floor that you both fail to acknowledge.
Your brain spins as you watch him pant above you — you swear you’ve seen him like this before in dreams — struggling to catch up to reality. But your body is already there. You can feel the effects of his kisses dripping into your panties, soaking them through. You’d be embarrassed if Bucky didn’t look like he was ready to devour you.
His hands run down your body appreciatively, gentle and tender. As he cups your breasts through your shirt, he releases a soft noise from the back of his throat. You arch into him, nipples visible through the fabric, and he circles them with expert precision with his thumbs.
“Fuck,” he mutters. “If you knew how many times I’ve thought about this…”
He trails off, but the message is clear. You move your hands on top of his, meeting his eyes. “I’ve thought about this, too.”
He licks his lips, eyes dark with want, then moves his hands lower, reluctantly parting with your chest. His fingertips tickle your sides as they make their way to your jeans, hooking into the waistband and circling the edge until they meet in the middle. He pops the fly and drags the zipper down slowly, either to prolong the moment or to tease you brutally as his knuckle drags against the front of your underwear.
Your hands seize his again, “Bucky,” you whimper. He shushes you with another rough kiss, his stubble rubbing the skin of your chin raw in a way that you’ll never forget, even when it heals. You’d like to drag that stubble over every inch of your body.
With ease and grace that you know you don’t have, he peels your jeans down your legs; you kick them off your feet and they land on the floor behind him. Instantly, his big palms are pushing your legs apart; goosebumps erupt all over you when the cool air finds your slick panties.
Bucky stares.
But not in a way that makes you want to close your legs — in a way that makes you open them wider, any insecurities flying out the window just from the intention of his gaze. His breathing is heavy as he watches that adjustment.
“This for me?” he whispers, dragging a finger along the edge of the dark patch, outlining your entrance through the fabric.
You bite your lip and nod. His eyes flash to your face.
“I need to hear it. Please.”
“Yes, all for you, Bucky,” you sigh as he runs his other hand down your leg and to your ankle. He grips it for a moment before pulling your leg up against his chest, foot just angled off his shoulder; he steps closer, the bulge in his pants irrefutable, borderline painful-looking, aligned with your center. You moan softly when he palms it through his pants, obscene and without an ounce of shame.
“My girl,” he says, “fucking perfect.” He curls his finger into your underwear. The tip of it slips down your folds, cataloguing how wet you are with his hands-on approach; he withdraws it and quickly sucks the finger into his mouth, holding your gaze. Your body sings for him in response.
“Sweetest thing I’ve tasted,” he mutters, spit-soaked finger yanking your panties down your legs with a blind recklessness that you find incredibly attractive. He doesn’t release your eyes yet. “Tell me you’re mine. Before I eat you out on my kitchen counter. Wanna hear that you’re mine.”
Your exposed pussy clenches around nothing. “I’m yours,” you choke out, “fuck, I’m yours forever. Wanted you for so long—“
He grabs your jaw and pulls you up for a bruising kiss, bending your leg back to your chest with a stretch that burns too good. You meet his passion with your own, tongues clashing and teeth knocking. When he pulls back, your head is floating from the increasing levels of desire, levels you’ve never reached before with anyone else. God, if he just looked at you a certain way, you swear you could come on the spot—
“No going back,” he says against your lips, voice low. “Not now that I have you.”
He makes his descent back down your body, placing chaste kisses over your covered nipples. You whimper and writhe when he sinks to his knees, eagerly throwing your other leg over his shoulder so that he’s trapped between them. You prop yourself up by your elbows to better see the dirtiest, most breathtaking view in front of you.
Bucky’s chest heaves, his eyes drinking in your glistening, aching core. You move your hips in the hopes of enticing him closer, but his hands put a stop to your motions.
“Let me see her,” he mutters. Your heart beats in time with your throbbing pussy. He observes his newest possession like a collector observes his prized item. With awe and greed and devotion.
Slowly, so slowly, he presses a kiss to your inner thigh, shaky breath warming the skin. You sigh again, head tipping back. “Bucky,” you whisper to the heavens.
God doesn’t answer, but Bucky does.
His lips trail up to the juncture between your thighs, mouthing at your folds with light touches. You let out a soft wail at the sudden contact. Your hips buck in his hold, but he pins you down firmly and begins to eat.
His tongue finds your clit and attaches to it, flicking back and forth in tiny circles that awaken feelings you’ve never felt before from your own hand or with others. Instantly, the sounds start falling from your lips, whimpers and half-curses and incoherent words; they seem to encourage him, because he doubles-down against your clit, pressing harder with his tongue as he continues to bring your body to life.
“Fuck, I’ve wanted this for a long time,” he exhales on your core before diving back in. Your hips try to escape his hold when he does something special with the top of his tongue, but he forces them back down firmly, reinforcing the controlled way he explores your pleasure.
And when he sucks your clit into his mouth—
“Yes, yes — oh, right there—“ You bite down on your hand to cut off the whining; Bucky takes one glance at you and pulls away immediately, brow furrowed.
“Don’t do that,” he says roughly, his breath warm against your folds, “I want to hear you.”
You obey without arguement. Your hand slumps down to the counter, nails sliding along the smooth surface.
He works you slowly, torturously, following the lead from your hitches in breath and involuntary noises until he’s found an enthusiastic pattern that sends pleasure to every nerve ending. You’re impossibly close already, you can feel your arousal dripping down your ass and onto his chest, that cord in you threatening to snap.
But he draws back like he read your mind, meeting your eyes to create an image that will be burned into your retinas for all of eternity. The cord loosens from lack of attention, finding slack, and you whimper.
Bucky says nothing, opting to lick around the outside of your folds like he’s cleaning you up. It’s cruelty in a new form, and you hate it and love it at the same time. For once, Bucky’s refusing to give you what you very clearly want, and it sends a rush of heated desire through you.
You’re about ready to beg when his tongue slips across your folds and lands directly on your entrance with a gravely hum. You cry out, your spine defying all anatomical physics, but Bucky pays it no mind. His rhythm starts with languid strokes, getting acquainted with the tight hole that cries for him; he laps at it with care and concentration, allowing no corner unattended.
Bucky’s good at this — way too good. His hands press harder against your hips, leaving you at the mercy of his mouth, and it’s quickly becoming too much for you to handle.
Bucky notices it like a sixth sense once again, but decides to indulge it with a long, thick finger taking the place of his tongue. The air leaves your lungs with a choked cry. He grunts and nips at your leg.
“Jesus, sweetheart, she wants it so bad…”
Your fingers find his hair and pull, just to keep yourself grounded when he moves his mouth back to your clit, sucking and swirling it around while his finger slides in and out of you at a deviously slow pace. He very quickly adds another finger, stretching you out as he curls them and strokes your walls.
They take their time exploring you until they come across the spongey spot that opens your stairway to heaven. Your jaw goes slack and a moan slips out, stars blooming across your vision.
“Right here, honey?”
You blink until you can see clearly, finding him watching you from between your legs with his mouth still pressed to your clit. “Yes,” you breathe, “like that, I’m close…”
That’s when he releases you with a *pop*, fingers stopping inside of you. “Not yet,” he rumbles. “Gonna make this last. You taste too good.”
He keeps you on the brink like this for ages — hours could have passed and you would have never known. Just as the cord begins to splinter, he slows his hand and releases your clit, breathing heavily over it like he’s catching his breath, like he’s the one being brought to the edge. Every time he does this, you whine his name through your teeth, tears blurring your vision, until he decides you’ve been patient enough and resumes his assault.
“Talk to me,” he mutters, free hand pulling you closer to his face, then laps at the little button just above your entrance. You arch off the counter, skin on fire.
“Fuck, I’m so close, Bucky, so close — just wanna come, please — wanna come on your face—“
He buries himself into your center with a fierce determination, fingers gliding in and out with brutal dedication and curling at the right places.
“Bucky…B-Bucky, I—“
“Give it to me,” he growls, flicking his tongue rapidly against you.
You fall apart in seconds, your body tightening and releasing with a snap as the cord breaks. Slick leaks around his hand in a sudden gush that stains his sleeve. You curl into yourself as the orgasm wracks your body, legs closing around his head, keeping him in place, threatening to suffocate him.
Bucky works you through it, making soft noises against your flesh, pressing his fingers to the special spot inside of you while frenching your clit. He eases up when your legs tremble around him, your fingers twitching against his roots from oversensitivity, and pulls away to watch you come back down to earth.
When you finally get reacquainted with reality, you only see him.
Kneeling before you, he looks the part of a sinner at an altar, seeking absolution in the divine. From the look in his eyes, you think he’s found it.
He stands, holding your legs steady against his chest; the lower half of his face is soaked, glistening in the soft light of the kitchen. He licks his lips before leaning over you, dragging his mouth across yours with a featherlight brush. Your tongue eagerly reaches out to taste yourself on him, a surge of possessive pride running through your blissed out body.
He moans into your mouth at your boldness, giving you what you’re searching for. His tongue strokes yours from back to front, sharing the taste of your arousal. It’s sweet and sour at the same time, new and surprisingly addicting; you understand why Bucky wanted to stay rooted at the source.
Just as your body begins to hum at the thought, you feel the length of him behind his slacks press into your center. It makes you jump, letting out a small squeak, but Bucky shushes you, sliding his arms around your back, setting you upright on the counter.
He finds your eyes, cups your jaw in his hand. “I’m gonna fuck you now.”
He says it so simply, like it’s a known fact the universe has held on to for a millennia. You frantically reach for him, arms winding around his neck as your lips meet.
In a blur of moving walls and flashing lights, he picks you up and carries you to the bedroom, laying you gently down on top of his bed. His hands find the hem of your shirt and tug it over your head efficiently, leaving you completely bare to him now. He leans back to stand at the foot of the bed, taking in your naked body splayed out for him and only him.
You imagine how you must look in his eyes, bottom lip bitten raw, nipples stiff, pussy swollen and wet with his spit and your arousal. You hope he likes what he sees.
Based on the hungry look on his face, you think he does.
Bucky places trembling hands on both of your ankles, rubbing at the bone before they slide delicately up your calves, the ghost of a touch that turns your core molten. When he gets to your knees he squeezes, pushing on a pressure point that makes your legs jump apart.
He lets go, restraint written all across his face as he begins to slowly take off his shirt.
“God, look at you,” he mumbles, eyes half-lidded. “She’s so pretty like that.”
The fact that he’s talking about your pussy makes your eyes roll back. Never has dirty talk sounded like music to your ears, until now.
“I’ve been thinking about you like this for weeks — fucked my hand in the shower to you before you’d come over. I felt horrible for it every time…turns out you were thinking about me like this, too.”
He meets your stare as he pulls his under shirt over his head, leaving you to ogle at the sharp angles of his chest, the hard cut of his abs. The dark chest hair expands across his skin, leading down to a trail that disappears into his pants. You want your mouth on it immediately.
You reach for him, one hand lifting in the air, but Bucky smacks it away with a light tap. Your eyes go wide.
“Whole time I could’ve had you like this, I was just imagining you instead. I’ll never forgive myself for all that time lost, spent picturing you spread out for me, or on your knees for me, or handcuffed to my bed…”
Bucky trails off, watching you squirm from his words. He undoes his belt, the clink of metal interrupting the heavy silence; he lets his pants slide down his legs before he reaches into his briefs and pulls out his cock.
Your lips part, drool pooling at the corners.
He’s thick and long with a flushed, leaking tip. His thumb runs over it to smear it down his shaft, hand moving slowly along the skin, just enough to keep him rock hard.
“Are you gonna let me know what the real thing is like?”
“Yes,” you gasp, your fingers creeping toward your center. “Yes, Bucky. I want it all, please—”
He spots your fingers beginning to tease at your clit. In a flash, he has your wrists in one hand, the other picking up the pace on his cock. One look from him is the only warning you need.
“Next time I’ll hold you down any way I want,” he says, voice dangerously low. “I’ll take my time. Make sure you never forget how I feel inside of you. I’ll make you come until your body gives out on me.”
You shudder underneath him, a sticky warmth dripping out of you.
“And in the morning, when you’re cooking me breakfast to thank me for the best fuck of your life, I’ll take you again on the counter because I can. The food’ll burn, but you won’t say anything, you’ll just let me like you should.”
His hand tightens around your wrists.
“And when I get home late from work, and you’re passed out in my bed, I’ll wake you up with my cock inside you, because I haven’t thought about anything else all day, and I won’t waste a second of finally being able to fuck you again.”
Your whimper is positively shameful, the mess between your legs growing worse by the minute. Bucky releases you. Your hands fall onto the bed with a hollow smack — you don’t dare move them. Not when he’s watching you with those sharp eyes.
He loses the briefs, leaving him utterly naked before you. How many times have you dreamt of this? Too many to count. Slowly, he crawls onto the bed and over your body. You feel his cock glide up your thigh, rigid and hot to the touch.
“But tonight I just wanna feel you,” he murmurs, his lips brushing yours. “Don’t want to wait any longer.”
The hand around his cock moves to your core, expertly gathering your arousal and dragging it up your folds. You follow his hand with your hips, moaning, your fingers twitching to touch him but unsure of the consequences.
He plays your body like he’s known it his whole life. Fingertips rolling your clit back and forth before teasing your entrance. Your breath catches when he eases a finger in, making his lips curve up in a smile, open mouth hovering over yours; he watches your face with unwavering focus, learning your tells and tics as you come apart for him once again.
When he’s knuckle-deep in you, your spine locks up. You moan his name, hands flying up to grasp at his neck. He exhales heavily as he fucks you with his finger, warm breath fanning across your lips.
“That’s it, baby, show me how it feels…I wanna see what I do to you…”
Your nails dig into his skin, bound to leave marks. You huff when he suddenly skips a second finger, going straight for three. “Oh!”
“Come on, sweetheart, you can take it. Be my good girl.”
Bucky’s fingers are much bigger than yours, and reach greater depths; you feel full of him already, and it’s not even close to what his cock will do to you. The stretch burns around his fingers, the muscles protesting yet welcoming them at the same time.
“B-Bucky, it’s…too…too—“
“Gotta open you up, doll, you’re not ready for me yet,” he murmurs against your cheek. “Relax and let me take care of you…”
His words are your command; you sink into the mattress and tilt your hips up until he hits a spot that releases the tension from your body. Your pussy flutters around him, pulling him deeper.
“There she is,” he whispers. “God, you feel unreal like this. So warm and tight.”
You let out a high-pitched whine when the heel of his hand comes down forcibly on your clit. The stimulation rocks through you with an hedonistic effect, pleasure building quickly to the point of no return.
“Fuck,” you cry out, biting at his ear. His answering groan is lewd.
“You gonna come for me again?” he grits through his teeth, grinding his palm over your bundle of nerves.
“Oh, God,” you sob, arching into him. You can feel the wave of pleasure building, building, growing in intensity. He leans back to spit directly onto your clit, then smears it with his hand, moving faster, fingers plunging in and out at a delicious tempo.
“Let’s see it,” Bucky says, “show me you want my cock. You said you wanted it, show me you can take it.”
His fingers curl against your walls and you shatter as the wave crashes into you. Your whole body is a sea of live wires and nerve endings as you come for him, muscles tensing and relaxing and tensing again like your body’s hooked up to an electroshock machine. He breathes heavily over you as you convulse, thumb gently circling your clit to ease the comedown, until you’re panting and gasping and twisting out of his grip.
He releases you, nose nudging at your temple as your breaths even out.
“Gonna take my cock so well, sweetheart,” he whispers. A whimper escapes you, a spent tear sliding down your cheek. He brushes it away with his lips.
His knee nudges your legs further apart, making room for his broad body to settle firmly between them. He lines himself up with your center, the tip of him just grazing your needy entrance. Bucky looks down at you then.
“You want this?” he murmurs, voice low and soft and…vulnerable, the bravado from earlier stripped away now. His eyes ask for one last confirmation that this is real.
It sparks a set of real tears from you, and you have to blink quickly to keep them where they are. You silently grieve for the Bucky who thought he’d never get this with you, who thought it’d only ever stay a dream, just as you grieved the same thing for yourself, knowing how much pain lived within you each day just from carrying a silent love for someone.
But you’re here now, fitted underneath him like missing puzzle pieces reuniting, and it’s very, very real.
Your chin tilts up to brush a kiss on his mouth. “I love you, Bucky,” you breathe.
A shudder runs through him, a sharp exhale falling from his lips. He rolls his hips forward automatically and the first inch of him slides home. He splits you open on his cock with a finality that soothes as much as it burns. You gasp with him, open mouths sharing a breath and eyes locked together as he feels your pussy pull at him, adjusting to the size while asking for more.
“Love you,” he mumbles, pushing forward, his cock slowly dragging down your walls. “Love you so much.”
“Oh!” you moan when the size of him makes its presence known by knocking against your sweet spot already.
A breathless laugh leaves him as he hovers above you. “Of course you’re this fucking tight. Like you’re fucking made for me.” He hisses as he slides fully in, you answer with a low whine. “Feel so fucking perfect.”
Bucky’s panting by the time his hips rest against yours, swearing under his breath. One hand cradles the back of your head, the other holds your leg open, seeking out a final nonexistent inch of space to get closer to you. You’re clenching hard around his cock, testing his resolve, accommodating to the feeling of being stuffed full of him. It’s all-consuming and disorienting and feels much bigger than just two people becoming one. Your face nuzzles into his shoulder, whimpers escaping your throat.
“Oh, God, you’re…” you whisper.
Bucky shushes you. ”I know, baby. Doing so good.”
He draws back at a glacial pace, revering the feel of your tight walls against his cock, until just the tip is left and you’re already aching for him to fill you again. He pushes back in easily, fitting into place with a slow, deep thrust.
“Fuck,” he mutters, kissing your forehead. You whine. He responds by starting a brutal pace, sliding a big hand down your thigh to hitch it higher around his waist. He pushes your other leg against your chest, opening you up to the steady, rhythmic motion of his hips. You feel the warmth sparking in your core again, growing hotter and hotter with each thrust, building in intensity every time he mouths at your throat or forces you to meet his eyes with a firm grip around your jaw.
He’s commanding in the softest way possible, anchoring you to this moment with touches and kisses that sear your skin, some featherlight, some heavier, shocking your system each time with their contrast, until all of existence has been consumed by him.
Bucky’s cock hits every delicious point within your walls like he’s already memorized your body. He draws out whimpers and soft cries from you repeatedly, to the point that you think he’s become addicted to them, finding the right spot and honing in on it like a man obsessed. The noises you make layer over the muffled, wet sounds of your bodies joining, of heated skin moving against heated skin, and it sounds like a goddamn symphony of love.
He doesn’t leave you guessing how good you’re making him feel either.
He groans his approval every time you arch up into him, meeting his hips with your own.
“That’s it, sweetheart…taking me so well…”
You let out a moan when his tip drags along your cervix, pussy fluttering around his cock. Bucky makes a choked noise, pace stuttering.
“Fuck, she’s—she’s milking me, honey,” he gasps, pupils dilating till there’s no more blue. “God, you feel incredible. So perfect. My girl…” His mouth reaches for yours, drawing you in for an earth-shattering kiss; the heat in your belly swells as your tongues dance, his words seeping deep into your soul.
“Bucky—“ you whine against his lips, feeling the start of your orgasm begin to crest. Your fingers dig into his shoulders, his back, tethering yourself to him.
Bucky can feel you’re close. He speeds up, licking down your chest to pull a nipple into his mouth, sucking and biting to multiply the sparks dancing up and down your body. One hand locks itself into your hair again, the other slips down to your clit, thumb brushing back and forth just slow enough to draw the pleasure out.
“Oh! Oh shit — fuck, Bucky—“
“Let me hear it,” he growls against your skin, his arm shaking beside your head where his forearm holds himself up on the mattress. You turn to bite into his bicep as the buildup inside of you finally explodes.
You shudder through a low groan, equal parts pained and relieved. Your orgasm crashes through you like waves on a beach, sending your brain tumbling to the brink of a dark abyss. Your eyes flutter closed.
Bucky takes every pulse and throb you have to offer him, riding it out with frantic thrusts that are borderline manic. His eyes are wild but eternally locked on you as he extends this moment for as long as possible, continuing his assault on your clit while you jerk and shake underneath him.
“F-fuck— Jesus, baby—“
Through the heavy haze of your world-bending pleasure, you can feel Bucky’s cock twitch inside of you. He pulls at your hair to tilt your chin back.
“Look at me,” he begs lowly. You open your eyes to find him hovering above you again, eyes wide as they drink you in, pink lips shiny from his work on your nipple. “Good girl,” he breathes, thrusts faltering when he meets your gaze. “Good fucking girl. Keep your eyes on me while I fill you up.”
You arch into him again, a powerful aftershock of your orgasm ripping through you. Bucky groans, forehead falling to yours.
“You like that, sweetheart? You want me to fill you up?”
His hips smack into yours, finally giving your clit a break as his arm pushes back both of your legs as far as they can go. You think you see another planet when his cocks finds a new place inside of you that you didn’t know existed.
“Oh, God,” you sob, feeling like you’re floating out of your body from the change in angle. “I want all of it, Bucky—”
“Yeah?” he grits out between his teeth, slowing down to hard thrusts that push your body up the bed. “Greedy little thing. I’ll give you all of it, baby, you can take it.”
You nod because your words have turned into babbling cries — Bucky’s removed all coherent thoughts from your head. You’re reduced to the five senses now, and all of them are overwhelmed with him.
“Gonna give it all to you just like this,” he says, and brings you in for a desperate kiss.
Your body hums and vibrates through the final waves of your orgasm while Bucky nears his, pounding into you with a deep intensity that you feel in your bones. When he comes, he moans unashamedly into your mouth, broad body locking up as his hips still with a loud snap against yours.
“Fuck, never letting you go,” he stutters out, words slurred, “never giving up this pussy. All mine—“
You can feel the heat of his cum pool into your core, filling you up as it was meant to, leaving you satisfied in ways you’d like to explore deeper another time. Bucky breathes heavily into your mouth, a groan slipping out every now and then as he lets the pleasure wash over him.
When both of your breaths have evened out, he pulls back, far enough for those dark eyes — slowly changing back to the bright blue — to search your face.
“You okay?” he asks softly, shyly. Your hands slide down his back, gentle over the nail marks you’ve left on it.
“More than okay,” you whisper. “That was…amazing…you’re amazing.”
He shakes his head.
“That was all you, my love.”
You smile, your fingers brushing the damp strands of hair on the back of his neck. “I think I like that nickname the best.”
A tender smile curls his lips, and he leans down to press a kiss to the space between your eyebrows, then the tip of your nose, then your lips. You keep him there, moving your mouth languidly against him until Bucky’s cock has softened enough inside of you for him to pull out.
You both hiss at the loss of contact, and there’s a cool edge to the air as it brushes against your well-abused pussy. With a light groan, Bucky pushes himself back on his knees, your legs falling bonelessly to the bed on either side of him. You watch with love-drunk eyes as he ducks down to observe the slow trickle of his cum from your hole, and your cheeks flare up with heat when he bends over to place a kiss on your clit.
“Bucky,” you mumble, legs closing on instinct, but he holds them open as he begins lapping at both of your releases spilling from you, cleaning you up while also stuffing it back into you with his tongue.
You cry out from the new sensations on your oversensitive pussy, a hand darting down to his hair to push him away or tug him closer, you’re unsure. Either way, you’re a panting mess again by the time he’s had his fill — literally.
He crawls up your body slowly, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand before settling over you. You can feel yourself relax once the skin of his chest meets yours again.
“Had to taste you again,” he murmurs, “somehow y‘taste even better with me in you.”
A delicate shiver rolls down your spine. He’s fucking filthy and you love it.
He kisses you deeply, the remnants of your combined releases waking up your tastebuds, then pulls away, leaving you alone on the bed. Your heart flutters as you watch Bucky’s naked figure disappear into his closet, returning half a moment later clad in briefs and holding another pair along with his comfiest, biggest sweatshirt and a wet cloth from the bathroom.
“Come here, sweet girl,” he whispers, kneeling on the edge of the bed.
You comply as best as you can, rolling yourself toward him with whatever strength’s left in your body, which isn’t a lot. He meets you halfway, hauling you close with his big, strong arms, and runs the warm cloth along your center, gentle strokes that only pull out the softest of sighs from you; he tosses it into the hamper once you’re clean before sliding the briefs up your legs gently, rubbing your skin along the way, and pulling the sweatshirt over your head, helping your arms through as well.
When you’re bundled up in his clothes, he climbs onto the bed and lays you across his chest like you weigh nothing, like you’re made of rubber, like there’s not a thought in your head capable of doing it for yourself.
There’s a good chance there isn’t.
Bucky tugs the covers up to your waists, entwining his legs with yours and pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead. Your hand finds his chest and strokes the skin there, feeling his heartbeat with every pass.
“Can’t believe we could’ve been doing this for weeks,” you mumble.
You hear a low rumble of laughter in Bucky’s chest. “Lots to make up for.” He pulls you tighter against him as your eyes begin to droop, the feeling of a long, hard fuck rendering you exhausted. His sigh into your hair tells you he feels the same, and his cheek drops to the top of your head.
After a quiet moment, he says, “You didn’t eat.”
You giggle sleepily. “It wasn’t that good anyway.”
“Not true, it was just…a different take on Italian.”
“Nice save.”
“Seriously. Do you want something?”
You hum into his chest. “Maybe pizza, from Luigi’s? Later, though. Right now I just want this.”
His heart skips a beat beneath your hand and he wraps impossibly closer around you. You’re grinning like a deranged lunatic into his skin, the giddiness of your current predicament keeping you awake for a few moments longer.
“My love,” he breathes. Not a question, nor the start of a statement. Just the name, new and bold and absolutely perfect.
Your brain recalls that first gala together, when he introduced you as his friend all night, and it made sense until it didn’t, until your heart moved to a place your brain couldn’t get to yet and decided that “friend” wasn’t enough. Listening to him now, you know your heart’s been patiently waiting for this the whole time.
Then your mind conjures up another memory, more startling than the last: of the days leading up to the agreement, when you moved around your apartment like a ghost as you considered his offer, ignoring your bills and worrying a path into your hardwood floors. You had all but decided to say yes to Bucky, but the thing that gave you pause was your mom. Your brain couldn’t help but wonder what she’d think of you for agreeing to something like this, what’d she say if she knew her daughter signed a contract with a billionaire for companionship.
As you listen to Bucky’s steady heart beat in his chest, as you feel his hands stroke tenderly down your skin, you’re struck with the answer you couldn’t find then: she’d be so fucking happy for you.
Smiling, you melt against him, basking in the dawn of something new, something beautiful that awaits you on the horizon with Bucky by your side.
His hand traces circles on your arm, his lips brush your hair, he whispers your name over and over and over until you fall asleep surrounded in his love.
Luigi’s comes much later than you planned. The two of you don’t stir for a long time, until the early morning hours when the sky is still gray and traffic is just a trickle. Bucky shifts beneath you as your eyes flutter open, arms tightening around your waist.
“Tell me I’m not dreaming.”
You sigh, tilting your face up to his, a soft smile stretching across your face.
“Want me to pinch you?”
He’s watching you with a sleepy, adoring gaze, hands creeping under your sweatshirt to press against your warm skin.
“How ‘bout a kiss instead?”
Bucky’s drawing you closer before he finishes his sentence, gently capturing your lips with his in a slow, lazy kiss.
“Still think you’re dreaming?” you whisper against his mouth.
“Mmm. Need a little more to make sure…”
His hands slide up your back as he kisses you again, deeper this time, with intention, until you’re breathless putty in his arms. Bucky’s mouth moves down your jaw when you pull back for air. “Bucky…” you breathe, feeling his leg slide between yours, and a certain hardness pressing into your stomach. But as his thigh reaches the juncture between your legs, you twitch, wincing, biting down on a moan. You’re sore — very, very sore.
Bucky notices right away, leaning back to search your face. “You’re hurt.”
You quickly shake your head. “Not hurt, just sore. The good kind,” you add when you see the beginnings of guilt cross his face. You take his jaw in your hands, keeping him close. “You made me feel things I’ve never felt before last night, Buck. Worth it.”
Bucky stares at you for a moment, face blank, until his forehead drops to yours. He groans softly, thumbs smoothing the skin of your shoulders.
“Now I know I’m dreaming. You’re too perfect to be real.”
“You know, you’re real corny after you get some. Should I expect breakfast in bed next?” you tease.
He buries his face into your neck, hiding the pink flush to his cheeks. He mumbles something, but you can’t make it out.
“What was that? Something about rose petals in the bath?”
Bucky nips at your collarbone in retribution as you laugh. Eventually he shows his face to you again, still flushed, but his expression is somber.
“I’m sorry if I was rough with you. I can learn to be softer, if—
“Don’t. I love you just the way you are,” you hush him, pulling him in for another kiss. He responds softly, lovingly, easing his leg between you gently until you’re crisscrossed together beneath the sheets, waiting for the first rays of light to shine on the first day of the rest of your lives.
“Don’t forget to call me if you need me!” you shout to your assistant as she all but shoves you out the door. Her sarcastic salute tells you that she will not be calling you during your time off, even if the office burned down.
You slide your sunglasses on as you walk out into the September sunshine. It’s a beautiful day, the first chill of fall in the air reminding you of why it’s your favorite time of year. Well, that and a certain anniversary.
Bucky’s leaning against the sleek red sports car at the curb (your gift is finally having its moment). He’s devastating in a light blue suit with the button down open to give you a generous view of his chest hair. The smile breaks across your face automatically, instinctively, and you all but skip down the steps to him.
He wears his own smug grin as you approach, arms opening to catch you when you launch yourself into them; his mouth is on yours instantly, bringing you close for a searing reunion kiss.
“How was your day, my love?” he murmurs against your lips. You smile, fingers sliding into the hair at the back of his neck.
“Busy. Long. Lonely without you,” you tease.
“Mmm, same here. Feels like it’s been years since I last saw you.”
“You saw me at lunch, babe.”
“Too long.”
You kiss him hard again, feeling the familiar planes of his body press into yours. He pulls back reluctantly with a groan when you’re good and dizzy.
“As much as I’d love to continue this, we have a plane to catch.”
You tilt your head. “If it’s your plane, don’t they have to wait for you?”
“Doesn’t work like that, sweetheart.”
“I thought it works whatever way I want it to.”
He gives you a look as he opens the door for you, raising an eyebrow. “Eager, are we?”
You slide into the seat. “Can’t a girl celebrate a little?”
“Well, I’ve never had road head before, but I’ll try anything once.” He swings your door shut with a wink before coming around to the driver’s side; you’re still laughing when he joins you.
“Nice try,” you say, “but your driving would put an end to that real quick.”
“I’m a good driver.”
“Honey. No.”
“Says the girl without a license. Talk to me when you can drive.”
The words hold no real bite as he puts the car into drive and pulls into traffic. His free hand takes its place on your knee, squeezing gently; you cover it with your own, fingers threading together, in search of the soothing feel of skin-to-skin.
“What’s the first thing you want to do when we get to Paris?” you ask. He smirks, eyes on the road.
“Practice my French on your pussy. Ma magnifique amante.”
Your other hand reaches for his ear, giving it a quick pinch that earns you a tighter squeeze to your thigh.
“Stop distracting the driver.”
You laugh. “I’m serious! What do you want to do?”
He glances at you, a twinkle in his eye. “I thought you had everything planned. You paid for this trip with your hard-earned, Senior Marketing Analyst money, after all.”
“I know,” you say, smiling giddily, “but I thought we could decide together. Make it our trip. You only celebrate your one year anniversary of meeting each other once.”
Bucky rolls his eyes, taking a sharp right turn that has you careening into him; he takes advantage of the physics and presses a kiss to your cheek, making you blush. A year after knowing him, and four months of being ravished by him day and night, he still gives you butterflies from the simplest gestures.
“Is that what we’re calling it? Sounds like a mouthful. I could give you—”
“Don’t you dare finish that sentence, James. Even the French can censor themselves,” you warn, wagging a finger in his face. He snaps at it, baring his teeth, and your heart explodes with warmth at his playfulness.
“Alright,” Bucky concedes, “we’ll decide together. But this is still your trip.”
You reach over to caress his cheek softly, drinking in his profile as if you haven’t already memorized it. “Deal. Only because I like taking care of you — when you let me.”
Bucky smiles, leaning into your touch. “I’ll start thinking up some ways to thank you,” he replies.
“Please don’t. It’ll probably be something amazing that one-ups my trip to Paris,” you joke lightly, scratching at the gray in his beard. Bucky huffs a laugh, eyes finding yours and shining with something bright and mysterious.
“We’ll see,” he says, placing a kiss to your palm before he turns back to the road. You lean back in your seat, smiling gently, mind already in Paris, picturing the silk sheets you’ll be tangled up in with your boyfriend in a matter of hours.
Bucky shifts in his seat with a small grin, feeling the weight of the ring box tucked safely in his pocket, bringing you closer and closer to your next adventure.
sammy speaks again: yeah I’m emotional. sorry it took so long, I was on vacation!!! can’t believe it’s over, but thanks for coming along with me on this ride. seriously it has been SO fun!!! can’t wait to give you more soon (very soon lol)
warnings: 18+ MDNI, eventual smut, fluffy!Bucky, power imbalance, sugar daddy / sugar baby dynamic, age gap (reader in mid-to-late twenties while Bucky’s in his early forties), mentioned illness/death of parents (minor characters), money troubles, i.e., debt, bills, etc., alcohol consumption, one instance of smoking cigarettes, no mentions of y/n
word count: 8.6k
part one - part three - masterlist
summary: The arrangement is simple enough: you give him friendship, he gives you a better life. But between the private dinners cozied up in a booth and the charity galas pressed to his side, it’s getting harder for you to hold up your end of the bargain when you’re starting to feel things for your sugar daddy that were not included in the contract…
sammy speaks: part two is here!! I don’t think I’ve written this many words since my 1D fanfic days lol. good news is I’m on vacation now so the writing will be flowing! I wouldn’t mind an ask or prompt about these two either 😏 hope you enjoy lovelies
December arrives suddenly. With it comes your winter break.
You spend most of it staying up late, indulging in mindless scrolls and shitty TV, and sleeping in until the afternoon. It’s lazy, self-serving and irresponsible, but it’s healing something childlike within you that hasn’t gotten attention since your mom passed.
Bucky understands this, but it doesn’t mean he likes it.
“I’m giving my brain a break,” you tell him for the third time, phone tucked between your ear and your shoulder as you make a fresh cup of coffee at four in the afternoon.
“You’re becoming nocturnal,” Bucky replies sternly on the other end.
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Sunlight’s good for a person.”
‘I’m looking at sunlight right now.”
“Sunset,” he corrects. Sure enough, the light is fading quickly, street lamps powering on outside of your window. Damn daylight savings.
“Oh, whatever,” you dismiss. “It’s not like it’s forever — I promise I’ll go back to a normal person’s sleep schedule after the new year.”
“I don’t like waiting around all day to hear from you.”
Your heart skips a beat in your chest. “I’m sorry,” you say, gentler. “I don’t mean to keep you waiting.”
“I know,” he sighs, resigned. “It’s just boring without you.”
You bite your lip, an idea blooming in your brain. “You know what’s not boring?”
“What?”
“Malibu.”
He exhales, long and deep, dragging it out.
“Alright,” he relents. “Fine. But when we get back, you’re gonna start going to bed at a normal time like a well-adjusted person. I’m tired of eating lunch alone.”
“Ok, grandpa. I promise.”
He picks you up an hour later when you’re still zipping up your suitcase, dressed like a Tom Ford ad with a cashmere scarf and designer pea coat draped over him, face appropriately disgruntled but eyes bright with adventure as he holds the car door open for you. By six, you’re buckled into the seat next to him on the private jet. By midnight, you’re touching down at Santa Monica Airport.
Sun, sand and ocean breeze occupy your next forty-eight hours. Bucky’s house in Malibu boasts floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the Pacific, a waterfall pool set to the perfect temperature, and a large back deck to soak in the sun while eating breakfast. Bucky scrolls the morning news on his phone, shades on and shirt unbuttoned to his naval, while you sip mimosas and try not to stare.
That’s a difficult ask when you’re finally getting an unobstructed view of the chest hair that teased you so long ago.
The first day, you hop in his vintage convertible and drive up the coast to his sprawling vineyard. He gives you a tour of the grounds while you catch a buzz taste testing all the wines he’s made. You’re flushed and giggling by the time you head back, and Bucky’s smile seems like a permanent fixture on his face. Dinner is a seafood feast at a small restaurant right off the beach, where the owner welcomes Bucky like a son and calls you stunning at least five times. The night ends with a glass of wine in front of the moonlit ocean, curled up on a blanket with oversized sweatshirts to block the wind. Whispers back and forth about childhood dreams and failed first kisses; favorite books and most embarrassing moments. You feel light as a feather by the time you float off to bed, a warmth that has nothing to do with the wine settling deep in your chest.
The next day, Bucky rouses you from your sleep before the sun’s fully up, claiming you “need the practice” and muttering that it’s already 9 in the morning back home when you prove difficult to move from the guest bed. When you’re finally up, the two of you walk the beach with the rest of the early risers, sipping travel mugs of extra strong coffee and making fun of runners who stumble through the sand.
The ocean’s coming alive at this time of day, and for a few minutes, the two of you stop to watch it do its thing. Waves crash, shells tumble. Not far from the coast, dolphins jump through the air, chasing fish and playing.
It’s the calmest your mind and heart have been in ages, and the feeling makes you smile, face tipped up toward the sun. When Bucky reaches for your hand, you thread your fingers through his and squeeze.
Later, you take a dip in the pool while Bucky makes a work call. The sun beats down on your skin relentlessly like it’s never heard of winter. You’re starting to doze on your floating lounge chair when you hear a small splash, and waves lap at your skin. You push your sunglasses up and look around.
Bucky breaks through the water at the other end of the pool. You blink at him.
When he spots you, a wicked smile crosses his face. Before you can say a word, he’s ducked under again and streaking towards you like a shark.
“Bucky—“
You’re tossed overboard, the sound of Bucky’s laughter the last thing you hear before you hit the water. He’s still laughing when you emerge, drenched and in disbelief. You answer his laugh with a sharp splash right to the face, scowling. His smile turns evil after he shakes the water from his eyes.
“Don’t start something you can’t finish, sweetheart.”
You splash him again because he fucking deserves it. Then he lunges.
You shriek, making a break for the edge of the pool, but he’s got you by the ankle before you even touch the wall. He yanks, sending you spiraling underwater again.
You’re sputtering when you come up, but it’s game on now. You throw yourself at him, hands pressing down on his shoulders to give him a taste of his own medicine, but he’s immovable to your touch. Wasting no time, he grabs you by the waist and tosses you several feet across the water. You launch another attack when his head’s turned, coming up from behind and wrapping your arms around his neck to drag him down with you. He goes willingly this time, but his hands maneuver you easily so that you’re thrown over his shoulder when you break the surface. You writhe and wrestle him to let you go, but he’s got an unbreakable grip across your legs; he carries you through the shallow end while you whine about unfairness, fists beating at his back. He crosses the deck quickly and suddenly, you’re airborne.
Until you smack the water in the deep end.
You gasp for air when you come up. “You’re a fucking bully,” you cough, throat raw from the unprecedented amount of water you inhaled. “You win.”
“You started it,” Bucky lifts his hands helplessly. Then, without warning, he gives you his best smile before cannonballing directly next to you. You scream as another wave of water brings you under.
You have half a mind to shove him back down when he reemerges, but his unbridled laughter is possibly one of the greatest sounds you’ve ever heard in your entire life. You greedily take in the arch of his neck as he throws his head back, and the way his nose scrunches in delight.
After he accepts your white flag, he helps you to the wall, a hand on your back pushing you gently. He hoists himself out first, and suddenly the water in your nose isn’t the only thing making it difficult for you to breathe.
Rivulets trail down his broad back, emphasizing the isolated muscles used to push himself up. They’re large, but sharp, clearly built by hours spent in the gym. When he turns around to offer you a hand, you can’t look him in the eye. The front of him is downright obscene, a replica of any Greek sculpture you can think of. And with his hair slicked back, swim trunks clinging to his muscular thighs, and the chest hair on full display— the chest hair—
He lifts you one-handed out of the water. You scurry away before you can make a bad decision — like lick the water from his chest.
Dinner is sushi on a private deck with the stars shining down on you. He’s placed his jacket around your shoulders, the scent of his cologne and something innately him smothering you in the best way possible. Bucky’s chatty tonight, talking about work, talking about the vineyard, talking about old friends from college. You only absorb every other word, too busy sneaking lingering glances when he’s not looking.
His posture is more relaxed than you’ve ever seen it, and his phone — his usual stressor — is nowhere in sight. The ocean breeze ruffles his hair but he doesn’t bother to fix it. When he meets your eyes, he offers a smile that says he’s right where he wants to be. Like he could do this for the rest of his life.
But all good things must come to an end eventually.
New York is a tundra wasteland when you return. Your timing was impeccable because you just missed the biggest snowstorm of the season. Bucky’s grumbling about the cold the minute you step onto the tarmac, drawing the collar of his coat around his ears despite the car idling thirty feet away.
The drive into the city goes by too quickly. Malibu fades more into a memory with each mile you put between you and the plane.
You think you must be sleep-deprived and jet lagged, because when Bucky presses a parting kiss to your forehead once you’re in front of your building, tears spring to your eyes. You’re out of the car before he can get a chance to see them.
But as soon as you step foot in your apartment, you’re missing the warmth of California, the beautiful Malibu home, the smell of the ocean, and Bucky by your side. It’s not exhaustion that brought the tears — it’s longing. Heavy, irrational, unfiltered longing.
You force yourself to take a nap anyway.
Eventually, the holidays are here, and Bucky gets into the spirit by sparing no expense.
Two days before Christmas, he rents out the entire top floor restaurant of a skyscraper and presents you with a solid gold, heart-shaped locket in the middle of the quiet, candlelit room. It’s vintage, it’s supposedly priceless, and it’s everything you never knew you wanted but now can’t live without. You’re stumbling over your thank yous as he helps you put it on. His fingers are warm and confident as he hooks the clasp, and trail down your neck unintentionally as you turn, giving you goosebumps.
“Beautiful,” he says quietly. Your skin flushes and your heart soars. That’s all you need to hear. You can’t help but touch it repeatedly throughout the night, and Bucky notices, hiding his smile behind his drink.
He’s over the top with giddiness when you give him his gift. A vinyl for his collection, a one-of-a-kind collector’s album of his favorite band that took weeks to track down. And it’s something you purchased with your own meager savings — you know you didn’t have to, but it means something to you to have given back even a minuscule fraction of what he’s given you.
Later that night, when you’re getting ready for bed at your own apartment, you take the locket off and unclasp it.
It pops open easily, revealing two empty frames.
Despite the incredible night, your heart can’t help but sink.
You don’t know what you were expecting — Bucky’s hardly the type to put a photo of himself in a locket, he barely looks in the mirror in the morning. But something inside of you was obviously hoping for it. A small sign of possession. Of claiming this relationship, no matter how it started or what it’s defined as.
You set the locket gently on your bedside table. You fall asleep looking at it, mind sifting through what’s real and what’s imagined.
Christmas day is a quiet event with an estranged aunt that makes the effort to keep family in your life. It’s an awkward affair, with stilted small talk and pauses long enough to make you sweat, but you don’t have the heart to tell her no each time she comes around.
Bucky’s unusually silent throughout the day, nothing from him except a text in the morning wishing you a merry Christmas. It’s a strange feeling for you when most of your day is spent in contact with him. You’re not sure where he is, or if he’s with family, or if he has any. Somehow, you haven’t asked, and he hasn’t volunteered that information yet.
But as the day goes on and you still haven’t heard from him, the curiosity is starting to burn you alive.
Or is it jealousy? Jealousy for whoever’s taking up all his time, time that’s normally dedicated solely to you?
You’re probably being overdramatic, but this feels like the first taste of what your life would be like without him, and it’s turning you inside out. Your usual detachment tendencies are nowhere to be found, instead making room for a frantic need to confirm his existence. You have to battle with the urge to call him three different times before your aunt gives you a stiff hug and heads out.
Once it’s just you and Lucky, the silence is a bitter enabler. You’re ringing him before you know it.
He picks up just before it goes to voicemail. “Hey,” he answers, voice hushed.
“Hi,” you say. “Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas, sweetheart. How’s your aunt?”
“She’s good. She made cookies and then we ate them in silence while watching Rudolph.”
He chuckles. “Sounds like a heartwarming Christmas tradition.”
“I know. She’s trying, at least. She just left, actually…how’s your Christmas?”
“It’s good.”
There’s a pause as you wait for him to say more, but he doesn’t.
“Good,” you croak. “I-I’m glad. I was afraid you’d spend it in the office.”
“Even I know when to take a day off, unlike some of us.”
Your smile is automatic as you recall the conversation from months ago. “Hey, some of us didn’t have a choice.”
“I know,” his chest rumbles, “but now you do.”
“I don’t have a job, Bucky.”
“So you can take as many days off as you want.”
You giggle. “I don’t think it works like that.”
“It works whatever way you want it to, doll—“ He cuts off when a voice in the background calls his name. A woman’s voice. High and lilting, musical. Your blood runs cold, like you’ve been dropped into the Hudson. “Hey, listen, I gotta go,” Bucky says, low and rushed. “But I’ll call you first thing tomorrow, okay? We’ll do something. Don’t sleep in.”
Your mouth’s open to reply but he’s already hung up. You stare at your phone until the screen goes black. Lucky jumps off the couch next to you, disappearing into the other room and leaving you to deal with your new fears alone.
Bucky makes good on his promise to call you the next morning. In a strange twist of events, you wake up early, probably because you were tossing and turning all night after the abrupt end to your call.
“Hey, doll,” he says cheerfully.
“Hey,” you breathe, praying you hide the hint of relief in your tone.
“Feel like ice skating today?”
Famous last words.
Much later, when your feet are numb from loss of circulation and the cold, and you’ve tired of grumbling at Bucky about how effortless he is at skating, you stare down over the city from his penthouse windows. He has the fireplace lit, Christmas tree lights on, a Bing Crosby carol playing on the vinyl; your hands are wrapped around a hot tea, its steam warming your face. It’s peaceful and serene.
Bucky falls into place beside you on silent feet.
“Whatcha thinking about?”
Your mind conjures up the phone call, the woman’s voice on Bucky’s end.
You smile. “That I missed my calling as a figure skater.”
Bucky’s laugh is low and gravely. It scrapes against your spine and makes you shiver.
“I was thinking the same thing. You could’ve had a gold medal by now.”
“A dream deferred.”
It’s quiet for a moment. Bucky reaches for you, pulling you closer by the hip. You can smell his cologne again, and it momentarily deprives you of all other senses.
“I had fun today,” he tells you. “Skating was my favorite thing to do as a kid. I couldn’t tell you the last time I went.”
You hum and look up at him. “What made you think of it, then?”
“I don’t know,” Bucky says slowly, taking a sip of tea. “I guess I was feeling nostalgic.” He meets your eyes. “Thank you for coming with me.”
“Thank you for taking me. It was surprisingly fun to embarrass myself in front of all those people.”
He scoffs. “You were a lot better than you think. You just need practice.”
“Sure. But let’s save that for next year when there’s a better chance that people don’t remember me.”
“Whatever you say, doll.” He pauses. “What are you doing for New Years?”
You blink. “Oh, uh — nothing, I guess.”
His head tilts. “Up for another fancy party?”
Five days later, you’re draped in silk and diamonds, hair done and skin glowing. Bucky’s hand is dragging lazily up and down your back as he listens to a board member’s hypothetical on splitting shares. You barely hear a word he’s saying.
When the man walks away, Bucky leans in. “Having a holiday work party on an actual holiday is already dickish, but talking about work at the holiday work party? Unbelievable.“
“The nerve of him,” you whisper back. He sends you a wink before leading you to the other side of the room.
Before the end of the night, Bucky gives a speech to the partygoers. He thanks everyone for coming before humbly acknowledging the company having another record-breaking year. Cheers erupt all around; everywhere you look, people are smiling at him with respect and admiration. Bucky calls out a few people in particular for exemplary performance, then reminds everyone to arrange for rides home before cracking a joke about who will be the first one in HR’s office after tonight.
He’s charming, he’s magnetic, he’s impossible to look away from. And when he steps off stage and heads directly for you, your heart nearly goes into cardiac arrest.
During the countdown to midnight, Bucky has you pressed against his side, eyes twinkling as they take in the room. Meanwhile, you’re barely breathing, desperately wondering if Bucky will respect the age-old tradition of a kiss to ring in the new year. Just as the clock hits twelve, and you turn your face to his, Bucky leans down and brushes his lips to your forehead. Gentle, steady.
And not at all what you wanted.
“Happy New Year, honey.”
You exhale softly. “Happy New Year, Bucky.”
It takes everything in you to keep those floodgates right where they are.
After the party’s ended, you agree to go back to Bucky’s. He’s rubbing the marks of your heels from your feet while you recap the night, massaging the stiffness out of them; you’re bundled up in his sweatshirt and sweatpants, and he wears the same.
“Thank you for coming with me tonight,” he says.
“Of course. It was a really beautiful party.”
“Agreed. I’m looking forward to signing off on that bill on Monday.”
You laugh. “You know, your employees really love you. I could see it on their faces.”
Bucky shrugs, but his ears go pink. “They’re good people.”
“I think you’re good people.”
“You’re not so bad yourself,” he says with a smile. You attempt to push his chest with your foot, but he holds your ankle steady, eyes twinkling with mischief.
“I also think you don’t give yourself enough credit,” you continue softly, voice lowering. “You work hard, you fight for things that’ll make the company better, and you care so much. These people see it. They’re lucky to have you and they know it. I know I am.”
His hands pause. When his eyes find yours, they’re wide, vulnerable. “Thank you,” he whispers.
You shoot him a shy smile. “You’re welcome.”
Your phone lights up just then, an alert from your cat camera detecting movement. But Bucky’s gaze is drawn to the time.
“Christ,” he swears, “it’s already three. Think it’s time for bed.”
You follow him toward the bedrooms, fighting off yawns; he turns to you in front of his door, sleepy smile already stretched across his face. “Goodnight, sweetheart,” he murmurs, turning the handle.
A thought occurs to you. A very selfish thought.
“Bucky?” you blurt out.
He turns.
“Yeah?”
“Can I, uh — can I sleep…in your bed? With you?”
Bucky’s silent, eyes blinking. You feel the heat creep up your neck and more words rush out of your mouth in response. You’re looking everywhere but at him.
“Just for tonight, I — um, I just mean, it’s a holiday and, you know, you spend holidays with people…You totally don’t have to say yes, oh my God, I probably crossed a line—“
“Sweetheart.”
Bucky holds the door to his room open, standing aside to allow you to pass. Your mouth opens and closes without a sound, but you scamper by him when he raises an eyebrow. The lights are off, the bed made; you unfold it together, like you’ve done this before a million times, and slide under the sheets.
Lying down, you face each other, eyes dancing over the other’s features softly illuminated by the lights of the city through the window; there’s only a few inches of space between you — it feels too close yet not close enough at the same time.
“Thank you,” you whisper to him. A soft smile flits across his face. Wordlessly, he reaches out and curls two fingers around yours, then his eyes flutter shut.
“Sleep tight, sweetheart.”
You watch his breathing slow, getting comfort from the steady rise and fall of his chest. Like this, you’re free to stare. You drink him in, every inch you can see, from the strands of hair falling in his face to the outlines of his legs underneath the sheets. You wish you could see all of him, every freckle, every line, every angle, so you can greedily commit it to memory. So you can be one of the lucky few to have known Bucky Barnes so intimately.
It isn’t lust, it isn’t want —it’s something much deeper than that. Something much more devastating.
You’re eventually lulled to sleep by the pulse in his wrist beating against yours.
January is cold and brutal. February is no better. March finally brings a taste of the sun, but you’re too busy buried up to your neck in school that you hardly step outside to savor it, unless Bucky’s there to drag you out the door.
With finals on the horizon, sometimes you have to make the hard decision to decline Bucky’s invites to dinner, or a show, or another charity gala. The guilt and pressure cut so deep after you say no that you burst into tears as soon as you get off the phone with him.
To his credit, Bucky doesn’t push — he’s your number one champion for you getting your degree — but in your weakest moments, when a headache throbs at your temple and you’ve gone cross-eyed from staring at a screen all day, you think about the woman’s voice on Bucky’s phone. It’s like your brain is punishing you for overworking it day in and day out, pushing nasty propaganda about losing him to a faceless woman as you try to fall asleep.
Dark circles under your eyes become a constant. You live off of electrolytes, coffee and takeout that Bucky has delivered to your apartment. You’re too tired to even doomscroll when you allow yourself a five minute break. It’s a very isolated existence.
Bucky comes by when he can, bearing groceries and ibuprofen and looking larger than life in your little one bedroom flat.
When he’s with you, he shows absolutely no signs of there being another woman in his life, patiently listening to your complaints about thesis formatting and unproved data formulas, gently making you eat after you’ve paced a ditch into your floorboards, holding you close on the couch until your body finally relaxes.
But your brain is a vengeful motherfucker. It torments you for choosing school over Bucky in between writing papers and compiling research. It convinces you that he’s faking every sweet word of encouragement that he gives you. It blends your reality until you believe that he’s cozied up at dinner with someone new, working his effortless charm on your replacement while you sit at home in the dark with your textbooks.
Unsurprisingly, you reach a breaking point.
Now, a sane person would pick up the phone and talk to him about it. But you’ve been entertaining a mild psychosis for days, brought on by stress and fatigue and pathetic amounts of yearning, so — naturally — you decide to show up at his home.
It’s half past midnight when you stumble out of the elevator into his dark penthouse. You bump into a side table as you struggle to find the light switch, sending it to the floor with a crash that could wake the dead, i.e., Bucky. Sure enough, you hear his bedroom door open and the sound of feet rounding the corner. The light flips on.
“What the fuck?”
He’s wearing nothing except his briefs, hair mussed from sleep but eyes wide and alert. He looks like he’s seeing a ghost. You certainly look the part — your clothes are soaked through from the rain, your teeth chattering and lips blue.
“H-hey,” you say weakly.
He says nothing, a tense moment passing between the two of you, before he crosses the room and pulls you into his chest.
“What’s wrong?” he demands. “Are you okay?” He pushes you back to scan you from head to toe. Your fingers curl around his forearms.
“N-no, I’m f-fine. Just c-c-cold.”
He yanks you back into his hold, arms like pythons around your waist and shoulders.
“What are you doing here?” he breathes against your hair. “I thought you were asleep.”
Your sigh brushes against his collarbone; your body is melting against his already. “I t-tried, but…I m-missed you.”
Bucky stills, just for a second. Then his arms pull even tighter around you.
“I missed you, too.”
“I’m sorry I woke you up,” you whisper.
“Don’t apologize. I’m glad you’re here.” He lifts his cheek from your head, taking in your wet clothes. “Did you — did you walk here?”
You have the grace to look guilty.
“Fuck,” he hisses, leaning down to meet your eye, “don’t ever do that again. I don’t want you walking around the city alone at this time of night — either call Bob or call an uber and charge it to my card. You don’t walk. Do you hear me?”
The tone of his voice is new and startling to your already-vulnerable psyche. Tears spill over before you can stop them. He exhales deeply, hands coming up to cup your face.
“I’m sorry,” he says, softer. “I shouldn’t have said it like that. You just…scared me.”
“I’m fine,” you repeat, sniffling.
“Says the woman who walked God knows how far in the pouring rain at midnight.” His eyes search your face. “What’s going on?”
Your lip trembles. ”I’m sorry,” you whisper.
“Shhh. Tell me what’s wrong,” he urges, and all of the ugly thoughts rear their heads inside your brain.
“It — it’s stupid…”
“It can’t be if you came all this way. Just tell me.”
He waits in silence for you to answer. You struggle to find the words, sifting through scraps of explanations while your head and your heart duke it out.
“…I guess I was…afraid,” you mumble, unable to hold his gaze.
“Afraid of what, sweetheart?” His thumbs brush your cheekbones soothingly.
“Of…losing you.”
He frowns. “What do you mean?”
You take a sharp, rattling breath. “I keep saying no to doing things with you because I’m so worried about school, and I — I haven’t made any effort at all to make up for it. We’ve barely seen each other in weeks — I didn’t realize until now how much I’ve been pushing you a-away. It made me scared that you’d see that I was choosing school over you and…y-you’d get tired of me, or want someone else…”
For the longest minute of your life, he says nothing. You watch as a thousand different emotions cross his face, from anger to sadness to relief. He settles on a blend of happy and pained, jaw clenching but eyes calm as ever. Bucky brings you closer, leaning his forehead against yours.
“Sweetheart, you’re not losing me.” He speaks softly, melodically. “I told you a long time ago that I wanted you to be able to focus on what matters to you, and I meant it. I’m so damn proud of what you’re doing, it makes every second I’m not with you worth it.”
He tilts your head up so that you meet his gaze. It’s warm, tender, almost pleading.
“And I could never get tired of you, even if we go days, or weeks, or months without seeing each other. You bring so much joy to my life just by being in it. Just by being you. Why would I ever want anyone else?”
In the back of your mind, you know you’re sobbing, but you don’t care. A hundred pound weight has been lifted off your chest and you think you might float to the ceiling if you weren’t wrapped up in Bucky’s arms. Whimpering, you bury your face into his chest, clutching at him with all your might. Bucky’s hands spread across your back, pressing you closer.
“Thank you,” you whisper against his skin. His lips brush your hair in a soft kiss.
The other floodgate cracks open, as inevitable as the sun rises. This time, you don’t fight it — you push the door all the way open, standing aside to let the oncoming rush of feelings flood your heart after they’ve been locked away for so long. It hurts, but it’s a good kind of hurt. Especially when Bucky’s holding you through it.
He only pulls away once your tears have turned into the occasional hiccup. “Come on,” he says gently, “let’s get you warmed up.”
He steers you into his bathroom, turning on the shower and placing a hoodie and boxers next to the sink. He leaves you to it, and you spend a good amount of time scrubbing at your face and regaining feeling in your limbs.
When you open the bathroom door, drowning in his clothes and smelling like his soap, he’s waiting for you, dressed in a hoodie of his own. A tiny part of you mourns the loss of seeing his skin. He helps you climb into his bed, pulling the covers up to your chin as you settle against the pillows. He flicks the light off before sliding in beside you, shuffling over until his cold toes touch yours, and his hand slides down your wrist and grabs your arm, pulling you in to close the distance between you.
A faint noise escapes you as you tuck your head against his shoulder. You’ve never been this close to him before — it feels like coming home after a long time away.
You’re drifting off in minutes, Bucky’s arm a comforting weight around your waist. Your dreams start sweetly when you hear his voice saying, “I’m all yours, sweetheart.”
When you receive the email that late April morning, you’re lying in Bucky’s bed scrolling on your phone. Even though Bucky left for work hours ago, you have a habit of drawing out your mornings from the comfort of his king mattress. As soon as you get the notification, your heart stops. You shoot up quickly, opening the email with shaky fingers, and read.
On behalf of the faculty and administration, we extend our sincere congratulations on the successful completion of your Master’s degree in Business Analytics.
This message serves as official confirmation that your degree has been conferred. Your academic achievement reflects a high level of dedication, discipline, and commitment to your field of study…
You scream before erupting into a fit of laughter, scrambling out from under the covers to jump on the bed until your legs give out. You fucking did it.
Breathless, you collapse onto the bed, immediately dialing Bucky. He picks up in one ring.
“Your ears must’ve been burning ‘cause I’ve got a bone to pick with you, doll, you took all the covers from me last night arou—”
“Bucky. I did it. I got the email.”
Silence for the length of a heartbeat. Then, with a smile in his voice, “That’s my girl. Congratulations, sweetheart, I always knew you’d do it.”
“Thank you, Bucky — I-I couldn’t have done it without you.”
“Nah, that was all you, smarty pants.”
You giggle, smushing your face into the pillow to hide your blush.
“It doesn’t feel real,” you muse, blowing hair from your eyes. “I’m not sure if I’m supposed to feel different or what.”
“That’s because you need to celebrate. You worked so hard for this, your brain isn’t out of school mode yet. You need to show yourself that you earned it. That’s when it will sink in.”
Your smile grows. “I like the way you think, Barnes. What do you think our odds are of getting into Minetta tonight?”
There’s a pause on his end, the sound of his keyboard the only thing you hear.
“Actually, I was thinking of something a little further away than Minetta.”
You know that tone. You sit up straight.
“Bucky. What are you planning?”
You’ve never seen water so blue in your entire life. Not even the beaches of Positano hold a candle to the sea surrounding the Maldives.
Bucky offers you a hand as you step out of the car. You take it gratefully, squeezing tightly just to make sure he’s real, that all of this is real.
“Welcome to One&Only Reethi Rah, Mr. Barnes. We’re so happy you could join us here.”
Bucky pulls you close, an arm slung over your shoulders, as the guide takes you across the grounds and to the docks where several large huts are built over the turquoise water. He shows you to the door of yours and Bucky’s villa, prattling off the agenda Bucky’s already set with the staff. You just barely register the words “snorkeling” and “private dinner” while you wander. It’s a long structure with an open concept, you can just see the end of the bed past the dining table; all of the walls are windows that are open to let in the breeze; on the far end, a large sundeck faces the ocean.
Bucky speaks with the guide while you weave in and out of the rooms. Two bathrooms, a small kitchen, a pool, and one bed. A small smile stretches across your face as your fingers brush over the comforter.
“What do you think?”
You turn, finding Bucky leaning against the wall across from you. Your smile grows and you let out a squeal, scrambling up and over the bed in your hurry to wrap your arms around him.
He smiles back, crushing you to him. “I’ve never heard that sound from you before. I’m guessing you like it?”
“Bucky — I love it. This place is a dream!”
“Glad you think so. Not a bad spot to celebrate getting your Master’s, huh?”
You laugh. “Way better than Minetta.”
The celebrations start with — of all things — a nap, because the twenty-four hours of traveling catch up to you once the adrenaline wears off. You stretch out on the bed next to Bucky, his hand carding through your hair, feet dangling over the edge, the sound of the ocean lulling you to sleep.
You feel like you’ve just closed your eyes when he nudges you awake. His hair’s all over the place in the most endearing way possible, so you reach up and muss it up even more; he grabs your wrist and holds it tight, warning you that you’ll be swimming in the ocean sooner than you think if you keep it up.
The sun’s just kissing the horizon when you head toward the beach, where another member of the resort staff escorts you to a private table set up for dinner. You sit through six courses of the freshest seafood and sweetest fruit you’ve ever had, sipping Bellinis while you and Bucky talk about nothing and everything at once.
At the end of the meal, after you can’t eat another bite of the desert, he pulls out a small black velvet box. Inside is a pair of earrings of your birthstone, shined till they gleam. You give him an earful for buying these when he’s already brought you here, but he smiles through it until your chastising turns into an endless stream of gratitude.
The next morning begins with a huge breakfast spread out on the sundeck, where Bucky insists on sunscreen first thing. You laugh at him for his responsible antics, but when you take turns putting it on each other’s backs, his big hands touching parts of you he hasn’t touched before, you can’t think of a more beautiful invention than sunscreen.
Bucky looks like God’s gift to women lounging next to you in the sun chair, sipping coffee and eating berries in a linen shirt he doesn’t bother to button, like it’s his birthright, like he was made to do it. You’re thankful for the heavy tint on your sunglasses concealing your wandering gaze.
Later, the two of you set off on a private yacht tour of the islands. You sit leaning against him on the front of the ship, pointing out dolphins that flip through the air and waving at passing boaters. With the roar of the wind and the motor, Bucky has to lean down and speak directly into your ear so you can hear him, and every time his lips brush your skin, you’re melting further and further into him.
You know you’re not being as subtle as you’d like — a small voice in your head wonders if he notices.
Dinner is back at the villa, where a private chef prepares choice cuts of steak and lobsters the size of your arm. The chef is entertaining, cracking jokes and flipping knives, and as you laugh through his horrible impression of Gordon Ramsay, you catch Bucky watching you from the corner of your eye.
He smiles shyly when he sees he’s caught, but he doesn’t look away. You feel a flush of warmth drag down your spine, limbs tingling in anticipation of something you don’t know the name of.
That night, you’re facing each other in bed, heads propped up by elbows so that you can reminisce on the day. You’re raving about the miles of rainbow coral you saw when Bucky reaches over and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers linger longer than necessary, much longer than appropriate, and it takes everything you have to keep going like his touch didn’t just send your heart into a frenzy. You take note of his half-lidded gaze locked onto your face — it could be from exhaustion, or it could be from something else.
You try not to let your mind spiral into the possibilities.
But when he has you cuddled close to his chest, just like every other night, you can hear his heart pounding through his thin t-shirt.
The rest of your week in paradise is a balance of dream-like activities and tension-filled moments. One minute you’re snorkeling, the next, Bucky’s undoing the back strap of your bikini and retying it with slow, concentrated precision. One minute you’re learning how to sail, the next, Bucky has you laid out on his chest, every inch of you on him as you take a nap in the sun.
You tell yourself that this is just Vacation Bucky, that nothing’s changed for him when it comes to what this arrangement is.
But his eyes follow you everywhere, he follows you everywhere, a hand lingering near your skin at all times.
It’s enough to make a rational person snap. And you do.
You’re getting ready for dinner after hours spent in the ocean. Bucky’s already cleaned up, now rummaging through his suitcase for something to wear while you’ve slipped into the connecting bathroom. You absentmindedly slide the door shut behind you, and it doesn’t quite connect with the frame; instead, a sliver of space is left open, just enough that, when you reach to close it all the way, you can see Bucky moving about the room.
The idea arrives unbidden, and it makes your stomach swoop low. Do it, the devil on your shoulder urges. The angel on the other shoulder stays silent.
You wait until he’s directly lined up with the crack in the door, then you turn your back to him.
“Hey, Buck?”
“Yeah?”
“Remind me what we’re doing for dinner again.” There’s a brief pause.
“We’re heading inland,” Bucky says. You think he sounds like he’s directly behind you.
Wasting no time, you take the ties of your bikini bottoms and pull them loose — they crumple to the floor.
“Do you know what they’re serving?”
Then you turn to the side, reaching up to untie the knot at the back of your neck; slowly, your bikini top slinks down your torso, exposing your breasts to the warm, night air.
You want to look — you really, really want to look — but you know you can’t. You can’t risk what comes after catching him looking. And what if he’s not looking? What if he’s done the decent thing, like the decent man he is, and walked away? You’re not sure how you’d be able to shoulder that feeling for the rest of the trip, not when you’re bartering your firstborn to the higher powers above for him to be looking.
You realize that Bucky hasn’t said anything.
“Bucky?” you call out, reaching to undo the last of the ties, and the bikini top lands on the bottoms, leaving you completely naked before the crack in the door.
“Yeah,” you hear. Low, rough, distracted.
Don’t fucking look—
“The food,” you reply, forcing an amused smile. “Do you know what it is? I don’t think I could eat another tartar with a gun to my head.”
There’s a pause before he speaks, sounding further away. “You’ll be fine.”
His words sound final; you think you hear the slide of the door leading out to the water. You bite your lip before turning for the shower. The boldness you were feeling before is quickly shrinking into nothing, leaving you with an empty feeling in your stomach and a knot of guilt in your chest.
Back in the room, Bucky nowhere in sight, you sit on the bed with a towel wrapped around your chest, damp hair clinging to your skin.
“Fucking idiot” you whisper to yourself. You think you might actually be insane. Or tremendously stupid. Or both. Who tries to seduce their best friend, their supportive, respectful, gorgeous best friend, with a fucking strip tease?
The words are like a knife to your chest as you sit with them. It’s the first time you’ve acknowledged Bucky being your best friend, and it’s right after going down in history as the shittiest friend ever.
…but are you?
Your mind replays every crooked smile he’s sent you, every dirty joke he’s laughed at, every hug and cuddle and forehead kiss, every second of this damn trip. You’re analyzing all of it frame by frame in pursuit of a sign that he wants more.
Because you sure as hell do.
It’s no question that things have changed completely for you, as devastating as a religious reckoning. You want him. You love him. You’re fucking head over heels for him.
But until you get that sign. The sign that he wants more, too. You can’t tell him. Not without risking everything — and you’d rather die with your love a secret than destroy what you have with him now by saying it out loud. Yet another tragedy to add on to your already pitiful life.
Bucky’s out on the deck when you emerge from the bathroom, wearing a flowy white linen dress that allows your skin to breathe.
“Hey,” you call out, voice on the wobbly side, heart fluttering nervously. “You ready?”
He turns from staring out at the ocean. When his eyes land on you, he stills.
“What?” you can’t help but ask as the silence stretches. “Should I change?”
He shakes his head, taking a step toward you. “Please don’t. You look…you look like an angel.”
The new compliment sinks deep into your heart, making you blush. Your answering smile is shy. “Thanks, Buck…so, are we going or what?”
You watch as Bucky’s shoulders move up and down in a deep breath; beyond him, the dark ocean cradles a strip of silver in its endless surface, the moon’s mirror image. It lights up the side of his face, exposing the soft look he’s wearing as he drinks you in. You’re hit with a sudden wave of what you can only describe as reverse déjà vu, like you’ve just come across a moment you never want to forget, a moment you want to come back to, time and time again.
You reach out your hand.
Bucky takes it.
The dinner is beautiful, no surprise there; you, Bucky, and a few other guests sit in a treehouse-like structure while aproned servers bring around plates of local dishes that melt on your tongue and introduce you to flavors you could only dream of. There’s live music in the corner of the room, a light breeze that cools your skin, and the ambiance is the perfect mix of cozy and seductive.
Meanwhile, Bucky’s giving an Oscar-worthy performance of everything being perfectly fine and normal. He smiles at you over his drink and lets his hand wander over your back. He laughs at the server’s joke and encourages you to get a second desert. He seems calm. Content. Happy.
But his eyes are dark and distracted. You catch him staring off into the distance more than once. And when you say his name to brink him back, his gaze burns into yours like a brand.
Back in the villa, the two of you get ready for bed quickly, the day getting the better of you both. You’re fighting through a fifth yawn when you finally collapse on top of the bed, spreading out over the covers in a small tank top and matching shorts to fight off the heat of the night. Behind you, Bucky emerges from the bathroom; the sound of his footsteps stop suddenly near the end of the bed, where you’re on full display to whoever passes by. They start up again before you can turn and look, and then Bucky’s pulling back the covers and sliding into bed.
“Budge over, doll,” he murmurs, stretching out his legs beneath the sheets. You sigh and roll over and off the bed so you can join him. He reaches over to turn off the light, and then it’s just the two of you and the moon’s reflection on the ocean.
“It’s so pretty,” you whisper. “I don’t think I could ever get tired of this.”
“Me neither,” he says. You turn on your side to look at him, a hand propping up your head.
“What’s been your favorite part?”
A faint smile flickers across his face. “The eel.”
You laugh. “Oh, I’m so glad you found my fear so entertaining.”
“I’ve never seen anyone swim that fast.”
“A moray eel crossed right in front of us and you’re saying you didn’t almost shit yourself?”
He shrugs before flipping onto his side. “They don’t bother you if you don’t bother them.”
“I’ll be sure to remember that for next time.”
“And maybe next time you won’t push me toward it while you’re trying to get away.”
You cover your face with your hand. “Okay, that was shitty of me, I admit it.”
“Just shitty?” he repeats. “You were sacrificing me to save yourself! I started questioning everything I thought I knew about you.”
Your jaw drops open. “That’s not fair! I’d love to see what you’d do to me if a big fat spider crawled up the bed.” Bucky shudders for effect. “And what happened to ‘they don’t bother you if you don’t bother them’?”
“They’re territorial, doll — you pushed me into his reef.”
“And he didn’t do anything because he could sense your hippie-dippy, ‘respect the ocean, it respects you back’ manifesto. Point is, you’re fine.”
“Yeah, physically. Emotionally? I’ll never recover.”
“Drama queen.” You shove at his shoulder to push him out of the bed.
Quick as a whip, he seizes your wrist and pushes you back. You can’t help but laugh as your plan backfires, his strength overtaking yours by a long shot. He rolls you closer to the edge of the bed, restraining your other wrist easily. You push back with all your might, slipping one wrist from his grasp and pushing at his chest, locking your leg around his to keep you anchored. Your giggles and his huffs of laughter fill the room as you struggle to push each other out of the bed.
And then something shifts, like a light switch turning off; Bucky’s eyes, bright with laughter, turn darker, steadier. His breath hitches.
“Alright, that’s enough,” he murmurs, voice rough. With no effort at all, he grabs both wrists in one hand. His other hand grips your bare knee, unhooking it from around his thigh and placing it on the mattress.
Shocked, you slide your leg down beside the other, your skin burning where his hand touched. He keeps your wrists.
“What’s wrong?” you ask.
He says nothing, breathing deep as he stares at your hands. You shake them in his hold. “Bucky.”
He sighs softly, just a push of air from his lungs like he’s come to a decision but hates the choice he made.
“I need you to stay there, sweetheart.”
You gape at him. “What? Did I — did I hurt you?”
“No, you didn’t hurt me.”
“Bucky—“ you start, inching closer, but he pins your wrists to the mattress, pressing firmly to make a point.
“Please.”
You watch with wide eyes as he slowly turns from his side to his stomach, resettling into the mattress with a fleeting wince.
Is he…?
He can’t meet your gaze, and there’s a flush to his neck that wasn’t there before, that you suspect is not from the heat. His hand over your wrists tightens imperceptibly. You stay silent until he has no choice but to look at you, and all you see is blown pupils.
He is.
You nod and he releases you, but you can’t look away from him. Not when he looks like this. Not when he’s the most vulnerable he’s ever been in front of you.
“It’s okay,” you whisper.
He makes a faint noise in the back of his throat, but he doesn’t move.
Eventually, his breathing levels out and so does yours — you hadn’t realized it had picked up when he held your hands down. The waves crash again and again, a tropical white noise to chip away at the tension.
Somewhere in the back of your mind, a voice screams at you that this is it, this is your moment to let him know exactly how you feel.
You think about crossing that symbolic six inches of space between you and kissing him. You think about touching him softly until he relaxes for you, until he welcomes you over to him. You think about forcing him over and straddling him before he can say a word.
What stops you is the look on his face. He isn’t embarrassed, like you expected — he’s disappointed, remorseful, pained, like he violated your trust as his friend and decided it’s unforgivable.
It makes your gut sink, remembering the bait you dangled before him earlier. A conflicting mix of emotions crowd your heart, vying for priority, the biggest battle between sweet satisfaction, and crushing guilt.
You can’t do it. Not like this. Not when he looks so broken over it. You take a deep breath, strands of hair floating into your face.
Without a word, and giving you all the time in the world to stop him, Bucky reaches over and tucks the pieces carefully behind your ear. Your eyes flutter shut.
“Sleep tight, sweetheart,” he whispers.
Your lips part. Your eyes open. He’s staring at you.
“You too, Buck.”
sammy speaks again: thank you for reading! I appreciate all the love I got from part one so much, it meant the absolute world to me. it’s a privilege just to be able to share my silly little stories with others 🤍 last part coming soon!
warnings: 18+ MDNI, eventual smut, fluffy!Bucky, power imbalance, sugar daddy / sugar baby dynamic, age gap (reader in mid-to-late twenties while Bucky’s in his early forties), mentioned illness/death of parents (minor characters), money troubles, i.e., debt, bills, etc., alcohol consumption, one instance of smoking cigarettes, no mentions of y/n
word count: 12.5k
part two - part three - masterlist
summary: The arrangement is simple enough: you give him friendship, he gives you a better life. But between the private dinners cozied up in a booth and the charity galas pressed to his side, it’s getting harder for you to hold up your end of the bargain when you’re starting to feel things for your sugar daddy that were not included in the contract…
sammy speaks: so the rumors are true, I am in fact bucky’s sugar baby and this is my autobiography, thank you for reading it!! could easily say this is my magnum opus, I don’t think I’ve put more time and effort into a piece of writing than I have this one. I hope everyone out there on the bucky x reader tag gets the chance to read it <3
Your shift is off to a very bad start.
The subway broke down — again — which means you had to sprint the last six blocks in your tiny skirt and sheer tights just to make it to work forty minutes late. Sweat pours down your back by the time you burst through the service door; the girls still lingering after the day shift give you wary looks while you lean against the wall, panting and brushing wet strands of hair from your face. You don’t care.
All you want is some water and to clean yourself up before heading out onto the floor, but your manager decides now is as good a time as any to give you a lecture on tardiness.
Your lungs are still struggling for air as you endure his power trip, your teeth grinding together over the fact that he hadn’t let you clock in before launching into his tirade. His ruddy face and the drool collecting at the corners of his mouth would’ve made for a comical sight if you weren’t already fuming over your situation. By the time he tires himself out, he’s eaten away at seven additional minutes you could’ve been paid for.
Safe to say, there’s a black cloud over your head when you finally emerge onto the floor. Cleaning yourself up had been futile — there was nothing you could do about your hair, and you’re putting a lot of faith in the ambiance to keep the sweat stains on your uniform indiscernible. And not only are you sticky with dried sweat, smelling of the cheap drug store body spray and year-old deodorant you borrowed, but blisters are beginning to form after your uncoordinated run in heels earlier. You have a feeling you’ll be cleaning dried blood from them at the end of the shift, and until then, every step will be torture.
That is until you see the floor map at the host stand, then you don’t even register the pain anymore. The hostess fidgets nervously beside you as you double and triple-check what you’re seeing.
At first glance, it looks like it always does. You have the same tables every night with the same people filling them like clockwork, because this place thrives on consistency and it’s common knowledge that regulars have the deepest pockets. Everything looks normal…except for one table. And once your eyes catch on it, it makes your heart seize.
Your Friday night 8:30 p.m. regulars is missing — the group of eighty-something year-old men that like to compare you to their granddaughters and fuss over your wellbeing and always tip like it’s their last day on earth are no longer in their usual back booth. No, the long-standing reservation under ‘S. Lee’ is off in another corner of the screen. In Melissa’s section. In her booth.
“This has to be a mistake,” you say out loud. The young girl playing hostess for the evening squeaks, curling in on herself.
“I’m sorry, he made me,” she whispers urgently, and you know she means your manager. “You were running late and he didn’t want them to wait, so he had me put them at Mel’s table next to the piano—“
You tune her out, a hand covering your eyes to block out every sensory input you could. The missing table of your best regulars feels like the death blow to your optimism, your hope, your last chance. With debt collectors clogging up your voicemail, you haven’t thought about anything but this shift for the last week. A lot was riding on it, and not just the tips or the wages — tonight was going to be the night you swallowed your pride and pitched your sob story to the table of Warren Buffet clones. It’s a gamble — one that risks your job if you don’t play your cards right — but after months of buttering them up with winks and pats and an endless amount of patience for repeatedly-told stories, you figured at least two out of the six might crack open their wallets for a charitable cause of a motherless young woman with crippling medical debt.
But now you would never know. The thought hurts a lot worse than the blisters.
It takes great effort to slap a smile on your face and act like you didn’t just miss the last lifeboat on the sinking ship, but every time you pass the empty booth, a cold chill runs down your spine. Deadlines, due dates, and late notices swirl in your brain while you take orders or fake laughter. Your mind has catalogued everything you think the repo men will take first when they come knocking next week. It’s a dark and winding internal spiral.
But just when you think it can’t get any worse, your black cloud becomes a roaring thunderstorm.
You know the hostess thought she was helping — you’ve been catching her apologetic looks from the corner of your eye throughout the shift. But when she creeps over to you cautiously, a small smile on her face, and says she found the perfect replacement reservation for you, you’re about ready to dump a pitcher of water over her head.
“Replacement” rings alarm bells in your head. “Replacement” means reservations outside of the regulars’ time slots. “Replacement” means snotty out-of-towners with connections or ignorant first-time club members. “Replacement” means trouble.
And trouble they are.
You assess your new group of gentleman from across the bar. There are seven of them in the secluded booth, all of them spread out and lounging comfortably like they’ve been patrons of your table for years. You don’t recognize any of them, and neither does the bartender, which confirms your biggest fears. You’re at risk of cracking a tooth.
But your manager appears out of nowhere, giving you the evil eye, so you have no choice but to relax your jaw and make your way over to the newcomers.
Your forced smile could power a small generator when you sidle up to the table.
“Welcome to The Alpine, gentlemen. How are we?”
Seven pairs of eyes snap to you, and you know what comes next: the head-to-toe look over and appreciative smiles that follow shortly after. The tall blonde in the middle has a particularly disarming curl to his lips that raises the hair on the back of your neck.
“Better, now that you’re here,” he quips, line of vision resting somewhere between your chin and your naval. The man beside him chuckles.
“Well, glad I could be of service,” you say brightly, eyelashes fluttering on command. Even if it kills you, you’ll flirt like hell with them if it means better tips. “What brings you in tonight?”
The blonde one speaks up again. “Our friend here just bought another nightclub,” he says, gesturing to a man to his right. “So we thought we’d celebrate him adding to his empire.”
Your smile never falters, but you feel your eye twitch.
“How exciting,” you manage to say.
It takes you much longer than necessary to get their drink orders. The blonde man — whose name you learned is Walker — doesn’t seem to know how to stop talking. Even if you shoved a dirty bar towel down his throat, you think he’d still be shooting off jokes. Probably about ball gags, after hearing the mouth on him.
As you walk away to put in their orders, you can just hear Walker’s nasty little comparison of a bouncy ball and your ass. Your eyes roll so hard they hurt.
When you return with their drinks, he once again zeroes in on your neckline.
“How long have you been working here, sweetie?” he asks your breasts, voice cutting through the others’ conversations. Your smile is blank and placid as you hand him his drink, ignoring the purposeful drag of his fingers over yours.
“Coming up on a year,” you reply. “Long enough to know when someone interesting walks in.”
You add a wink for good measure and he devours it. Sitting up straighter, Walker puffs out his chest.
“Interesting, huh?” he asks with a smirk that’s probably meant to seduce but instead summons vomit. “Sounds like I might be a new favorite of yours.”
Do not gag do not gag do not gag—
“Oh, I don’t do favorites. I just like my clientele to feel special.”
God, you might make yourself vomit—
“Good to know,” he drawls, “because I’ll be around a lot more soon. Barnes is getting me on the short-list next month, right, Barnes?”
Before whichever man named Barnes can reply, Walker continues. “So don’t go running off anywhere. Wouldn’t want you breaking my heart before I even get settled in.”
The cliche of it all has you actively fighting the urge to burst out laughing.
“And give up the chance to have you as a regular? Wouldn’t dream of it,” you soothe, smile cracking with your hidden mirth. The man at the end of the booth makes a noise somewhere between a snort and cough, but Walker beams like he won the lottery.
As the drinks flow, his audacity grows, which you find as shocking as it is endearing — which is to say, not at all. But you play along, because what other choice do you have? None when Walker’s giving all the signs that he’ll be footing the bill.
So you keep it up, the back and forth, the balance of flirty and dismissive responses; you can see the interest growing in Walker’s eyes as his sobriety shrinks. His friends are right there with him, and soon enough the energy of the table starts to shift in Walker’s direction.
“That vest really does wonders for you.”
“I like it when a girl shows a little skin.”
“That skirt looks like it was made for you.”
Your patience is wearing thin.
To their credit, a couple others at the table try to rein him in when they can, including the man of the hour, the club buyer, an attractive guy in his early forties called Sam. He makes pointed subject changes and laughs off the awkwardness when Walker makes a comment that lands just this side of perverted. Truthfully, you wouldn’t mind Walker running his mouth until you had grounds to have him removed, essentially destroying whatever chance he has at the “short-list,” or whatever the fuck that made up thing was. But you appreciate Sam’s efforts all the same.
And then there’s the other guy, the one on the end, who takes a more direct approach to shutting Walker up.
Walker’s in the middle of a slurred proposition for you to accompany him home after your shift when the man at the end of the booth lifts his head.
“Enough,” he says bluntly, suddenly; his voice is low and rough, direct. The tongue-in-cheek comment about sharing a bed immediately dies on Walker’s lips, his eyes flashing to his interruptor.
He doesn’t even bother looking at Walker, staring at his drink as he slowly spins it on the table, still his first one when the others are on their fourth or fifth. There’s a brief flash of something black and gold peeking from underneath the cuff of his suit jacket — a brilliant watch, clearly high-end and probably worth more than you’ll ever make in your life. A ring sits on his pinky, polished titanium. His charcoal suit fits his shoulders like every stitch and seam were custom made for his measurements — and maybe they were.
You see money in various forms all the time at this job, but occasionally you’ll stumble across real money. Big money. Stupid money. The kind that expresses itself quietly instead of boisterously like Mr. Short-List. It’s not always easy to spot, but you’ve learned how to over the last year, and when you do, it doesn’t fail to knock you on your ass every time.
One quick look and you know this man has real money. Your heart stutters in your chest, thoughts of your stack of unpaid bills wiping the smile clean off your face.
On the other side of the table, Sam disrupts the new silence by making a brave pivot to the stock market, something the rest of the group jumps on, even Walker. You’re attempting to swallow the lump in your throat, scrambling to grab empty glasses and old napkins, when you feel eyes on you.
It’s him, the man at the end of the booth.
His eyes are a startlingly bright blue that sends an electric shock down your spine. His face, looking like it was carved straight from Michelangelo’s private diary, stays neutral as you meet his gaze; you can see the years on him through scars and scruff and wrinkles around the eyes, but you wouldn’t guess him to be older than forty-five. His thick dark hair is swept back, threaded with silver near the temples that matches the silver around his chin.
He’s watching you like he’s waiting for something. Some sort of reaction maybe. His pink lips are parted like he’s about to ask a question. You have no idea what it could be.
Not giving yourself the chance to hesitate, the smile is back on your face with practiced ease. “Can I get you anything, sir?” you murmur quietly, trying to draw as little attention from the others as possible.
He blinks, breaking the undisclosed stare down between the two of you. “Just the check, please.”
“Of course. Can I get the name under the membership?”
“Barnes,” he says, holding out a black credit card for you to take. “James Barnes. Thank you.”
“Thank you, Mr. Barnes.”
His eyes find yours again and stare. You offer him one last smile before leaving.
Your fingers tap restlessly against the counter as you wait for the receipt to print. From across the room, you watch as the group at the booth begins to get up. Walker’s foot catches on the lip and he stumbles into his friend; Sam’s there immediately to usher them toward the door. You place the receipt in the black book and make your way back to the table, where James Barnes still sits, still staring at his drink.
Unfortunately, you have to pass Walker on your way over. With a sad excuse for a smile, you thank him for coming in tonight. He leans forward, into your personal space, reeking of liquor and leering at you.
“Left my number on the napkin if you miss me too much. We can pick up where we left off when you’re done with work.”
Clearly he thought he was bestowing a tremendous gift on you, from the way he winks and struts away. Your smile drops as soon as you turn back to the table, where you see James Barnes staring at you yet again.
Feeling caught, you offer him a sheepish look, a small upturn of your lips, and hand him the receipt.
“Thank you for coming in tonight, Mr. Barnes. We hope you come back soon.”
He hums, taking it from your hands; your fingers brush, and your brain has no choice but to acknowledge how different it feels from when Walker did it. He signs the receipt and offers it back to you before you have the chance to give him privacy, but when you grab it, he holds on to the other end, stopping you in your place.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, eyes boring into yours again, “for what you had to put up with tonight.”
You blink. “Oh, that’s — it’s not a problem at all, your friends seem like a, uh — fun time.”
A smile flits across his face, crooked and devastating. “Fun? So, you enjoy getting asked to go home with your customers?”
“I—“ your blush lights up your face. “He didn’t mean it, I’m sure—“
“He did.”
“It’s fine,” you rush to say. “I get it a lot, comes with the territory. Call it a work perk.”
His eyebrow lifts.
“A work perk,” he repeats. “Sure. Some places offer health insurance, but you get to be flirted with by married men.”
Fucking dick bag, you seethe internally, your mind conjuring up a scenario where you curb stomp Walker until his teeth fall out.
You try to smile but it feels like a grimace. “What can I say? I’m living the dream.”
He chuckles, finally releasing the bill. His eyes sweep across your face.
“Are you?”
You pause. “Am I what?”
“Living the dream.”
“Is anyone, really?” you say with a quirk of your lips.
“I don’t know,” he allows, tilting his head. ”Maybe not. But we keep pretending we are.” His gaze drifts around the room before settling back on you. “Were late nights and putting up with guys like Walker what you always pictured your life to look like?”
You chuckle, but there’s hesitation in it. Images of your verbally abusive manager and meager paystubs flash through your mind. But that’s the darker side of the club that customers aren’t supposed to know about. As a server, your job is to slap a pair of rose-colored glasses over their eyes and keep them there. Yet he’s asking to take them off. It feels taboo.
He’s looking at you like he can read your thoughts, but he waits for your answer like he has all the time in the world.
“Uh, no,” you say slowly. “Definitely not.”
You glance over your shoulder like you’re expecting your manager to be standing there, red-faced and spitting again.
“Good,” James murmurs, “I was starting to worry about your long-term goals.”
“I’m…I’m actually in school,” you admit before you can stop yourself. “Grad school. Masters in Business Analytics.”
His lips do something similar to a smile, but his eyes are serious as he leans your way. “Impressive. What are you hoping to do with this degree?”
You shrug, feeling the full weight of his undivided attention. It isn’t uncomfortable, but it’s heavy.
“Something with data. It kind of — I don’t know — speaks to me, I guess? I’m good with numbers. I can read an Excel sheet, which is half the battle. Interpreting data really isn’t that difficult when you dictate the right models and—“ You stop short and shake your head quickly. “I’m sorry. I’m boring you.”
His smile returns. “You’re not boring me.”
“I was rambling. You probably have better things to do than listen to me run my mouth about dictating data models,” you joke.
“On the contrary,” he murmurs, “I’d like to hear what you have to say about data models.”
You look to the floor as the blush blooms across your face. “It doesn’t make for very thrilling conversation.”
“We’re at The Alpine Club — I’m pretty sure data models make up ninety percent of the conversations around here. What’s one more?”
You laugh, bright and unexpected. “You got me there.”
He watches you for a moment, thoughtful.
“So,” he says, twirling his empty glass, “what kind of data are you hoping to manipulate around when you graduate?”
You blink as his question lands. It isn’t lost on you that he’s prolonging the conversation. Your weight shifts, you debate answering him; you have tables that haven’t been touched in minutes, you have side work that’s waiting for you in the back. Plus, your gut is screaming at you that this has gone a lot further than the average conversation between customer and server, especially when he’s already settled up. You should thank him for coming in and walk away.
“Manipulating data sounds corrupt,” you say with a small smile. The side work can wait. “It’s more like…making sense of it. Organizations collect all this information and half the time they don’t even know what to do with it. I like the idea of being the person who can look at a mess of numbers and data points and say okay, here’s the story.”
“Sounds like an art,” he says.
“Artists don’t use spreadsheets.”
“I think it still counts.”
Your hands tighten around the receipt book. “Not sure if I’ve ever heard someone call data analytics an art. Most people start disassociating when I mention Excel.”
“Most people are missing out.”
Your smile grows. “That sounds like a line.”
“It’s not,” he says easily, placing both hands on the table. “I’m genuinely interested.”
“In data?”
“In you.”
The words are a shock to your system. You feel heat climb into your cheeks again. Okay, that’s definitely a line.
That smile flickers on his face again, and he points toward his empty glass. “Actually, do you mind if I get one more from you? Please?”
You hesitate for a moment before nodding, turning for the bar again. When you return with his drink, he takes it from you with gentle fingers that brush yours.
“Do you think you’d be able to sit with me? Just for the drink?” he asks.
You freeze.
“If you’re busy, I understand,” he says quietly. “I don’t want to keep you from your work.”
Chewing your lip, you chance a look at your section. It’s died down considerably — closing time is near, but your last few tables have yet to pay. He watches you in that patient way of his.
“No, it’s — I’m not busy,” you mumble. You’re about to move to the other side of the booth when he slides over deftly, leaving room for you to sit next to him with a healthy amount of distance left between. Your hesitation is quick, but obvious, although he says nothing when you eventually take the spot beside him.
“Where do you go to school?” he asks, like there wasn’t a break in the conversation.
“O’Malley.”
His eyebrows lift a fraction. “That’s a great school.”
“Ha. Thank you. Yeah, my mom nearly had a heart attack when I got my acceptance letter. Big school, bigger price tag.” Your nose wrinkles. “I guess you could say that’s part of the reason I’m here.”
You’re not sure what made you bring up your mom — you haven’t weaved her into conversation in weeks. While your brows furrow in thought, James shifts in his seat, suddenly, like a twitch but more intentional. He lifts the drink to his lips.
“Part of the reason?” he repeats.
“It’s a long story.”
He looks at you, eyes bright but calm.
“I have time.”
You exhale softly, unable to hold the eye contact. “It — well, it’s not a very good story either.”
He doesn’t say anything, letting you consider in silence whether or not to share. You don’t tell your story very often — in fact, you’ve tried running from it multiple times. Hence the reason the debt collectors were after you. Tonight was going to be a rare occurrence if you had actually ended up telling your table of regulars your tearful tale.
Sitting beside him, you can’t deny the pull to James, nor the urge to tell him; you want to chalk it up to being prepared for another audience, but deep down, you know it’s something completely different.
With a sigh, you start.
“I had a lot saved up. A good chunk of it from my dad’s life insurance policy. Car accident when I was sixteen,” you add, when James’ tilts his head questioningly. “It was…sad, but we got through it. My mom and me. I got the money when I turned twenty-two, just in time to graduate college. I worked at a bar part-time and made some money there, so I decided to take a year off before grad school. Travel. See the world…”
James clears his throat. “Where did you go?”
“Europe. Mostly Italy. I love the food, the history, how the country’s broken up by states and each one has its own culture…” You trail off, biting down on a smile. “I think it’s my favorite place in the world.”
Next to you, James shifts again, but he’s got a soft smile on his face as he watches the liquid swirl in his glass.
“But then my mom got sick,” you continue, your voice lowering automatically. “Stage 4 colon cancer. I came home right away, brought her to every doctor in the city, but they all said the same thing: that there was nothing they could do.”
There’s a sound like a hushed rumble coming from James’ chest. He sets his drink down and meets your eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
A stab of grief shoots through your heart at those two words. You’ve heard them a million times over in your life, eventually growing numb to them — especially when they came from strangers. But the way he’s looking at you, the simplicity in the way he said it, causes a reaction you haven’t had in months. You quickly blink away the burn behind your eyes.
“It’s…thank you.”
He nods once, a gesture of acknowledgment and to continue. You take a breath.
“She refused to give up. She was a badass, but I also think that was just her being a mom. She didn’t want to leave me on my own in the world. So we used up every cent we had flying across the country, meeting with the best doctors out there and trying treatment after treatment. We spent a stint at the Mayo in Rochester, and for a moment, things were starting to look up. But she took a sudden turn for the worse, so we came back here. We came home.”
You rest your chin in your palm, eyes following his finger as it taps against his glass. You can feel him watching you closely.
“I tried to make her as comfortable as I could. Took the rest of my savings and poured it into her care. She hated that I did that, but there was no point arguing. Not when we only had weeks left. She passed last spring.”
James’ free hand twitches in your direction. You pretend not to notice.
“After the funeral, I looked around and realized I had mountains of medical bills to pay, a mortgage suddenly in my name, and a future full of student loans.” You make a soft noise in the back of your throat, untitled in emotion. “Despite everything, my mom made me enroll in classes as soon as we got home — she wanted me to have something waiting for me on the other side of it all. I thought she was crazy at first because I couldn’t think about anything but her, but now that she’s gone, I’m glad she made me do it.”
The silence after you finish is surprisingly light. It doesn’t feel tense or heavy like it usually does, when your audience isn’t sure how to reconcile all of that grief in one person’s lifetime. James sits beside you easily, absorbing your story with careful consideration and space.
“For what it’s worth, I think your mom would be really proud of where you are today” he murmurs.
The corner of your mouth lifts.
“Don’t speak too soon. I sold the house, but it barely made a dent in the medical bills. Whoever invented interest can suck my dick.”
James coughs and takes a large sip of his drink.
“Truthfully, I’m — I’m drowning,” you laugh breathlessly. “I can’t study because I’m constantly worried about having enough money to keep the lights on, and then that makes me worry that I’ll get kicked out of the program and lose my chance at a job that pays enough to make these bills go away. So I got a job here in the meantime because — well, everything’s outrageously priced and that means you get outrageous tips, which is literally the only way to keep my head above water.”
Your voice has raised in volume, pitch and speed, but you plow on, too late to bottle it up now.
“I ran the numbers a hundred times, set them against average incomes of thousands of jobs in the city, calculated inflation and costs, and it came down to either this or stripping. Which I don’t have anything against! But I can’t move like that, I can barely do a push up — so tips would be beyond sad for me, if I get any, and then I’d be back to where I started. So between that and The Alpine, I thought why not save myself the embarrassment and—”
You cut yourself off with a wince. You did it again.
You shoot a furtive glance his way. He’s turned completely in his seat to face you, jaw tight and eyes unreadable. Like this, you get the full force of him, the piercing blue of his eyes, the sharp features of his face; it’s unnerving, but in a way that makes your skin tingle, like electricity’s dancing down your limbs. A brief look reveals a brush of chest hair peeking out from under his white button down, and your subconscious decides it would like to see the rest of it someday.
He appears to be considering something, mulling it over carefully in his head. He hasn’t looked away from you since you stopped talking, but you don’t find it creepy. Yet.
“Sounds like you have a lot on your plate,” James mutters.
“Yeah,” you say faintly, “sorry to unload all of that on you.”
He shakes his head quickly, throwing back the last of his drink in one large gulp. His lips press into a thin line. You’re kicking yourself mentally, thinking you’ve finally traumatized the poor guy with your unfiltered stream of consciousness, when he sets the glass down with a sharp klink.
“I could help,” he says quietly.
You blink. “Oh, you don’t — you don’t need to do that. I promise I wasn’t using my sob story to get you to kick me a bigger tip or anything—“
“Just listen, please.”
Your mouth shuts with a snap. The air hums with a level of anticipation that wasn’t there before. His eyes hold steadily onto yours.
“I’ll only say this once, and if it’s not for you, I won’t say another word about it ever again.” He tilts his head. “I believe two people can come together in an uncomplicated and beneficial way, like friends do, to help each other out. I’d like to make your life easier so you can focus on what actually matters to you. I’d be someone you can rely on, who values your time and wants to see you succeed…while also helping you with any roadblocks in your way. I could take some of the pressure off — financially — so that you can focus on your future instead of struggling to make things work today. And in return, I get your company. I’ve had a better time talking to you for the last twenty minutes than I’ve had with that group of guys for years. You’re sharp, you’re funny, you’re grounded…your time and your attention is all I would want.”
He lets that sit between you with a short pause. Meanwhile, the air has left your lungs.
“This requires trust. Discretion. Maturity. It’s not about rescuing anyone or buying affection. It’s more…intentional than that. Mutual.”
He pauses again, longer, as if he’s waiting for his words to sink in with you. They certainly have.
“Being my friend will never require you to be out of your comfort zone,” he continues softly. “It’s about making you comfortable. You’ll get support without strings, without owing anything, and without judgment. It’s not complicated, and it’s not about control. It’s about being a friend. I’d like to be your friend.”
Your mouth opens but nothing comes out. Not a whisper of a sound. The corners of his mouth twitch up as he searches your face — you suspect you’re not doing a very good job at concealing your emotions.
“You don’t need to give me an answer now,” James murmurs, leaning back against the booth; his voice has dipped into a lower octave, and the sound of it sends vibrations up your spine. “All I’m asking is that you consider it.”
You’re silent as you turn his words over in your mind, your heart thrumming beneath your chest.
“We don’t even know each other,” you whisper.
“I know,” he replies, “but I’d like to know you. This is a way for me to do that.”
You bite your lip. “If you’re saying all of this because of my mom, or — or ‘cause you feel bad—“
“No,” he says calmly, hand resting on the table near yours. “This isn’t because I feel bad.”
“Then why?” you ask.
“Because you’re beautiful, and I enjoy the sides of you that you’ve shown me tonight. And selfishly, I’d like to be your friend that makes things easier for you.”
Your gut swoops low. He called you beautiful. But there was an innocence behind it, like he was stating a fact rather than making a move. This settles over you like a warm blanket after a long day.
James watches you for another moment before reaching into his suit jacket and pulling out a card. He offers it to you.
“Take some time. Think it over. If you have questions, call me. If you never want to hear from me again, say the word and I’ll leave you alone. But if you’re interested in what this could be, let me know.”
You take the card without a word, absentmindedly pocketing it while you get to your feet. Your body has overridden your brain, moving you through the motions. James rises after you, and his frame towers over yours as you finally stand next to him. His bright eyes scan your face, assessing every detail. You swallow hard, his eyes track that as well.
“I hope to hear from you soon,” he murmurs, dipping his head down to your eye level. You nod breathlessly.
With a pointed look, he nudges the receipt book closer to you, where it had been abandoned on the table after he asked for another drink.
“It’s—it’s on me,” you say weakly. He raises his eyebrows, hands shoved into his pockets; you wave vaguely in front of you. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Thank you,” James says politely, and with a small dip of his chin, he turns away for the door. You watch as he crosses the room at a relaxed pace, dark hair bouncing gracefully, suit swishing perfectly. He doesn’t look back as the door is opened for him like a king and he exits the room.
You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. Holy shit.
Later that evening, when you stumble home with ruptured blisters, smelling of stale sweat and cleaning products, you collapse onto your couch and pull out the card.
James B. Barnes, Chairman of the Board
Barnes Group, Inc.
The last name should have given it away, but to be fair, you were blindsided by the smooth talking and how good he looked. Barnes Group, Inc. is a quiet but major asset management firm that dominates the Financial District. They hold their weight against the big ones despite being around for less than twenty years. They’re well-respected and popular, from what you’ve heard around The Alpine. Your instincts proved correct once again — he really does have real money.
Your mind whirls. How cliche is it for one of the wealthiest men in the city to offer an arrangement like this to a younger woman? Very — there’s no beating around that bush.
But the way he framed it had broken through your initial judgment, hitting you in a place that was dark and dusty and unused for ages. Friendship.
You couldn’t remember the last time you spoke to someone you could call a friend. All of them had slowly disappeared after you buried your mother, and for valid reasons; you made it impossible to keep in touch, dodging phone calls and ignoring texts like it was your job. But you’re still human — even if you push everyone away, that doesn’t mean you’re immune to loneliness. And with hardly any family left, that doesn’t leave you with many options for human companionship.
His words had shined a spotlight on that gaping hole in your life, intentional or not. Maybe he could see that on top of flirting with poverty, you’re lonely.
Maybe he’s lonely, too.
You rub your eyes viscously with your knuckles, willing the day to seep from your bones. Your cat, Lucky, hops onto the couch and curls up beside you.
You can’t believe it, but you think you need to consider this. While several true crime documentaries could show you the downfall of trusting the wrong person, you can’t help but take James’ words as they are. Perhaps that ity, bity, tiny sliver of hope you allow to live on inside you has taken charge of your decision making. It would explain your sudden deviation from enormous dislike for the rich.
You sigh, stroking Lucky’s back. “If this is real, I’d be an idiot not to,” you say to him, like you have no other choice. Lucky yawns his affirmation.
So you think on it. A lot. A lot a lot. Pretty much every minute of the next three days, you’re thinking about James. His words replay over and over in your head until it’s an automatic loop of noise.
I’d like to be your friend.
It’s distracting, thinking about him and his offer. Which means you’re distracted at work, you’re distracted on the subway, you’re distracted folding laundry. You even answer a debt collector by accident because your mind is in two places. You’ll never do that again.
…He could make sure you never do that again.
It comes to a head when you’re taking your break during your shift. The August night is hot and humid, the sky bragging of potential thunderstorms. The cigarette in your hand shakes as you inhale greedily.
The same two things circle your brain: how long would you let this go on for? And what would your mom think?
Both questions hold great weight, yet both are unanswerable to you — at least for now. Just when you start going down that road, your brain screeches to a halt in some sort of self-preservation tactic, distracting you by throwing mental memories of James’ soft smile, his quiet empathy, or — even worse — his chest hair.
It makes it a lot easier to pull out your phone than you think. The card is slightly crumpled from taking it out and holding it so often, but the numbers read clearly as you punch them in.
He’s offering you a way out of this mess you call your life. Just because he wants to. And all he asks is for you to smile and thank him for it over dinner every now and then. Either he’s dealing with a lot of guilt over having money, or he truly wants to see your life get easier because of him. Maybe it’s both. Either way, it’ll change your life.
For the better. Right?
The line rings three times before he answers. “James Barnes.”
“James,” you croak, exhaling a cloud of smoke. “It’s me. From The Alpine. Hi.”
Something shifts in the background, like he’s sitting up straighter or moving something around. It sounds like sheets against skin. “Hi,” he says back, neutral. You glance at the time on your phone.
“Shit,” you mutter, “I’m sorry. I didn’t even think about how late it is. I can call you back—?”
“No,” he cuts in. “Now’s fine. How are you?”
You chew on your lip. “I’m good. Busy, but…I’ve been— uh, I’ve been thinking.”
“Oh, yeah?” he murmurs, soft and loose like it’s a knee-jerk response. Your gut swoops low.
“About what you said,” you choke out. “About being…friends. I…I have some questions.”
“I have some answers.”
“I was wondering if we could meet. Soon. So I can ask you the questions. And learn a little more about…what this will be like.”
There’s a pause on the other end, not even a rustle of fabric or a brush of his breathing against the receiver to be heard. Then he clears his throat.
“How about tomorrow night? 8 o’clock at Pepper’s.”
“Yeah— uh, yes. That works,” you breathe. There’s a moment of silence where all you can hear is the pounding of your own heart.
“Would it be presumptive of me to bring a few documents? Unless you’d like to have a lawyer look over them—”
Your mouth goes dry. “No. That’s okay,” you say. “You can bring them.”
He makes a soft noise, something pleased. “I’m glad you called,” he says, voice low and warm. “I was starting to think I wouldn’t hear from you.”
The hand holding your cellphone spasms. “I’m sorry,” you whisper.
He shushes you quietly. “It’s okay. I’m glad you took your time. You seem like the type of person who wants to know exactly what she gets herself into. I admire that.”
You hum, because words are elusive as ever right now.
“Are you working?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“It’s almost midnight. Isn’t The Alpine closed by now?”
“Yeah, well…side work’s a bitch. I’ll probably be here until one.”
He grunts. “Let me send a car to get you home.”
“James, I—“
“Please. It’ll let me sleep tonight. Worrying about you walking around New York at one in the morning in the rain will do the opposite.”
Your foot taps restlessly. “Okay,” you breathe.
“Okay, doll.”
A flush runs through your body, from the crown of your head to the tip fo your toes. It leaves behind a wave of tingles that tickle your skin.
“Yeah, uh. I’ll let you— uh, I’ll let you get back to it then. I’ll see you tomorrow, James.”
“Tomorrow,” he vows. And the line goes dead.
You adjust the straps of your dress again, pulling them further back on your shoulders so that they frame your chest just right. It’s your favorite dress — or, more accurately, your only dress — and your one item of clothing that’s acceptable enough for the five star restaurant you’re meeting James at.
He’s sending another car — he texted you this time, brokering no argument over it, just a time and the driver’s name. You’d be put off if the ride last night hadn’t cut your usual hour-long hike home down to ten minutes and saved you from a torrential downpour. Private cars have their benefits, apparently.
The driver, Bob, picks you up at half past seven. He weaves in and out of traffic flawlessly, leaving you with very little time to fix your makeup and call on every shred of courage you have.
When he pulls up to the curb, he hops out of the car and opens the door for you, helping you to balance on your heels that don’t entirely cover the bandaids on the back of your ankles. You thank him for the ride as he ushers you into the restaurant.
James waits at the table tucked into a secluded corner at the back of the room, hair parted perfectly, scruff a little longer than before, and dressed in a suit of midnight black. His shirt is a shade lighter, the top three buttons undone and exposing even more chest hair than the last time. You take a deep breath as you approach.
He stands immediately when he spots you, eyes appraising you gently, like his favorite person in the world just showed up.
“Hello,” he says, coming around to hold out your chair for you.
“Hi,” you mumble, blushing as you sit. He holds eye contact as he resettles into his own seat, a small smile on his face.
“You look breathtaking,” he admits, a twinge in his voice that could pass for pained, like the way you look is so devastatingly beautiful, it hurts.
“Thank you. You look very nice, too.”
His smile grows. “I’m glad you could meet me tonight. I have to say I’ve been a bit restless since our talk last night.”
“Oh?” is your dumb response. Your pulse flutters as his smile grows crooked.
“I guess you could say I’m eager to hear your questions.”
“Oh, um…yes. I have a few…”
He gestures to the table. “Do your worst.”
You were prepared for this, but it still makes you feel light-headed as you pull out the small slip of paper from your purse. He watches you carefully as you unfold it, pieces of the ripped edges fluttering to the floor. Maybe you were expecting a bit of small talk, but what’s there to talk about when you hardly know each other? You can appreciate cutting to the chase, even if it makes your mouth dry.
“First, I…I just want to say thank you,” you begin quietly, shyly meeting his gaze. “For listening to me. And for not making it a big deal. It was the first time I’ve told that story that I didn’t feel like a tragedy after, and you made me feel that way.”
His shoulders seem to relax a little, his expression gentle. “You’re welcome.”
“That being said,” you continue shakily, unable to meet his eyes any longer. “I’m wondering what kind of help you want to give, and if there are things I can say no to.”
He nods, his face becoming serious. “Of course. I want to help, not intrude. If there are things you don’t want me to touch, then I won’t. You get the say in that.”
“So, if I say I don’t want any help with my student loans…”
“Then that’s that. I won’t push you about it either.”
You nod, fingering the edge of the paper nervously. The silence stretches.
“Would it be useful to give you a summary of what I will and won’t help with?” he asks, leaning back in his seat. You nod again, motioning for him to continue. He settles into his seat, clearing his throat. “To start, I won’t help with the circumstances of friends or relatives, unless they’re direct dependents of yours, which it doesn’t sound like you have anyway. This arrangement is for us, so it stays between us. And I won’t help with any legal troubles either. If you end up in jail, I won’t pay for bail, I won’t pay fines, and I won’t pay for legal counsel. If you’re charged with anything, this arrangement is void.”
His voice is level, almost monotonous, like he’s said this a few times. You gulp.
“But I will pay for everything else, if you’ll let me,” he remarks, growing softer. “You’ll get my card for the day-to-day things. Groceries, coffee, transit, take out. Anything you do when you’re not at work. I also want to pay for the things you couldn’t do before. Expect appointments booked for the spa, massages, hair, nails — whatever you decide. My assistant will help with that.”
“Okay,” you breathe, feeling just a little dizzy. God, when was the last time you got your nails done?
“I’ll also pay for your rent. Or, if you want to move, I’ll buy you a new place. Apartment. Condo. Brownstone. Up to you. I want you feeling comfortable and safe when you’re not with me.”
Your mouth falls open to protest. Buy a brownstone? For you? The girl he just met? You crumples the paper in a reflex reaction, but he holds up a hand before you can speak.
“You don’t have to, I’m just giving you the option. Remember, you’ll never have to go out of your comfort zone with me.”
He scans your face — you’re sure you’re a shade paler than before.
“Where do you live now?” he asks gently.
“Queens.” He smiles.
“Then I’d at least argue for you to use my driver.”
“Makes sense,” you murmur distractedly.
The server comes over then, placing a whiskey in front of James and asking what you’d like to drink. You order a white wine, cringing when he asks if you have a preferred bottle, but James answers for you, naming a brand you’ve never heard of, his eyes on you the entire time. The waiter returns a minute later with your glass, and you take a greedy sip as soon as it hits the table.
“I also like to give gifts,” James says, picking up where he left off. “That could mean jewelry, bags, cars, vacations—“ you choke on your wine, he politely ignores it. “Whatever I’m feeling that day.”
“Oh, is that all?” you say weakly. He chuckles, genuine and soft.
“It may change, depending on what I think you’d like. And what you tell me you like.”
“I’m picky,” you attempt to joke.
“I like a challenge.”
The air shifts subtly, you’d miss it if you weren’t paying attention. He crosses his legs effortlessly at the knee, looking every bit composed while you’re pinching yourself to keep from hyperventilating.
“Ideally, you’d quit your job,” he begins slowly. “Not for me, but because you won’t need to work anymore. You don’t have to if you don’t want to, but you’re in school, and it’s clear you love it. I want you to be comfortable enough to focus on that. Put your time into studying. Not dealing with men like Walker.”
You huff a soft laugh because you aren’t sure what else to say. Quitting your job hadn’t even crossed your mind through all of this, but now that the seed’s been planted, it takes root quickly, despite the voice in your head telling you not to let it.
James must be a mind reader, because he leans forward, making sure you meet his eyes.
“I’d like to spoil you, because I think you deserve it. Not because of what’s happened to you, but because of what you’ve done since it happened,” he says, voice pulling you in with the husky lilt to it. “I think you’ve earned the right to feel taken care of. It can be on your terms, of course, but trust me when I say there’s almost nothing I wouldn’t help with. Including the medical bills and the debt. Including the loans. But I will respect whatever you wish to keep separate from this.”
For a moment, you’re not sure what to say, but you end up on, “Thank you, James. I…I’ll think about it.”
He nods, businesslike. ”What other questions do you have?”
You blink, looking down at your list. “Well, you answered a couple of them, actually…um, I guess my next question is—“ You feel the heat rise to your cheeks. “When you say friendship, what does that…include, exactly?”
He leans back in his seat, taking a slow sip of his drink.
“I meant what I said about being friends,” he offers, “and I meant it in the traditional sense. This isn’t a “friends with benefits” situation. Holding hands, a light hug, or sitting close together are all reasonable to me. But touch isn’t required by you — you’re welcome to do whatever you’re comfortable with, and I won’t withhold anything from you if you aren’t comfortable with it. And I won’t touch you if you don’t want me to, but I will say I’m hoping to earn that right eventually.”
Something loosens in your chest, an unnamed tension releasing.
“I understand,” you say slowly. “I think those are reasonable, too.” His eyes flicker across your face for a moment. “I appreciate you clarifying that for me. It was on my mind a lot over the last few days.”
“That’s why we’re here,” he answers calmly. “Any more questions?”
“Yes, um. How does this…start?”
The smile returns to James’ face, sweet and relaxed. He waves two fingers in the air, and a server comes hurrying over with an official-looking envelope, setting it before him. James pulls out a small stack of documents and finds a pen in his suit jacket.
“It starts with a couple signatures. These are NDAs stating you won’t talk or publish anything about our time together, and the same goes for me. I’m held to the same principles you are. If I say a word about us to anyone without your permission, you have every right to sue me for all I’m worth. I hope it tells you how serious I am about this.”
It actually says a hell of a lot more than just how serious it is, but he’s already shuffling the papers aside, picking up the one on the bottom.
“This is an agreement on what I’m allowed to pay for. Like the rent — I’ll need to know where to pay to. There’s also a place for your bank account information, in the case of moving large sums of money. I’d like it wired safely and securely.”
You must show signs of panic, because he quickly tucks it away and says, “You don’t have to decide on anything today. You can add whatever you want to this as time goes on.”
Your breathing evens. He taps the pen against the stack of NDAs.
“Anything else?” he asks quietly. Your pinching grows stronger.
“Are you…friends…with anyone else right now? Or is it just me?”
His lips quirk like he was expecting this question. He leans forward, elbows on the table, and holds your gaze steadily.
“Just you. And I can promise that I won’t need any other friends as long as I have you.”
Oh.
“But you’ve…had other friends before. In the past.”
His eyes go blank for a moment. “Yes, I’ve had other friends before. A few.”
“They’re not still your friends, though?” you ask.
“No,” he answers. “There came a point when it was time for them to explore other…friendships. Start different lives. It always ended amicably.”
You hesitate. “So, if one day I decide I want to…stop being friends, that would be okay with you?”
“Of course. I’m here as long as you’ll have me. Or until we both decide it’s time.”
“Okay,” you whisper, meeting his gaze. There’s a roaring sound in your ears, like the ocean on a stormy night, but your hands are surprisingly steady as you reach out your hand toward him. “Okay. Can I borrow your pen?”
James smiles, the biggest smile you’ve seen from him yet. He offers you the pen and the first document, pointing out where to sign and initial. You do so quickly, conscious of your climbing blood pressure, but the adrenaline leaves a sweet aftertaste as you write your name with a flourish. Or maybe it’s him, beaming at you while you sign up for this new chapter of life with him.
Once the documents are signed, he proposes a toast. “To friendships,” he says. You clink your glass to his. “And, by the way, call me Bucky.”
“Bucky?” you ask, eyebrows raised.
“It’s what my friends call me.”
It starts immediately.
The next morning, you’re greeted with a jungle of flowers waiting outside your apartment door. Flowers of all shapes and colors, some tropical, some simple, and all of them make you smile. You’re placing the last of them on the counter when there’s a knock on your door — a dozen freshly-made croissants from the Parisian cafe in Midtown. Impossible to get into, impossible to order out from, yet here’s a box full of their best-selling pastries, still warm from the oven. You indulge in one too many, but it’s worth it.
Throughout the day, Bucky texts you. It’s something he mentioned off-handedly, probably meant to give you a choice, but he likes to talk during the day. A lot. He likes check ins, he likes updates; he wants to hear about anything and everything.
At first, it’s odd having someone to talk to so consistently again — the last person you spoke to like this was your mom.
But Bucky keeps it unforced, easing the conversation along with the right questions and dry comments that actually have you smiling at your phone. When you get to work that night, he wishes you a good shift. No mention of you quitting. You appreciate this so much that you have half a mind to quit anyway.
Not today, you tell yourself. You need to wait to see if Bucky actually puts his money where his mouth is first.
It isn’t long before he does.
Less than a week after you signed the papers, he asks you to join him for dinner on your night off. He makes the reservation early because he knows you have an exam in two days that you’re stressed over, leaving you with the rest of the evening to study. You’re grateful for his mindfulness, but equally grateful for the distraction he’s providing. He’s waiting outside the restaurant when Bob pulls up, offering his hand to help you out of the car.
“You look beautiful,” he states plainly, like only an idiot would argue with him. Your answering smile is wide and uninhibited.
Inside, the two of you are seated at a booth mostly concealed from the other diners. He sits beside you, much like he did that first night, close but with enough space for you to breathe easily. He asks you about your day, he encourages you to try something strange on the menu, he compliments you again and again and again.
Your whole body is flushed from the wine and his attention by the time the desert arrives. You’re licking chocolate syrup off the spoon, regaling a work story involving your meathead manager and another server.
“He just chooses to ignore anything that makes us seem human to him. No emotions allowed. No personal problems allowed. You show up for your shift, you do your job, and that’s it. Leave your life at the door, God help you if you don’t.”
You sigh, your spoon clattering loudly onto the plate. Bucky fidgets with his own spoon, eyes on the corner of your mouth. He shakes his head a little, like he thought better of something, then points to the corner of his own mouth, smiling. You blush, taking the hint, and wipe a dab of chocolate away from your skin. Bucky’s still smiling as he takes another sip of his drink.
“Might be because he lacks his own personal life,” he muses. “People are always going to project what hurts them.”
You consider this. “Now that you say it, I don’t think I’ve ever seen him take a day off.”
“That can do some fucked up things to a person.”
“Tell me about it,” you whine. “I haven’t taken a day off in months.”
His eyes slide lazily to you, glass held loosely in his hand. He smiles wryly, and you understand what he means before he says a word.
“I know, I know. I just…” You take a breath. “I need to know this is real first. Before I start cutting ties.”
He’s quiet for a moment. “Tomorrow’s the first of the month,” he says. “Have you thought more about allowing me to help with your rent?”
Your breath hitches.
“Yes,” you whisper. He hums, eyes sparkling with something bright and ambiguous.
“And what have you decided?”
“I think…it would be a show of good faith…if you helped me out.”
“Good faith,” he laughs. “Sweetheart, I’ll buy you the moon if it means you’ll believe me when I say I’ll take care of you.”
The next morning, you get the email at 9 a.m. — your rent has been paid, utilities as well. Your stomach had been in knots when you wrote down the information for him, but seeing the confirmation makes you feel like you’re floating.
It only takes you another week until you’re calling your manager and quitting. To celebrate, Bucky rents out the Met for the night, and you explore and observe and admire to your heart’s content as he stands quietly and steadily by your side. He knows an impressive amount about art, surprisingly, but then he starts making things up when a specific piece stumps him, and the rest of the unguided tour is spent inventing made-up artists and their tragic backstories. By the end of the night, you can’t resist anymore. You quickly lean in and wrap your arms around his waist.
It’s clear he’s shocked, that you’ve caught him off guard. But he recovers quickly, mirroring your grip and resting his cheek on top of your head. It’s strange, it’s new, but it’s…comforting.
Quitting your job means a lot more free time, but Bucky is adamant about you dedicating much of that time for school. So to keep a balance between time spent studying and time spent with him, Bucky proposes you come by his office between classes. Sometimes for lunch, sometimes to take a break, sometimes to set up camp on his leather couch, nose to your laptop screen as you research data sets and monitor the market while he quietly works at his desk.
It’s calming and oddly motivating — he’s the perfect person to work next to.
When you’re not studying, Bucky’s supplying you with appointments that fill up your calendar. You have a new contact saved in your phone — Inga, Bucky’s very Dutch, very cheerful assistant — because she calls you at least twice a day, arranging your schedule and finding time you didn’t know existed to fill.
A certain Thursday brings a yoga class from 7:45 to 9, then a massage from 10 to 11:30. After that is lunch with Bucky at his office (take out sushi from a place you’ve only ever dreamed of going to), followed up by a nail appointment from 2 to 3 and a virtual meeting from 3:30 to 4:30 with your old therapist that you had to abandon when money got tight.
Once you get past the catch up, your therapist says you seem a lot better than you were the last time you saw her. Crazy concept, to agree with a therapist, but you actually do.
You’re about a month into the arrangement when Bucky clears his throat at dinner, making you pause while twirling your pasta on your fork. You’ve slowly graduated to sitting closer, and his arm rests on the back of the booth behind you, its presence warm and obvious around your shoulders. You look up at him, waiting.
“I’ve got this thing tomorrow night,” he begins, voice a little on the gruff side. You’re shocked to realize he’s being shy, and poorly hiding it. “It’s a gala. The black tie kind. It’s for charity — Children’s, I think. If you’re up for it, I was wondering if you’d like to come with me.”
You smile slowly. “I’d love to. Just need something to wear.”
A stack of hundred dollar bills is on the table in seconds. Inga accompanies you the following morning to ten different stores, all designer, all with prices that make you feel faint, but she is quick to shoo you away from the price tags and push you to try on the dresses that make you sigh dreamily. Maybe that’s the reason Bucky wanted her with you.
You pick something bold, something you’d never see yourself in unless you had it on your body. It fits like a glove and reminds you that you’re a woman, not just a cog in the wheel of the working class. You only panic a little when you hand over the entire wad of cash Bucky gave you.
After that, you’re dropped off at the salon, where a facial and a blowout get you glowing like the sun. Bob picks you up and brings you to your apartment where your dress is waiting for you, courtesy of Inga. At 9 o’clock, Bucky’s waiting for you outside. The late September breeze ruffles his hair and swishes your dress as you come face-to-face.
He takes in every inch of you, from your painted toe nails to your shiny hair, and he sighs.
“You look…unbelievable.”
Later, when you’re buried deep into a crowd of people you don’t know, Bucky’s anchoring you to him with a hand on the small of your back, thumb brushing the skin there. He leans in, nose nudging your temple, and whispers, “I’m very lucky to have you here with me.”
Just like that, something inside of you breaks. Not in a sad way, but in a revolutionary way. Like a floodgate’s been cracked open, and what’s been locked inside is beginning to trickle out.
When he pulls back, your eyes linger on him. He flashes a movie star smile for the people that approach, but when he meets your gaze again, he gives you his crooked grin. Meant only for you. His warm hand pulls you closer into his side.
And that’s when it begins, right there at that gala. Your appreciation for Bucky has opened up into something larger, still undefinable, but growing in magnitude.
You find yourself sweating under the lights of the ballroom, not from the heat, but from the unknown shift. It shapes itself a little more when Bucky runs into a colleague and introduces you as his friend. He’s been doing it all night, but this time, it doesn’t feel right. It feels…off. Generalized. Misplaced.
Not that you’d ever tell him. Bucky was clear about your arrangement being a friendship — to question what he calls you would be to question where you stand, and you don’t want to make it seem like you can’t hold up your end of the bargain as his friend.
So you smile through it, focusing on the feel of his hand on your skin, and push it down. For now.
You’re a couple months into the arrangement when Bucky opens his home to you. It’s a penthouse suite hundreds of feet in the sky, offering breathtaking views of the city sprawled below. The apartment is big and modern, with plenty of low lighting and soft colors. You find out right away that he’s messy, which you think is more endearing than it is a nuisance, even if that means throwing sweatshirts and belts and books off the couch just to find a place to sit.
He apologizes constantly, but it never gets better each time you come over. You don’t mind.
With classes gearing up for finals, your time is more limited than before, leaving you with just a few windows of opportunity a week to be with each other. Most of these fall late at night, past 10 p.m., or early in the morning before he leaves for work.
So you start staying over.
It happens accidentally the first time. He picks you up and takes you back to his place for Chinese take out and binge watching trashy reality TV (of which he is a secret super fan), but you end up passing out minutes after he turns the show on.
The next morning, you wake in a soft bed, surrounded by oversized pillows and silk sheets. Bleary eyed, you stumble into the kitchen to find him dressed for work, sipping a coffee at the kitchen island and scrolling on his phone. He sets both of them down when he sees you, standing as you shuffle over.
“Morning,” he says, stretching out a hand to catch your sweatshirt clad waist.
This is par for the course these days — soft, grounding touches that don’t linger for too long, cuddles on the couch that don’t get too pretzel-like, barely-there kisses against the forehead when you say something that makes him smile a little too hard. All friendly, all innocent.
“Did I — did I crash?” you ask, suppressing a yawn. He chuckles, offering you his coffee.
“Didn’t even make it to the elimination. Steve R. went home.”
“Fuck, I liked him.”
“Me too.”
You look up at him, suddenly shy. “I’m sorry. Thanks for carrying me to bed.”
“Only threw out my back for it. No worries.”
You slap away his hand on your waist, but it’s teasing, playful. He withdraws, taking a seat again so you’re eye level with him. A look takes over his face, something caught between serious and hopeful.
“You know, that room can be yours, if you’d like.”
You pause mid sip of coffee. “What?”
“The room. It’s yours. For when you want to crash. Or just don’t want to go home.”
“Really.” It’s not a question.
“Really,” he repeats. “Don’t ever feel like you have to stay, I’ll take you home any time of night. But if you do want to stay, it’s there for you.”
“That’s…really sweet of you.”
He smiles a little. “Not too much?” You shake your head. “Good. ‘Cause I like knowing you’re close. Think I slept better. And I like waking up with you here.”
The feeling from the gala returns with renewed force. It almost drowns you, leaving you reeling in its tidal wave of emotion. It defines itself a little more as you picture sharing mornings with him, pouring travel mugs of coffee and shoving pieces of toast in his mouth as he races out the door.
But he’s watching you closely, expecting an answer, so you beat the feelings down until you’re numb. Sending him a smile over the mug, you say, “Okay.”
And that’s that.
The first time you sleep over intentionally, Bucky’s not in a great mood. Which is a rare occasion in and of itself. You know he’s only human, but you’ve barely seen him annoyed, let alone upset.
He makes an effort to hide it from you, greeting you with a soft kiss to the top of your head when you step out of the private elevator that opens to his floor. He all but forces you to relax on the couch while he cooks dinner, so you do, cracking open your textbook and stretching out lazily while he cooks. But even from the living room, you can feel the negative energy radiating from him.
He throws pans into the sink with a little too much force. He answers a call with a sharp bark of “what now?” He mutters to himself like a cranky old man.
His face is drawn and stony when he hands you a plate and joins you on the couch — pasta with red sauce, simple, and a family recipe, he claims. But the way he eats it, you’d think he hates it.
“Bucky,” you say after watching him stab his food with homicidal intent. He grunts. “Bucky,” you try again.
“What?” he snaps, sneering. Immediately, his eyes go round with guilt before you even have the chance to react. “Oh, God — I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean—“ He pinches the bridge of his nose, breathing deeply; when he opens his eyes again, his expression is calmer, more open. “Jesus. You didn’t deserve that. Forgive me.”
“Always,” you say like it’s second nature. “What’s going on?”
He sighs, setting down his plate. “Work,” he mutters, “is killing me. Someone fucked up a deal with a really, really important client. They aren’t happy, so I had to step in to clean up the mess. But now they’re playing hard to get, so all day I had to suck their dicks and call them pretty just to get a reply.”
You giggle. He tilts his head at you.
“You think that’s funny?”
“A little. But I can’t imagine anyone not getting on their knees for you immediately.”
Something flashes in Bucky’s eyes, something darker that doesn’t fit the conversation topic. It’s quick, brief, but you see it. He smiles before you can think twice about it.
“Not these guys. They like to test me. And I don’t like being tested.”
“I can tell,” you comment. “Want me to help?”
He side-eyes you. “How?”
“You can take all your anger out by…rubbing my feet?” Your smile is saccharine as you slide your legs into his lap. He laughs, one loud sound, but takes your left foot in his hands anyway.
“How sweet of you,” he coos. “How’d you know this is exactly what I needed?”
His mood improves for the most part, although his phone buzzes a few times and sets his jaw ticking. But whether it’s to keep him sane or to keep the easy vibe of the night going, he ignores it. Reality TV is watched, cookies are eaten (he has five), and you’re feeling satisfied for having turned his night around just as you start to yawn.
He notices it immediately.
“Alright, doll. You’re tired. I’m taking you home.”
“I might stay here tonight, if that’s okay with you.”
He freezes as he reaches for his keys. Slowly, his arm lowers, and there’s a slightly dazed look in his eye.
“Sure, yeah. Whatever you want,” he breathes.
He sets you up with a tooth brush and towels, an old shirt of his and boxers. While you’re brushing your teeth, you wander over to his bathroom and find him doing the same. You stand beside him, laughing through the toothpaste as he gets his all over his mouth and chin. Unintentionally, though he’ll deny it.
He walks you to your room like he’s dropping you off at the end of date. You try not to think too much about that.
“Sleep tight,” he says softly, leaning against the doorway, smiling at the too-big shirt and boxers. You smile back, sleepy and content.
“Goodnight, Bucky.”
He’s gone before you wake up the next morning, but the note on the counter thanks you for being there with him last night. It makes your heart flutter much too fast for having just started your day.
When you get back to your own apartment, your phone alerts you to a new email. The name on it makes your stomach sink: the debt collectors. They’ve been quiet for a while since you’ve been able to offer them bigger scraps of money, so what do they want now?
Thank you for your payment. Your bills have been reconciled and your current balance is at $0.00.
The room tilts. Your breathing stops. Hundreds of thousands of dollars of medical bills, gone overnight.
Bucky.
It was only a week ago that you had shyly asked to amend the document on what he could help pay for. You weren’t even sure that he looked at it yet.
Well, now you know he has. And in one fell swoop, he banned the debt collectors from ever bothering you again. Your mind can hardly wrap around it, can hardly wrap around Bucky, and his generosity, and his promises, and his follow through. All of it is a murky, muddy emotional mess inside of you. For the first time in months, you break down and cry.
Later that night, when the tears have finally dried and you’re sitting next to him at your favorite little Italian spot, you place a hand over his and just squeeze. You meant to say words, but they’ve disappeared on you.
But Bucky doesn’t need the words. He knows everything that you’re saying with the simple touch. He squeezes back, smile soft, posture relaxed as he nudges your shoulder with his.
The floodgate inside of you swings open wider.
sammy speaks again: wowowowowow ok that’s a wrap on part one. part two coming almost immediately! I tried to fit it all into one but tumblr doesn’t like 30k word posts I guess :/ don’t forget to let me know what you think, I appreciate all of you for making it this far 🤍
as someone with a bachelor’s degree in english, i am inexpressibly tired of people telling me to get highly specific jobs that often require highly specific degrees. “just go write for a magazine!” you need a journalism degree for that. “just teach!” you need a teaching certificate, and also fuck you. “just go work at a tutoring place!” tutoring children with learning disabilities, which make up the majority of the clientele at those places, requires not only a teaching certificate but a specialized master’s degree. “just go work at a library!” you need a master’s degree in library science to be a librarian. it is actually a highly skilled and extremely competitive field. you don’t just “go work at a library,” you train for years in the vain hope that you will get one of handful of available jobs. “just go work at a library.” the nerve. the unmitigated gall. “just go work at a library.” ugh.
pairing | bf!bucky x fem!reader / minor roommate!wanda x fem!reader
word count | 10k words
summary | junior year at NYU is supposed to be all late nights, rehearsals, and a boyfriend you can barely keep your hands off. then your new roommate wanda arrives. she’s quiet, beautiful, and strangely eager to slip into the spaces that belong to you.
tags | 18+ (MDNI), college au, erotic thriller, Explicit Sexual Content, obsession, jealousy, toxic fixation, fratboy!bucky barnes, yandere!wanda maximoff, eventual smut, piv sex, unprotected sex, unknown exhibitionism, stalking, voyeurism, invasion of privacy, manipulation, protective bucky, music major reader, girl kissing, “single white female” (i just learnt this trope), eventual violence, physical assault, attempted murder, kidnapping
a/n | just watched The Roommate, it's such a good movie, chat.
likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨
MASTERLIST
divider by @omi-resources
Music was thudding through the walls so hard it felt like the whole house had a pulse.
ΩΒC looked like every bad decision college had ever made rolled into one building. The front rooms were packed shoulder to shoulder, hot and loud and sticky, bass rattling the cheap frames on the walls while somebody in the kitchen yelled over somebody else to move the hell out of the way if they weren’t taking a shot. The whole place smelled like beer, weed, sweat, cologne, and whatever Natasha had spilled on the floor fifteen minutes ago and refused to apologize for.
You were drunk enough for the room to feel pleasantly soft around the edges, but not so far gone you’d crossed into useless. Which, honestly, was worse. Because it meant you were coherent enough to already be dreading tomorrow morning.
Your head was going to split open. Your mouth was going to taste like carpet. And there was at least a seventy percent chance you were going to wake up in Bucky’s room with one earring on and your phone dead under his bed.
“Why are you making that face?” Darcy asked, leaning in so you could hear her over the music.
You blinked at her. “I can feel tomorrow.”
Natasha snorted into her cup. “That’s because you mixed liquor.”
“You handed me half of it.”
“And you accepted it,” she said easily, like that settled the matter.
Across from you, Sam looked deeply unimpressed by the entire conversation. “Every year,” he said, shaking his head. “Same damn party, same damn tragedy.”
“It’s tradition,” you said.
“It’s idiocy.”
“You’re here.”
“I live here.”
Darcy pointed at him with the neck of her bottle. “And yet somehow still the least fun person in the room.”
Sam opened his mouth to answer, then glanced over your shoulder and made a face. “Never mind. Here comes your problem.”
You didn’t even have to turn around to know who he meant.
You felt Bucky before you saw him, that broad warm body sliding in behind you, one hand landing on your hip like he had every right in the world. Which he did. His chest bumped your shoulder, and then his mouth found the side of your head, careless and affectionate and already laughing.
“There you are,” he said into your hair, words just a little slurred.
You turned enough to look at him, and there he was—drunk as hell, pretty as sin, cheeks flushed, hair a mess from people grabbing at him all night, dark T-shirt stretched across his shoulders.
“I have been standing here the whole time,” you said.
“Mhm.” He nodded like he believed you in theory, then leaned in and kissed you anyway.
It wasn’t a polite kiss. It never really was with him after he’d been drinking. His mouth was warm and insistent, his hand spreading wider against your side as the room tilted just enough to make you grin against him.
When he pulled back, he barely made it an inch before going in again, like he’d already forgotten you were in the middle of a conversation. His hand slid from your hip to the small of your back, then lower, fingers pressing in with no shame whatsoever.
You gave him a look. “James.”
“What?” he said, innocent in a way that would’ve been more convincing if his hand wasn’t halfway down your ass.
Sam groaned. “Man, take that somewhere else.”
“You’re in my house,” Bucky said, not even looking at him.
Steve appeared out of nowhere beside Sam, red cup in hand, looking irritatingly sober by comparison. “This is our house and it’s a public space.”
“Oh, don’t start,” you muttered.
Bucky smiled at that, lazy and pleased with himself, then hooked two fingers into one of the back belt loops on your shorts and tugged until you were flush against him. He was all heat and liquor and that stupid familiar smell of soap and skin and whatever he’d sprayed on before the party. Enough to make your body go soft before your brain could catch up.
You tried to keep talking anyway, because you had dignity.
“So like I was saying,” you started, turning back toward your friends while Bucky planted his chin on your shoulder, “if Professor Xavier gives me one more assignment with no actual rubric, I’m going to—”
Bucky kissed the side of your neck.
You stopped.
Natasha’s mouth twitched. “You were saying?”
You pushed at his chest without any real force. “Bucky.”
He hummed against your skin, not sorry in the slightest. “You’re ignoring me.”
“I’m talking.”
“To them.”
“Yes.”
Darcy snorted. Steve looked down into his drink like he did not know any of you. Sam just muttered, “I’m begging y’all,” and walked off.
Bucky’s hand slipped around your waist and under the hem of your top just enough for his palm to brush bare skin. The touch made you suck in a breath before you could help it. He felt that too, because his mouth curved against your jaw.
“There she is,” he said quietly.
You shot him a look that probably would’ve worked better if you weren’t fighting a smile. “You are so annoying.”
His hand moved again and you had to close your eyes for a second because he knew exactly how to touch you in ways that made it hard to remember what you’d been saying. That was part of the problem with Bucky. He had no respect for timing. Or public decency. Or the idea that maybe you should be allowed to finish one conversation without him trying to drag your attention back where he wanted it.
You turned in his arms properly then, one hand catching at the front of his shirt to steady yourself. Up close his pupils were blown wide, his grin softer now, less showy. Just drunk and happy to have you in his hands.
“You good?” you asked.
He nodded once. “M’great.”
“You’re cross-eyed.”
“Baby, I think the room’s moving.”
That made you laugh, and the sound seemed to hit him right in the chest. He got this look sometimes, especially when he was drunk—like he’d just remembered in real time how much he liked you. Not slick, not game-playing. Just open. Almost dopey.
Then, because he was still Bucky, he ruined it by squeezing your ass again.
Your brows went up. “Seriously?”
“What?” he said again.
Steve sighed. “You know one word.”
“It’s a versatile word, punk,” Bucky replied.
Natasha downed the rest of her drink and leaned toward you. “Do you want us to leave, or are you about to get unlawful in front of company?”
You rolled your eyes. “Please go. All of you.”
“Gladly,” Darcy said. “This is getting gross.”
“It was gross ten minutes ago,” Steve said.
“You’re all jealous,” Bucky informed them.
“No,” Natasha said, already stepping back into the crowd, “I just prefer foreplay that doesn’t happen next to a folding table.”
Then they were gone, disappearing into the noise and bodies and lights, leaving you with Bucky in the middle of the living room like that was in any way safer.
He looked smug about it too.
“You did that on purpose,” you said.
“I missed you.”
His hand came up to cup the side of your face, thumb brushing your cheek in a way that was unexpectedly gentle after all the grabbing and bad behavior. It softened you immediately. That was also part of the problem with him. He could go from frat-house asshole to something sweet enough to make your stomach turn over in under five seconds.
You looked at him for a moment. “How drunk are you, exactly?”
He thought about it. “I lost count after six.”
“Jesus Christ.”
You let out a breath through your nose, shaking your head, and he dipped in to kiss you before you could say anything else. This one lasted longer. Slower. His hand stayed warm at your jaw while the other settled firm on your waist, keeping you tucked in close as people bumped past and music pounded and somebody screamed from upstairs like they’d either won something or broken a limb.
When he pulled back, his forehead knocked lightly against yours.
“Come upstairs with me,” he said.
You laughed a little. “So romantic.”
“M’serious.”
“I can tell.”
“I want my girlfriend.”
The way he said it was not smooth. Not polished. Just low and blunt and wanting, like the thought had crossed his mind and come straight out of his mouth without getting cleaned up first.
Your fingers curled tighter in his shirt. “You’re so clingy.”
“You like that too.”
That, annoyingly, was true.
He could see it on your face too, because his grin turned smug all over again. “Yeah,” he murmured. “C’mon.”
You should’ve made him work harder for it. Probably. At the very least, you should’ve pretended to think about it longer.
Instead you glanced toward the kitchen, where Thor was trying to shotgun a beer while everyone around him was cheering him on for reasons you would ever understand, then back at Bucky.
“If I wake up feeling like death tomorrow,” you said, “I’m blaming you.”
“Honey, you were gonna feel like death anyway.”
“You’re not helping your case.”
“I’m not trying to. I’m trying to get you in my bed.”
You laughed despite yourself, and he took that as the yes it obviously was.
His hand found yours and tugged, weaving you through the packed hallway, past spilled drinks and shouting brothers and a couple making out against the wall like they were in a race. He kept looking back just enough to make sure you were still behind him, thumb rubbing over your knuckles once, twice, like even drunk out of his mind he needed to touch you somewhere.
By the time you got Bucky upstairs, the noise downstairs had turned muffled and ugly through the floorboards, just bass and shouting and somebody losing their mind in the hallway.
His room was a mess in the way only frat boys could manage. Half-open drawers, some stupid flag pinned crooked on the wall, a belt on the floor, clean laundry mixed with dirty like that meant anything. The lamp on his desk was on, throwing the room into that soft yellow light that made everything look warmer than it was.
The second the door shut behind you, Bucky had both hands on you.
His mouth found yours before you’d even turned around fully, one palm pressing into your waist while the other slid over your side and up under your top like he’d been thinking about it for the last hour and finally couldn’t stand it anymore.
He kissed like he was half-starved and half gone, messy with it, breath warm with liquor, stubble rough where his jaw scraped your skin.
You laughed against his mouth, one hand braced on his chest. “Jesus. Slow down.”
He shook his head once like that was ridiculous and kissed you again anyway.
His fingers were already fumbling with the hem of your top, trying to push it higher, trying to get his hands on more of you. He was warm everywhere. Warm hands, warm mouth, warm body pressing you back toward the door.
“Bucky,” you said, catching one of his wrists.
“What?”
He said it low, distracted, eyes already dropping to your mouth again.
“You are drunk as hell.”
“M’fine.”
“You can barely stand up.”
“Still can do a lot.”
That made you snort despite yourself. “Oh really.”
He took your laugh like encouragement, dipping his head to your neck, kissing there open-mouthed and lazy, nosing at the sensitive spot below your ear until your grip on him tightened on instinct.
His hand flattened over your stomach, then moved lower, slow and heavy and familiar, and your breath caught for a second before you pulled it back.
He felt that too. Of course he did.
His mouth curved against your skin. “Yeah,” he murmured. “There she is.”
“You’re so annoying.”
“You’re wet already.”
You slapped a hand over his mouth so fast it made him grin into your palm.
“Shut up,” you muttered, already laughing again because he looked so pleased with himself, so thoroughly convinced he still had game even half-drunk and swaying.
He kissed the inside of your hand once, then bit lightly at the base of your thumb before you snatched it away with a look.
“You’re filthy.”
“And?”
“And I’m not fucking you like this.”
That got his attention.
Not enough to stop touching you, apparently, because his hand was still sliding over your hip, squeezing, wandering, but enough that his eyes came back to your face properly.
For a second he just stared at you, like the sentence had hit a traffic jam on the way through all the alcohol.
Then, very seriously, “Why?”
You stared at him. “Because you’re wasted.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Bucky.”
He blinked once. Twice. Then leaned in, voice dropping like he thought this was the real issue. “Baby, I can still make you feel good.”
You pressed your lips together so you wouldn’t laugh in his face.
He took your silence for doubt and got more earnest, if anything. “No, seriously. C’mere.” His hands went right back to your waist, trying to tug you closer. “I’ll get on my knees. I’ll make you sit right here and—”
You put a hand flat to his chest and shoved.
Not hard. Just enough.
Drunk as he was, and already leaning too much of his weight into you, it worked better than expected. He stumbled backward with a startled look and dropped onto the bed, mattress springs groaning under him.
For a second he just sat there, hair falling over his forehead, shirt riding up a little, staring at you like he couldn’t believe you’d manhandled him in his own room.
Then he spread his knees and looked up at you from the edge of the bed, grinning slow.
“That was hot.”
You rolled your eyes and stepped between his legs.
“You’re done.”
“M’not done.”
“You are.”
He caught at your hips the second you got close enough, palms dragging around to your ass with all the subtlety of a man who had never once in his life known restraint. “You got me all worked up.”
“You came into this room worked up.”
“Because of you.”
“Sure.”
He was still trying to tug you into his lap, burying his face against your stomach when you reached down and caught the back of his neck.
“Sit still,” you said.
He groaned like you’d asked him to do hard labour, but he let you push him back enough to get his shirt over his head.
That part took longer than it should have, because halfway through he got distracted and started kissing at your wrists, your forearm, the inside of your elbow—any patch of skin he could reach while the shirt was still half over his face.
“Bucky.”
“Mm.”
“Arms up.”
He obeyed eventually, and you yanked the shirt the rest of the way off him.
There he was. Flushed skin, broad chest, that stupidly pretty mouth already parted like he was about to say something dirty. You shoved his shoulder lightly when he tried to reach for you again.
“No. You sit there and let me take care of you.”
That softened him for a second. Not fully. He was still drunk and horny and looking at you like he wanted to drag you down on top of him. But there it was—that little shift he always got when you started fussing over him, like some part of him genuinely liked being handled.
You crouched a little to unlace his sneakers.
The room smelled like him now more than anything else. Soap under sweat, old wood, stale smoke drifting in faint from the cracked window, the sharp sweet rot of spilled beer from downstairs. His knee nudged between your thighs while you worked his sneakers off, and his hand landed lazily in your hair.
“You’re too good to me,” he said.
“You say that every time I take your clothes off.”
“Because I mean it every time.”
“You’d think after twenty-one years on earth you’d know how to do it yourself.”
“I do know how.” A beat. “I just like when you do it.”
You looked up at him then, and he was smiling in that dazed, soft way that made him look younger somehow. Less frat prince, more boy.
Then his hand slid from your hair to your cheek, his thumb dragging over your bottom lip.
“And I still want you to sit on my face,” he added.
You rolled your eyes and shoved at his leg. “There he is.”
“Thought I lost him?”
“Was hoping, maybe.”
He smiled wider, pleased you were still here, still touching him, still dealing with him.
You stood and worked at his belt next, mostly because if you left him in jeans all night he’d complain in the morning like it was somehow your fault. The second your fingers touched the buckle, he let his head fall back with a low noise that was entirely too dramatic for a man getting undressed like an overgrown toddler.
“Oh my God,” you said. “Relax.”
“Can’t. You’re taking my pants off.”
“I’m putting you to bed.”
“Looks sexy from here.”
You got the belt loose and started on the button. His hands were back on you immediately, one at your waist, the other smoothing up your thigh, fingers pressing in through the fabric of your shorts.
“You should stay,” he said, voice lower now.
“James.”
“M’serious.”
“You are never serious with your hand up my shirt.”
He ignored that. Or maybe didn’t hear it. Hard to tell.
The jeans were a struggle because he kept lifting his hips at the wrong time, then laughing at himself, then trying to pull you down between his legs when you got too close. But eventually you got them down enough for him to kick them off with minimal dignity.
He looked unfairly good sprawled back against his pillows in his boxers, hair a mess, chest bare, eyes glassy and hot on you.
And still, somehow, he looked like he thought he had a chance.
You knew the exact second he realized he didn’t.
It was small. Just a change in his face. That smug little look eased off. He watched you straighten your own top back down, watched you step away instead of climbing into bed with him, and something in him recalibrated.
He sat up on one elbow. “Wait.”
You folded his shirt over the desk chair because if you looked at him too long you were going to cave on something you shouldn’t.
“What?”
“You’re leaving?”
“I’m getting you water first.”
“No, I mean after.”
You glanced at him. “Yes.”
“Don’t.”
You found the half-full water bottle on his desk and sniffed it suspiciously before deciding it was probably fine.
“I have early rehearsal,” you said.
“I know.”
“So I’m not sleeping in a frat house that smells like bong water and armpits.”
“It doesn’t smell like armpits.”
You gave him a look.
He thought about it. “Okay, little bit.”
You handed him the bottle. He took a long drink, eyes still fixed on you over the rim like this was all part of some negotiation.
Then he set it down and held a hand out.
“C’mere.”
You should’ve said no.
Instead you went, because you always did.
The second you were close enough he caught your wrist and pulled you in between his legs again, gentler this time. No grabbing now. Just his hands settling around your waist, forehead pressing briefly to your stomach before he looked up at you.
“You can just sleep here,” he said. “That’s all. I’ll behave.”
You laughed under your breath. “You are such a liar.”
“I swear.”
“You said ten minutes ago you’d get on your knees if I let you.”
“That was then.” He shrugged a shoulder. “People grow.”
You smiled despite yourself, and he saw it and pressed on.
“Stay.” His thumbs rubbed slow circles into your sides. “We don’t gotta do anything. Just stay. I’ll shut up and go to sleep.”
“You will not shut up.”
“I can.” A pause. “Probably.”
You raised a brow.
He looked offended you didn’t believe him, which was rich considering the evidence.
Then his mouth softened. He tugged you a little closer and tipped his head back enough to kiss you.
This one was different than the ones by the door.
Slower. Drunker, yes, but softer too. His lips were warm and heavy on yours, lingering there before moving properly, a little lazy with it, like he wanted to keep you in place more than he wanted to win. His hand slid from your waist to the back of your thigh, not squeezing now, just resting there.
You kissed him back because of course you did.
His mouth parted against yours with a quiet sigh, and for a second the whole room seemed to narrow to that—his bare skin under your hand, the rough drag of his stubble, the faint taste of liquor and mint and him.
He kissed like he always meant it. Even drunk. Even being trouble five minutes ago. There was always that undercurrent with Bucky, that sincerity sitting underneath all the filth and grabby hands and stupid mouth.
When you pulled away, he chased you an inch, eyes still closed.
You kissed him again before he could start talking.
You put a hand on his jaw and took your time with it, brushing your mouth over his once, twice, then deeper, letting him have something to settle him. His grip tightened low on your thigh. He made this low, hungry sound into your mouth that almost made you change your mind.
Almost.
You drew back enough to press one last kiss to the corner of his mouth, then another to his cheek, then his forehead because he looked so unfairly sweet sitting there half-undressed and staring at you like a dog about to be left at the shelter.
“Go to bed,” you murmured.
He exhaled hard through his nose. “Stay.”
“I have rehearsal at eight.”
“I’ll drive you.”
“You will be dead until noon.”
“I’ll set an alarm.”
“You’ll sleep through it.”
“I’ll set, like, six.”
That made you smile again.
He saw it and leaned into it immediately. “See? You’re smiling. That means yes.”
“That means you’re cute when you’re begging.”
He reached for you again, slower now, fingertips catching on the hem of your top like he couldn’t quite stop himself. “Baby.”
There it was. The sweet-talking voice. Lower. Softer. Not less manipulative, just prettier.
“Don’t make me stay in this house and sleep in this bed alone,” he said. “That’s evil.”
“You live here.”
“Still.”
You stared at him.
He stared back, like he knew exactly how shameless he was being.
Then, quieter, “C’mon. Sleep here.”
For a second you almost said yes just because of the way he was looking at you. Open and sleepy and a little pathetic. But then you pictured your guitar case, your sheet music, the walk of shame out of ΩΒC at seven-thirty in the morning, and the decision made itself.
You leaned in and kissed him one last time. Soft. Brief. Enough to make his eyes close.
“Goodnight, James.”
His face tightened a little at that, like he knew he lost.
“You’re heartless.”
“You’ll live.”
You slipped out of his hands before he could try again, reaching for the lamp.
“Don’t turn it off,” he said immediately.
You looked back at him.
He was already lying down, one arm thrown over his stomach, the other bent behind his head. Hair all over the place. Mouth still pink from kissing you. He looked wrecked and warm and deeply, deeply unsatisfied.
“Why,” you asked.
“So when you miss me in five minutes, you can still see where you’re going,” he said.
You snorted, shaking your head, and left the desk lamp on.
When you bent to pick up your bag, he was already watching you with that low, lazy look again.
“Walk away any slower and I’m gonna think you’re doing that shit on purpose.”
You didn’t even turn around. Just slung your bag over your shoulder and headed for the door.
“Go sleep.”
Behind you, his voice came rough and amused and filthy all at once.
“You’re lucky I’m drunk, sweetheart. Tomorrow I’m getting your mouth on me for this.”
You paused with your hand on the knob, smiling despite yourself. Then you glanced back over your shoulder, gave him a look, and pulled the door open.
“Goodnight, baby.”
He groaned like a man being sentenced as you shut the door behind you.
By the time you got back to campus, the night had that thin, weird quiet it always got after a party—like the city was still loud somewhere else, but your little stretch of NYU had started exhaling.
Your phone buzzed in your hand as you walked, screen too bright, your eyes too tired for it. You didn’t even read it. You just shoved it back in your pocket and kept going, moving on muscle memory and stubbornness, the world tilting slightly with every step.
Your breath tasted like cheap liquor and somebody’s fruity gum. Your stomach felt… suspicious. Not bad-bad yet. Just warning you. The kind of warning you should’ve listened to an hour ago.
The dorm lobby was fluorescent and rude. A couple of people were still coming in—heels in hand, laughing too loudly, hair sticking to their faces. The security guard barely looked up as you flashed your ID and pushed into the elevator.
When you finally got to your floor, the hallway smelled like laundry detergent and someone’s late-night ramen. Your keys took a second too long to find. You fumbled them once, swore under your breath, then got the door open and stepped inside—
—and froze.
There was a girl sitting in your living room.
Just sitting on the couch with her hands folded in her lap, a duffel on the floor by her feet, like she’d been there for a while and didn’t know what to do with her body.
Your brain did not immediately catch up. All it registered was; stranger in your dorm.
“What the fuck,” you blurted, voice sharper than you meant. “Who are you?”
The girl looked up like you’d yanked a string. Wide eyes, pale light catching in them. She startled so hard you saw her shoulders jump.
“I—” she started, then stopped. Swallowed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
That didn’t answer the question.
You stood there with your keys still in your hand like a weapon, heart beating too fast for how tired you were. The alcohol made everything feel a half-second delayed, like your body was reacting before your mind could assign labels.
The girl’s gaze flicked to your face, then away, then back again. Like she didn’t want to stare, but couldn’t help it. She pushed a strand of hair behind her ear with a nervous little motion.
“I’m… your new roommate,” she said, quieter this time. “Wanda.”
You stared at her.
Nothing. Just static.
Then your memory dragged itself out of the fog like it had to climb a wall to reach you.
New transfer. Email from housing. A name you’d skimmed while half-asleep between rehearsals. Something about the move-in date being “late” because of paperwork.
“Oh.” Your voice dropped instantly, heat rushing up your neck as embarrassment caught up. “Oh my God. Right.”
Wanda nodded like she’d been waiting for you to remember the same thing.
Up close, she really was pretty. She had that quiet, sweet face that made you instinctively want to be nicer than you were being.
And you had just opened with who the fuck are you.
You ran a hand over your mouth, blinking hard like you could clear your head by force. “Sorry. I— I thought you were, like… I don’t know. Somebody’s random.”
“It’s okay,” Wanda said quickly, like she meant it. Like she didn’t want you to feel bad. “It’s late. I should’ve— I didn’t know if you’d be home. They told me the key would work.”
“It’s fine,” you said, then immediately regretted how stiff it sounded and tried again. “No, seriously. It’s fine. I’m just— I’m drunk.”
Wanda’s lips parted like she might smile, then she seemed to think better of it. “Party?”
“Yeah.” You exhaled through your nose. “Welcome to NYU.”
She glanced at your shoes, your bag half sliding off your shoulder, the state of you. Not judgmental. Just taking in information. “I didn’t know if you’d be… like, mad.”
“I’m not mad,” you said, already forcing your voice into something warmer. Your ma’s voice lived in your head when you got like this. Be nice. Be normal. Don’t be the asshole. “I just got startled. Hi. I’m—”
You almost said your name, then stopped yourself, suddenly aware of your tongue feeling thick and your stomach giving another small, ominous roll.
Wanda waited, patient.
You pointed vaguely at yourself, murmuring your name. “Me. Your roommate. Sorry. I’m gonna be better in the morning.”
“I’m an art major,” she offered, still meek, still polite. “Photography.”
“Okay,” you said, nodding too hard like the motion might settle your insides. “That’s cool. I’m music.”
Wanda’s gaze flicked briefly to the corner where your stuff was—your case, the little signs of your life. It wasn’t invasive. Not yet. Just curious.
“Nice,” she said.
You took one step further into the apartment, and your stomach chose that exact moment to turn into a live wire.
Heat surged up your throat. Your mouth watered instantly.
Oh, no.
Your body did that awful thing where it gave you five seconds of warning and then started counting down like you had any say in the matter.
You clapped a hand over your mouth, eyes widening. “Sorry— I’m—”
Wanda’s posture shifted, concern flashing over her face. “Are you—”
“I’m fine,” you lied, already backing away. “I just— I need— give me one second.”
You turned toward the bathroom like your life depended on it, keys clinking in your fist, and you heard Wanda move like she might stand, like she might follow.
“It’s okay,” you said quickly, without turning back. “I’m okay. Just— I’ll be right back.”
You made it to the bathroom just in time, one hand braced on the sink, the other gripping the edge of the counter as the room swayed gently around you.
You woke up at seven on the dot like your body hated you on principle.
Your head felt packed with cotton. Your mouth was dry in that sour way that made you immediately regret every drink you could half-remember. You lay there for a second, staring at the ceiling, listening to the dorm breathe—pipes clicking, someone’s shower running down the hall, a door slamming two rooms over.
You swallowed, winced, then forced yourself upright.
The living room was tiny in daylight. It always was. At night it felt like a little pocket of safety; in the morning it was just a cramped space with mismatched furniture and textbooks stacked like someone had tried to build a wall and given up. A weak stripe of sunlight cut across the carpet through the blinds.
Wanda was already awake.
She was sitting on the couch with a mug in both hands, shoulders tucked in, hair loose and slightly messy like she’d slept light. She looked up when you came out, that same wide-eyed caution from last night, like she wasn’t sure what version of you she was getting this morning.
You paused, suddenly aware of how aggressively you’d greeted her seven hours ago.
“Hey,” you said, voice rough. “Morning.”
“Good morning,” Wanda answered softly.
You rubbed your forehead, then tried again, warmer. “I’m sorry about last night. I was… clearly a lot.”
“It’s okay,” she said quickly, “You were tired.”
“Drunk,” you corrected, walking toward the kitchenette. “I was drunk. There’s a difference.”
Wanda’s mouth twitched, almost a smile.
You opened a cabinet, realized you had no clean cups, stared at it like it had personally betrayed you, then grabbed a bottle of water instead. You took a long drink, eyes closed, and tried to reboot your brain.
When you looked back over, Wanda was still watching you.
“So,” you said, leaning against the counter. “Proper welcome. I’m happy you’re here. Dorms are… terrible, but at least it’s not lonely.”
Wanda’s fingers tightened slightly around her mug. “Thank you.”
You nodded, then added, “Also, if you ever see me stumbling in at midnight again, you have permission to ignore me.”
Her smile came properly this time, small but real. “Okay.”
You liked that about her—quiet, but not cold. Shy, but not stiff. It was kind of sweet.
You checked your phone. A notification from your rehearsal group. Another from Darcy with a dumb thumbs-up emoji and “u alive?” The brightness made you squint.
“I’ve got rehearsal in a bit,” you said. “But after, if you want, I can show you around. Like, actually show you around. Not the useless ‘here’s the library’ tour.”
Wanda’s posture changed at that. She lifted her head, eyes brightening a little. “Really?”
“Yeah. You just got here. You shouldn’t be stuck in this shoebox all day.” You hesitated, then added, “And it’ll make me feel less guilty for scaring the shit out of you last night.”
She let out a quiet laugh, like she hadn’t expected you to be funny.
“I’d like that,” she said.
“Good.” You pointed toward her mug. “Coffee?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. After rehearsal, we’ll do the whole thing. Food, buildings, whatever. You tell me what you need.”
Wanda nodded, then after a beat, asked softly, “Where are you from?”
You shrugged. “Queens.” Then you tilted your head at her. “What about you? Your accent—where’s it from?”
Wanda’s eyes flicked down for a second, then back up. “Sokovia.”
“Sokovia,” you repeated, like you knew exactly where that was.
You didn’t.
But you weren’t going to make her feel weird about it, so you just nodded like it was the most normal answer in the world. “That’s cool.”
You grabbed your bag off the chair and slung it over your shoulder, already feeling the clock in your chest. “Alright. If you’re serious about that tour—meet me at the music building around, like, ten-thirty? I’ll be there anyway.”
Wanda’s face lit up just a little. “Okay.”
“And Wanda?”
“Yes?”
You paused, then gave her a quick, honest smile. “Welcome. For real.”
She held your gaze for a second, then nodded, quiet again. “Thank you.”
By the time you met Wanda out of the dorm and in the middle of campus, the day had warmed up a little.
The city was doing what it always did—crowded sidewalks, bikes cutting too close, people rushing with coffee in one hand and their whole life in the other. Washington Square was busy without looking like it was trying. Music somewhere in the distance. Somebody skateboarding badly. A guy with a clipboard already bothering people before noon.
You walked a little ahead, then beside her, then ahead again whenever the sidewalk narrowed, talking the whole time in that easy, loose way you had when you were comfortable. Pointing things out without making it feel like a tour.
“That building looks nicer on the outside than it is,” you said, jerking your chin toward one of the stone facades. “Inside smells like wet paper and stress.”
Wanda glanced up, camera hanging from her neck. “Stress has a smell?”
“You’ll learn it.”
That got a small smile out of her.
She was still quiet, still careful, but not as frozen as she’d been this morning. Every so often she lifted her camera and took a picture—corners of buildings, light hitting the pavement, a girl smoking on a bench, two guys arguing over a cigarette like it was a moral issue. She never made a big production of it. Just saw something, raised the camera, clicked.
You noticed she was good at doing it fast.
Riri from one of your theory classes passed and pointed at you. “You alive?”
“Barely,” you called back.
She laughed and kept walking.
A few steps later, one of Bucky’s frat brothers, Luke came the opposite way giving you a nod and a “Hey, mama,” without breaking stride.
Wanda looked at you. “A lot of people know you.”
You shrugged. “Not really. I just know a lotta people.”
Then, after a beat, “Also a lot of people know my boyfriend, so it kind of spreads.”
“Your boyfriend?” she asked, trying to sound casual and not quite managing it.
You smiled a little. “Yeah. Bucky Barnes.”
You said his name like it explained something, then realized it didn’t.
“He’s in Omega Beta Centurion,” you added. “Loud, annoying, everywhere all the time. So people clock me by association.”
Wanda glanced at you. “You say that like you aren’t fond of him.”
“I’m very fond of him,” you said. “He’s just a lot.”
That made her smile again, smaller this time.
You took her past the student center, then toward the art buildings. “So what got you into photography?”
Wanda’s fingers moved over the camera strap. “I liked that I could keep things,” she said after a second. “A face. A moment. The way light looked somewhere. Before it changes.”
You looked at her. “That very… deep.”
She gave you a shy look, unsure if you were making fun of her.
You bumped her shoulder lightly with yours. “No, I’m serious. That was good.”
Her posture eased a little.
“And here I am,” you said, spreading a hand vaguely around at the street, “majoring in music because apparently I enjoy suffering publicly.”
Wanda let out a soft laugh.
“There we go,” you said. “That’s the most life I’ve seen in you all day.”
You were smiling when the camera clicked.
You blinked. “Did you just take a picture of me?”
Wanda had already lowered the camera, looking almost guilty. “I’m sorry—” She stepped closer and turned the screen toward you. “I hope that’s okay.”
You looked.
It was you mid-laugh, head slightly turned, sunlight cutting across your face, your expression open and unguarded in a way you never noticed in real time.
“Huh,” you said.
Wanda watched your face carefully. “Is it bad?”
“No.” You glanced at her, then back at the photo. “It’s actually… really nice.”
Something about that seemed to brighten her whole face.
“You’re good,” you said, starting to walk again.
The café was half a block off campus, small and always too full, with fogged-up windows and chipped little tables jammed too close together. It smelled like burnt espresso and sugar. Everybody ended up there eventually.
You pushed the door open for Wanda and nodded inside. “This is the spot. You need coffee, you come here. You need to cry over a paper, you come here. You need to see three people you were hoping to avoid, definitely come here.”
Wanda smiled faintly, eyes moving around the room.
You were in the middle of pointing out the back corner, where people camped for hours pretending to study, when an arm suddenly wrapped around your shoulders.
Your whole body gave the smallest start before you rolled your eyes. “Jesus Christ.”
Bucky just laughed against the side of your head, warm and very pleased with himself. “Hi, baby.”
You turned enough to look at him. Hair a mess, sunglasses pushed up on his head, gray sweatshirt hanging off him like he’d thrown it on five minutes ago and called it a day. He looked unfairly good for somebody who should’ve been face-down until mid-afternoon.
“I thought you’d be awake at, like, two,” you said. “This is very unsettling behavior.”
His arm stayed where they were, loose around your shoulders. Wanda had gone quiet beside you, shoulders drawing in a little.
You nudged Bucky with your elbow. “This is Wanda. My new roommate.”
That got him to glance over.
He gave her a quick nod. “Hey.”
“Hi,” Wanda said softly.
And that was it. No real warmth to it. No effort. His attention was already back on you.
“I was looking for you,” he said. “So… Stark’s having people up at his parents’ lake house this weekend.”
You made a face immediately. “No.”
He kept going like you hadn’t spoken. “Friday night into Saturday. Steve said he can drive, Sam’s coming, Nat too, whole thing.”
“No.”
“C’mon.”
“No.” You folded your arms. “I already know what that’s gonna be. Loud music, people getting high in Tony’s daddy’s kitchen, and me walking into a room by accident and seeing somebody getting fucked against a wall.”
Bucky’s mouth twitched. “Or maybe that could be us.”
You looked at him. “Can you not be disgusting for one minute?”
He just grinned, lazy and unbothered.
You were already shaking your head when he sighed and let his gaze slide to Wanda.
“Well, you’ve got responsibilities now anyway,” he said. “Can’t be selfish. Gotta show your roommate a good time.”
The second the attention landed on her, Wanda looked caught off guard.
Bucky leaned one shoulder against the counter, all easy confidence and charm. “You wanna go, right?”
Wanda blinked. “I—”
“It’s nice up there,” he said, talking right over her hesitation. “Lake, bonfire, people, food. Better than sitting in that dorm all weekend.”
You frowned at him. “Bucky.”
But he was still looking at her, smiling in that persuasive, mildly douchey way that worked on too many people.
Wanda glanced at you first, then back at him. “It sounds… nice.”
There it was.
You let out a slow breath through your nose. Bucky looked smug instantly.
“You’re such a jackass,” you muttered.
“Love you too,” he said, already dropping a kiss against your cheek.
Beside you, Wanda stayed quiet, but you could feel the shift in her—the way she’d pulled back the second he appeared, and the way she’d still agreed anyway.
When you got back to the dorm, the day had finally started catching up to you.
Your feet hurt. Your head still felt a little off from last night, though not enough to stop you functioning. The hallway outside your dorm was louder than it should’ve been for a Tuesday—somebody arguing over a charger, somebody else laughing too hard, a door opening and slamming again.
Inside, it was quiet.
Wanda had kicked off her shoes by the couch and tucked her legs up under herself, camera sitting beside her. The lamp was on, throwing that same soft yellow light over the room, making the whole place feel smaller and calmer than it was.
You dropped your bag by the chair and let out a breath. “Okay. I need to formally apologize for Bucky.”
Wanda looked up from where she’d been flipping through something on her camera. “You don’t have to.”
“No, I do.” You pointed toward her with two fingers. “Because he absolutely came in there acting like an ass.”
Her mouth twitched. “A little.”
“A little,” you repeated, then snorted and shook your head. “Most of the time he’s not like that.”
You paused.
Then you tipped your head, reconsidering.
“Okay. That’s not true. Most of the time he is kind of like that.” You glanced down, rubbing at the back of your neck. “But he’s harmless.”
Wanda watched you quietly.
You shrugged, moving toward the kitchenette for water. “He just has this… boy disease where he thinks if he says something with enough confidence, it stops being obnoxious.”
That got a small laugh out of her.
You looked over your shoulder. “See? You get it.”
Wanda lowered her eyes a little, still smiling. There was something almost girlish about the way she did that—like she wasn’t used to laughing openly yet.
You unscrewed the bottle and took a drink. “Anyway. You do not have to go to that party if you don’t want to. Seriously. Don’t let him talk you into anything.”
Wanda’s fingers traced lightly over the edge of the camera in her lap. “Are you going?”
You leaned against the counter, thinking about it.
You lifted one shoulder. “Most of my friends are going, so I’ll probably have to.”
“Have to?” Wanda echoed softly.
You smiled. “You know what I mean.”
She nodded.
Then, after a second, “I wouldn’t mind going. If I was with you.”
You looked at her properly then.
The way she said it wasn’t odd. It was shy, almost careful, like she was already braced for you to think she was being weird. But it just came off kind of sweet. A little nervous. New girl in a new city not wanting to get stranded at some giant party with a bunch of strangers and drunk idiots.
You laughed lightly, not at her, just at how earnest it sounded.
“Wanda,” you said, softer now, “I promise I won’t let you out of my sight.”
Something in her face eased at that.
“Okay,” she said.
You nodded, then pushed off the counter and reached for your phone. “Good. Then your first lesson starts then.”
Wanda blinked. “What lesson?”
You looked at her over your shoulder. “How to survive college kids near open water without dying of secondhand embarrassment.”
That made her laugh again, a little more this time.
Friday night came in with that low, restless kind of energy that made everything feel a little charged.
Your room was a mess from getting ready, makeup spread across the desk in that controlled mess you always swore you’d clean up later. You’d gone with a black dress almost on instinct—short, soft, thin straps, the kind that skimmed your body instead of hugging it too tight. Just enough skin to make Bucky stare and act stupid. The heeled boots finished it off.
You were leaning in close to the mirror, fixing the corner of your lip, when you heard Wanda moving around in the other room.
“Almost done,” you called, reaching for your gloss.
When you came back out, phone in one hand, you stopped.
Wanda stood near the couch looking unsure of herself in a plain top and jeans, like she’d gotten dressed for class and then tried to convince herself it counted. She looked pretty anyway. She just didn’t look like she was going to a lake-house party full of drunk idiots.
You caught yourself before your face could do anything rude.
Wanda noticed your pause immediately. “What?”
“Nothing,” you said too fast, then shook your head. “No, come here.”
She looked wary. “Why.”
“Because I’m fixing this.”
Her brows pulled together just slightly. “It’s that bad?”
“It’s not bad,” you said, already moving toward your closet. “It’s just not party. There’s a difference.”
You dug through hangers, then pulled out a dress you knew would work—dark, soft, a little clingy without trying too hard.
“Here,” you said, handing it to her. “Try this.”
Wanda looked at it, then at you. “I can’t wear your clothes.”
“You literally can. I’m handing them to you.” You softened your voice. “Borrow whatever you want, okay? I mean that.”
Something in her face shifted at that. Smaller. Quieter.
“Okay,” she said.
A few minutes later she came back out in the dress, and you looked up from your makeup bag and smiled before you could help it.
“There,” you said. “See?”
Wanda stood there awkwardly, one hand brushing over the fabric at her waist. “It feels strange.”
“It looks good.”
She glanced at you through the mirror. “You think so?”
“I know so. Sit.”
You pulled the desk chair out and patted it. Wanda sat, slow and obedient, and you stepped between her knees without thinking much of it, tipping her chin gently with two fingers so you could get a better look at her face.
This close, she was all soft skin and wide eyes, her perfume faint and clean, something powdery under it. You brushed a thumb under one eye.
“You don’t need much,” you murmured.
Her lashes lowered. “I don’t really wear makeup.”
“That’s fine.” You reached for the blush. “I do. So now you do too.”
That got a little smile out of her.
You worked slowly, steadying her face with one hand while the other moved. A brush over her cheekbone. Your fingertips at her jaw. The light touch of your thumb smoothing something near the corner of her mouth. Wanda stayed very still for you. You could feel her breathing every time you leaned in.
“There,” you said after a minute, reaching for mascara. “Look up.”
She did.
Your face was close enough now that you could see the different greens in her eyes.
“You’re very calm,” you said.
“I’m trying not to blink.”
You laughed softly. “That too.”
Your phone buzzed on the bed.
You glanced over without thinking and saw Bucky’s name bright on the screen.
u ready yet?
You smiled to yourself, just a little, and reached for it.
You didn’t see the way Wanda’s mouth tightened when your attention left her. Only for a second. Gone by the time you looked back.
“Sorry,” you said, typing quickly. “Bucky’s already being annoying.”
Wanda’s expression had smoothed out again, quiet as ever.
“Is he waiting?” she asked.
“Basically always,” you said.
Then you set the phone down and turned back to her, lifting the lipstick. “Don’t move.”
The lake house was exactly as obnoxious as you knew it would be.
Too big, too lit up, too many expensive cars lined up out front like a dealership for rich kids with bad judgment. Music spilled out over the lawn in waves, mixed with shouting, laughter, the sharp crack of somebody opening another beer. The whole place smelled like lake water, weed, charcoal, perfume, and whatever Stark’s catering guy had tried to class up before the brothers got to it.
You kept a hand on Wanda’s wrist as you led her through the side yard.
“Rule one,” you said, leaning closer so she could hear you over the music, “if somebody says ‘this edible ain’t shit,’ do not listen to them.”
Wanda looked over at you, half amused. “Okay.”
“Rule two, if you see a room with the door closed, keep walking.”
Her mouth twitched. “You’re not joking.”
“Never about that.”
The back deck was packed. People pressed around coolers and folding tables, girls in short skirts and heels, boys already too drunk in polos and backwards caps. Across the yard, a few people had wandered down closer to the water, where Thor was somehow louder than the speakers.
You pointed with your cup. “Okay. That’s Thor. Foreign student. Really nice, but if he asks if you want to do a shot with him, say no unless you hate yourself.”
Wanda followed your gaze.
Thor had one foot on a deck chair, shirt half unbuttoned, yelling something triumphant while Clint Barton recorded him on a camcorder like this was history worth preserving.
Wanda laughed under her breath.
“Exactly,” you said. “And over there—Sam. He’s the only one here with sense.”
Sam was by the grill, drink in hand, already looking tired of everybody. He saw you, lifted his chin in greeting, then looked at the girl beside you and gave her a warmer nod.
“Who’s this?” he asked when you got close enough.
“My new roommate, Wanda.”
“Sam,” he said. “I apologize in advance for whatever you’re about to witness tonight.”
A burst of shouting came from the dock. You looked over just in time to see John Walker trying to balance on the railing with a beer in one hand while MJ yelled at him to jump if he was going to jump already.
You winced. “And that is exactly the kind of thing I mean.”
Wanda watched, wide-eyed. “Does he do that often?”
“Too often. He thinks being from Georgia makes him immortal.”
You kept moving, weaving her through the crowd, leaning in now and then to murmur names and warnings.
“Natasha’s the pretty redhead pretending she doesn’t know anybody.”
“Darcy’s the one with big boobs and talking with both hands.”
“If Pepper gives you a look, ignore it, she does that to everyone.”
“And if you see Peter Parker anywhere near hard liquor, inform someone immediately.”
Wanda stayed close, listening to you with that quiet focus she always had. Every so often someone would stop you—classmate, friend, one of Bucky’s people—and you’d introduce her gently, keeping her at your side the whole time like you promised.
At one point she looked at you and asked, almost softly, “Do you know everyone?”
You smiled and shook your head. “No. It just looks like I do.”
Then you tipped your drink toward the house, where someone had started screaming along to a Ke$ha song from inside.
“Come on,” you said. “You haven’t even seen the worst of it yet.”
You’d managed, somehow, to get Wanda laughing.
She’d loosened up after a drink and an hour of watching other people embarrass themselves. You were standing off to the side of the deck, shoulder to shoulder, while she quietly pointed out a guy near the speakers who had been dancing with the confidence of somebody far more coordinated than he actually was.
“He’s been doing the same move for five minutes,” she said.
You looked over, snorted, and nearly spilled your drink. “That’s Scott Lang for you.”
Wanda smiled into her cup, pleased with herself.
That was when you felt it—warm hands landing on your hips from behind, familiar and shameless. You just rolled your eyes and let your head fall back a little. “There you are.”
Bucky’s mouth brushed the side of your neck, quick and lazy. He was shirtless for reasons known only to him and whatever bad decisions had already happened in the last hour, skin warm from the bonfire, hair messy, a little flushed, smelling like lake water, smoke, and alcohol.
“C’mon,” he said against your ear. “Wanna show you something.”
You turned enough to look at him. “No, you don’t.”
His brows lifted. “Yeah, I do.”
“You want to get me alone.”
He didn’t even bother denying it. Just gave you that look.
Behind your shoulder, Wanda had gone quiet again.
You caught that immediately and put a hand over Bucky’s where it rested on your waist. “I can’t leave her alone.”
Bucky looked past you then, finally giving Wanda more than a passing glance. His jaw shifted.
“She’s not a kid,” he said. Then, at you, with that impatient edge he got when he wanted something and hated waiting for it, “She doesn’t need a babysitter.”
You gave him a flat look. “Don’t be a dick.”
“I’m not being a dick.”
“You are exactly being a dick.”
He exhaled, already annoyed, fingers tightening once on your hip before he let up. “I’m saying she’ll live for a few minutes.”
You looked at Wanda. She was standing with both hands around her cup, expression small but composed.
“It’s okay,” she said quietly. “Really.”
You hesitated.
Then you touched her arm lightly. “I’ll be gone, like, ten minutes. Max.”
Wanda nodded.
“If anything gets too crazy,” you added, “go stand by Natasha. She acts mean, but she likes being needed.”
That got the tiniest smile out of her. “Okay.”
You looked at her another second just to be sure, then pointed once toward Nat across the yard. “Seriously. Hover.”
“I will.”
Only then did you let Bucky pull you in properly.
He took your hand and started leading you off the deck with zero patience, weaving through bodies like he’d already waited long enough. You stumbled once in your boots and caught his shoulder.
“Jesus, slow down.”
He looked back, smirking a little. “Thought you said we only had ten minutes.”
You rolled your eyes, but your grip tightened on his hand anyway.
The noise dropped off the second you stepped past the last line of trees.
It didn’t disappear—it just dulled. The music turned into a low, distant thump, voices blurred into something indistinct, like the party had been pushed underwater. Out here it smelled different too. Damp earth, leaves, a trace of smoke carried on the air.
Bucky didn’t slow down until he had you far enough in that the house lights barely reached.
“Okay,” you said, breath catching a little as you looked around. “This is already suspicious.”
He turned back to you, one hand still wrapped around yours, that crooked, familiar smile already pulling at his mouth. “Relax.”
“Anytime you say that, I get more concerned.”
“Yeah?” he said, stepping closer. “You don’t look concerned.”
You didn’t.
Your body had already caught up to where you were. The quiet, the way he was looking at you, the fact that you both knew exactly why he’d dragged you out here—it made something in your chest go light and sharp at the same time.
You shook your head a little. “You’re not getting what you think you’re getting.”
He huffed a laugh, low, like he’d heard that before.
“C’mon,” he murmured, and then he was kissing you.
His hands found your waist immediately, pulling you into him like he’d been waiting all night to get you alone. Your back hit the rough bark of a tree, the texture grounding you just enough to make everything else feel sharper—the warmth of his body, the way his mouth moved against yours, insistent and a little messy with it.
You kissed him back without hesitation.
His mouth opened against yours, and you felt the shift—deeper now, slower for half a second before it picked up again, his tongue tangling with yours, tasting like liquor and something sweet. You made a quiet sound into his mouth before you could stop it, your hands coming up to grip at his shoulders.
“Bucky—” you tried.
He didn’t really let you finish. Just dragged his mouth down your jaw, back up, then back to your lips like he couldn’t decide where he wanted you most. One of his hands slid lower, fingers pressing into your thigh through the fabric of your dress.
“You’ve been driving me crazy all night,” he said against your mouth.
“You’re always crazy,” you breathed.
“Not like this.”
His mouth was on yours again before you could answer, and it was easier not to. You leaned into him, let him pull you closer, let your fingers curl into his hair when he tilted your head just right.
Then his hand pressed higher on your thigh, urging, and you caught his wrist.
“We’re not fucking in the woods,” you said, breathless but firm.
He laughed against your lips, the sound low and warm. “I know.”
“You say that like you don’t believe it.”
“I’m choosing to believe I can change your mind.”
“You’re not.”
“Mm.” He shifted his weight, then without warning lifted your leg up around his waist, your body jolting closer to his. “We’ll see.”
“Bucky—”
But it came out thinner than you meant it to, because now you were balanced against him, his body solid between your legs, his hands holding you there like it was nothing. His mouth dipped back to yours, slower this time, almost coaxing.
“You don’t gotta think about anything,” he murmured. “Just stay right here with me for a minute.”
You exhaled through your nose, trying to stay annoyed, trying to hold onto whatever point you were making.
It slipped a little.
His mouth moved against yours again, not as rushed now. Intentional. He kissed you like he had time, like he wasn’t trying to get somewhere, just keep you right where you were. His thumb brushed over your thigh where it hooked around him, absentminded, grounding.
“See,” he said quietly, lips grazing yours. “You’re fine.”
“You are so—”
He kissed you again, cutting you off, and this time you didn’t try to finish the sentence.
For a moment, everything narrowed to just that—the weight of him, the press of his mouth, the quiet around you, the faint pulse of music far off like it belonged to another world.
You didn’t notice anything else.
Not the shift of something deeper in the trees. Not the stillness. Not the faint, almost delicate sound—
bucky x fem! reader — college au
summary. Bucky Barnes is your senior. That’s how simple it should’ve been. But when feelings come into the mix, nothing is ever simple right?
in which,
a simple favour somehow turns into a complicated affair.
word count. 19.3k
warnings. college au — med school, slowish burn, smut, mdni, 18+, tit play, oral (f receiving), protected pnv, insecure reader, angst, hurt/comfort, impulsive reader who self sabotages, college girl acting like a college girl, bucky is described as a fuckboy, takes reader to watch a surgery. no use of y/n.
notes. extremely self-indulgent, i miss med school man. but can easily be read as a college au, i just gave them med subjects. this is basically stuff that kinda happened to me and stuff i wish happened to me lol. in my college — like in many colleges in my country — there’s this unspoken rule, where a junior must obey their senior no matter what. so she can’t just say no when he asks her a favour. i’ve probably used bike and motorcycle interchangeably, please ignore that. Supposed to be posted like a month ago. Since I might be inactive in the following week, this is here now.
READ ON AO3
You had promised yourself you would not spiral today. That promise sits thin as you step out of the library, the familiar pressure of deadlines stacking one on top of the other until breathing feels like a chore instead of a reflex that keeps you alive.
There is a quiet pride in having stayed back this late, in choosing tables and notes over distractions, in being the kind of second year who does not get noticed for the wrong reasons.
You’re someone who slides through corridors without anyone remembering her name but still remembers every page she read, every line she underlined, every small victory that does not need witnesses.
It should have been a clean exit. Library to hostel. Bed. Maybe a shower if energy allows. A voice cuts through that careful plan.
“Hey. Hey, wait.”
Your name follows, said with the kind of casual certainty that makes your stomach drop because you do not remember giving it to a him. You slow before you mean to, hate yourself for it immediately, then stop fully because pretending not to hear it is useless now.
He is leaning against wall near the steps, fourth year scrubs on, bag slung carelessly over one shoulder like rules never applied to him in the first place.
Bucky Barnes.
The name exists in your head long before this moment, passed around in whispers and rolled eyes. The kind of senior everyone knows without knowing, the kind who never seems stressed, the kind who smiles like he expects the world to bend for him because it usually does.
He looks at you like this is normal. Like calling you over has not just rearranged your internal organs.
“Yeah… You. From second year, right?”
The nod comes before you can stop it. Your mouth opens, and closes. Something about air refusing to cooperate. He does not seem to notice, or maybe he does and just enjoys it, because his smile tips slightly.
“Good. I was hoping it was you.”
Hoping implies intention. Intention implies choice. Your brain scrambles to keep up.
He reaches into his bag and pulls out a record book, thick and familiar and immediately ominous. Oh no. He holds it out like a peace offering.
It’s not.
“I need this filled. Clinical entries. You know how it goes.”
Of course you know. Seniors handing down record books like curses, juniors swallowing irritation because no one ever says no. It is tradition dressed up as mentorship, exploitation wrapped in smiles. You have watched others do it, complained quietly about it, sworn you would find a way out if it ever landed on you.
It has landed on you.
“Uh,” your voice finally shows up. “I… I have my own, uhmm records. To finish.”
He hums, just acknowledging a fact that does not change anything. The book does not move. His hand stays steady between you, patient in a way that feels practiced.
“I know. Everyone does. You’re good at it though. Got neat handwriting. I’ve seen your stuff.”
Being seen has never felt like a gift. It feels like exposure, like someone has pulled back a curtain you forgot was there. You wonder who told him. You wonder when he looked. You wonder why it matters.
You take the book because not taking it feels impossible. Your fingers brush the edge of his fingers for half a second too long, heat flaring where there should be none. You hate that too.
“Thanks,” he says, like you have done him a favour already. “I’ll need it by Monday. You can just slip it under my door. Room 318.”
Monday. Your mind does the math without permission, counts hours you do not have, pages you do not want to fill, resentment blooming immediately.
Your mouth wants to say no now, wants to choke the word out before it becomes habit. Instead, what comes out is a quiet okay that feels like a betrayal.
Fuck.
“You’re a lifesaver,” his grin widens, the phrase just sticks under your skin because you know he does not mean it. It is just something he says. Something that works.
He pushes off the wall then, stretching like this conversation has taken nothing out of him, like he has not just fucked up your entire evening, possibly your entire week. “See you around, yeah?”
You nod again, nodding seems to be all you can do around him. He walks away without looking back, already pulling his phone out, already elsewhere.
The space he had left behind feels too empty and too crowded at the same time.
You stand there, blaming fate, blaming everything. Irritation simmers, edged with something that feels uncomfortably like embarrassment.
Not because he asked. Because you said yes. Why couldn’t you have said no?
The walk back to your room passes in a blur of footpaths and familiar turns, replaying the way he said your name, the way he smiled like nothing in the world could touch him.
The unfairness of it all presses heavy. Fourth years like him float through med school like it is a game. People like you count pages and hours and caffeine intake and still feel behind.
When the door clicks shut behind you, you drop your bag on the chair harder than necessary, the record book landing on your desk with a dull thud that feels deeply satisfying.
“Oh my God,” you mutter, then louder, “Oh my God.”
Your friend looks up from her bed. She has known you long enough to recognize the particular tension in your shoulders, the way your hands shake when you are trying not to scream.
“What happened?”
You hold up the book like evidence. “Bucky Barnes happened.”
Her face shifts instantly, recognition blooming into something between amusement and sympathy. “No. Absolutely not.”
“Yes,” your voice rises despite yourself. “He just handed it to me. Like I’m his personal assistant. Like I don’t have my own shit to do.”
“Did you say no?”
The silence answers for you.
A dramatic groan leaves her mouth. “You cannot do this. Seniors will see you coming from a mile away.”
“I didn’t mean to,” you snap, then immediately soften because she is not wrong and that makes it worse. “He just… called me. And he smiled. And then suddenly I had the book in my hands and it was done.”
You pace now, words spilling out faster, frustration finally finding a mouth. “Monday. He wants it by Monday. Do you know how much I have to finish by Monday? I barely sleep as it is.”
Her expression becomes gentler now. “Why you though? He has friends. Groupies. People who would do it without complaining.”
“Apparently my handwriting is neat,” the bitterness in your tone is obvious. “Apparently he’s seen my stuff. Which is creepy, by the way.”
“That man has no boundaries. Also he’s hot, so no one calls him on it.”
You stop pacing to glare at her. “Do not.”
“I’m just stating facts,” she puts her hands up. “He’s a menace.”
“He’s a fuckboy,” you correct, the word slipping out with venom, satisfying in its accuracy. “And I do not have time for this.”
The innocent book still sits on your desk, infuriating you. Pages waiting to be filled with cases you did not attend, observations you did not make. Your jaw tightens.
“I should just give it back,” you say, more to yourself than to her. “Tell him I can’t. Tell him I have my own work.”
She watches you for a moment, then smiles in a way that is all understanding and zero judgment. “And will you?”
The answer tastes bitter before it even forms. You sink onto your chair, stare at the book like it has personally wronged you.
“No. Because I’m weak and stupid and I said okay.”
“You’re just too nice.”
A humourless laugh echoes. “That’s not a compliment in med school.”
She gets up then to cross the room, and peers over your shoulder at the offending book. “Look. We’ll bitch about him while you write.”
That helps. The bitching.
“He smiled at me,” the confession slips out before you can stop it. “Like I was already going to say yes.”
“Because he knows people do.”
“I hate that it worked.”
She bumps your shoulder lightly. “Welcome to being human.”
You pick up the pen, flip the book open, anger and resolve tangling together in your chest. If you are going to do this, you will do it right. Not for him. For yourself. Because that is what you do. Because walking away has never come easily.
Still, as the first page fills under your hand, one thought forms inside your head.
Bucky Barnes is going to owe you for this.
Finishing this stupid record book on time might actually be the most irritating miracle you have ever pulled off.
Two nights of cramped handwriting and squinting at borrowed case sheets, all for a senior who probably has not worried about a deadline since orientation week.
There is a strange mix of pride and annoyance together in your chest. Pride because the pages look perfect, neat lines and careful diagrams, everything organized the way your brain likes it. Annoyance because none of it is even yours.
Your roommate watches from her bed while you pack the book into your bag.
“You actually finished it,” her voice is impressed and a little horrified.
“I had no choice,” you zip the bag with more force than necessary. “If I didn’t, he would find me in some corridor and smile at me again and I would say yes to something worse.”
She laughs like she understands exactly what you mean. “Go give it to him and be free.”
Free is a strong word, but you take it anyway.
The walk across campus feels lighter without the weight of guilt hanging over you. You rehearse what you are going to say in your head, something polite and quick and efficient. Here is your record book, thank you, goodbye. Nothing more. Definitely no unnecessary conversation.
You spot him near the canteen. Of course he is surrounded by people. Bucky always seems to exist in the middle of laughter, like he attracts it without trying. A couple of fourth years, one or two juniors, faces you vaguely recognize. He looks relaxed leaning back on the bench.
Your steps slow on their own. It would be so easy to turn around, to come back later, to avoid this tiny social nightmare entirely. But the book is in your bag and Monday is too close and courage, apparently, is a muscle you are forcing yourself to use.
He notices you before you can talk yourself out of it.
“Hey,” he calls out, like you are an old friend and absolutely not a nervous junior.
Every pair of eyes turns in your direction at once. Wonderful. Exactly what you wanted.
Trying to ignore the sudden heat crawling up your neck, you walk closer. “Um, I finished it.”
You hold the book out to him the way a student offers homework to a teacher. Careful, a little formal, maybe even a little scared. His eyebrows lift when he flips through a few pages.
“Damn,” he does not bother to hide the surprise. “This is perfect.”
Praise should not matter this much from someone like him, but apparently your brain did not get that memo.
One of his friends leans forward, curiosity written all over his face. You remember his name after a second. Sam.
“So, this is the famous second year with the magic handwriting,” Sam says, looking at you like you are a rare species. “Hey, listen, any chance you want to do mine next? I will pay you in coffee and eternal gratitude.”
Your mouth opens, ready to spit out a polite refusal you have been practicing since last week, but Bucky moves before you can speak. His arm slides around your shoulders, pulling you a fraction closer to his side.
“Nah,” he says easily, “she’s mine.”
The words echo in your ears long after he says them.
She’s mine. You know it’s not serious. It’s just a joke tossed out between friends. Still, your entire body reacts like it is not a joke at all.
Your heart jumps. Your face heats. You suddenly understand why half the campus melts over him.
Sam raises both hands in surrender. “Okay, okay, territorial much. I see how it is.”
“Find your own hardworking junior,” Bucky grins, finally letting his arm drop from your shoulders. Though the ghost of the touch stays behind though.
You stand there feeling ridiculous, trying to remember how to breathe normally, trying to figure out how to actually survive.
“Thanks for doing this,” Bucky’s voice is softer now, like the rest of them are not even there. “Seriously, you saved me.”
“It’s fine,” you manage, which is not true but sounds polite enough. “Just… don’t give me another one.”
“Cross my heart,” he promises, two fingers over his chest in mock solemnity.
The group drifts back into their conversation and you prepare to make a quick escape, mission accomplished, when Bucky stands up and grabs his bag.
“I’ll drop you off,” he says, like it is the most natural sentence in the world.
Did you hear it right? Your brain stutters. “What, no, it’s okay, I can walk.”
“I know you can walk,” he sounds amused. “But I’ve got my bike and you’ve done me a huge favor and I’m not letting you disappear like that.”
People are watching again. You hate that people are watching. Refusing in front of everyone feels impossible, so you nod before you can overthink it.
The bike is parked near the gate. It’s black, shiny and slightly intimidating. Okay, very intimidating.
You have never actually sat on one before. He hands you the spare helmet without making it a big deal, and somehow that small kindness settles your nerves more than anything else.
“Just hold on to me, yeah,” he says while you climb on behind him.
Holding on to him sounds like a terrible idea for your already fragile composure, but the engine roars to life and instinct wins over dignity. Your hands settle lightly on his sides, trying to keep a respectful distance that disappears the second the bike moves.
It feels strange and a little unreal, like you have stepped into someone else’s life for a moment. Bucky drives smoothly, confidently, like he does literally everything else.
You tell yourself not to enjoy it. You enjoy it anyway.
When the familiar outline of your dorm comes into view, you’re surprised of the disappointment that blooms. The ride had ended too quickly.
Sudden quiet wraps around the both of you as he cuts the engine. You climb off carefully, handing the helmet back, already rehearsing another quick thank you and goodbye.
Bucky does not move to leave. He stays seated, one foot on the ground, looking at you with that same unreadable half smile.
“So,” he stretches the word out, “what do you want?”
“What do I want… for what?”
“For writing my record,” he clarifies. “Don’t say nothing because I know how much time that took.”
The question catches you off guard. You had not even considered the possibility of getting anything in return. In your head, this whole thing was just an annoying duty, a favor extracted through seniority and social pressure.
“I really don’t need anything… it’s fine.”
He studies you for a moment, like he is trying to figure out if you are serious. Apparently the idea of someone not wanting something from him is a new concept.
“Okay… but I’m not accepting that answer.”
“you don’t have to do anything,” you insist, as you feel awkward all over again. “I just did it because you asked.”
“Exactly. Which is why I’m doing something because you helped me.”
You shift your weight from one foot to the other, suddenly very aware of how close he is, how easily he holds your attention without even trying.
“Look… let me at least buy you dinner. As a thank you.”
Dinner. Your brain immediately supplies a hundred reasons why that is a bad idea.
He is a senior. He is Bucky Barnes. People talk. You do not do dinners with boys on bikes who call you theirs in front of their friends. You definitely don’t do dinners with Bucky Barnes.
“You really don’t have to,” your voice is weaker this time.
“I want to.”
He says it like it’s simple, like it doesn’t carry any hidden traps. You try to find a polite way out and come up empty.
“It’s just dinner,” he adds, reading your hesitation with annoying accuracy. “No weirdness, I promise.”
The easy confidence, the genuine gratitude and the tiny hopeful tilt to his expression, makes your resolve wobble.
“Okay,” you hear yourself say, surprising both of you. “But only dinner.”
His grin widens. “Only dinner. Scout’s honor.”
You have no idea if he was ever even a scout, but the image makes you smile despite yourself.
“Same time tomorrow,” he starts the bike again. “Be ready.”
Before you can overthink or change your mind or list all the reasons this is probably a terrible decision, he gives you a small wave and rides off.
You stand there for long after he is gone, heart doing strange unpredictable things, trying to understand how a simple favor turned into this.
Deep inside your chest, excitement and nervousness argue back and forth.
Dinner with Bucky Barnes. Tomorrow.
Maybe this is a bad idea. Tiredness is sitting heavy in your shoulders, the kind that feels stitched into your bones after a long day of lectures and wards and pretending to understand things you only half understand. The sensible version of you knows exactly what tonight should look like.
Pajamas. Leftover notes. An early night. Peace.
Instead you are standing in front of your tiny mirror with a dress spread across the bed behind you, trying to decide if it looks normal enough to pass for casual and nice enough to pass for dinner.
This is ridiculous. Completely ridiculous.
You keep telling yourself that while you brush your hair, while you check your phone for the tenth time even though you know there is nothing new there, while you dig through your drawer looking for the one pair of earrings that make you feel a little less invisible.
Getting ready for dinner with Bucky Barnes feels like preparing for an exam you never signed up for.
Your roommate is out, probably somewhere with her own life that does not involve spiralling over a senior who asked for a favour and then offered dinner in return.
He probably didn’t even mean it like that.
That thought pops up while you smooth the front of the dress over your stomach, trying to ignore how nervous your hands feel. He said it casually, like he says everything, like inviting someone to eat is the most normal thing in the world.
He did not ask for your number. He did not give his number. People who plan real dinners usually do those things, right? They exchange details and make proper plans and act like adults instead of just throwing out a time and disappearing on a bike like you see on movies.
What if he forgot?
What if he only said it because he needed to look cool and effortless like he always does? What if he says things like that to everyone and never follows through because he is Bucky Barnes and the world follows him around instead of the other way?
The more you think about it, the more stupid you feel for taking it seriously.
You imagine him right now somewhere across campus, laughing too loud with people who are not you, maybe already at a party, maybe already making other plans that have nothing to do with a shy second year who writes neat record books.
A small ache starts low in your chest and you hate it instantly.
Why did you even get ready?
You stand in front of the mirror, turning slightly from side to side, trying to see yourself the way he might see you if he ever actually showed up. The dress is simple and soft and maybe a little nicer than what you normally wear to class, and suddenly it looks silly. Like you tried too hard for something that might not even happen.
Oh God, the thought of sitting here all dressed up for no reason, waiting for a message that never comes.
This is embarrassing.
You start to take the earrings off, fingers fumbling more than they should. It feels safer to assume nothing is happening. It feels safer to crawl back into your comfortable routine and pretend none of this ever existed. You reach behind you and tug at the zipper, already planning how quickly you can change and wash your face and bury yourself under a blanket.
He did not even ask for your number. That sentence loops in your head like a stubborn song you cannot turn off. If he really wanted to take you out, he would have made sure he could contact you. That is basic logic. That is common sense.
You pull the dress down over your shoulders, halfway committed to the idea of forgetting the whole thing.
But then your phone lights up on the desk.
The sound is small but it freezes you completely.
For a second you just stare at it, heart suddenly beating in a way that feels unfair. Notifications come from lots of people. Groups and apps and random spam messages. It does not have to be him. There is no reason to assume it is him.
Still, you walk over to the desk like you are being pulled by an invisible string.
One new message.
Unknown number : I’m here. Come down.
That is all it says. Your face heats so fast it almost hurts.
It’s him. He remembered. He actually remembered.
The room suddenly feels too warm and too small making your earlier embarrassment shift shape into something lighter and terrifying in a completely different way.
He is downstairs. Right now. Waiting for you. And you are standing here with your dress half off like an idiot.
You scramble back into it with clumsy fingers, tugging the zipper up again, checking your reflection in a rush of nervous energy. The girl in the mirror looks flustered and a little wide eyed, and there is no time to fix that.
Of course he remembered. Why would he not remember. He literally told you to be ready at this time and you convinced yourself he was lying because apparently your brain enjoys drama.
Maybe this is not such a bad idea after all.
You do not want to read too much into it. You really do not. But the feeling is there anyway, impossible for you to ignore.
It is only dinner. Just a thank you dinner between a senior and a junior. Nothing dramatic. Absolutely nothing life changing.
Still, you catch yourself smiling at your phone like it personally delivered good news.
This is how it starts, isn’t it? Tiny things that mean nothing on their own slowly adding up into something heavier. A hand on your shoulder in front of his friends. A ride on his bike with the wind in your face. A message saying he is here when you were sure he would never come.
Do not get carried away. Do not turn this into a story in your head. You barely know the guy. He barely knows you. Getting attached to the idea of someone is a dangerous hobby and you have exams and responsibilities and a life that already feels full without adding complicated feelings into the mix.
What if this is all in your head? What if he is just being polite and you are turning it into something bigger because you are not used to attention from boys like him? What if tonight is normal and friendly and you walk back to your room later feeling silly for letting yourself hope for anything more?
You don’t remember getting down. When you push open the hostel door and step outside, the evening air hits your face gently. For a second all you can hear is your own heartbeat being louder than it has any right to be.
But that’s when you see him.
Bucky is leaning against his bike exactly the way you imagined he would be, like he belongs there, like waiting for people outside dorms is just another ordinary part of his day.
He looks up the moment you appear, and the second his eyes land on you, something in his expression changes.
A playful whistle slips out before you can even take three steps toward him. “Okay, wow… yeah, hi. You look… really pretty.”
Nobody ever just says things like that to you so casually. Nobody ever looks at you like that either, like you are something worth pausing for. You have no idea what to do with it.
“I… um… thank you,” you manage, this is as flustered as you can get and it’s not even two minutes in.
He smiles at the reaction instead of pretending not to notice it. “No, seriously. I’m glad you didn’t bail on me.”
“I almost did,” you admit before you can stop yourself. “I mean… not because of you… God, no. Just because I thought maybe you forgot.”
His eyebrows lift slightly. “Forgot?”
“Yeah,” you are suddenly aware of how silly it sounds out loud. “You didn’t ask for my number and I didn’t have yours and I just… I don’t know, I figured maybe you say things like that to people all the time.”
He studies you for a moment.
“Hey… no. I don’t do that. If I say I’ll show up, I show up.”
He says it like he actually means it, and you hate how much relief that gives you.
“Good to know,” you mumble, suddenly very interested in the ground.
He reaches for the helmet hanging on the handlebar. “C’mere.”
Before you can process what is happening, you’re stepping closer, his hands are gently lifting the helmet over your head. He adjusts it carefully, fingers brushing your hair back so it sits properly, tugging the strap under your chin with an ease that makes your stomach flip.
“Hold still for a second,” he murmurs.
“I am holding still,” you answer, trying very hard not to focus on how close he is.
“Yeah but you’re holding still like you’re nervous.”
“I am nervous.”
He chuckles softly. “That’s kind of cute, you know.”
The buckle clicks into place and he gives the top of the helmet a small affectionate tap. “There. Perfect.”
You genuinely have to remind yourself to breathe.
Climbing onto the bike feels a little easier this time, but not by much. Your hands settle on his sides again and you wonder if he can feel how tense you are through the thin fabric of his shirt.
“You good back there?”
“Uh-huh, yeah,” even though your heart is doing ridiculous things.
The ride to the restaurant passes in a blur of lights. It feels different tonight, less awkward and more intimate, like you are sharing a small secret with him that the rest of the world does not get to see.
When he finally pulls up in front of the place, he turns back slightly. “Hope you like Italian. If not, pretend you do for my ego.”
“I like Italian,” you answer quickly. “I mean… pasta is good. Pizza is good. Food in general is good.”
“That might be the most honest review I’ve ever heard,” he laughs.
Everything inside feels new and a little intimidating in the way unfamiliar restaurants always do. Bucky opens the door for you without making it feel like a grand gesture, just a simple natural thing, and you slip inside with a quiet thank you.
He pulls out the chair for you at the table.
Nobody has ever done that for you before.
“You don’t have to do all this,” you say, sitting down carefully.
“I like doing it.”
The menu becomes a safe distraction for a few minutes, something to focus on so you do not have to keep wondering what to do with your hands or your face or your nerves.
“Order whatever you want,” he tells you. “Don’t do that thing where you pick the cheapest thing to be polite.”
“I was not going to do that,” you lie.
“You absolutely were.”
“Okay maybe a little,” you admit, smiling despite yourself.
The waiter arrives and Bucky waits for you to speak first, like your choice matters more than his. You stumble through your order with a little too much hesitation, suddenly hyper aware of how ordinary your preferences sound out loud.
“That’s a solid choice,” he says once the waiter leaves.
“I don’t do adventurous very well,” you confess. “I like safe food.”
“Nothing wrong with safe. Safe is good sometimes.”
Conversation should feel awkward. It usually does for you. Sitting with new people always involves long pauses and overthinking and trying to figure out when to talk and when to stay quiet. But with him, words seem to find their way out more easily than expected.
“So,” he leans back in his chair, “tell me something about you that isn’t related to med school.”
Your brain blanks immediately. What’s there not related to notes, day-old scrubs and stethoscopes?
“That’s… a hard question.”
“Come on, there has to be something. Hobbies, embarrassing talents, secret dreams.”
“I can touch my nose with my tongue,” you blurt out, then immediately want to sink into the floor.
Bucky stares at you for a second and then bursts out laughing, real and completely unfiltered. “That is not what I expected.”
“You said embarrassing,” you defend yourself, your voice is small like that of a child, cheeks burning a little too much.
“No, that’s perfect. I’m genuinely impressed.”
The way he laughs makes it easier to relax. It makes you feel less like a nervous junior and more like an actual person sitting across from another actual person.
He tells you stories while you wait for the food, small funny things about his friends and the chaos of fourth year. You learn that he drinks too much coffee and hates morning rounds and once fell asleep standing up during a lecture.
None of it sounds like the larger than life version of him people whisper about. It just sounds human.
“So you really did all that work just because I asked?” he asks at one point.
“Yeah… I complain a lot but I’m bad at saying no.”
“I’m sorry about that, by the way.”
“About what?”
“Putting it on you like that. I should have asked properly instead of… whatever that was.”
The apology catches you off guard. You had not expected that from him at all.
“It’s okay. I survived.”
“Still… thank you. Really.”
Food arrives and fills the table with warm comforting smells, and for a while the conversation slows into easy quiet. He asks if you like it and you nod with your mouth full, making him grin.
He pays attention in a way that surprises you. Notices when your glass is empty. Notices when you hesitate over the dessert menu. Notices little things you are not used to anyone noticing.
“You don’t talk much,” he says suddenly.
“I know.”
“Is it because you’re shy or because you think everyone else is dumb?”
A small laugh escapes you. “Definitely the first one.”
“That’s a shame. I think you probably have smart things to say.”
Your fork pauses halfway to your mouth. “You don’t even know me that well.”
“I know enough… and id like to know more.”
Somewhere between the main course and dessert, the nervous knot inside you loosens. You start answering more without overthinking every word. You ask him questions too, and he answers without making you feel like a kid for asking.
This feels entirely new but safe. Things that usually don’t belong together for you.
By the time the plates are empty and the bill arrives, you realize with a tiny jolt that you do not actually want the evening to end yet.
“Ready?” he asks.
You’re not. “Yeah.”
“So,” he says as you reach the bike, “dinner was okay.”
“Dinner was really nice,” you correct.
“Thank God. Because I was low key worried you’d hate my choice and never talk to me again.”
“I would have at least finished the food before ignoring you.”
“You definitely know how to humble a guy,” he laughs.
You stand there just looking at him, helmet in your hands, trying to hold on to the feeling of the evening before it slips away into ordinary life again.
He looks at you with that same easy smile he had when you first came downstairs, but now it feels different.
“Thanks for coming out with me.”
“Thanks for actually showing up,” you reply before you can stop yourself.
His grin widens. “Told you I would.”
As you hand him the helmet so he can help you put it on again, a small undeniable truth settles into your chest.
Maybe you are not as immune to Bucky Barnes as you thought you were.
That night he drops you off like nothing extraordinary has happened.
Until you reach the dorm steps, he stands there and makes sure you get inside safely the way he said he would. Just a small wave and a lazy smile.
“Sleep well, okay?” There’s nothing cinematic about it, but it feels like a movie anyway.
You were on your bed for a long time afterward, staring at the ceiling fan and replaying the whole evening in your head from beginning to end, trying to understand how something so normal could feel so important.
You tell yourself not to overthink it. You tell yourself it was only dinner. You tell yourself a lot of sensible things that did absolutely nothing to stop the tiny hopeful flutter still moving around inside your chest.
The first text came later that night.
Bucky: Hey. Did you make it in without tripping over anything?
You laugh out loud because it’s such a ridiculous thing to ask. It felt like he texted because he just had to text.
You: Yes, thank you very much. No accidents reported.
Bucky: Thank god. I was prepared to feel personally responsible.
That’s how it started. Small messages here and there that slowly turned into longer ones without either of you noticing.
Bucky: How was class today?
You: Boring. You?
Bucky: Don't even ask. Surgery rounds are trying to kill me.
He started to slip into your routine in little almost invisible ways. A text in the morning asking if you were awake. Another one in the evening asking if you ate. Sometimes just a random picture of something stupid he saw on campus with a line of commentary that made you smile harder than it should have.
One morning, when you mention that you had skipped breakfast, he shows up outside your lecture hall holding a small paper bag and a cup of coffee.
“You said you didn’t eat,” he hands it over before you could even react.
“I didn’t mean for you to… you know… bring me food.”
“Yeah but I just didn’t want you to starve yourself, so here we are.”
Inside the bag is a sandwich cut neatly in half and a chocolate bar tucked beside it. You do not know what to do except mumble a shy thank you while trying not to look too affected.
You’re not used to people paying attention to small things like that. You’re not used to someone remembering. But here he is, with food, like you’d actually starve if you don’t eat.
Days begin to feel a little brighter with him in them. He waits for you near the library sometimes, pretends it’s a coincidence. You pretend to believe him. He walks you back to your hostel after late study sessions even when it’s slightly out of his way.
“It’s dark, okay. Just let me be dramatic and protective.”
“That is the most ridiculous you’ve ever said.”
“I prefer heroic but sure, we can go with ridiculous.”
He always teases you easily, gently, never in a way that makes you feel small. It always feels like he was trying to pull you out of your shell inch by inch, like he enjoys watching you relax around him.
One afternoon though, he did something that made your entire week.
You had been whining to him about how second years never get to see anything interesting in the operating rooms, how you were always stuck observing minor procedures while the exciting cases went to seniors.
The next day he texted you out of nowhere.
Bucky: Wear clean scrubs and meet me near the main OT at two.
You spent the entire morning confused and curious and a little nervous, and when you show up at the time he asked, he’s already there waiting.
“I pulled some strings... c’mon.”
“Pulled strings for what?”
“For you to watch something actually cool for once.”
He gets you inside an operating room you have no business being in.
You stand against the cool tiled wall with your hands folded awkwardly in front of you, trying very hard to look like you belong.
Bucky leans slightly toward you, voice soft enough that only you can hear. “this is a suspected small bowel perforation.”
Throughout the surgery, he explains before you could even ask anything.
“First perforation ever?” Bucky glances at you with a small smile.
“First case ever.”
He doesn’t seem to miss the awe in your voice. “Not bad, huh?”
Not bad at all.
Afterward you could not stop thanking him.
“You really didn’t have to do that.”
“I wanted to.”
That sentence becomes a pattern between the two of you. Small thoughtful things wrapped in the same simple logic. I wanted to. I want to.
He learns your coffee order without asking. You learn that he hated pineapple on pizza with an unreasonable passion. You start looking for his face first whenever you enter a room.
Slowly, without any formal decision, you become part of each other’s days.
Evenings often find the two of you sitting on the library steps pretending to study while mostly talking about everything else instead. You told him about your family and how nervous you were on your first day of med school. He told you about his ridiculous group of friends and how he still sometimes felt like he was faking his way through life.
“Everyone is faking it a little.”
“Even you?”
“Have you seen me?”
“Nah,” he chuckles. “You actually know what you’re doing.”
The faith he seems to have in you feels strange but warm and a little dangerous.
Sometimes you catch yourself thinking about him at odd hours, wondering what he might be doing, wondering if he is thinking about you too. The thought would embarrass you immediately afterward, but it never stops coming back.
You try to stay sensible about it. Really.
But he is Bucky Barnes. Charming and confident and surrounded by people all the time.
You are just you, always a little out of place in big social circles. There is no logical reason for him to keep choosing your company, yet he keeps doing it anyway.
One evening he calls instead of texting.
The sound of his voice in your ear makes you realize you had missed it more than you expected.
“Hey… are you busy right now?”
“Not really. Just pretending to study.”
“Perfect. Come downstairs for a bit.”
“Right now?”
In your two years of college life, there wasn’t a day where you’ve not dreamed of a moment like this. But there’s never been a day like this so far.
“Yeah right now. I’m outside.”
You go down in your pajamas and messy hair and he still looks at you like you were worth showing up for.
“I was out with friends, saw this juice you like,” he hands you a juice pouch like it’s no big deal.
He just got you something just because you liked it. You don’t remember the last time someone did that for you.
This shouldn’t make you feel special. But it does anyway.
These little moments pile up quietly. Late night conversations about nothing important. Shared snacks in the canteen. Him saving you from your seniors — who are his juniors by the way — during clinical postings. You helping him organize his notes even though he pretends to not need help.
One day he asks you to help him study for an upcoming exam. Pediatrics. You end up sitting together in an empty classroom for hours, your notebook spread between you while you explain topics he claimed to be terrible at.
“You’re really good at teaching,” he tells you. It’s a simple compliment. But when has there ever been anything simple about him?
“I’m just repeating what the book says.”
“No you’re not. You make it make sense.”
He looks at you with such easy admiration that you have to glance away to hide how much it affect you.
There are days when you wonder how this even happened. How a simple record book favor had turned into shared lunches and inside jokes and a growing comfort that feel suspiciously like happiness.
Your friends start noticing too.
“So are you two like… a thing?” your roommate asks one night while you were smiling at your phone again.
“No. We’re just friends.”
“Friends who text constantly and see each other every day.”
“That is literally what friends do.”
She gives you a look that says she absolutely does not believe you.
The truth is you don’t know what you are to him. He never defined it. Never said anything that crossed an obvious line. He was just there, steady, present and kind in ways that kept sneaking past your defenses.
You find yourself getting used to it. To him.
That scares you a little.
Because somewhere along the way you stopped thinking of him as just a nice distraction and started thinking of him as part of your life. You started noticing how your mood shifted depending on whether you had seen him that day. You started caring a little too much about how you looked when you knew he would be around.
You are not supposed to get attached. You know that. But knowing something and feeling something are two very different battles.
You spend a lot of time pretending that the little things don’t matter. That you are normal about him. That the way his name lights up on your phone does not rearrange something fragile inside your chest every single time.
It’s been easy mostly. Easier than it should be. You tell yourself it is just convenience, just proximity, just two people whose schedules keep overlapping like stubborn lines on a calendar. You are busy, he is busy, and somewhere in the middle of all that busyness you keep finding each other.
But tonight feels different in a way you can’t explain without sounding ridiculous even to yourself.
Maybe it is because he texted you at three in the afternoon asking if you wanted to grab something after your class, and you typed back a yes before you could think about it too hard. Maybe it is because you are sitting beside him now on the couch in his apartment with the television in the background like a polite third person trying not to interrupt.
Whatever it is, this is different.
You have been here before. Not like this, but close. Close enough that you know he keeps his spare blanket folded over the arm of the couch, close enough that you know he taps his fingers against his knee when he is trying to decide what to say next.
He is doing that now.
Tap tap tap.
“You look tired,” he’s always observant in that annoyingly careful way he has.
“I am tired.”
“Long day?”
“Long week. Long month. Long life, honestly.”
He laughs at that, pulling a smile out of you too.
“You wanna head home?”
The question catches you off guard because it is gentle and easy and leaves room for you to say yes without pressure. And for some reason that makes you want to say no.
“Not really.”
“Okay.”
Just okay. He stretches one arm across the back of the couch behind you. You think it might touch your shoulder. But it doesn’t, at least not yet.
The silence makes you aware of the small things, like like the way his knee is angled toward yours, like the way your foot is almost brushing his on the rug.
You start talking to fill it because you always do.
About a patient who made you laugh today. About the vending machine that ate your last twenty. About how you might actually be developing a caffeine dependency that deserves medical attention.
He listens to you like he always does, mouth twitching at the corners when you get animated.
Somewhere in the middle of your story you realize he is watching you a little too closely. The realization makes the words wobble in your throat.
“What?” you ask finally, because you’re self conscious and him watching you isn’t helping at all.
“Nothing.”
“No, you are doing that thing.”
“What thing?”
“The thing where you look at me like you know something I don't.”
His mouth curves. “I do know something you don’t.”
“And what’s that?” At this point, you’re wondering if you have clown makeup on because that’s how intense his look is.
“I know that we’re alone because Sam is out with his girlfriend.”
“That is incredibly unhelpful right now. And for the record, I know it too.” You roll your eyes, but you are smiling.
The movie he put on earlier plays forgotten in front of you. Some action thing you stopped following twenty minutes ago. You can hear it more than you can see it, explosions and dramatic music bleeding into the background of the room.
He shifts beside you, turning a little more toward you on the couch. The movement is small but it changes everything. Suddenly his leg is closer. Suddenly his shoulder is closer. Suddenly everything is closer.
He lifts his arm in an invitation, like this is the most normal thing in the world. Absolutely no words and yet you understand.
It shouldn’t feel like such a big decision to lean over a few inches. It shouldn’t make your heart start thudding. But it does.
You tell yourself not to be weird about it. You tell yourself this is nothing.
When you shift closer, his arm settles around your shoulders without ceremony. “Much better.”
You huff out a laugh and let your head rest back against the couch, trying very hard not to think about the way his thumb is brushing idly against your upper arm through your sleeve.
Minutes pass like that. Or maybe it is seconds. Time feels like a traitor you cannot trust.
You can feel the rise and fall of his chest beside you. You can smell the faint clean scent of him. You can hear the movie and the city outside.
All of it feels louder than usual.
“You cold?” he asks after a while.
“A little.”
He reaches for the spare blanket without letting go of you, drapes it over your legs with unnecessary care, tucking it around your knees. The gesture is so domestic it makes your throat tighten for reasons you refuse to unpack.
“Better?”
“Better.” Your voice comes out softer than you mean it to.
His hand doesn’t leave your arm. If anything, it drifts lower, resting just above your elbow, fingers tracing lazy patterns that make it hard to breathe normally.
You should probably say something. Make a joke. Lighten the moment. But every sentence you think of feels like a landmine you’d be stepping on.
You just sit there and let it happen.
“You know,” he says eventually, “you are very easy to be around.”
“Am I?”
“Yeah.”
“Most people would disagree.”
“Most people are wrong.”
Your chest does that stupid flutter again. “You just… say that to everyone?”
He turns his head to look at you properly then, and the teasing drops out of his face.
“No.” Just one word.
You become aware, all at once, of how close your faces are. Of how if you turned your head a few inches your nose would brush his. Of how his mouth is right fucking there.
Your brain scrambles for something normal to say.
“It is getting late.”
“Yeah.” Neither of you move to do anything about it.
His eyes drop to your lips and then back up again so quickly you almost convince yourself you imagined it. Almost.
“I should probably go,” you say, even though your body makes no attempt to follow through.
“You could.”
“You are not making a very strong argument for it.”
“I am not trying to.”
Your pulse kicks up, so loud you doubt if he could hear it too, but then you remember it’s inside your body and he will be unaware of it unless his hand makes contact with that point of you.
“Bucky.”
“Yeah?”
“What are we doing?”
He takes a breath slowly, like he is choosing his words carefully.
“Right now? Sitting on my couch.”
“You know what I mean.”
A small smile tugs at his mouth. “I think we are figuring it out.”
It’s a fucking line. He’s probably bluffing. He probably says that to all his flings. That answer should annoy you. Somehow it doesn’t.
His hand slides a fraction lower, resting at your forearm now, thumb warm against your skin. You can feel the calluses on his fingers.
The distance between you feels thinner with every breath. You can see the faint flecks of color in his eyes, the tiny scar near his eyebrow, the way his lashes cast shadows against his cheeks.
He tilts his head a little, searching your face like he is waiting for permission he does not want to assume. “Tell me to stop.”
Your heart trips over itself. “Stop what?” your voice is barely a whisper.
“Whatever this is about to be.”
You should say it. You know you should. This is complicated and messy and you promised yourself you would be sensible.
But sensible feels very far away right now.
“I don’t… I don't want you to stop.”
The words come out like a breath, almost worrying you that you imagined saying them.
He hears you though. You can tell by the way his shoulders relax, by the way his hand finally moves from your arm to your jaw, cupping it gently like something precious.
Your body moves towards him before your brain can catch up.
It’s hard to think.
The first brush of his lips against yours is careful. Like he is still expecting you to change your mind. It is soft and warm and nothing like the dramatic movie kisses you have built up in your head.
It feels real.
You lean in without thinking, closing the tiny space between you, and he makes a sound that you feel more than hear.
The kiss deepens slowly, two people learning the shape of each other in real time. His fingers slide into your hair, and you find yourself gripping the front of his shirt like you need something to anchor you.
It is unplanned and honestly a little clumsy in the best way.
“Is this okay?” he asks against your mouth.
“Yes.”
“You sure?”
“Bucky, please stop asking before I lose my nerve.”
A quiet laugh escapes him. He is kissing you again, a little more confident this time, a little less restrained.
Your brain goes pleasantly fuzzy. Every worry you walked in with dissolves into the simple fact of him and you and the warmth building between you.
His hand slips to your waist, drawing you closer, and you let yourself melt into him because pretending you do not want to feels impossible now.
You are very aware that this is a line. A big one. A bold neon line you are stepping over with both feet.
But right now you cannot find it in yourself to care.
The world narrows to the feeling of his mouth on yours, to the way he says your name like it means something important, to the way your heart pounds with a mixture of excitement and fear and something dangerously close to hope.
The kiss lingers like a question neither of you wants to answer just yet, his mouth moving against yours in a rhythm that feels both new and inevitable, pulling you deeper into a haze where everything else fades out.
You can taste the faint bitterness of coffee on his tongue, which he drank before you got here, and it mixes with the sweetness of the gum you'd chewed nervously on the way over, creating this odd, intimate flavor that's just yours and his right now.
His hand stays tangled in your hair, your fingers clutch at his shirt tighter, feeling the fabric bunch under your palms, the heat of his chest seeping through, and suddenly it's not enough.
You need more. You need to feel skin instead of cotton, need to know if his heart is racing as much as yours is.
Without breaking the kiss, you tug at the hem, pulling it up inch by inch, your knuckles grazing the smooth plane of his stomach. He gets the hint immediately, leaning back just enough to help you yank it over his head in one fluid motion that leaves his hair a little messy, falling over his forehead in a way that makes him look less put-together than the confident senior everyone sees.
"You sure about this?" he murmurs against your lips, you can feel that he's holding back but needs to check anyway, his breath warm on your cheek as his eyes search yours in the dim light.
There's no pressure in it, just genuine care mixed with that quiet intensity he always carries, the kind that makes you feel seen without feeling exposed.
And god, you are sure… surer than you've been about anything in weeks, even though your mind is a whirlwind of half-formed questions tumbling over each other: what if this changes everything, what if it's too fast, what if you mess it up somehow.
But none of that stops the yes from spilling out, because the way he's looking at you right now, like you're the only thing in his world, drowns out the doubts.
A small smile tugs at his mouth before he kisses you again, deeper this time, his hands sliding under your shirt to trace the curve of your back, fingers splaying wide against your skin, sending sparks everywhere they touch.
The contact makes your breath hitch, you arch into him. He takes that as his cue, lifting the fabric slowly, giving you every chance to pull away if you want.
You don't. Lifting your arms instead, you let him peel it off, the cool air of the room hitting your bare shoulders and making you shiver, though it is definitely not from the cold.
It's from the way his gaze drops, taking you in with awe that feels almost unfair, like he's memorizing every inch.
Left in your bra and the simple jeans you'd thrown on earlier, you feel heat creep up your neck, but he doesn't give you time to overthink it.
His mouth finds the spot just below your ear, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your jaw that make your eyes flutter shut.
"God, you're beautiful," he whispers, and it's not said like a line. It's mumbled, almost to himself, like he couldn't help it, that makes your hands reach for him again, tracing the lines of his shoulders.
He's solid and warm, the kind of presence that fills the space without overwhelming it, and you wonder briefly how many times he's done this, how easy it seems for him, but the thought evaporates when his lips find yours once more, pulling you back into the moment.
Your fingers fumble with his belt, nerves making them clumsy, warranting his help, as he undoes it with a quiet chuckle that breaks the tension just enough to make you smile against his mouth.
"No rush," he says, his voice steady even as his hands work at the button of your jeans, popping it open with a gentleness that contrasts the heat building between you. "We got time."
Maybe. Yes.
Sam's out, there’s no one here except you two. But the muffled sounds of neighbors through the thin dorm walls remind you that this is real life, not some polished fantasy, making this somehow urgent.
As he slides your jeans down your hips, he helps you kick them off without any awkward tangles.
The cotton of your bra and panties feel suddenly too thin under his gaze. You would’ve have worn something sexier if you knew this would happen.
Sitting back on his heels to look at you properly, he pauses. His eyes have gone dark but soft, his hands resting lightly on your thighs.
"Still good?" His thumb rubs small circles on your skin, the simple touch sending a jolt straight through you, making it hard to think straight.
You want more, but you’re also scared of wanting more, excited and overwhelmed all at once. But your body knows, nodding before you can form words, "Yeah, don't stop.” Stopping now would feel like cutting off a breath you didn't know you needed.
With that, he scoops you up effortlessly, one arm under your knees and the other around your back, lifting you bridal style. You let out a surprised gasp that turns into a laugh, your arms looping around his neck as he carries you the short distance to his bedroom.
The door's half-open already, and he nudges it wider with his foot, the room spilling into view: unmade bed with sheets twisted from whatever sleep he got last night, a desk piled with notes and a near empty water bottle, posters on the wall from bands you vaguely recognize.
It's lived-in, personal.
He lowers you onto the mattress, the springs creaking softly under your weight.
He follows you down, bracing himself above you on one elbow, his free hand trailing up your side as he kisses you again, slower now, like he's savoring it.
The bed dips under him, the pillow sinking a bit as your head rests back. You can feel the warmth of his body hovering just over yours, close enough to tease but not quite pressing down.
His fingers dance along your ribs, light, exploratory, absolutely maddening.
You need more, you need him to touch you properly. There’s the ache building low in your belly making you shift restlessly beneath him.
Without thinking, you reach for his hand, guiding it up to your chest, pressing it against your bra.
Surprised, he pulls back, a slight smirk playing on his lips as he looks down at you. "That eager, huh?" he teases, his voice laced with amusement.
"Tell me what you want.”
It’s absolutely impossible to word it, word what you want, as his thumb circles your nipple over the fabric. It's so close to what you need but not quite, making you whine softly in frustration.
"Just... touch me," you finally manage, the words coming out breathier than you intended,
He's already moving, his fingers deftly reaching behind you to unhook your bra with a single flick that speaks volumes about how many times he's done this before.
How many girls has he brought here, made feel like this? A spike of insecurity flickers, but it vanishes the second his mouth descends, warmth closing over one nipple while his hand cups the other, thumb circling in a way that makes your back arch off the bed.
Pleasure shoots through you, pulling a moan from your throat that surprises even you. It’s loud in the quiet room, echoing off the walls.
You're not usually like this, not vocal, always holding back out of some ingrained habit of keeping things contained, but here it spills out unfiltered.
He seems to notice it because frankly, it’s hard to miss. "That's it, lemme hear you… don't hold back if it feels good." His encouragement is gentle, making the next moan come easier, louder, as his tongue flicks and sucks, alternating sides until you're squirming beneath him, hands threading through his hair to hold him there.
Bucky takes his time, drawing it out, lips and teeth grazing just enough to tease the line between pleasure and ache, his free hand sliding down to grip your hip, fingers digging in slightly as if to steady you, or maybe himself. You’re not sure.
The sane part of your brain slips away with every pass of his mouth.
With spit shine and swollen lips, he eventually pulls back, his eyes meeting yours with a heat that mirrors the fire building in you.
"You're so responsive.” He's marveling at it, at you, his hand trailing down from your breast to hook into the waistband of your panties, tugging gently.
"Lift up for me, baby," the word baby slips out casually and affectionate, like he's said it a hundred times, making you obey without hesitation.
The fabric is peeled down your legs, and tossed over onto the floor, forgotten.
Now fully exposed, the vulnerability hits you for a split second. You feel the cool air on bare skin, but more than that, you feel his gaze.
When you break eye contact, he shifts down the bed with a purposeful grace, settling between your thighs. His hands part them gently, thumbs stroking the sensitive inner skin.
Anticipation tightens your core, making it impossible not to squirm under his touch. "Relax," he whispers, pressing a kiss to the inside of one thigh, then the other, his breath hot against you, making you tremble. "I got you."
The gasp you let out is stifled by your bitten lips, as his own brushes over your core gently.
"No, let it out— wanna hear how good it feels." The encouragement works, pulling another moan from you as his tongue finally presses flat, licking a slow stripe that makes your hips buck involuntarily.
He holds them down with firm hands, keeping you in place as he works, alternating between long, languid strokes and focused circles around that spot that has your vision blurring.
The room narrows to just the wet sounds of his mouth, the way his hair tickles your thighs, and the occasional groan from him like he's enjoying it as much as you are.
The sheets are rumpled from your fists, now they reach for him again, fingers tangling in his hair as the pressure builds, coiling tighter with every flick and suck.
Moans spill freer and louder now, spurred by his murmured approvals like "that's perfect" and "just like that" between breaths.
He's thorough, attentive, reading every reaction and adjusting, drawing it out until you're teetering on the edge, body taut and trembling under his touch.
His tongue keeps that relentless rhythm, dipping and swirling in ways that make your toes curl against the sheets.
The pressure coils tighter and tighter in your belly, a hot insistent build that has you gasping his name in broken syllables, "B-Bucky, oh God.”
Your hips grind up toward his mouth without any real control, chasing that peak.
A sudden and overwhelming wave crashes over you, your whole body tensing and shuddering as pleasure ripples out in waves that leave you trembling. Your muscles quiver in the aftermath, breaths coming in short ragged bursts that echo in the quiet space.
He eases you through it with softer licks that draw out the aftershocks, making your legs twitch and your hands clutch at his hair a little harder before you finally go limp.
You sink back into the pillows with a sigh that feels like it's been pulled from deep in your chest. Pressing a kiss to your inner thigh, then your hip, your stomach, he works his way up until his mouth finds yours again, tasting faintly of you in a way that's intimate and a bit dizzying.
"Hey," he murmurs against your lips, and you can feel the smile in it even with your eyes half-closed.
The trembling hasn't stopped entirely, little shivers running through you like echoes of the orgasm. Bucky notices that right away, brow furrowing, like he can't help but worry a little.
"hold on, let me get you some water," you hear him say, watching him through heavy lids as he twists the cap off of the bottle, sitting up a bit to hand it to you, his other hand steadying your back. "Drink this.”
The water hits your throat, the coolness of it washing something in you. He stays close while you drink, and when you hand the bottle back, he sets it aside before stretching out beside you on the bed.
His lips find your jaw first, trail up to your temple, brushing over your hairline in a way that feels almost too tender for what just happened, his breath warm against your skin as he presses another kiss there, then into your hair, like he's content to just lie here and hold you while your body settles.
The closeness wraps around you, his arm draped over your waist, fingers tracing idle patterns on your back that send lazy sparks along your spine.
As the trembling fades, you glance up at him, catching the way his eyes are half-lidded, watching you with that satisfied curve to his mouth.
There’s a confusion in you now. He's still half-dressed, jeans hugging his hips, and the unfairness of it hits you all at once, making you prop yourself up on one elbow, your hand trailing down his chest tentatively, fingers brushing the trail of hair leading lower.
"Wait, what about you?" because this feels lopsided, like he's given everything and taken nothing, and the thought lingers.
He shakes his head as his hand catches yours, bringing it to his lips for a quick kiss on your knuckles. "We don't have to rush the rest… there's always tomorrow, or the day after, whenever you're ready.”
That doesn't sit right, the idea of stopping here, of letting him walk away from this without feeling the same unraveling you just did.
Before you can second-guess it, your mouth forms a pout, lips pressing together in that way you know looks a bit childish but can't help. "But... I need you," you say, the words slipping out bolder than expected, shocking yourself even more, "I need your cock."
Whoa, where did that come from? It's not like you, this blunt courage bubbling up uninvited, heat flushing your face immediately after.
His eyes darken, a slow smile spreading across his face like you've just said something he didn't expect but absolutely likes.
"Say that again?" He slides his hand up your arm to cup your cheek, thumb brushing your lower lip as if to coax the words out.
A mix of embarrassment and frustration blooms, and you playfully swat at his chest with the flat of your hand, before your fingers drift lower again, fumbling with his belt buckle.
Avoiding his gaze, you tug at it clumsily. "You heard me."
His larger hand covers yours to undo the buckle with a quiet click, zipper rasping down as he lifts his hips to shove them off along with his boxers in one go, kicking them to the floor where they land in a heap.
He's hard and obviously so, cock springing free and curving up against his stomach, thick and flushed at the tip, veins standing out in a way that makes your mouth go a little dry.
He reaches over to the nightstand drawer, rummaging for a second before pulling out a condom packet, tearing it open with his teeth in that casual, practiced move that speaks to experience without flaunting it.
But before he can roll it on, your hand reaches out, "Wait—I've never, um, put one on before. Can I try?"
A surprised laugh bubbles up from his chest as he hands it over, eyebrows raised in amusement. "You wanna practice on me right now? Like I'm your training dummy or something?"
Lips jutting out again, "Teach me, Bucky… please?" drawing out the please.
He relents with a grin, guiding your hand to him, showing you without turning it into a lecture, "Pinch the tip here, yeah, like that."
His voice hitches when your fingers wrap around him, rolling the latex down slowly, carefully, the warmth of him pulsing under your touch making your breath catch.
Once it's on, he positions himself between your legs again, the weight of him settling over you comfortably, close enough that you feel enveloped, his forearms bracketing your head as he leans down to kiss you.
“You ready?" he murmurs against your mouth. You whisper a yes that's more breath than sound, your hands sliding up his back to pull him closer.
Inch by inch, he pushes in, stretching you in a way that's full and a little overwhelming at first, making you gasp into his shoulder, nails digging into his skin as your body adjusts.
The sensation builds from pressure to pleasure as he bottoms out, holding still for a moment to let you breathe.
"Fuck, you feel good.” The words are muffled against your neck.
The first thrust is steady and unhurried, making you wrap your legs around his waist, heels pressing into the flesh of his ass to urge him deeper.
The headboard taps the wall with each rock of his hips, he finds that angle that makes stars burst behind your eyelids, drawing moans from you that he swallows with kisses.
His own breaths come faster, mirroring yours. "That's it… fuck. Tell me — tell me if it’s too much—"
But it's not. It's perfect, the friction coiling that tension again until you're clinging to him, whispering "harder, please" in his ear.
Immediately he obliges, pace quickening until the room fills with the sounds of skin on skin, your shared gasps.
It builds faster this time, him inside you amplifying everything. You cum with his name on your lips, body clenching around him in waves that pull a deep groan from his throat.
His thrusts stutter as he follows right after, burying his face in your hair while he rides it out, hips pressing flush against yours one last time before he stills.
Somewhere between sleep and waking, you register the sensation of lips moving over your skin, the brush of his mouth along your shoulder, down the curve of your neck. That’s how you know it’s morning.
You stay still and let yourself exist in it.
His lips are softer now than they were in the dark. Curious in a way that feels less like hunger and more like quiet appreciation.
You are aware of your body before you are fully aware of the room. Aware of bare skin against bare skin. Aware of the way the sheets have slipped somewhere near your hips. Aware that you are not wearing anything at all.
There is a quiet exhale against your chest that makes you stir, eyelids fluttering open to a blur of morning light and dark hair bent over you.
“Morning,” he murmurs, sleep still clinging to his voice.
Your brain takes a second to catch up to the situation. To the fact that you are in his bed. That you fell asleep with your legs tangled with his.
You are naked.
He is naked.
You are in his bed.
Oh, also, this is Bucky Barnes.
There is no distance left to pretend this is casual.
“Hey.” His lips trail lower, until they take one nipple into its warmth, until it pebbles.
You open your eyes.
The ceiling above you looks different in daylight. More real. The warmth that had felt so comforting seconds ago now feels dangerously close to exposing something fragile inside you.
This is not something you do.
Not like this.
Not with a senior. Not with someone who walks into rooms and owns them without even trying. Not with someone like Bucky Barnes, who has a reputation that precedes him and a smile that has probably undone half the city.
And definitely not without talking about it first.
He lifts his head slightly when he feels the shift in you, eyes heavy but focused, mouth curving in a lazy smile that looks devastating this close.
“What’s that face for? Did I do something wrong already? Because that would be impressive.”
“No… no, it’s not that.”
“Then what is it?”
You do not have an answer that feels safe enough to say out loud. Instead, you trace a line across his shoulder with your fingers just to have something to do, to anchor yourself in something physical.
Last night was not reckless.
It was soft. It was slow. It felt like something building rather than something exploding. There were moments where he had looked at you like you were the only thing in the room, and the memory of it makes your throat ache in a way you do not know how to handle.
But that was night.
Night is easy. Morning is not.
“I’ve just never…” you start, then stop because the sentence feels childish before you even finish it.
“Never what?” he asks gently.
You let out a breath and force yourself to look at him properly. “Never done this with someone like you.”
“Someone like me?”
“Yeah. You know. Someone… above me. Senior. Someone who has a whole… history.” The last word slips out before you can soften it.
There is a pause. Long enough for you to realize what you have implied.
He studies you for a second, expression unreadable in a way that makes your stomach drop. “A history,” he repeats.
“I didn’t mean it like—”
“It’s fine.” His voice stays even, but something in it shifts just a fraction. “I know what people say.”
You want to take it back immediately. Not because it is untrue, but because it feels unfair in this moment. Because the man in front of you is not the whispered stories or rumors. He is human and still half wrapped around you like he belongs there.
“I just mean,” you try again, “I don’t usually wake up like this. I don’t usually… not talk about things first.”
He searches your face like he is trying to see the shape of what you are really asking. “Are you asking what this is?”
There it is. The question you have been circling since you opened your eyes.
“I don’t know,” you admit. “I don’t want to assume.”
His thumb traces a slow line along your hip. “I didn’t think last night felt like an assumption.”
“It didn’t.”
“Did it feel like a mistake?”
The word mistake is a mistake. Because last night felt like the opposite of a mistake. “No,” you say immediately. “No. It didn’t.”
It really didn’t. It felt intentional. It felt chosen. It felt like something that had been building and finally tipped over.
So why does your chest feel tight?
Why does your brain keep whispering that this is exactly how one-night stands begin? Intense, unexpected, and sweet in the morning until reality sets in.
Before you can say anything else, a sharp vibration cuts through the quiet.
His phone.
The sound is coming from somewhere on the floor, probably from his jeans. He groans softly and leans over to grab it, the movement pulling away the warmth that had been pressed against you.
You lie there watching the shift in him as his eyes scan the screen. “Shit, I have to take this,” he says. “Give me two seconds.”
The faint voice from the other side asks him numerous questions about where the hell he is and tells him he will lose his attendance if he isn’t there in ten minutes.
“Fuck — I’m late.” The words are simple. Practical. Normal. But they land like something heavier.
“Late?” you echo, absolutely dreading that you’re stalling him.
“Yeah. I was supposed to be in half an hour ago.” He runs a hand through his hair, already mentally moving into the day ahead. “I didn’t set an alarm.”
Last night definitely didn’t feel like a time where alarms existed.
But mornings come, and they wait for no one.
As he swings his legs off the bed, the sudden absence of him beside you feels enormous. You pull the sheet up instinctively, even though he has already seen every inch of you.
He is moving quickly now, scanning the room for clothes, checking his phone again. “I can drop you off on the way,” he says, distracted but not unkind. “I don’t want you getting a cab this early.”
“It’s fine, I can manage.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” He pulls on his jeans, glances back at you. “I’m not just leaving you.”
The reassurance should help. Instead, it tangles with the fear already building in your chest.
As you sit up, the sheet slips down to your waist. The room feels colder without the cocoon of the night around it. You watch him move around the room with practiced ease, like mornings here are routine.
It probably is routine for him.
You hope to God that only covers the ‘waking late’ part and not the ‘because of a one-night stand’ part.
You hate that your brain goes there, but it does. It does because there was no conversation.
It was just skin and warmth and whispered names in the dark.
“Hey,” he says, softer now, noticing the way you have gone quiet. “You okay?”
You nod because that is easier than explaining the way your stomach feels like it is sinking through the mattress.
“Yeah. Just waking up.”
He walks back over, bends slightly so you are eye level. There is something searching in his expression again, something that almost looks like he wants to say more.
“Last night…” he starts, then gives up as his phone buzzes again in his hand.
You take that as a cue to get ready and get the hell out of here.
You tell yourself that is normal. That adults have jobs and responsibilities. That this is not some dramatic movie where the world pauses because two people slept together.
But the fear creeps in anyway. What if it meant more to you than it did to him? What if the softness was just part of who he is?
What if you have stepped into something you cannot handle?
You slide out of bed, gathering your clothes from where they lie scattered. Each piece feels like evidence of something fragile and undefined.
He is already by the door by the time you finish dressing.
You search his face for something. A sign. A clue. A hint that he is about to say, stay. Or this is not nothing. Or we need to talk.
He does not.
He just checks the time again and sighs. “We should go.”
And just like that, you are left with more questions than answers.
It is ridiculous how much power one casual text can have over your entire nervous system.
The pharmacology class becomes ten times harder to sit in when you know it’s Bucky that’s texting you. You wait a full thirty seconds before checking because you refuse to look eager, even if no one can see you.
When you finally glance down, it is exactly what you expected.
Bucky: survived the morning. you alive over there?
That is it. No mention of last night. No shift in tone that would confirm or deny anything that happened between the sheets and the soft early light.
You stare at the screen, rereading the words as if they might rearrange themselves into something more revealing if you look hard enough.
Survived the morning could mean anything. It could mean he is thinking about you. It could mean he is not. It could mean the night was a pleasant distraction before reality resumed its normal rhythm.
Honestly, it was stupid of you to expect that he’d say something over text. At least he doesn’t ghost.
At least he texted.
You tell yourself that if it had meant nothing to him, he would not have bothered. He would have let the day swallow it. He would have gone back to being Bucky Barnes, charming and untouchable, moving from one thing to the next without looking back.
But he texted.
Your thumbs hover over the keyboard. Every possible reply feels wrong.
Too warm and you look clingy. Too cool and you risk sounding detached. Too flirty and you might seem like you are assuming something. Too flat and you might seem like you regret it.
Why is this so hard?
Finally, you decide on something light.
You: barely. Caffeine is the reason I’m alive.
You stare at it. Delete it. Type it again with a different emoji. Delete the emoji because that feels like too much. Send it before you can edit it a third time.
The three dots appear almost immediately.
Bucky: that’s concerning. eat something.
Your chest tightens at the simplicity of it. It’s the same tone he uses when he shows up with food because you mentioned skipping breakfast.
You want to read more into it than is there.
You force yourself not to.
You: yes dad.
You cringe as soon as you send it. Now why did you say that? Why are you like this?
His reply comes a few seconds later.
Bucky: don’t start.
You can almost hear the amused warning in his voice. Heat creeps up your neck even though NSAIDs are being discussed right now.
The conversation fades into small exchanges after that. Nothing deep. Nothing that addresses the thing sitting heavily between you like an unspoken question. He tells you medicine rounds ran long. You tell him a patient tried to bribe you with chocolate. He tells you to accept the chocolate next time. You tell him that is unethical. He tells you you are no fun.
It feels almost normal.
Almost.
But beneath every word is a current you cannot ignore.
By the time your class ends and the sky outside has turned that deep dusky blue that makes everything feel a little more fragile, you have replayed every message at least ten times in your head. You have analyzed the speed of his replies, the punctuation, the absence of certain words.
He did not call you baby.
He did not say he missed you.
He did not bring it up.
You tell yourself that maybe he is giving you space. That maybe he is trying not to rush you. That maybe this is what maturity looks like.
But another voice whispers that maybe it did not mean the same thing to him.
That maybe you were one of many mornings.
You hate that thought immediately. It feels unfair. He was soft. He was careful. He had asked you if you were sure. He had not treated you like something disposable.
And yet.
You have heard stories. You have seen the way girls look at him. The way they orbit him like he carries his own gravity.
What if you had stepped into something that was always going to feel bigger to you than it did to him?
By the time you reach the campus courtyard that evening, your chest feels tight with thoughts you cannot shut off.
You had not planned on seeing him, but you know he usually lingers here. A part of you hopes he will not be there so you do not have to figure out how to act. Another part of you hopes he is because not seeing him would feel worse.
He is there.
Of course.
He stands in the middle of a loose circle of friends, laughter carrying easily across the space. Sam is beside him, animated as always, gesturing wildly as he talks about something you cannot hear. A couple of others hover nearby, one of them leaning against Bucky’s shoulder in a way that looks effortless and familiar.
The sight of it makes something twist low in your stomach.
He looks the same as he always does. Relaxed. Confident. At home in his own skin. There is no visible shift that marks him as someone who woke up with you wrapped around him this morning.
Why would there be…
You slow your steps without meaning to. You consider turning around. Disappearing before he notices you. Pretending you are busy.
But then his eyes lift and land on you.
The change is subtle but unmistakable. His body angles slightly in your direction even before he excuses himself. He says something to Sam that makes Sam glance over at you with a knowing grin that immediately makes your face heat.
Bucky makes his way toward you. “Hey.”
You force yourself to meet his eyes without letting the storm inside you show. “Hey.”
“How was your day?”
The question is simple. Ordinary. You search his face for anything that hints at last night, but there is nothing but genuine curiosity.
“It was fine,” you reply, and then immediately hate how flat that sounds. You clear your throat and try again. “Busy. But fine. Yours?”
“Rounds were brutal,” he admits with a small shake of his head. “Chief decided I haven’t stood for 24 hours today.”
His comment makes you laugh despite yourself. “That seems illegal.”
“I’m considering filing a complaint.”
His gaze lingers on you for a second longer than necessary. There is a softness there that makes your pulse stumble, but it is fleeting. You cannot tell if you imagined it.
“You look tired.” He tilts his head slightly like he’s trying to figure something out. “Did you eat?”
The familiarity of the question makes your chest ache. “Yes,” you lie, because admitting you forgot feels too intimate somehow.
His eyes narrow just a fraction like he does not entirely believe you, but he lets it go.
There is a pause, not awkward but not entirely comfortable either. You are hyperaware of the group behind him, of the way laughter erupts suddenly, of the fact that this is his world and you are standing on the edge of it.
“I’ve got a game tonight,” he says after a moment, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s gonna run late.”
“Oh,” you say, and hope it does not sound like disappointment. “Good luck.”
“Thanks.” He studies your face again, like he is trying to read something you are not saying. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”
The question is casual on the surface, but something about the way he says it makes your heart trip.
“Yeah… tomorrow.”
“Okay.” He smiles, that familiar crooked thing that used to make your stomach flip in a lighter way. Now it makes it drop.
He hesitates for half a second, like he might say more. Like he might bridge the gap you are too afraid to cross. Instead, he steps back slightly, already half turning toward his friends.
“Don’t stay up too late,” he adds, almost teasing.
You want to laugh. Instead, you nod.
“Go win your game.”
“Always do.”
He walks back to the group, slipping seamlessly into the rhythm of their conversation. Someone claps him on the back. Someone else throws an arm around his shoulders. He laughs at something Steve says, head tipping back slightly, unbothered.
You stand there like a statue.
Nothing about that interaction confirms your worst fears.
Nothing about it reassures them either.
He did not avoid you. He did not treat you like a stranger. He asked about your day. He said he would see you tomorrow.
And yet the space where a conversation should have been feels cavernous.
You tell yourself you are overthinking. That this is what normal looks like. That not every connection needs a dramatic declaration to validate it.
But as you turn away and start walking, the questions follow you anyway.
Did you move too fast?
Did you blur something that was supposed to stay light?
Are you already more attached than you meant to be?
The next time you see Bucky, he’s waiting for you outside your class. He is just there, eyes scanning the crowd until they land on you, and the way his face shifts when he spots you makes something hopeful spark before you can smother it.
For a split second, everything inside you softens.
He waited. He is physically here.
“Hey.”
You try to keep your expression neutral, like you did not spend half the lecture imagining this exact moment. “Hey. How long have you been standing here?”
“Long enough to hear the professor inside mispronounce drugs. I was tempted to go correct him.”
A quiet laugh escapes you before you can stop it. It feels good. Too good.
“That would’ve gone well.”
“I know. I’m very charming.”
You tilt your head slightly. “Debatable.”
“Ouch.”
You feel easy talking to him like this. Like nothing else is on your mind. But your heart does tighten occasionally, ruining everything.
“Walk with me?” he asks, nodding toward the parking lot.
You hesitate for a fraction of a second, not enough for him to notice, but long enough for you to feel the weight of the decision. You nod anyway.
When your shoulder brushes his, you are hyperaware of it. He does not comment. He just matches your pace.
“You okay?” he asks after a moment, glancing sideways at you. “You’ve been… somewhere else all day.”
“I’ve been in class.”
“You know that’s not what I meant.”
You force a small shrug. “I’m fine.”
He studies you like he does not entirely believe that, but he does not push further.
When you reach his place, he unlocks the door and steps aside to let you in first. That tiny gesture, that small courtesy, feels more intimate than it should.
The apartment looks the same but also not the same. The familiarity of it hits you harder today. You have been here before, but today it feels different because you woke up in his bed yesterday and left with no answers.
He closes the door behind you and tosses his keys onto the counter.
“Sam’s out,” he says casually, shrugging out of his jacket. “Date night again. I think he’s trying to set a record.”
You nod, even though your stomach flips at the information.
Sam is out. Which means you are alone.
The implication settles between you almost instantly.
“Oh,” you aim for neutral and land somewhere uncertain.
He steps closer without making it dramatic. He always does that, moves into your space like it is the most natural thing in the world. His hand finds your waist, fingers warm through the thin fabric of your shirt.
“I missed you.” The words send a rush of heat through you that you hate for how quickly it responds.
“It’s been one day.”
“Still.”
Before you can think about it, he leans.
The kiss is familiar already, like your mouths have memorized each other. His hand slides up your back, pulling you closer, and your body reacts on instinct, melting into him before your brain catches up.
You let yourself sink into it. Into the warmth and the steady pressure of him. Into the way his hand trails lower to your hip. Into the sound he makes when you kiss him back harder.
But then your brain wakes up again.
Sam is out. You are alone.
He waited for you after class.
Is this because he wanted you, or because he wanted this?
The grip on his shirt loosens slightly, but he picks up on it somehow.
“Hey,” he murmurs against your mouth, not pulling away entirely. “Where’d you just go?”
Nowhere safe.
You step back just enough to create space. “I’m just… tired.” You hate how weak of a lie it is.
You can clearly see him battling confusion. “Tired?”
“Yeah. I didn’t sleep much.”
That part is true. You did not sleep much because your brain just would not shut up.
His hands remain on your waist, not letting go. Almost not wanting to.
“We don’t have to do anything,” he says, searching your face. “I’m not dragging you in here for that.”
The defensiveness in you flares up immediately even though he has not accused you of anything.
“I didn’t say you were.”
“I know. I just—” he exhales slowly. “You feel different right now.”
Because you are spiraling.
Because you cannot tell if you are standing at the beginning of something real or in the middle of something casual that you are already too invested in.
Because you keep imagining him bringing other girls here with the same ease.
“I’m fine,” you repeat, which sounds less convincing each time.
He studies you in that steady way that makes it hard to hide. “Talk to me.”
The words are gentle. That almost makes it worse.
What are you supposed to say?
That you are scared you moved too fast. That you are scared he does not see this the way you do. That you are already picturing him getting bored in a week and drifting away like this was just another phase.
You cannot say any of that without sounding dramatic or fucking stupid.
The only sane option feels like distance.
You shift away from him just enough to create it, even though every part of you wants to stay where you are. “I think I’m coming down with something,” you say, reaching for the first excuse that sounds remotely believable. “I’ve felt weird all day.”
The concern on his face is immediate. It wipes away the warmth from a second ago and replaces it with something sharper, focused. “What kind of weird?”
You shrug like it’s nothing. “Just… off. Headache. Maybe.” The lie comes very easily.
He closes the small gap you tried to make, instinct overriding whatever confusion he’s feeling. His hand lifts toward your forehead before you can think of a reason to stop him. His palm settles there, clinical in a way that almost makes you flinch.
“You don’t feel warm,” he says.
Of course you don’t. You’d know if you were febrile. You both would.
“I don’t know.” You pull back a fraction. “I just—” The rest tangles in your throat. “I think I should go.”
He studies you like you’re a case that isn’t lining up with the symptoms. Brows pulling together, jaw tightening slightly as he runs through possibilities that don’t fit.
“You just got here.”
You can feel him trying to reconcile it. Sudden onset vague malaise. Absolutely no convincing clinical picture.
You know he knows.
“I didn’t want to say anything earlier,” you add quickly, filling the silence before he can dissect it. “Didn’t want to make it a thing.”
His gaze doesn’t soften. But there’s less confusion now. More searching.
“You were fine five minutes ago.”
You hate how true that sounds.
“I wasn’t… I just didn’t think about it.”
That part isn’t even a lie. You hadn’t been thinking. Not about consequences. Not about tomorrow. Not about anything but him.
“Don’t be like that,” he says. “If something’s wrong, tell me.”
Something is wrong. It is inside your own head and you do not know how to untangle it without making a mess.
“Nothing’s wrong,” you insist, even though your chest feels tight. “I just need to rest.”
There is a flicker of something in his eyes now. Hurt. Frustration. Maybe both.
“Did I do something?” You hate that you made him think that.
“No,” you answer quickly. “No, you didn’t.”
But you cannot elaborate because the truth is messy and unformed and terrifying.
Reaching for your bag, “I’m gonna go,” you say, keeping your tone as steady as you can manage.
He stands there for a second like he is debating whether to argue. Then he exhales and grabs his keys from the counter.
“I’ll drop you.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know. I want to.”
I want to.
The firmness in his voice makes it clear he is not letting you leave alone, and a small part of you is grateful for that even as the rest of you feels like you are sabotaging something you cannot define.
You walk toward the door with him a step behind, the tension between you thick and unspoken.
This is not how you imagined today going.
He had waited for you after class. He had kissed you like he meant it. He had said he missed you.
Yet you are the one walking away.
As he opens the door and gestures for you to step out first, the weight of it settles deeper in your chest.
You are building a wall in real time, brick by careful brick, and you are not even sure what you are protecting yourself from.
Behind you, he locks the door and follows, close enough that you can feel his presence but not touching.
The silence is heavier than any argument that could have happened.
Your phone buzzes halfway through the afternoon. You consider ignoring it just to prove to yourself that you can. That you are not waiting around for him, that your entire mood does not hinge on whatever words appear on your screen next.
You still look immediately.
Bucky: heyy
Bucky: i wanna see you. if you’re feeling up for it. will be near your block after your last class. maybe wait by the entrance? no pressure.
He did not say come over. He did not ask if you are free. He said he wants to see you.
Your brain — traitor that it is — immediately begins its spiral. Maybe he just feels bad about yesterday. Maybe he thinks you were actually sick. Maybe he is trying to smooth something over. Maybe he is bored.
Fuck.
Maybe he just wants you.
You force yourself to be normal.
You: yeah. i’ll be there.
He reacts with a simple thumbs up.
By the time your last class ends, your nerves feel stretched thin. You tell yourself this is stupid. You are not walking into a confession. You are not walking into a breakup. You are walking outside your own building to meet someone who asked to see you.
Still, your palms feel slightly damp.
The doors swing open and voices spill across the courtyard in overlapping bursts of laughter and conversation. You scan automatically for him, heart already climbing into your throat.
It takes less than five seconds to find him.
Not alone.
A small group surrounds him, the kind of cluster that forms around someone people gravitate toward without even meaning to.
Steve stands on his left, animated as always, gesturing with both hands while he talks. Sam leans back against the wall with that amused, observant look he wears when he is about to make a comment no one asked for.
And then there is a flash of red.
She is standing close to him. Close enough that her shoulder nearly brushes his chest.
Natasha.
You have seen her before, of course. It would be impossible not to. Red hair that catches light like it knows it is being watched, sharp eyes that miss nothing, posture that suggests she does not need to raise her voice to command attention.
Right now, her fingers are at his collar. Adjusting.
She smooths the fabric down, straightens it slightly, then taps his chest like she is approving her own work.
There is familiarity in it that feels intimate even from a distance.
Your stomach drops so fast it almost feels physical.
That is not a friendly distance. That is not casual. That is close enough to touch without thinking about it.
Your brain does not wait for logic. It does not ask questions. It fills in blanks you never agreed to.
She fixes his clothes because she has done it before.
She stands that close because she is allowed to.
You are just another girl who showed up for a week.
You take an unconscious step back, already calculating the fastest way to turn around without being obvious. You could say you forgot something. You could pretend you never saw his text, even though you’ve replied to it. You could avoid the humiliation of walking over there like you belong.
Before you can pivot fully, his head lifts and eyes find you immediately.
There is no hesitation in the recognition. The moment he sees you, his expression shifts in a way that feels unmistakable. Something bright flickers there. Relief, maybe. Something softer than the grin he wears with the rest of them.
“There you are.”
Your body freezes mid-retreat.
He steps away from the group without thinking twice, closing the space between you in a few long strides. You have no choice but to stay where you are unless you want to make it obvious you were about to flee.
“Thought you were gonna ditch me.”
“I was literally just walking out.”
“Sure.” There’s just that faint teasing curve of his mouth.
Over his shoulder, you can feel the group’s attention shift.
“Come here.” He reaches for your hand. There’s no time for you to overthink or even think for that matter.
The contact is warm and familiar and it sends a rush of conflicting emotions through you. You let him guide you toward them even though every insecure thought in your head is screaming that you do not belong in this circle.
He says your name easily. Naturally. Not as an afterthought.
Shit, he’s introducing you to them.
But it’s just your name. There’s no label that follows.
Of course there is nothing to add. What would he even say?
This is the girl I slept with.
This is the girl I’m seeing.
This is the girl I don’t know what to call yet.
You force a polite smile as he gestures around.
“You know Sam,” he continues. “That’s Steve. And this menace is Nat.”
Nat’s gaze shifts to you fully now. “Hi.”
“Hi,” you reply, hoping your voice does not betray the way your stomach is still tangled.
Sam offers you an easy grin. “So this is who he ditched us for the other night.”
Heat floods your face instantly.
Bucky shoots him a look. “Shut up.”
“What? I’m just saying.” Sam shrugs.
Steve, ever diplomatic, steps in smoothly. “Nice to finally meet you.”
Finally.
The word echoes in your head.
Finally suggests there has been discussion. Anticipation. Awareness.
You glance at Bucky instinctively, searching his expression for any hint that he is uncomfortable, embarrassed, anything.
He does not look embarrassed.
If anything, he looks almost… pleased.
His hand rests lightly at your lower back now. The gesture is subtle but grounding, and it only confuses you further.
If Nat meant something more, would he touch you like this in front of her?
If you meant something more, would he have said it out loud?
Conversation resumes around you, overlapping. You answer when spoken to. You nod. You laugh at the right moments. But your thoughts keep circling back to the image of Nat’s fingers at his collar, smoothing, straightening, touching.
He does not pull away from you once. If anything, he shifts closer as the minutes pass, angling his body slightly so you are not on the edge of the circle but tucked nearer to him.
Sometime later, he leans down slightly toward your ear. “You good?”
“Yeah.”
His eyes linger on your face for half a second, like he is trying to read what you are not saying.
“Walk with me?”
You nod before you can second guess it.
His hand slides more firmly around your waist this time as he guides you away from the group.
You can feel Nat’s gaze on your back as you leave, or maybe that is just your imagination refusing to calm down.
The motorcycle waits a few steps away, gleaming faintly in the lowering light. He stops beside it but does not let go of you immediately.
“What’s going on in that head?” His voice is softer now that you are alone.
“Nothing.” Nothing feels like the only safe answer.
He huffs out a quiet breath. “You’re terrible at lying.”
“I’m not lying.”
“Okay.” You can tell he’s still not convinced.
The closeness of him is distracting. His hand is still at your waist, resting just above your pelvis. You can feel the warmth of it through the fabric and it makes your thoughts even more tangled.
“Where are we going?” You want to change the subject.
“It’s a surprise.”
“I don’t like surprises.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is when they involve you.”
A flicker of amusement crosses his face. “Wow. I feel attacked.”
“Just tell me.”
He hesitates for dramatic effect, then leans in slightly, voice dropping. “Where else?”
Your breath catches before you can stop it.
“Bucky.”
“My place,” he finishes, like it is obvious.
Of course it is.
The words hit differently now, layered with everything your mind has been chewing on for the past twenty-four hours.
My place.
Is that all this is?
Your heart thuds against your ribs, too loud, too fast. You tell yourself you are being unfair. You tell yourself he invited you to meet his friends. He introduced you. He did not hide you. He did not flinch.
And yet the image of Nat’s fingers at his collar refuses to fade.
“Okay.” You hope he cannot hear the storm building behind the single word.
His hand squeezes your waist lightly before he finally lets go to grab his helmet, and the absence of his touch feels colder than it should.
Bucky’s place feels too quiet for the amount of noise in your head. He drops his keys into the bowl by the counter and turns toward you. There is no visible tension in him, no sign that he feels the way you’ve been feeling.
“You’ve been kinda weird lately… you mad?”
The softness in his voice makes it worse. It would be easier if he were careless.
He reaches for you when you don’t answer, hands sliding to your waist with an easy familiarity. Sitting back onto the couch, he pulls you with him, guiding you until you are straddling his lap, knees pressing into the cushions on either side of his thighs.
It happens naturally, like your bodies already know the choreography.
His mouth finds yours before you can think too hard about it. The kiss is warm. You can feel your breathing get uneven as his fingers resume their path on your body.
His lips trail from yours to your jaw, then lower, pressing unhurried kisses along your neck. Heat spreads beneath your skin where he lingers.
Your hands rest on his shoulders, and for a moment you almost let yourself fall into it.
Almost.
Because the image of Nat leaning in, adjusting his collar with that quiet confidence, flashes again. At the worst possible moment. Because you do not know what you are to him.
“Bucky…”
He hums against your skin. “Mhmm?”
“What is this?”
His mouth stills. “What is what?”
“This,” you repeat, gesturing helplessly between your bodies while still sitting in his lap. “Us coming here. Sam conveniently being out. You kissing me like nothing’s complicated.”
His confusion deepens, and he looks genuinely lost. “I’m kissing you because I want to.”
“That doesn’t answer anything.”
“It kind of does.”
A sharp exhale leaves you in frustration. “No, it doesn’t, Bucky.”
With his hands steady at your waist now, he shifts in his place. “Okay. Then tell me what you’re asking.”
“Am I just… part of something casual to you?” The words finally come, absolutely rushed. “Because that’s what it feels like sometimes.”
His expression changes in a way you cannot immediately name. You know it’s not anger. Probably something closer to disbelief.
“Casual?” he repeats carefully.
“I saw her,” you blurt it out. “Nat. Fixing your collar like she’s done it a hundred times. And Steve said finally, like I’m the last to know something. And you didn’t say anything when you introduced me, you just said my name. Like that’s all there is.”
“There is more.”
“Then what is it? Because from where I’m sitting it feels like I’m the only one trying to figure it out.”
The irony isn’t lost on you, and you don’t give him space or time to respond.
“I don’t do this… I don’t sleep with someone and then just pretend it’s fine without knowing what it means. I don’t wake up next to someone and spend the whole day wondering if I just made myself convenient.”
His hands tighten slightly at your hips at the mention of convenience.
“And before you say I’m overthinking… I know your thing. Everyone knows. You don’t exactly have a reputation for… consistency.”
“That’s a polite way to put it.” He exhales, trying to look as unbothered as possible.
“I’m serious,” you insist. “I don’t wanna be another girl you had fun with until something better came along. I don’t want to be someone in your rotation. I don’t want to feel stupid for catching feelings when you’re just—” you stop at that because the next words just wouldn’t come.
“Just what?”
“Just being you.”
He doesn’t respond. You hate that he doesn’t respond. That’s when you realise you’re still straddling him, still close enough to feel the steady rise and fall of his chest, still close enough to feel the unmistakable press of his length against you. Even in the middle of this.
How can someone be turned on in such a situation, you genuinely do not know.
“And don’t laugh,” you add, because his mouth twitches. “If you laugh I will actually leave.”
“I’m not laughing at you… I’m just trying to figure out how you managed to build an entire alternate reality without asking me a single question.”
“I’m asking now.”
“Yeah. After deciding all the answers.”
“Because you never said anything.”
Bucky studies your face, eyes searching in a way that makes your pulse pound. “You want me to say it?”
“Say what?”
“That I haven’t always been great at this.” He nods slowly, almost to himself. “Fine. I haven’t. I’ve dated around. I’ve kept things light. I liked that it was easy. There weren’t any expectations. People knew the deal.”
The honesty stings more than you expect.
“That’s exactly what I’m talking about.”
“But that’s not what this is.”
The firmness in his voice makes you want to hide yourself, but still you look at him. “Then what is it?”
He looks back at you like he’s choosing his words carefully. Or you think that’s what he’s doing. “Do you remember the first time we talked?”
“Of course I do.”
“I was an ass. I handed you my record book like it was nothing.”
“You were,” you mutter.
A faint smile touches his mouth. “Yeah. I was used to people just… going along with whatever I asked. And then you looked at me like I had personally offended your entire bloodline.”
Despite everything, a reluctant breath of laughter leaves you.
“I — I noticed you before that… I’d heard your answers in rounds. Seen your handwriting in the logbooks. You don’t try to stand out, but you do anyway. I kept waiting for a reason to talk to you that didn’t sound stupid.”
Your heartbeat stutters.
“The record book was the only excuse I had,” he admits. “And then you said yes even though you clearly didn’t want to, and I felt like a jerk the entire walk back to my room.”
That catches you off guard. “You did not.”
“I did.” His gaze does not waver. “Because I knew you weren’t like the others. You weren’t trying to impress me. You weren’t flirting. You were annoyed. And I still kept thinking about you… I’ve liked you since then. Not in a casual way. Definitely not in a ‘let’s see what happens’ way.”
“I kissed you because I wanted you. I slept with you because I thought we both wanted it. And it was never convenient. It was anything but convenient… because every time you look at me like you’re trying to decide whether I’m worth the trouble, it drives me insane.”
Heat rises to your face.
“Nat fixing my collar means nothing,” he adds as an afterthought. “She’s been doing that since first year. Also she’s dating some girl. And Steve said ‘finally’ because he’s tired of listening to me talk about you and not doing anything about it.”
“You talk about me?” The question feels fragile, but absolutely unnecessary and useless from what you’ve been hearing so far.
“Constantly,” he says without hesitation. “To the point where Sam told me to either ask you out properly or shut up… apparently it’s hard being my roommate.”
Your mind struggles to reconcile that with the version of him you built in self defense.
“I have been a guy who keeps things surface level,” he goes on, not flinching from it. “I liked not having to care too much. But with you it hasn’t been surface level. At all. I just… didn’t know how to shift gears without scaring you… so no,” he says, more quietly now. “You’re not part of a rotation. There isn’t one. Not anymore.”
The words make you feel absolutely stupid and make you smile at the same time.
“And if you think I brought you around my friends because you’re temporary… then you really don’t know me as well as I hoped you did.”
Now guilt seeps in because you just built this whole picture in your head that couldn’t be the farthest from reality.
You start to slide off his lap, embarrassment flooding in, but his hands hold you there gently.
“Don’t go,” he murmurs.
“I just— I made a fool of myself.”
The corner of his mouth tilts in a smile. “Yeah… a little.”
“Bucky!”
“I’m not making fun of you.” His grip on your waist tightens, reassuring you. “I like that you cared enough about this to spiral a little.”
Your eyes sting again, but for a different reason.
He shifts subtly beneath you, and the movement reminds you once more of the hard length pressing against you.
“Also,” he adds, voice dropping, “for someone who thinks this is casual, you’ve been sitting on my lap for ten minutes while I’m very obviously not neutral about you.”
Your mouth opens in a soft ‘O’ at the attention he just called to himself.
His grin spreads slowly now. “You get so worked up… and it’s distracting.”
“Distracting how?”
His thumbs trace idle patterns at your waist. “You’re so hot when you’re mad. I’ve been trying to focus on what you’re saying and all I can think about is how badly I want to kiss you again.”
The sincerity in his voice cuts through the last of your doubt.
“I like you,” there’s a finality in his voice. “I just didn’t know how to say it without sounding like every other guy who says it and doesn’t mean it. So I just… didn’t say it… But I’m saying it now. Clearly. I want no room for interpretation. I want this. With you. Not because it’s convenient. Because it’s you.”
The story you built in your head never included this version of him at all, but that’s okay, you get to have first hand experience.
my masterlist !
extras. that was wayyyy longer than i intended. If this flops, I’ll never set foot on tumblr again 😭 been waiting like a month to post this shit lol
