Fic Summary: The owner of The 107th wants you to be his girl whether you like it or not.
Fic Warnings: DARK AU, noncon/dubcon, stalking, coercion, threats, gaslighting, inner turmoil, violence, creepy and unhinged behavior, flashback, possessiveness, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?), more warnings to come.
Fic Status: Ongoing with tentative updates every other Sunday.
A/N: Club owner!Bucky obsessed with you wouldn't leave my brain and now we have this! Hope you lovelies enjoy! ❤️ Bucky edit by the beautiful @nixakimbo and divider by the talented @firefly-graphics . Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!
RAW & OLDER
(ex)boyfriend’s dad!bucky barnes x female!reader [14.4k]
— ⟢ SUMMARY: you catch your boyfriend cheating on you with another girl at your neighbour’s halloween party. bucky barnes, his hot and thoughtful dad, is ready to take care of your broken heart.
— ⟢ WARNINGS: 18+ MDNI; she/her pronouns for reader; mentions of reader's family; reader wears a skirt and makeup; original characters; age gap (reader’s in her mid 20s; bucky's 40+); cheating; light angst; emotional hurt/comfort; lots of praises and pet names; smut; size difference; soft dom!bucky; slight jealousy; slightly possessive!bucky; big dick bucky organization (🙂↕️); dirty talk; nipple play; oral (f receiving); fingering; unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it pls); mention of reader being on the pill; multiple orgasms; overstimulation; riding; caught in the act (the ex boyfriend overhears them 🤪).
A/N: I was too excited to wait until tomorrow, this was my first dilf!bucky story after all 😭 hope you'll enjoy!
The retail store is too bright and colorful compared to the stormy sky outside.
You and your friends have been coming here ever since middle school. Back then, Yelena’s older sister was the only one with a driver’s license, piling all of you into her car to take you wherever you wanted to go. Halloween has always been your favorite excuse to spend time together, with Kate opening her doors for your annual sleepover: a night of mildly scary movies, gossip about the cutest guys in town, and enough junk food to leave all of you clutching your stomachs by midnight.
By the time you started high school, your older neighbor’s extravagant Halloween party had become the talk of the town. Hosted in her massive mansion, it was the kind of event people counted down to months in advance. You’d never considered yourself much of a party girl, but it was the perfect excuse to dress up and show off the elaborate costumes you and your friends spent weeks planning.
When college began, the four of you ended up scattered across different universities around the state. Nearly a year passed without shared laughter in the canteen and a morning dose of tight hugs to begin your days, until you finally agreed to reunite this October. It would probably be the last chance for you four to meet for a long time. With everyone caught up in their own schedules and studies, moments like this had become rare, that’s why you were determined to make the most of these three days together.
The store looks exactly the same as it did ten years ago: fake cobwebs dangling from the white ceiling, evil-looking pumpkins staring down at customers from the shelves, racks of masks and toys that once felt endless. Now, you swear everything seems smaller than it used to be.
The air still smells of dust and cheap plastic. Strangely, it’s that sharp, chemical tang coming from the latex masks lining the walls that makes the place feel so familiar.
The first room is completely devoted to rows and rows of children’s toys, while the second—normally a storage space—is crammed with costumes and accessories messily thrown together. From the ceiling, a dozen paper bats sluggishly sway in the cold draft slipping through the old windows, while somewhere on the counter, a motion-sensor witch clutches a plastic pumpkin-shaped bowl of sweets, cackling like a banshee every time someone reaches for a piece. The sagging orange letters spelling HAPPY HALLOWEEN are stuck to the front of the counter, crooked and peeling at the edges, and you’re pretty sure the owner has left them there all year round since you can remember.
The store definitely looked scarier and quieter when you were younger, the fact that it’s located in an isolated area of the town near the woods didn’t really help. Now, it’s just the kind of place that tries too hard to be spooky, only to end up looking a little tacky.
Wanda has been wearing a perpetual scowl since she started browsing through racks of angel wings and synthetic, overly lavish princess gowns, searching for something less glittery and darker. A few rows over, Yelena tries to give you a heart attack by silently hovering behind you, switching between different clown masks each time you turn around. Kate, on the other hand, is determined to find a Wednesday Addams costume—she’s been completely obsessed with the show lately.
You already have your outfit at home: a short skirt and a lace top paired with sparkling boots, the colors an homage to your favorite Barbie doll. You’re still bitter about missing Rachel’s Halloween party because of the chickenpox you caught from Kate in senior year. You had everything ready down to the smallest detail, that Barbie costume was flawless. Instead, you spent the night in fleece pajamas, curled under the covers as you peeked from behind your pillow at Art the Clown mauling people on screen, while the muffled music from the neighboring mansion made your walls vibrate.
Still, you decided to tag along for old times’ sake.
“Black or maroon?” Wanda holds up two identical dresses.
Kate hums, absently twirling a wig between her fingers as she studies the fabric. “Black.”
“Maroon,” you say without looking up, inspecting a bloodstained lab coat before placing it back on the rack with a grimace. “It suits your hair.”
“Lena?” Wanda turns to the blonde, who’s currently trying to stab her own palm with a fake knife to test how real it feels.
“Is that even a question?” She lifts her eyebrows, gaze landing on her dark red coat.
“I know, but it looks cute in both colors.” Wanda hesitates, eyes flicking between the dresses before finally putting the black one back with a sigh. “Alright, I’m done. Have you found anything interesting?”
“I can’t believe they don’t have a Wednesday costume,” Kate frowns, rifling through plastic bags for the third time. “It’s like, one of the most popular shows ever.”
“You know online shopping exists, right?” Yelena shoots back, tossing the knife into a display bin. “Just buy a black dress with a white collar.”
“But I wanted the school uniform, not some generic dress.”
The blonde rolls her eyes, already fiddling with a pair of popping-eye glasses.
“Hey, is Nathan coming to the party?”
You flinch, almost dropping the fake vampire teeth in your hand, not expecting Wanda standing so close beside you.
“Yeah. He has some things to take care of at his apartment first, so he’ll meet us at Rachel’s house.”
A disgusted ugh echoes behind you, and that makes your lips curl into a small smile despite the clear vitriol on the blonde’s features.
It’s no secret that Yelena can’t stand your boyfriend, Nathan. They’ve only met once, but that was enough for him to immediately pick up on her dislike. He often tried to get an explanation out of you, but you always brushed it off, claiming that your friend is just like that.
In truth, you know exactly why every word coming out of his mouth sounds like a fork scraping against a plate to her ears.
During the first months of your blooming relationship, Nathan had a habit of disappearing, ignoring your messages for days—sometimes for an entire week—only to come back with grand gestures as if nothing had happened. It left you confused and anxious, and Yelena more than anyone spent entire nights on the phone trying to calm you down, warning you about how unreliable he was. After a while, you convinced yourself he was just the type to get bored easily, the kind of guy who discards the “old toy” the moment a new, shinier one comes along.
Then, just before Christmas, he stood at your dorm room door with the biggest bouquet of flowers you had ever received, and an apology on his lips. He explained—almost shamefully—that his behavior stemmed from his parents’ toxic relationship. He didn’t go into details, only that their divorce had been messy, something that left him with a warped sense of commitment. Still, he insisted he liked you, that he was finally ready for something real.
Yelena had been furious. Not only did you let him off far too easily, but there had been little to no groveling—nowhere near enough to make up for the emotional whiplash he’d put you through. She was certain, deep down, that he would hurt you again someday. And your best friend didn’t want to see you that miserable ever again, especially for an asshole like Nathan.
You can’t really blame her for feeling so strongly. She was the one who comforted you during those sleepless nights, listening as you tried to make sense of his sudden distance when everything had seemed to be going so well.
It’s not like she brings it up all the time, but whenever his name comes up, she can’t help slipping in a sarcastic remark or two—ones that, despite yourself, make you laugh.
“Oh, so Casper finally decided to show up.”
That’s another thing: she refuses to call him by his name. Back when you used to cry over him, she’d come up with ridiculous nicknames just to lighten the mood. Casper is the latest, because of how little you see him these days. Always busy, always somewhere else. Fleeting like a ghost.
“His professors are giving him hell, cut him some slack, Lena. He’s practically living in the library nowadays.” Wanda glances at you with quiet sympathy, nodding along as you speak. “I always tell him to text me when he gets home, but some days he’s so exhausted he forgets. And the few times he does remember, it’s like three in the morning.”
Yelena’s eyebrows lift at your explanation. For once, though, she doesn’t argue. She just shakes her head with a resigned half-smile.
You met Nathan at the beginning of your first academic year. He and his dad had just moved to your hometown; apparently, his father had grown tired of the chaos of the city and decided to start working from home. Home, in this case, meant his mother’s hometown—the place where Mr. Barnes’ parents met years ago, during a summer visit to their relatives. After marrying, they moved to New York and never really came back.
When the divorce happened, Nathan stayed with his father and eventually enrolled in the nearest university to remain close. Once your relationship grew more serious, the two of you started traveling back and forth together, mostly because he had a shiny, fully functioning car, unlike you. And that’s when he finally introduced you to his dad, James Buchanan Barnes.
Now, Nathan is undeniably handsome and after meeting Mr. Barnes, you can clearly see where he gets his looks from. The difference is... his father is on another level. It’s not just that he’s handsome. The man is hot. Yes, there are streaks of white in his beard, and crow’s feet appear whenever his smile softens his features—but those details don’t take away from his looks. If anything, they only make him more attractive.
He’s big, too: broad-shouldered, towering over you with an ease that’s both intimidating and… not unwelcome. And he’s a real gentleman. Every time you stayed over for lunch or dinner, he served you first, firmly refusing to let you lift a finger, insisting his son is more than capable of cleaning up after himself.
The first time he pulled out a chair for you, your heart dropped straight to your stomach.
Since February, your boyfriend has been buried in projects and assignments, and you’ve often gone back home alone. Because of that, you stopped visiting Mr. Barnes—it didn’t feel right showing up when Nathan wasn’t there.
That is, until you ran into the older man at the local supermarket one day, and after his usual gentle hug, he looked at you with his kind, blue eyes, his voice as warm as a cup of hot, creamy chocolate, “You know you’re welcome to visit anytime, right? It doesn’t matter if Nathan’s home or not.”
Despite your initial hesitation, you went. And then you went again. More times than you’d like to admit.
Conversations with him drift so effortlessly from ridiculous stuff he sees on the internet yet doesn’t quite understand, to more serious topics. At some point, you even started confiding in him. No matter the problem, Bucky always seems to know exactly what to say to soothe your worries. More than anything, he treats you like an equal, an adult. He doesn’t tiptoe around your age, or reduce your personality to his son’s girlfriend. With him, you’re just… you.
It’s almost unsettling, when you think about it—how often he’s been there for you compared to your boyfriend. Nathan replies late, often too late. There’s always an excuse: a project he still has to finish, a study session that ran too late, outings at the bar with friends he supposedly never sees. The times you try to ask about his day, he brushes it aside, steering the conversation back to you after a two-word response, until eventually he disappears again for hours.
At first, you had your doubts, and you hate yourself a little for it now.
You never told anyone—not even your closest friends—but once, you went to his faculty library. Not to spy, you told yourself. Just to... check, to make sure he was actually there.
And he was. Completely absorbed in his books.
You left with shame burning hot on your cheeks. That night, when he texted you to let you know he was home, you couldn’t even bring yourself to reply. The guilt only got worse when you realized how often your thoughts drifted to Mr. Barnes throughout your days. Over something small, like seeing a cat minding its own business in the streets—because he once told you he used to feed the strays when he was a kid, but his chance to adopt one of his own is now long gone since Nathan is allergic—or when you need advice on an assignment. He’s always there. Even when he’s busy, Mr. Barnes still takes the time to send a quick message, apologizing for delayed replies. You told him he didn’t have to do that, you understood he had work, responsibilities... Yet he just smiled and kept putting you first anyway.
During one of your weekly video calls, Kate asked about Nathan, mentioning she hadn’t seen him in the background for a while. You brushed it off pretty quickly, explaining how busy he’s been with his studies, and the conversation ended there.
Later, while talking about food, you casually mentioned a restaurant Mr. Barnes had recommended. He’d made a habit of suggesting places he’d tried with his colleagues, knowing how much you and your friends enjoy exploring new cuisines together.
The silence that followed was mortifying.
Your gaze slowly lifted from the blanket you were knitting to find your friends staring at you, half amused, half shocked. Promptly waving off their nosy questions, you insisted you just saw each other from time to time. That he’s kind, funny, easy to talk to. Still, they teased you about having a tiny crush on your boyfriend’s dad.
The joke got out of hand the following week, when you accidentally admitted the blanket you were working on was for him—Mr. Barnes had discovered your hobby and casually mentioned that he’d love to have something made by you some day.
Yelena nearly lost her mind. At one point, she actually dropped to her knees in front of her phone, dramatically begging you to leave Nathan and just sleep with his dad.
You awkwardly laughed it off, your face burning as you resisted the urge to hang up and disappear under your covers.
In the end, Wanda stepped in, declaring there was nothing wrong with being friends with your very attractive almost-father-in-law. That helped… a little. Because you’re not doing anything wrong. You’re just two adults who get along, who often text each other for hours between a good morning and a good night. Who share an occasional cup of tea when you’re back in town that promptly turns into you staying for dinner because he is a great cook and always has a new recipe he found on Pinterest that made him think of you.
It just so happens he’s your boyfriend’s father.
You do like Nathan—a lot. And he wants you just as much. You’ve been together for two years now, for fuck’s sake! Life just… gets in the way sometimes. Things will settle down once he graduates in winter and you both understand where you want to go from there.
Every relationship has its ups and downs.
This is just a rough patch.
This year, your neighbor truly outdid herself. Rachel was the ultimate popular girl: indulgent parents, cheer captain of the only high school in town, and glossy dark waves that every girl tried so desperately to imitate. Everyone wanted to be her, but few had the privilege of sitting at her table. She wasn’t the stereotypical mean girl—just ambitious and filthy rich. Her pretty features had sharpened since the last time you saw her. After enrolling in one of the most prestigious law schools in the country, many thought her days of excessive drinking and wild nights were behind her.
Apparently not.
The rumors of her Halloween parties had spread far beyond your town. Everyone counted on her keeping the tradition alive, and now she returns each year, bringing more and more people with her, to host the biggest party in the county.
One look at the claustrophobic living room, now a dance floor, makes your lungs constrict, the strobe lights not helping at all as they blind you while flashing across the sticky floors. Costumes blur together: you saw at least a dozen demons, three cowboys, and Rachel and her two best friends as the iconic Plastics. Though every time you think you see the flash of Nathan’s leather jacket, it turns out to be a stranger. He had texted an hour ago that he’d just parked, having thrown together a leather biker jacket and black trousers to pass as Danny Zuko from Grease, but so far, no sign of him.
Laughter ripples through Rihanna’s Disturbia from a group leaning against the kitchen counter, the walls of the lavish mansion rattling along the pulsing bass. Someone spills a drink in front of you, narrowly missing your top. Your temples pulse with an excruciating headache when a group of guys holler like animals after completing a keg stand: they each wear a plastic bag with a condom sign attached to their chest, hugging each other in victory. Yet you can’t help but imagine how Nathan would’ve laughed at the scene.
Right. Nathan. Where the fuck is he?
“Hey!” Your shoulders jump at the shout over the beginning of Thriller. Yelena and Wanda appear at your sides, pulling you toward the open patio windows overlooking the huge backyard without much ceremony.
“Have you seen Nathan?” You ask while scanning the crowd by the punch bowls.
“Nope.” Yelena mutters something else under her breath, but you decide to ignore it. It must be another one of her tailored nicknames for your boyfriend.
The cold air sharply hits your face as they lead you outside, goosebumps prickling your skin.
“Why are we here? It’s freezing and I still need to find Nathan. He got here an hour ago and—”
“I’m starving!” Wanda cuts in, practically skipping across the grass. “C’mon, they’re grilling sausages! Hot dogs! Want one?”
You squint at her, confused. Her rambling is classic Wanda, nervous energy spilling out at a mile a minute.
“Wanda, stop, for fuck’s sake.” Yelena snaps, planting her feet on the ground firmly.
“What’s going on?” You glance back and forth between the two of them, but they are too busy staring each other down to acknowledge you, a silent conversation you can’t follow unfolding in frowns too subtle to catch.
Wanda shakes her head, addressing you with a polite, closed-lip smile. “It’s nothing. Let’s just eat.” She reaches for your hand, but you step back, glancing at the other.
“What’s going on, Lena?” Her jaw clenches.
“There’s no need to make a scene right now.” Wanda hisses.
“There’s no need—” The blonde sputters outraged. “This is fucking insane, what is your problem?”
You step between them, grabbing their wrists. “Hey! I don’t know what’s gotten into you, guys, but I need you to calm down and tell me what’s up.” You bark. “Kinda feeling left out here.” Your attempt to lighten the mood is entirely overlooked as Wanda tilts her head, silently begging the blonde to be patient.
“She deserves to know.” Yelena grits out.
“Not now! It’ll just make things worse for her.”
“You think it’s better if we wait?”
The argument draws a few stares from the patio. Kate, watching from the door, clumsily invents a story about a lost lipstick to defuse tension, quickly making her way to you as most people shrug and return to their drinks.
The air suddenly feels heavier, tension crawling up your spine and settling in your shoulders.
“Someone tell me what the fuck is happening. Right now.” Your voice shakes despite your effort to stay calm. “Is Kate okay? Did Nathan do something?”
Yelena simply exhales a long breath, pushing her tongue into her cheek in annoyance. Wanda takes your hand at once, her eyes pleading.
“It’s not about Kate. She’s fine. We’ll explain later, okay?”
“No,” you snap, wrenching your wrist free. “Explain now.”
Yelena huffs. “You’re just making it worse.”
Wanda’s auburn hair swings as she faces her, her voice turning serious. “Me? We know you hate his guts, Lena. You’ve been waiting for him to fuck up since the moment they started dating. But could you please put your fucking ego aside for once and think about her wellbeing? We’re in the middle of a party and you’re ruining her night.”
“Oh! I am ruining her night? You have been kissing his ass since the very beginning. And you talk about my fucking ego? You’re such a bi—”
“I saw Nathan upstairs making out with a girl!” The words pierce through the booming music like thunder.
Yelena and Wanda go abruptly still, all their annoyance vanishing at once as they slowly turn to face you with wide eyes. Kate is standing behind you, half-squirming as she watches you with something akin to desperation.
The ominous pit of nervousness you’ve been carrying in your stomach for the last hour suddenly doesn’t feel so irrational.
“I’m so sorry.” Kate whispers after a heavy pause, fingers fidgeting.
“Upstairs… where?” The words taste bitter on your tongue.
“In one of the bedrooms. The one closest to the bathroom.” She looks mortified, unable to meet your gaze.
You shove past her before you can even fully digest what’s going on, barreling through drunk students and ignoring their startled stares.
The strobe lights fracture the room into flashes of color—violet, red, sickly white—laughter spiking through the air in uneven bursts. The sharp tang of beer clings to everything, mixing with the artificial sweetness of fake fog that curls low around your ankles. It should feel alive, electric. Instead, it dulls to a distant, muffled hum as Kate’s words settle heavy and cruel deep in your chest.
Step after step, heavier than the last, your chest tightens, each breath catching halfway in, sharp and fast. For a moment, it feels like the world simply... pauses. It’s just you and the growing ache in your throat, threatening to spill over.
You hear Yelena screaming your name as you burst into the bedroom on the left. It’s empty, dark, and the bed is intact. Heart hammering painfully against your ribs, you storm into the next room, scaring a couple of people lingering nearby for a moment of intimate quiet. The door slams against the wall with a splintering bang, and in that moment you swear your heart stutters—one missed beat, maybe two—before it kicks back in, pounding wildly like it’s trying to break free. The sound rushes up into your ears, a violent, dizzying thrum that makes your head spin.
You stand there, frozen in the doorway, not knowing whether to scream, to run, or to crumple right there and let the floor open up and swallow you whole.
Maybe throwing up seems the best option as you take in the disgusting scene before you.
Nathan turns, confused by the sudden commotion. A girl is straddling him, but the light is too dim to recognize her, though you can clearly see how her skirt is bunched at her hips, exposing her lower half. The moment his eyes meet yours, he roughly shoves her away, causing her to squeal as she falls on the other side of the bed. Nathan’s weak voice calls out your name, but you are already turning away.
The scene is quite pathetic, Yelena thinks, as Nathan clumsily tries to run after you, but he keeps stumbling into the pants creased around his ankles.
“Wait—fuck, baby wait! It’s not what it looks like!” He shouts as he runs in the living room, fingers clumsily trying to zip up his pants.
“Shut up, Barnes.” Yelena’s voice cuts sharp from the stairs, Wanda and Kate close behind her. The music fades further, letting nearby partygoers witness the drama.
With a sharp inhale, you stop right in the entryway, fingers curling into fists at your sides to steady the chaos inside you. You refuse to give him the satisfaction to see you cry.
In the spur of the moment, you decide to turn around, lips parted to tell him to go to hell, but a shriek erupting from the top of the stairwell stops you.
“You’re an asshole!” The girl stands there, mascara smeared and skirt hastily pulled down.
“Jesus Christ.” Wanda tiredly rubs the bridge of her nose.
The girl’s face seems familiar, but you can’t place her. Maybe she used to go to high school with you? One of the many forgettable faces of your past.
“You’re a fucking liar, Nathan Barnes. You promised you’d tell her about us. You promised me you’d leave her.”
Someone in the crowd gasps, but it barely registers.
“What the fuck, Nathan?” You grimace, repulsion tightening your chest.
“I—I didn’t…” His voice falters, head turning back and forth between the two of you, a mix of shame and panic flashing across his features.
“I’ll tell you what he did, since he’s too much of a coward.” The girl interrupts, slowly stepping down the stairs. “We’ve been dating since March and he kept promising me he’d break up with you. He told me he did it as soon as he got here... But apparently it was just another lie.” She throws him a look of disdain, arms crossed to her chest.
Since March.
He’s been dating another girl for eight months. No. He’s been cheating on you with another girl for eight months.
The floor crumbles under your feet.
The constant busyness, the unanswered texts, the lack of intimacy, all the weekends you decided to come back here and he never once seemed to care about tagging along, not even texting you to make sure you had safely arrived, knowing your car is literally a jalopy.
The image of her straddling him flashes behind your eyes over and over again, cold sweat rushing down your back as you realize how many times they have acted like that undisturbed, how Nathan was about to have sex with her while his girlfriend was in the same house, waiting for him downstairs.
You refuse to meet some stranger’s pitiful eyes, or worse… their small smirk, the amusement dancing in their eyes. Somewhere nearby, people keep laughing, dancing, kissing, while you stand there, in front of the person you wasted two years of your life on, feeling like the butt of a scornful joke.
Guilt has been eating you alive since you doubted his words that day, yet he has been betraying your trust all along. Something shatters inside you at the realization that maybe everything you shared at first—the whispered plans for traveling the world together, the way his hands always found yours under the table, the warmth of him wrapped around you late at night—was never real at all.
You feel exposed, far beyond anything physical. The rawest parts of you burn under all these curious eyes, laid bare in a way you can’t hide from. You need to cover yourself, to disappear behind something—anything—a blanket, a jacket, a closed door.
Swallowing around the lump in your throat, you force out one last question.
“All the assignments, the projects—were they real at all? Or were they just a cover to fuck another girl behind my back?”
Nathan opens his mouth but doesn’t answer. His pleading brown eyes only stoke the fire in your veins, looking at you like he deserves your sympathy.
Shaking your head, you sprint toward the door, ignoring your friends’ desperate calls of your name. They try to reach you, but there’s too many people gathered there to watch the scene like a movie. By the time Yelena, Wanda, and Kate get to the front yard, you’ve long vanished into the dark.
Yelena curses out loud in Russian, stomping back inside to give that asshole a piece of her mind, and Wanda and Kate can only hurry after her, trying to stop the blonde from sending Nathan to the hospital.
Walking in the biting October cold clears your mind a little, even as the tears keep flowing. You hadn’t even noticed them until you had to slow down, your feet hurting in those damn boots. Sniffling, you keep your head down; despite being alone in the dark, that mix of humiliation and disbelief still makes your skin burn in shame. You didn’t do anything wrong, yet thoughts of how stupid you’ve been cloud your mind.
How could you have been so blind? All the signs were there, and you chose to ignore them.
That girl… she went to your university, which is why she felt so familiar. She’s pretty, you can’t deny it. And yet, was that enough for you to deserve that? Was she funnier than you? More caring? Better in bed? What were you lacking? You’ve always considered yourself average-looking—decent, sure, but not someone guys have ever fought over. You flirted, went on a few dates, but it never went beyond that. Maybe someone had a crush on you at some point, but you never knew.
It hurt your confidence, of course, but then Nathan happened, and that was your first mistake, probably—tying your self-worth to the way he treated you.
And now you can’t even go home and cry yourself to sleep. Kate was the only one with a purse, so you left all your belongings with her, except for your phone since you were waiting for Nathan to text you.
Going back is not an option, it feels like walking into a cage full of starving lions, especially since Nathan will probably be there still—either with her, or already laughing the whole thing off. She didn’t seem the slightest bit fazed by his betrayal. If you were in her place, you’d be questioning him, wondering if you’d be on the other side as well someday.
You’ve seen it before. Your aunt was miserable after forgiving her cheating husband. He begged, cried, swore it was a moment of weakness. She was too busy with her job and he needed her, that’s how he justified himself.
So he fell into another woman’s vagina.
Your mom refused to speak to her for a while after her decision to not divorce him. Your dad then eventually convinced her to change her mind: that good-for-nothing was likely to do it again, and she couldn’t risk leaving her sister alone and vulnerable. Four months later, your aunt came home early from a work trip to surprise him—but she was the one whose heart fell to her feet.
He was in their bed with one of her closest friends.
After witnessing and experiencing that kind of pain first-hand, you can’t bring yourself to wish the same hurt on her. Even if she knew Nathan was already taken, even if she willingly started a relationship with him. But why would a single girl like her worry about your relationship when your boyfriend—well, ex-boyfriend—didn’t seem to care in the first place?
You sigh, thinking of your parents. They’re out of town for your dad’s birthday. You can’t call them at one in the morning to tell them what happened. It wouldn’t be fair; you know they’d drop everything to come home if they knew and you can’t ruin the rare time they decide to treat themselves. After working so hard, this trip is the only moment of peace they are willing to indulge in once a year.
The back of your hand brushes over your raw cheeks in a useless attempt to clean yourself a little, tears still clouding your vision as you stare down at your phone screen, your finger hovering over that one contact that could save you, but shame pins you in place.
How can you face Mr. Barnes? Calling him now doesn’t just mean worrying him, but also possibly interrupting his night with… well, a woman. He’s a single, attractive man with a big house all to himself. Nathan was supposed to stay over, so who knows what the older man had planned for tonight?
It also means telling him about what happened.
The possibility of him defending his son makes a lonely tear slide down your cheek. No, Mr. Barnes would never justify a cheater. He’s too smart, too emotionally intelligent for that, even if the cheater in question is his own child.
Taking a deep breath, your mind races, torn between desperation and hesitation. The thought of disturbing him like a little kid makes you want to crawl into a hole and never get out, but it’s freezing outside and you are starting to not feel your toes. Your finger trembles with indecision above the screen, until reflex takes over. It presses the call icon.
You gasp, quickly bringing the phone to your ear when it immediately comes alive with his muffled voice.
“Sweetheart? Are you okay? Do you need something?” His deep, serene voice eases the wild thumping in your chest at once.
Right, another thing about Mr. Barnes. He calls you sweetheart, and seldom, other cute pet names slip by that make your traitorous heart flutter and your cheeks burn.
When you sniffle, he calls your name urgently.
“Are you busy?” You swallow, biting your trembling bottom lip.
“No. Never for you. What happened? Do you need me to come get you?”
You nod, then let out a frustrated huff when you remember he can’t see you. The faint clink of keys reaches your ears, a small, shaky smile tugging at your lips. You haven’t even replied and he’s already getting ready to come for you.
“Please… if you’re not busy.” You mumble.
“I told you I’m not. Don’t worry.” You hear a door close. Moments later, his voice returns. “Are you alright? Are you safe?”
You glance around, telling him you’re sitting on a bench in front of Ms. Garcia’s house. From his silence, you can gather his shock—you’re almost thirty minutes away from Rachel’s place.
“Why are you there, sweetheart? Is Nathan with you?” His words are slightly distorted by the rumble of the car engine.
“No, I’m alone. He’s still at the party.” You shiver as the cold metal of the bench presses against your bare thighs. “And I’m alright. Just tired.”
He doesn’t need all the details right now. The least you can do is explain in person.
“Doesn’t sound like it,” he murmurs under his breath. “You’ve been crying.”
You simply hum at his statement, expecting him to hang up, but instead he waits, respecting your silence, keeping the line open rather than leaving you alone in the dark.
When the familiar black SUV pulls up in front of you only a few minutes later, your body reacts instinctively. You hang up and watch as Mr. Barnes steps out. Before you can even find the right words to thank him, he’s around you, holding you close against his broad chest. Your lips part to whine out a pathetic apology, but the sound dies in your throat. Tears fall again, soaking his shirt.
“I’m so sorry… I didn’t know who to call,” you sniffle, swallowing an embarrassing sob. “My parents are out of town and Kate has my keys, but I didn’t want to go back there—”
“Hey, hey.” He gently pries your head away with a hand on your cheek, enough to examine your devastated eyes. “I’ve always told you I’m here if you ever need something. Anything. So don’t you dare apologize. I’m so proud you remembered that and called me, sweetheart.”
Your gaze drops at once on a random spot on his neck, unsure what to say next.
“Do you want to tell me what happened?” His other hand cradles your left cheek now, thumbs brushing away the lingering tears at the corners of your eyes. You shake your head lightly, jaw tightening at the thought.
“Alright, alright. We’ll go at your pace.” He frowns. “Do you want to come home? It’s freezing and you’re—”
The next words die in his throat as his blue eyes sweep over your body like they are acknowledging the rest of you for the first time that night. Now you feel so foolish for not bringing a jacket. Despite the cold, you’d known Rachel’s house would feel like a furnace, packed with sweaty dancers and drinkers. A dramatic escape in the middle of the night was not in your plans and yet here you are.
Even in the middle of your internal scolding, you can easily notice how Mr. Barnes blinks, seemingly snapping out of whatever thought had caught his entire attention, only to quickly glance back up at your face. Being under the lamppost, it’s easy to spot the blush creeping across his cheeks.
You’re his son’s girlfriend, of course he would feel awkward with you so close and barely covered.
“I guess you didn’t want to hide your pretty outfit.” He comments instead, amusement lacing his tone. Your eyes widen. “You’re always beautiful, by the way. A jacket wouldn’t have ruined it.” He winks as his hand comes to rest on your back, guiding you toward his car. You’re still processing his tone and its meaning as he opens the passenger door to help you inside.
He’s never explicitly called you beautiful before, compliments used to stop at your outfits or your makeup.
Once inside, the engine hums to life, but before he takes care of anything else, he makes sure to turn on the heat. You shiver, muscles slowly loosening as the warmth seeps through your chilled body.
“Better?” He glances at you, receiving a simple, grateful nod as answer.
“Fuck, should have thought about bringing you one of my jackets.” He was probably talking to himself but you catch it anyway, pressing your palms lightly to your thighs. It’s just a jacket—nothing grand—but the thought behind it makes you breathe slightly more easily.
Bucky maneuvers the vehicle on the roadway, unhurriedly driving back the way you came from. A sense of dread abruptly washes over you at the realization that you are about to pass by your neighborhood, right in front of Rachel’s house. You try to be as subtle as possible when you slide down the seat, at least to not be completely recognizable from the outside, your head turning toward the window as if that could be enough to disappear completely. Bucky notices anyway, keeping a careful eye on you as you drive by the mansion looming chaotic in the dark.
“I saw Nathan with another girl.” You blurt out once Rachel’s house is at a safe distance. The car swerves slightly, your stomach twisting with a hint of fear as your hand instinctively reaches to grab the edge of the seat. Your worried eyes fly to Bucky, meeting his shocked gaze.
“Sorry, I’m so sorry.” He clears his throat. “How…”
You take a deep breath, eyes back on the road, feeling too ashamed to face him.
“Kate caught him in one of the bedrooms upstairs. When I opened the door… a girl was straddling him. They were kissing, and… probably about to do other things.” Another lump swells in your throat. “Apparently all those assignments and projects were just an excuse.” You scoff out a humorless laugh, the back of your hand already brushing a lonely tear away.
“They’ve been together since March, and he promised her he’d break up with me soon.”
Each word feels like biting broken glass.
From your peripheral vision, you see his body stiffen, knuckles whitening around the steering wheel. Apologies form on your tongue as a reflex, but why? For calling him to pick you up? For having to be the one to reveal such a horrible thing about his son? You don’t even know, yet his crushed expression is enough to make you feel terribly guilty.
Then, something happens that completely catches you off guard.
His hand reaches across the console, covering yours, fingers intertwining.
Mr. Barnes is good with words, yet that simple gesture is worth more than any speech right now. Tears come back with such a violent speed that shocks even you, but you try your best to bite them back, mortified about the whole situation.
Confused, you watch the car steer, eventually coming to a stop at the roadside. Bucky exhales heavily once the engine is turned off, plunging you both into darkness. His body then turns toward you as best he can in the cramped space.
“Can you look at me, sweetheart? Please?” His voice is barely a murmur, fingers squeezing yours gently. Reluctantly, you lift your chin, catching him in your peripheral vision. “Thank you.”
“I know you’re hurting right now, and words might feel meaningless in the face of this betrayal, but please… listen to me carefully.” His blue eyes burn fiercely. “Sometimes people don’t know how to treat something good the way it deserves, but that says nothing about its worth. I’m deeply disappointed in Nathan. I didn’t raise him to behave like this, and believe me, I will have words with him. Very strong ones.” You squeeze his hand back, the corners of your lips lightly lifting despite pain stabbing your chest.
“Don’t blame yourself, Mr. Barnes. Your words are never meaningless to me,” you murmur, frowning at your knees. “He is an adult, responsible for his own actions, and still chose to do this. He could’ve ended things with me before starting something with her, but instead took the easy way out without remorse.”
Bucky slumps back against the seat with a slow sigh, staring absent-minded at the dashboard. Eventually, a humorless laugh falls from his lips. “I guess the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”
Your eyebrows jump up at the bitterness in his tone, and he allows a rueful smile. “My ex-wife cheated on me. That’s why we divorced.”
Your jaw drops.
“Nathan was thirteen and he still had to witness how much his mother’s choices affected me. It wasn’t easy for him. I never spoke badly of her, never kept him from seeing her... but he still chose to stay with me.” He sighs tiredly, head softly falling back against the headrest. “They only went back on speaking terms a couple years ago. Nathan felt like she betrayed him as well… refused to even text her at Christmas.” His neck turns just enough to look at you. “Has he ever told you that?”
You shake your head, swallowing.
“I’m—I’m so sorry, Mr. Barnes. I didn’t know… Nathan never talks about his mom, much less about your divorce.” Your words are not louder than a whisper.
His hand squeezes yours. “No need to apologize, sweetheart. The scars are there, but they don’t hurt anymore.”
Mr. Barnes straightens up after that, looking more resolute. “My point is, I’ve been through that kind of betrayal. For a long time, I was miserable, frustrated with her for ruining what we had, and with myself for missing the signs. And Nathan… he was the only good thing to come out of that marriage.” His gaze is fixed on yours with newfound strength, his voice tender. “Some days you’ll be angry at the world. You’ll stay in bed and cry your heart out, you’ll even miss the happy moments with him. But it won’t last forever.”
You clear your throat at that, staring down at the glove box for what feels like minutes. “Is it wrong,” you start quietly. “That I’m more upset about him betraying my trust than actually losing him?”
“What do you mean?” He tilts his head slightly, the simple gesture letting you know he’s here for you, ready to listen.
“He was always busy, and deep down I knew something was off. I guess… unconsciously, I’ve been trying to distance myself emotionally so I wouldn’t get hurt.” Your eyes widen at once, quickly trying to correct yourself as you realize you are still talking to his dad. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I liked Nathan and I’m shaken by what he did. He built a whole, new relationship behind my back. But…” You sigh, shoulders falling in dejection.
“I’m not actually sad about losing him.” You whisper. Saying that out loud only makes you feel more uncomfortable, causing you to shift your weight in your seat in a last attempt to ground yourself. “I don’t even know if I’m making any sense right now.”
“You’re angry because he made you doubt your self-worth.” He says softly.
“Yes!” You exclaim, facing him with surprise.
Bucky nods pensively. “And you’re upset because he betrayed your trust.”
“Exactly.” The dam breaks. “I’ve been feeling guilty since that day I followed him to the library to see if he was actually there to study. I felt awful for a whole month! I was doubting all the work his professors piled on him while he was breaking his back on those damn books. But in reality he was just fucking someone else the whole time.” Your hand flies to your mouth as you hear him chuckle, eyes wide at your own honesty. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to be so crude.”
“Don’t you dare apologize. I feel so bad whenever I curse around you.”
You share a soft, meaningful laugh, before the car falls into a comforting silence.
“Thank you, Mr. Barnes.” You murmur, taking a deep breath. He returns your smile, squeezing your fingers once more before starting the engine.
“You know I’m here for you. Always.”
He claps his hands lightly, and somehow it feels like that dark cloud pressing on your head has finally lifted. “C’mon, let’s get you home so you can get more comfortable and rest. You had a long night.”
“Are you sure you’re not busy? I don’t want to crash your free night—”
“Are you kidding? I love your company. And you didn’t interrupt anything, I was just watching a movie and eating some leftover candy, waiting for a text that you got home safely.”
Once the car is parked in its usual spot, Mr. Barnes is quick to get out and jog to your side to open your door. You whisper a shy thank you, still not used to all these caring gestures.
“Alright, here we are.” He breathes out, shoulders relaxing as if the familiar smell of his home alone is enough to soothe any worries. He leaves his sneakers in the shoe rack by the entrance and you follow suit, placing your boots neatly in the space he vacated for your shoes long ago, back when Nathan had started bringing you over more frequently.
“Are you hungry? Wanna shower first?”
You press your palm to your temple, eyes closing briefly. “A shower would be perfect. I feel sweaty from the party and I’m pretty sure my clothes still smell of weed.”
He doesn’t ask if you drank—he knows you despise the taste of alcohol, but also any type of substance that could make you lose control. He simply leaves a glass of water and some Advil on the kitchen counter, then jogs upstairs to grab some clean clothes for you. You take your time finishing the glass, savoring the simple act of rehydrating after walking and crying for so long in the cold.
Once you are alone in the bathroom, the reflection in the mirror makes you flinch. Your makeup is completely ruined: lipstick smudged at the corners, eyeshadow streaked under your eyes, mascara melted. The thought of Mr. Barnes seeing you like this has you shuddering in shame, but you push the embarrassment aside for now. You’re too drained.
A sealed bottle of micellar water and a package of cotton pads on the counter catch your eye immediately. With a relieved sigh, you remove the ruined makeup, silently making a mental note to thank him for his thoughtfulness.
The warm water cascading over your skin and the floral scent of the products tidily lined up on the shower caddy are enough to ease the strain in your muscles. Once dry, you pull on the black shirt he left on the small stool and a pair of boxers, adjusting them according to your comfort. You are actually so relieved he provided you with his own clothes, instead of Nathan’s. Making sure you’re presentable enough before heading downstairs, you glance at your reflection in the mirror one last time, before you have to take a second look. Because on the far left of the counter sit unopened some products you recognize too well: a moisturizer for your skin type, a gentle cleanser, some neutral-smelling deodorant, and a purple toothbrush. All pristine and unopened.
Did he buy all this for you? Even after nearly a year since the last time you slept here?
Your chest tightens at the thought of someone caring enough to remember such simple, forgettable things about you, taking a deep breath before diving into your skincare routine.
When you enter the kitchen, the breathtaking sight of Mr. Barnes’ broad back makes you pause momentarily. The domesticity of it all—him cooking for you, the quiet familiarity of being surrounded by his smell in his home—fills you with a strange fuzzy feeling that leaves your skin pleasantly warm and tingly. You’ve never been here at this time of the day, alone with him, clad in his clothes.
Turning around, he places the plate he was previously arranging on the table, before he glances up at you. Smiling, his lips part as if he wants to say something, but the words die on his tongue when his blue eyes fall on your naked legs. Clearing his throat, the man abruptly turns back around to swipe the counter.
“Are you feeling better?”
“Yeah. Thank you for the clothes.” You sit, eyeing the plate with interest. “And the sandwich.” You add with a smile. Your stomach aches a little from all the sugary soft drinks, so a proper meal will only do you good.
“They look good on you.” He mumbles, glancing down. Then, with a playful smirk. “Still, I miss the Barbie outfit.” You giggle, unsure whether he’s teasing or truly means it.
“Oh, and the hygiene products—thank you for those as well. When did you get them?” You quip, devouring half of the bread as if you haven’t eaten in ages.
“I’ve been stocking them since you started staying over, just in case you forgot something.” He shrugs with another effortless smile.
Bucky knew you were going to spend multiple nights here and wished for you to be comfortable and safe in his home. Simple as that.
You had to pack an overnight bag with all your things whenever you went over to Nathan’s apartment. It never occurred that you could just leave something behind, because it was so sporadic for you to spend the night there. Plus, he lives with three other people, so you didn’t want to intrude. Yet, now that you’re realizing how much Mr. Barnes has been going out of his way to take care of you, you can’t help but think about how many things Nathan took for granted.
Only when you finally settle on the sofa do you realize how much your body has been hurting from all the dancing and the walking. It instantly becomes one with the cushions.
Your phone lights up once on the coffee table, half of Wanda’s message visible from here. You texted the group chat to let them know you’re safe with a friend. Yelena will understand immediately, you are certain of that. Your eyes mindlessly catch a really sorry, but you don’t have the energy to deal with the situation right now. They know you’re alright and sheltered from the cold, and that’s enough for tonight.
The TV drones on in the background; a mediocre horror movie is playing on cable, but you can’t bring yourself to focus on it—or anything else, for that matter. Not when Mr. Barnes is sitting comfortably beside you, the warmth of his body tempting you to move closer. For a moment, it feels like he’s glancing at you as intently as you’ve been watching him.
The moment you properly look up and he doesn’t shy away, the air between you hums with an unspoken, charged tension. You must be imagining things, half delirious from exhaustion, because he keeps glancing back and forth between your eyes and your lips, something akin to desire burning hot in his eyes.
You don’t know who leans in first, but suddenly the space separating you disappears. The first touch is tentative, a timid brush of hands, and then, as soon as the tips of your noses touch, he is pressing against you like he’s been craving your lips for ages. One of his hands cups the back of your head, guiding you closer until your fingers tangle in his shirt.
It shouldn’t feel this good. It shouldn’t feel this right. It shouldn’t...
It shouldn’t happen.
“Wait—” You gasp, abruptly pulling back. Your eyes snap open, staring at him with horror dawning on your features. “W—What… what are we doing?”
“Shit,” Bucky mumbles under his breath, chest heaving as he tries to regain a crumb of control on his raging heartbeat. “I’m—I’m so sorry.”
“Oh my God, I’m a terrible person!” You slump forward, hiding your face in your hands as hot tears threaten to spill again.
“Hey, c’mon now sweetheart.” His shaky palm smoothes over your back. “Why would you be a terrible person? You did nothing wrong.”
Your head snaps towards him, regarding him with red and glassy eyes.
“I just kissed my ex-boyfriend’s dad!”
“If anything, I kissed you.”
“We both leaned in!”
Bucky moves closer, taking your other hand in his. “Okay, okay. Let’s take a deep breath now—”
“Oh God, if Nathan finds out—”
A firm call of your name has your shoulders fall down in defeat. Bucky’s hand travels to the back of your neck, gently turning your face until you are forced to look at him.
“You know you don’t owe him anything, right?” His voice is grounding, calm, but it’s not enough to quell the storm in your head.
“Why are you so calm? You’re his dad! I shouldn’t feel—” You pause abruptly, swallowing thickly. The way his eyes are wide with hope makes you want to sob in his arms.
“Feel what?” He urges, squeezing your hand.
“I…”
“Feel what, sweetheart?” Shame keeps your throat closed, physically unable to utter any sound. So Bucky takes the matter into his own hands, cradling your cheeks with both rough palms.
“I’ve wanted to kiss you since the day you ran in here, smiling about your A on that paper about online language evolution you spent weeks stressing over.” Bucky admits softly. Your breath hitches.
“You looked at me with stars in your eyes,” he continues with a proud smile. “And I felt so lucky to be part of such a happy moment for you. And then you hugged me and believe me, I tried to ignore it, but I just felt… complete.”
His voice drops to a whisper. “I felt like a dirty pervert whenever my eyes fell on the curve of your waist. Whenever I imagined the adorable sighs you’d make against my lips. Whenever you strutted here in my house with those damn revealing shirts, jealous that the whole neighborhood got the chance to admire your beautiful cleavage.” Sighing, his eyelids flutter shut for a second, as if trying to focus.
“You were Nathan’s girlfriend and here I was, resenting my own son for getting to have you like this. For being the one to call you his.”
He lets his words hang, heavy with honesty. “I promised myself I’d keep my distance. But no one ever compared to your pretty eyes, your passion, your energy.” He swallows, kind eyes flicking once between your eyes and your parted lips.
“Nathan had his chance and failed to take care of you, to love you like you deserve. He was so cruel, baby, and I can’t allow myself to stand by and watch you suffer when I’m right here, begging you to let me show you how much I am enamored of you. Let me be the man you deserve by your side. Someone who knows what you need just by looking into your eyes.”
“And what do I need now, James?” His breath hitches, not expecting his first name to sound so right on your tongue.
Bucky, James, Jamie… He doesn’t care. He just needs you to demolish that already fractured wall of propriety that has kept you apart all along.
“My lips on yours.” His blue eyes shine, smitten, and that is enough to give you that confidence boost you’ve been looking for a while. Your fingers graze his jaw for a fleeting moment, before they grab his shirt to pull him forward.
You meet him in an urgent kiss, your other hand tangling in his hair, pulling just enough that the guttural sound clawing out of his throat has your thighs squeezing close. His tongue roams freely in your mouth, until oxygen leaves you entirely. You kiss for what feels like a lifetime, your lips fitting together like the final two lost pieces of a puzzle.
His palms fondle the curve of your waist until he finds the courage to guide you on his laps with a hand on your thigh. A moan is muffled against your mouth when your covered core comes into contact with his crotch, his bulge the proof that you’re not the only one affected. One hand sneakily trails up your torso, resting ultimately on the side of your breast, a gentle squeeze of your flesh eliciting a gasp out of you, so you take the chance to grind down on Bucky, the teasing movement leaving him moaning under you.
When you separate, he regards you with blown pupils, his chest raising and lowering with ragged breaths.
Your fingers finally allow themselves to do what they’ve secretly wished for since the moment you sat on this couch: starting from the gentle creases on his forehead, they tenderly trace down his dark brows, until they reach the sharp profile of his nose, his blushing cheekbones, the trim stubble on his jawline. His mouth parts just a fraction when your thumb strokes his bottom lip, his next breath shaky, frightened to interrupt this sublime, quiet connection.
“You’re stunning, James.” You utter softly with a faint smile. His eyes flutter shut with a sigh when your fingers move then on to his collarbone. Shivering, the older man wraps one muscular arm around your back, bringing you close, until he can comfortably lean in to return the favor, lavishing the column of your throat with wet kisses. Your head falls back, brokenly gasping each time his teeth gently graze your skin.
“You’re driving me crazy with all these cute, sinful sounds.” He growls, a grin blooming on your mouth at his poorly concealed desperation. The hand firmly resting on your ribs slowly travels down to your side, leaving a trail of goosebumps behind; then over your half-bare thighs, until it lands on your covered ass. Your gasp gets promptly swallowed by his mouth when he hungrily squeezes the flesh, encouraging the circular movements of your hips against his erection. The sound of his low groan makes your pussy throb, suddenly shifting your focus on the embarrassing dampness of the boxers you’re wearing.
When was the last time someone touched you as if you were their most precious treasure?
This time your kiss is more animalistic, all teeth and tongue, than the ones you previously shared, a testament of your growing arousal.
“Baby,” he breathes out, cradling your cheek to assure you’re making eye contact. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, you know that, right?”
“Mmh?” Your movements are a little more lethargic after the way his hands have gently played with your curves, your fingers weakly curling into the fabric covering his broad shoulders. The ghost of his palms on your chest and thighs still tingles on your skin, and you slightly tilt your head when he starts talking again, regarding him with half-lidded eyes.
“We can do whatever you want. You wanna watch a movie? I’m already opening Netflix. You wanna sleep by yourself? I’ll make the bed in the guest room right away. We can cuddle all night if you’d let me—”
“What if I want you to fuck me?” The words feel like cotton candy in your mouth, yet you don’t miss the way his eyes widen.
There is a brief, meaningful pause.
“Are you sure?” His voice shakes a little as his hands squeeze your hips.
“Please.” Your sigh almost has him maneuvering you on your back to see what other sweet sounds he can coax out of you. Just for him.
“Yeah? You’ve been thinking about it, sweetheart?” You simply hum, slowly nodding. “About all the ways I could make you come on my tongue?” He whispers, towering over you as his firm fingers keep your chin raised, preventing you from hiding.
Squirming in his lap, you are forced to look him in the eye as your slick steadily soils his boxers, cheeks scorching hot with a hint of mortification.
“Did you think about me when you were fingers deep into your sweet pussy? Imagining it was my cock making you scream?” He continues calmly. “Did you come like a good girl with my name on your lips, mmh?”
You whimper, nodding jerkily. “I was... so lonely.”
“Well,” he chuckles smugly. “You won’t have to worry about that anymore, pretty girl.”
A squeal claws out of your throat as Bucky lifts you without much of a fuss. You keep your legs tightly wrapped around his waist, your arms circling his neck with newfound strength. Moaning, he has to stop multiple times on the stairs as you can’t resist leaving small pecks all over his jaw, teeth softly biting the most sensitive spots.
It’s the first time you cross the threshold of his bedroom, yet it doesn’t feel as awkward as it should.
You completely ignore the big walk-in closet and his en-suite bathroom as soon as you are placed in the center of the large bed, his six-foot frame covering yours without actually resting his full weight on you. Your lips meet again and this time, his palm travels under the shirt you are wearing, finding your bare chest.
“James, wait—” You moan, hips twitching up as his fingers graze your already erect nipple. You’re now fully lying on your back with his hard body straddling you, but a weak push against his chest is enough for Bucky to immediately lift his torso up.
“Are you oka—”
“More than okay, I feel so good. I just—I need to make something clear.” This time it’s you who cradles his jaw, swallowing thickly. “I like you, James. I think I have for a while, actually. It wasn’t just... pure admiration, or friendship. And this,” your finger wriggles between the two of you, pointing at your chests. “It’s not a one-night stand for me. I don’t want you to think you’re... some sort of revenge; much less a rebound.”
“This is a dream come true.” He mumbles against your lips, caressing the back of your head in awe.
“I’m gonna make this right, okay sweetheart?” Bucky kisses your forehead, then focuses on both cheeks. “I’m gonna take care of you.” His mouth trails south, on your neck. “Play with your sweet pussy until you are nice and ready to take me.” Your eyes roll back, shuddering at his low voice whispering right in your ear.
“Worship your body until you are left shaking and gasping in my arms, orgasm after orgasm.” The fingers trailing up your thigh finally reach the inner part, his thumb stroking the wet fabric right where you need him the most.
“Then I’m gonna fill you up,” your hips buckle up, causing him to huff out a chuckle. “Yeah? You like the sound of it, angel? Like the idea of me stuffing you full with my cum until you can’t take a step without it sliding down your thighs?”
“Bucky, please.” You breathe out, trembling fingers squeezing his forearm.
His shaky exhale gives his excitement away, despite his confident and collected behavior. He makes sure to look in your eyes for his next words.
“Gonna take you on a date tomorrow, alright?” You simply nod, swallowing as his other palm traces your bare stomach, lifting the shirt up and up, until your ribs are exposed to the warm air of his bedroom. “Give you everything you deserve and more.”
His smirk grows when you whine at his hands moving away to take off your top. A low groan falls from his lips when your naked chest is finally exposed. His large hands cup your tits without much thought, the pads of his thumbs brushing over your nipples, eliciting another whimper out of you. You finally look up at his face, biting your bottom lip when you notice the way his eyes have turned darker, just like the ocean abyss, as they marvel at your breasts, perfectly fitting inside his palms.
“Such gorgeous tits, sweetheart.” Your cheeks instantly heat up at the praise; overwhelmed by the sudden attention on your naked torso, you try to turn your chin away, but Bucky is faster. Cradling your cheeks, he turns your head until you are forced to stare right at him.
“None of that hiding shit.” He mutters against your breasts between kisses, your back arching the moment his tongue starts lavishing your nipples, until they are both raw and turgid.
“You’re going to lie back and watch me as I ravish you, darling.”
The boxers are suddenly discarded on the floor. It’s electrifying, being so open for Bucky to freely admire you. You’re quivering under his devoted gaze and tender smile, your breath hitching each time his fingers stroke a patch of burning skin as he takes his time in appreciating every single curve, every aspect that you might consider a flaw. To him, they’re new features to cherish. A way to learn you in the most intimate of ways.
You don’t even notice your eyelids fluttering shut. The rustling sound of fabric is what drives you to open them, just in time to catch Bucky throwing his shirt somewhere on the carpet.
He truly is handsome, with his strong physique and his muscles still defined, even with the small layer of fat covering most of it.
With a lewd twist of his lips, his hands guide your legs up until your feet are firmly planted on the mattress and your knees bent. You are certain your heart is going to come out of your chest if Bucky doesn’t hurry up, rather focusing on pressing sweet, delicate kisses from your ankle to your thigh, just stopping short of where the skin turns wet with your arousal. His smirk is devilish when your breath hitches in frustration, taking his time in giving the same reverent treatment to your other leg.
“I’ve got you, sweetheart.”
By the time he finally lies between your spread thighs, you are a shaky, sensitive mess, palms instantly covering your face when his nose almost touches your clit as his thumbs delicately part your folds.
Bucky lightly gasps. “Look how pretty you are. Already so wet for me, pretty girl?”
To be fair, you think this is the most aroused you’ve been in your whole life.
It’s mortifying how quickly your first orgasm approaches, it only takes Bucky a few languid circling movements on your clit and you’re already clenching, shivering against the beige bedsheets.
Breathy moans and whimpers fall from your parted lips as his fingers toy with your nub some more. “You’re so responsive, darling.” He marvels, licking his lips. “But not yet.”
Your pathetic whine once he focuses on your hole only fuels his teases.
“I know, sweetheart.” He soothes, a thick finger gently tracing up and down the seam of your entrance. “Just a little more. I promise it’s going to feel so good later.”
And just like that, one of his digits is inside you. Your limbs go rigid, before his other arm comes up to rest on your belly, his thumb finding a leisure yet firm rhythm as it rubs your clit, grinning when your body melts at once against the cool sheets.
You sigh at the heavenly sensation, and Bucky feels the exact moment it starts feeling good, your hole slowly making room for another finger.
“There we go, pretty girl. Is that the right spot? You are gripping me so tight, darling, bet it feels so good, right?”
Your eyes squeeze shut as you can only manage a nod, your own hand shooting down to anchor itself to one of his shoulders as the tip of his tongue replaces the finger taunting your nub. The first swipe makes your head fall back.
“Bucky!” A loud moan resounds through the dimly lit room, making his cock twitch.
“Jesus Christ.” His growl vibrates pleasantly against your tender core. “Has anyone ever tasted you, baby?”
“No!” You sob at his fingers pushing against your sweet spot.
“Fucking fools.” He snarls. “I’ll take care of you from now on, sweet girl. You won’t have to worry about anything.” He rasps out, feral with the thought of you making a mess on his face now that he has been blessed with your taste. “Just need to sit back and be good for me.”
You sniffle, the muscle of your stomach clenching to keep your orgasm at bay. You’re completely enraptured by his gentle yet solemn voice, not so different from the way his fingers play with your body. You subtly rock back on them, drawing him deeper and deeper.
“Oh I know, I know baby. I can feel you want to come.” Your hips twitch up, but the arm blanketing your belly keeps you nice and still as he enjoys his meal. His stubble leaves crude marks on the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, the rough friction causing your back to arch as high as his heavy arm allows.
“You know, sweetheart felt like the safest option.” He pants, coming up for air, his lips glistening with your arousal. “Now I can finally call you whatever I want.”
“Baby,” he leaves a kiss on your mound, half-lidded eyes fixed on your crumpled features. You couldn’t be more grateful for Nathan to have his mom’s eyes. “Darling,” his lips move on your clit next, sucking harshly. “Pretty girl—oh.”
You hoped he wouldn’t notice the way you clenched at that, but of course the smug bastard does.
“You like when I call you pretty girl?” You toss your head back as his thumb goes back to flick your nub. He can only coax out an embarrassed squeak that vaguely resembles a yes, but it’s enough to make Bucky smirk with pride.
“Yes, my pretty girl?” He relishes in the way you clench again, knowing you’re at your limit now.
“Give it to me, angel. C’mon,” he growls, ravaging your clit with steady suckles. “I’ve been too well-behaved and patient.”
Your head falls back against his pillow as your eyes fall shut, your first orgasm of the night hitting you hard and leaving you whimpering and dizzy under his palms. Your body tightens as wave after wave of pleasure seeps deep into your bones. Bucky groans at the sight of your pussy practically swallowing his damp fingers. You have never felt so good you could cry, the added sensation of his coarse beard against your sensitive core making your thighs tremble precariously around his head.
“Gorgeous.” Your nails cling onto his shoulder as you ride it out, humping his face with abandon under his soft grunts of encouragement. Bucky’s hips have been twitching against the mattress for a while now, unable to stay stoic in front of a goddess like you unraveling so sweetly before him. With a final teasing kiss to your clit, his thick fingers finally pull away.
You’re still breathless when Bucky lifts himself up, enough to pull you into another hungry kiss. Tasting yourself on someone’s tongue is definitely new, but not unpleasant. Not when a pathetic sound—half moan, half whine—claws out of your throat at your tongues dancing.
“Wish I could stay between your thighs all night.” He mumbles against your lips. Kissing Bucky… It’s just so lovely. Particularly like this, when he is towering over you, so close that the trimmed hair on his chest softly brushes your nipples as it heaves against yours. Your body lurches at the light stimulation on your raw nubs, completely missing the way one of his hands abandons your hip to swiftly discard his boxers.
It’s only when Bucky gets into an upright position that you can finally catch a proper glimpse of his body. Even his cock is beautiful, for fuck’s sake, all flushed and thick, proudly curving up toward his belly. You gulp thickly at the sight of how majestic he looks, naked and kneeling for you, before you promptly shy away at the amusement twinkling in his eyes. His strong arms wrap around your thighs without a word, dragging you closer to him until his length lightly nudges your core. His tongue is inside your mouth before you can even let a full gasp out. Whining, your fingers slip into his hair as he teases the seam of your entrance with the tip.
“So impatient.” He chuckles at your eager hips, before extending his arm towards the night stand.
“No!” Your fingers shoot forward and wrap around his bicep, causing Bucky to freeze entirely.
“I’m clean, got tested last month, and I’m on the pill.” You wheeze out, suddenly fearing your implicit request will be rejected.
Bucky scrutinizes you with open surprise, before a long, pensive exhale slowly leaves his nostrils.
He places a sweet peck on your forehead. “I’m clean too. But are you sure, sweetheart?” His brows furrow in worry.
“I’ve never let anyone else do it without.” You swallow nervously, taking his hand in yours to guide it to your cheek, unconsciously leaning into his palm.
“Want you to be the first.” You whisper.
“Fucking hell.” He grits out, letting his forehead fall on your shoulder. It’s your turn to smirk now, until you feel the bulbous head of his cock insistent against your hole.
“Oh.” You squeak out once he slides in halfway without much resistance on your part. The sight of your glassy eyes rolling back has him groaning.
“Feeling alright, doll?”
“Fuck—yes, fuck, it’s just—big!” You gasp, stiffening at the burning stretch. “More... More, I need more please.”
Despite your begging, Bucky feeds you his cock gradually, fearing he could hurt you and possibly scare you away forever. Once he bottoms out, his jaw clenches at the mere realization of finally being inside his girl. Attempting to calm the both of you down is difficult, yet he finds the strength to still, his lips finding yours at once. His self-control weakens precariously the more your body grows pliant under his, your walls hugging his cock so tightly he can feel every little, eager movement. The lewd, wet sounds of your mouth moving against each other only spur him on as his hips involuntarily jerk forward.
“Bucky.”
“Yes, yes, I know sweetheart.” He coos at your ragged breaths. “Gonna make the ache go away, mmh?”
Dragging his hips back slightly, Bucky carefully studies your expression, and only when he finds no sign of discomfort he lets himself slip right back in, harder.
“Oh, sweet girl.” He grins at you clinging onto his shoulders. “That feels good, right? Hear how she sings for me?” Leaning in to plant his lips right over your damp brow, he allows his hips to slowly move back, biting back a loud groan at the squelching sound.
“Need to see you fall apart on my cock.” He grunts.
“Please, need—harder.” You cry out, eyes rolling back as the tip nudges your sweet spot. Your moans grow higher and louder once he starts pounding you earnestly, your slack body trapped under his broad one, sliding up and down the mattress with each brutal thrust.
Bucky loses himself a little the moment he buries his nose in the damp skin of your neck, licking and kissing away the salty tang of your sweat, finally fucking you properly. The slapping noise of your skins meeting shamelessly fills the bedroom, mixing with your labored breaths and desperate moans.
“Shit, doll.” His growl vibrates against your pulse. “Need this all the time, need to hear your sweet squeals as I carve a place for my cock inside your cute little pussy.”
The way he kisses your mouth like a starving man, and how his cock fits so perfectly inside you, stirs a warm feeling inside your chest, far too tender compared to the throbbing ache in your belly.
“Such a good girl for me, taking all of me so well.” He gushes deliriously, smiling at your connected lower half. “My girl. My pretty, sweet girl.”
“Come with me?” You whimper, your nails digging into his soft skin as pleasure threatens to swallow you whole.
“Want to give you another one.” He pants, slowing down just enough to properly look you in the eye. “I’m not so young anymore, sweet thing.” The back of his hand brushes your cheek with such tenderness you almost forget the hard length plunged deep inside your pussy, before Bucky resumes his punishing pace, coaxing moan after moan out of you.
Your mouth falls open in a silent scream, your body tensing as your back arches, finally letting yourself go.
“That’s it!” He draws the words out, keeping his eyes firmly on your face. Your legs feel like they are falling to pieces, sore but still squeezing helplessly his waist.
“So tight, so good for me. You look like an angel, sweetheart. A pretty, fucked-out angel. Wish you could see how beautiful you look with a big cock giving you exactly what you need.” He can hardly fend off the devastating orgasm threatening to make him fall apart; yet he keeps going, wanting to prolong your pleasure as much as he can. It’s only when your whimper borders on painful and your palms shoot down to push at his chest, that his hips gradually come to a stop.
“Holy fuck.”
Your lower half is pleasantly aching by the time you are coming down from your earth-shattering climax. Bucky is still trying to dominate his instincts, jaw clenched and nose lightly tracing the soft skin of your collarbone, breathing in your scent. The primal urge to make you his violently rattles at the cage of care and protection that Bucky scrupulously crafted day by day, just to keep it contained. He’s at his limit, yet he always makes sure to take such good care of you first... your stunning, kind Mr. Barnes.
But now it’s your turn to have your fun with him.
“Get up.” You mutter, pressing on his pecs. Panic briefly crosses his features as he clumsily lifts up on shaky muscles. You don’t let him go too far though, gently pushing him until he’s laying on his back. When you land directly on his crotch, cock still snuggled inside you, his eyes widen in astonishment.
Everything feels more sensitive like this.
You don’t care about your aching joints, nor about your sensitive and sore body still going through the aftershock, immediately setting a fast pace. You bounce up and down, biting your bottom lip as you stare at his parted lips. Your combined ragged breaths make you clench around his length, loving the way you sound together. Bucky is too busy pawing at your hips with one hand and groping your breast with the other to rationally think about something clever that would surely turn this debauched doll in his laps into the timid sweetheart he likes teasing.
You’re not sure how long it has been, but what makes you still is definitely not the sudden uncomfortable stiffness in your lower back, but rather a loud, muffled noise.
Like something falling, or... a door slamming shut.
You stop at once, your wide eyes meeting Bucky’s astonished gaze. His shock, though, has short life, as his hands land on both of your thighs with a resounding smack, encouraging you to go on.
“Bucky!” You reprimand him, gasping at the abrupt stimulation against your sweet spot. The older man under you slowly lifts his torso up, encircling your waist as he gently guides you down with him, until your forehead rests against his.
“We have already established that we like each other and that this,” he points between you two just like you did before. “Is not a one time thing.” You nod quickly, still panting and alarmingly aware of all the noises coming from downstairs: bare feet thumping against the tiles, a cabinet closing, a small sigh of relief after drinking some water.
“Don’t you want to give him a taste of his own medicine?” You can’t believe the shadow of malice falling over his eyes.
“He’s your son!” You whisper-shout, partial to his proposal but still too timid to go along with it.
“And you are my girl.” He growls with the same heat, his fingers digging into your skin bruisingly. “The same girl he cheated on for eight months.”
Something shatters inside your chest. You don’t know if it’s the reality finally catching up to you, or the humiliation gradually mutating into a fiercer, hotter thirst for vengeance. Or maybe it’s the way this absolutely lovely man just defined you his girl so easily. No shame, no reservations.
Your palms press against his shoulders, urging him to fully lie back down. The slow smirk forming on his lips matches your playful smile.
“Fuck.” Your hips resume their pace with a newfound strength.
“You’re doing so well, angel. Look at you, taking all my cock in your tight little pussy. My pretty girl, all mine.” His dirty words only spur you on, taking his hands to guide them back on your curves. In the meantime, the stairs creak under careful yet not-so-silent steps, as Nathan warily makes his way up.
“Oh my God. Mr. Barnes, ’s so big.” You gasp, completely forgetting about your ex probably standing just outside the door. You don’t miss the way Bucky’s breath hitches at the name you used to softly utter with so much admiration and respect, now sounding so beautifully obscene as you cry for his cock. Faintly grinning down at him, you squeeze the hand fondling your breast, Bucky immediately looking up from your core engulfing his length so well.
“Yeah? And whose pussy is this, mmh?” His fingers settle on your clit with determination, careful to put the right pressure, and you respond at once, riding him faster.
“Yours! Fuck, always been yours!”
"Good girl.” He groans, using every bit of self-restraint to not succumb to the heavenly feeling of you desperately gripping his leaking cock.
“That’s it.” His jaw locks. “Come for me, my beautiful girl.” Your third climax of the night is the most intense. You shatter with a breathy shriek, collapsing against Bucky’s chest as he promptly catches you. The urgent noise of footsteps climbing down the stairs and the final bang of the front door slamming shut are completely disregarded as you fall apart in the most delicious of ways.
“Fuck, you just tightened so fucking hard, baby girl. Feel so fucking good coming all over my cock, you were made for me.” His head falls back, exposing the refined line on his throat. “Taking it so well.” You cling to his large frame, shaking and whimpering as his hips ruthlessly chase his own pleasure.
“’M gonna ruin you for anyone else, angel.” The crack in his voice tells you he’s close, his hands keeping you nice and still as you try to relax, letting him use you.
“Bet you’ve never looked this lovely with him,” he hisses, his thrusts frantic and sloppy. “Never came this hard—shit, you’re gonna be leaking my cum from now on.”
With one last effort, your chin lifts enough for you to whisper right into his ear, “’M yours, Mr. Barnes. Always have been.”
His grip around your thighs borders on painful, but you don’t care as long as his filthy groans turn louder and needier. His hips thrust up once, twice, and then he is holding you down as rope after rope of his cum reaches the deepest part of you. Your content sigh at the surreal sensation of finally being filled soothes Bucky a little, his body finally falling back against the mattress as his cock keeps twitching inside you.
“Shit,” his next exhale is harsh, tired eyes staring dumbfounded at the ceiling. “I’ve never come this hard in my life, sweet girl.” His palms trace a slow path up and down your back, and you silently thank him for staying inside you. You are not sure you’d react well if Bucky were to part from you at once after what you just did.
Your weak body settles on his little by little, until you are completely pliant in his arms.
“C’mere and give me a kiss, I miss my pretty girl.” His mouth moves against your temple, before his thumb and index finger tenderly hold your chin to coax you out of your hiding place.
You lazily yield, meeting him in a languid kiss that is more tongue than lips.
“The best.” Kiss. “Prettiest.” Kiss. “Girl.” Kiss. “You’re so good to me, took it all inside and didn’t waste a single drop.” He playfully growls against your jaw, eliciting a tired giggle out of you.
“Bucky, it tickles.” You squirm slightly, wrinkling your nose when he leaves a gentle peck right on the tip. He couldn’t be more proud of how serene you look, safe and thoroughly fucked as you lie drowsily on his chest.
“So,” he sighs after a while, arms squeezing your waist as he beams up at the ceiling. “About that date…”
— ⟢ END NOTES: thank you so much for reading 💕
my masterlist → winteryn's masterlist
I mentioned it before but the inspiration for the title comes from this spectacular meme, of course lmaooo
This applies to a certain kind of people, you KNOW who you are:
“I wanna fuck [fictional character]!” “Just one night with [fictional character(s)]!” “My girl doesn’t [insert sexual activity] that’s why I cheat!” “It’s too small.” “It’s not pink.” “[Fictional character] is sooo fuckable.” “She doesn’t know how to do it right.” “He’s too small to feel good, I should break up with him.” “[Fictional character] is so boring but I’d still smash.” “She’s boring, I need two at once.” “My man doesn’t [insert sexual activity] should I break up with him?”
“LATINA FETISH, ASIAN FETISH, BLACK FETISH, he’s too chopped, she’s too chopped, BLAH BLAH BLAH!”
I dont understand why human beings are so, so, so, soooo SOOOOOOO FUCKING obsessed with sex. Hypersexual as fuck. It’s literally everywhere. It’s all you talk about. It’s fucking annoying. We get it, sex is fun, smut is fun too, moderation, people. WHY is sex/sexual content always being shoved up our ass ANY CHANCE ANYONE GETS?!! Is it all you people think about?!!?? So many of this world’s problems would be fixed if humans weren’t so hyperfixated on SEX? (You know who you are)
Why does no one ever say “I wanna cuddle with him.” “I love her personality, she makes me feel so special.” “He’s so sweet.” “I wanna buy her a cute dress.” “I’ll always love him and him only.”
I don’t need a sex obsession to be in a relationship. I don’t need sex to be happy. Neither should you.
TLDR: I think sexualizing characters/people IS COMPLETELY OKAY, but I’ve seen sooooo many people who make it their entire fucking personality and all they can think about 24/7 is dick or pussy AND ITS FUCKING ANNOYING.
Edit: To those pussies sending me anonymous inbox messages, I D O N' T G I V E A F U C K :)
ROUGH HANDS, STRAWBERRY KISSES & OTHER SOFT THINGS
18+ | MDNI - masterlist
PAIRING: farmer!bucky barnes x teacher!reader
SUMMARY: navigating your first relationship feels overwhelming at times; every touch, every question, every new feeling makes you wonder if you’re doing things right. thankfully, bucky loves you with enough patience and gentleness to turn every new experience into a reason to hold you a little closer. or, a collection of moments in which your boyfriend teaches you that love was never supposed to feel frightening—not when it’s held in careful hands like his.
WARNINGS: pre-established relationship; older!bucky (he's just mentioned to be older than reader & have a salt-and-pepper stubble, but both age are unspecified); gentle!bucky; protective!bucky; insecure!reader; reader is mentioned to wear skirts & dresses; size difference (author likes her men tall & beefy); non-sexual & light d/s dynamic; pet names feast & praise festival (this man is disgustingly whipped); reader uses "jamie" a lot bc the author finds it cute & intimate; domestic fluff; tooth-rooting romance; light angst; one (1) small argument; discussion about dealing with arguments in a healthy way; toxic family dynamics (reader's parents mentioned); brief discussion about the future & having kids; smut; big dick bucky organization (🙂↕️); soft dom!bucky; scent kink & possessive behavior; nipple play; pussy pronouns; pussy inspection; oral (f receiving); fingering; sex in public places; unprotected sex (I imagined reader to be on the pill but nothing is mentioned); rough & primal sex; multiple orgasms; overstimulation; squirting; creampie.
WORD COUNT: 26.2k
A/N: so... I won’t lie, I’m a little anxious. this story is extremely self-indulgent and stems from a deeply personal place. I know it might not be many people’s cup of tea but writing this was actually therapeutic after my friend gave me a sort of reality check about my love life lmao. one last thing, the order is not chronological. hope you’ll enjoy!
ᥫ᭡. WHEN YOU WANT TO WEAR MATCHING CLOTHES
Sitting cross-legged on your bed, your laptop is balanced precariously on your thighs. The cursor has been hovering over the same cream-colored sweatshirt for almost twenty minutes now, your eyes flicking uselessly between the product picture and the tiny sizing chart beneath it as if either one could help with the actual problem here.
Because unfortunately the problem is not the hoodie per se, but that Bucky owns the exact same one. Well, almost exact. His is a beautiful shade of forest green, faded slightly at the cuffs from use and permanently smelling like fresh air, and the cedar and rose body wash he keeps in his shower. You saw it weeks ago, the first time he picked you up to drive you to work because you had planned to grab dinner together later. His broad shoulders easily filled the doorway of your house, holding two coffees and wearing that stupid hoodie that somehow made him look even larger. You remember trying to subtly peek at it while he drove, only to end up staring shamelessly at the way the sleeves strained around his forearms every time he turned the steering wheel.
And now here you are, thinking about matching clothes like a sixteen-year-old girl with a Pinterest board titled someday. It’s embarrassing enough that you need to physically close the laptop for a couple of seconds, before opening it again with a sigh.
You don’t even know why this matters so much. You have never done this before—the soft, easy parts of a relationship. You have never had someone long enough to build small habits with, someone steady enough that you could easily picture yourself sharing jokes only the two of you could understand over morning coffee, or reaching for their hand in the grocery store without spending days working up the courage first. You are still learning how to ask for things without feeling guilty afterward. Still learning how to want openly. And Bucky... God, Bucky makes it so much worse by being so impossibly patient about everything. From the very beginning.
Your first date had barely even started before he showed up with flowers hidden awkwardly behind his back, his left hand rubbing at the back of his neck almost sheepishly when he handed them to you.
“Before you say anything, sweetheart, my mama raised me right and she’d come back from the dead to beat my ass if I showed up empty-handed.”
Your laugh was so loud and unexpected that he stared at you for a good moment like he had just been entrusted with a beautiful, precious gem.
Then there was the second date. And the third. And somehow every single time, he never failed to surprise you with his sweet thoughtfulness. Sometimes it was wildflowers from his property he’d personally tie together with twine. Sometimes big yet tasteful bouquets of stargazer lilies that you would immediately put in a vase and proudly display on your dining table. Once, peonies so full and soft they had shed pink petals all over the inside of his truck.
He opened every door without making it feel performative, always guiding you carefully with one warm hand on your lower back as if that had become instinct before he even realized it. And then came the night of your fourth day, when he walked you to your door, lingering awkwardly while you fumbled with your keys.
You remember smiling nervously. “So… what exactly are we doing here?”
Bucky had taken a long moment to look at you, blue eyes softening under the faint light of your doorstep. “I was hoping I could court you properly.”
Court you. Who even says that anymore? Apparently, James Buchanan Barnes.
You stared at him while your heartbeat climbed into your throat. And because silence had stretched a little too long, he had immediately stepped in to reassure you.
“Only if you want me to, sweetheart. No pressure.”
No pressure. As if he had not already made your entire understanding of men shift off its axis.
Sometimes, it frightened you how naturally Bucky fit into your life. It started with warm drinks and pastries between classes because, “my pretty girl shouldn’t have to survive on burnt coffee from that old thing in the staff room”; with calling you every night just to hear your voice before bed, and taking you out on dates every Friday. Yet he could not stand going the rest of the week without seeing you, which was how sunny Sunday walks around his property became routine, along with Wednesday lunches at the little diner where his aunt’s friend, Pat, worked and spent the entirety of your meals watching the two of you with the sort of fondness reserved for people who are obviously in love yet keep shyly tiptoeing around each other.
Bucky loves intensely in all the quietest ways, which somehow makes asking for things complicated. Because what if one day you asked for something silly enough that made him realize how inexperienced you really were at all this?
Your eyes land back on the hoodie again as you chew at the inside of your cheek. Before you can overthink yourself out of it, you click purchase.
The first time you wear it around him is for movie night next Saturday. You have been shaking with excitement for weeks over the special twenty-fifth-anniversary screening of The Lord of the Rings. Bucky had agreed to come with you without even letting you finish explaining why it mattered so much, only to follow it up with an amused, “don’t gotta sell it to me, doll. I’ll take you wherever you wanna go.”
You almost change three times before he arrives. By the time his truck pulls up in your driveway, your stomach is churning so badly you feel like throwing up. It’s a hoodie that just happens to be like his, so what? People wear hoodies every day, they’re such a common piece of clothing... This is not a confession of undying love.
Still, the moment you pull open your door and find Bucky waiting on the other side like he’s been standing there just long enough to start missing you, you realize the sweater has perhaps not been your most emotionally neutral decision. His eyes find your face immediately, his default frown melting at once. But before he can even say hi, his gaze drops on the cream-colored fabric. You watch with horror the exact moment recognition settles in.
There is a brief, heavy pause, and then that slow, familiar curve of his mouth appears—not teasing in any cruel sense, never that. Just quietly pleased, enough that heat crawls all the way up your neck. And because your brain seems biologically incapable of letting you experience vulnerability like most people, you blurt out the first thing that comes to mind.
“I thought the color looked nice.” The words tumble over each other so quickly they barely sound coherent by the end of the sentence.
Bucky blinks, clearly caught off guard by your sudden defensiveness, before one dark eyebrow lifts, amusement flickering across his face in the gentlest possible way.
“Nobody said it didn’t, baby.”
You promptly look away as if the floor might offer some kind of mercy, pretending to be preoccupied with the sleeve of your hoodie while internally mourning what little dignity you have left. Bucky doesn’t let you sit in it alone for long, though. Taking a step closer, his warm presence is grounding enough that all the static noise in your brain fades. His hands naturally find your waist like they have always belonged there, before he softly nudges you forward.
“C’mere, sweetheart. Let me say hi properly.” He murmurs, leaning down to press a slow kiss on your lips, grinning at your unguarded, little giggle when his stubble tickles your skin.
The cold evening air makes you shiver, and you instinctively tug your sleeves further over your hands while Bucky leads you to his pickup truck, parked beneath a flickering streetlamp. You can sense his quiet amusement, though he is kind enough not to mention the hoodie outright. Still, every now and then you catch him glancing at you from the corner of his eye with that same smitten expression reserved for you only.
Once you reach the passenger side, Bucky opens the door before you can even think about touching the handle yourself, one hand braced against the top of the frame while you climb inside.
“Watch your head.”
You duck obediently beneath his arm, trying very hard not to think about how quickly you have fallen into these tiny routines with him.
As Bucky rounds the hood and slides into the driver’s seat, your heart finally starts calming down. You might survive the evening with minimal humiliation, after all. But then, he just has to reach across and smoothly pull the seatbelt into place for you—the way his knuckles brush your thigh briefly through the fabric of your jeans still manages to send your thoughts scattering again.
“You’re fidgeting.” He mentions quietly, eyes flicking toward your hands where they are twisting nervously in the sleeves of your hoodie. “What’s going on in that pretty head, hm?”
You shake your head, far too quickly to look convincing.
“Nothing. I’m just a little cold.”
Bucky hums under his breath like he doesn’t believe you for even a second, yet doesn’t comment and instead lets his gaze fall on your sweater one more time before returning to your face. The smile that spreads slowly across his lips is so openly fond that your cheeks start burning.
In a careful movement, he leans over the center console and kisses you, his calloused fingers cupping your jaw with impossible tenderness.
“You look lovely tonight.”
That almost makes your heart explode out of your chest.
The next time he picks you up for lunch on your day off, your breath hitches as you freeze on the threshold. Because Bucky is leaning against the hood of his truck in his dark green sweatshirt, looking so boyishly handsome with his sunglasses pushed up into his long hair.
His expression loosens when he sees your features fall in realization. God, he looks so unfairly gorgeous when he gets that look in his eyes, the same one that suggests every sharp edge exists only for the rest of the world, never for you.
“There’s my pretty girl.”
Your stomach flips violently as he pushes himself off the imposing vehicle to cross the short distance, his hands easily settling at your hips the second he reaches you. He bends to kiss you hello, unhurried despite the cold, and your palms unconsciously come up to touch his chest.
“I missed you so much, baby.”
You are still too busy internally combusting to softly point out that you just saw each other two days ago for bowling night with your friends, Natasha and Darcy. Your fingers curl tighter in the fabric, and Bucky notices instantly.
His thumbs stroke once the curve of your waist. “You okay?”
You nod eagerly.
“You wore it.” The words slip out of your mouth before you can stop them, gaze still lingering on the hoodie in pure wonder.
Bucky glances down at himself, and then at your own sweater before meeting your eyes, the right corner of his mouth lifting adorably.
“Thought we’d look real cute if we matched.”
You feel dizzy at his effortless answer, devoid of any trace of irony or hesitation. And that’s the thing about Bucky, you realize again as you stand there trying to steady your pulse: he doesn’t treat these moments like anything out of the ordinary. He simply folds them into the shape of his care for you.
Before you can collect yourself enough to answer, he is already guiding you forward with an arm around your shoulders, opening the passenger door ahead of you with that same practiced care. The warmth of the truck hits you almost dazedly after standing still in the cold.
“Heat’s been on for a bit.” He remarks at your blink of surprise as he settles into the driver’s seat, his chin lightly nodding at the backseat, where two of his heavier jackets are folded neatly, placed with deliberate care so they will not shift during the drive. Beside them a fuzzy blanket sits just as methodically arranged.
“I know it’s not the warmest of hoodies.”
When you look back at him, he sends you a small wink. At your stunned silence, his fingers gently move beneath your chin to have your complete attention, your heart already beating too fast for you to pretend otherwise.
“You alright there, doll?” He asks with a small crease between his brows.
You nod too quickly, not entirely sure what words would even hold up under the weight of everything you are feeling right now. Bucky lets out a low sound that might almost be a laugh if it were not so gentle, and then he is leaning in just enough to press a peck to the corner of your mouth.
“Y’know, I think I’m getting attached to this whole matching thing. Sends a pretty clear message.” He murmurs against your skin.
From that point on, it’s an unspoken agreement that has tenderly carved its rightful place between you both. It never turns into a conversation so much as it becomes a habit for the two of you. A jacket chosen to match the tone of your skirt, a top swapped for a darker color, small details that only make sense when you realize he’s genuinely paying attention to you, building your relationship one quiet choice at a time.
And months later, there are mornings when he is sitting at the edge of the bed with coffee in hand, his eyes lazily following you move around his room as you get ready. They eventually land on your shoes.
“You wearing the brown boots today?”
You glance down at your outfit, confirming it with a small nod as you keep applying your mascara. Bucky hums once in acknowledgment, already pushing himself up with a low groan to reach for his own pair in the shoe rack.
“Then I’ll wear mine.” He mumbles casually.
ᥫ᭡. WHEN YOU WANT TO TAKE A CUTE PICTURE TOGETHER
The local café is a half-forgotten hole-in-the-wall tucked between a bookstore and a florist, the kind that only feels busy because the tables are close enough that conversations blur into one another in a soft, overlapping hum. Today it’s warmer than usual for the season, sunlight spilling lazily across the pavement outside almost indulgently after days of grey skies and persistent rain. It coaxes people into lingering longer than they probably intend to as though no one is in any particular rush to leave.
You are sitting across from Bucky at a small round table on the patio, your cups half-full and an empty plate sitting between you, remnants of the slice of red velvet cake you shared earlier still scattered across it. He stepped away only a few minutes ago, murmuring something about the restroom and brushing his knuckles briefly against your shoulder as he left.
In an attempt to occupy yourself while you wait, you take out your phone, your thumb moving absentmindedly across the screen as you scroll through whatever comes up. Until a specific post catches your attention so suddenly it stops you entirely.
It’s one of those photos you have seen countless times while looking for outfit inspirations on Pinterest, clearly curated despite its effortless appearance. A girl sits on what you assume must be her boyfriend’s lap while the camera is angled downward just enough to capture their shoes together, his heavy worn boots resting beside her delicate heels. The entire image is framed in warm light that makes it look like wanting something and simply having it without hesitation.
The contrast is cute rather than discordant.
You find yourself stuck on that picture as your chest tightens, because there are still so many small things that you don’t know how to ask for yet, things that feel too silly to voice even though they linger in your mind longer than you would like to admit. A lap. A picture. His boots beside your pretty Mary Jane heels… It feels ridiculous to desire it this badly, yet you keep staring at your phone as if hesitation could soften the sting of being dismissed. Or worse, laughed at.
You don’t notice Bucky returning until the chair across from you shifts under his weight, the scrape of it pulling you sharply into the present as you instinctively place your phone back on the table a tad too quickly for it to look natural. He sits down pretending to not have noticed any of it, reaching for his coffee.
“Alright, lovely?” He asks, voice unbothered.
You open your mouth, then close it again almost immediately, your mind caught between embarrassment and the awareness of how easily he always seems to understand you. Bucky notices your uncertainty, but doesn’t push, instead loosely rests his forearms on the table to lean closer.
“Hey,” his voice lowers just enough to gently pull you out of your thoughts. “What were you saying before I got up? About yesterday’s meeting?”
It’s such a simple question yet it almost disarms you completely. People don’t usually do that—they interrupt you to start new conversations, change direction, lose track halfway through and then forget about it entirely. But Bucky is looking at you like your words were simply waiting there for him to return to them.
So you blink once, a little startled, then slowly exhale as memories come back with a sharp pang. About that stupid staff meeting. About Ms. Cox.
The words come out carefully at first, testing how much space you are allowed to take up, but the more you speak, the clearer Bucky can see frustration still fresh beneath your composure.
“There is this student, Mark. Ms. Cox keeps insisting that he’s lazy and just—” You exhale tiredly. “She believes he doesn’t care about school.”
His jaw subtly tenses as he nods for you to go on.
“And I tried to explain that it isn’t that simple,” you continue, your fingers fidgeting on your lap. “Because it’s true that he struggles with math, but he works really hard, always does his best. He just needs time. And she… well, she went off on me.”
His brows draw together. “Went off how?”
Your eyes fall on the table before you adjust in your seat, as if moving could shake off the discomfort.
“She accused me of inflating grades to make myself look like a good teacher.” You admit quietly, the accusation leaving behind an ugly taste of shame on your tongue despite your innocence. “Because students do well in English. Including Mark.”
You can practically sense Bucky biting back his irritation, his frown deepening as he watches you shrink just talking about it.
“And the principal just let it slide?” His voice roughens slightly at the edges despite his effort to keep it even.
You huff out a small breath that resembles a laugh, devoid of any humor. “She has been teaching there forever. They just don’t deal with her anymore. Alice described her as—ah, sorry. Alice is the—”
“The art teacher.”
You finally look at him, blinking in surprise.
“Yeah.”
He gives you a small nod, a brief smile crossing his features.
“I remember.”
“Oh.” You have mentioned your colleagues only once since you started going steady, your meager dating experience having taught you that nobody was really interested in your life—especially your job. They focused more on meaningless, polite conversations punctuated by some generic compliment about your eyes, or your dress, that could guarantee them some sort of reward at the end of the night.
“Um.” You clear your throat, trying to ignore the intensity of his gaze. “So, Alice described her as a vindictive woman and since she’s close to retirement, they let her do whatever she wants because it’s easier than arguing with her.”
You hesitate for a second. “Years ago, there was this new physical education teacher...” Your voice lowers a little as if she might appear out of thin air and point her condescending finger at you. “She refused to approve his one-day school trip unless it was on her day off, because she didn’t want her schedule disrupted.”
Your jaw clenches briefly. “He told the principal… and after that she kept filing complaint after complaint about his ‘lack of professionalism’, until the school ended up not renewing his contract the next year.”
“What the fuck?” He mumbles under his breath, his lips pressing together tightly. “Wait—and they just expect you to take it?” His nostrils flare with a slow exhale.
“Pretty much.” You shrug, though it feels heavier than you intend.
For a moment, Bucky just sits there with his jaw tight as he chooses to not push his annoyance outward yet, mainly because he is waiting for you to let it all out. It’s in that pause that your eyes move unconsciously to the side of the table. Your phone is still there, the screen dark now, but not locked properly. You realize it too late, when a notification from that stupid teachers’ group chat—the one filled with nothing but good morning texts, good night wishes, and painfully unfunny memes—briefly wakes it and reveals that picture again, bright and candid.
Bucky’s attention promptly lands on it too. He doesn’t comment, which only makes your stomach tighten further as you hastily reach for your phone, turning it face down with too much force.
“What was that?” He asks casually, quiet curiosity dancing in his eyes.
“Nothing.” You answer too fast and his eyes narrow slightly, more observant than suspicious.
“That didn’t exactly sound like nothing, sweetheart.”
You hesitate, then deflect again, weaker this time. “Just a random picture.” You shrug, hoping to appear disinterested. “I was on Instagram and forgot to close it.”
That earns a pause from him, his head tilting just a fraction as he studies you more carefully.
“A picture you don’t wanna show me?” He asks gently.
You shake your head, eyes shyly falling on his arms. At that, Bucky simply shifts in his seat, his hand crossing the small space between you—not to take your phone, but to find your wrist and gently guide it to his lips. When you peek through your eyelashes, you almost flinch at how close he is now, his thumb reverently stroking your knuckles before his other hand cups your chin deliberately.
“You can tell me anything.” His voice is steady in a way that doesn’t leave room for pressure, only reassurance. “Y’know that, right?”
You shiver at the proximity. You do know, that’s the problem, how could you forget when Bucky stands before you, always so careful and sweet? And still, you are never entirely sure how to stop the words from breaking in your mouth.
“I just… saw something,” you confess weakly. “That I thought would be cute to recreate together.”
Bucky’s expression softens instantly.
“What is it, sweetheart?”
You swallow thickly, fingers flexing once under his hand. Then, barely above a whisper, you manage it. “I’d like for us to take pictures like… couples do.”
He observes you silently, expression unreadable, until a small smile pulls at the corners of his mouth, patient and knowing all at once. He nudges his chair back a little farther to make room for you, patting his thigh once.
“C’mere.”
You blink. “What?”
He nods toward his lap.
“C’mere, doll.” He repeats quietly, reaching for your wrist before you can overthink yourself into refusing, to guide you around the table.
The realization of what you are doing hits in one overwhelming wave of self-consciousness the second your weight fully sinks on his lap. Bucky is bigger than you in every conceivable way, broader and heavier with muscle, solid where you are soft. His thick forearm dusted with dark hair keeps you close to the warmth of his chest, and his strong thighs spread comfortably beneath yours. When his palm settles on your knee to keep you balanced, the rough heat of his skin bleeds straight through the thin fabric of your stockings, and a small involuntary shiver runs through you. It’s humiliating how dizzy it makes you feel, because Bucky appears completely at peace behind you. You are trying not to implode from his touch and there he is, sitting back and holding you as if that’s exactly where you are meant to be.
Your unsteady hands finally reach for your phone, trying to angle it properly, breath catching a little when his fingers flex against your waist.
“You’re thinking way too hard.” He murmurs near your ear, his salt-and-pepper stubble faintly scratching your skin.
“I’m not.” You insist weakly.
Bucky hums low in his chest, unconvinced, the sound of it vibrating through his body into yours.
“Baby,” he calls out gently, mirth lying beneath his words. “You’ve taken six pictures of the table.”
Your face burns.
“I’m trying.” You mumble horrified, sighing in relief when you finally manage to frame your shoes correctly while he chuckles behind you.
“I know. You’re doing just fine, sweetheart. Take all the time you need...” He releases a slow exhale, then under his breath, “I’m definitely not complaining right now.”
The faint rasp in his voice and the way his thumb strokes the skin of your knee only make your pulse stumble harder. Finally, after another moment of fumbling and readjusting yourself against him, you manage to take a few proper photos.
The knot in your chest loosens gradually as you look through them. They are good. Not overly posed or awkward as you feared, but cute and intimate in that effortless way you had envied earlier. His scuffed work boots are beside your neat Mary Janes, your knees tucked between his jeans-clad ones, the edge of his large hand visible against your thigh like a quiet reminder that the man holding you is very much real, and that’s him.
A coy smile brightens your features. It’s a small, absent-minded gesture, yet Bucky is completely enraptured.
“There she is.” A comment under his breath, meant for himself.
You feel him lean closer to look over your shoulder, his chin brushing your cheek as his gaze settles on the screen, and the expression that crosses his face afterward is so openly proud that you feel the sudden urge to squirm out of giddiness.
“They came out pretty nice, huh?”
You nod before turning back to properly look at him, still smiling.
“Thank you, Jamie.”
The words leave your mouth instinctively, sincere. Still, Bucky furrows his brows at you. His hand leaves your knee to curl delicately around your chin, guiding your face until your eyes meet properly.
“You don’t need to thank me.” His voice low but firm—a fact rather than a suggestion. “I love spending time with my girl. Y’hear me, baby?”
Your next breath catches in your throat so fast you almost choke on it. His expression softens further at whatever he sees on your face, his thumb stroking once your bottom lip before he closes the distance between your lips.
“You ask me for something, I’m gonna give it to you if I can.” He adds quietly against your mouth.
You swallow thickly, answering with an imperceptible nod that makes him hum, pleased. For a while, it’s just you and him. Tucked against his chest with the phone still loose in your hand, you sit sideways on his lap, his arm tightening around your waist the more your body grows pliant. The initial embarrassment melts into pure bliss once his forehead comes to rest on yours, his blue eyes fiercely glinting with devotion as they trace your pretty features.
You would probably stay here all afternoon if you could: no talking needed, just the safety of his arms. Eventually, though, duty creeps back in enough that you stiffen slightly, and Bucky loosens his hold at once, watching you get up. The hand on your thigh lingers for one last meaningful squeeze, goosebumps prickling across your covered skin.
The second your feet touch the ground again, you suddenly become aware of your slow breathing; of how his touch made you completely forget that you were sitting in your boyfriend’s lap, making out in the middle of a café situated on the main street, for anyone to see.
“I should probably go.” You mumble, smoothing your flowy dress unnecessarily to avoid his eyes.
A small smirk tugs at his lips at your clumsy attempt to regain composure.
“I’ll walk you to your car.”
By the time you reach the parking lot, your embarrassment has faded into a fuzzy tingle in the back of your head. Bucky opens the driver’s side door for you without breaking stride, one large hand resting automatically against the top of the frame while you climb inside. Your movements are a little languid as you place your palms on his chest for another kiss—quick and sweet and still a little flustered—but before you can pull away fully, his fingers close gently around your wrists.
“Send me those pictures later.”
You almost flinch in surprise. “You want them?”
That earns you a look.
“Sweetheart,” he starts slowly, like the answer should be painfully obvious by now. “Of course I want the pictures we took together.”
You promise you will do that once you get home, and Bucky lets you go only after one last heated kiss that has you sighing dreamily the entire drive back.
Later that night, long after you have changed into pajamas and curled beneath your blankets, your phone lights up with a message from him. It’s a reel of a chubby orange cat dramatically rolling onto its back for belly rubs. The giggle that falls from your lips is immediate, because you know how much Bucky loves these silly videos.
Still smiling, you tap back to reply but your fingers freeze, because his profile picture has changed. And there, framed in a tiny circle at the top of the screen, are your shoes beside his boots.
ᥫ᭡. WHEN YOU WEAR HIS CLOTHES FOR THE FIRST TIME
Bucky’s bedroom smells like him. Not cologne, or any sharp, artificial department store fragrance sprayed onto stiff collars and wrists... but a scent warm and lived-in. Cedar and clean detergent tangle together with fresh air drifting in through cracked windows, traces of earth and hay and early morning breeze clinging stubbornly to heavy fabrics, no matter how many times they are washed.
The whole house smells like sun-warmed wood floors and open fields after rain. Like stepping onto his farm and understanding right away why he belongs there.
The shower is running somewhere down the hallway after a long day spent driving deliveries back and forth across town, leaving you curled near the headboard with the remote in your hand, halfheartedly scrolling through movies while waiting for Bucky to come back. Your attention drifts eventually, pulled away from the television by the sight of one of his flannels folded over the chair near the dresser. It’s clean, probably left there after laundry day, thick dark fabric softened with wear. Before you can really stop yourself, your gaze lingers.
There is something strangely intimate about wearing someone else’s clothes. Not just in the obvious sense. It’s like stepping quietly into the shape of their life, wrapping yourself in something that has spent time caressing their skin, that carries their warmth and scent and the evidence of their existence in every seam. And maybe that’s exactly why your heart flutters at the thought. You stare at the flannel for another few seconds before finally setting the remote aside and climbing off the bed, moving almost cautiously toward the chair like it might bite you halfway there.
With a meaningful glance toward the door, you listen to the muted sound of running water, before carefully lifting it from the chair. The moment you pull it closer, his scent fills your lungs completely, clean and grounding and unmistakably Bucky. Without thinking too hard about it, you peel off your own sweater and slip his shirt on instead. The sleeves hang long past your wrists as the heavy fabric settles warmly around your body, and suddenly you are standing in front of the mirror near his dresser, turning slightly from side to side while smoothing your hands absently over the front buttons.
You feel ridiculously happy. Safe, somehow. Because it reminds your body that it never needs to stay on guard if he is there.
For a moment, you simply stand there smiling privately at your reflection. You are so entranced by it that you barely notice the bathroom door opening.
“Hey doll, did I tell you that yesterday those sneaky ducks nearly knocked over—”
Bucky stops mid-sentence. The silence that follows is sharp enough to make your stomach drop.
You glance at him through the mirror with wide eyes and freeze. He is standing just outside the bedroom doorway with his hair still damp from the shower, a grey henley stretched across his chest while he drags a towel over the back of his neck, but all movement stops the second his eyes land on you.
On his flannel wrapped around your body.
His gaze languidly follows your curves like he is trying to commit them to memory, scared you might vanish like some beautiful, cruel dream. Because his girl is standing barefoot in his bedroom wrapped in pieces of his life. And Bucky looks at you like he just forgot how to breathe.
“Oh my God,” you whisper, heat rushing into your face as you turn around. “I’m so sorry, I—I saw it there and—”
The towel drops forgotten onto the end of the bed as he carefully shortens the distance. The closer he gets, the quieter you become, until the only sound left is the faint clucking of the chickens outside.
Up close, you swallow at his gentle eyes, though there is something else lingering beneath them, proud and possessive.
“Are you apologizing for wearing my shirt?” He lifts an eyebrow.
Your lips part unhelpfully, but they close again on a second thought. Bucky’s eyes flick toward the sleeves swallowing your hands before he reaches out, large fingers carefully rolling the cuffs back for you one at a time, movements unhurried and practiced despite the roughness his hands are used to.
“There,” he murmurs. “Better.”
When he finally glances back at your face, there is a spark of amusement dancing in his gaze. “You keeping this one, sweetheart?”
“What?” The question catches you off guard enough that you huff out an embarrassed chuckle.
“The shirt,” he nods at it, still delighted. “Think it’s yours now.”
“Bucky, no. I can’t just steal it.”
“Sure you can.” He shrugs easily.
Your eyes widen. “What—no!”
A real smile finally breaks properly across his face, devastatingly fond.
“Angel,” he murmurs patiently, hands warm against your waist. “You’re standing in my bedroom looking happier than you have all week. Think I’d be pretty stupid to ask for it back.”
You awkwardly tuck your chin down, studying your socks.
“You’re exaggerating.”
A quiet laugh falls from his lips. “You were twirling around in front of the mirror.”
Your head snaps up at that, your jaw dropping indignantly.
“I was not!”
“You absolutely were.”
“I was simply checking how it fit.”
“Mm-hmm.”
Before you can argue back, his hands slide a little more securely around your back to pull you closer, eyes dropping briefly to the flannel.
“Looks better on you anyway.” He murmurs.
“That’s a lie.” You focus on a spot on his neck, too shy to meet his gaze.
“Ain’t.”
“It’s your shirt.” You retort weakly.
“Not anymore.”
The certainty in his tone makes your stomach flip. Bucky watches the reaction happen in real time, something unbearably tender crossing his face at your attempt to further hide from his gaze, before he leans just enough for his forehead to touch yours.
“Y’know,” he starts casually, thumbs rubbing slow circles on your sides through the fabric. “I like seeing you in my clothes a little too much to complain about it.”
Your chest warms at the sincerity in his voice, yet you keep stubbornly staring at his chest, trying and failing to stop the grin tugging at your mouth.
“I think that would get out of hand very fast.” You mumble, finally meeting his eyes.
He smirks down at you. “Would it now?”
“You have a lot of nice flannels.” Your arms wrap around his neck, prompting him to get impossibly closer.
“Mhm.”
“And your hoodies are comfortable.” The tip of your nose brushes his.
“That so?” His brows shoot up playfully.
“And your jackets smell good.” You admit before you can stop yourself.
That finally earns you a proper grin. Far too pleased with himself.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he drawls. “You’re in real trouble then.”
You groan tiredly, throwing your head back in despair but his arms don’t allow you to stray too far from him.
“Don’t make fun of me.”
“I’m not making fun of you.” His hands settle more firmly. “Just thinking I oughta start keeping extras around.”
His brows then lift as though he has just reached a very reasonable conclusion.
“Actually,” he corrects himself, voice thoughtful. “Might need to make a rule.”
You squint up at him suspiciously. “A rule?”
“Yeah.” He nods once, completely serious despite the subtle, teasing smile. “Think the second you walk through my front door, you’re legally required to put on one of my flannels.”
“Legally required?” You ask unimpressed.
“Mm-hmm.”
You shake your head pensively. “I really don’t think you can do that, Jamie.”
“Sweetheart, I own the property.” His expression turns impressively solemn, his lips grazing yours as he speaks.
“Means I make the laws around here.”
A laugh bursts out of you before you can stop it, bright enough that Bucky beams at the unguarded sound.
“No exceptions either, baby. Could be ninety degrees outside, I don’t care. Flannel goes on.” He hugs you tighter, his next words nothing short than a low murmur in your ear.
“Don’t even need to wear anything else underneath.” A squeak unexpectedly falls from your lips as his palms land briefly on your ass, squeezing the soft flesh before sliding back on your waist.
You sigh fondly despite the heat crawling up your neck. “This is the dumbest rule I’ve ever heard.”
“And yet,” his eyes drop briefly to the flannel before returning to your face. “Here you are.”
At some point, Bucky doesn’t announce it anymore. The moment you step inside the farmhouse, he’s already reaching for one of his flannels and holding it out—doesn’t matter if you’re staying for hours or just long enough to share a meal and a quiet evening that doesn’t demand anything from either of you. And then he’s crossing the distance between you in a few unhurried steps to pull you into his chest. He lowers his face into the slope of your neck, and breathes in deeply, again and again, like he needs the second breath more than the first.
Something unmistakably you—familiar, layered with the faintly sweet body cream you always use—mixes with his own scent that lingers in the weave of the flannel, worn-in and musky. His shoulders drop every time unfailingly, the tension he carries out in the world has no choice but to disappear.
His obsession for your scent doesn’t stop there, it only exacerbates when you are finally lying on his sheets, the two halves of the flannel crumpled at your sides as Bucky pants against your chest. He kisses you desperately, clutching your bare thighs until you are left warm and moaning under his roaming hands caressing your body with reverence. His palms map the dip of your waist, stroking along your ribs, until they encompass the swell of your breasts, gently kneading the skin as his lips trace a wet path from your mouth to that sensitive spot behind your ear that makes you whine so sweetly.
Your lips part around a breathy squeak the moment the calloused pads of his thumbs delicately circle your nipples, a low hum vibrates unintentionally in his chest at how fast they harden.
“Wanna hear you, princess.” He murmurs against your collarbones. “Let me hear how good it feels, c’mon.”
Bucky takes his time. You feel as light as cotton candy in his arms, sighing at every brush of his lips against your nipples. His mouth is hot and his tongue eager against the tender surface.
“Jamie!” You gasp as he starts sucking. His hand fondles the other breast, whimpers filling the dark room as his fingers playfully tug and flick your nub until your back arches so beautifully. His other hand grasps your thigh, leaving behind delicious reminders of his lust.
The gentle licks soon turn into harsher suckles, and your hands shoot forward to anchor yourself—one of them twists the sheets until your fingers hurt, the other sinks into his locks. Bucky exhales sharply at the light sting when your fingers pull at his hair, loving how the wet sounds bounce off the walls.
“Prettiest tits I’ve ever seen.” He growls.
“Jamie, it’s—oh my God.” Your head falls back when his lips take care of your other nipple, the one left behind now damp and tingling.
“Mhm, I know princess, they’re so sensitive. You gonna come in your cute panties?” You nod eagerly. Bucky’s dark eyes stay fixed on your crumpled features like a predator observing his prey, his mouth wicked on your poor abused nubs. Until the pressure in your belly is just too strong, and to your sheer surprise, your orgasm hits you out of nowhere. Your breasts are tingling with sensitivity, your hips frantically humping the air as your pussy throbs painfully at the lack of stimulation, clenching around nothing.
“That’s it, my needy girl. Look at you, coming just from having your tits sucked.” He grits out, giving your breasts one last, little smack a harsh squeeze.
Your skin is sticky and your lungs burning as Bucky finally moves between your shaky legs, peeling off your ruined panties with a swift, practiced movement. His calloused hands are firm on your thighs as they spread you open, silently watching your pussy as it pulses and drips, the unbearable ache mixing deliciously with the embarrassment of being this exposed for him—not a single ounce of shame in Bucky as he inspects it more thoroughly.
First, it’s his thumbs gently spreading your folds, his eyes devouring the way it tenses under his intense hunger. A shiver runs down your spine when his index finger slowly traces the tender slit, marveling at the way your slick sticks to his digit.
“Jamie...” You whine, your body—still so sensitive—lurching at his delicate teasing.
“Look at the pretty mess you made.” He whispers amazed, leaving a soothing kiss on your hipbone. You hear a sharp inhale as he buries his face into your core, his eyes rolling back at how strongly your scent hits his lungs. With blissful serenity written all over his face, his tongue starts lapping at your clit with lazy strokes. A strangled gasp falls from your lips at the sensation, your hips moving helplessly under the arm that blankets your stomach as Bucky hums satisfied at the drops of sweet arousal blessing his senses.
You almost choke on a delirious moan the moment a long finger slips inside, the hand grasping his sheets shooting down to grasp his wrist instead.
“Gonna bury my face here every morning, sweet girl.” He mumbles, a second finger joining the other inside you. “Make you soak my beard so I can smell your pussy all day at work.”
“Shit!” You almost scream, thighs snapping close around his head.
Bucky growls at the pressure, hungrily nursing on your throbbing clit as his nostrils flare. It’s so messy, with his saliva dripping down his chin and the insatiable need to please you driving his hips wild against the mattress. You can feel its intensity from the way his starved tongue laps at you, every flick sending biting sparks down your spine.
When he momentarily pulls away with a wet squelch, he groans in delight at the intoxicating taste. “C’mon princess, time to make a mess on my face.” He rumbles, mouth already latched back onto your clit, sucking with a steady rhythm as his fingers hit your sweet spot at the right speed.
Your body shakes from the unbearable pleasure washing over you, but Bucky refuses to stop, only pressing himself further into your clenching pussy, his tongue insistent as he pumps his fingers quickly.
“‘M gonna—Jamie!” You sob, hips jerking up as he pushes you right over the edge for a third time, this orgasm just as powerful as the others. Thoroughly consumed by him, you tremble and writhe, wailing when you squirt all over his face, soaking the sheets and your inner thighs as well. Bucky is not doing any better, resting his forehead on your mound. He tries to regain his breath after almost coming in his boxers as if touching a pretty, naked woman for the first time.
When he finally has a steadier grip on his self-control, he licks his lips with a low hum, shifting both of you until you are straddling him, your head lying limply on his chest as he plants sweet, little kisses on your forehead.
“Breathe, angel.” He murmurs, voice still rough with arousal. “You did so good for me, lovely.”
You blink, still spent and disoriented, but as his arms gently pull you higher, your sensitive core accidentally brushes against his erection. Bucky is still kissing you, noticing your little shiver but not thinking much about it—he knows you must be sleepy and tired. Yet he couldn’t be far from the truth.
Your hips gently rut against his thigh, squeaking under your breath when it finally touches your naked clit. Bucky’s body goes rigid for a heartbeat, suddenly catching on what’s going on in that pretty head of yours. You keep moving your hips, now thoroughly and shamelessly humping his thigh. His arms squeeze your waist hard, eliciting a surprised gasp out of you.
“What are you doing, doll?” He rasps out, his voice heavy with lust. He planned to take care of himself in the bathroom, maybe paint your tits with his cum if you insisted on helping... But how can he keep his composure with such a beautiful, sweet woman in his arms, so desperate for his touch?
Your head lifts enough for you to meet his gaze. “Please, Jamie.”
“Please what?” One of his hands grasps your jaw. “Use your words.”
You moan shamelessly, the warm tingle in your core impossible to ignore now. “Your cock... please.”
“You’re making a mess.” He mutters absently, his chest heaving at the sweet sight. And suddenly, his tongue is slowly tracing your bottom lip. A whimper escapes you, before his fingers tighten on your jaw as he thrusts his tongue in your mouth, just like he would with your pussy.
“You need my help, baby?” He reiterates, his gaze marveling at your fucked-out expression. At your eager nod, Bucky swallows thickly, fingers digging into your hips until you are forced to stop the desperate rocking motion of your hips.
It takes a single look at your big, shiny eyes and suddenly you are on your back, his cock so thick you start to tear up. “I know, I know. baby girl. It’s big, hm?” He coos, carefully kissing your cheeks and licking up the little tears like a ravenous beast.
“Eyes on me, princess… There you go, that’s a good girl.” Your mouth falls open into a perfect round shape, squeaking as his hips thrust forward leisurely. Bucky takes in the sight of your pussy stretched nicely around his length with pride burning hot in his chest. He would be lying if he said he isn’t getting impatient himself, unable to ignore anymore the fervent urge to see you unravel on his cock.
“Hold on to me.” You obey, eagerly wrapping your arms around his neck, your breasts pressed against his soft torso dusted in dark hair.
Once his cock slams right back into you, you gasp, nails digging into his back as he sets a brutal pace. The sounds of your skin slapping against his fill the room obscenely along your little whines of Jamie.
It only spurs him on because, “Fucking hell—yes, baby. Your Jamie.” Before searching your lips to pull you into a filthy kiss.
His calloused fingers dig into the plush of your ass, keeping you anchored to him just to see your eyes roll back at the delicious friction between your clit and his pubic hair.
“She’s so tight.” He grunts. “Keep clenching like that and I’ll make you leak for days.”
Your legs squeeze around his waist, drawing him impossibly deeper. “Please.”
He takes note of the way your eyes start to roll back as your pussy flutters eagerly, even if you do your best to keep them on him just like he told you... His pretty angel is always so good for him.
“Jamie...” You breathe out, body squirming between his sturdy arms built by years of hard work in the fields rather than gym. “’M so close—oh my God, yes right there!”
“I know, princess.” He mumbles, never breaking his rhythm. “Fuck, can feel her squeeze me so good, wanna keep me there forever, huh?” His lips twist smugly. “Don’t worry sweetheart, this cock’s all yours.”
Your breath stumbles in your throat as though there’s not enough air. Bucky is right there with you, brows pulled in concentration when he feels the familiar ache in his belly. His thrusts grow deeper, more purposeful, almost primal in their intensity, and you can tell by the tension in his jaw and the slight tremor in his arms, that he’s fighting for control. Even lost in pleasure, he is always putting you first.
“Tell me when you’re close.” He grits out, leaning down to steal a wet kiss that is more tongue than lips. “So I can fill my pussy up. That’s what you want, right princess? Wanna feel my cum drip out of you while you sit all cute watching me cook, hm?”
Your words come out in a warped, pathetic moan as he stuffs your mouth with two thick fingers. Your tongue is already playing with them, a sad whine clawing out of your throat when Bucky takes them out. It’s not even seconds later that you are tossing your head back, your words barely coherent as you tell him you are coming, his two wet fingers rubbing your clit at the right speed.
“That’s it.” He drawls through his teeth, his rhythm clumsily faltering at the thought of your pussy completely covered in his white cream. “Just like that, beautiful.”
Your vision blurs at the edges as pleasure consumes every single crevice of your body until your brain only knows how to scream your boyfriend’s name. Until there’s nothing but the delicious shape of his cock. You clench so tight his hips can barely move, pulsing and shaking around him as your hazy eyes cross, before rolling back.
Bucky follows moments later, pressing deep inside you as a full shudder travels down his body. His face is insistently pressed into your neck, trying to muffle the roaring groan that rumbles through his chest. The contact grounds him as his cock twitches and swells inside you, borderline animalistic in the way his fingers clutch your hips when he finally fills you up—the thought of leaving a part of himself inside you only prolonging his orgasm.
“Oh, my pretty princess.” Bucky pulls you tighter against him like he cannot bear the thought of letting go yet, both your hearts still hammering in sync as the aftershock pulses beneath your skin. His warm breath tickles your collarbones, and although his limbs are trembling with exhaustion, his hips still thrust lazily inside you to make sure not a single drop goes to waste.
ᥫ᭡. WHEN YOU START REACHING BACK
By the time Bucky introduces you to his friends properly, you have already learned something important: everyone else gets a different version of him than you do.
You begin noticing the pattern before he ever points it out himself. People straighten when he walks into a room, some of his new employees still stumble over their words when he speaks to them, and children stare at him in open fascination because he is broad and carries himself with grounded confidence without appearing arrogant. And honestly, you understand it. Bucky looks like someone built to endure anything. His hands are coarse from years of work, permanently marked with small scars and callouses from repairing machinery, hauling feed, and spending entire days beneath brutal weather conditions without complaint. His voice settles low and gravelly in his chest, and whenever he frowns in concentration—which is often—he appears unapproachable to anyone who doesn’t know him well enough to recognize that his silences are rooted in reflection rather than coldness.
Then there is the version of him that exists around you, so quiet in its devotion that you only begin noticing it gradually, through dozens of tiny moments. He automatically slows his pace to match yours whenever you walk together—just enough that your shorter steps never have to hurry to keep up with him. On the nights you stay over, he reaches past you to test the shower water before you step under it.
And somehow, it extends to even the smallest, most ridiculous things. Like the time you gasp at the sight of a spider near the kitchen sink and instinctively dart behind him before you can stop yourself. Embarrassment burns on your cheeks at your own reaction as you quietly ask him if he can please take it outside instead of killing it. Bucky only glances back at you, visibly amused by the fact that you are clinging to the back of his shirt like the spider personally declared war on your bloodline. Then, he easily cups it beneath a glass, slides paper underneath, and carries it out onto the porch with all the patience in the world. And when he comes back inside, there is a faint smile pulling at the corners of his mouth as you mumble a sheepish thank you from the safety of the hallway.
And maybe, the thing that affects you the most is how instinctive all of it seems for him. His care exists in reflexes. In the quick appearance of his hand over the sharp corner of an open cabinet before you can bump into it while bending down. In the way he reaches for your hand whenever a crowd grows too dense around you, thumb constantly stroking your knuckles in reassurance before you even realize you needed it. In the way he notices your social battery draining only by the slight slump of your shoulders, then gently finding reasons to get you home before exhaustion fully settles into your bones.
It feels less like being looked after and more like being... considered. Constantly. Carefully. Which becomes a problem eventually. Because the safer you feel with him, the more affection you want to give in return. And unfortunately, loving someone openly without constantly doubting yourself is still difficult for you.
Despite how naturally Bucky seems to exist inside your life now, there are moments where you feel painfully aware of your own inexperience. You want to reach for his hand first, sit beside him in diners instead of across from him, kiss his cheek whenever he starts rambling about the farm with that subtle enthusiasm that makes him look so unfairly adorable. You want to curl into his lap during movie night and play with his hair and bury your face into his chest whenever he hugs you.
Every little touch from him feels so dangerously addictive now that you know what it’s like to be handled with genuine tenderness. But every single time you think about doing any of it, your brain betrays you. What if he thinks you are clingy? What if you interrupt him? What if he only tolerates it because he knows you have never done this before?
So instead, you hesitate. But the thing about dating someone who observes the world as methodically as he does is that very little escapes him for long, especially when it concerns you. Therefore, he just starts making things easier. When the two of you sit together somewhere public, his hand begins resting palm-up beside yours on purpose—an open invitation without forcing you before you are ready. He starts pulling you gently against his side halfway through movies, and sometimes, while talking with Steve or Sam out on the porch, he pats his thigh absentmindedly without interrupting the conversation at all, silently inviting you closer. Eventually, sitting on his lap is expected and anticipated. And every single time he notices your hesitation before kissing him first, his head tilts downward before you can even decide whether to ask.
But it’s the first time you meet Steve and Sam properly that you understand how clearly his devotion to you reads to everyone else.
Dinner happens at a small place near the edge of town after one of Bucky’s longer delivery days, rain clouds gathering thick and heavy outside while the restaurant buzzes warmly around you.
You keep squirming nervously beforehand despite Bucky reassuring you the entire drive there.
“Baby, believe me, you’re worrying over nothing. They already like you.” He repeats patiently while turning into the parking lot.
You glance over suspiciously. “They’ve never met me.”
Bucky snorts under his breath, one hand settling on your thigh to give it a comforting squeeze.
“Sam’s heard about you so much he already acts like he knows you.”
“That’s not reassuring.” You mumble, sinking a little lower in the seat.
A beat passes in which the car slows as he searches for a parking spot, and you take the opportunity to dramatically exhale like your entire future depends on this night going well.
“You’re meeting my friends, not attending a parole hearing.”
“They could easily be the same thing.” You insist. “Meeting your partner’s best friends is basically like meeting... I don’t know—their adoptive parents.” Bucky snorts, shaking his head.
“Don’t laugh! I’m serious. There’s judgment involved. Silent scoring. Probably some kind of test I don’t know about yet.” You hastily list with your fingers.
That pulls a chuckle out of him, warm and low in a way that only worsens your dramatic suffering.
“Baby—”
“No, because what if they hate me?” You whine, already spiraling. “What if I say something weird? What if I accidentally make Steve uncomfortable? He looks like the kind of man who says ‘language’ unironically.”
Bucky laughs harder at that, shoulders shaking slightly.
“Steve absolutely says language unironically.”
“See? I’m going to swear once and he’s never going to recover from it.”
His grin only grows as the car comes to a stop, but he doesn’t turn it off yet. Instead, Bucky leans back slightly in his seat, head turned to watch you with that infuriatingly entertained expression that makes your anxiety feel personally mocked.
“You’re one to talk anyway.” You quip before he can say anything.
His eyes go wide. “Excuse me?”
“Because let’s talk about the first time you met Nat and Darcy.” You smile innocently, straightening up. “You kept me on the phone for forty minutes because you didn’t know what to wear.”
There’s a beat of silence, before his entire posture shifts.
“Hey, I wanted to make a good first impression.” He frowns.
“You were debating a tie,” you repeat slowly. “For bowling.”
“It was a new environment.” He shrugs.
Your eyebrows shoot up. “It was bowling!”
He simply shakes his head dismissively. “You don’t understand the social dynamics—”
“You were spiraling,” you cut in, now completely turned in your seat to face him. “I remember it very clearly. You kept throwing clothes on your bed that I’ve never seen you wear to this day.”
“I was being thoughtful.” He answers quickly.
“That’s anxiety.”
“That’s being prepared. And my first impression went fine.”
“Yeah, because I talked you out of the tie.”
You lean back in your seat, absolutely delighted now despite your earlier panic.
“I see how it is. I don’t need to worry about meeting your friends, but you needed a forty-minute emotional support phone call about whether you needed a tie for a bowling alley.”
Bucky exhales through his nose, clearly trying not to laugh at being exposed so thoroughly.
“It was a valid concern, I wanted to be respectful, sweetheart.”
“To who? A bowling ball?”
He opens his mouth, then closes it again, having run out of arguments to defend himself.
A grin takes over your lips as you nod in victory. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
Bucky laughs properly at that, fondly shaking his head at you. The sound makes the knot in your chest loosen despite the anxiety, and when his hand eventually reaches over the console to intertwine your fingers together, you finally feel like you can breathe a little more easily.
“Steve and Sam are gonna like you. That’s not even up for debate.” He says anyway, quieter now.
You purse your lips, the teasing softening just a little.
“And neither is the fact that you’re still nervous about a tie.” You add gently.
His head briefly falls forward as he sighs dejectedly. “It was a good tie.”
And that, somehow, makes you laugh all the way out of the car.
Inside, Steve and Sam hug you instead of shaking your hand, and within less than twenty minutes, both men seem to realize something deeply unsettling about Bucky Barnes.
Namely that he becomes ridiculously, unbearably soft around you. For starters, his hand settles automatically against the back of your chair while you sit down. At some point, he subtly pushes your drink closer because he knows you forget to hydrate when too engrossed in a conversation, his attention entirely shifting on you whenever your lips part, no matter what topic.
And then there is the hand-holding “incident”.
You are talking about your disastrous attempt at baking banana bread last weekend, when your eye briefly catches Bucky’s hand resting near yours on the booth seat.
His large, warm palm tilted upward.
Your gaze keeps drifting toward it despite yourself, because you want to take it so bad. God, you need to feel his skin against yours. But... What if you are misinterpreting it and he is ashamed of being affectionate in front of his friends? What if Steve and Sam think it’s excessive?
Without looking away from Sam, who is now complaining about boat repairs, his hand moves another inch closer until his knuckles brush lightly against yours.
Your heartbeat quickens embarrassingly fast at how obvious he makes it for you.
Hoping nobody is going to notice how you keep squirming in your seat, your hand moves before you can change your mind. Bucky’s fingers close around yours like he had been eagerly waiting for you all night. His thumb strokes once over your knuckles as he replies to his friends, completely unfazed.
Across the table, Sam goes still. Steve, on the other hand, is trying very hard to hide a smile behind his beer. Because the thing is, they have both known Bucky for years. They know him as reserved and controlled and difficult to read most of the time. Yet, what they are witnessing now is essentially an imposing Anatolian Shepherd collapsing happily onto its back because someone finally understood that looking scary doesn’t mean hating cuddles.
Once you are back at the farmhouse, rain is crashing heavily against the roof, therefore Steve and Sam help Bucky move a few things into the barn before the weather worsens further. Afterward, everyone ends up scattered throughout the kitchen while you make lemonade because inside it feels warm from all the damp clothes and humid air.
You are standing near the counter slicing lemons when Bucky walks in, settling beside you after washing his hands.
His gaze automatically drops to the knife, then to you. Then back to the knife.
“You’re holding it wrong.”
Your chin snaps up, eyes blinking at him in confusion.
“What?”
Instead of answering verbally, Bucky steps behind you until the softness of his belly is touching your back. One hand covers yours around the handle while the other steadies the cutting board before showing you a safer angle to hold the knife.
“There,” he murmurs near your shoulder. “Less chance of slipping.”
The entire interaction lasts maybe twenty seconds, yet the butterflies in your stomach go absolutely feral. The worst is that Bucky doesn’t even seem aware of what he does to you half the time. To him, this is simply how he loves, through guidance and care.
A little later, after his friends disappear into the kitchen for more lemonade while loudly arguing over the score of some recent football match, you end up curled beside Bucky on the couch, on the brink of dozing off to the soothing sound of rain tapping against the glass. Your head rests on his chest while he absently rubs slow circles along your arm, and eventually your fingers find his hair without much thought.
You expect tolerance at most. Maybe amusement. Instead, the second your nails lightly scratch his scalp, Bucky goes completely still, before his eyelids flutter shut. A deep, slow breath leaves his nose, his posture slumped as he leans unconsciously into your touch. His expression is so devastatingly content that you feel a mix of pride and joy burn hot in your chest.
From the kitchen doorway, Sam witnesses the scene in horrified fascination.
“Steve!” He whispers sharply.
The other man can’t help but burst into helpless laughter because there, curled around you in complete bliss, sits the same man who once made a grown mechanic squirm just by staring at him too long during an argument over tractor parts. Meanwhile Bucky, fully aware you are being watched, slowly opens one eye to glare at them with pure annoyance.
“What.”
“Man, you know your imaginary tail is wagging so hard I can practically hear it from here?”
Bucky silently stares at Sam for exactly five seconds, and without any shame whatsoever, tightens his arm around your waist to pull you closer.
“Yeah,” he rasps out. “And?”
ᥫ᭡. WHEN YOU NEED HIM THE MOST
Bucky simply moves through your life with the quiet assumption that if something can be made easier for you, then of course he will do it.
One freezing morning in late November, you walk outside expecting the usual miserable routine of scraping ice from your windshield before work while trying not to freeze your fingers off in the process, only to stop short at the sight of your car already running softly in the driveway, pale exhaust curling into the cold air while warm light glows through the windshield.
And there he is, leaning casually against his pickup truck with two cups of coffee in his hands. Wrapped in his heavy work jacket, Bucky looks entirely unbothered by the bitter cold biting at his skin this early in the morning. You stare at him with wide eyes before glancing at your car. Then back at him.
“Did you come all the way over here just to start my car?”
His eyebrows pull together, genuine confusion touching his face.
“You hate being cold, sweetheart.”
Bucky never treats care as some grand romantic gesture that deserves applause. To him, love exists in maintenance, in noticing and remembering. It exists in the way he arranges himself around the sharp edges of your life without ever making you feel ashamed of needing help.
By the third month of your relationship, he already knows you forget meals whenever work gets too stressful, so he begins leaving containers of food in your fridge after particularly exhausting weeks, usually with little notes written in neat handwriting.
Eat something besides crackers today.
This one’s got vegetables in it. Don’t roll your eyes.
At first, a mix of embarrassment and old habits makes you protest.
“Jamie,” you sigh one evening while unpacking groceries he absolutely did not need to buy for you. “I can feed myself.”
“I know you can.”
The answer comes calmly, his attention never even leaving the frozen peas he’s putting away in your freezer.
“Then why are you doing all this?”
That finally makes him look at you, blue eyes steady and open.
“Because yesterday you had cereal for dinner and called it a balanced meal.”
Heat floods your face instantly. “It was one time.”
“It happened last Tuesday as well, baby.”
Your eyes squint at him betrayed. “You remember way too much.”
“You tell me things,” he shrugs lightly, shutting the fridge with his hip. “And I pay attention.”
Yes, Bucky pays attention. To everything. He notices the way your head starts to ache more than usual after difficult meetings at work; the moments you shrink because someone talked over you while discussing something important; the days you’ve had too much coffee and not nearly enough water before you’ve even registered it yourself. Once he recognizes a pattern, he simply starts building small routines around it—never demanding, or controlling. But guiding you so tenderly that by the time you notice, he’s already taken the weight you carry and made it easier to bear.
“Three coffees, baby.” He reminds you one afternoon after spotting the suspiciously large iced drink in your hand during lunch.
You promptly clutch the cup closer to your chest.
“This is tea.”
Bucky stares at you for a long moment, before his eyes lower meaningfully to the giant logo on the side of the cup.
“Sweetheart,” he starts patiently. “That thing smells like melted tiramisu.”
Your smile is sheepish. “It’s been a hard week.”
The teasing falls from his face at the exhaustion in your voice, concern replacing it so quickly it makes warmth bloom beautifully behind your ribs. He steps closer without hesitation, one broad palm settling on the back of your neck while his other hand cradles your cheek—a gesture so instinctively soothing that your entire body loosens before you can acknowledge it.
“I know, princess.” He murmurs softly. “Still need water though.”
And somehow—impossibly—you find yourself listening. He never makes care feel humiliating, because every reminder sounds far from correction and more like loving you so much it physically pains him seeing you not taking care of yourself the way you deserve. However, having someone pay attention to you this reverently is still complicated when, for your whole life, you’ve been used to being the responsible one, the accommodating one, the person who notices everybody else’s needs before they can become problems. Teaching only sharpened instincts you already had mastered long before adulthood: constantly anticipating, organizing, soothing, fixing. Somewhere along the way, taking care of yourself became secondary to making sure everyone else was never burdened by you.
Then Bucky arrives and begins undoing those habits piece by piece without ever criticizing you for it.
There is one particular parent-teacher night that leaves you painfully exhausted and miserable, so much that your eyes burn with unshed tears the entire walk to your car. One parent spends twenty minutes speaking over you every time you attempt to explain their child’s struggles in class; another openly questions whether you are “experienced enough” to manage disruptive students, because “you definitely don’t look like you are”. And Ms. Cox still finds enough energy afterward to criticize your “overly emotional teaching style” in front of half the faculty before finally leaving for the night.
By the time you make it home, you feel like an empty shell. You sway on your feet while eating half a granola bar in the dark, then drag yourself into bed wearing one of Bucky’s old sweatshirts—the same ones you shyly asked to have for particularly hard nights where his absence presses heavy on your heart. Yet, you spend nearly two hours staring miserably at your ceiling because exhaustion apparently does not guarantee sleep.
You and Bucky already said goodnight earlier. Normally he insists on calling before bed no matter how busy either of you are, but tonight he could feel how drained you were by text alone. Still, sometime after midnight, loneliness finally outweighs guilt. And even as you beg him to stay in bed and rest, insisting it’s late and he should be sleeping, he still replies with two simple words that make your heart flutter.
Already driving
12:22am
Twenty-five minutes later, headlights sweep across your curtains and you get out of your bed with a pained groan, your legs heavy as you shuffle into the kitchen in fuzzy socks. Bucky is already inside, carrying a paper bag in one hand, concern settling visibly between his brows the second you appear.
“Hey there, princess.” He whispers, leaving everything on the counter so he can pull you against him.
And that’s the moment your body goes frighteningly limp as you realize how badly you needed Bucky to hold you, knowing he would never ask for anything in return.
“I’m okay.” You quickly try to reassure him, but don’t do a very good job when your words come out slurred against his jacket.
His low hum expresses clear disagreement, one hand smoothing slowly over your back before he pulls away enough to cradle your cheeks.
“You ate dinner?”
The hesitation on your face answers for you.
His jaw clenches slightly. “Sweetheart.”
“I wasn’t hungry.” You blurt out, dangerously close to tears.
“I know, angel.” His voice turns to a whisper in front of your distress. “But you had a long day.”
There is no irritation in his voice, only concern wrapped in gentle firmness that somehow makes embarrassment crawl up your throat anyway. But before shame can take you away from him, Bucky leans down to press a long kiss on your forehead.
“Hey,” he murmurs. “I’m not angry.”
Your shoulders visibly lower a little.
“Sit down for me while I make you something warm, okay?”
And there it is again, that tingly sensation spreading low in your belly whenever he speaks like that, calm and assured and already prepared to handle things for you before you can break.
You curl beneath your favorite blanket on the couch while he heats soup and makes some chamomile tea. Watching him in all his composure as he takes care of you, moving around your house, and opening cabinets without needing directions because he already memorized where everything belongs months ago... Well, it nearly undoes you completely.
“You always think about me like that?” You ask feebly once he finally appears with a tray that he momentarily places on the coffee table.
Bucky glances at you from where he’s adjusting the blanket around your legs. “Like what?”
“Like… this.” You swallow, not liking how your throat is starting to tighten. “Taking care of things—of me, before I even notice what’s wrong.”
“‘Course I do, princess.” He answers quietly.
Tears dangerously sting at the back of your eyes, but your teeth promptly sink into your bottom lip before you can succumb to them. There is a brief moment suspended in time in which Bucky’s eyes search your expression, before he moves to kneel on the floor in front of you, palms already reaching for your jaw.
“You spend so much time looking after everybody else.” He starts under his breath. “I just want... somebody looking after you too.” His thumb strokes the skin of your cheek and that’s when you notice the lonely tear that escaped the last thread of your control.
“I wanna be your safe place. Want you to know you can come to me. Always. You don’t gotta hold it together with me.”
“And when it gets too much out there,” he adds after a beat. “Or here,” his knuckle gently brushes your temple. “I’ll be right beside you. I’ll catch you. Every time.”
You built a relationship based on care and mutual trust, something you never had before but deeply craved. For quite a long time, those sleepless nights spent wondering when it will finally be your turn, soon turned into cruel reminders that maybe, after all, you just were not built for that kind of love. So you kept running yourself into the ground for everyone else without anyone actually noticing how much that cost you. Some people though, Bucky said, weren’t even worthy of those pretty eyes looking their way, let alone your kindness. Still, a small flame of hope kept burning in your heart—the hope that someday, someone would truly see you. Nobody has ever tried to earn your trust enough for you to hand over your vulnerability. But with Bucky, you bloom so easily in the warmth of his love.
Rain has turned part of the farm path into thick mud after a storm, and despite Bucky repeatedly warning you to not wear your pretty shoes near the fields, you ignored him confidently right up until your foot sinks deep enough into the mud to trap you completely. Bucky turns at the sound of your horrified gasp, and immediately starts laughing.
“Bucky!” You whine while trying unsuccessfully to yank your shoe free. “Stop laughing.”
“Sweetheart,” he says through obvious amusement while walking toward you. “Why’re you wearing those heels out here?”
“I didn’t think it would be this bad.”
“Mhm.”
You narrow your eyes at him. “You’re being mean.”
His grin only grows as he reaches you.
“Far from it, princess. C’mere.”
Before you can ask what he means, both hands settle firmly around your waist and suddenly your feet leave the ground entirely. A startled squeak escapes your throat as your boyfriend lifts you effortlessly out of the mud like one of those bags of fodder he so easily carries around the farm.
“Bucky!”
“You were getting stuck.” He smirks.
“I could’ve figured it out myself.” You mumble shyly.
“I know you could.”
His words are tinged with mirth as he carries you back toward solid ground, one arm secure around your waist while your hands instinctively clutch his shoulders.
“Doesn’t mean I’m gonna stand there watching you struggle.” Your chest tightens in a way that has nothing to do with guilt anymore, your hands instinctively curling a little tighter into the collar of his jacket as the real meaning of it sinks deep in your heart.
This becomes another habit somehow. He lifts you onto kitchen counters while cooking because otherwise you “hover too much.” Carries you inside from the truck whenever you fall asleep during long drives home from town. Sometimes, after particularly exhausting school days, he simply hooks an arm beneath your knees and picks you up before you can properly protest.
“Jamie, I can walk.” You mumble sleepily against his collarbone.
“I know you can, baby.”
“Then put me down.”
“No.”
The answer comes calm and completely immovable while he adjusts you more securely against his chest.
He looks down at you. “You’re tired.” As if that is enough of an explanation.
You squint at him, but he raises one eyebrow before your overworked brain can elaborate something witty to retort with.
“You gonna keep arguing or you gonna let me hold my girl?”
Being with him has a way of quieting the constant vigilance in you as your body learns—gradually, unconsciously—that Bucky’s strength never asks you to fear it. All that’s left is a fuzzy, unfocused warmth you can’t quite name. And over time, you begin realizing that what affects you most is not the carrying itself, but what it represents. Around him, you are allowed to take up space without apologizing for it first. You are allowed to keep him company as he works, to cling to him through difficult days and cry without trying to make yourself smaller afterward.
The first time you break down in front of him happens after a bad argument with your mom. You spend nearly ten minutes apologizing between sobs. Bucky listens quietly the entire time before finally reaching up to tenderly wipe your tears with his thumbs, brows drawn together in soft confusion.
“Princess,” he asks gently. “Why’re you apologizing for being upset?”
You open your mouth, but then close it again helplessly. Because once again, you were about to slip back into the bad habits you are carefully working through together. Bucky’s expression morphs instantly in silent understanding.
“C’mere, baby.”
And just like always, you go.
ᥫ᭡. WHEN YOU WANT TO BE PART OF HIS WORLD
For a long time, you are convinced that helping Bucky with work will only make things harder for him. Not because he ever said that—quite the opposite, actually. But he moves through the farm with effortless capability, making everything look so easy. He knows where every tool belongs, which fence post is beginning to loosen before anybody else notices, the sound each engine is supposed to make—immediately catching when something is wrong.
Meanwhile, you once managed to stall your own car three times in a row trying to leave the school parking lot because your brain was too tired to function properly. So naturally, the idea of “helping” him feels laughable. Standing in the middle of his world feels strangely similar to trying to communicate in a language you don’t speak fluently yet. Still, that doesn’t stop you from wanting to try. Loving Bucky means wanting to understand the shape of his days and exist inside the life he built long before you arrived in it. You want to know what his mornings look like at sunrise, learn the routines his body slips into automatically after years of repetition, and more than anything, you want to stand there beside him without feeling like a guest.
His blue eyes catch the golden afternoon sunlight so prettily as he glances up from where he’s crouched in front of the fencing, near the south pasture.
“What’s up, lovely?” One corner of his mouth lifts when you linger there without answering right away, your hands fidgeting against the wooden post as if looking for something to ground you.
“What?” He teases lightly. “My girl misses me already?”
You huff a quiet laugh through your nose, eyes dropping briefly to the tools scattered beside him.
“Maybe a little,” you mumble. “I just wanted to see what you were doing.”
His expression softens instantly at that. “C’mere, then.”
You step closer without thinking.
“You wanna help?”
You hesitate under the weight of the question. “Only if I’m not gonna be in the way.”
The offended look Bucky gives you makes you chuckle lightly. He frowns, standing to full height while wiping his hands against his jeans.
“You being here is the opposite of in the way.”
And there it is again—that wonderful ache in your chest. You shift your weight from foot to foot, head ducking a little at the sheer love in his words. His rough fingers slowly hook beneath your chin to tilt your face back toward him.
“You wanna stay with me while I work?” He asks softly.
You nod silently.
“Then stay.”
Simple as that. No sighing. No tolerating your presence to avoid arguments. No making you feel like affection must be earned through usefulness.
After that, he begins finding small ways to pull you into his world. Nothing overwhelming that leaves room for you to panic about messing things up.
“Hold this for me.”
“Pass me that small wrench, pretty girl.”
“Sit over there where I can see you, and watch your step.”
At first, your help is mostly symbolic. You hand him tools, hold flashlights, keep him company while he works beneath trucks or repairs broken equipment in the barn. At some point, Bucky quietly sets up a small table near his workbench for you, sanding the wood smooth and making sure to buy a comfortable pillow for the chair so you can sit there for hours grading assignments and planning lessons while he moves around you.
One afternoon, while you are perched on the workbench as he works beneath the hood of his pickup truck, you accidentally hand him the wrong tool three times in a row. By the third attempt, you groan dramatically. Your face falls into your hands.
“I’m fucking useless.”
Bucky leans back enough to look at you, expression deeply unimpressed.
“Hey.” The single word lands firmly enough that your head snaps up at once. “You ain’t allowed to talk about my girl like that.”
You simply stare at him as he reaches out to squeeze your knee before taking the wrench from your hands.
“Besides,” Bucky adds casually. “You’re real cute when you boss me around with the wrong tools.”
You burst out laughing despite yourself, shyly looking away once you notice he has been busy admiring you with a smitten grin.
Every single time insecurity starts curling around your throat, ugly and uninvited, Bucky is there to loosen it with his careful hands before it can choke you. Dismissing insecurity is far too easy, yet that’s what most people do. It makes them uncomfortable and impatient, so they wave it away with empty reassurance. They joke about it, call it overthinking... They turn vulnerability into a shameful weakness. Because acknowledging it properly would require them to sit inside someone else’s discomfort for a while. But Bucky never treats your vulnerable moments like inconveniences he has to endure. He looks at them directly in the eye until they stop feeling quite so monstrous inside your head.
The way you feel warm all over has nothing to do with the late afternoon sun spilling gold across the land. He had sounded genuinely insulted, because loving you also includes protecting the way you speak about yourself. He cannot stand cruelty directed at you even when it comes from your own mouth.
Your pulse flutters embarrassingly beneath your skin.
His attention returns to the engine eventually, muttering something under his breath as he reaches deeper beneath the hood. Your eyes focus on the rolled sleeves exposing his strong forearms slightly soiled with grease, then slowly travel up the faded flannel stretching across his broad chest, before noticing the crease between his brows. The low hum he gives every now and then when something cooperates correctly makes your pussy throbs, your mind clouded with memories of your thighs around his head.
Your legs swing idly as you sigh, watching him work for another silent moment.
“You know,” you murmur thoughtfully. “For someone who says he likes having me around, you sure are ignoring me right now.”
Bucky snorts softly without looking up.
“I’m working , sweetheart.”
“Mhm.”
He glances at you briefly, one eyebrow lifting. “What?”
You exhale dramatically, leisurely looking around the shed. “I think you’re pretending to fix the truck because you secretly enjoy making me suffer.”
A low chuckle rumbles out of him at that, though he still turns another bolt calmly like you are not trying to derail him on purpose.
“You surviving okay over there, pretty girl?”
“Barely.”
“You’ll make it.”
The problem is that he sounds entirely too entertained by this. Your eyes narrow slightly at his tone. Then, after a moment of consideration, you shift a little closer along the edge and let your thighs part slightly, your hands landing on the wooden surface by your sides to slightly push your chest forward.
Bucky notices immediately from his peripheral vision, but all he gives you is a low, “Careful, doll.” Without any real heat in it.
You stare at the side of his face for another second, then toss your head back enough to deserve an award.
“Mhm...” You hum mournfully. “If my boyfriend really loved me, he would stop fixing stuff and pay attention to me.”
This time Bucky laughs unguarded, the sound rough around the edges as he finally leans back enough to look at you.
“Oh, so that’s what this is?”
You try to appear unbothered. “What?”
“You being a needy girl.”
Heat crawls immediately into your cheeks, still you keep your eyes on his.
“I am not needy.” You insist.
His mouth twitches, incredibly amused. “No?”
“No.”
“Mhm.”
You huff softly, crossing your arms while he turns back toward the engine with entirely too much satisfaction for your liking. And unfortunately—for the both of you—you are an incredibly stubborn woman. Which means your brain immediately decides to make things worse by jumping down the bench and silently approaching the vehicle until you are leaning down the edge of the hood, right beside your boyfriend.
“Maybe there are more interesting things you could be doing with your hands right now.” You murmur, eyes dragging slowly over the length of his body.
The wrench stops turning at once. For one very dangerous second, the entire world seems to go still with it. Bucky exhales slowly through his nose before straightening to his full height, wiping his palms across his jeans with deliberate calm that somehow feels infinitely more threatening than any other reaction.
“Oh, you’re trouble today.”
You try to hold his gaze without shrinking under it, but that becomes significantly harder once he starts edging closer to you, the stupid tool that confused you completely forgotten. The light teasing in his face has shifted into something heavier, a kind of seriousness that has your panties completely ruined.
“Looking at me like that while I’m trying to behave...”
You swallow. “Maybe I don’t want you to.”
His nostrils flare for a brief moment, one large hand sliding around your waist while the other braces on your hip, and before your brain fully catches up, he is backing you a few slow steps toward the side of the shed. The wall presses lightly against your back, Bucky’s frame crowding you back into stillness, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from him through every layer between you. His thumbs stroke your sides rhythmically as he studies you with an expression that almost makes you forget how to breathe.
“You’re playing with fire, doll.”
You tilt your chin up despite the way your pulse stumbles. “I just wanted your attention.”
Bucky’s jaw flexes once. “Oh, you got it.”
His mouth claims yours like he is afraid you will disappear if he doesn’t, the hand on the curve of your waist tightening possessively while the other traces the length of your neck, until his fingers dig into your jaw to keep your head tilted exactly how he wants it. A small, unintentional whimper is muffled against his mouth as your fingers curl tight into the front of his shirt, and Bucky exhales softly through his nose like the sound nearly undid him too. It is rough, urgent... Too much and still not enough.
When he finally pulls back, it’s only far enough for his forehead to rest briefly against yours. Both of you breathe a little unevenly, his palms still heavy on your skin, as though he has no intention whatsoever of letting you wander too far now that he finally has you pliant and whining for him.
“Tell me to stop.” His voice is rough, gaze frantically going back and forth between your hazy eyes and your lips glinting with his spit.
“I need you, Jamie.”
And he is kissing you again, slower this time but no less distracting, and you are just beginning to melt properly into him when his hands slide beneath your sundress, harshly grabbing the back of your thighs.
“Jamie—”
“C’mon, up sweetheart.” He rumbles in your mouth, already pushing you higher against the wall.
Your giggle dissolves into a wanton moan when his tongue slides back between your lips, fervent and eager, your fingers tangling into his hair while his grip tightens instinctively on your ass.
“Fuck.” He pants wrecked, his bulge pressing insistently against your covered core.
“Jamie, please.” You toss your head back as his lips frantically move over your neck and cleavage, more lapping and biting at your skin than actually kissing.
“So fucking sweet.” He grunts, humping you like an animal right in front of the open door of the shed.
See, Bucky is… well, particularly insatiable. It’s not enough to spend Sunday mornings slowly grinding into you until you are begging him to make you come, tears staining your cheeks as he coos at you. It’s not enough to bend you over the kitchen counter and thrust his cock into your pussy from behind, his warm and heavy body pressing you down as you hold onto the edge of the wooden surface for dear life. It’s also not enough for his fingers to not-so-subtly slip beneath the hem of the blouse you just spent ten minutes adjusting to your liking, just to squeeze your tits because “They’re missing me, doll”.
And he never seems to care if you are late for something, or how long it takes... or where you are. Like that time he pulled into the deserted parking lot of a random mall on the way back from your cousin’s engagement party because one of her friends had flirted with you a few too many times—even with Bucky standing just a couple of feet away, talking to your aunts while openly glaring at him. He growled an amused, “Try not making a mess on the seats, princess” before you ended up squirming and moaning in the backseat of his pickup truck, still fully clothed as his hand slid down the front of your unbuttoned pants. He was three fingers deep inside your pussy, his other hand gripping your jaw to keep your eyes on his as he whispered how good he was going to fuck you later in his bed, and how good he’d make you cream all over his cock. His dick was straining against the confines of his pants, painful and throbbing because you were so pretty with your lips parted around your little, unrestrained whimpers, your half-lidded eyes staring hazily at him, and then… the bright flash of red and blue lights blinded you both in an instant.
By the time the two police officers knocked on the window car, you were both just about composed—his jacket lay on his lap to hide the impressive bulge while you leaned against his shoulder, carefully performing a convincing enough bout of nausea to explain why you had been parked there so long. They told you that someone had reported a vehicle acting suspiciously nearby and Bucky quickly chimed in, matching their story just enough. However, the car in question disappeared down the road the moment you parked. A brief, measured silence followed, until one of the officers glanced at you. Then at Bucky. Then back at his partner, clearly deciding that whatever they might have walked in on was not worth pursuing further.
Or that time your first picnic date turned into Bucky keeping a hand on your mouth as he fucked you right in the middle of the blanket you had so carefully arranged, imagining quiet naps beneath the trees and lazy kisses. Instead, you had squirted all over it after Bucky had growled into your neck that you needed to be quiet, or else one of his employees might catch you. Still hard, he hastily lay between your thighs for his earned “dessert”.
You have always managed to get away with it before—never caught, never interrupted, always just out of reach of consequence. Until now.
The wall rattles with a particular hard thrust of his hips, loud enough that the sound travels straight through the large space, followed immediately by a sharp, unceremonious clatter from somewhere above your head. Before either of you has even processed what’s happening, something tumbles from the nearby shelf and lands directly on Bucky’s head with a force that makes you both flinch at the same time.
Your boyfriend jerks back instantly, a harsh curse slipping out under his breath as one hand flies up to the exact point of impact, while his other arm tightens around you, still holding you close out of reflex even as he recoils.
“Oh my God—” You gasp, eyes widening in horror as you register what just happened. “Bucky!”
“’M fine.” He grunts automatically, though the tight set of his jaw and the faint squint in his eye suggest otherwise.
You wriggle out from his hold with anxious urgency until he sets you back on your feet, quickly reaching for his wrists as though you can physically prevent any further damage. He keeps muttering under his breath about “fucking shelves” and “the motherfucker who put that damn thing there.”
“Sweetheart, it was just a flashlight, not a bullet.” He grits out to reassure you.
“Who cares, it hit your head!” You argue frantically. “Move your hand, let me see.”
There is a long, theatrical pause, during which Bucky clearly considers refusing out of principle alone, but eventually he exhales through his nose and lowers his hand with exaggerated reluctance, revealing nothing particularly dramatic beyond a faintly annoyed expression.
“There,” he sighs. “Still alive.”
You stare at him with genuine devastation shining in your eyes.
“Oh, baby.”
And that is the moment everything shifts. Because your tone changes completely, your panic dissolving into something softer and infinitely more dangerous as your hands come up to his face without hesitation, cradling him with careful precision while your thumbs brush lightly over his cheeks. You inspect him with big, worried eyes, pouting at him like he has just survived something far more dramatic than an ambush by a shelf.
Bucky, for his part, goes still in a way that has nothing to do with pain and everything to do with your attention. It’s almost humiliating how quickly his entire focus narrows down to you. The way your thumb absently brushes his cheek. The way your voice drops into a gentle, breathy coo every time you ask if he is alright. The way you keep smoothing your thumb over the bruise like it physically pains you to see him like this. And somewhere in the middle of it, a thought forms with unsettling clarity—he really likes this.
“You poor thing,” you murmur mournfully. “Does it hurt?”
Bucky blinks once, twice. “A little...” He admits slowly, though the word feels less like an answer and more like an experiment he is conducting purely for the sake of seeing how you respond.
You frown. “Oh, Jamie.”
He leans into your soft palms without thinking, eyelids lowering in complete bliss.
“Mhm.”
“Do you feel dizzy?”
“... Think I might now that you mentioned it.”
The crease in your brows deepens at once, fingers sliding into his hair as you begin checking for other bumps, your touch careful and thorough in a way that turns his brain into pure mush.
“You need ice.”
“Mhm.”
“And water.”
“Probably.”
“And you should sit down for a minute.”
At that, something entirely too satisfied slips into his expression, subtle but unmistakable. Because you are standing in front of him on the verge of tears, treating this huge, rough man like a wounded woodland creature.
“You’re real sweet when you worry about me.” He murmurs, smitten.
You roll your eyes even as your hands stay on his face. “Someone has to take care of you.”
That’s all it takes. He is not going to discourage this behavior in any way, shape, or form.
Bucky lets you guide him toward the chair beside the workbench without resistance, lowering himself into it with slow obedience. The moment he is seated, you are immediately between his knees, hovering, checking, fussing, entirely focused on him as though nothing else in the world currently matters. Which, unfortunately, becomes the highlight of his entire week.
“There’s a bump.” You murmur to yourself, brows drawn together in concentration.
“Mhm.” He agrees gravely, as if this confirms a deeply unfortunate outcome for his future.
“You could’ve been seriously hurt.”
And Bucky just watches you, completely lost in the way you move around him with anxious care, your hands never quite leaving him. There is something recklessly addicting about being the center of your attention that settles into him far too easily, like it has always been waiting there for you to unlock it. It goes to his head faster than the flashlight ever could.
“Are you still feeling dizzy?” You fret.
Bucky tilts his head slightly as if genuinely considering it, though the truth is he could not care less about his symptoms.
“…Little bit.” He decides finally.
Your eyes widen. “You do?”
“Might need mouth-to-mouth.” He adds, entirely deadpan.
You stare at him in disbelief. “James.”
“What?” A pause, thoughtful. “I got a concussion, sweetheart. Have some compassion.”
“You don’t have a concussion.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.” Your voice briefly cracks with amusement.
He sighs as though genuinely disappointed by the medical community. Still, he looks unbearably pleased with himself.
“Stay still,” you mutter pensively, already turning toward the small freezer tucked away nearby. “I’m getting ice.”
Bucky watches you go with an expression bordering on lovesick, his lips twisting into a soft curve. By the time you return, he has already shifted slightly, spreading his knees just enough to make space for you again. His hands find your hips as soon as you’re close enough, steadying you, holding you in place while you press the ice gently against the bump, your face still pinched with concentration.
“Too cold?” You ask softly.
“Nah.” Then, after a beat, entirely too casually, “Still think you should kiss it better, though.”
You roll your eyes, yet your small smile betrays you. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”
“Can’t believe you’d say that while I’m injured.” He retorts, tone solemn. “I got hit real hard, doll.”
“You said it was a flashlight.” Your eyebrow raises skeptically.
“Still could’ve knocked loose my precious brain cell.”
That finally does it, a laugh slipping out of you despite the anxiety still lingering in your stomach. It’s soft and breathless and completely unrestrained, and Bucky’s hands squeeze your waist, as though he is physically anchoring himself to it.
“What am I going to do with you?” You sigh, fingers threading carefully through his hair. It occurs to you with a fond, helpless kind of clarity that you have accidentally created a monster. One who is absolutely going to treat every minor inconvenience like a life-threatening injury, if it means being doted on by you.
This time, there is no hesitation when he answers, voice quieter but absolutely certain.
“Keep spoiling me like this.”
The words come out lazy and teasing, yet they land heavier than either of you anticipate. Because he means it a little. Maybe a lot. Your expression softens in response, the final threads of panic melting away into something far more vulnerable. Then, much to his delight, you lean down and press a long kiss to the top of his head.
“There,” you murmur. “Better?”
Bucky goes still beneath you, before his arms wrap more firmly around you, pulling you just a fraction closer until his chin can comfortably rest on your torso.
“Yeah,” he whispers, reverent eyes looking up at you. “Way better.”
ᥫ᭡. WHEN YOU SPEND YOUR MORNINGS TOGETHER
The two of you are stretched across his bed after a late dinner and a movie downtown, the television flickering low pale light across the room. One of Bucky’s older hoodies hangs from your shoulders, and the comforter pooled around your legs still carries faint traces of that comforting earthy scent that always seems permanently stitched into everything he owns.
You are trying very hard to stay awake. The week has been horrible: your students restless from too many rainy recesses indoors, paperwork piling endlessly across your desk, and parent emails arriving faster than you could answer them. By the time Bucky picked you up earlier that evening, your body had already been aching with fatigue. Still, you are determined not to fall asleep here. Because despite the fact that Bucky has never once made you feel unwelcome in his space, there is still a nervous little part of you convinced that accidentally crossing invisible boundaries will somehow ruin everything. Falling asleep in his bed feels far more intimate than kissing him does, strangely enough, because it means trusting him enough to stop monitoring yourself.
So every time your eyelids begin slipping lower, you stubbornly force them open again. Unfortunately, Bucky notices the way your responses slow down halfway through conversations and the increasingly delayed reaction every time he asks you something about the movie. Your body keeps unconsciously curling closer and closer toward his warmth before you catch yourself and straighten again. At one point, your head dips toward his chest for too long you abruptly jerk yourself upright.
Bucky glances at you, his hand leisurely rubbing along your arm, and one corner of his mouth already threatens to lift.
“You don’t gotta stay awake for me, doll.”
His voice comes low and soothing beside you, yet your eyes widen abruptly.
You open your mouth but nothing comes out, your eyes fluttering shut in defeat when you realize you absolutely set yourself up for that.
Bucky’s chest shakes slightly with restrained laughter at your weak glare.
“I’m serious.” You slur, shifting upright again beneath the blankets with all the determination of somebody seconds away from losing consciousness. He hums patiently, still rubbing slow circles against your sleeve.
You try very hard after that. You focus on the movie, ask questions about the actors… You even sit up straighter just to prove you are perfectly fine. Then Bucky’s hand slides absentmindedly beneath his shirt to rub slowly along your bare hip instead.
And honestly, after that, you never really stood a chance. Bucky glances down after a couple of silent minutes and finds your body curled into his side while your breathing evens out gradually beneath the faint sound of the wind outside. And something about the sight hits him so deeply it hurts. Because he knows this is not easy for you yet. That you are still learning how to be yourself around another person without feeling like an inconvenience.
Your boyfriend slowly adjusts himself against the headboard so you can settle more comfortably on him, one hand pulling the comforter higher around your shoulders before he lowers the volume of the television. You stir faintly at the movement, brows pinching briefly in your sleep, but his hand promptly strokes your back with gentle movements.
“There you go,” he murmurs quietly. “Go back to sleep, pretty girl.” The tension melts from your muscles so quickly beneath his touch that Bucky’s eyes linger on you in silent wonder for a long moment. He presses one long kiss on your forehead, and sometime later, sleep finally finds him too, quiet and unguarded with you tucked safely against his side.
The next morning, you wake feeling unexpectedly well-rested. For several peaceful seconds, your mind drifts lazily through the hazy border between sleep and awareness. It’s only when your body stirs with a slow, languid stretch that you realize you are pressed against something solid.
Solid, pleasantly warm, and… moving?
Memories crash into you all at once—the dinner, the movie... Bucky’s bed.
Your eyes fly open.
Early sunlight catches along the broad expanse of his bare forearm where it rests heavily around your waist, like he fell asleep making sure you were always close throughout the night. Mortification hits you like a punch in the stomach. You can’t believe you were careless enough to fall asleep in his bed without discussing it first, the surprise quickly curdling into guilt as you picture him stuck with you there, too kind to wake you up.
Trying to not be swallowed by panic until you are completely alone, you carefully shift beneath the blankets only for Bucky’s hold to tighten automatically around you. A sleepy hum leaves him, followed by his voice a second later, raspy and deep.
“Morning, sweetheart.”
You turn carefully enough to find him already watching you through heavy-lidded eyes, hair messy from sleep and jaw still shadowed with yesterday’s stubble.
“I’m sorry.” The words come out before you can even think about it.
Bucky blinks slowly, his soft smile falling at once. “For what?”
“For falling asleep here.”
“You were tired.” He frowns.
“I know but… I didn’t mean to bother you.”
The second the words leave your mouth, something in Bucky’s expression morphs into painful understanding. You genuinely believe this inconvenienced him.
“You silly girl,” he murmurs fondly, pulling you closer by your waist. “You fell asleep during a movie. That ain’t exactly a crime, y’know?”
You stare down at the comforter instead, suddenly unable to meet his eyes. “I just didn’t wanna impose.”
Long fingers are already sliding beneath your chin, guiding your face back toward him with impossible patience.
“You think I’d rather have you driving home exhausted in the rain at midnight? Hm?”
Your lips part slightly. “Well—”
“No, baby.” His thumb delicately brushes your bottom lip. “I’d rather have you here with me.”
It feels hard to breathe properly when faced with the certainty in his voice.
“I liked waking up next to you.”
The confession lands directly beneath your ribs.
“You did?” Your eyes observe him wide with hope.
“‘Course I did.” A sleepy little smile tugs at his mouth. “I...” He huffs out an abashed chuckle, and you recoil a little, completely caught off guard. Because Bucky has never once looked this flushed since your first date.
“I’d really like it if you stayed over more.”
“Really?” It’s nothing short of a whisper.
“Mhm.” His hand drifts slowly along your side as his gaze lingers on your face with devastating devotion.
“Don’t really like the idea of you driving home late all the time anyway, and…” He pauses briefly, almost thoughtful. “I wanna wake up with you in my arms.”
The room suddenly feels far too warm. Bucky shifts slightly closer again, his other arm coming under you to anchor your body to his, his nose teasingly grazing yours.
“Wanna have my mouth on you before either of us even gets outta bed, and be late because we inevitably get carried away with our little kisses.” He whispers lazily against the slope of your neck, pressing a peck on your collarbone that makes you shudder.
“Wanna make breakfast together and watch you steal half the bacon off my plate after you said you weren’t hungry.” His mouth barely brushes your cheek. “Wanna sit at the kitchen table while you talk my ear off about your day before it even starts.”
Nobody has ever spoken about wanting you in their life as a fantasy too fragile to touch. But Bucky has already made space for you in his future without hesitation.
And then he completely ruins you by adding under his breath, “You look good here, sweetheart. With me.”
The same hesitation holding you back melts completely after that.
“I liked waking up next to you too.” You whisper, cheeks warming up at your own brave confession. But the bright smile he gives you is completely worth it.
Staying over becomes less of an exception and more of a habit neither of you wants to break. Soon enough, pieces of you begin appearing around the farmhouse: a spare toothbrush beside his sink; a brand new box of your favorite strawberry lipgloss that Bucky bought for you to specifically use when you stay over; your favorite cookies tucked into one of the kitchen cabinets—because Bucky noticed you always look for them first in the mornings.
He never rushes you into the day. Even when he has technically been awake for hours already, he moves through the morning with a steady, unhurried ease, as though the world itself knows it can take a break around him.
Sometimes you wake to find him already watching you quietly from the pillow beside yours, one arm still draped across your waist while pale sunrays spill across the sheets between you. Most mornings, you simply cuddle closer for a little while, listening to him breathe, memorizing the warmth of his arms around you, letting yourself exist without urgency for once.
“Morning, baby.”
His voice still sounds rough around the edges from sleep when he leans to meet you halfway, pressing a slow kiss on your mouth that lingers far longer than necessary because neither of you is in any hurry to separate yet.
Downstairs, the kitchen already smells faintly of coffee he started earlier. You are halfway through pouring cream into your mug when dread hits you like a bucket of icy water. Bucky notices immediately from his seat at the kitchen island, where he’s reading the newspaper like every morning.
“What happened?”
You sigh softly, your head falling back with a groan. “I still have to finish prepping activities for today.”
Instead of looking disappointed that your attention has shifted elsewhere, Bucky simply studies you thoughtfully for a moment before setting his mug down.
“Show me.”
You turn in surprise. “What?”
“Show me what you gotta do.”
“You wanna help me lesson plan?” Your eyebrows raise in amusement.
“Correction, I wanna spend my morning with you.”
So eventually you spread everything across the wooden surface: worksheets, glue sticks, colored markers, laminated reading cards, paper cutouts for today’s classroom activity. Bucky watches the process unfold with intense concentration, a deep crease between his eyebrows while he studies your materials.
“This all for one class?”
“Mm-hmm. Reading exercise, drawing activity, vocabulary review…” You point at each group of items.
Bucky gives you a slow nod, despite still looking vaguely overwhelmed by the amount of paper involved. Without thinking much about it, you hand him a stack of cut-out shapes that needs to be organized by color. He takes them at once, no hesitation whatsoever. Several minutes later, you glance up and nearly snort out loud when you realize he’s sorting them not only by color, but by shade. After that, he busies himself with other simple tasks, like passing markers to you in color order because he noticed you unconsciously arrange them that way yourself, and flattening laminated sheets carefully beneath one rough hand while you cut around them.
At one point, Bucky picks up one of the worksheets and studies it with intense concentration, his brows slowly knitting together the more he reads through the page. You barely pay attention at first, too focused on cutting out paper stars for the reading activity, until silence stretches suspiciously long. When you are done, you find Bucky still staring at the paper as if studying a government document.
“These kids gotta circle the adjective?”
You blink once. “Yes?”
He glances down at the paper, then back at you. “They know what an adjective is?”
“Most of them.” You chuckle at his genuine curiosity.
Bucky shakes his head like the information has sincerely overwhelmed him.
“When I was their age, I was eating dirt behind the barn.”
“Bucky.”
“I’m just being honest, sweetheart.” His finger taps the worksheet once. “These little kids are out here identifying pronouns and shit at eight in the morning.”
You are laughing too hard now imagining a smaller, frowning Bucky eating dirt and running around the pasture hugging lambs probably larger than him. Bucky watches you with obvious satisfaction, until his eyes narrow at another page on the table.
“Is that a frog?”
You grin at him. “That’s the reading mascot, Sir Ribbits.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “The frog helps them read?”
“He encourages them.”
Bucky stares at the cartoon amphibian for another long moment before giving it a satisfied nod.
“Good for him.”
After hunching over papers for what feels like hours, you stretch your arms with a tired little moan. Bucky is already rounding the table to rub your stiff shoulders, and instead of flinching, you simply lean back into it.
By the time everything is finally packed away, the kitchen table is covered in marker caps and paper scraps. He gathers the last stack of worksheets into neat piles before you can even reach for them.
“You’re weirdly good at this.” Your teeth sink into your bottom lip as you prop your elbow on the table and rest your chin against your knuckles.
Bucky glances up from the papers. “You let me into your world,” he says simply. “Figured I should learn it too.”
He never expected you to abandon pieces of yourself to fit into his life more easily. Instead, he stepped gently into yours, observing every detail with patience and the kind of love that makes ordinary mornings feel sacred without either of you even realizing it.
A strange heaviness weighs in your body on Thursday morning but Bucky is so warm, and still dozing beside you with one of his large hands resting on your stomach. So you yawn, lazily letting your eyes blink at the window just enough to not abandon that pleasant, fuzzy state of drowsiness. But then they accidentally land on the clock on your nightstand and the realization is like electricity in your veins.
“Oh no.”
The words catch painfully in your throat while you scramble upright so fast the mattress shifts violently beneath you.
“No, no, no, no—”
Bucky wakes with a jolt at the desperation in your voice, his brows pulling together while he pushes himself up on one elbow, still heavy with sleep but already alert.
“What’s wrong? What happened?”
You are throwing the blankets aside, heart hammering painfully while you frantically open your closet. “I’m so fucking late.”
He glances once toward the clock and sits up fully.
“Okay.” He says calmly, rubbing one hand briefly over his face before standing. “Hey, sweetheart. You need to breathe.”
But your thoughts pile over each other in a chaotic succession to acknowledge the note of seriousness tinging his voice. Stumbling around your bedroom, you mentally list everything waiting for you at school, and fuck! You still need to print the spelling worksheets—
Suddenly your chest feels too tight for your lungs.
“I can’t believe this is happening,” you whine shakily while yanking open dresser drawers with far more force than necessary. “Why didn’t my alarm go off?”
Bucky watches you for approximately three seconds before deciding this has gone on long enough.
“Sweetheart.”
You barely hear him.
“Where are my tights? Fuck—”
The sound of your name in his low voice is like an arm dragging you out of the fog. You look up just in time to see him step directly into your path, his palms settling carefully on your upper arms before your nervous pacing can continue.
“Sit down for me.”
The words are not sharp, but there is enough firmness in his voice that your body pauses anyway.
“I don’t have time to sit down.” You argue weakly, still breathless.
“You got thirty seconds.”
“Bucky—”
“Thirty.” His thumbs stroke once over your arms. “Then you can go back to panicking all you want.”
And somehow, despite yourself, a tiny startled laugh almost escapes your throat. Your spiraling does not scare him, he has already decided he can handle it.
Reluctantly, you fall back on the edge of the bed, your right knee already bouncing anxiously. Meanwhile, your boyfriend moves around the room with military efficiency despite being startled awake not even five minutes ago, opening drawers you left hanging crooked and pulling out clothes with far more success than you had managed one minute earlier.
“This sweater okay?” He asks, holding up the brown-colored knit you wear most often to school.
You nod quickly. “Yeah.”
“What about bottoms?”
“The dark jeans. Not the—no, the other ones.”
A sleepy smile pulls at his mouth. “Doll, you own six pairs of those.”
“They’re different.”
“Mhm. I’m learning.”
He lays the clothes neatly beside you before his eyes meet yours.
“I’ll get the shower running.” You are already half-way up but he stops you promptly with a hand on your shoulder. “You stay put for one minute and focus on your breathing.”
Your body slumps back on the mattress dejected. “I don’t have one minute.”
“You do,” he calls back over the hallway. “You just decided you don’t.”
And annoyingly enough, hearing him say that steadies your heartbeat embarrassingly fast. Bucky never meets your panic with more panic, but with this quiet expectation that life will go on if you slow down to take a breath.
By the time you finally hurry into the kitchen twenty minutes later, still trying to button one sleeve, you stop short at the familiar sizzling of the pan. Bucky is standing near the stove in grey sweatpants and an old dark henley, hair still messy from sleep and posture relaxed while he slides scrambled eggs onto a plate.
“Sit.” He says after spotting you hovering on the threshold.
“Bucky—”
He turns toward you fully then, watching you with that deeply patient expression of his.
“C’mere.”
You comply with a sigh as he slides the plate in front of you alongside a toast, some jam and a travel mug of coffee already prepared exactly the way you like it.
“You need protein.”
You massage your temples to soothe the impending headache. “I’m gonna be late.”
“You’re already late,” he points out calmly, leaning against the counter. “Now, you can either be late and fed or late and miserable.”
You stare at him and he promptly raises one eyebrow. “You done fighting me on this or you got another argument ready?”
That finally pulls a reluctant laugh from you. “You’re bossy in the morning.”
He shrugs easily, now understanding why you arrive home every afternoon looking like somebody has been ruthlessly peeling pieces off you since sunrise.
He then helps without making a performance out of it. Your coat appears folded neatly over a chair, and your keys get placed directly beside your coffee as you try to eat faster. When your lunch bag nearly gets forgotten on the kitchen counter, Bucky simply hooks two fingers through the strap and places it near your coat.
“Every morning you skitter through this part like a startled little thing.” He murmurs eventually.
Your answer is a tired sigh. “Because I’m always running behind.”
“Nah,” he corrects gently, stepping behind your chair to put his hands over your shoulders and press a kiss to your temple. “You just got it in your head that if you ain’t running yourself ragged, you’re not working hard enough.”
The words hit uncomfortably close to home, leaving you staring down at your empty plate in silence. Bucky promptly kneels beside you, intertwining his fingers with yours.
“You hear what I’m saying, princess?” He mumbles softly.
“A little.” You nod reluctantly.
“You don’t gotta earn rest by wearing yourself thin.”
Your throat tightens unexpectedly, not used to have your exhaustion treated like something deserving tenderness instead of expectation. Before the moment can settle too heavily inside you though, Bucky glances toward your bag where papers are sticking halfway out.
“You got everything?”
You finally look up, straightening just a little. “I think so.”
“That usually means no.”
You groan softly. “Please don’t start.”
He chuckles under his breath before walking over to the bag for a checkup, clearly having observed this exact routine unravel before. Within seconds, he pulls out your half-empty water bottle.
“You forgot to fill this.”
“Oh.” You frown.
“And your portable charger.”
“Oh.” Your shoulders slump.
“And doll?” His eyes lift to you knowingly while he holds up the folder with all the notes for your lesson currently bent sideways. “This thing’s fighting for its life.”
Exasperated, you hide your face behind your hands while he fixes the folder carefully before zipping everything properly closed. But the bag is too full and when your fingers close around the handle a few minutes later, the zipper gives away anyway, and frustration spikes sharply enough that your eyes sting.
“Why won’t this stupid thing—”
Before you can fight with it further, Bucky steps in and takes the bag from your hands. One smooth motion and the zipper slides perfectly into place.
“There.”
Your entire nervous system settles slightly from that tiny act alone.
You finally make it to the front door—still flustered, still behind schedule, still trying to mentally catch up with the day waiting outside. But you are no longer drowning in it.
You grab your car keys, expecting some hurried goodbye while Bucky cleans the kitchen. Instead, he is standing directly in front of the door, and without a word, his hands reach down and fix your collar where it folded awkwardly.
“Text me when you get there.”
“I will.” His eyes search your face for another moment, cradling it between his warm palms.
“You did good.”
You stare at him incredulously. “I overslept by almost an hour.”
“And you still got up,” Bucky comments simply. “Still got dressed. Still ate breakfast. Still remembered your stuff. That’s what matters, baby.”
He never measures your worth through perfection, only through effort. Through whether or not you are being gentle enough with yourself while surviving difficult days.
He leaves a long kiss on your forehead, completely unbothered by the clock ticking loudly behind you.
“Now go teach your little gremlins.”
“They’re not gremlins.” You roll your eyes fondly.
His left eyebrow raises in skepticism. “One of ’em tried to lick glue yesterday.”
“He said he wanted to know if it tasted like blueberries because the bottle was blue.” You mumble defensively.
“Mhm.” He presses one last kiss to your lips. “Tiny gremlins.”
You shake your head, chuckling as you reach for the door. And while walking to your car, you realize with pleasant surprise that your breathing is a little steadier. Controlled. Because Bucky stood beside your panic and refused to let it carry you away.
ᥫ᭡. WHEN YOU ARGUE FOR THE FIRST TIME
Pickup was already chaotic: one of the first graders had burst into tears after losing her glitter-covered pencil somewhere near the cubbies, a little boy had refused to put on his raincoat because he insisted it was “for babies,” and by the time the middle school students started flooding the shared hallway, you already felt like hiding beneath your blanket and sleeping for two days.
That’s when the shouting starts—two eighth graders near the front doors, chest-to-chest, yelling loud enough to make half the younger kids stop in place.
You don’t even think before stepping in.
“Hey!” You call sharply, moving between them before either could swing properly. “That’s enough.”
One of them backs off immediately. The other glares at you. He is taller by several inches, angry in the ugly, reckless way teenagers sometimes become when they realize they can intimidate adults physically now. His face twists the second you tell him to step away from the younger students.
“You can’t tell me what to do.”
“I absolutely can,” you answer promptly, trying to keep your voice collected because several of your students are staring with huge frightened eyes. “Go cool off in one of the classrooms.”
He laughs, a sharp and bitter sound, before stepping closer.
“You think because you teach stupid little kids that you can boss everybody around?”
You ignore that part. “Watch your language.”
That only makes him angrier. “You gonna write me up?” He mocks. “Go teach somebody the alphabet or something.”
He starts talking over you, muttering insults under his breath, waving his hands too close to your face while you try to de-escalate things without frightening your students more than they already are.
And then Bucky walks in. He has come to pick you up because your car is still at the mechanic after the tire issue earlier that week. The second he steps through the school doors and sees some teenage boy towering over you while a crowd of scared children has shrunk back against the wall, something in him visibly sharpens.
Once the boy swings one hand again while barking the umpteenth insult aimed at you, too close to your shoulder this time, Bucky is there in seconds.
“That’s enough.”
His voice cuts through the noise so coldly that even the younger kids go quiet.
The boy freezes. Honestly, anybody would in front of a six-foot-something man wearing rough work clothes still dusted faintly from the farm, and a face that rarely softens around strangers.
“You’re done yelling at her, and you better start showing some respect to your teachers.” He continues evenly. “You understand me?”
The boy mutters something under his breath about you not being his teacher, prompting Bucky to take a step closer. The younger snaps his head up, before taking a step back.
“Try again.”
Silence.
Then finally, begrudgingly, “Yes, sir.”
The principal arrives not even a minute later after hearing the commotion, quickly pulling the boy away while apologizing profusely to you both, and the altercation ends as quickly as it started. At least physically. Emotionally, it’s heavy as a boulder on your shoulders, because the entire drive home, Bucky is quieter than usual, so tense that you feel the need to tentatively reach for the handle at your side and roll down the car window for some fresh air.
His hand still rests on your thigh, he still opens your door, and asks if you have eaten. But there is something bothering him underneath all of it. And eventually, while he is cooking dinner later that evening, it finally surfaces.
“You shouldn’t have stepped between them like that.”
You look up from where you are sitting at the kitchen island grading some assignments. “What?”
Bucky keeps stirring something in the pan, shoulders tight beneath his henley. “He was bigger than you,” he continues carefully. “And he was already angry.”
“He’s a kid.”
“He’s fifteen.”
“He’s still a student.”
His jaw clenches briefly. “And if he had hit you?”
With a slow sigh, you decide to put your pen down—these are all signs that you are not getting out of this conversation anytime soon.
“He wasn’t going to, I had it under control.” You rebut tiredly.
“Didn’t look like you did.”
The second those words leave his mouth, something ugly inside your chest twists painfully. His voice is controlled, far from cruel, but those words feel like a knife ruthlessly stabbing an old scar that refuses to heal properly. And suddenly, you are twenty-two again, standing in your parents’ kitchen while your mom frowns at your teaching degree paperwork.
Teaching little kids? What are you gonna do with that?
You’re wasting your time, this won’t pay bills.
“Well, I handled it anyway.” You look back at the paper in front of you, quietly.
Bucky exhales through his nose, still focused on the stove.
“Sweetheart, I know you were trying to help, but—”
“I did help.” You frown at his back.
“You can’t just jump between two angry teenagers.”
“I’m a teacher.”
“And I’m saying you don’t gotta throw yourself in front of people to prove that.”
That one hurts too. It tastes like doubt, criticism... disappointment.
“I know how to do my job.” You croak out.
Bucky finally turns then, brows drawn slightly.
“I didn’t say you don’t.”
But his voice is firmer now, frustration slipping through the cracks of his apparent composure despite himself, and when he gestures with the wooden spoon in his hand, his tone rises just enough to make you flinch before you can stop it. The movement is barely noticeable, more out of surprise than anything. Except Bucky freezes.
You don’t even realize your eyes have dropped somewhere on the counter in front of you until his voice changes completely.
“Sweetheart.” A soft, tentative sound, but you are already shaking your head.
“It’s okay.” Your voice sounds wrong and dismissive even to you and Bucky’s expression shifts into painful realization.
He sets the spoon down without another word, turns off the stove, then gingerly walks toward, still keeping his distance so you won’t feel cornered.
“C’mere a second, baby.”
You hesitate, because your body already knows the shape arguments are supposed to take, even if your mind is trying to remind itself that this is your Bucky. Your Jamie.
Still, somewhere deep inside you, disagreement has tied to punishment long ago, to that awful tightening in the air that used to settle over rooms after somebody got upset. You are used to conversations turning cold the second emotions become inconvenient; to silence stretching for hours or even days because you were the one expected to smooth everything over—apologize first, speak softer, take up less space. Growing up, anger always came with withdrawal attached to it. Simple disagreements morphed into slammed cabinets and heavy sighs and someone suddenly acting as though your mere presence had become irritating. And even though Bucky has never treated you that way, your instincts still brace for him to go quiet in that unbearable way that turns a home into a suffocating prison.
But his hand rests on your back as it gently guides you toward the couch, settling beside you but still leaving enough room to breathe. Bucky does not like the way you move cautiously around him, the way you slowly lower yourself onto the same couch that has held you both through late-night talks that stretched until early morning, and movie nights that ended in soft, unhurried kisses.
“We’re not doing silence, okay?”
Your eyes fall on the floor. “I wasn’t—”
“Yes, you were.” His voice stays gentle. “You started disappearing on me halfway through that conversation.”
“I was listening.” You stare at your fingers fidgeting on your thighs.
“No, angel.” He shakes his head once, his eyes never once straying away from you. “You got quiet because you thought I was gonna turn into somebody I’m not.”
The stinging pressure behind your eyes becomes unbearable. Bucky braces his forearms on his thighs, leaning forward with a slow exhale instead of pressing closer.
“I’m not mad at you.” He adds in a whisper. “I was worried for you.”
You swallow around the lump in your throat. “I know.”
“Do you?” His tone is impossibly feeble now, because suddenly this is not about the hallway anymore, but a habit that was acquired through mortification and fear. Bucky studies your face for another second before speaking again.
“Ain’t no reason for you to be scared to talk back to me, sweetheart.” His brows pinch faintly. “And if I say something that hurts you, I need you to tell me.”
You let out a shaky breath, your voice coming out weaker than you intend to. “It wasn’t just that.”
Bucky straightens at once at the first crack in your armor, unconsciously getting closer.
“Then help me understand.”
Eventually, with trembling hands and wet eyes, you open up. About your mom and how every time you came home exhausted during your first teaching year, she would look at you like you were failing at life itself. About how your dad used to scoff whenever you talked about your students, because “Teaching kids how to write their name isn’t a real career”. About how even the tiniest mistake sounded like proof you were incapable.
And the more you speak, the worse Bucky looks. By the time you finish talking, it feels like a weight has finally been removed off your chest, yet he looks genuinely sick with guilt.
“Baby,” he mumbles, reaching for your hand. “I wasn’t doubting you. I would never do that.”
You shrug weakly. “I know you weren’t trying to.”
“But I still made you feel that way.”
That’s what finally breaks you, because he’s not defending himself, nor minimizing it.
Tears spill before you can stop them, and your Bucky is already there with open arms to catch you.
“C’mere, babygirl.”
You climb into his lap without hesitation, burying your face against his neck as his arms wrap around you securely. One large hand slides slowly up and down your back, and you try really hard to swallow down your sobs, but you only end up making a bigger mess of his shirt.
“I’m so sorry, princess.” He whispers against your temple. “And I should never’ve raised my voice at you.”
“You weren’t yelling.” You answer shakily.
“You still flinched.”
The shame in his voice makes your heart ache. His hold tightens around you instinctively at your whimper.
“I wasn’t angry at you.” He mumbles urgently. “I was angry at the whole damn situation. At that kid thinking he could talk to you like that after nearly starting a fight in front of your students.” His jaw tightens briefly before he continues. “Couldn’t stand there listening to some mouthy little bastard trying to scare you in front of those little kids.”
Your eyes close in sorrow as the image of their startled faces comes back cruel and still fresh.
“They were terrified.” You sniffle and his arms squeeze you just a little tighter.
“I know why you stepped in.” he sighs. “You love those kids like they’re your own for eight hours every damn day, and you can’t stand the idea of any of ’em feeling helpless in a place that’s supposed to be safe.” His palms cradle your cheeks to slowly coax you out of his chest, the urge to see you so strong it pulls hard at his heart.
“You walk into that school every morning and spend your whole day teaching them how to read and write and believe in themselves. And you’re so fucking good at that, angel. You teach ’em how to be brave enough to admit when they don’t understand something. How to speak up without being scared of failing. How to be kind with each other when the world already gives them enough reasons not to be.” A faint, helpless sort of admiration softens his face then, like he still can’t believe he gets to love and be loved by someone as precious as you.
Your lips shake as you give him a pained smile, tears still sliding relentlessly down your cheeks.
“Years from now those kids probably won’t remember every worksheet you gave ’em, but they’ll remember how you were patient with ’em. That you listened.” His teeth clench when his voice wavers a little.
“So yeah, I know exactly why you did that. But that boy still thought he could stand there and talk to you like you were nothing.” He exhales slowly, forehead leaning against yours. “And baby… I got scared too.”
Your chest heaves, something akin to panic swirling in your stomach, because you have never seen your boyfriend look so devastated.
“You matter to me more than being right in an argument,” the words come out rough, his throat working hard around the tight knot lodged there. “So if I get scared and it comes out wrong sometimes, I need you to remember it’s only because the thought of something happening to you tears me apart.”
You nod slowly before folding yourself back against him, arms wrapping tightly around his neck as you bury your face in the warmth of his chest. And then you simply exist together for a long while, curled into him with your cheek pressed against the soft fabric of his shirt while his strong arms hold you safely close to his heart.
The living room has gone quiet around you, the stove forgotten for the moment, as your breathing gradually evens out. He is the one who breaks the silence first, clearing his throat lightly as his lips brush your forehead.
“We’re gonna argue sometimes,” he murmurs carefully, almost reluctantly, like the thought alone upsets him as well. “I can’t promise we’ll never get frustrated with each other.”
Your arms tighten around him at that.
“What I can promise you,” he continues softly, pulling back just enough to look at you properly, one hand coming up to cup your jaw with impossible tenderness. “Is that I’m not gonna stop loving you when things get hard.”
A fresh set of tears settles at the corners of your eyes, because that’s the part you never learned growing up—that the love of the people close to you was not supposed to be conditional.
Bucky’s thumb brushes beneath your eye. “And I’m really, really sorry, sweetheart.” His voice full of genuine regret. “I hate that I made you feel small for even a second.”
You shake your head urgently, not liking his expression. “You didn’t mean to, Jamie.”
“Yet I still did it.” He shifts slightly beneath you then, settling you more comfortably against his chest before continuing quietly.
“Next time one of us gets too worked up, we stop.” His tone is thoughtful now, already trying to build something safer for you with his bare hands. “Nobody keeps pushing the conversation just to win it. We sit down, we breathe, maybe hold each other if that’s what you need, and then we talk when it actually feels like us again instead of our anger. How’s that sound?”
You nod eagerly, before letting out the tiniest watery chuckle against his shoulder.
“That sounds very therapist of you.”
Bucky huffs a soft laugh of his own through his nose. “Probably because I’m thinking real hard how I never wanna be the reason my girl cries like this again.”
A sob threatens to spill out at the pain beneath his words, so you press your face against his neck insistently—as if that could physically stop your own anguish. Bucky plants a gentle kiss on your temple.
“And if I ever get loud again,” he continues with quiet embarrassment, brows pinching in guilt. “You tell me straight away, okay? There are no excuses for it. Don’t sit there holding it on your own while I’m thinking everything’s fine.”
You nod slowly. “I can do that.”
“Promise?” He mumbles, teasingly pushing the tip of his nose against yours.
“Promise.” You leave a tiny peck on the corner of his mouth and only then does some of the tension finally leave him.
His hand slides upwards, fingertips scratching lightly at your scalp just how you like, a soft sigh escaping him at the feeling of your body melting against his.
“You okay now, babygirl?” The whispered question comes out so sweetly, so sincerely worried, that it nearly brings you to tears all over again.
He gets a simple nod as an answer, and that’s enough for him to understand you are still quite overwhelmed to communicate with words. Bucky considers your body for a moment, his eyes moving carefully over you like he needs to be absolutely certain before he believes it. Your shoulders are no longer drawn up near your ears, and your hands have loosened, clutching lightly at his shirt instead of gripping it desperately. Your breathing has finally settled as well, slower and steadier against his chest. Even your eyes have lost their heat, no longer shiny with panic but tired and present in the moment. Only when he seems fully convinced that you are no longer bracing for something awful to happen does his expression finally ease.
“I got you,” he murmurs quietly against your forehead. “Even when we get things wrong, I still got you.”
Later that night, long after your chagrin has faded and dinner has finally been eaten cold straight from reheated plates, you lie on him with your ear resting directly over his heartbeat. Usually Bucky melts into the sheets whenever you cuddle him like this. Tonight, he stays strangely rigid beneath you.
Lifting your head slightly, you look at his handsome features kissed by the dim, warm light coming from the lamp on his nightstand.
“Jamie?” His fingers pause where they have been tracing absently along your spine, eyes fixed emptily on the TV screen.
“Hm?” He blinks once, hastily turning toward you, like your voice had suddenly pulled him out of whatever thought he had disappeared into.
“You alright?”
The silence that stretches afterward allows anxiety to creep onto the edge of your ribs, before he carefully maneuvers the both of you so you are lying on your sides, facing each other.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Always.” His jaw clenches before he meets your eyes.
“Were you scared of me?”
You almost flinch back. “What?”
“Tonight.” He grunts, clearing his throat awkwardly. “Or before. At any point.”
You stare at him in genuine disbelief. “Bucky—”
“I know I ain’t exactly…” He huffs. “Mr. Friendly with strangers.”
You snort softly because the statement sounds so painfully sincere.
“I’m serious, doll.” His gaze absently lands somewhere on your collarbone. “Most people think I’m angry before I even open my mouth.”
You frown at the tinge of sadness in his voice.
“And then tonight happened,” he continues quietly. “You flinched when I raised my voice and—”
“That wasn’t because of you.” You quickly correct him.
“But I can’t stand that your body reacted like that around me.”
You push yourself upward, cupping his face between your hands until he finally looks at you properly. “James Buchanan Barnes,” you whisper solemnly. “I have never been scared of you. And never will.”
His expression softens at the full name.
“You’re the only person who’s ever made me feel safe.” His eyes still refuse to meet yours, but from the blush settling high on his cheeks, you reckon it’s out of shyness rather than bitter insecurity.
“You know what I see when I look at you?” He shakes his head once. “I see a good,” you murmur softly. “Gentle, patient man.” Your voice lowers even further at that, warmth blooming through your chest when he finally looks at you.
“You always reach for my hand before we cross a street without even thinking about it. You remember which side of the bed I sleep better on; you peel oranges for me because you know I hate the smell on my fingers, and you always turn the porch light on before I get to your house so I never have to walk up in the dark alone.” An adoring grin tugs at your mouth then. “You look at me like I’m the prettiest girl in the world. All the time—even when I’m exhausted and cranky and covered in glitter glue from school projects.”
“So no, Bucky. I don’t think there’s anything about you to be scared of.” You sigh dreamily, lying back down. “You’re my Jamie.”
He swallows hard, jaw tightening for a moment as he fights for control over the tears threatening to spill.
“I love you.” He whispers abruptly, like he can’t hold it back anymore.
Your breath hitches, and then your smile breaks open so wide your cheeks start to ache. “I love you too, Jamie.”
The second the words leave your mouth, Bucky is pulling you over him for a feverish kiss that steals the oxygen from your burning lungs.
That night, he carefully rolls until he’s the one resting on your chest, his arms locked securely around your waist. And for the first time in your life, disagreement ends with someone offering silence as a space to settle instead of weaponizing it.
ᥫ᭡. WHEN HE THINKS ABOUT FOREVER
You are sitting with crossed legs on the couch in one of Bucky’s flannels and thick socks, Alpine dramatically sprawled on your lap as one tiny paw stretches lazily beneath your chin. Her purring is loud enough to vibrate through your ribs every time your fingers drag slowly through her white fur. She arrived in the middle of January wrapped inside one of Bucky’s old flannels, small enough that at first you mistook her for some white bundle of fabric against his chest. You still remember the way he had stepped through the front door that evening with rainwater clinging to the shoulders of his jacket and damp locks at the nape of his neck, one large hand carefully cupped beneath the trembling kitten like he was afraid she might dissolve if he held her too tightly.
“Found her near the south fence,” he had explained quietly while you fretted over them, your heart already breaking at the sight of the little thing. “No collar. Could barely stop shivering to eat.”
Alpine had looked miserable then, all wide blue eyes and soaked fur, but the second you reached for her, she had pushed her tiny face straight into your palm with a desperate little squeak that made Bucky huff a soft laugh. And that was it for you.
Months later, Alpine rules the farmhouse like she personally pays the mortgage. She follows Bucky everywhere when he is home, winding around his boots while he cooks or trying to climb directly into his lap whenever he sits down for more than five minutes. But with you she turns even softer, almost spoiled in the way she melts instantly against your affection. The moment you walk through the front door, she is meowing to be picked up, trotting across the hardwood floors before you even have time to take your shoes off. Sometimes she is eagerly waiting on the back of the couch like she somehow heard your car turn into Bucky’s lane.
He pretends to find it deeply offensive.
“Think she likes you more’n me now.” He had grumbled once while watching Alpine stretch shamelessly in your arms instead of his. You laughed, finding him extremely adorable.
“She sees you every day.”
“Exactly,” he had replied, narrowing his eyes at the cat like she had personally betrayed him. “And apparently that means nothing anymore.”
Tonight is no different.
“There’s my pretty girl,” you murmur as your hands delicately cradle her face. “Yes, there she is. Sweet baby.” Alpine answers by shoving her tiny face directly beneath your chin.
“Oh, you want more attention?” You gasp theatrically. “What a shocking development!”
From the doorway, Bucky watches the entire thing unfold in silence with the shadow of a fond smile lingering on his lips, one shoulder leaning against the frame separating the living room from the kitchen and thick arms crossed loosely over his chest. There is dirt still faintly smudged along one forearm from work outside, his flannel pushed up to his elbows, hair still slightly messy from where he dragged his fingers through it earlier. But all of that roughness fades beneath the look in his eyes. Because you are sitting there treating that tiny stray kitten like she hung the moon. Carefully kissing her head. Adjusting the blanket around her. Holding her with such tenderness, like this is the only language your body knows how to speak.
“Needy thing.” You murmur affectionately before pressing another kiss between her ears.
“You say that like you’re any better.”
The sound of Bucky’s teasing voice makes you glance up immediately. Alpine notices him too, her ears perking instantly before she lets out a tiny chirp of recognition. Still, she makes absolutely no attempt to leave your arms. The floor creaks softly beneath his boots as he finally pushes away from the doorway and walks toward the couch. You give him a sweet smile before your attention drops back to the kitten currently trying to chew on the sleeve hanging over your hand.
“Your daughter is biting me again.” Bucky snorts quietly as he lowers himself beside you, one arm immediately stretching around your shoulders.
“My daughter?” He repeats, pulling you closer. “That cat stopped being mine the second you started baby-talking her.”
“Mmh, that’s not true.”
“Princess, you carried her around this house for three hours yesterday because she sneezed once.”
You frown. “She was sick.”
“She had dust on her nose.”
You gasp softly in mock offense while Alpine flips onto her back, completely unconcerned with the argument happening over her custody. Bucky watches you scratch carefully beneath her chin, your entire face softening without restraint every time she purrs louder. Something in his chest pulls so hard it almost feels unfair, because you have no idea how gorgeous you look, and that he could stand there for hours just watching you pour your love out so freely.
Bucky reaches down then, scratching gently beneath Alpine’s chin until the kitten practically melts in your lap. “She sits in front of the door when you leave, y’know.”
Your eyebrows lift in surprise. “She does not.”
“Mhm.” His mouth twitches faintly. “Walks around crying for twenty minutes like her entire life just fell apart.”
“That’s dramatic.” You tell her with an exaggerated pout.
“Says the woman holding her like an actual infant.”
You look down instinctively. She has, in fact, moved to lie against your chest beneath the blanket with only her tiny head visible. “… Okay maybe a little.”
Bucky chuckles softly, the sound settling warm and deep inside your chest. You eventually notice his silence as somewhere deeper in the house the dryer hums low and steady. The air smells faintly like coffee and detergent and the water lily and sheer musk candle you lit earlier before sunset. When Alpine decides it’s time for the second round against the buttons of the flannel, your smile fades gradually as you become aware that Bucky’s still looking at you.
“What?” You ask softly. He blinks once like he has to pull himself back into the room.
“Nothing.” He murmurs automatically, though it’s very clearly not nothing.
Your eyes narrow a little. “James.”
His expression shifts then, softening even further until it almost looks thoughtful, his gaze drifting toward Alpine.
“I keep picturing something,” he breathes out absently. “Not in a big, dramatic way. Just… small things stacked together.”
Your breath catches quietly.
“Waking up,” he continues, almost like he can see it somewhere in front of him. “And not having to rush outta bed right away. Coffee that gets cold because neither of us remembers it’s there. A kitchen that’s too full of noise for how early it is.” His frame moves with the faint breath of amusement that slips through his lips, but it never breaks the softness of the moment.
“And coming home at the end of the day knowing it doesn’t matter how it went out there,” he adds more quietly, finally meeting your eyes. “Because there’s still you here.”
You can barely breathe now, your heart doing a strange little stutter. He says it so easily. Like these thoughts have existed inside him for a long time already. Like he’s visited them before and kept coming back to them over and over again.
Bucky shifts slightly closer on the couch without even seeming aware he is doing it, his free hand settling warm on your knee, his thumb brushing back and forth on your bare skin.
“I don’t know all the details yet,” he whispers, eyes moving from your eyes to your lips. “But I know it keeps coming back to the same thing. You being here. That’s the part my mind doesn’t change.”
Bucky leans closer until his forehead finally rests against yours. “If someday you decide you want kids, I’ll build something bigger for us. A place with too much noise, toys everywhere and muddy boots by the front door.” His smile grows almost boyishly giddy now, soft laughter warming his words. “Maybe a little boy with your eyes... and a little girl with your smile.”
Your chest rises sharply, your love for this sweet man soaring so suddenly in your heart it almost hurts. Tears burn hot behind your eyes before you can stop them.
“And if you don’t want that,” he continues gently, certain that every path still leads to you anyway. “Then we’ll keep the farmhouse just the way it is and spoil every animal we’ve got. Those damn ducks already act like they’re running the place anyway.” A watery laugh escapes you despite the lump in your throat, and Bucky smiles at the sound, his nose brushing lightly against yours.
“You wanna travel? We’ll travel. You wanna stay here forever teaching little ones while I complain about tractors and rain?” His hand squeezes your knee once. “Fine too.” Then the teasing fades from his expression entirely.
“Any future is right if you’re in it.”
Your vision blurs completely to the point a few small tears escape anyway, Bucky reaching up almost instinctively with his rough thumb to carefully brush away the wetness beneath one eye.
“I love you,” he whispers, thick with emotion. “I just need you.”
You stare at him for one helpless second before you finally cup his face.
“I love you too, Jamie.” You manage shakily, chuckling at how wobbly your voice must sound.
And yet, you couldn’t care less, because his lips are on yours—soft, reverent. One hand moves on your waist while the last rays of sunset spill warm gold across the walls around you.
Alpine promptly puts her front paws on your chest halfway through like she refuses to be excluded from this sweet moment. You feel Bucky laugh gently against your mouth at the feeling of fur brushing against his neck, but even then, he stays close enough that your foreheads still touch.
“Everything else,” he murmurs quietly, like a promise made as much to himself as to you. “Can figure itself out around that.”
END NOTES: what was your favorite moment? thank you so much for reading 💕 as I mentioned in another post, nowadays it’s hard to find someone who is willing to put real effort into a relationship, but with this story I wanted to focus on the more positive side of dating—especially how someone like this reader, kinda insecure and with little relationship experience, might navigate certain situations for the first time + the degree of trust it takes to let yourself be vulnerable for the first time with someone. honestly there was so much more that I wanted to write, but because of the 1000 blocks limit, I had to cut out many scenes, shorten the smutty parts and make longer paragraphs (hope it doesn't look bad). I also intend to further explore the non-sexual d/s dynamic in other stories, because this one-shot was just a collection of moments so I thought it'd be better to keep it pretty tame.
✦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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✦Taglist (Fill out this form to be added!)✦
Hey Barbie!! I've been looking for you everywhere!
Calm down, no need to stress! You look perfect as always Barbie! I'm sure every person in the house will be drooling over you as soon as we walk in.
How many Boys? Well, when I scooped the scene, there were eighteen bedrooms to choose from!
Oh please, that's nothing! Mojo Dojo has like- a bazillion bedrooms, now come on! They're waiting for us inside!
April 10th✶⋆.° The Hand Plants, The Heart Reaps @buckytakethewheel
౨ৎ Paring: Landscaper!Bucky X Home Owner! Reader
౨ৎ Blurb: You never planned to return to the quiet countryside, let alone inherit your late grandmother’s weathered cottage and overgrown garden. Stressed and city-worn, you hire local landscaper Bucky Barnes to tame the chaos in order to honor her memory. But what begins as a simple restoration blooms into shared stories of loss, second chances and a path to starting over.
౨ৎ Themes: (SMUT) strangers to lovers; slow burn; she falls first/he falls harder
April 13th✶⋆.° Silver Linings @ornateglass
౨ৎ Paring: Miner!Bucky X Well Off!Reader
౨ৎ Blurb: A lucky strike sets your family in the lap of wealth, drawing you into a world of status, expectations, and away from your childhood friend, Bucky. As a worker in your father’s mine, he knows he’d never have approval for your hand. Will his feelings stay buried? Or will love find its silver lining?
౨ৎ Theme: (SMUT) Set in 1885, friends to one-sided enemies to lovers, mutual pining, slow burn hurt/comfort
April 14th✶⋆.° Earned It @phoenix-in-writing
౨ৎ Paring: Massage Therapist!Bucky X Client!Reader
౨ৎ Blurb: While on vacation, your best friend books a spa day for you to loosen up. A luxury spa, the hottest masseuse you've ever laid eyes on, and the slip of a sound lead to a very not normal massage. But in your defense...he had very good hands and a flexible definition of tension relief.
౨ৎ Theme: (SMUT) Vacation fling, porn with zero plot, inappropriate use of massage oils + towels
April 15th✶⋆.° Slippery Slope @stanmarvelous
౨ৎ Paring: Ski Instructor!Bucky X Student!Reader
౨ৎ Blurb: Bucky Barnes likes order on the mountain: organized lessons, predictable guests, and smooth days on the slopes. Unfortunately, one woman spends the day unintentionally getting in his way. When they finally meet at an après-ski party, he challenges her to prove she’s more than just a tourist with a camera.
౨ৎ Themes: (SMUT) pushing professional boundaries, strangers to lovers.
April 16th✶⋆.° Jungle Fever @ornateglass
౨ৎ Paring: Zoo Keeper!Bucky X Horticulturist! Reader
౨ৎ Blurb: Two shy, clumsy people secretly in love with each other and a bottle of pheromone spray. What could possibly go wrong?
౨ৎ Theme: (SMUT)Sex pollen, friends to lovers, mutual pining
April 17th✶⋆.° Smartest In The Room @colettebarnes
౨ৎ Pairing: Substitute Teacher!Bucky X Student!Reader
౨ৎ Blurb : James Barnes, the substitute professor no one asked for, seems determined to prove you’re nothing more than predictable. You think he's condescending. And yet somehow, every argument between you feels less like an academic debate and more like a problem neither of you wants to solve. Because whatever this is, it has an expiration date.
౨ৎ Blurb: Bucky Barnes doesn’t lose control. He doesn’t blur lines. But when his new sous chef looks at him differently, control doesn’t feel so important.
౨ৎ Theme: (SMUT) Inappropriate workplace relationship, power imbalance, grumpy!Bucky to soft for reader!Bucky
April 20th✶⋆.° The Long Way back To You @phoenix-in-writing
౨ৎ Paring: Veterinarian!Bucky X Best Friend!Reader
౨ৎ Blurb: 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.
౨ৎ Themes: (SMUT) childhood friends to strangers to lovers, second chance love, a jealous boyfriend, slight hurt/comfort
April 22nd✶⋆.° Dead Stop @buckytakethewheel
౨ৎ Pairing: Mechanic!Bucky X Mechanic!Reader
౨ৎ Blurb: Bucky Barnes doesn’t do favors. Everything has a price; that’s how he’s kept his garage and himself intact since the end of the world. Then there’s you, the rival mechanic down the road who refuses to take a single scrap of bread for a radiator flush. But when a freak storm destroys his workshop, Bucky's left with nowhere to go but your grease-stained bay and forced to face every choice he's never allowed himself to make.
౨ৎ Themes: (SMUT) apocalypse au; enemies to lovers; forced proximity; mentions of death & end of the world
April 23rd✶⋆.° Love, B @planetbucky
౨ৎ Paring: Librarian!Bucky X Professor!Reader
౨ৎ Blurb: Bucky Barnes falls in love with you, his gorgeous literature professor, on his first day of college. Four years and a degree later, he’s one of the librarians at the very same college he attended, and now there’s nothing stopping him from asking you out… If not for one tiny detail: his spectacularly clumsy and painfully shy nature. That’s when his colleague, several romance books and a pen come to his aid.
౨ৎ Themes: (SMUT) younger man x older woman; college au; secret admirer trope; public indecency
April 24th✶⋆.° Taming Bullet @elixirfromthestars
౨ৎ Pairing: Ex Racer!Bucky X Childhood Best Friend!Reader
౨ৎ Blurb: James Bucky “Bullet” Barnes hasn’t taken a proper break from his racing career in years. Feeling homesick and a little lost in life, he decides to take an extended break and go back to his hometown. What he doesn’t expect to learn when he gets back, is that you and his sister Becca are no longer best friends. Not only that, but no one’s heard from you in years. And Bucky fears his biggest regret, a mistake he made years ago back in his college years, is the cause of that.
౨ৎ Themes: (SMUT) childhood friends to enemies to …?, ex best friend’s brother, second chance romance, reunion & revenge
April 25th✶⋆.° Vital Refractions @sheriff-bodecker
౨ৎ Pairing: Paramedic!Bucky X Coworker/Bestfriend!Reader
౨ৎ Blurb: You and Bucky have always been close, close enough that everyone else noticed a spark long before you did. But after a shift leaves you both strung out, comfort blurs into something heavier, then when guilt tells him to pull away, you’re left fighting for the truth of what you did and what it meant.
౨ৎ Themes: (SMUT) (first; not overly detailed, second; full on), fluff & angst, traumatic shift (not detailed), miscommunication, friends to something to lovers, arguments!!
April 26th✶⋆.° Human Nature @sunday-bug
౨ৎ Pairing: Ranger!Bucky X New Ranger!Reader
౨ৎ Blurb: Just when Ranger Barnes thought he was done mentoring rookies, he’s stuck with you: the eternally optimistic newbie with a knack for baked goods and novelty hiking socks. You’re looking forward to a memorable first season in the park, and you’re determined not to let the grumpy, albeit handsome veteran ruin it for you.
౨ৎ Themes: (SMUT) grumpy x sunshine, age gap, he falls first
April 27th✶⋆.° Slow Ride @barnes-babydoll
౨ৎ Paring: Tow truck driver!Bucky X Rich girl!reader
౨ৎ Blurb: James Buchanan Barnes. Charmer. Tow truck driver. Oh, and someone who completely grinds your gears. You hope your first encounter with him is the last. Until…the accident. Accidents happen. No biggie. You didn't break anything when the airbag deployed. Maybe your ego is a little bruised, but you'll be just fine. The worst of it isn't even the damaged car; it's the fact that when you call for a tow, that same man with the annoyingly perfect smile and ego the size of Jupiter shows up to help you. It seems like the universe is either out to get you or trying to push you and Bucky together.
౨ৎ Theme: (SMUT) Enemies to lovers, forced proximity, minor injuries
April 28th✶⋆.° La Petit Mort @miraclediviner
౨ৎ Paring: Mortician!Bucky X Lady Death!Reader
Blurb: With 13 years of private practice experience under his belt, Bucky had built a solid routine for himself. Be in the building by 5:00 am, meet families through the mornings, take care of cremations through midday, and embalm bodies through the evening. Its stability, he's never strayed from it. That is, until an unfamiliar companion lurking in the mortuary's halls visits him in the dead of night.
౨ৎ Themes: (SMUT) Strangers? to lovers, angst... , unexpected visits, death, public sex
April 29th✶⋆.° Drive You home @navybrat817
౨ৎ Paring: Taxi Driver!Bucky X Passenger!Reader
౨ৎ Blurb: You’re Bucky’s favorite passenger. He knows your schedule by heart. The same day, time, and location. You’re kind. You talk to him like he’s more than just the man behind the wheel. You always tip well.
He can’t help but fall for you.
But he’s just a taxi driver. You deserve better than that. Better than him. So, he keeps things professional… until you lean on him one fateful night when the world feels too heavy.
He doesn’t just want to drive you home anymore.
He wants to be someone you can come home to.
౨ৎ Themes: (SMUT) Pining, slow burn, hurt/comfort, angst with comfort, sick family member
April 30th✶⋆.° Classroom Management @ladymiseryy
౨ৎ Paring: Coach!Bucky X Teacher!Reader
౨ৎ Summary: Coach Barnes is everyone’s favorite. The students love him, parents love him, you love him. How could you not? He’s kind, funny, undeniably, tragically handsome. And your best friend.
You only wish you loved him a little less. Maybe then you could move the fuck on.
౨ৎ Themes: (SMUT) friends to lovers, jealousy, pining, not so unrequited love
April 31st✶⋆.° South of the Sun, East of the Nile @miraclediviner
౨ৎ Paring: Archaeologist!Bucky X Archaeologist!Reader
౨ৎ Blurb: Between early morning, dust behind your eyes, and uncomfortable cots, your dream job is turning out to be different from what you hoped. Lucky for you, a fresh opportunity has fallen into your lap. You're being sent to the Temple of Bastet with new technology to look for lost artifacts. Bad news, the co-leader of your expedition is the infamous Bucky Barnes. Casanova to some, shit head to others. A career-defining opportunity lies before you. Do you have what it takes to get the job done?
౨ৎ Theme: (SMUT) Co-workers to lovers, enemies to lovers, forced proximity, one bed trope
So Barbie, what do you think? Pretty hot right!
*Sigh* So many boys to choose from, so little time. That's alright, we'll just have to handle this buffet-style!
Hey! Sharing is caringbaby, what's mine is now yours!!
I gotta gotta go! I have a Tea party at eight, but the boys said that they're excited to see us on the 10th for their month-long party!
Summary: You get insecure when you find out you’re the complete opposite of Bucky’s usual type.
Warnings: discussions of body image issues, insecure reader, Bucky’s ex being a much slimmer figure than reader, a little angst but with reassurance
Word count: 1.3k
A/N: title and inspiration from Sabrina Carpenter’s song Opposite. Banners by @vase-of-lilies
Masterlist | Ask me anything! | Library
You weren’t snooping, at least not intentionally.
The picture practically fell into your lap while you were dusting the shelves of Bucky’s bookcase. An almost pristine photograph slotted between the pages of a book he hasn’t picked up in ages unlocks a vault to your deepest insecurities.
The woman staring back at you is effortlessly angelic, a type of beauty men would have gone to war for back when Bucky himself had been drafted.
There is an air of sophistication in the way she carries herself, even in the still image. As if she knows precisely how alluring she is and uses that to bend the world to her whim. High cheekbones, sparkling doe eyes, and cutting a slim figure as she clings onto your handsome, strapping Bucky makes them a picture perfect couple.
But more than how beautiful Bucky’s ex-girlfriend is, what really makes your stomach contort with self consciousness is how you look nothing like her.
You must not be Bucky’s usual type.
Before you can stop the anxious thoughts, your brain goes into overdrive, spiralling with a million different notions about how you could never match her beauty, and how Bucky would surely be disappointed that he no longer falls asleep beside someone whose body wouldn’t be out of place in a lingerie catalog.
Is this Bucky’s type? Does he look at you and see all the ways you aren’t her? Did he settle for you, knowing that because he is completely out of your league, you would never dream of leaving him? Are you the safe option?
Perhaps in the quiet moments, he thinks about what he lost, what he could have instead.
You knew Bucky dated other women before you, you’re not naive. And he’s a very attractive man so of course he would’ve had his pick of stunning women who had probably thrown themselves at the eligible bachelor.
But it’s a different prospect when you’re confronted with the hard evidence that they’re breathtakingly beautiful, thin as a toothpick and absolutely nothing like you in any way.
The realisation settles like an anvil in your stomach: he can do so much better than you.
Bucky notices that very afternoon something is bothering you. He’s nothing if not observant. Decades of war, survival and fighting to remember his own self sharpened him into someone with the ability to read between the lines and pick up on slight changes in demeanour.
It is also you, the love of his life, the person he has studied every countenance of, so it is very apparent in the way you avoid his gaze, how your smile doesn’t quite meet your exquisite eyes and how your touches aren’t as certain, that your mind is distracted.
Bucky just isn’t sure why exactly. Which makes his stomach buzz with anxiety.
What has he done wrong?
But he’s learnt from you that a relationship consists of trust and healthy communication, so he decides to simply ask.
There’s a mixture of guilt and uncertainty in your eyes as the question hangs in the air between you. He rushes to hold you in his arms, to say that he didn’t mean anything by it, but you hold your hand to his chest and keep him at arms length.
“You keep a picture of your ex in one of the hard cover books in your study.” It sounds more like a question than a statement. His chest constricts as he watches your eyes fill with doubt and thick tears.
You hand over a polaroid of Bucky and the ex girlfriend he dated before you. He can barely look at it, not because of any lingering feelings for the woman, but because he’s now putting the puzzle pieces together of why you’ve been so distant all day.
She’s in the past. He has his future standing right in front of him.
“Darling it’s not that I keep it, I just completely forgot it was there. I don’t make it a habit of holding onto pictures of someone who means absolutely nothing to me.” As a gesture to show he truly means the declaration, he rips the picture in two, and then two again, tossing the segments straight in the rubbish. “If you think I’m thinking about her, you’re wrong. I’m so fucking glad things didn’t work out with her, because if it had, I’d be stuck in a relationship with a person I didn’t truly love and I never would have met you, the love of my life.”
“She looks nothing like me, Buck. Are all your exes skinny and supermodel stunning? Am I even your type? Or just someone you settled with?” The crack in your voice breaks his heart into a thousand tiny pieces.
Bucky doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t waste a second. He steps toward you, hands coming up to cradle your face, thumbs brushing away the tears trickling over the apples of your cheeks.
His eyes are shiny with his own tears, jaw tight, heartbreak etched into the worried furrow in his brow, searching for something in your eyes as an indication you’re not about to disappear on him.
“Don’t say that.” His voice pleads, practically begs. “You’re exactly my type, in every way imaginable. There has never been a person I find more desirable than you, not only in how your beautiful body fits so perfectly with mine, but how your mind matches my wit, that you can make me laugh even at my lowest. How after one hundred and ten years I finally feel like I’m safe and found my home.”
Home. Once Bucky says the word, it lands so heavy in your lungs that for a moment you forget to breathe.
He places a soft kiss to your forehead as a sob lodges in the back of your throat. You try to speak but nothing coherent forms on the tip of your tongue.
“You’re my standard of beauty. You’re the most beautiful person in the world to me. You’re the one I dream about at night, the one I rush home to when I’ve been away on missions because I’ve been craving you, the one whose pictures I get off to when we’ve spent more than a night away from each other.” Every word is punctuated with such effort, each syllable stitched with sincerity that you can’t help but believe he is telling the truth.
You pull him down to you, a tight embrace in lieu of having the words to tell him what this reassurance truly means to you. Bucky doesn't resist, melting into your embrace, face finding the curve of your neck, holding you as if you’re his anchor in a storm.
When he speaks his voice is low, steady, like he needs you to hear this one final statement loud and clear. “I love your body, and I’m so sorry if I ever placed any doubt in your mind, if I ever made you feel like I wanted anyone else. I don’t. You are not a compromise, my love, you are the damn dream.”
You feel his soft, plump lips kiss your neck, then your jaw, finally the corner of your mouth.
His eyes study you for a second, ensuring his words have spread a soothing balm over every ache your soul was feeling.
“I love you.” You whisper, finally finding your voice again before placing a devoted kiss to the warm lips of the man who has made you feel truly seen in ways no one else has. The kiss deepens slowly, naturally, like your bodies already know how to speak for you.
“I love you too, so much my darling.” You stay wrapped up in each other for the rest of the night, Bucky intent to prove beyond a shadow of a doubt just how in love with your body he is.
To show you’re not someone he settled for.
Instead, you’re the one he was waiting his whole life to find.
Summary: After Bucky comes home late to the Tower, you finally confront him about the suspicion that has been eating you alive.
Wordcount: 5k
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader
Warnings: angst with no comfort, hurt no comfort, cheating, infidelity, breakup, emotional confrontation, toxic relationship vibes, messy love, this doesn't have a happy ending
A/N: I don't really know where I'm going with this one. It's based on "Why do you love me" from Garbage. Cassie (@blobfishlol) is begging me to make a second part with Steve...
Masterlist
The Tower never truly slept.
It breathed.
Steel bones hummed through the walls, elevators whispered up and down the spine of the building, distant machinery throbbed beneath polished floors, and somewhere, always, a window reflected the sleepless glitter of Manhattan. Even at three in the morning, with half the team scattered across the city and the other half pretending they had lives outside the compound, Avengers Tower remained alive around you – too bright, too loud, too full of history to ever feel empty.
But that night, it felt hollow.
You stood barefoot in the kitchen, one hand braced against the marble counter, the other wrapped around a mug gone cold long ago. The city shone beyond the glass in a thousand blurred smears of gold and white. Rain needled softly against the windows. Somewhere down the hall, the sound system played low jazz that no one had bothered to turn off after dinner.
You had not slept.
You had not eaten.
You had spent the last two hours telling yourself that you were dramatic, paranoid, cruel even, for letting the suspicion rot inside you like this. You had spent the last week doing much the same. Maybe longer. Maybe ever since you first noticed the silence where there should have been honesty, the way Bucky had looked past you when certain names came up, the way he touched your shoulder absentmindedly as if affection were now a habit and not a choice.
And still, maddeningly, you loved him.
That was the worst part.
Not the fear. Not even the doubt.
The love.
It made fools of people. It made you swallow things that should have been spat back out. It made you stand in a kitchen at three in the morning defending a man who had taught you exactly what his silences meant.
The elevator chimed.
You did not turn around.
You heard the muted tread of boots first, then the heavier pause that always marked the moment Bucky noticed you before deciding what version of himself to wear. The careful one. The weary one. The soft one built only for you.
“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked.
His voice came rough with exhaustion. Familiar. Beautiful. Infuriating.
You stared into the dark surface of your coffee. “No.”
A beat passed.
He moved farther into the kitchen, quiet as a storm held back by clenched teeth. “You should’ve called me.”
The words almost made you laugh.
You set the mug down with delicate care, because if you gripped it any harder, it might have shattered. “Would that have helped?”
He hesitated.
That tiny pause – nothing, really, hardly anything – cut deeper than shouting ever could.
When you finally turned, he stood near the island with rain dampening the shoulders of his jacket, hair pushed back from his face, mouth drawn thin in that guarded expression he wore when he sensed danger but had not yet identified the source. His metal arm caught the kitchen light in cold silver lines. Bruised shadows lay beneath his eyes. He looked tired. Human. Ruined in all the ways that had once made your heart ache with tenderness.
He also looked guilty.
The realization struck not like lightning, sudden and bright, but like something old and ugly rising through mud. Something that had always been there. Something you had smelled long before you allowed yourself to name it.
You folded your arms over your chest. “Where were you?”
“Mission debrief ran late.”
You nodded once.
The lie came so smoothly it made your stomach turn.
Not because it was convincing. Because it was practiced.
You looked at him for a very long moment, and he held your gaze just long enough to pretend he could bear it. Then his eyes shifted – only slightly, only for a second – but enough.
Enough.
“You’re sick of all the rules,” you said quietly. “Is that it?”
A line appeared between his brows. “What?”
“All the explanations. All the consequences. All the basic expectations that come with being with someone.” Your voice remained calm, and somehow that calm frightened him more than anger would have. You saw it in the way his shoulders squared. “You’re tired of those?”
“Doll–”
“Don’t.”
He fell silent.
You had never hated the endearment before. Tonight it landed like an insult.
Rain slid in restless trails down the glass. The jazz in the hallway cut off mid-note. Somewhere in the Tower, a pipe knocked softly in the wall.
Bucky stepped closer, cautious now. “Talk to me.”
You gave him a thin smile that contained no warmth whatsoever. “That would require you to start first.”
His jaw flexed.
For a second, he looked almost offended, and that – more than anything – made something bitter uncurl fully in your chest.
You had spent months making room for his grief, his nightmares, his anger, his silence, his impossible history. You had never once asked him to be easy. You had never asked him to be pretty, or polished, or healed. God knew you were none of those things yourself. You were not soft enough for fairy tales. Not patient enough for sainthood. Not some delicate little thing made to wait by the window and smile when he finally remembered to come home.
You had done ugly things in your life. You had made mistakes. You had survived by becoming harder than the world wanted from you. You were not one of those bright, effortless women from magazines or movies – the kind who seemed born to be adored without ever having to demand truth.
But you had never lied to him like this.
“You want me to talk?” you asked. “Fine.”
His expression changed. Wariness darkened it.
You moved away from the counter and toward him, not to seek comfort but because the distance suddenly felt unbearable. “I think you’re sleeping with someone else.”
He went still.
Not confused.
Not shocked.
Still.
It lasted less than a breath, but it was enough to hollow out the room around you.
And there it was.
Proof did not always come dressed in photographs or lipstick stains or strangers’ perfume. Sometimes proof was simply the shape a person’s face made when the truth arrived before they had prepared a lie.
You let out a low, unsteady laugh. “Wow.”
His mouth opened. Closed. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“No?” You tilted your head. “Then look me in the eye and tell me I’m wrong.”
He did not.
The silence that followed was monstrous.
It filled the kitchen. It spilled over the counters and climbed the windows and sank its claws into your ribs. You felt suddenly cold all the way through, as if the rain had gotten inside your skin.
Bucky took another step toward you. “It’s not–”
“No.” Your voice cracked like a whip. “No, you don’t get to start with that.”
His hands flexed at his sides. “Listen to me.”
“I have listened to you.” The words came sharper now, years of restraint peeling back at last. “I have listened to every half-truth, every excuse, every ‘it’s complicated,’ every ‘I didn’t want to worry you,’ every time you made me feel insane for noticing you were somewhere else even when you were standing right next to me.”
He looked stricken, but you could not stop.
Maybe you had held back too much for too long. Maybe all that swallowed hurt had finally climbed into your throat, choking and furious, demanding shape.
“I knew something was wrong,” you said. “I knew it. I could feel it every time you touched me like you were apologizing for something I hadn’t found out yet.”
Bucky’s face hardened with pain. “I never meant to hurt you.”
The laugh that tore out of you this time sounded ugly. “That’s convenient.”
He flinched.
Good.
For once, let him be the one cut open by the sound of your voice.
You turned away, pressing your palm to your mouth for a second, gathering yourself. The city gleamed beyond the windows like a wound that refused to close. In the reflection, you could see him behind you – broad-shouldered, silent, miserable. The tragic soldier. The broken hero. The man everyone forgave because sorrow wore his face so well.
When you spoke again, your voice came lower. “Who was she?”
His answer took too long.
That was answer enough.
You shut your eyes.
Not because you were surprised. Because some small, disgusting part of you had still been hoping for magic – for a loophole, a misunderstanding, anything but this. Some last foolish hope that maybe love, however damaged, still meant safety.
When you opened your eyes again, you looked at him through the reflection instead of directly. “Was it someone in the Tower?”
He said nothing.
Your blood ran cold.
“Oh my God.” You turned fully toward him. “It was.”
“Please,” he said, and now his voice was fraying too. “Please don’t do this like that.”
“Like what?” You stepped closer until there was barely a breath between you. “Like I’m the one humiliating you?”
He dragged a hand over his face. The metal fingers of his left hand curled, uncurled. “It didn’t start the way you think.”
There it was: the oldest cowardice in the world. Not denial. Not accountability. Explanation.
Something inside you snapped into a strange, perfect clarity.
“It did start exactly the way I think,” you said. “You were lonely, or angry, or drunk, or self-destructive, or scared, or whatever story helps you sleep. And you chose someone else because for one moment it was easier than choosing me honestly.”
His eyes flashed. “You think this was easy for me?”
The words hung between you.
For a second, you could only stare.
Then you laughed again, and there were tears in it now, bright and furious and close to falling. “There you are.”
Bucky looked as if he wanted to reach for you, but he knew better now.
“You really are unbelievable,” you said. “You stand there after betraying me and ask if I think it was easy for you?”
He swallowed hard. “That’s not what I meant.”
“But it is what you said.”
He did not argue.
You wiped roughly at one cheek and found it wet. You had not even felt the tears start. “Do you know what the sickest part is?” you asked. “I kept asking myself why you loved me.”
His face broke a little at that.
You went on anyway.
“Because none of this makes sense if you did.” Your throat tightened painfully. “I kept thinking maybe I was too much. Too angry. Too difficult. Not sweet enough, not pretty enough, not forgiving enough. Maybe if I were easier to love, you wouldn’t have needed…” You gestured helplessly, disgusted with yourself for even saying it aloud. “Someone else.”
His expression changed from pain to horror. “No.”
You looked at him flatly. “Don’t.”
“No,” he repeated, stepping toward you despite the danger. “You don’t get to put this on yourself.”
A terrible smile touched your mouth. “Now you care about fairness?”
“This wasn’t because of you.”
“Wasn’t it?” You folded your arms tighter, holding yourself together by force. “Because I’m running out of alternative explanations.”
“It was because I’m screwed up,” he said harshly, as if the confession might save something. “Because I ruin things. Because I didn’t know how to – ”
“How to what? Be faithful?” The edge in your voice could have cut glass. “That’s not some advanced emotional skill, Bucky.”
He recoiled as if struck.
Still, he did not deny it.
The rain intensified, ticking harder against the windows. Lightning flashed somewhere far beyond the skyline, turning the city momentarily silver. The kitchen lights felt too white, the room too clean for something this ugly.
You remembered the first time he had kissed you in this very Tower. It had been after midnight too, after a mission gone sideways, when everyone else had been asleep and the both of you had stood here with bruised knuckles and bad coffee and the quiet understanding that two ruined people had found something gentle in one another. He had kissed you like a man asking permission to exist. You had loved him for that tenderness, for the restraint, for the fragile awe of it.
Now, standing in the same place, you wondered how much of memory was fiction dressed up as devotion.
“Was it once?” you asked.
He stared at the floor.
Your heart hammered so violently you thought you might actually be sick.
“Bucky.”
His voice came almost inaudible. “More than once.”
The room lurched.
You grabbed the back of a chair, fingers locking around it until the wood bit into your palm. He moved instinctively, but one look from you stopped him dead.
More than once.
Not a mistake, then.
A choice. Repeated. Reinforced. Returned to.
You had thought the worst thing would be the image of it, the physical betrayal, the details your mind had already begun to invent against your will. But the truly unforgivable part was repetition. It meant time. It meant opportunity. It meant he had woken up after the first time, looked at the life you shared, and decided to cross the line again anyway.
Something in your face must have changed, because Bucky whispered your name like a prayer spoken too late.
You straightened slowly.
“No,” you said, more to yourself than to him. “No, that’s it.”
His head jerked up. “Don’t.”
You almost smiled at the absurdity. “You don’t get to tell me not to leave after cheating on me.”
“I’m not telling you what to do.” Desperation cracked through at last. “I’m asking you to let me explain.”
“You already did.” You let go of the chair. “It happened more than once. That’s the explanation.”
He took another step, then another, like a man approaching a ledge. “I love you.”
The words struck you with such force that for a heartbeat, you forgot how to breathe.
Then the anger came back twice as strong.
“Why?” you asked.
He froze.
The question landed between you with all the weight of a blade laid flat across skin.
You took one shaking breath. “Why do you love me?”
His mouth parted. No sound came.
You laughed through tears, and it sounded broken. “No, really. Tell me. Because I’d love to hear how those two things fit together in your head.” Your hand pressed against your chest. “Tell me how you loved me while lying to my face. Tell me how you loved me while touching someone else. Tell me how that works, because it’s driving me out of my mind.”
He looked destroyed.
You did not care.
Maybe a part of you would care tomorrow, or in a week, or in the lonely aftermath when grief softened anger into something more dangerous. But not tonight. Tonight you wanted the truth to hurt him the way it had hurt you.
“I wasn’t enough for you,” you said.
“You are everything.”
The answer came too quickly, too fervently.
That was what made it obscene.
Your eyes burned. “Then why did you do it?”
Bucky looked like a man standing before an open grave. He searched your face as though the right words might still exist there, waiting for him to recover them. But there were no right words. Not now.
“I don’t know,” he said finally, and the honesty of it was somehow worse than another lie. “I wish I did. I wish I had something that would make sense, something I could give you that would fix even a fraction of this. But I don’t.” His breathing roughened. “I hated myself every second.”
You stared at him. “That’s supposed to comfort me?”
“No.”
“Good.”
Because it did not. His guilt did not erase the betrayal. His suffering did not cancel yours. You were tired – suddenly, bone-deep tired – of men who mistook self-loathing for atonement.
You moved around him toward the doorway.
He caught your wrist.
Not hard. Never hard. But enough.
You looked down at his hand, then up at his face.
He released you instantly, horror flashing across his features. “Sorry.”
Something about that nearly broke you for good. He could remember to be gentle now. Now.
You stepped back out of reach. “Don’t touch me.”
He lowered both hands like surrender.
For a long second, neither of you spoke.
Then, because cruelty was all you had left to keep from collapsing, you said quietly, “Was she prettier than me?”
His entire face changed, pain and disbelief colliding. “Don’t.”
“There’s that word again.”
“She had nothing to do with–”
“But she did.” Your voice sharpened. “She had everything to do with this. So answer me.”
“I’m not answering that.”
“Because you know there’s no answer that doesn’t kill me.”
“There is no comparison,” he said, anguish rising. “There never was.”
You smiled without humor. “That’s such a lovely lie for a man who’s run out of useful ones.”
He flinched harder this time.
Good, some ugly part of you thought again, and you hated that part even while feeding it.
You turned away from him and walked out of the kitchen.
He followed.
Of course he did.
Your footsteps echoed down the hallway, sharp against the muted luxury of the Tower. Art lined the walls. Stark’s absurd taste in modern sculpture crouched in lit alcoves. Everything looked polished, curated, expensive – utterly detached from the ruin dragging itself through the corridor at four in the morning.
“You need to stop,” Bucky said behind you.
You did not break stride. “No. You need to stop following me.”
“I’m not letting you walk away like this.”
That made you spin on him so fast he nearly collided with you.
“Like this?” you said, voice rising for the first time. “Like this?” Your hands spread, furious and trembling. “How else do people walk away from being cheated on, Bucky? Gracefully? With a thank-you note?”
He looked as if the floor had vanished beneath him. “That’s not what I meant.”
“I don’t care what you meant.”
The words cracked through the empty hall. Somewhere nearby, a sensor light brightened in response.
You laughed once under your breath and dragged a hand through your hair. “God, I am so tired.”
He softened at once, reflexive, instinctive. “Come sit down.”
The tenderness in his tone nearly made you scream.
“Don’t you dare use that voice with me.”
He stopped cold.
“You don’t get to comfort me from the thing you did,” you said. “Do you understand that? You don’t get to be the knife and the bandage.”
His eyes glistened then, and he looked away.
For a second, seeing him on the verge of tears gave you no satisfaction at all. Only exhaustion.
You resumed walking, this time toward your room.
The Tower seemed to notice. Doors slid open automatically as you approached, lights lifting in your path one by one. Bucky stayed behind you, no longer trying to come close, but refusing to disappear.
When you reached your door, you stopped with your hand on the panel.
He halted several feet away.
“Say something,” he said hoarsely.
You kept your back to him. “I have said plenty.”
“Then say the thing that matters.”
Slowly, you turned.
He stood at the far end of the small pool of light outside your room, half in shadow, half illuminated. He had never looked more like a ghost than he did then – something dragged out of war and time and guilt, held together by brute will and failing in real time.
For one wild, self-destructive second, you wanted to cross the distance and let him hold you while your heart broke. That was how deep the habit of loving him ran. Even now, some traitorous part of you wanted refuge in the very person who had set your life on fire.
You hated him for that.
You hated yourself more.
When you spoke, your voice came very quiet.
“I kept getting back up,” you said. “Every time things got hard with you. Every time the nightmares were bad. Every time you pulled away. Every time you made me feel like loving you meant standing in the shadows and waiting for scraps of honesty.” Your mouth trembled; you held it firm by force. “I got back up and did it again because I thought you were worth it.”
He closed his eyes briefly, pain washing over his face.
“But this?” you continued. “This is the part where I stop.”
His eyes opened fast. “Please.”
“No.”
The word was not loud. It did not need to be.
It landed with finality neither of you could mistake.
He swallowed, throat moving hard. “You don’t mean that.”
“I do.”
“You’re angry.”
“Yes.”
“You don’t have to decide tonight.”
A sad, disbelieving smile touched your lips. “You really still think this is about timing.”
He stared at you.
You looked at him one last time, and because truth had already ruined everything, you gave him all of it.
“I love you,” you said. “That’s what makes this so pathetic. I love you enough that part of me will probably still want to forgive you tomorrow. Or next week. Or when I hear you moving around the Tower and I remember what it felt like to belong to somebody.” Your eyes burned again. “So I’m not giving myself that chance.”
Something in him visibly shattered.
You opened your door.
“Don’t do this,” he whispered.
You met his gaze across the threshold. “You already did.”
And then you went inside and shut him out.
Morning came cruelly.
No sleep softened the edges of the night. No revelation arrived to rearrange the facts into anything less grotesque. Dawn simply seeped into the Tower in pale winter bands, making everything look cleaner than it deserved.
You packed in silence.
Not much. Just enough.
A duffel bag lay open across your bed. Shirts, jeans, chargers, toiletries, a knife you kept hidden in the nightstand though you never needed it here, a photograph you almost left behind out of spite until you realized Bucky was in it and tore it cleanly in half before dropping only your side into the bag.
Your hands were steady. That frightened you more than tears would have.
Outside your room, the Tower had begun its usual morning rhythm. Voices in the kitchen. Music from the gym. The muted roll of wheels as someone carted equipment down the corridor. Life, indifferent and obscene, carrying on.
There had been a time when the Tower had felt like belonging. A patched-together mess of damaged people who chose, somehow, to become a home. But homes were fragile things. Sometimes all it took was one lie told too many times to reveal the fault line running underneath.
A soft knock came at the door.
You did not answer.
The knock came again, then Sam’s voice, careful and low. “Hey.”
You closed the zipper on your bag. “It’s open.”
Sam stepped in, took one look at the room, and went very still.
He was observant enough not to ask stupid questions.
His gaze flicked from the packed bag to your face, then to the torn half of the photograph lying in the wastebasket. Something sober and sad settled over him.
“You leaving?” he asked.
“Yes.”
He nodded once.
“Want me to punch him?” he asked after a moment.
Despite everything, a small huff of laughter escaped you. “Tempting.”
Sam leaned one shoulder against the wall, arms folding. “Nat already offered to help hide the body, and she doesn’t even know the details yet.”
That got a real laugh out of you – brief, broken, but real.
Then it vanished.
Sam’s expression gentled. “You don’t have to explain.”
“I know.”
“But?”
You stared at the strap of your bag. “But if I start talking, I might stay.”
Understanding crossed his face with quiet devastation.
He pushed off the wall and crossed to you slowly, giving you plenty of room, and held out a keycard. “Safehouse in Brooklyn. Stark uses it for witnesses and people who need quiet. Nobody’ll bother you there unless you want them to.”
You took the card. Your fingers brushed his briefly. “Thank you.”
He nodded.
At the door, he paused. “For what it’s worth, none of this says a damn thing about you.”
Your throat tightened.
You looked away before gratitude could become crying. “I know,” you lied.
Sam did not call you on it.
After he left, you stood alone for another minute, breathing through the ache. Then you picked up your bag and walked out.
The corridor seemed longer in daylight.
You nearly made it to the elevator before Bucky stepped into view at the far end of the hall.
He looked like hell.
He had changed clothes, but not slept. His hair was disheveled, his eyes bloodshot, his expression stripped bare in a way you had rarely seen. No defenses. No calm. No practiced control.
Just wreckage.
For a heartbeat, neither of you moved.
Then he saw the bag.
Every bit of color left his face.
“You’re really leaving.”
You pressed the elevator button. “Yes.”
The doors did not open fast enough.
He came closer, stopping well outside your reach this time. There was fear in him now, raw and human and overdue. “Please don’t go.”
You looked at the elevator display instead of him. “I’m not staying.”
“We can fix this.”
The bitterness that rose in you was almost gentle now. Almost pitying. “No, we can’t.”
“I can do better.”
“You should’ve done better before.”
He inhaled sharply as if the words had landed somewhere vital. “I know.”
The elevator chimed.
The doors slid open.
You turned toward them, but his voice stopped you.
“I do love you.”
Your eyes closed briefly.
When you faced him again, there was nothing dramatic left in you. No fury. No shouting. Just the cold, terrible clarity of a wound exposed to air.
“That’s why this is so sad,” you said.
He stared at you, not understanding.
You adjusted the strap on your shoulder. “Because maybe you do. In your way. In whatever broken, selfish, hungry way you call love.” Your gaze held his. “And it still wasn’t enough to make you faithful.”
He looked as though you had physically struck him.
Good, some part of you thought faintly. Another part simply felt tired.
You stepped into the elevator.
He did not follow.
For once, he knew better.
As the doors began to close, he said your name – not loudly, not desperately, just with the helpless ruin of a man finally realizing consequences were not abstract things but doors shutting in real time.
You met his eyes through the narrowing gap.
There had been a thousand versions of goodbye available to you once.
A kiss to his cheek before a mission. A murmured be safe. A hand squeezed in passing. A smile across the kitchen. A promise to come back.
This goodbye had no tenderness in it.
Only truth.
“Whatever you thought this was,” you said softly, “it isn’t love if it destroys me.”
Then the doors closed.
Brooklyn smelled like wet concrete and old brick.
The safehouse was small, anonymous, and blessedly silent. One bedroom, one bathroom, a narrow galley kitchen, a couch by the window, a fire escape rusting outside. No towering glass walls. No billion-dollar views. No ghosts in every corridor.
You dropped your bag by the couch and stood in the middle of the apartment listening to the silence.
No footsteps.
No machinery humming in the walls.
No Bucky.
The absence of him was immediate and enormous. It lived in the shape of every room, in the instinct that kept expecting a second heartbeat nearby, in the reflex that wanted to reach for your phone despite everything.
You did not call him.
You did not read the messages that began arriving within the hour.
At noon, twenty-three unread texts sat on your screen.
By two, there were thirty-one.
By evening, missed calls.
You silenced the phone and turned it face down.
Then you sat on the floor with your back against the couch and finally let yourself break.
It came in waves – rage first, then humiliation, then grief so fierce it stole all sound from you. You cried until your ribs hurt. Until your head pounded. Until the apartment dimmed around you and the city outside the window blurred into evening.
Somewhere between one sob and the next, a thought came, sharp and unbearable:
He still had the most beautiful face.
And that made it worse.
Because betrayal would have been easier, maybe, if ugliness had announced it first. If cruelty had looked cruel. If liars wore their sins plainly. But Bucky Barnes still looked like every aching thing you had ever wanted to save. He still looked like longing made flesh. And now that beauty simply made you sad.
By midnight, the tears had ebbed into a numb ache.
You rose, washed your face, and stared at yourself in the bathroom mirror.
Your eyes were swollen. Your hair was a mess. Your skin looked blotchy, exhausted. You did not resemble the kind of heroine who got cinematic heartbreak and emerged luminous from it.
You looked wrecked.
Real.
And for the first time all day, that did not feel like failure.
You rested both hands on the sink and met your own gaze.
You were not a doll.
Not a fantasy.
Not some compliant little creature built to orbit a man’s moods and call it devotion.
You were angry, difficult, proud, wounded, imperfect. You had survived uglier things than this. You had made mistakes and been broken and gotten back up more times than anyone ever praised you for.
You could do it again.
The thought did not heal you.
It did not make the hurt noble or meaningful.
But it stood there quietly, stubborn as a pulse.
You could do it again.
Not love him again.
Not save him again.
Just rise.
Little by little.
Breath by breath.
Day by day.
Outside, sirens wailed somewhere distant and faded. Rain began again, light against the fire escape. The city kept moving, indifferent and immense.
You looked at yourself a moment longer, then switched off the bathroom light and went back into the small dark apartment that was, for tonight at least, yours alone.
In the silence, your phone buzzed once more against the table.
You did not touch it.
And for the first time since the night before, the choice felt like power.
Summary: You're Bucky's friend, and, yeah, sometimes you sleep together. Why can't he tell you that he wants something more?
Word Count: Over 1.7k
Warnings: FWB, dirty talk, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), referenced oral sex (f. receiving), longing, insecurities, snooping, unrequited feelings (or so he thinks), not communicating, bit of angst, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning and a beautiful idiot, okay?), Bucky's POV.
A/N: A new AU inspired by this nonnie. ❤️ Beta read by the lovely @mumbles411, but any and all mistakes are my own. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications as I no longer do taglists. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!
Bucky held you close, your body still warm and your heart racing within your chest. You passed out seconds ago and he couldn’t help but smirk as he rubbed your back and stayed buried deep inside you. He wore you out in the best possible way, and his eyes slipped shut as he thought about what just transpired. It was nice being able to remember and not fear that someone would wipe the memories away.
“So fucking pretty,” he praised, thrusting harder and deeper into you, knowing you could take it. One of your hands fisted the sheets and the other gripped his back. He wanted you to leave marks all over him, the same way you left marks on his heart and soul for him to feel. “I know you’re close. Can feel you gripping my cock like a fucking vice.”
He didn’t say being inside you felt like home, as much as he wanted to, and didn’t dare breathe that he wanted you to feel the same way. Some things were meant to stay quiet, even when he wanted to scream how much he needed you. If he blurted out anything, he could blame it on the heat of the moment.
“Please, Bucky. I need it,” you moaned when he slowed his pace, purposely dragging it out and making you beg for more. It felt good when you begged, and the way you rode his face earlier tonight told him you were desperate for more than one release. He’d be the one to give it to you. “Please, I need you.”
His eyes almost rolled back. Something fragile snapped within him as he rocked his hips, moving as deep as he could. He wanted to be so deep inside you he’d never get out. You needed him. HIM. He needed you, too. More than you knew.
“You and your greedy cunt trying to milk my cock for all its worth,” he rasped, affection filling his eyes before he blinked it away. “C’mon. Give it to me. Make a mess all over me and the sheets. Just like you did on my face.”
He moaned when you gushed around him with a cry, coating his cock, all while he fucked you through it. It didn’t take him long to follow you over the edge, groaning as he finished inside you. He didn’t use condoms since he wasn’t sleeping with anyone else and neither were you. It was selfish not to use that precaution, but he didn’t want anything between you.
And the smile you gave him before you passed out was enough to melt his heart.
He opened his eyes, willing himself not to get rock hard again. But watching and feeling you come apart, your pussy hot and pulsing around him, you babbling his name like a prayer, he wanted to savor it and play it on repeat in his mind like his favorite song. The knowledge that he was the one who drove you to those heights of ecstasy was addictive. He craved you. He’d never get enough of you.
But he didn’t call himself your boyfriend.
“Fuck,” he whispered, brushing his lips against your forehead in a tender gesture though you weren’t awake.
He wouldn’t say it was an accident the first time you slept together, but it did just… happen. The two of you were watching a movie together when you decided to throw popcorn at him. That turned into him pinning you down, jokingly demanding an apology while you giggled and refused. That laugh twisted something in his chest and the next thing he knew his mouth was on yours and clothes were on the floor and…
“This doesn’t change anything, right?” he asked once you were both dressed, your knees touching when he sat beside you.
The words tasted bittersweet and he regretted it the second they left his mouth because everything changed. He knew what it felt like to be inside you, to hear his name tumble from your lips with pleasure. He knew how to make you laugh, and you knew how to brighten his day. You were no longer just friends, but he didn’t ask you out either.
The hurt in your eyes was obvious, but you asked in a carefully even tone, “You want to forget it?”
“I don’t want to forget,” he promised you, running a hand through his messy hair. How did he always manage to fuck things up? “Because that was…”
“Amazing?” you asked hopefully.
“Yeah,” he breathed. It was beyond amazing, a completely different level. Pleasuring himself got him off, but his hand couldn’t compare to the feel of your tight wet heat. “But you’re my friend, and I don’t want things to change.”
He inwardly winced. Friend. Not a coworker, teammate, or anything of that nature. You were friends. What kind of friend was he to sleep with you and pretend that it was just sex and nothing more? A cowardly one. But he wanted you in his life, however you’d have him. Maybe that was desperate, but what else could he do?
Something unreadable crossed your face before you smiled, making him think he imagined it. “Doesn’t change a thing, Barnes.”
His stomach sank and it wasn’t fair to feel upset since he was the one who started this. He just thought… it didn’t matter. “Bucky, not Barnes,” he corrected you.
You nodded slowly, the air thick and unsure. “Bucky,” you whispered, starting the movie over. “Do you think this will happen again?”
He threw an arm around the back of the couch and hoped it would. “If it does, it won’t change a thing,” he lied.
Everything changed.
Bucky wasn’t sure when or how you both fell into this rhythm where he’d call you or vice versa, but you went to each other without question when one of you needed to blow off some steam. He wasn’t a complete asshole. He refused to immediately leave afterward. Taking care of you after meant everything, whether it was holding you or cleaning you off. You wanted that closeness, and so did he.
It made it easier to pretend that you wanted him for more than just sex, too.
But the more he slept with you, the harder it was to let you go. If he was at your place, he found reasons to stick around until he had to leave, suggesting to watch a movie or share a meal. If you were at his place, the way you were now, he’d kept a tight hold on you so you couldn’t slip away. He always insisted on dropping you off, too, so you wouldn’t have to find a ride back to your place.
The way a boyfriend would.
Your aura and scent lingered long after you’d leave and Bucky would ask himself when you’d be back. He was living on scraps and stolen moments thanks to his own fucking mouth and inability to tell you how he felt. And he was beginning to starve. It was the kind of hunger that he couldn’t satisfy until poured himself out to you with his honesty, no matter what the outcome. You deserved more than just pieces of him, too.
So, why couldn’t he say the words? Why couldn’t he tell you he had feelings for you? Sex clearly wasn’t the issue since you two were so compatible, and you two were open when it came to likes, dislikes, and where lines were drawn. There was trust in and out of bed. He enjoyed your company, too. He was able to relax around you in ways he couldn’t with anyone else. What was he so afraid of?
That he’d lose you without ever truly having you?
Your phone buzzing on the nightstand beside him got his attention. He frowned when he realized what time it was. It was late. Who was texting right now unless it was an emergency? No, an emergency would be worthy of a call, not a text.
Bucky ran a finger along your cheek, making you sigh in your sleep. He couldn’t explain why, but his fingers itched to grab it and see who the message was from. That wasn’t like him. He wasn’t the jealous type. At least, he didn’t think he was. Not to mention looking at your phone was crossing a line, he knew that, but he couldn’t ignore the feeling in his gut.
“This is so fucking wrong,” he muttered the second he grabbed it. All he had to do was put the phone down and let you read it when you woke up. That was the right thing to do. But he didn’t do that.
And curiosity, well, it killed the cat, didn’t it?
His throat went dry when he saw the message from a guy’s name he had never once heard you utter. He squeezed the device so hard he almost shattered it. It was the same sort of grip he felt around his heart.
“We still on for Saturday?”
He gritted his teeth and reread the message. He read it until the screen blurred. It took a minute for him to set it back on the nightstand so he could pull you against his chest and steady his breathing.
“You’re meeting someone on Saturday?” he muttered, knowing he wouldn’t get a reply while you were deep in slumber.
All sorts of questions went through his mind, like who the hell was this guy? Why were you making plans with him? You would’ve told him if you started seeing someone, right? Was he overthinking it, or were you eventually going to your “relationship” with him?
Something cold and bitter crawled through his veins. Did this guy make you smile? Did he make your heart race? Would he know what it was like to make you fall apart? Hold you? Was he the kind of man who could be both your friend and a lover?
As quickly as his jealousy built up it deflated when he gazed at you, his blue eyes filled with pain he didn’t bother to mask in the dark. The truth he didn’t have the right to know. You didn’t owe him any answers. He wasn't your boyfriend.
And that was all his fault.
I wonder who messaged you. And I wonder what it'll take for Bucky to not be an idiot and tell you what's what. ❤️ Love and thanks for reading! More to come soon. ❤️
summary: James Buchanan Barnes, head mobster of Brooklyn, has a regularly scheduled date night with his girlfriend.
warnings: Mob!Bucky, Established relationship, MDNI, smut, porn without plot, p in v, dry humping, fingering (fem receiving), corruption kink, nicknames (baby), no use of y/n, not beta read, all mistakes are mine
word count: > 1.3k
author's note: This is technically a sequel to a fic I have been working on in the background, so consider this a teaser for what is to come.
ao3 link: here
credits: dividers by doll-fairy and saradika-graphics, gif made by me
SERIES MASTERLIST
It did not take much, it never did.
The movie blurred across the large screen, just people in motion with a ridiculous yellow filter obstructing their beauty.
That wasn’t the focus though. No, that had been quickly shifted to the man behind you.
James Buchanan Barnes, the head mobster for Brooklyn, who insisted you call him Bucky, and treated you with the gentleness of a fallen angel.
Bucky sat behind you, legs around yours, one of his feet perched up on the sofa and the other next to your own. Your back against his chest whilst his hands ran along your thighs up to your hips then down. The position made it look like he had you practically laid across him.
Just a mobster and his girl.
A girl and her saviour.
“What’cha thinking?” He murmurs low as his mouth runs along your cheek, the gravel of his voice running along your spine.
“Just how you saved me,” you murmur, tilting your head to face him, lips brushing his cheek momentarily.
“Mm,” he mumbled, a hand reaching up to tilt your chin, lips running along your neck.
“Bucky,” you inhale sharply, unable to stop the fluttering feeling within.
“Just let me in, baby,” his lips peppered light kisses against your neck.
You lean back against his arm with a soft moan. His hips roll carefully against you, soft and measured.
With one arm around his neck you pull him to you, lips brushing briefly before you push yourself forward, eager and hungry.
His tongue slipped into your mouth, possessively running against the roof of your mouth.
You squeak as he pulls back slightly to lay you back, and hovers over you.
“That is better,” his growls, voice low. The sound of it seeps, sending warmth through you.
His mouth finds yours again, pressing down softly at first then building in intensity. His board body slowly inched down to press against you, then rolled his hips against you again.
“B-Buc…” you gasp at the friction building between you.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, his open mouth now on your jaw. You jolt slightly at the feel of his tongue tracing your jawline.
Your hips lift up to feel him, and let out a soft moan.
“Easy there,” he murmurs. “Want to savour you.”
Your hands reach under his arms, clinging to the muscles of his back.
The weight of him restrained you, holding you in place leaving you choiceless but to feel him against you. Each roll of his hips was slow, measured and intended to tease.
“Bucky…” you gasp. “Please.”
He sat up, hands braced next to your head to hover over you.Then leaned down his lips trailed down your jaw to your ear to whisper.
“Only you can beg so prettily that I could never deny you.”
You shiver, the tenor of his voice tickling your neck, and he chuckles softly before pushing himself up again.
Holding himself up with the metal arm, the other lingers on your knee a moment, eyes asking.
You nod softly.
Bucky smiles, allowing his fingers to dance up the bare thigh and tug at your underwear.
Your eyes widen when you hear the loud tear of cotton giving way.
“James!” You hiss his name, scowling.
“Berate me later,” his voice is thick, and fingers brush the dampness between your thighs.
“Oh,” your eyes blow wide.
His smile turns smug. “There she is.”
His fingers slide in, your body welcoming their warmth as you lay your head back again with a satisfied sigh.
He kept the movements of his fingers gently at first, building friction between them and your walls until he curled to hit spongy tissue.
“Feel good?” He leans close as you let out a soft mewl.
“Don’t stop,” you plead. “Please don’t stop.”
They move faster, the room filling with wet sounds alongside the vague chatter from the screen.
“Easy baby,” he murmurs, irises blown wide and then withdraws his fingers bringing them to your lips trailing your own arousal onto them. “Suck.”
Too far gone to even question him, you open your mouth and allow the saltiness to cover your tongue.
“Mm,” you groan slightly, but not at the taste, at the feel. Having those calloused fingers between the softness of your lips, suddenly you found yourself memorising every ridge of his skin, worshipping him with your tongue.
“Good girl,” he breathes, then pulls his hand away gently. “You are always so good for me, sweetheart. I should bring you to my men sometime. Show them what real loyalty looks like.”
Your heart swelled at the praise, watching as he reached down pulling his dark trousers and boxers down with tug from both hands, freeing himself.
The mobster leans over again, gathering the skirt of your dress up, you automatically spread your legs for him.
“Or not,” he murmurs darkly, eyes lingering on your damp folds. “Can’t let any of them go near you.”
With one thrust, you feel his entire length push forth, and wrap your legs around his waist.
“Oh my-“ you cry out. “Bucky!”
“I know,” he braces his legs, and begins to rock gently. His hands cup your face as he softly kisses you. Your own hands stiffly move from his back to the behind his shoulders to cling to.
“It’s so much,” he whispers. “This-“ another sharp thrust. “Me. Almost too much to bear, but you bear it so beautifully.”
His rhythm changes, slow but deep. Your breathy moans match his rhythm, and words escape you.
“You fell for the King of Brooklyn,” he continues, gritting his teeth momentarily as he feels you clamp around him for a moment. “I’m a criminal, a killer, everything a girl like you should despise. Yet you love me.”
“You saved me,” you whimper and he growls, pushing forth, hard. “Fuck.”
“Yes, yes I did,” he murmurs darkly. “I saved you, and made you mine.”
Even though that was not entirely the truth, you found yourself crying out in agreement.
“Yes, yours,” your nails dig into his shirt. “Bucky, please.”
“God, I love to see you beg,” he practically purrs, a finger on your lower lip, delicately tracing and pulling it down. “Next time, I want to see you do it on your knees.”
You nod eagerly, ready to do anything just for more.
“Here,” his pace picks up forcing another cry from you, his hand slides down to gently trace your clit. “Take it, baby.”
His pace was measured, controlled, deep and paced. Hitting the spot whilst his fingers toyed with your clit.
Time seemed to blur, mind filled with pleasure and the man hovering over you. You could hear the faintness of you gasping for more as he growled softly.
Your legs tremble as a wave of pleasure washes over you, forcing a loud cry from your own lips.
“Yes,” you hear his hiss between gritted teeth with thinly veiled restraint. Then came the next thrust, it was sharp, pulsing and the mark of a man no longer in control.
Your body clenches around him as you feel the rush of liquid, spreading deep, then hear the whimper.
Bucky’s face was nestled into your shoulder, content noises spewing from him as he finished.
Your hands reach up to gently brush through his hair, a tender demonstration of love.
“Fuck,” he murmurs then shifts, pulling out gently, his face now inches from yours. “That was really good.”
You giggle softly, there was something about watching the King of Brooklyn get drunk on pleasure that amused you.
“Yeah?” You tease him.
“Yeah,” he licks his bottom lip. “We forgot the movie.”
You laugh properly this time. “Oh, Bucky. I don’t think we were going to make it past the first act.”
His grins, eyes crinkling at the edges. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”
author's note: It is very opposite to Another Way, because it's meant to be fictional and fun! When the original will come out I don't know, I have a driving test tomorrow so I basically used writing this as a coping mechanism. Thank you all for reading!
pairing: chubby!bucky barnes x fem!reader
genre: fluff | angst | bucky sad | cheating if you squeeze (emotionally) | reader confident | smut in the next part | body shaming
word count: 12k
summary: Y/N and Bucky are in love with each other, everybody knows but they don't yet… or maybe they do. Y/N is beautiful and she’s not afraid to tell it. Bucky stopped being the HYDRA experiment and now is a little chubby, but still handsome. Someone want to destroy this balance.
a/n: so that's one of the longest i've ever wrote so it's gonna be two parts like it was in the old account!
part 1 | part 2
On field, the former Winter Soldier and the most efficient ex-Hydra spy.
Two of the most feared names in the field. In the Avengers’ tower just Bucky and Y/N.
Tony, Steve, Sam, and Natasha were proud to fight alongside them.
More than teammates.
A family.
Y/N charismatic and confident. The heart of the team, the one who made everyone feel like they belonged. She lit up every room she walked into, without ever trying to outshine anyone. Stunning and effortlessly magnetic she turned heads sure, but no one ever called her a pick me or fake. She was real and kind and unforgettable. Y/N knew she looked good. She wasn’t shy about it either.
She liked the curve of her hips, the cut of her jaw, the shine in her eyes when she pinned her hair back in the morning. The world might’ve whispered “attention seeker” when she walked into a room with her head held high and her eyeliner sharp enough to kill, but the Avengers? They knew better. She wasn’t just pretty. She was lethal. Sam once joked that she could dismantle a nuke and flirt with the enemy at the same time and he meant it as a compliment.
Bucky, on the other hand, had grown quieter more thoughtful and a little reclusive. He hid behind silence, but those who truly knew him saw the warmth he guarded so carefully. Fortunately, the HYDRA days were long forgotten and he was still in every way a super soldier with a broad and muscular body but got soft over the years. No more exhausting training sessions, some late snacks he allowed himself and delicious food. That's why, a small belly formed one he often tried to conceal beneath hoodies and crossed arms. He sometimes felt ashamed of it, even though everyone around him insisted he was still just as strong and just as attractive. Just a normal life, living with superheroes and fighting aliens, but still a normal life.
If Bucky was the dark quiet night, Y/N was the golden light of dawn.
Opposites in so many ways, but that was why they had always fit together so well.
Bucky watched her with a sort of reverence as if each time she walked into the common room in leggings and a crop top, she was rewriting the laws of physics just for the hell of it. He never said much, not directly, but she caught the way his gaze lingered especially when he thought no one was watching.
The way his lips parted when she smiled not even at him, just in general. The way his whole face softened when she laughed. And God, she was gorgeous.
Y/N noticed. Of course she did. She noticed everything.
Like the way he brought her coffee just the way she liked it. The way he grumbled about Tony being an idiot but never missed a single mission debrief she led. The way he froze when she leaned too close.
That morning, she caught him mid-stare while she stretched after a workout. He looked away so fast, he almost gave himself whiplash. Bucky used to watch her from a distance. He never said anything when Y/N walked into the room looking like she belonged there, like the Tower was hers just by the way she moved. She could quiet a boardroom with one glance and laugh like she hadn’t been through hell to earn her place on the team. She was loud when she wanted to be, soft when it mattered and completely out of his league. So, he watched quietly and hopelessly. A stupid ache in his chest every time she ruffled Steve’s hair or stole fries off Nat’s plate or leaned against Sam’s shoulder during movie nights. She deserved someone whole. Someone who looked like he belonged next to her in magazine spreads. Not a worn-down ex-assassin with broad shoulders, a soft stomach and nightmares that left him shaking in the shower.
That day, Lexi Connor came into their life.
Tony hired her through SHIELD.
Shiny resume, sharp clothes, the kind of smile that came with calculated sweetness, first in class in SHIELD Administration.
Bucky didn’t pay her much attention at first. He was used to new faces passing through the Tower. But then he overheard her. “So, I’ll be just there coordinating?” Lexi asked Tony, gesturing toward the lobby.
Tony raised a brow at the tone. It was dipped in something that wasn’t quite disdain, but damn close. He didn’t like it. “You’ll be there to help directing operations, making sure nobody unauthorised steps foot into our building, and help keep things running smoothly.”
Lexi gave him a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Right. Got it.”
Tony plastered his most, fake, charming smirk but inside his sensors were already blaring. He knew that look. He worn it himself in boardrooms when he was twenty-four and thought everyone around him was an idiot. Lexi thought she was better than the job. That was clear.
Helping to direct the operations in the Avengers’ Tower? Still a front desk girl, and Tony swore himself she didn’t like it.
Still, he gave her the benefit of the doubt. For now.
Tony, leaned one elbow on the sleek desk and sunglasses perched smugly on his nose, showing Lexi something on a tablet. “So, mission coordinator means you keep tabs on who’s punching what galaxy-level threat and make sure they’re not late for the daily debrief,” he said, flicking through holograms with casual flair.
Lexi didn’t blink. Her eyes scanned the interface, her fingers already rearranging mission schedules, rerouting field agents, and uploading encrypted codes before Stark had even finished his spiel. “I’ll triple the efficiency in a week,” she said, voice smooth, almost bored. Tony raised an eyebrow. She leaned forward, lowering her voice with a smirk. “Let’s just say coordinating missions is a nice warm-up. But I’ve got bigger plans, Stark. Avenger-level plans.”
“Right,” Tony muttered. “I’ve seen that look before. Usually ends with someone building a killer robot or trying to rewrite reality.”
The hum of servers filled the quiet control room. Lexi sat alone, tapping commands into the console with eerie precision. She began a couple of hour ago, but she was already at ease. Multiple mission feeds flickered across the screens; agents in action, crises unfolding, enemies slipping through shadows.
Later that evening, completely unaware of Lexi, Y/N found Bucky on the roof looking out over the city with his hands shoved into his jacket pockets. “You okay?” She asked, joining him.
He gave her a small smile. “Yeah. Just… thinking.”
“About?” She said, voice light. His ears turned pink. “I can tell there’s something.” She murmured, stepping closer.
He turned to her, eyes wide.
About you, Bucky thought.
Y/N smiled at him. He didn’t answer her question.
Two weeks after Lexi’s arrival, Y/N strolled through the Tower after training. Sharpie ponytail, leggings and oversize hoodie.
Gorgeous as hell.
A vision.
Lexi looked up from her desk and blinked. Then her gaze narrowed, just for a second. It didn’t go unnoticed.
Bucky was, totally coincidentally, near the gym when he caught the exchange. Y/N smiling, saluting Lexi like she saluted everyone.
Lexi blinked at her like she couldn’t quite figure her out. When Y/N started to walk away, Lexi muttered under her breath, “Wow. Must be easy getting away with anything when you look like that.”
Bucky froze. His super hearing was a bless just as much as a disdain. Something cold settled in his chest. But Y/N too heard her. She didn’t hesitate, didn’t falter. She stopped mid-step turning around slowly and tilting her head. She wasn’t angry but kept a calm grace that made her so terrifying.
“I don’t get away with anything,” she said, voice steady, sweet like honey with a razor underneath. “I earned every ounce of respect in this place. You want to talk about my looks? Fine. But don’t mistake it for weakness, or my face for my worth.”
Lexi opened her mouth, then closed it again, visibly shrinking. Y/N offered her a smile sharp, polite and utterly untouchable then turned on her heel and walked away with shoulders squared and head high. Bucky stood there for a beat longer jaw tight, something protective and proud churning low in his gut.
God, he loved her fire. He swore himself to marry that girl one day, even just in his dream.
Bucky didn’t go straight to the gym. Instead, he turned and reached Lexi. “Hey,” he called out, voice calm but firm.
Lexi looked up, trying not to look flustered. The handsome super soldier surely caught her attention the very first day she met the team. “Bucky. Everything okay?”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “About what you said… to Y/N.”
Lexi shrugged, feigning confusion. “Did I say something wrong? It was just a comment.”
Bucky’s jaw clenched. “Y/N’s more than how she looks. She’s one of the best people on this team. Stronger than most, smarter than all of us on a bad day. She’s earned everything she has, and she doesn’t deserve that kind of disrespect.”
Stunning as the sun, he added in his mind.
Lexi blinked, the corners of her mouth twitching like she was fighting the urge to smirk. “Of course,” she said, nodding with mock understanding. “You’re right. I didn’t mean anything by it.” But her eyes said otherwise. “I don’t even know her.” She already pieced it together. The way his shoulders stiffened, the way his voice softened just slightly when he said her name. She found the chink in the Winter Soldier’s armour... Y/N.
Bucky stared at her for another beat, trying to read her. But Lexi just smiled and tilted her head. “I’ll be more careful next time,” she added, turning her eyes back on the screen like she didn’t just step on something fragile.
Bucky, still fuming, reached for the gym. He didn’t realise it yet, but Lexi wouldn’t have forgotten the look in his eyes. And she certainly wouldn’t missed the weakness she saw. She didn’t say anything then. She didn’t have to. Not yet.
She was sick and tired of hearing her name and her actions. Even before joining the Avengers, just as mission coordinator even if in her head she was already a member of them, she heard about how great and brave Y/N Y/L/N was. For the SHIELD was a role model, for the Avengers the bravest one and for Bucky… oh stupid, handsome Bucky. He thought of her like the hanger of the moon and stars. The heroine who sacrifices herself for the others. She was just a pretty girl.
Did he really think a girl like her, would ever put her eyes on a guy like him? Pathetic.
She saw the chaos of heroism and believed she could do better. Fix the flaws, remove the unpredictability, command outcomes like a chess master and maybe taking Y/N’s place in the Avengers and into Bucky’s heart.
She remembered the day Y/N turned her down. Calm, collected and merciless in her honesty. “You don’t have enough preparation, Connor...” She had said during recruitment.
Words sharp but clinical like a doctor diagnosing something terminal. There had been no cruelty in her voice, and somehow that made it worse. No anger, no disdain. Just a quiet certainty that she wasn’t enough. But preparation wasn’t just brawn, and strength was discipline. Vision. Willpower. “Please, Y/L/N. Give me another chance.” Lexi said, breathless, frustration barely veiled beneath her words.
Y/N looked down at her, eyes unreadable but steady. There was no smirk, no malice just expectation. “Get up then, Connor.”
Lexi scrambled to her feet, the ache in her ribs ignored. She stepped back onto the mat, determined, fists raised in front of her face like she’d rehearsed a hundred times. She didn’t flinch when Y/N mirrored her stance calm, balanced and effortless.
This time would be different.
Lexi told herself like a mantra. She learned from last time. Timing, footwork, patience. She’d studied every move Y/N made, practiced counters in her dreams. But dreams didn’t fight back. Y/N moved first. One step. One faint shift of weight. Lexi blinked and then, humiliation.
Again.
Before she could react, she was on the mat, back slamming hard, air punched from her lungs. A clean sweep. A lesson. Another reminder. Y/N offered no hand this time. Just a quiet look as she stood over her. “Told you, Connor,” she said, voice low but firm. “You’re clever but not field prepared.”
Lexi stared up at the ceiling, jaw tight, chest burning. It wasn’t just pain she felt, it was the weight of never being enough. And Y/N never even raised her voice. She would prove that. She would show them all. Y/N, the Avengers… Bucky. There was more than one way to be a hero. And this time, she wouldn’t need anyone’s permission.
Bucky had always trusted his instincts. But ever since Lexi showed up, those instincts felt clouded, not wrong, just… off. She didn’t say much at first. Just little things. Comments he would normally shrugged off, if they wouldn’t have been about her.
“Wow, she’s confident, huh?” Lexi had said one afternoon, when Y/N walked through the common room still in her tactical gear.
Boots heavy on the floor, lipstick bold against her smile, a streak of dried blood running down her cheek like it belonged there.
“Must be exhausting always needing to be the center of attention like that.” Bucky frowned but didn’t reply. “Why putting make up on a mission?” He didn’t agree. Y/N has never needed attention. Lexi hadn’t pushed. She just smiled and moved on like she didn’t say anything at all.
“She humiliated me,” Lexi said during another break with Bucky, her voice soft but charged as she leaned back against the railing of the Avengers training deck.
The late afternoon’s light cast sharp angles across her face, the shadows falling just right.
Vulnerable, but not weak.
Y/N was resting after a tough mission, while the other in the tower were monitoring the outside. “Right there on the mat. No hesitation, no mercy. Just… took me down like I was nothing.”
Bucky didn’t look at her right away. He stood nearby, arms crossed over his chest, gaze fixed on the skyline. But she knew he was listening. He always listened.
Lexi went on, letting a shaky laugh slip through. “She didn’t even help me up. Just stood there and said I wasn’t field prepared. Like I was some intern who wandered into a war zone. You know what she called me? ‘Clever.’ Do you believe it?” Her mouth twisted slightly. “Like that was a consolation prize.” Bucky’s jaw clenched just a little, barely noticeable if you didn’t know him. Lexi noticed. “She made it personal. Always did. I think… I think she was threatened. I worked hard. I studied tactics, psychology, combat theory. I wasn’t handed anything. But it didn’t matter. Because I wasn’t her. I didn’t have her little reputation or… whatever she had with you guys…”
That last part hung in the air like smoke. Bucky finally turned to look at her, his eyes unreadable. “Y/N is tough,” he said, his voice low. “But she wasn’t cruel.”
Lexi blinked, caught between offense and panic. “I didn’t say she was cruel, just-”
“You said she humiliated you,” Bucky cut in gently, but firmly. “Sounds more like she did her job.”
Lexi’s stomach turned. She hadn’t expected that. “She never gave me a real chance,” she whispered, dropping her gaze to the floor. “…maybe I never needed her approval anyway.”
Bucky didn’t respond this time. He just looked away again, his silence louder than any defence. Lexi felt the weight of a story that didn’t quite land the way she wanted it to.
The next time, Lexi was more careful. More casual. “She’s always touching people.” She muttered to herself, leaning on the desk, skimming the security footage like she was bored. “Flirty…”
Y/N, passing behind her just in time to catch it, didn’t even slow down. She raised an eyebrow, offered a calm smile, and said, “It’s called being affectionate, Lexi. Some people call it emotional intelligence.”
Lexi began to say something, but Y/N was already gone. Hips swaying, voice echoing back down the hall.
Or that time during lunch, “Oh, I didn’t realise she was that close to Steve. No wonder she got promoted so fast.” She said to Bucky.
Bucky noticed. He noticed all of it.
He tried to shake it off at first, tried to convince himself Lexi just had a rough edge, and it got harder every time. That time Bucky felt something sharp in his stomach, something ugly. Because he noticed the way Y/N tugged playfully on Tony’s tie when she teased him, how she leaned into Sam’s side when they laughed at game night. The casual affection she spread so easily. But then he noticed that Y/N treated Natasha the same way, kinda flirty.
Once Bucky started remembering his moments with her, the way she used to pull him into dance-offs in the common room ruffling his hair when he brooded too hard or when she put her head on his shoulder during movie nights.
Y/N did it with everyone. Not just the guys, but something in his chest sank no matter what.
“She’s just friendly,” Bucky mumbled.
“Sure,” Lexi replied, smiling just enough. “If that’s what you want to believe…”
And that was it. Nothing outright cruel. Nothing too bold. Just suggestions. Innuendos. Enough to plant seeds. And Bucky hated himself for letting any of it fester. But once they were there, those seeds took root. He found himself watching Y/N differently not in awe like before, but… guarded. Maybe Lexi had seen something he hadn’t.
Was Y/N really flirting with everyone?
Was that special look she gave him just… her being nice and flirty with everyone?
Could she really have even ever flirted with him?
Surely, he mistaken her being nice to something deeper. Y/N Y/L/N would never, ever, have flirt with him.
One evening, Bucky watched as Y/N threw her arms around Steve’s neck after a sparring match, laughing breathlessly. Steve beamed, strong arms around her waist as he twirled her once in the air before setting her down. Bucky’s heart twisted.
Lexi’s words in his head, “Told you.”
And he said nothing. Y/N noticed his change.
Lexi never wanted to be a superhero. She wanted control. “Let’s start from Barnes.” She thought that day back when she had her first encounter with Y/N.
“Oh Y/N, how gorgeous is Y/N”
“How brave is Y/N”
“She took down a HYDRA base alone”
Blah, blah, blah
Deep down, Lexi wasn’t looking to destroy the Avengers. She just wanted to replace them. Or at least one of them.
Her plan? Build a covert network of operatives and digital tools that could neutralise threats before they ever reached Earth.
No capes. No explosions. Just precision.
But to prove herself, she’d need to test her system, maybe even sabotage a few heroic missions to show how vulnerable they really were.
That night, he ignored Y/N’s knock on his door.
He didn’t see the way her smile faltered when he didn’t answer.
Didn’t hear her whisper through the wood. “Everything okay, Buck?”
Didn’t see her stand there for a minute longer waiting and hoping, before she walked away.
One month.
30 days since Lexi entered the tower.
From day one, Lexi and Y/N clashed.
Y/N, a skilled field agent, respected by the Avengers and trusted with high-risk missions saw Lexi as cocky and untested and too comfortable behind her desk.
Lexi, on the other hand, saw Y/N as reckless, too reliant on muscle and instinct and blind to the strategy that saved missions before they even began.
Every meeting was a silent battle of eye rolls and sharpened remarks.
“Sorry, I thought we were solving this with intelligence not throwing fists,” Lexi would say, coolly adjusting her headset.
“Funny. I thought saving lives meant showing up, not sitting behind six screens” Y/N would fire back.
Tony found it hilarious. Steve tried to mediate. Natasha mostly stayed quiet watching the storm brew.
Y/N wasn’t the jealous type. At least, that’s what she told herself. She’d fought gods. Faced death. She wasn’t going to let a pretty coordinator in four-inch heels and a shiny French manicure rattle her. But she noticed.
That morning, she noticed the way Lexi seemed to be there, always there.
In the hallways, in the break room, outside the gym with that coy little smile and just the right amount of lean whenever she spoke to Bucky.
And Bucky? He used to light up when Y/N walked in the room. Used to meet her eyes across the table during debriefs and smirk at her sarcastic remarks. Used to bring her coffee without being asked and always saved her a spot on the couch. Y/N was careful, always. Not just with missions, not just in battle, but with feelings.
Especially this one.
She loved Bucky Barnes, for longer than she cared to admit. But she didn’t let herself believe he could love her back. Not like that. She wasn’t the one people chose. She was support, not the story.
She always made dinner. After missions, after meetings, after days the world felt too sharp and heavy. It had become a quiet tradition neither of them ever named, but both kept returning to. It grounded them. Gave them something normal. Some excuse to spent time with him.
After a tough mission, some months ago, they came back frozen and bruised too tired to speak more than a few words on the flight. The cold had settled in their bones. The silence had weight.
So, after a super hot shower, Y/N cooked. She moved through the kitchen with quiet precision, sleeves rolled up.
Bucky watched from the other side of the counter, the scent of her lasagna already warming the room. When they finally sat down, he ate three portions. She hadn’t said a word about his body nor his size. She didn’t comment at first, just watched him with that small and amused smile that tugged at the corner of her mouth. “This lasagna is to die for,” he said through a satisfied exhale, leaning back slightly in his chair. “Seriously, Y/N, I think I’d betray the whole team for another bite.”
She raised a brow at him, half-laughing. “Didn’t know you liked it that much, Barnes.”
“You kidding? I’ve been thinking about it since we got on the jet.”
Y/N’s heart did something traitorous in her chest. He said it so casually, so fondly.
Like the idea of coming back here, with her, was part of the mission plan. Like this mattered.
She swallowed it down, hiding it behind a sip of wine and a well-rehearsed smirk. “Well. Noted. I’ll keep a tray on standby in case you ever have to flee the country.”
Later, they ended up on the couch, not from some grand plan but because they were tired, full and comfortable.
He’d fallen asleep first, head tilted slightly toward her, lips parted in a rare kind of peace. And she’d watched him for a long time, tracing the scar on his temple with her eyes, not her hands. So she slept beside him.
Close, warm, unaware. And she stayed still, pretending it was enough. Because for now, it had to be.
Nights like that were now long forgotten. Now he barely looked at her. And when he did, there was something different in his eyes, something wary like he didn’t trust what he was seeing any more. It made her stomach twist.
Y/N knew, of course, that Bucky wasn’t in love with her like she was with him.
She would have sworn to not feel anything for the super soldier, but then in her room at night closed her eyes and thought about holding his hand during a walk. She just liked the idea of him being in love with her not because she needed attention but just because the reality of him not being interested was killing her inside. She used her cockiness as a shield, just as a fantasy of her and Bucky dating.
Bucky Barnes, the Bucky Barnes, in love with her? Absurd.
She should have never get her cockiness, her facade, between them. She went to the gym.
Y/N sat cross-legged on the floor of the training room, idly wrapping and unwrapping the tape around her knuckles. Her voice was low when she finally spoke. “Nat… do you think I’m too cocky?”
Natasha, perched on the bench nearby tilted her head, one eyebrow rising. “That’s dramatic even for you.” She laughed but stopped when she saw Y/N’s expression.
“I’m serious.” Y/N didn’t meet her gaze. “I know I can come off a little… too confident.”
Nat let the silence stretch a beat, watching her closely. Then she stood, walked over, and crouched beside her. “Confidence isn’t a crime, Y/N. Especially around here. You’re sharp, capable, and yeah… maybe a little mouthy sometimes. But hate you? No. Not even close.”
Y/N gave a half-smile, still not quite convinced. Natasha narrowed her eyes slightly, something sharp and familiar behind them. That subtle tilt of the head. The look she gave when she’d already solved the puzzle but wanted to hear you say it anyway. “Is this about someone in particular… or are we pretending it’s a general observation?” She asked, casual but with precision. Y/N hesitated, too long. “Is this about Bucky?”
The colour bloomed immediately in Y/N’s cheeks, soft but undeniable. She looked away, fingers fussing with the roll of medical tape in her hands, suddenly too focused on wrapping her own wrist.
Nat sighed, a faint smirk tugging at her lips. “Right. Thought so.”
Y/N didn’t answer, but her fingers stilled completely on the tape.
That was all Natasha needed. Her expression shifted, the teasing edge fading into something more careful. “This have anything to do with Lexi?”
Y/N finally looked up. Her voice was quiet, words slipping out with more honesty than she intended. “She’s always around him. Like, always. And I’m not trying to be that girl who gets weird about it. He’s not my boyfriend, but…” She trailed off, letting the sentence dissolve under the weight of her thoughts. “It’s hard not to notice.”
Nat leaned back slightly, crossing her arms. “You’re not imagining it. I’ve seen it too.”
Y/N blinked. “You have?”
Nat just nodded, her expression unreadable now. Calm but alert. “Lexi knows exactly what she’s doing.”
Silence fell between them for a beat. The kind of silence where everything was understood but not everything had been said. “What do you think?” Nat asked quietly.
Y/N looked down at her hands again. “I don’t know, Nat,” she whispered. “If Bucky wants Lexi… then it’ll happen, I guess. And I’m not going to get in the way of that.”
Her voice broke just slightly at the end. Not enough to cry. Just enough to reveal the truth she kept buried. “I mean, why would he choose me?” Y/N added with a breathless laugh. It wasn’t bitter, just tired. Worn thin around the edges. She rubbed at her wrist absently, her voice growing quieter. “Lexi’s calm. Quiet. She says what she wants. Maybe Bucky needs someone like that.” She paused, eyes flickering toward the floor like she wasn’t sure if she wanted to hear herself say the rest. “I’m not like that. I’m… cocky. Too confident. Loud when I should be quiet. I speak before I think. I fight hard, and I love harder, and sometimes I wonder if it’s just…too much for someone like him.” Y/N exhaled. “Bucky needs someone calm…”
There was a long silence. The kind where it felt like the air shifted. Natasha’s expression didn’t soften like most people would. She didn’t reach for Y/N’s hand or offer some delicate reassurance. That wasn’t how she loved people. Instead, she straightened a little, voice low but solid. “Bucky Barnes doesn’t need someone like Lexi. He needs someone who makes him feel safe.” Y/N looked up, startled. “And for the record?” Nat continued, eyes locked on hers. “You’re not too much Y/N. You’re real. And real is rare around here.” Y/N swallowed, her throat suddenly tight. “And if he can’t see that,” Natasha said, rising to her feet and tossing the tape roll onto the table, “then that’s his mistake. Not yours.”
She started to walk away but paused at the doorway, glancing back with a knowing look. “But between you and me? I think he already does.”
Y/N gave a short, humourless laugh. “So, I’m not just being paranoid.”
“No. You’re just jealous” Nat said softly. “And I don’t like it. Lexi’s… calculated. She plays sweet, but she watches people like she’s gathering intel. And I don’t like how close she’s getting to Bucky especially when you’re involved.” She said, intending something else.
Y/N let out a soft laugh and shook her head. “Nat… you’re exaggerating. Bucky doesn’t feel anything for me.”
Nat raised an eyebrow. “You sure about that?”
“Yeah.” Y/N gave her a tired smile. “He’s nice to me… at least he was.”
“So, you’re the only one with the gigantic crush?” Nat said, rushing to the gym’s exit.
The same afternoon, she walked into the lounge and froze. Lexi was perched on the arm of the couch close, too close to Bucky. He was saying something quietly, and Lexi laughed like he’d told the funniest joke in the world. Her hand brushed his forearm as she leaned in. Y/N felt something inside her snap.
Nat, who had followed her in, raised an eyebrow. Lexi was still touching his arm. It did bother her. It bothered her more than it should’ve.
“Why she’s never at her desk?” Y/N said.
Nat snorted. This wasn’t just about Lexi, this was about Bucky acting like Y/N had done something wrong. She waited until Lexi finally left the room swaying her hips before she approached.
“Hey,” Y/N said, standing in front of the couch.
Bucky blinked up at her, surprised. “Oh. Hey.”
“Got a minute?”
He hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah.”
She sat beside him but not too close, not like Lexi. “You’ve been… distant.”
Bucky’s jaw tightened. “Just been busy.”
“With Lexi?” That surprised him.
He turned to look at her. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Y/N shrugged, casual. “She’s always around you. Didn’t know you two were close.”
Bucky looked away. “She’s just easy to talk to.”
Ouch. That landed sharper than he probably intended.
Y/N stared at him. “Am I not?” He didn’t answer. And that silence said everything.
The next day, Lexi stood by the projection screen, flawlessly presenting the team’s plan. Her voice was calm, clipped, and deliberate. “Y/N, you’ll take Rear Sector 7,” Lexi said. “It’s the least active quadrant, but you should be comfortable there.”
Y/N blinked. “I usually lead recon.”
Lexi smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Yes. But we had to adjust after… last time.”
Last time.
Yes, last time when Lexi rerouting the mission almost killing the avengers. “My system projected a 78% success rate with the alternate route. It was statistically right.” She said, defending herself. Lexi learn on her skin that 78% success rate it’s not 100% success rate.
Now, a quiet murmur rippled through the room. Natasha shot Y/N a look. Bucky frowned.
Y/N crossed her arms, jaw tight. “That ambush happened because of you reroute.”
“But you save everyone, right?” Lexi replied, sliding her finger across her tablet. “Mistakes like that usually prompt a shift in responsibility.”
Tony leaned back in his chair, watching, eyebrows lifted. “Easy, Lexi. It was still your mistake, not Y/N’s.”
Lexi didn’t break stride. “I just misread the date. We all want what’s best for the team.”
Y/N locked eyes with her, voice low. “Don’t confuse team with agenda. Don’t worry Tony, I’ll take sector 7.”
The team got up toward the locker room, suiting themselves.
Y/N and Nat, on the bench were talking both strangely attentive. The mission went obviously well.
Lexi wasn’t stupid. She saw the way Y/N looked at Bucky. The way her smile faltered every time she walked into a room and found her already there, chatting with him or touching his arm just a little too long. She saw the jealousy and she thrived on it.
Bucky was sweet. Quiet. Easy to read once you knew where to look. He flinched at attention, softened at kindness, and was desperate for someone to choose him. And Lexi was more than willing to play the part.
Especially if it meant knocking Y/N down a peg or two. So, she waited. She let the tension simmer. Let Bucky feel increasingly distant from the woman he clearly adored. Let the doubts she’d planted bloom into something painful.
Then, after they got back from the mission where Y/N did took sector 7 and won, so she made her move.
She caught Bucky in the hallway, back from the mission, reorganizing the supply crates with quiet diligence. He’d pulled his hair back, a few strands still slipping loose, and his hoodie was slightly oversize. He looked more civilian than super soldier. He looked tired. Vulnerable. Perfect.
“Hey,” she said, with a soft smile playing with her tower’s pass, wrapped around her neck. “Can I tell you something? Kind of… personal?”
Bucky blinked, wary but polite. “Yeah. Sure.” Lexi bit her lip, hesitating just enough to make it seem like a confession. “I overheard something. In the locker room, just before getting on the jet. Between Y/N and Nat.”
Bucky straightened, already tense. “What kind of something?”
Lexi lowered her voice. “Y/N was talking about you. About how she knew you had a thing for her, and how she was letting you hang around because it was cute... her words, not mine.” Lexi said, holding her hands up. Bucky went completely still. Lexi tilted her head, softening her voice. “She said you were sweet. But not really her type. That she liked guys who could keep up with her, you know? Guys who looked like they belonged on the front of magazines… like Steve”
Bucky’s throat bobbed as he swallowed hard.
“I mean first she almost dismiss an order and now talking bad about teammates behind their back?” Bucky didn’t hear how Lexi was still rambling about Y/N not taking order, he just listened his heart crushed in his chest. “…it’s not a good thing to do.” Lexi stepped closer, hand brushing his arm like it was nothing. “I just thought you should know. Because you deserve better than being someone’s backup. You deserve someone who sees you.”
Bucky gave a tight and quiet nod, eyes on the floor. Lexi smiled to herself. And down the hallway around the corner, just out of sight Nat had stopped dead in her tracks, eyes wide, having heard everything.
In her room, dim light from her monitors casting eerie shadows across her desk. Her fingers danced over encrypted systems, patching into a classified black-ops satellite. “She did actually take sector 7,” Lexi said looking at her screen. In her room, she felt like a real avenger free to do whatever she wanted. “Y/N outperformed expectations again,” she muttered, pulling up combat data. “Typical…” she took a sip of tea. “Let’s see how she performs when intel fails.”
With a few keystrokes Lexi made some change into the mission lead. Y/N’s next op came alive on the screen and she inserted a false threat profile. The team would head in under-prepared, just enough to cause chaos. Not to kill… just to rattle. If Y/N stumbled, if Bucky stepped in, the narrative could twist in Lexi’s favor.
The briefing room buzzed with quiet conversation and the shuffle of data pads as the team filtered in. The lights were low, the air stale with too much recycled coffee and not enough sleep. Y/N sat near the center, her hands folded over the mission file she’d already read twice.
Another mission, the day after. Weird.
Something was wrong. The threat profile on the screen didn’t match what she’d prepped for. The satellite data. The ground intel. The enemy strength ratio off, just slightly. Sloppy enough to be overlooked, smart enough to be dangerous. She frowned, flipping through the digital brief again. This wasn’t just an update. It had been restructured.
“Command recalibrated after a late intel sweep,” Lexi said from the corner, too casually. “Minor adjustments.”
Y/N’s eyes flicked up to her across the table, narrowing for half a second. But then she looked at Bucky... instinct and habit and... hope.
He was across the room, arms folded and gaze on the screen.
Not on her.
Not even a glance.
No warning.
No softness.
Just distance.
The silence rang louder than anything Lexi could’ve said. Y/N’s pulse picked up. Her lips parted, the beginnings of a protest catching in her throat. She could raise a flag. Call it out. Her mind wandered.
“I’m cocky. Too confident.”
“Maybe Bucky needs someone like her.”
She blinked, her shoulders tightening subtly. Maybe this wasn’t sabotage. Maybe she was just reading too much into it. Paranoid. Overcompensating. Trying too hard to prove herself. She pressed her mouth shut and sat back in her seat.
“Understood,” she said flatly.
Lexi glanced at her, just briefly. The smallest curl of satisfaction behind her eyes.
Natasha, on the far end of the table, raised an eyebrow barely perceptible, but it was there. She caught Y/N’s eye for a flicker of a second. Saw something wasn’t right. The meeting moved on. Slide by slide. Order by order. But under the table, Y/N’s fingers dug hard into her palm. And in her chest, the doubt bloomed like a bruise.
The locker room hummed with quiet motion. The click of gear locking in place, the shuffle of tactical boots, the low murmur of voices down the corridor. Y/N adjusted the straps on her vest not quite focusing on her reflection in the narrow mirror above the bench.
Natasha walked in, checking her sidearm with a swift, practiced flick. She didn’t say anything at first, just leaned against the row of lockers beside Y/N, arms folded. Watching. “You’ve triple-checked your gear,” Nat said finally, voice low.
Y/N didn’t look at her. “Just being careful.”
“You’re always careful,” Nat replied. “But this?” She tilted her head. “This is different.”
Y/N paused, fingers tightening around the edge of her glove. “I’m fine.” Nat was quiet for a second, then pushed off the locker and stepped closer. “No, you’re not.” Y/N hesitated, breathing shallow. “I saw your face in the briefing,” Natasha continued, voice softer now. “You knew something was off. Then you swallowed it.”
Y/N finally met her eyes. There was a flash of emotion there; doubt, frustration, something raw trying to surface but held back. “I didn’t have proof. And I’ve been wrong before.”
“When? Back in third grade? Since when that has stopped you?” Nat pressed gently.
Y/N looked away again, jaw clenched. “Bucky didn’t even look at me. He always looks at me when something’s off. Today…” She shook her head. “Maybe I am reading too much into it. Maybe Lexi just… knows better than me. Maybe she should be leading.”
Nat’s expression darkened. “Don’t finish that sentence.”
“But what if I’m not cut out for this?” Y/N whispered, barely audible. “What if everything I’ve done, everything I’ve tried to be- what if it’s not enough for him? Or the team?”
Nat’s reply was firm. “This isn’t about being enough. This is about something not adding up, and you trusting your gut.” She paused, eyes narrowing slightly. “And I trust your gut.” Y/N blinked hard and nodded once, but the weight didn’t leave her chest. Nat reached forward, rested a hand briefly on Y/N’s arm. “Stay sharp out there. And if anything feels wrong, anything, you say it.”
Y/N looked up, something steadier flickering back into her. “Yeah.”
And as they walked out together, neither of them said it aloud since they both knew Lexi had just made herself a problem. The final checks were underway. Armor sealed. Comms tested. Weapons calibrated. The air was thick with adrenaline and quiet urgency, that strange kind of calm just before insertion.
Lexi hovered close to Bucky, too close, if anyone had cared to look. She was tightening the strap on her sidearm when she leaned toward him, her voice light, but loaded. “I’ll be here if you need me,” she said, fingers brushing her comms as if to underline the point.
Bucky gave a short nod, distracted. His eyes flicked across the room to where Y/N stood, silent and sharp-edged as she checked her loudout.
No banter.
No quick-witted comments.
No offhand remarks about his over-polished knife or Sam’s endless gum chewing.
Just… quiet. Too quiet.
Something tugged at him.
Lexi followed his line of sight and gave a little tilt of her head. Then, in a low voice meant only for him, she added, “See how Y/N’s like a well-trained puppy now? Isn’t it better without her constantly snapping at me?”
Bucky’s brows furrowed immediately. His head turned slightly in her direction, the shift in his expression subtle, but clear discomfort. Disapproval. He opened his mouth, about to say something.
“Buck!” Steve’s voice rang out from across the hangar. “C'mon, we need to go!” Bucky glanced toward him, then back at Lexi. Steve paused just a beat, eyes cutting toward the two of them. “Lexi,” he said, sharp now. “No mistakes this time.”
Lexi stiffened, lips pressing into a flat line. “Copy that.”
Bucky stepped back, his gaze lingering on her for a second longer before he turned and walked toward the jet. Y/N was already up the ramp, silent but alert, her jaw tight as she checked the interior lockers. She didn’t look at him as he passed. But Bucky did. And for the first time in days, he really saw her. The storm hadn’t hit yet. But it was coming.
The mission had gone south fast. Too fast. Y/N crouched behind the wreckage of a flipped transport, her breathing ragged, heart hammering against her ribs. Bullet casings rang like bells around her, and the sky overhead churned a cold, steel gray. She’d known it the second they landed. The silence wasn’t right. The heat signatures were too consistent, the response time too fast.
Hydra wasn’t just here. They were ready.
“This isn’t recon,” she muttered under her breath. “It’s a setup.” Her fingers flew across the small console clipped to her forearm. Incoming data… scrubbed. Rewritten. Artificially trimmed. Then it hit her. This wasn’t an intelligence failure. It was manipulated intel. Her blood ran cold.
“Lexi,” she growled into the comms, slipping between broken cover. “We need extraction. NOW!” There was a long pause. Too long. “LEXI!” Y/N yelled.
Then Lexi’s voice came through, detached and cool. “I’ll reroute available units… standby.”
“Standby?” Y/N snapped. “We’re boxed in with no high ground and zero exit coverage-”
An explosion cut her off.
The blast was close. Bucky didn’t hesitate. He moved like instinct, like muscle memory. Threw himself in front of her, his metal arm raised just in time as a grenade burst nearby. Shrapnel tore through the air. His body caught most of it.
“Bucky!” She screamed, catching him as he staggered. Blood stained the edge of his gear. Not fatal, since he was a super soldier, but bad.
They hit the dirt together behind a concrete slab. Y/N pulled his arm around her shoulder, dragging him to better cover. Her hands were slick, her breath coming fast but her mind was clear. And something snapped. Forget caution. Forget self-doubt. Forget whatever fake modesty she’d wrapped herself in since the briefing. Her voice cracked through the comms, sharp and commanding.
“This is Y/N. Mission parameters are compromised. Intel is fabricated. We walked into an ambush. HYDRA units are embedded and waiting. This was never a recon sweep. This was staged.”
She didn’t care how it sounded. She didn’t care if she was wrong. She wasn’t. She looked down at Bucky, who was clutching her side, but almost conscious. He was watching her.
Y/N switched frequencies. “Red? This is Widow-Two. Confirming op breach. Requesting immediate extraction and medical for Sergeant Barnes. Repeat. Hostiles overwhelming. Mission integrity compromised.”
For a moment, silence. Then Natasha’s voice came in, crisp and fierce. “Widow-One here. Copy that, Widow-Two. We’re en route. Hold position.”
Y/N’s lips pressed into a hard line. And this time, she wasn’t staying silent.
The compound was too quiet. The storm still lived in Y/N’s chest, even after the jet had landed, even after the medics had rushed Bucky to the infirmary, even after Natasha gave her a nod that said I’ve got him, a nod that let Y/N move.
Now, her boots echoed down the corridor like warning shots. She spotted Lexi in the common room. Calm. Alone. Tea in hand, like she hadn’t just nearly gotten them killed. Y/N didn’t hesitate. She stormed across the floor, anger simmering just beneath her skin. Her voice cracked like a whip. “You doctored the data.”
Lexi turned her head slowly, utterly unfazed. She took a small sip of tea, one eyebrow raised. “Or maybe the enemy just got smarter. That happens sometimes.”
Y/N stepped closer, fists clenched at her sides. “You wanted me to fail.” Her voice wasn’t yelling. It was lower, more dangerous. Raw. “You sent us in blind. You knew we’d walk into a trap. You knew, and you did it anyway. You risked everyone just to-what? Make me look incompetent?”
Lexi stood, letting her cup clink gently against the saucer. She tilted her head, eyes cool and amused. “No one made Bucky jump in front of that grenade. He chose to protect you. He bled for you.”
Y/N’s face went still. Lexi stepped closer now, her voice softening, as if it was suddenly a private confession. “Just think how deep that guilt will run if you keep letting him get hurt.”
Y/N blinked, stunned still not by fear, but by the sheer calculated cruelty in Lexi’s words. Lexi smiled wider, slow and sharp. “Now tell me…” she whispered, “who’s really the dangerous one here?”
Y/N’s body stiffened like a pulled wire. For a second, the room felt like it might explode from the pressure between them. “You’re manipulating mission data,” Y/N said through gritted teeth. “That’s not dangerous, Lexi. That’s treason.”
Lexi’s mask didn’t crack, but her eyes darkened. “Careful. Big words make you sound hysterical.”
Y/N took a slow breath, forcing herself not to swing. Not here. Not yet. “You think no one will believe me?” She asked, voice icy now. “You think I don’t have people watching? Natasha was listening the second things went off-plan. She’s already running your logs.”
Lexi’s smile faltered only slightly, but Y/N saw it. “And Bucky?” Y/N added, stepping forward now, refusing to flinch. “He might not have seen it before. But he will now.”
Lexi tried to recover her smirk. “You think he’ll choose you after this?After you froze in that briefing room? After I held the team together while you sat there second-guessing yourself?”
Y/N’s eyes flared. “I froze because I was trying to be decent. Because I was trying not to turn this place into a battleground over ego. But make no mistake, Lexi if you try to rewrite the truth again, you will see exactly how dangerous I can be.”
They stood in silence, tension electric.
Later that night, Lexi leaned against the cold steel corridor outside the lower weapons vault, posture relaxed, one foot crossed over the other like she had all the time in the world. Her breath fogged faintly in the chill. Timing was everything. And sure enough, right on cue, Bucky emerged.
His jacket was half-zipped, fingers still tugging at the collar as he stepped through the security lock. His cheeks were pink from the cold. Or maybe something else. Lexi smiled. “Cleared for duty?” Lexi asked, her voice light with a practiced kind of concern.
Bucky glanced at her briefly. “Yeah. Just a couple cracked ribs left to deal with.” Lexi gave a low whistle and pushed off the wall, falling into step beside him. “Always playing the hero. You know, most people use recovery time to, I don’t know, recover.” He didn’t laugh. “I saw your mission report,” she said lightly, pushing off the wall like it was coincidence. “You really threw yourself into the fire for Y/N. Again.”
Bucky barely paused, but she noticed the slight twitch in his jaw. He tried to walk past. “She’s my teammate,” he said, low and short.
“Of course,” Lexi agreed quickly, falling into step beside him. “She’s smart. Bold. Beautiful. She knows exactly how to pull people in.”
That made him slow. Just enough. Bucky’s eyes flicked to her. “What are you trying to say?
Lexi tilted her head, kept her tone light, sympathetic. She clasped her hands behind her back like she was sharing something personal, something painful. “I just think… maybe you should ask yourself what she gets out of it,” she said softly. “You’re loyal. You’re kind. You’re protective. You’re…” Her voice dipped, almost reverent. “Safe.”
Bucky’s brow furrowed. “And?”
Lexi gave a little shrug. “She needs someone like that until she doesn’t anymore. Until the mission shifts. Until the stakes change. Until someone more super walks through the door and catches her eye.”
Bucky looked away. He shouldn’t have. But he did.
Lexi caught it. Pressed in. “She doesn’t talk about you when you’re not around, you know. Not really. Not like she talks about Steve, or Sam, or even Natasha. You ever notice that?” Bucky didn’t answer. His mouth had gone tight. “She doesn’t linger,” Lexi said, almost gently now. “Doesn’t stay. Doesn’t see you. Not really. Not when you’re not bleeding for her.”
There was a long pause. Her words echoed quietly in the sterile hallway, and Bucky’s silence only made them heavier. “You deserve more than that,” Lexi added finally, voice a little lower. “You deserve someone who sees you. Chooses you. Not just when it’s convenient. Not just when they’re scared.” She looked away for a beat, as if baring something vulnerable in herself. Then, “I see you that way.”
The words hung in the air between them like a stone dropped in still water. Bucky exhaled through his nose. His hands flexed at his sides. He didn’t look at her. Didn’t look away either. Lexi didn’t expect him to respond. That wasn’t how this worked. It just had to sit there. Long enough to grow roots. And in the silence that followed small, poisonous things started to bloom.
At the end of the week, Bucky didn’t say anything to anyone for the rest of the week. He trained until his muscles burned. Pushed himself harder than he had in weeks.
Every punch he landed on the bag echoed Lexi’s words in his head.
“She said you were sweet. But not really her type.”
“Letting you hang around because it was cute.”
All those late-night conversations. Her laughter when he said something sarcastic under his breath. She did talk to me outside work. Right? He almost didn’t remember the last time she had a conversation with Y/N, but the way she leaned into his side on the jet, falling asleep like she trusted him.
Had it all been pity?
Had he misread everything?
The more he thought about it, the more everything seemed to warp. Every kindness from Y/N felt like a performance in hindsight. Every compliment a setup for a punchline he’d never seen coming. By the time he got back to his room, his chest ached with something sharp and ugly. He stopped showing up to movie night. He skipped breakfast. He didn’t text her back. Y/N noticed. The messages started off light.
Y/N: You okay?
Y/N: Haven’t seen you lately. Did you get kidnapped or just hiding from me?
Y/N: Bucky, seriously. What’s going on?
He left them unread. Because what if Lexi was right?
What if Y/N was really laughing about him behind his back with Nat?
What if everything she did was just to make him feel wanted without ever meaning it?
He couldn’t face her. Not when he felt this raw. This stupid. He went silent. Detached. He even started spending more time near Lexi, not because he wanted to, but because she was safe. Predictable. She didn’t make him feel the way Y/N did. And right now, that felt like protection.
The rest of the team noticed. Steve tried to get him to open up. Sam gave him space. Nat watched him with eyes sharp as razors, saying nothing yet but waiting. Watching.
Y/N, meanwhile, was unravveling. He could hear her outside his door one night. The quiet sound of her voice. The hesitation.
“Bucky… please talk to me. If I did something wrong… just tell me. I’ll fix it.”
He sat with his back to the door, hands in his hair, breath shallow. He wanted to open it. He ached to. But Lexi’s words echoed again. “You’re not her type.”
So he stayed silent. And Y/N walked away heart bruised, fists clenched not knowing that Bucky Barnes was slowly breaking in the room behind her. If she didn’t like him, why she was begging him to talk to her? Was it a cruel joke? Someone was lying? He remained on the floor.
A couple of day later, Lexi found Bucky in the corner of the file room, flipping through old case logs, face drawn in quiet thought. She slid beside him with ease, placing a sealed report gently on the shelf. No reason to be here, except him.
“You read her latest mission debrief?” She asked, casually.
Bucky nodded. “Yeah. She held her ground.”
Lexi tilted her head. “Held it. Took credit. That’s what she does.” He didn’t respond, but his grip tightened slightly on the folder. “She’s incredible, I’ll give her that,” Lexi continued. “But she’s polished. Political. She knows exactly how to use what she’s got. Even you.”
Bucky’s brows knit together. “Y/N doesn’t use people.”
Lexi stepped closer, her voice soft. “Then why does she always find herself at the center of everything? Every mission. Every spotlight.”
“You’re saying she-”
“I’m saying,” Lexi interrupted gently, “she’s smart enough to notice. And to know it makes you loyal. Protective. Maybe even a little… blinded.” Bucky’s expression fell, subtle and wounded. Her voice dropping to a whisper. “You think she could be with someone like you? Someone who’s broken, tired, carries scars she’s never had to face?” The silence hung like fog. “She needs someone perfect. Someone the press loves. Someone safe to love in public.”
She straightened slowly. “But you’re not public, are you, Bucky? You’re shadow. The Winter Soldier. Steel. Weight. That’s not a life she wants.” Bucky stared at the file, at Y/N’s bold signature on the mission report, his heart aching. “She’s only using you during mission. You should take credit for them, not her. You deserve someone more caring.”
A couple of hours after, Y/N stood now near the window in the file room, flipping through mission files. Sunlight streaming across her brow. She glanced across the room, instinctively searching for a particular figure in gray... Bucky still there at the far table with arms folded, deep in conversation with Lexi.
They weren’t close, physically. But Lexi leaned in like she belonged, and Bucky didn’t shift away. Y/N blinked.
Later, Bucky exited the file room without his usual nod. No shared smirk. No “stay safe.” Just silent focus.
Y/N pulled him aside, fingers brushing his wrist making him stop. “Hey, Bucky,” she said quietly. “You good?”
He hesitated. “Fine.”
“You haven’t spoken to me since…” God she didn’t even remember since when. “… after saving me from that bomb. And… yesterday, you gave Lexi a full smile. I’ve only ever seen you give that to dogs or Sam when he brings you coffee.” she tried to joke.
Bucky looked down, sheepish. “It’s nothing.”
But Y/N pressed, voice softer now. “Did I do something?”
He swallowed, jaw tightening. “No. You’re… great. You always are.” That was worse than silence.
Y/N stepped back, heart twisting. “Then why do you look at me like I’m not real any more?”
He didn’t answer, and proceed getting out the file room. And somewhere down the hall, Lexi watched.
The room was quiet, bathed in amber glow from a single lamp. Bucky sat on the edge of his bed, headphones nestled over his ears. The music playing was soft. A blend of vintage jazz and ambient hums that Lexi had recommended. Soothing, she’d called it. A nightly ritual, just for him. Underneath the saxophones and sleepy rhythms, buried below frequencies too subtle for conscious thought, was her voice coded, layered, undetectable. Whispered affirmations laced with distrust.
Y/N takes advantage of you…
She doesn’t see you…
She belongs to the world... never to you…
Trust is dangerous when it’s given to someone like her…
Bucky’s eyes closed, the tension in his shoulders softening. He never remembered falling asleep during the playlist, but he always woke feeling… detached. Clouded. A little colder toward Y/N each morning.
Bucky woke abruptly, sweat slicked across his neck, his heart racing. He couldn’t remember what the dream was, but Y/N’s name was tangled in it. Not her face just flashes, feelings, doubt. He reached for the headphones still on his pillow. The music was still playing softly. Familiar notes. Comforting. But lately, it felt hollow. Like something behind the melody was speaking through it.
Across the room, the mirror reflected dark circles under his eyes. He hadn’t been sleeping well. Not since Lexi started curating his “mental wellness routine.”
In the morning, during sparring, Y/N reached out to help Bucky from the mat after a slip but he flinched. Pulled back too fast, like her touch stung. Everyone noticed.
“Sorry,” he muttered, avoiding her gaze.
She frowned. “You okay?” He nodded once.
But inside, something twisted. She’s controlling the narrative. She makes you feel small. She smiles when you’re broken. She’ll never choose you. Not really.
The whispers were always underneath the surface now, whispering before he could form thoughts. Lexi’s voice buried in the soundtrack replayed in his memory at odd moments before decisions, during arguments, after silence. He didn’t even realize he was humming one of her songs out loud.
That night, Lexi watched a neural pattern chart dance across her screen, confirming subtle changes in Bucky’s behavior; reduced trust, heightened emotional withdrawal, selective memory fragmentation. She kept trace of it like a diary. She smiled faintly.
“Not mind control,” she whispered. “Just better instincts.”
She cued up the next playlist for tomorrow night. Just enough suggestion to nudge him toward confrontation.
Toward suspicion. Toward her.
In the interrogation room, Y/N was reviewing surveillance footage in the dim file room, tracking a recent Hydra breach. Her fingers danced over controls, the glow lighting her face. The door slid open sharply.
Bucky.
He stepped inside, arms folded, eyes darker than usual not icy, just fogged. Distant. “You intercepted the intel on Sector Delta before I could access it,” he said. Flat.
Y/N looked up, surprised. “Because Lexi said it was corrupted. I was trying to cross-reference-”
“You always have an explanation,” he cut in. “Always one step ahead.”
She stood slowly. “Bucky, what is this?”
He took a slow breath, like he was reciting something he wasn’t sure he believed. “I don’t think I can trust you anymore.”
The words fell like glass. Y/N blinked. “You’re serious?”
“Too many things don’t add up. Timing. Positions. Intel flow.”
He paused. “Lexi thinks-”
“There it is,” Y/N said, voice trembling but sharp. “Lexi thinks. And now you do.”
Bucky hesitated, his fingers twitching like his whole body was arguing with itself. “You saved me on mission nearly a week ago,” Y/N whispered. “You held my hand during recovery last year when i got severely hit. That was real.”
“She sees more in me,” Bucky muttered. “She believes I’m more than what you think.” Y/N’s expression cracked, hurt pouring through.
“Then she’s brainwashed you better than Hydra ever did.” She said regretting almost immediately.
Bucky looked away. Her words definitely broke him. Bucky didn’t stay. He looked away and walked away. Y/N opened her mouth, heart thudding in her throat. Something rose inside her raw, quiet, desperate. A truth she’d never let herself say aloud until that moment.
“…maybe she sees you,” she whispered, barely audible. Bucky didn’t hear. “…but I love you.” Her voice cracked on the last word. But he was already too far.
Some days after, Y/N was sad. Very sad and upset.
Then she’s rewritten you better than Hydra ever did.
That phrase still vivid in his mind. Bucky didn’t mean for it to happen.
One evening, while Y/N was wandering into the common room, looking for her phone charger. Bucky was there. And so was Lexi. They stood near the window, just out of the main light, talking in hushed tones. Lexi’s laugh drifted out first soft, calculated and just a little too breathy.
Her shoulder touched his arm. Standing there like two lovers.Y/N paused near the doorway, half-shielded by the wall.
Lexi reached out, fingers brushing Bucky’s arm. “You know,” she said, voice low and intimate, “you’re not as unreadable as you think.”
Bucky gave a quiet chuckle but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Is that so?”
“Uh-uh.” She stepped closer, too close. They now stood one in front of the other. Bucky looked down at her face.
NO PLEASE DON’T KISS HER, Y/N though
“I notice things. Like how you always stay just a little distant… except around certain people.” Lexi briefly looked down, at the floor. Then she looked up again. Bucky’s expression shifted, guarded. Lexi took that as permission. “You don’t have to keep pretending,” she said, tilting her head slightly. “If you’re looking for something real… I’m right here.”
Y/N’s heart thudded painfully in her chest. Lexi brushing her hand against his. Her offering to grab him coffee during breakfast. Walking with him to the gym, laughing at his dry sarcasm like it was her favourite sound in the world.
All little steps that got Bucky slowly attached to Lexi. All little steps that brought them that night, near the window.
He didn’t kiss her at first. He didn’t even want to. But she was there. Steady. Warm. Always saying exactly what he needed to hear. “You deserve someone who really sees you. You don’t need to chase after someone who’ll never choose you.”
So when she kissed him, soft lips and tentative fingers curling at the collar of his hoodie he didn’t pull away. Because Y/N hadn’t knocked on his door in days. Because her texts had stopped. Because maybe he was just a joke to her.
Y/N saw their first kiss from across the hall. She froze, hidden just enough to watch Lexi press a kiss to Bucky’s lips, linger at his jaw like she belonged there. Bucky closed his eyes. He just stood there near that window, letting it happen. He let Lexi kiss him again. And again. He was so tall, so she stood on his tip. Hands grabbing his hoodie. Y/N left before they could see her. Before seeing Bucky’s hands stayed still, along his body. Not on Lexi’s hips. Y/N’s hands were shaking.
“She kissed her, Nat,” Y/N cried that night in Natasha’s arms. “Bucky let Lexi kiss him.”
“What do you mean ‘let her kiss him’?” Natasha asked, her voice low and sharp.
Y/N buried her face deeper into Natasha’s shoulder, her voice cracking. “He didn’t stop her. He just… stood there.”
Natasha’s jaw tightened. Never, she saw Y/N like that. “Did he kiss her back?”
“I don’t know,” Y/N whispered. “I couldn’t watch any more.” There was a pause heavy, aching. “I feel so stupid,” Y/N whispered.
“No,” Natasha said firmly. “You’re not stupid. You love him. That’s not a mistake.”
Natasha held Y/N until her sobs softened into silence. Her thumb brushed gently over Y/N’s shoulder but her eyes were hard, focused on something far away. “I told him that she rewrote him better than Hydra ever did.” She remember crying. “Nat, do you realise how he must have felt in that moment?”
Nat swore to herself, right then and there, she was going to get to the bottom of this.
A week after, the team found out about their first kiss. Bucky and Lexi had been seen together again, the team’s reactions came quickly.
Steve was the first to say something, cornering Bucky in the hallway. “Tell me this isn’t serious,” he said, voice low but laced with disappointment.
In the common room, Sam muttered, “Lexi? Really?” under his breath as the two walked in. Tony just shook his head when he passed them, not saying a word but the silence said plenty. Nat silently judging.
Now the clink of a spoon against a ceramic mug was the loudest sound in the kitchen that morning. Sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows, making everything look deceptively peaceful. Y/N was perched on a stool at the island, nursing a coffee that hadn’t quite kicked in yet. Tony was poking at a croissant like it had personally insulted him, while Sam and Steve sat across from each other in the usual competitive silence that happened when both were pretending not to care who finished breakfast first.
Then there was Bucky. He was sitting at the counter beside Steve, hunched over a plate stacked high with eggs, bacon and toast moving with soldier-like precision. His metal hand made a soft clunk each time it tapped the counter top, but no one mentioned it. They never did. Y/N tried not to glance at him. She really did. Nat, beside her was preparing to see Lexi entering. The night before, was the first she actually spent in the tower with Bucky.
Lexi, dressed in Bucky’s Henley like it was a trophy, walked into the kitchen like she owned it. Nothing happened between them, but Y/N couldn’t be sure of this and she was sure Lexi was just acting like something did happened.
Her expression was all casual confidence and just a touch of morning superiority. The oversize shirt slipped off one shoulder just enough to be calculated. Her hair was still damp from the shower.
Bucky’s shower, maybe? Y/N’s stomach turned at the thought. “Hi,” she said breezily, not bothering to hide the smug little smile she tossed at Bucky.
Y/N forced a polite smile. She walked over to the island, standing behind Bucky and leaning her arm casually on his shoulder. He didn’t look at her, just kept chewing. The girl wrinkled her nose. “You eat like… that every morning?”
Everyone looked up.
“Like what?” Bucky asked, finally glancing at her.
She waved vaguely at his plate. “Just… all that grease and protein? No fruit? No carbs that aren’t… what is that? White toast? God. Don’t you ever detox?”
Sam tried very hard not to rumble into his orange juice. Natasha raised an eyebrow and took a sip of her black coffee, clearly not enjoying the scene.
Bucky slowly lowered his fork and turned to the girl. His voice was flat. “I was hungry.”
“Well, sure” she said with a small laugh. “I just figured you’d be more… I don’t know. Mindful?”
Y/N couldn’t stop the eyebrow that arched before she looked back down at her mug.
“Mindful?” Bucky repeated.
The girl nodded like she was being helpful. “Yeah. You know. Of your body. What you put into it. I mean… you’re still fit clearly but like… your arteries must be begging for mercy.”
Steve intervened first. “He’s got a metabolism you wouldn’t believe,” he said smoothly but upset, giving Bucky a subtle nudge under the table.
Sam, always a master of making things worse, grinned. “Yeah, don’t worry, sweetheart. The guy burns calories just by brooding.”
“Well, we’re starting a diet soon together. Right love?” Lexi said.
Y/N swore she said love looking at her. No one talked.
“Jeez. Was it something I said?”
Y/N set down her mug. Her heart beat a little too loud in her ears, but she spoke anyway quiet, cool, and clear. “Actually, yeah.”
Lexi blinked. “Sorry?”
“You said something,” Y/N continued, voice calm but knife-sharp. “You walked in here like you belonged, like you earned something. But all I see is a guest trying too hard to rearrange furniture in someone else house.”
The room went still. Lexi tilted her head, but the gleam in her eye sharpened. “Well, maybe someone needs to.”
Bucky… still hadn’t said a word. But he was looking at Y/N now. Not past her. Not through her. At her. Like maybe, for the first time in weeks.
Meanwhile, Nat was watching and she was done staying quiet. She hadn’t liked Lexi from the start. There was something too smooth about her. Too polished. Like someone always performing. And Nat didn’t miss much. She remembered the day she’d overheard Lexi whispering to Bucky, spinning her little story about Y/N mocking him.
At the time, she hadn’t wanted to believe Bucky would fall for it. But now… Now she saw the way he avoided Y/N like she was radioactive. The way Y/N’s bright spark had dulled to something brittle. The way Lexi always looked smug around both of them, like a cat who’d eaten the canary. It was all wrong. And the diet? Y/N could never.
The breakfast incident had become just a blip in memory. A forgotten detail, but now Lexi was pushing every morning green smoothies and lean protein on Bucky like it was her mission, smiling too sweetly while casually shaming the man who used to eat cheeseburgers on rooftops with Y/N after long missions.
Everyone began to notice that Y/N and Bucky were almost never parried for mission.
If Bucky had a mission in Europe, Y/N remain home.
When Y/N was sent to Russia, clearly expecting Bucky on the jet, she then faced Sam clearly confused as her.
That morning, Y/N got a text from Lexi. Cool and casual, just coordinates and the message.
“Intel said you’d want to handle this one yourself. Good luck 😉”
Y/N didn’t question it, in the beginning. It wasn’t unusual from Lexi, sending personal text for the mission. She should have. The building was supposed to be an empty safe house for recon.
What it was?
A trap.
Four armed men.
Two snipers.
One with tech strong enough to scramble her comms for nearly forty minutes, but Y/N was still Y/N.
Even bleeding, even outnumbered, she moved like a ghost and struck like lightning.
When she walked back into the Tower nearly two hours later, her knuckles were raw, her uniform torn, and there was a dried blood at the corner of her mouth. She didn’t say a word. Just walked through the lobby with that same terrifying calm that came before a storm. The security cameras caught the moment. She didn’t flinch, didn’t slow down. But Lexi saw it first. She was seated in the common room, on the couch, with her arm linked with Bucky’s one. She was laughing at something Tony had said, until she looked up and caught sight of Y/N entering.
Her smile slipped. Just for a second. Just a flicker of fear in her eyes.
And Bucky saw that too. His body tensed, not really knowing why.
He turned slowly, watching Y/N as she passed by, her eyes scanning the room landing on Lexi for a single, ice-cold second before continuing toward the medical bay.
No reaction. No words. Just that look.
And Lexi… She paled.
Not enough to draw attention from the others. Not enough to be obvious, but enough. to realised something in that moment.
You transferred in for your senior year, already behind on credits and scrambling to fill an elective. As an aspiring journalist, you opt for the school newspaper—only to discover it’s a ragtag group of students who mostly shouldn’t be there. One, in particular, stands out: an infuriatingly arrogant jock, stuck in the club as punishment, who seems determined to make your life miserable.
Part One || Part Two || Part Three || Part Four || Part Five || Part Six || Part Seven || Part Eight || Part Nine || Part Ten
what about mob bucky catching reader snooping through his drawers?? maybe she finds something she’s not supposed to or maybe she doesn’t even know he’s in the mob let alone the leader…you have full range as always my love 💋💋💋
You only wanted a pen.
That was the stupid part. You weren’t snooping, not really. You just needed something to write down the grocery list Bucky had asked you to make before he left for “meetings,” the ones that always pulled him out late, the ones he never fully explained. His office wasn’t off-limits. He’d never said it was. And you’d been in there a hundred times—dropping off coffee, straightening the books he always left half-open, pretending not to notice that half the titles were about strategy and power dynamics instead of the photography he claimed to love.
But the top drawer of his desk… you’d never opened it before.
It should’ve been boring. Pens. Paperclips. Maybe a passport. Normal boyfriend things.
Instead, the drawer slid open slow, heavy, like it knew you shouldn’t touch it—and your breath stalled.
Stacks of crisp hundred-dollar bills. Not a few—bundles. Thick, clean, meticulously rubber-banded bricks of cash. A black velvet ring box without a ring inside. A switchblade. A dossier with your picture paper-clipped to the front.
Your own eyes stared back at you from the glossy photo. One you didn’t remember him taking.
Your heart thudded once, painfully loud.
This wasn’t normal. None of this belonged to the sweet man who made you breakfast at 2 a.m. because you “looked hungry,” who carried your bags without being asked, who kissed your forehead like he worshipped you.
You reached for the dossier with shaking fingers.
And then you heard the door click shut behind you.
You froze.
His voice came low, deep, threaded with something dark you had never heard from him before.
“Sweetheart,” he said, “you wanna tell me what you’re doing?”
You turned slowly, the photo still in your hand.
Bucky stood in the doorway, coat still on, hair damp from the rain. His eyes—normally soft, ocean-blue and kind—were something else entirely now. Sharp. Commanding. Dangerous.
He wasn’t supposed to be home for hours.
He wasn’t supposed to see this.
“I—I wasn’t…” Your voice cracked. “I just needed a pen.”
He hummed, stepping inside and locking the door behind him. “You found more than that.”
You didn’t move as he crossed the room, the sound of his boots too loud in the stillness. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t grab you. But the air thickened as he caged you between his body and the desk.
His hand lifted, two fingers gently pinching the edge of the photo you were holding.
“You know,” he murmured, “I had a whole plan for when you’d find out about me.”
He set the photo down, flattening it against the desk beside your hip.
“This,” he tapped the bundles of cash, the blade, the sealed files, “was not it.”
Your throat felt too tight. “Bucky… what is this?”
He stared at you for a long moment—measuring, debating, deciding.
Then his voice dropped to something quiet and lethal.
“This is who I am when I’m not here with you.”
Your stomach dipped.
He leaned in, breath brushing your cheek as he continued, “I run the largest syndicate on the eastern seaboard. Half this city answers to me. The other half should. And every dangerous son of a bitch with a pulse knows better than to cross me.”
Your pulse skittered.
“And you…” His thumb traced your jaw, unexpectedly gentle. “You weren’t supposed to be dragged into this world.”
“But I found it,” you whispered.
“You did.” His hand slid down, settling warm and firm on your waist. “And now I have to decide what to do with you.”
A tremor ran through you—and Bucky caught it instantly, his expression softening for the first time since he walked in.
“Hey.” He tilted your chin until you met his eyes. “I’m not gonna hurt you.”
“But you’re—”
“A criminal?” He smirked, slow and sinful. “Sweetheart, you’ve been sleeping in the bed of the most wanted man in the city. Did you think I worked in accounting?”
You huffed out a shaky, embarrassed laugh. Of course he noticed the way your mind spiraled.
His features gentled further, his thumb brushing your bottom lip. “I kept it from you because I didn’t want this look on your face. Fear. Confusion. Wondering if the man you love is someone else entirely.”
Your breath caught. “I never said—”
He pressed closer, chest brushing your knees where you sat perched on the desk.
“You didn’t have to. I know.”
Heat curled low and insistent.
“Bucky…” you whispered.
His hand slid to the small of your back, pulling you in. “But what I don’t know,” he said, gaze darkening again, “is why your little hands were digging through things that don’t belong to you.”
“I told you,” you breathed, “I needed a pen.”
He smirked. “Then why were you opening the dossier?”
Your cheeks burned.
“Curious,” he murmured. “Dangerous trait, sweetheart.”
He leaned in until your noses brushed.
“Lucky for you… I happen to like dangerous.”
Your stomach flipped.
“Are you mad?” you asked softly.
“Mad?” He chuckled, low and velvety. “Sweet girl, if I were mad, you’d know.”
His fingers gripped your waist, guiding you fully onto the desk as he stepped between your legs.
“But I am going to handle you,” he continued, voice dropping to a heat that pooled through your entire body, “because now you know things you can’t unknow. And that means you’re mine to protect. Mine to keep close. Mine to keep safe.”
You swallowed hard. “And if I say I want that?”
His expression changed—softened, deepened, darkened all at once.
“Then I give you everything.” His forehead met yours. “The truth. The danger. The loyalty. The violence. The crown I wear in the shadows. All of it.”
His hand slid into your hair.
“But if you’re staying…” His lips brushed yours, ghosting, promising. “You follow my rules. You ask before touching what isn’t yours. And you never—ever—hide from me again.”
Your pulse thrummed.
“And if I don’t?” you asked, breathless.
He smiled like sin.
“Then, sweetheart… I’ll catch you every time.”
Warnings: Explicit Content, Minors DNI, 18+ (Slight Dub Con- reader under the influence)
Words: 909 words
A/N: Entry for Candy Heart Sleepover Challenge @the-slumberparty
Prompt: Feb 25th – My Love - yes, you’re mine, even if you don’t know it yet
Your body arched beneath Nick as he drove into you with a relentless rhythm, the hotel room's dim light casting shadows over your sweat-slicked skin. You gasped, fingers clutching the sheets.. To you this was this was just a wild one-night stand.. the kind you'd chase after a few too many drinks at the bar downstairs. So lost in what he was ding to you that the heaviness in your limbs, that was alcohol buzzing through your veins? Right making everything feel languid and intense… You wouldn’t suspect it to be something extra Nick had slipped into your glass, ensuring you'd be pliant, making sure he’d have his claim without a fight.
God, you’re perfect Nick thought, his hips snapping forward, burying his cock deep inside your tight heat. Watched you for weeks, every shift at that coffee shop, every laugh with your friends.
Knew you’d feel like this… clenching around me…made for it.
He groaned low, one hand pinning your wrist above your head while the other gripped your thigh, spreading you wider.
“That's it, baby,” he purred against your ear, voice rough and coaxing. “Take me just like that. Feels so good, doesn't it?”
“...yeah-ah..” You moaned slurring slightly, nodding hazily through eyes too heavy to properly open “..s’good.”
Your pussy fluttering around his thick length as he thrust harder, the drug weaving its subtle web to keep you floating in bliss, unaware of the trap closing in. He couldn't tear his eyes from your face, the way your lips parted, eyes half-lidded in what you thought was pure lust.
No idea how long I've imagined this, how I'd fuck you until you forgot your own name. Mine now. No more watching from afar.
Nick shifted, angling his hips to hit that spot inside you that made stars burst behind your eyelids.
“God” You cried out, legs trembling, but the weight in them held you down, just enough to make escape impossible without realizing it.
“Fuck, you're so wet for me,” he praised, lips brushing your neck as he sucked a mark there, branding you subtly. “Knew you'd love this - letting me fill you up, stretch that pretty pussy.”
Squeezing me so tight, body's already begging to keep me inside
The thought sending a possessive thrill through him. One night? Bullshit.
Not leaving this bed until you knows you’re mine-locked away where no one else can touch you.
His pace quickened, cock dragging against your walls with each plunge, the slick sounds of your bodies joining filling the room. You whimpered, hips bucking up instinctively, chasing the pleasure that drowned out any nagging doubt.
“Yeah, there you go, you want it don’t you?”
He released your wrist only to tangle his fingers in your hair, tilting your head back for a bruising kiss, tongue invading your mouth as possessively as his dick claimed your core. He thrust in deeper then, grinding against that sensitive spot inside you, forcing a muffled cry from your throat that vibrated into his mouth.
Your body bucked beneath him, hips jerking up to meet his force, thrashing just enough to make the sheets twist around your legs, but the drug's haze kept it all blurred into desperate pleasure rather than resistance.
Nick broke away, letting out a dark laugh while he caught his breath.
“Look, at you, taking every inch. You're doing so well, sweetheart..just relax and let me make you come.”
If only you knew how many nights I stroked myself to thoughts of this, of owning you completely...fucking you raw until you broke for me.
You next sound came raw and needy, escaping as your breaths came in ragged bursts, growing louder with each punishing snap of his hips.
“Ah- N-nick... Oh god,” you gasped, voice breaking into a high-pitched whine as the coil in your belly tightened unbearably, his thick cock undoing you with every deep plunge.
Your fingers tried to clawed at his back, you arched, moans spilling out unchecked-“Fuu-uuck...” building into frantic cries that echoed off the walls, your pussy clenching around him in rhythmic pulses, hot and drenched, pulling him impossibly deeper.
“Yes, yes, come baby!” Yes, that's my girl- MINE
He pounded into you relentlessly, the wet slap of skin on skin mixing with your escalating noises, your body trembling violently now, thighs quivering as the pressure mounted. You shattered around him then, orgasm ripping through you like fire, walls convulsing in fierce, milking spasms that gripped his cock like a vice.
“Nngh-ahh!” you screamed, back bowing off the bed, every muscle seizing as waves of blinding ecstasy tore you apart, your juices soaking him further, gushing with the intensity of it all.
“That’s it, That’s it! Take it baby.” He fucked you through it without mercy, hips slamming forward to chase every last shudder, prolonging the raw bliss until tears pricked your eyes and your cries turned to breathless sobs of overstimulation.
Nick growled, holding back just long enough to feel every quiver, every desperate clench.
“Good girl” he growled into your neck finally letting go, thrusting deep one last time as he spilled inside you, hot spurts coating your insides. He stayed buried, grinding slowly to push it all deeper, marking you from within.
You sighed, boneless and sated, already drifting toward sleep, still believing this was fleeting. Curling up wrapping around him like Nick was the only place you wanted to be.
You’re not going anywhere my love. I'll make sure of it.
synopsis: You've always lived down the street from the Kent Farm in a broken home. You were always the barefoot, soft-spoken, and easily forgotten little girl. Except now, Clark is running the family farm, and you're not so little anymore.
warnings: age gap, abused!poor!reader, injured reader, caregiver dynamics, emotional manipulation, dubcon, hurt/comfort, possessive!clark, morally gray clark, power imbalance, krypto being a menace
word count: 5k
The knock on the door was so faint that Clark was sure he was the only person on planet Earth who heard it. He lowered the mug of hot coffee that he’d almost taken a sip of. Krypto was already at the front door. He let out a single bark before he rested back on his hind legs. He thought of every visitor as a new toy for him to play with. Clark stepped in front of the unruly beast, protecting whoever was on the other side of the door, before cracking it open.
Clark’s brows furrowed in confusion at the sight of you. He didn’t expect how much he would have to lower his gaze to take all of you in. Your head tilted so far down he could barely make out your features. That was your intention, undoubtedly, as you held out a wicker basket in front of you, towards him.
Krypto tilted his head at the sight of you and whined.
Inside the basket were at least a dozen eggs, each wrapped in straw. “Pa said to bring these to you …he’s, uhm, sorry about what he said last night.”
It clicked then, who your father was, and then who you were. Last time he’d laid eyes on you, you were lining up with your older brothers at the bus stop just at the end of Maple Street. They always ran ahead of you, tackling each other to get on the school bus, not paying any mind to how your small legs could never keep up with them. Clark didn’t pay much attention either, always home visiting from college, with his intentions of spending all his free time with his parents, who’d gone months without seeing him. He remembered how fragile you always looked.
Even now that you were a young woman standing in front of him, that hadn’t changed. Clark didn’t take the basket from your hands for fear that you’d turn and run once you accomplished your mission. He let the door swing open, kneeling lower until your eyes had to meet his. He kept one arm around Krypto, holding him steady, as he continued to whine.
He wanted to play with you, clearly, but Clark feared he’d break you in half if he got too excited.
“Your Pa sent you?” Clark asked, and he watched you shiver at the sound of his voice.
You nodded, “He said to bring these to you. He’s sorry about, uhm, what he said last night,” You repeated the rehearsed line.
“So it was your Pa who wanted me to have these. Not you?”
“Uhm, I-I …I want you to have them, too. Please take them.”
Your father was a violent drunk, and your three older brothers were even rowdier. Last night, Clark was walking back to his pickup truck from inside the gas station when your father quite literally ran into him. Clark knew he had blacked out simply by the fact that he tried to pick a fight with a man three times his size. Some resentment had built between Clark and your Pa after Jonathan and Martha’s passing. Jonathan never charged your father a cent when your family needed to use the larger farm’s equipment. But after his parents were gone, Clark couldn’t afford to keep giving things away. The act wasn’t meant to be cruel. It had taken Clark a full two years for the Kent farm to turn a profit again after his parents passed away.
Your stomach growled, and Clark’s blue eyes locked on yours.
“Have you had breakfast, Y/N?” Clark asked, and your eyes drifted down to the basket of eggs you were holding. The basket of eggs was undoubtedly meant to be your family’s breakfast.
“I’m okay,” You said quickly, “My Pa wanted you to have these.”
You set the basket down, and Clark quickly reached towards you, his strong hand wrapping around your wrist. He kept you from flying away.
He watched your chest rise and fall rapidly. Your lips were plump, your eyes big and sad, and the curls of your hair were barely restrained by the white ribbon you used to tie them from your face. Your grey sweater was not nearly warm enough for the cool, November air, and your feet were dirty and bare.
“Will you come inside and warm up?”
“I can’t–”
Clark had kind eyes. Even when he was being firm, his face was gentle. “I’ll accept the eggs and your father’s apology if you come inside and warm up.”
Your tune changed as you realized Clark wasn’t taking no for an answer. “I can’t stay long. I have chores.”
Clark could only imagine the reaction your father would have if he were to send you away and turn down his offer. You were painfully aware of what your father’s reaction would be. Maybe it was manipulative, but Clark had already decided that he needed to see you up close.
“I won’t keep you long,” Clark assured you, his deep voice rumbling. Things were easy after that. The way he stood, taking the basket in one hand and pulling you inside with his other hand. You stared at him like the giant he was.
Clark expected you might pull away from him, but you only stepped closer as you realized he was the only one protecting you from Krypto. For a girl who grew up on a farm, you appeared skittish around Clark’s dog.
Clark pulled you along, through the living room, and towards the kitchen, which overlooked the backyard. Surprisingly, Krypto remained cautious, keeping his distance. It was as if he recognized how fragile you were, too. “Sit,” Clark insisted, grabbing one of the wooden chairs tucked into the kitchen table. Your body no longer felt like it was yours to control. He guided it so easily that it felt like you were floating. He let you go as soon as you lowered your bottom down onto the seat, “Coffee?”
You watched him, muscles straining through his white T-shirt and plaid pajama pants, which made him look even more All-American.
Your lips parted to answer, although your brain was still trying to compute that you were in an unfamiliar kitchen with your neighbor, one you’d only admired from a distance. You didn’t have to answer. Clark was setting a hot cup in front of you and taking the seat adjacent to yours, “I’m assuming you like cream and sugar.” You nodded shyly, “Lots of cream and sugar?”
You nodded again, your eyes fixed on your hands as you fidgeted in your lap. The warmth creeping through you had little to do with the coffee and everything to do with Clark’s steady gaze.
Clark reached toward the center of the table, where the basket of eggs sat next to a blue-flowered cream and sugar set.
“Thank you, Mr. Kent,” You whispered as Clark poured cream and sugar into your drink.
Clark waited patiently as you stared at the cup of coffee in front of you. He leaned back in his chair, finally taking a sip of his own. He sensed how overwhelmed you were. Your nervous system had yet to let your body know that you weren’t in immediate danger.
Your dress was a faded pink paisley, the nicest one you owned. Undoubtedly, your father had chosen it for you. Your lack of shoes, though… maybe it had been a while since he’d bought you a new pair.
When you finally did reach out to take a sip, Clark let the silence stretch between the two of you. A reprieve from your loud and moody household. It felt necessary, not awkward.
He decided not to ask if you were hungry. He used two of the eggs you’d brought him and scrambled a plate of eggs for you. “Those eggs were for you.”
“These eggs are for you,” Clark insisted, “Not fair they made you give away your breakfast. C’mon, I won’t tell your Pa.”
Clark waited for you to work up the courage, and you eventually did.
“Are you in school?” Clark asked after you’d taken a few bites. The thought did cross his mind that he didn’t know exactly how old you were. If the lustful thoughts in his head were to continue, he should at least establish what rules he was breaking.
You shook your head, “No.”
“You graduated?” Clark pressed further.
“I couldn’t go anymore. Had lots to do at home. Still do.”
“Your Pa didn’t make sure that you graduated from high school?”
You gave him a look of confusion. “It’s not like I was gonna go to college.”
“Your Pa told you that?” Clark watched as you shrank into your sweater and realized he’d pushed too far. “Sorry, I’m just trying to understand. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I really do have chores. Thank you for having me for breakfast, Mr. Kent.”
“Let me drive you home.”
“It’s just a mile down the road–”
“You’ve got no shoes on, Y/N.”
“I really don’t mind.”
“Of course you don’t.”
You didn’t fight him on the topic for long. Just as you didn’t fight back when it came to your brothers and father, you would shrink into yourself eventually. You reminded him of the petrified women he was used to saving from runaway trains and falling skyscrapers. Except you seemed to be in a constant state of anxiety.
Clark drives you in his Pa’s old pickup truck the short mile down the road. Much to your satisfaction, your brothers weren’t hanging around outside smoking and roughhousing like usual. “Thank you,” You whispered, and you moved so quickly out the passenger door that Clark and his superhuman speech almost missed your hand when he reached out to grab it, “Mr. Kent–”
“You come over anytime you want, you hear me?” Clark's eyes narrowed sharply at yours. Your chest rose and fell as you took in shallow breaths, “If you don’t feel safe or if you just want some quiet. You’re welcome at mine. You understand?”
“I’ll be okay.” You’d made it to this point, hadn’t you?
“But are you listening to me?”
You nodded quickly, “Yes, anytime I-I want.”
“Don’t be a stranger, okay?”
Clark released his grip, although it took more strength than he anticipated. It felt wrong as he watched you skitter across the gravel road and head inside your family’s double-wide. It felt even worse knowing how much more he wanted to see… to feel.
The next time Clark heard from you was two weeks later. Friday. Payday. The roughest nights were when your Father had enough money to be drunk for the entire weekend. He’d come home from the bar a little before one in the morning. You could usually sleep through the chaos and stay hidden behind your locked door. This time, for some terrible reason, your father had gotten into it with your oldest brother. You tucked yourself into the corner of your bed and tried to ignore the crashing glass plates and the holes being punched into the walls.
Smell the flowers, you reminded yourself, blow the candles out. The panic only gets worse when you don’t breathe properly. The method works until your Father starts beating at your door. You can only make out your name as he slurs his words. It won’t be good if he breaks down the door. Not at all. You have to make a decision.
You could open the door now. He might be less angry if you do exactly what he wants and when he wants. If he beats down the door and you’re still inside, he’ll be pissed at you. But he already sounds pissed? What had you done? The house was spotless when he got home. There were plenty of leftovers in the fridge. You hadn’t asked for anything.
You chose the third option. You grabbed your robe hanging on your twin-sized bedpost and made your way over to your window. It’s a short jump down to the dirt patch in the backyard, but somehow you land funny. You wince, biting down on your bottom lip. Hard. The pounding continues. Your heart beats even louder in your ears.
It’s adrenaline that sends you limping into the woods. Although you move quickly, more air fills your lungs the further you get away from your house. Half an hour later, the Kent farm comes into your view, and for some strange reason, you feel relieved.
You can’t bring yourself to knock on the front door. It’s almost two in the morning. You limp through grassy fields, mosquitoes bite at your bare legs, and you head towards a tall, red barn. It sits a little apart from the Kent house. That will be warm enough for the night. And you won’t have to bother Clark. You just have to wait out your father’s tempers. In the morning, he’ll act like nothing happened.
It’s Krypto who notices first that the Kent farm has an intruder. His head snaps up, ears pricked, before his muscles go rigid. He awakens Clark roughly, practically stomping his paws against the Kryptonian’s chest.
“All right, all right.” There’s no chance he’ll fall asleep again anytime soon. He follows the unruly beast outside to investigate, but Krypto flies in the direction of the barn as soon as he steps outside.
“Krypto — hey!”
Clark shouts, but the super dog continues to disobey him. Clark sighs before he launches himself after him. He lands gently in front of the barn doors that Krypto has already broken through. He hears a woman shriek, and Clark's heart fully stops before he barrels inside the barn next.
Krypto is on top of you, his front paws on either side of your head, as he laps at your cheek. Your shrieks have turned into giggles, but Clark is still panicking. Luckily, the dog hadn’t put his entire weight on you; he’d known better, but if you continued to encourage him, Clark knew he’d lose control.
“Krypto, off!” Clark hurried forward, wrapping his arms around the dog’s torso before lifting him away from you. Clark has to hold his collar to keep him from tackling you again. “Bad boy! No!”
Clark looks you over. Although your face is delighted, Clark realizes you’re in a thin camisole and pajama shorts, cold skin only covered by a flimsy robe. He noticed your right ankle next, and the way it was starting to turn purple.
“He flew!” You shout, and it’s the most animated Clark has ever seen you, “I swear, he-he flew!”
“Krypto–look what you… Oh gosh. Stay!” Clark commands, and the dog whines but keeps his place, far from you. Your face falls.
“He’s okay,” You add as you realize Clark has noticed your ankle, “He didn’t hurt me, Mr. Kent!”
“Your ankle–” Clark starts as he hurried to kneel by your side. He’s already taken your leg in his hand, lifting it gently.
“I fell,” You add, trying to ignore the way his touch was making your body feel. His hands were firm, careful, and his touch felt far too intimate. “I fell, it wasn’t him.”
“You fell?” Clark’s eyes darkened, “Your Pa did this?”
You think for a moment about lying. What if he tried to get your Pa in trouble? You needed your Pa. Things got bad when he was home, but it was even worse when he was locked up. You find you don’t have any energy left to lie. “I jumped out of my window. My Pa…he was trying to get into my room. He was drunk. I was scared.”
He’s still angry, you can read that much, but he remains calm. He lifts you swiftly, careful to avoid putting any extra pressure on your ankle, and starts to carry you outside.
“You did the right thing,” Clark states, his voice deeper than before. He carries you towards the house, and Krypto follows obediently behind the two of you. He doesn’t specify exactly what the right thing is that you did — jumping out the window? Coming here? Telling the truth? You assume he means everything. It’s praise, but it feels so foreign that it’s hard for your mind to process.
He takes you to the main bedroom and lays you down on the bed. It smells like him. The sheets are soft and plaid. The comforter is a quilted pattern that looks handmade, and there are so many knick-knacks that decorate the shelves and family photos on the walls. It’s a happy and lived-in room.
Clark works methodically, propping your leg up on a pillow, applying an ice pack, and bandaging up your bruised skin.
“I think it’s sprained.” He says, concentrated, almost to himself.
“I’m okay, really,” You tried, but he’d only shush you and tell you to lie back down. “At least it’s not broken.”
Clark grits his teeth at that. You worry that you’ve upset him.
“You won’t tell on him, will you?” You ask quietly, and your eyes are hopeful.
Clark sighs and pauses for a long moment, “No, if that’s not what you want.” The words sound almost painful as they leave his lips. His curly hair falls gently against his forehead as he sits on the edge of the bed, elbows against his thighs.
You nodded, “Thank you.”
“But I don’t think you should go back.”
“What?”
“I think you should stay here.”
“I can’t–”
“Don’t decide now, okay? Either way, I’ll find a way to handle your Dad.”
“Handle him?” You ask cautiously.
Clark doesn’t answer, not directly, but his face says it all. He’s struggling with the thoughts in his mind.
“I’m sorry for all this.” Tears prick your eyes, your head tilts back against the pillows, and you cover your eyes, “It’s my fault. It’s always my fault.”
Your tears start to fall as the bed dips beside you. He’s heavy, and your body tilts in the direction that his body weight pulls you. His hands are impossibly warm when they touch yours. Gently, he moves your hands from your face.
“I’m sss-sorry, Mr. Kent.”
Maybe your vision is blurry from your tears, but you almost swear Clark licks his lips as he looks at you. It almost doesn’t register that you’re lying in his bed with him, your older neighbor. As soon as it does, you feel a lump in your throat. You swallow. Hard.
“Don’t be,” he says, his warm breath fans over your nose, your mouth. Your heart beats in a strange pattern. “I don’t like that you’re hurting, but I think you were meant to be right here. Right at this moment.”
You try to blink your tears away, “You … think so?”
“Mhm,” Is all he manages, and suddenly, you feel his hand on your waist. He feels the exposed flesh there, “Are you … are you hurting anywhere else?”
“Just my ankle…” He’s just concerned, you know that, but it also feels like … his fingers dance against the thin waistband of your pajama shorts. They’re covered in faded butterflies. “You’re not mad at me?”
You already know that deep down, anger is the last emotion he’s feeling as he moves his hands over your skin. It takes everything in you not to squirm. It feels strange. “I could never…have you … have you ever …”
Your brows furrow as you search his face. His expression is almost painful. “Have I ever what?”
He pulls his hands away suddenly, almost ashamed. Once again, you feel like you’ve mistepped. “Nothing,” He smiles sadly, “I’ll go get you something for the pain. And then I want you to sleep. It’s late.”
You nod solemnly. “Okay, thank you, Mr. Kent.”
“Call me Clark, please.”
“Thank you, Clark.”
You wake to a whining Krypto. He lies beside you, his tail wagging furiously, and as your eyes blink open, he licks your face. You groan and laugh at the same time, wiping your cheek. You reach out to pet behind his ears. You’d gotten the best sleep you had in a while, even given the sprained ankle. You pulled he comforter away from your body, attempting to move your foot, only to find it still sore. You could see your ankle swelling even from beneath the bandage.
Slowly, you pulled yourself up. You lifted your ankle from the pillow, grimacing, as you tried to move both your legs to the side of the bed. “Hey, hey, hey,” As if he’d sensed your movement, Clark appeared through the bedroom door, “You gotta let me help you.”
Shyly, you looked up at him. A kitchen towel was tossed over his shoulder, like he was in the midst of cooking. The smell of bacon and pancakes wafted through the open door, confirming your suspicion. He stood in front of you, blocking your exit, and you continued to wince as you gently placed your right foot on the ground.
“I’m okay…” You strained to say through the pain, “Please, Clark.”
“I’ll lift you. Grab onto my shoulders.”
You hesitate. “I … I have to pee. I swear I-I can make it on my own.”
Reaching down, tucking one of his arms beneath your knees, and the other around your back, he lifts you easily. He leaves no room for argument. You’re not one to argue, anyways. You should feel embarassed as he sets you down in front of the toilet. There’s an awkward moment where you’re afraid he’ll try to help you further but he say, “Shout when you’re done and I’ll help you to the sink.”
You nod quickly, silently.
Throughout the day, you get used to Clark being a little bit too close for comfort. He brings you to the breakfast table, to the couch, and that night he helps you to the shower. He figures out a solution that offers you the most privacy but it still involves him being on the other side of the shower curtain. You plan to undress and dress inside the confines of the shower. “Be careful, please,” Clark warns you and halfway through trying to bathe yourself, you realize you’ve overestimated your abilities. You’re basically forced to hop on one foot on the slippery shower floor and after almost falling twice, Clark decides he can’t risk you hurting yourself further.
You yip when he pulls the shower curtain back, “I won’t look, I promise,” He assures you as your eyes widen. It’s futile. You reach out to grab onto his arms. You use him for balance as you finish rinsing the soap from your body. You’re shaking and you wish he couldn’t feel how nervous you were. You don’t know if he takes a peek at you because you’re averting your eyes from him out of embarrassment. “You’re okay.”
“I’m sorry,” You say although you’re not sure what for. He clearly finds some satisfaction out of helping you.
You’re surprised when he lifts you easily from the tub, his arms tucked underneath your armpits, and you marvel for a moment at his strength. He continues to promise that he’s not looking as he helps you into one of his t-shirts and a pair of his boxers.
“Clark, you should really take me home tonight.”
“You know why that’s not happening.”
“My father will be expecting me–”
“He won’t.” Clark says. “I already talked to him.”
“What?”
“He’s not gonna get mad at you. He’s not going to do anything to you, do you understand that?” Clark steadies you, his hands tight against your waist as he stares down at you, “All of that is over.”
“What did you say to him?”
“Nothing a lady needs to hear,” He insists, “I want you to stay. You’re not a burden to me. You look good here. In my clothes and with me.”
“Whatever he agreed to, he’ll go back on it, he won’t keep his word. He never has.” You respond, your anxiety growing, knowing how angry Clark must’ve made him. Clark lifts you again, this time settling himself on the bed, and then setting you next to him. Your legs crossed over his lap, his hand against the small of your back. Your hand finds his hard chest as you try not to squirm, to not show your discomfort, “I-I’m serious. He’ll show up her and he’ll do something stupid.”
“You don’t think I could handle him?”
“I don’t want you to handle him. This is my fault, not yours–”
“Oh, sweet girl,” Clark’s head dips as he tucks his head into the side of your neck. He squeezes you and pulls you closer. “I don’t think you’ve ever done anything wrong in your life.”
“What are you doing?” Your hand presses harder into his chest, “Clark, that feels… weird.”
“Weird, huh?”
He kisses you on the sensitive skin there, and now, you can’t help but squirm. You feel warm in places you didn’t know could feel warm. He moves your right leg carefully, spreading your legs, and you panic inside. His hand travels up your leg and then moves to your inner thigh. Jesus, this is wrong. So wrong.
“Has anyone ever touched you like this?” Clark asked, his voice husky and deep. The kind stranger who’d taken you in had taken another shape. “Tell me no one has.”
He massages the meaty flesh of your thighs, grabbing you like a stress toy, and there’s a groan in his throat that’s animalistic. “Wait, please–”
“You’ll like it, I promise,” When he reaches into the fabric of the short, something flutters in your core, and his strong fingers start to run over your sensitive folds. He makes long strokes, up and down your center. He wants to feel a part of you no else has ever seen.
And the sad thing is, you like it more than you thought you would. The attention. No one had ever paid you this much attention. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d been held. You were undiscovered. Uncharted territory. And so painfully innocent.
You feel warm and wet now. Clark’s icy blue eyes meet with yours and your cheeks heat from embarrassment. He kisses you softly as he massages your center. He’s right. You like it. You’re moving your hips weakly against his fingers. Your lips part and he presses his lips against yours. He takes the lead and you try to move your lips in sync with his.
“You like it, don’t you?” He asks against your lips.
You nod although you hate that he can see you like this.
You’re so wet now. He easily slips the tip of his finger inside of you, “Clark–” You gasp, “More.”
“You can handle more, can’t you?” You nod as he pushes his finger deeper. You’re grinding against his finger in weak circles. “Good girl. Sweet girl. I’ve got more for you.”
His finger goes deeper, curling against a spot that has you shaking. It’s so slow. Torturous. “You gonna cum on my finger, Y/N?”
“I-I…” You moan, “I feel like I have to pee.”
Clark’s chest rumbles and you feel mortified knowing that he’s amused. “That’s okay. Don’t run from it.”
You turn your face into his chest, shyly, as you do your best not to run from the feeling. “Let me make you cum, baby,” It’s a slow building and then it happens all at once. You’re screaming into his the fabric of his shirt, hips shaking, but he keeps holding onto you even as his finger slips from inside you.
You feel empty without him.
He takes the opportunity while you’re dazed and mumbling incoherent to move you from his lap. He lays you down beneath him. Gently, he sets your right leg down on one of the bed’s pillows. He grabs onto your left leg as he settles between you. He lifts the fabric of your shirt, settling his face between your breasts, he takes each one into his mouth, licking the buds of your nipples.
You feel the sensation is what sends him over the edge. Its quick. How he tears the fabric over the boxers and presses his hard length at your entrance. He holds your leg, keeping you spread wide open, and presses further. It’s his turn. You see it in his eyes. The lack of control. He stares down at you, watching your face contort with pain as he takes you for the first time.
He’s more than appreciative, grunting your name, as he makes the first, shallow thrusts. He goes deeper as your body adjusts, squeezing tightly around him. He knows how lucky he is. You’re perfect and he never has to let you go. He could keep you tied to this bed and use you over and over again. You’re so polite that you’d thank him for it.
“You’ll stay with me,” Clark grunts, moving your hips into him, “I’ll look after you.”
“Clark, I can’t stay–” His eyes darken at that and he positions himself to go even deeper. His hand wraps around your throat and he turns your head roughly so he can growl into your ear.
“I wasn’t asking, sweet girl. I need you too bad. You see that, don’t you?” Clark asks although it’s rhetorical. He’s against your cervix now and you’re not sure he’s even registering how much you’re screaming, “I’m going to take you for hours.”
“Please,” You gasp, “Oh my —”
Another orgasm rushes through you, forceful and unyielding. He continues his pace and as you feel your body growing impossibly tired, you wonder how he can keep going. You don’t even feel him sweating.
You never really imagined for your first time but you thought you might be awake enough to remember most of it. It’s like a dream. You lose consciousness and awake to find him still inside of you. When he finally finishes inside of you, you’re stretched, and completely empty. When you awake again, you’re fully naked and tucked into the sheets. He lifts your head to feed you a glass of water. He pets your head and tucks your hair behind your ears. He runs his fingers all over you, down your back, over the curves of your hip and soothes you back to sleep.
And you sleep for days, safe and cared for.
reblog with your thoughts to be added to my clark taglist :)
College Athlete!Bucky Barnes x Curvy!College!Fem!Reader
Summary: You and Bucky are just classmates, but perhaps some cheap beer and an innocent game of spin the bottle might just change that.
Warnings: reader has her first kiss in a public game of spin the bottle with Bucky, a little peer pressure but reader doesn’t kiss anyone she doesn’t want to, potential underage drinking (drinking age is 18 where I’m from), mean girls judging other women’s bodies, this was written specifically with a curvy reader in mind
Word count: 4.6k
A/N: for my darling Jules’ Love Bomb Bang @thelovebombbang! Thank you so much for hosting @daydreamgoddess14 and for being my artwork partner for this challenge! I know I was a little very unorganised for this challenge but I think it all came together beautifully in the end ♥️ banners by @vase-of-lilies
Masterlist | Ask me anything! | Library | AO3
Being an introvert in college sucks.
Being an introvert in college that in your mothers own words could afford to lose a few pounds, sucks even more.
But being a chubby introvert who has made it to her junior year in college without having had their first kiss, well, that’s basically a death sentence.
The only person who has ever called you beautiful is your best friend Natasha, who’s viewpoint is a little biased considering you’ve known her the best part of ten years.
Nat says it will happen for you, you just need to put yourself out there more and then you’ll have no problem finding someone to make out with. It’s easy for her to say; she oozes confidence and charisma with every step she takes, whereas you move around the world wishing to remain as invisible as it seems you already are.
It’s basically your superpower at this point.
That doesn’t stop you longing to be yearned for, to be desired. For someone in this godforsaken world to look at the soft curve of your jaw or the way your thighs press together and see someone worth loving, treasuring, rather than something that needs to be corrected.
It hasn’t happened for you yet, and you’re losing your last scraps of hope with every passing day.
* * *
The Friday night air is crisp, but as you stand outside the Kappa Sigma frat house, your skin feels clammy. The bass from the speakers inside vibrates through the soles of your shoes, a rhythmic thumping that mimics the frantic, uneven pace of your heart.
“You're doing that thing again.” Nat says, nudging your shoulder.
She looks ravishing in a crop top and skin tight skirt that clings to her perfect figure, her confidence a palpable force that usually acts as a shield for you, as long as you keep close enough. Tonight, however, it feels more like a spotlight you’re trying to duck.
“What thing?” You mutter, tugging at the sleeves of your off the shoulder sweater. You chose it because it’s soft and safe, a loose knit barrier between your imperfect body and the judgmental eyes of the world.
“The ‘trying to disappear into the walls’ thing. We’re not even inside yet.” She turns to you and there’s a quirk to her brow you know her well enough to know is her silently asking if you try to be brave for her. “You are beautiful, and just about the smartest person here. And I’ll be with you the whole time.”
You offer her a weak, skeptical smile. You know she means the compliment, but when you look in the mirror, all you see are the inches you could afford to lose and the thick thighs that make you feel ginormous compared to the lithe, effortless girls who frequent these parties.
Your mind is a dark, cavernous void of self-doubt, replaying every time you were the ‘approachable one’, the girl guys talk to only to get closer to Nat or to ask for help with their Lit homework, when they just wanted you to write the whole damn thing for them.
“C’mon, if you hate it after an hour we can leave, but at least have a drink first.”
That hour deadline cannot come fast enough.
The heat hits you first as you walk in arms linked with Nat, a wall of sweat, far too much cologne, and cheap beer. The room is completely packed, a sea of bodies swaying to a song you don’t know the name of.
In your mind, you’re already calculating the shortest route out of here. If only there were illuminated lights like on an airplane, highlighting your closest emergency exit.
But you promised Nat sixty minutes only thirty seconds ago. Your throat constricts, making it hard to swallow, and you immediately scan the room for corners, the shadows where you can exist without being perceived. Somewhere to hide.
This is why you prefer the peace and quiet of the library.
But then, across the room, your eyes land on him.
Bucky Barnes is standing by the kitchen island, a red cup held loosely in his hand. He looks like a statue of a god animated to life. Breathtakingly beautiful and chiseled to perfection. The light catches the sparkle in his dazzling sapphire eyes as he laughs at something his teammate Sam Wilson says. His smile, even though it’s not directed at you, somehow manages to settle your nerves churning in your stomach.
He’s wearing a simple dark shirt, it’s about a size too small, though you're not complaining, you very much enjoy the way the fabric stretches over the thick pecs and bulging biceps he’s earned from years of football training.
You’ve shared three classes with him over the last two years, and every time he’s caught you staring, he’s given you an endearing smile that makes your lungs burn.
But you’re just an acquaintance. A face in the chanting crowd as he throws the spectacular pass which scores the football team their much needed win. A girl in his English Lit class who once borrowed a pen from him and almost fainted when his fingers brushed yours. Someone who he smiles and silently nods at when you sit in your trademark seat in the lecture hall a few rows in front of his own bookmarked spot.
He doesn't think of you at all when you’re not in his direct line of sight. He does know your name though, a small token you hold onto as if your life depended on it.
What you don't see is how Bucky’s laughter falters the moment you walk through the door. You don't notice how his posture straightens, his large hands splayed on the counter as he subtly shifts his position just to keep you in his peripheral vision. You don't observe the way he stops listening to Sam in that moment, his eyes tracking the way your sweater hangs off your shoulder, his mind wondering if your skin is as soft as it looks.
You’re unaware the reason he sits in that particular spot in the lecture theatre is because it’s you who’s unofficial designated seat is just in front of him, where he gets to gaze at you out of the corner of his eye during every class you share.
“Earth to Bucky.” Sam says, bumping him with his shoulder. “You okay man?”
Bucky blinks, his gaze finally snapping back to his friend, though his eyes still have an amorous twinkle that he can’t quite suppress, and his best mate notices quickly.
“Yeah. Just hot in here is all.”
“Right… hot.” Sam smirks, following Bucky’s gaze to where you are currently trying, and failing, to blend into a bookshelf. “She's been here all of two minutes and you're already sweating.”
“Shut up.” Bucky mumbles, his voice raspy. He wasn’t aware you’d be here tonight and he’s all of a sudden nervous. He’s supposedly the star athlete that has everything figured out, but when it comes to you, and the cute way you hide your hands in your sweater sleeves, he feels like he’s playing a game that he hasn't been given the playbook to.
He likes the way you bite your lip when you’re thinking really hard and how you look like you have your own creative universe inside your head that he wants an invitation to.
But you don't know any of that.
You just see a man who is ‘way out of your league’, a man who surely wants someone who has a similar figure to Nat, perhaps one of the cheerleaders who always hangs around the football team. Someone who could never be interested in you that way.
You try to focus on anything other than your crush across the room, the titles of the books on a nearby shelf, the way condensation dribbles down the side of Nat’s red cup. But your internal compass keeps spinning back to your true north, Bucky Barnes. He’s the sun, the bright smiling centre of attention, and you’re just a distant, cold moon caught in his gravitational pull.
“C’mon, it’s time we dance it out.” Nat grabs your hand with a cheeky grin and pulls you away from the safety of the periphery of the party. “If it’s good enough for Meredith and Cristina then I think we can both try to let loose and have some fun.”
You know that’s code for you to let loose and have fun, because it’s in Nat’s DNA to not care what anyone thinks and shake her ass on the dance floor.
Being in motion makes you feel slightly less like a target for judgment, or perhaps it’s the way laughing with Nat as you both make fools of yourselves dancing to loud music makes you forget to think about all the eyes that could be watching you. Even though it's only Bucky's that watch your every move.
But that relief is short lived.
A loud whistle pierces through the music, followed by the sudden, jarring silence of the speakers being cut. A collective groan rises from the crowd, quickly replaced by a wave of rowdy cheers.
“Alright, alright! Clear the floor!” A deep voice booms. Sam Wilson, standing on a coffee table with a grin that spells nothing but trouble, holds an empty, green glass bottle above his head like a trophy. “The tradition continues! If you’re in the splash zone, you’re playing, no take backs.”
Before you can speak in protest, the sea of people surges, a literal tide of sweaty bodies pushing you and Nat, who grasps your hand to keep you beside her, toward the center of the living room. You desperately try to back away, but the circle is already closing, a wall of collegiate athletes and girls in miniskirts forming a ring that feels more like a cage.
You’re forced down onto the floor, your thighs pressing uncomfortably against the hardwood floor as you try to tuck your legs beneath you in the packed circle, wishing your sweater could grow three sizes and swallow you whole.
“Nat, I can’t do this.” You try whispering without drawing unwanted attention to your reluctance to participate. If you stand and leave now, are you just flagging your inexperience to everyone?
“You never have to do anything you don’t want to. Kiss their cheek, their hand, or not at all. You don’t have to kiss anyone you don’t want to.” She keeps her voice low, doing well to make her communication subtle, but her words aren’t the comforting blanket you’ve become accustomed to.
With all eyes on you, and the silent expectation of making out with whomever the bottle lands on, some you don’t even know the names of, you will most likely either succumb to the social pressure of having your first kiss in front of a drunk audience or you’ll find yourself labelled as the campus prude.
But there’s no backing out now without looking like the biggest killjoy in frat history, so you chew the inside of your cheek and say a silent prayer that the bottle doesn’t land on you.
“Rules are simple!” Sam announces, easily capturing the attention of the crowd. He places the glass bottle into the center of the circle, it clinks against the wood, a sharp, predatory sound. “If it points at you, you’re the target. If you’re the spinner, you better make it count.”
Sam goes first. A roaring cheer goes up when it lands on a beautiful brown eyed girl with flowers embroidered on her flared jeans.
They make quite the cute pair, and they pash like they know it too. Sam slides a hand into the back pocket of her jeans, cupping her butt and pulling her flush against him as they lose themselves in the kiss. The crowd hurls whistles and playful jeers, but you find yourself staring at the floor, your face heating up just from being a witness to such easy, uninhibited intimacy.
For them, a kiss like that is just a normal Friday night highlight. For you, it feels like a mountain you aren’t, nor ever have been, equipped to climb.
That’s just the beginning of the make out sessions. The game moves at a terrifyingly quick pace, you watch on as the more confident people around the circle speak up and take their turn, each spin you’re simply grateful to get through without being the chosen one.
One of the smaller running players, you always forget the technical position name for, on the football team kisses a sweet girl you remember meeting for the first time on orientation day. A guy who has a fairly popular gaming channel comes together in an open mouthed snog with the vice captain of the cheerleading team.
However, seeing a senior on the debate team only allow one of the basketball players to kiss her on the cheek, followed by a performing arts student only kissing the forehead of the significantly shorter leader of the journalism club, sets your heart slightly at ease. Not everyone is participating in make out sessions.
Nat, who’s sat so close beside you your thighs are touching, goes next, only for the bottle to land on the girl who hosts the college’s radio show, the one Nat always compliments the music taste of.
This isn’t the first time you’ve been left unkissed while watching your best friend make out with someone at a party, but Nat looks like she’s having the time of her life, tongues twisted in a passionate snog with someone you’re already positive she’s attracted to. You’re happy for her, truly you are, you just want that for yourself too someday.
“Alright gorgeous, you’re up next.” Suddenly the lump in your throat feels like lead as you realise Sam Wilson is speaking to you.
You’re thrown, not just because you didn’t want it to be your turn so soon, even though it was an inevitability of the game, but also the nickname he used to refer to you. Gorgeous.
“Me?” You whisper, the word catching in your throat.
Nat gives you an encouraging pat to your thigh as she sits down from her place in the spotlight.
“Go on then, don't keep us waiting!” A slurred voice from across the room teases, followed by a few muffled giggles.
It’s time to rip the bandaid off.
You’re in junior year of college, you’ve waited long enough to kiss someone on the lips for the first time. Though, you do wish it weren’t in front of half the school.
For a brief moment your eyes connect with Bucky who’s sat directly opposite you in the circle, and you could have sworn you saw a hint of a smile curve on his features at the recognition you chose to gaze at him, before your attention is focussed on the game at hand.
You reach out, hand shaking as it emerges from the safety of your knitted sweater sleeve. Before your brain has time to tell you this is a terrible idea, that you should be running for the hills, that you’re a junior in college who hasn’t had your first kiss and you don’t belong at a frat party playing spin the bottle, you twist the body of the glass bottle and set your fate in motion.
You watch as it spirals through every possibility in the circle multiple times, hoping, praying, that that the person it eventually lands on is at least kind. You know who you want it to land on, but as long as the person doesn’t completely dismiss you based on your appearance, as so many have done before, you’ll at least save yourself some public humiliation.
As the bottle slows, your heart is beating in your throat, it slows on some guy in a black hoodie you’ve never seen before in your life, clicking over to Sam Wilson himself, before it stops altogether, landing on him.
Bucky Barnes, hero of the football team, campus sweet guy who somehow seems to know everyone’s name without ever having spoken with them. And the star in your fantasies where you finally have your desired first intimate interaction with the male species, which goes far beyond just having your first kiss.
Before you spun the bottle, it had been your desperate wish for it to land on him. What a wonderful person to share your first kiss with, not only is he smoking hot, but he’s actually been nice to you before without wanting something in return.
But now that it’s a reality, you’re utterly petrified.
You’re entirely too inexperienced to be kissing Bucky Barnes, the golden athlete who must have women flinging themselves at him nonstop.
A few girls around the circle do nothing to suppress their scornful sniggers. Malicious amused glances pass between them as if the thought of Bucky Barnes actually wanting to kiss you is the most outlandish and hilarious thought known to man. The sound makes you cower into yourself. Nat practically hisses at them to shut up.
But you know that the only thing more embarrassing than being turned down for a kiss by Bucky is if you were to be a coward and run as far away from this situation as possible. So as difficult as it is to swallow the lump in your throat and move your heavy legs to carry you to where the bottle is pointed, you find strength to do so in how Bucky is gazing at you.
Other juniors might be sneering at the idea of the chubby girl kissing the football star, but Bucky himself looks as far from amused as possible. He observes your every move intently as you step toward him.
Bucky doesn't wait for you to reach him, he steps forward on the hardwood, closing the gap between you until his presence is a physical shield, blocking out the judging eyes of the circle and the muffled whispers of the girls who are validating your inner voice claiming you're not good enough.
He towers over you, his jaw and cheekbones cutting sharp lines on his gorgeous features, but his eyes are surprisingly soft up close. The mockery you expect to see is nowhere to be found, instead, you’re surprised that he looks about as nervous as you feel.
“You want this?” He speaks low enough that you know his sole focus is on you.
“I do.” You confirm, and you could confuse the beaming smile on his lips as if you had just p pop promised your hand in marriage to him, rather than a simple kiss.
His forefinger grazes the underside of your jaw, settling under your chin and tilts your head up, forcing you to see the absolute sincerity written across his handsome features. Your heart's thumping rhythm surely must be visible under your sweater as it’s practically beating out of your chest as he leans in.
Your first ever kiss.
When you close your eyes and your lips meet in a soft, tender kiss, the room reverberates with cheers. All eyes are on you and yet the only thing you can focus on is how Bucky’s large hands cup your jaw and the slow, deliberate movements of his pillow soft lips.
A small, broken whimper escapes your throat, a sound of pure, unadulterated shock at how divine this feels, how you could have deprived yourself of this bliss for so long, and Bucky answers it with a low moan that vibrates deep into your mouth.
You admittedly do not know if what you’re doing is correct, but it certainly feels so right. You let Bucky guide you and allow your instincts to take over - for once in your life you’re not stuck in your head and overthinking every minute detail. You just allow yourself to feel, bask in the joy of being kissed.
Your fingers, previously trembling and trapped in the safety of your knit sleeves, find their way to the soft fabric of his shirt. You bunch the material in your fists, anchoring yourself to him as the room around you dissolves into a blurred, insignificant haze.
And to think half an hour ago you wanted to leave before setting foot in this party.
Bucky deepens the pressure, his tongue tracing the seam of your lips with a gentle, yet clear demand. There is no question as to what he wants. When his tongue finally sweeps against yours, it isn't this invasive, sloppy thing you had feared when you pictured what this moment might feel like. It is a sweet, insistent elvet intrusion that makes your knees feel as though they’ve turned to water.
It is you who inevitably breaks the kiss, in a blurry haze of needing air, but all you breathe in is Bucky’s warm, earthy scent. And for the first time in your life you truly believe that a man’s eyes are filled with desire while gazing at you.
Bucky looks intoxicated, not just from the beer, but completely captivated by everything you are. His dazzling blue eyes are blown wide, tracking the way your own lips are slightly parted and swollen from his attention. There is no smirk, no triumphant glint of a football star who has won a bet of tricking someone into their first kiss, there is only a raw yearning that makes your heart feel as if it's bursting out of your chest.
You feel as if you’ve been standing in the middle of the circle gazing into each other's eyes for far too long, longer than any of the couples before you had, you shyly drop your head and scurry over to your previous place in the circle.
Your face is burning hot as you quickly sit back beside Nat, her smile a mixture of pride and mischief.
“Did that feel as good as it looked?” Nat asks as one of the cheerleaders takes her turn next, the world continuing to spin as if yours hasn’t just been thrown off its axis.
“Better.”
Nat squeals with delight, taking your hand in both of hers and squeezing in a way that makes you feel so utterly loved by her. She really is closer to a sister than a friend.
You can’t focus on the continuation of the game, how passionately teammates Sam Wilson and Steve Rogers kiss, the refusal of Yelena Belova to kiss her best friends ex who cheated on her, for all you can do is take yourself back to the moment Bucky’s lips captured yours in your imagination.
Across the diameter of the circle, Bucky hasn't moved, hasn’t even taken his eyes off you. He’s sitting with his long legs sprawling out, his large hands resting on his knees. He doesn't join in the rowdy commentary of his teammates, for his mind is miles away, still lingering in the taste of your mouth.
Earlier tonight there was nothing worse than the prospect of being heavily involved in this boisterous party. Now, you couldn’t imagine being anywhere else. You want to stay in the sanctuary of Bucky’s attention, revel in feeling for the first time in your life that you are the person who is wanted, you are the need that will quench their thirst.
That oasis is short lived however, for the glass bottle gets passed to a distracted Bucky, and your heart sinks. What you just experienced with him, that pure pleasure, he is about to feel with someone else.
The chances of it landing on you in this sea of people are so very slim.
You put on a brave face, one that says you’re not fazed in the slightest by whomever Bucky gets to kiss when in truth watching that will macerate your heart. Nat, sensing your stiffness beside her, gives your hand another comforting squeeze.
It’s just a game.
Even your kiss with him was just part of the game. You should not read too much into it.
He can kiss whoever he likes.
You force yourself to watch as he reaches to the middle of the circle, to keep up appearances that you are not affected by the prospect of Bucky kissing someone else, then he performs an action that stops your heart dead in your chest.
Rather than spinning the bottle as the game not only suggests, but has been a requirement for every participant so far, Bucky places the bottle firmly on the ground without turning it.
And it’s pointed directly at you.
Unlike the usual chattering filling the room when the bottle is spun, this time there’s a good few seconds of complete silence, everyone seems to be as shocked as you are.
“That’s not how the game works.” A pretty brunette finally speaks up, a girl who you’ve seen studying with other football players in the library on occasion, indignation clearly etched into the crease in her forehead.
“I don’t give a fuck.” And that somehow makes an already impossibly beautiful man even hotter. Scorching, like the surface of the sun hot.
In a room full of beautiful people, Bucky Barnes is choosing you.
His heavy shoes thud against the hardwood floor, an easily audible declaration of his intent to kiss you again. You’ve barely managed to stand by the time he’s to you, his hands hungry to pull you close to him, your chest flush with his.
“Wasn’t leaving it to chance.” Bucky quickly mumbles as his lips crash into yours.
If your first kiss was a beautiful, soft discovery, this one is a ravenous, fervent reclamation.
The absolute greed he devours you with would suggest he’s been starving for years, not mere minutes. It’s dizzying how incessantly his warm lips move against yours, how his tongue explores your mouth with tenacity, how you can feel him everywhere around you, even smell him in the air you breathe, and which fills your ribcage.
You can hear the whistles and cheers of the football team, though they seem distant compared to your previous kiss. The entire world seems to be disappearing around you and the only real sensations remaining are the rapture blooming in your chest and hot pool of arousal in your lower belly.
You’ve felt sexual attraction before, but nothing like this, never an uncontrollable flaming heat stoked by someone who wants you just as desperately. A blaze that can only be doused by their action between your legs.
His hand traces up your back, from your waist to the nape of your neck, before he breaks contact, forcing you to keep looking at him, not shyly pull away as you had done before. His forehead rests against yours as you catch your breath, a radiating heat simmering between you that could still melt the glass bottle sitting on the floor, pointing stubbornly at you.
Bucky tucks a stray strand of hair behind your ear so he can appreciate the look in your eyes better, before he captures your much smaller hand in his, and leads you over to his side of the circle. He sits where he was sat before but this time he pulls you down with him, sitting you right on his thick thighs.
For a moment you consider you’re much too heavy to be perched in his lap, but his arms snake around you and pull you into him so you don’t have the chance to protest.
You feel his soft lips press a kiss to your bare shoulder as you gaze over the other side of the circle where even though Nat now has an obvious empty spot next to her, she’s smiling proudly, like a big sister who’s just witnessed her innocent sister blossoming right before her very eyes.
You may have been a late bloomer, but some things are most certainly worth the wait.
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