✦summary: dean kisses you while he's drunk, and then the world keeps spinning. all you want to do is figure out if he remembers, if he meant it, and if he feels what you do in return. but he's not making it easy, until he does.✦
✦warnings/tags: Dean Winchester x female!reader, no use of y/n, no description of reader, age gap (20s - 40s), angst, overprotective dean, older dean, pining, dean being a stupid, lovable dork, some plot to get to the smut (dry humping, dean's dirty talk, car sex, praise kink, soft!dom Dean, fingering, begging, handjobs, nipple play, pussy slapping, fingering, mating press sex, creampie, big dick dean, overstimulation, body worship, dumbification, light dacryphilia, finger sucking, squirting), love confessions, fluff✦
✦wc: 11k✦
✦author's note: every week i overtake myself for 'horniest thing i've ever made'. enjoy!✦
You don’t know what happened. You’re too afraid to ask.
You don’t want to live in a world where it gets taken back.
Dean isn’t acting like anything happened. He’s not draping himself around you or acting like you’re not there at all. There’s no slobbering man at your feet, acting like the ground you walk on turns to gold, but you’re also not curled up on the curb because Dean won’t look at you, and you can’t stand to be in room where he acts like you’re gum under his shoe.
You’ve always understood that as how this would go. How your little infatuation would end.
Either a miracle would hit like lightning, and Dean would return your feelings. Or he’d reject you, and never look you in the eyes again.
The data was leaning in favor of the former. Which is why you’ve been so very careful not to reveal your feelings under any circumstances. Witches have gaped about your sheer willpower. Sam’s made passing comments about never seeing someone who could fight demonic possession so well. Everyone around you seems to think you’re some kind of mind Titan, able to simply focus and drive off any monster or force that tries to take you over.
They don’t know that there’s always on common factor. One thing that they try to force you to reveal, that makes you pry your mind back from their bare hands.
When you got possessed by a demon, Sam and Dean had you tied to a chair. You’d still been able to see through your own eyes. Still been able to think, even if the demon had been using your internal monologue as a broadcast public radio, sharing every thought you had the mistake of thinking.
“Aw.” She’d used your mouth, you voice, and it had sounded twisted in your brain. “She’s worried about you two. Isn’t that adorable.”
Sam had frowned, shooting Dean a weary look. “Is there something we need to be worried about? Or-“ He’d said your name gently. “If you’re worried we can’t take this demon, we can.”
“She batting out of her league.” Dean had muttered, glaring down at the knife in his hands. “We’ve tangoed with the bosses and come out on top, sweetheart. No one needs to be worried but the bitch inside you.”
Whatever parts of your heart were still yours—most of it, as the demon had been able to sink her claws into everything but the organ that only played one, embarrassingly loud song—had fluttered at his words. He hadn’t been looking at you since they realized you were possessed. Sam had been doing all the talking, asking questions and trying to figure out what the demon wanted, how long she’d been in your brain. Dean had just sat on the edge of the mattress, fists curled on his knees, jaw clenched so tight you were worried about his teeth. If you were in control of yourself you would’ve told him to stop doing that. It made his headaches worse, and you bought him gum specifically so he could chew on something when he got pissed.
He would’ve smile to himself, shaking his head, and given you the look that always made your knees wobble. The one that had a silent affection behind it, that came with his hand grazing your lower back and teasing about how bossy you were.
You’d think I was dying, way you talk about my health.
I’m trying to avoid you dying, Dean-
Why? Happens to everyone eventually, and I’m further down the line than I thought I’d be-
You’re not a dinosaur. Stop talking like I’m putting you in a home, I just told you to drink some water.
If I drink some water, are you gonna stop circling me like a freakin’ shark?
I am not circling you like a shark-
Yeah, you are. You wanna take a bite outta me, sweetheart, I can see it.
You’d always blink at him, your heart in your ears and your jaw slack. He’d grin, drink his water slowly and dramatically, then boop the bottle on your nose and walk away. When you’d tell him to do something later, he’d roll his eyes and give you that look again.
That was how they figured out you were possessed. The demon had asked Dean to grab the artifact you’d been investigating, and when he’d whined that he wanted to go get pie, she’d smiled and said that was fine, as long as Dean told her where the artifact was first.
You would’ve told Dean that he could have his pie after he grabbed the artifact. You would’ve stood in front of him with your arms crossed and glared until he got up with a groan and let you drag him exactly where you needed him to be. That’s what you and Dean did. He pretended to be annoyed by it, but you wouldn’t ask anything of him unless you really needed it. You got him the pie after, and he teased you about being wound up and needing to breathe for a second. He’d feed you some of his pie like you were a baby, and you’d pretend to bite his fingers off.
But the demon had just bent for him. Dean had stared at her. And you’d know he’d seen it. Right through you, and to the ugly thing inside your body.
Ugly in a different way that you were. The demon was just cruel, but you were selfish.
Dean had told you not to go out alone, but you loved him and he’d been sitting so close. The love inside you had been threatening to pour out of you like a flood, and you’d needed to be anywhere but near him. The demon had found you while you were at the convenience store, buying Dean jerky. You’d been too slow, and now you were a burden to him and Sam again. Dean had been forced to knock you out to tie up the demon, and Sam had to burn you with holy water. You could feel it, the burn and blistering of you skin. You’d never tell them that, because the guilt would eat them alive.
You’d never tell Dean. He was already angry with you for going out as it was. You’re already more trouble than you’re worth, most of the time. Your worry hadn’t been for you.
It’s for him. That this was going to be too much for him to deal with, having to hurt another person he cared about.
The demon had plucked that thought from your head, and curved your lips into a smirk.
“Oh, she’s not worried about herself, Deanie.” It had drawled. “I know you see her as a woman of steel, but our lovely girl is just so sweet on the insides here. It’s like swimming through marshmallows. She’s just so perfectly worried about how this is going to effect you. It’s all she can think about, the pathetic little slut.”
Dean’s eyes had narrowed. “Don’t fuckin’ talk about her like that-“
“I’ll talk about her however I want.” The demon had purred. “She’s my meat toy. But if you want to share with me, Winchester, I’m sure she wouldn’t mind both of us inside of her. She-“
The demon had cut herself off. Dean had shot to his feet, looking ready to throw a punch. Sam had blocked him with an arm, and your body had started to convulse. The demon sputtering and choking on nothing as Dean shouted your name. Sam had let him get to you when it became clear this wasn’t the demon making a play, but you hadn’t needed the help.
She’d made her mistake already. You’d been able to feel her next words, building on your own tongue. She’d been sneering in your brain about how Dean would hate you after she revealed the truth, and you’d grabbed her by the throat.
You’d pushed her out of your body, no exorcism required. Sam and Dean had stared at you in awe for about a month after. Sam had even pulled you aside and lowly asked how you did it. You’d told him you had no idea.
It would’ve been insane, to say well, Samuel. It was the power of my love for your brother. Don’t tell him, or I’ll fucking kill you.
You would’ve been serious about that threat, too. You never wanted Dean to know. If Sam had ever found out and told him, there would’ve been a double murder suicide.
Which is why you don’t know what to do now.
Because Dean kissed you, and the world didn’t end.
Paradise didn’t come. Hell didn’t split through the Earth, and you didn’t have to go into hiding in Romania—your backup plan if Dean had ever found out and it wasn’t Sam’s fault.
The Earth had just kept spinning. Dean had gotten up the next morning and acted like nothing happened at all. Grumbling about his hangover and running a hand through his mussed hair. The same hand that had held the back of your neck last night, certain and possessive in his grip. Dean licked his lips, and you’d mirrored the motion, only able to think of that same tongue pressing into your mouth. ‘
He’d kissed you like he knew what he wanted. He’d tasted like whiskey and had a glazed expression—as if he was looking at the world through glass—but he’d kissed you. He’d lifted you off the ground with the force of it. He’d looked at you with blown out eyes, and been half-hard in his jeans, and begged you to come back to his room, and-
“You alright?” Dean asks, and you blink at him.
“Me?”
“Yeah, you.” His lips twitch. “You look like you spent the night getting run over by a truck.”
You frown, and Dean pauses.
“In a good way.”
“I look like I got run over by a truck in a good way?”
“Uh- Yeah?” He smiles, rubbing the back of his neck. “I mean, I’m not sayin’ you look bad. You’re just all spacey and tired, and-“
He waves a hand at you sheepishly, and normally you’d keep pushing him for how exactly you could be run over by a truck in a good way.
But today, you can only look at his dumb, handsome face and think about how his stubble brushed over your skin. How your noses bumped, how he’d help you to his chest like you were a doll and he was a worried child that needed you.
“I didn’t sleep well last night.” You mutter, and Dean chuckles.
“Me neither.”
“You got drunk.” You say, flat and low. “You passed out.”
“Yeah, but I had some dreams, and-“ He cuts himself off, eyes widening and grip on his mug slipping. He catches it with a curse, and looks at you like he’s seeing a ghost.
You raise your brow, not letting any emotion onto your face. Dean clears his throat, eyes dropping for the briefest second to your lips.
“Hey, uh-“ He runs a hand through his hair, shifting nervously on his feet. “If I did anything stupid while I was wasted, you’d tell me. Right?”
And maybe you should tell him. But he looks so worried, and you know, deep down.
He doesn’t really remember.
“Yeah.” You breathe, offering him a tiny smile. “I would.”
Dean’s silent. He studies you for a second, then shakes his head with a laugh. “Good. ‘Cause I get some, uh- Some crazy dreams.”
You pretend to laugh, but it echoes in the hollow of your chest until you feel sick. You have to excuse yourself to take a shower. To help you wake up, is what you tell Dean.
Really, you just sit on the floor and cry, letting your tears wash down the drain with the water. He doesn’t remember. He kissed you, and he’s chalking it up to a crazy dream.
You have to get over him. It’s a punch in your gut, knocking wind and snot out of you, but it’s what you needed. Dean’s never going to see you like that. He’s older, he’s a hero, he could have anyone he wanted and he’s not going to chose the bossy girl who watches cartoons with him and makes him do bar trivia with her, because he’s better than he thinks he is. He’ll find someone cooler and older. Someone who likes cars as much as he does, who can actually help him with the Impala instead of just sitting on the bench in the garage and bothering him. Someone who can cook as well as he does, and doesn’t make him try all the crazy soda flavors she sees.
Someone just as resolved and perfect as he is.
Not you.
You pick yourself up, and try to set a goal. Get over Dean.
The asshole doesn’t make it easy.
He makes it impossible.
“I’m gonna work on Baby this afternoon.” He says, and you hum. You’re curled up on the couch with your laptop, and he’s been leaning over your shoulder for the past hour, watching whatever you put on the screen. You don’t understand why. He’s got his own TV right in front of him, and he has to put his arm around your shoulders to comfortably be so close.
His fingers keep brushing the bare skin of your collarbone. His warmth is wrapped around you like a blanket, and it’s all impossible to deal with.
“I bought those snacks you like.” He adds, and you hum.
“Okay.”
“They’re gonna be with me. In the garage.”
“I’ll come get them later.”
Dean’s face twitches. You look over to find him staring at you, nostrils flaring and nose slightly wrinkled.
“Put it in the freezer.” You manage to whisper, and he shakes his head.
“Too far. Gotta focus on work.”
“I’m going to distract you from work-“
“That’s different.” He shrugs, and suddenly you’re being pulled to your feet.
“Dean-“
“C’mon.” He moves you in front of him, and all but herds you out of the Dean Cave. “I’ll even let you pick the music, alright?”
You can’t argue with him. He’s too cute, and always has a command over your body you’ve never been able to fight off. He doesn’t even know that if he asked you to walk over hot coals, you’d do it to reach his side. If he wanted to get away you’d drop everything and go with him. If he needed you to bring him the moon, you’d learn to grow taller enough to grab it in your hands, and shred yourself back down to stay at his side.
There’s no way you can get over him while being his friend. Being his friend alone is a trial that’s slowly wearing you down. Enough that soon, you think, you’ll just be crawling on your hands to lay at his feet. It’s all you’re going to be able to muster. All you’re going to want to do.
You need to get away from him.
You can’t get away from him. Because if he asks you to do something with him—which he always does—there’s no way you’re going to be able to say no.
Which leaves one solution.
Avoid Dean.
Avoid him like he’s the plague.
You wake up in the morning, and touch your lips. Touch them like you can push the feeling of his kiss further into them. Like it’s a sugar that you could gather on your fingers and taste, a tattoo you’re trying to make sure is permanent. You do it every morning now, because it’s the last thing of Dean you’re allowing yourself to have.
If you’re careful, you don’t see him through the day. You’re up before he is, you find a corner of the bunker to hide in, you go out, you stay on the move like you’re prey and Dean’s on a hunt. When you see Sam, he gives you an odd look. If you’re sloppy, and end up in the same room as Dean, you flee before he can say something. If he says something you’re going to crash right back into him. He’s gravity. And you don’t have the strength to pull away twice.
But it’s not working.
You haven’t been alone with Dean for a week, and you just miss him. You feel like you’re trying to carve out a vital artery from your chest. It just hurts. It just makes your love spill all over you, now that there’s nowhere for it to go. You watch something on your computer and hug yourself, because your body seems to think it’s missing a limb without Dean wrapped around you. You sneak out in the middle of the night to get food, and end up just staring at the pie and jerky and beer until you’re sick. You’ve started to hole up in your room with ice cream as if you’re going through a breakup.
It’s pathetic. You look in the mirror and see a husk, with tear stained cheeks and sunken features. You’re wearing one of his fucking shirts, but your skin burns every time you think about taking it off. You’d think you were cursed, if you didn’t know this was just the feeling of love dying.
Not dying.
You’re not strong enough to kill it.
This is the feeling of love being tortured.
Because you’re stupid and tired, you look up how to get over a crush. The internet says to list out all his faults, and logically you know Dean has those, but you can’t remember any right now. His teasing always makes you flush and giggle, his stupid jokes make everything feel lighter, you know he gets angry because he cares. You even miss the loud, sloppy way he chews. You’d always been able to reach over the table and wipe sauce from his cheek, and he’d smile at you after, and you miss his smile. You’d do anything to see it right now.
You scroll to the next step. Think about it logically. If they’d even be a good match. You skip that one. Dean’s always been the one thing you don’t bother to think about logically. Something about him makes all the common sense in your head go down the drain. Which is the same issue the next step—ask yourself why you have a crush on them—fails as well. Of course you have a crush on Dean. You could list out every reason, but they’d all just circle back to he’s Dean. And everything that he is demands that you love him.
Force yourself to move on, is the final step. Go out with someone else. Even if they’re not your soulmate, it will help you realize there are plenty of other fish in the sea.
There are many other fish. The world is filled with men.
That’s part of the problem.
None of them are Dean Winchester.
But this is the most actionable step. The only one you can try to take, even if it doesn’t work. So you get cleaned up, put on a nice dress, and do your makeup a little bit like a slut. The goal of this is to get laid, through, and it’s not like anyone you know is going to see-
“Where the hell are you going?”
You freeze, squeezing your eyes shut. He’s up. Why the fuck is he up. “Nowhere?”
“You’re going nowhere.” Dean drawls. “At eleven. Dressed like… That.”
“Mhm.” You turn slowly, trying to offer a winning smile.
He doesn’t look amused.
You haven’t seen him in person in a month. He kind of looks… awful.
He’s still handsome. You don’t think he’s capable of being anything else but amazing and desirable. But his hair is longer than he usually lets it grow, and there are heavy bags under his eyes. His shoulders are hunched, there’s a stain on his flannel, and when he rubs his jaw you can see grease stains on his hands.
“Were you in the garage?” You blurt, and he grunts.
“Maybe.”
“But-“ His gaze is lidded, his features pale in a way that only happens when he’s awake for too long. “Have you slept?”
His brow furrows. “Napped.”
“For how long.”
“Long enough.”
“That’s not an answer-“
“Where are you going.” He raises his voice over yours, and you swallow.
“Out.”
“Out where.”
You look down at your heels, fidgeting with the folds of your dress. “To a bar.”
Dean doesn’t respond. You can’t bring yourself to look at him, but you think you might be leaning forward. This is exactly what you wanted to avoid. You haven’t even been able to build up a flimsy wall against your feelings, and now they’re all crashing through you like an asteroid, slamming through your world.
He’s right there, and if you took a step forward you’d be able to touch him. Wipe the grease off his hands, pull off the flannel and order him to change into something clean. He needs a haircut, but you kind of like it longer. You could run your fingers through it, like this. Soothe the spots where it’s sticking out, help him wash it if he’d let you.
But you don’t think he will.
Because when you look up under your lashes, he’s staring at you with a pained, exhausted expression that makes you want to cry.
“You goin’ to meet someone?” He finally says, and you shake your head.
“N- No.”
“We got drinks here-“
“I know.”
He grunts. “It’s not safe for you to be out by yourself.”
“I’m bringing pepper spray.” You mumble. “And my gun.”
Dean’s silent for a long moment, and you think he’s going to give up and walk away. Everything will be easier, if he just leaves for you. It will splatter your heart all over the floor, but at least you won’t have the weight of holding onto it anymore. At least it won’t churn like something rotten, when a stranger who isn’t Dean lays his hands all over you.
But Dean doesn’t leave.
He takes a step forward, and suddenly the air is so hot it’s hard to breathe.
“I’m goin’ with you.”
Your head shoots up, eyes wide. “Dean-“
“You said you’re not meetin’ anyone.” He challenges, glaring down at you. “I need a drink. You come with me, or you don’t go at all.”
A scoff slips from your lips. “And how the fuck would you stop me-“
“I’d toss you over my shoulder and carry you back to your room.”
Oh.
He says it so casually. His voice a deep rumble as he stares at you. An ache demands attention between your thighs, and your cheeks burn as you laugh nervously, looking to the side.
Dean doesn’t even crack a grin.
So there’s nothing you can do, but let him walk with you to the car. You try to get in the backseat, but Dean snaps his fingers and points at shotgun with a scowl.
“I’m not a fuckin’ taxi. You sit up here, or we walk.”
You flush, and silently slide into the front bench. Dean drops behind the wheel, his gaze fixed firmly ahead as he starts the engine. You forgot how dangerous being close to him is. He’d grabbed his coat on the way out, tossing his dirty flannel to the side. He smells like leather and pine tree, and even across the bench you can feel the heat radiating from his body. He rolls up his sleeves, and you want to nuzzle close to him and have him put you in a headlock. His hand runs over his inner thigh, and you press your own together.
You’re staring at him. You can’t help it.
Dean must feel it, because he shoots you a look from the corner of his eye. You look away, and hear him let out a heavy breath.
And the game begins. Dean pulls out of the garage, and you’re both perfectly silent, daring the other to break first. You stare out the window, stealing glances whenever you think you can get away with it. Sometimes Dean catches your eye, and you curl further into yourself, twisting away. Once, Dean opens his mouth. He closes it just as fast.
You’ve been driving for thirty minutes, when you realize he’s not taking you to a bar. You’ve passed three bars, and he didn’t even slow down to check them out. You grab all the thin courage you posses, rooted deep in your stomach and sticky with nerves, and drag it to the surface.
“Dean, where are we-“
“You’ve been ignoring me.” He says, blatant and flat. “Past month. Don’t think I haven’t fuckin’ noticed.”
You swallow, pulling your knees to your chest. “I- I don’t-“
“Didn’t even say why.” He mutters, tapping his fingers on the wheel. “Thought you were sick at first, but you’ve been talkin’ to Sammy.”
“It’s-“
“And you run outta every room I walk into. Like I got cooties or something.” He’s scowling at the road, and you feel like the smallest thing in the world. “Didn’t even bother to tell me why. Just… Fuckin’ vanished.”
There’s a lump in your throat, and unearned tears stinging at your eyes. He sounds broken, and it’s your fault. You and your stupid, useless love for him. “Dean, it’s not like that-“
“So what’s it like, huh?” His words are harsh. You flinch back. “You start acting like I’m the goddamn devil and I’m supposed to take your word that it’s just not like that? There ain’t anything for it to be like, sweetheart-“
“No, I- I just-“ You lean forward, then curl back. You’d wanted to grab him. You don’t think you’re allowed. “I just needed- I needed-“
“Space?” He spits the word like it’s poison. “Go on. Tell me you just needed space from me.”
“Dean-“
“The hell did I do to you?” He sneers. “I know I ain’t perfect, but I- I thought you- I was so fuckin’ careful, and you promised you’d tell me if I did something stupid.”
You frown, not fully understanding what he means. “Dean, you- You didn’t do anything-“
“Don’t bullshit me!” He shouts, and you don’t think you can breathe anymore. “You promised me, you said you’d tell me, and the goddamn least you coulda done was tell me what the fuck I did-“
“Please- Please stop yelling.” You whisper, not even sure if he’s going to hear you.
But he does.
Dean cuts himself off with that clench of his jaw, and pulls over to the side of the road. You hug yourself tight, trying to shrink back into the seats. This is your fault. He’s angry because of you, and you stupidity. You’re barely a schoolgirl with a crush, and you let it hurt him, and there’s no possible world where he’d ever want you now.
You hide your face in your knees. Tears burn on your cheeks, and when you try to take a deep breath, it’s ragged and aching.
Dean’s silent. The whole car is silent. He’d turned off the radio, and the only sound hanging in the air is your sniffling. You think about climbing out of the car, but he’d just chase after you. It’s started to rain, and you don’t want him to catch a cold.
You wrap your coat tighter around you. Your dress feels too tight on your skin. Feels wrong. You think you’re going to be sick. When you risk a look at Dean, he’s still holding the wheel with white knuckles. Staring at you with a pained expression, eyes even heavier than before.
He leans forward like he’s going to reach for you. Your breath hitches. He pulls back.
For a second, you just watch each other. You wipe your cheeks with your palm, and it feels like a raw, open wound.
Dean opens his mouth. Closes it, and looks back to the road like he’s searching for something.
“I’m- I didn’t mean to yell.” He mutters, voice hoarse. “I just- I’m sorry.”
You nod—you didn’t blame him in the first place—but when he looks to you for a response, you can’t find one. Everything is lodged in your throat, behind a quiet confession you’ve worked far too hard to shove down.
“I’ll fix it.” Dean rasps, and you blink.
“What?”
“Whatever I did.” He’s staring at you, his voice cracking. “Whatever pissed you off or- Or hurt you. I’ll work on it, alright? You don’t have to do anything, I’ll fix me, and then you can stay.”
“I- I can stay?”
He nods, squeezing his eyes shut. As if the words hurt to stay. “If you can’t, I get it. I do. But you gotta give me a chance to set it right, before you give up. Just one chance, and if I screw it up a second time you can run off, but- One shot, it’s all I need. Don’t- Don’t leave.” His voice cracks, eyes shining in the dark. “Please.”
You stare at him, mouth hanging open. He looks broken. Lone tears stain his cheeks, and he’s not even wiping them away. When you shake your head—just trying to make sense of what he said—he cowers away like a kicked dog, and you split down the middle.
“I wasn’t going to leave, Dean.” Horror leaks through your voice. You couldn’t leave him if you tried. “I’d never leave you.”
He laughs dryly. “Yeah, like I didn’t just fuckin’ catch you-“
“I was going to the bar.”
“Without telling anyone?”
“No, because I knew you’d try to do this!” You wave around you, and Dean’s throat bobs. “No, I didn’t mean-“
“You didn’t wanna see me.” He mutters, looking back to the wheel. “’S alright. I get it.”
He doesn’t. He really doesn’t. And you can see him trying to drag himself back together, still refusing to wipe his tears and breathing through his nose. He’s just sitting there, hollow and angry, and he doesn’t understand.
“You kissed me.”
You say it without thinking, soft and weak. Dean goes rigid. He looks at you with bloodless, horrified features. You wrap your hand around your own throat, trying to hold yourself in one piece.
He shakes his head. You’re going to throw up.
“No, I- I’d remember that-“
“You were drunk.” You breathe. “I- I picked you up from the bar. And you kissed me.”
Dean looks like someone punched him in the face. He’s pallid, looking around the car like there’s a way out, fisting and unfisting his hands.
“That’s- That’s why you’ve been avoiding me.” He rasps, and you nod, fixing your gaze on his chest.
If you have to watch his face while he rejects you, there’s a chance you’ll just die.
Dean says your name, slow and broken, and you bite the inside of your cheek. Bracing for the knife about to be driven into your chest.
“I’m so fuckin’ sorry.”
That makes you look up. And it’s not rejection you find in Dean’s eyes.
It’s guilt.
“I shouldn’t have kissed you, and- Being drunk’s no damn excuse.”
“Dean-“
“If you want nothing to do with me, I- I understand.” He’s too lost in himself to hear you. “Hell, I’ll move out so you can stick with Sammy. You won’t have to deal with me anymore, you’re- It’s not your fault-“
“Dean-“
“I shouldn’t have forced you on that, my own- My own shit is mine to deal with, and you never gave me any kinda go and I damn well knew it- I’m so fuckin’ sorry-“
“Dean!” You shout, and he falls silent. Squeezes his jaw shut, gaze mournful and completely shattered.
You’re not entirety sure what’s happening. You say the only thing you can think.
“Stop grinding your teeth.”
Dean blinks, but his jaw loosens. He mutters your name, and you shake your head. You don’t think you can stand another apology.
“I- I’m not mad about you kissing me.” You whisper, and he snorts, empty and humorless.
“It’s not your job to make me feel better about hurting you, sweetheart-“
“You didn’t hurt me.” You snap, and Dean stills completely.
He opens his mouth, but you’re faster. Flushing furiously and too tired to fight the words.
“I- I liked it.” You whisper. “A lot.”
Dean sits a little taller, words low and cautious. “You didn’t tell me in the morning. Why wouldn’t you tell me, if-“
“You were drunk. I- I thought-“ You take a deep breath, face burning with shame. “I thought you didn’t mean it.”
“Ah.” He’s silent for a moment. “But- Why the hell would you avoid me-“
“I kissed you back.”
“Did you mean it?”
His question feels like the barrel of a gun, loaded and pressed to your temple. You nod weakly. Dean lets out a sharp breath, drumming his fingers on the wheel.
“You thought I didn’t mean it.” He finally echoes, and you nod again. “So you just-“
“That hurt.” Tears are falling again. Everything blurring except for Dean. “That’s the part that hurt, Dean, I just- I had to try and move on. And the internet said that’s how you do it.”
“The internet?”
“Yeah.” You mumble, and Dean huffs a low laugh.
“Sweetheart, why the hell would you check the internet for advice-“
“None of my ideas were working.” You hiss. “And I- I didn’t like avoiding you, it felt really bad-“
“You didn’t have to avoid me, you coulda just told me-“
“And you would’ve what, confessed your love and kissed me again-“
“Yeah!” He shouts, throwing his hands in the air. “I would’ve, if you’d just fuckin’ told me!”
Your heart stops, for a full second. You don’t think you heard him right. “What?” You whisper, and Dean sighs.
“I meant it, okay?” He mutters, looking up to the sky. As if he was praying. “Everything I do with you, I mean it.”
“And- And the love-“
“I mean that too.” He gives you a sad, tired smile. “I know I shouldn’t. God knows I tried not to, you’re- You’re young and you got a future and I’m just me-“
“I love you.” You blurt, and Dean’s jaw falls. “I love you just like… you. And-“ You bow your head shyly. He won’t stop staring. “If you- If you feel something too-“
Dean moves before you can think.
One second you’re rambling, trying to figure out how to say it. The next his lips are pressed against yours, kissing you like he’ll die if he doesn’t. Like you’ll die.
You grab his wrist when he cups your face, he turns you to deepen the kiss, and you’re both moving like you’re trying to breathe the other in. Your nails dig into his skin and he grunts, the sound vibrating against you. You roll onto your knees, moving over him without breaking the kiss, and he grabs you by the waist. Tight enough to bruise. To leave a mark.
It’s just a kiss. A hungry, hot kiss that’s making your head spin. It’s better than anyone else touching you. Better than being fucked, just because it’s Dean.
He picks you up, pulling you into his lap forcing you to straddle. You grab his shoulders for balance, letting out a sharp breath, and Dean chuckles. Sucks your lower lip with a tiny smirk, rubbing your hips as your finger brush the back of his neck. You let out a shuddering breath, sinking fully against his chest. One of his massive hands drags up your spine, callouses and teasing fingers dancing over bare skin and you arch, chasing the fuzzy, addictive sensation of Dean’s hands.
Your core presses against his bulge. He’s hard, twitching inside his jeans. You roll your hips once, unable to stop yourself, and Dean hisses against your lips.
“Careful.”
You don’t want to be careful. You want to be ruined. You grind down again, kissing him while you move, and he groans.
“Hey- Woah-“ He wraps his arm fully around your waist and pins you down. Forcing the outline of his cock against the thin panties you’d worn to go out.
There’s not a single regret in your head. You can feel him better like this. The thick curve, almost pushed between your pussy lips. Your underwear is bunched up, offering extra pressure, but Dean is holding you down so hard there’s not even space to wiggle. You almost whine, pouting at him under wet, fluttering lashes.
He just stares up at you like a man who’s lived underground his whole life, finally seeing the stars. You drag your nails down his chest, trying to spur him into action, but he just keeps staring. He even laughs under his breath, like something’s fucking funny.
You scowl, but don’t even get to provoke him before he’s rising back up.
Dean brushes hair from your face, and kisses you slowly. Sweetly. A confusing, sharp contrast to how his erection is angled right against your heat. Your body doesn’t seem to know what to do with it, and just settles for going limp with overwhelmed, happily dizzy confusion. Dean chuckles again. If your body could listen to any whims but his right now, you’d punch him in the face.
“Stop laughing.” You manage to grumble, but that just makes him laugh again. “Dean-“
“Sorry.” He grins against your lips, rubbing your hips in soothing circles. “You’re just- You’re unbelievable.”
“You’re unbelievable-“
“You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever fuckin’ seen.” He mutters, dragging his hand up your side. As if he’s marveling in just the shape of you. “Never thought I’d get to have you like this, and- Look at you.” He draws back, whistling with a smug smirk. “They should let people touch the art, baby. You get even prettier.”
There’s nothing coherent you have to respond to that. Your brain is mostly a confusing garble of Dean and touch and more.
He kisses just under your jaw, and you gasp. Your eyes flutter as your head lolls to the side, and Dean chuckles.
“You-“ You bite back a moan as he sucks on a pulse point. “You’re pretty too.”
“Hm.” He nips at the sensitive skin, before flicking his tongue against the hurt. “Pretty, huh.”
You nod, wrapping your arms around his neck until he’s almost in a headlock. Dean doesn’t seem to mind, moving onto another, somehow more sensitive spot. You try to move against his clothed dick, your pussy starting to throb, but he’s holding you too tight. Dean hums against your skin, and you moan, right in his ear. It makes his cock jump, and you almost cry from the fleeting offer of friction.
“Come- Come on-“ You whine, wiggling uselessly in his arms. “You’re being an asshole- Dean-“
He pushes his lips back over yours, right as he grabs a handful of your ass and squeezes. It loosens his grip, letting your hips freely move against him, but you’re so pent up from making out that you can’t even work out what you want to do. You’re grabbing at his shirt and kissing him with spit and teeth, and he’s barely giving you anything in return.
“Dean- Just-“ You claw at his shirt. “Off, get it off-“
“That’s not a very polite way to ask, sweetheart-“
“Fuck you.” You breathe out, moaning when you get the thickest part of him to drag over your clit. “Take your shirt off, Dean, now-“
A strong hand wraps around your throat, pulling you back down into a mind numbing kiss. You’re still fucking down onto his crotch, but their angle offers less pressure. You might’ve burst into tears, if it wasn’t for the magnitude of Dean’s attention. His hands all over your body, one fisted in your hair while the other started to map every inch of you he can reach.
“De- Dean-“
“Not polite.” He mutters, kissing you between every word. “Not patient. What am I gonna do with you?”
Your heart stumbles, still a little bit bare from the fight and confused from the gentle way he’s suddenly touching you. No more grabbing or marking. Just soft, possessive but careful fingers, tracing your curves like he’s trying to memorize every inch.
“Can I tell you what I’ve wanted to do?” He rasps in your ear. “Since I first fuckin’ saw you?”
“Yes.” You breath, trying to just feel him. His strength all around you, his voice rolling through your chest.
Dean’s words are deep and rough in your ear, and you cling to every one like gospel.
“I’ve wanted to kiss you since before you even said your name. Wanted to fuck you when you stood in front of me and threatened to shoot if I didn’t back off and leave you be. Decided I’d marry you when you called me a chicken butt ‘cause I told you to stay behind me. Then I thought I was insane, told myself I just needed to get laid. But I got laid. And you wanna know the only thing I could think about, the whole damn time?”
You nod, and Dean pulls back, dropping his brow tight against yours.
“You.” He rasps. “Closed my eyes and saw you under me. Got kicked outta bed for calling your name, felt sick after ‘cause some stupid thing in my head kept telling me I’d betrayed you. Then Sammy came and told me you’d be coming with us, and I knew I was a goner. If it wasn’t such a selfish freakin’ masochist I would’ve told him that I didn’t want you around.”
Your lip wobbles. “You didn’t want me-“
“I wanted you so much.” He grabs the back of your neck, the words a low growl. “Drove me out of my damn mind, how much I wanted you. Thought I’d need to be put down, like one of those dogs that humps every damn thing it sees.”
“You- You never-“
“What? Thought you’d be into something like me?” He laughs, and you frown.
You plant your hands, flat on his chest, and push up a little taller. Demanding he listen to every word you say.
“I’m into you.” You snap, and Dean’s sarcastic smile falters, slipping back into that awe. “Do you think there’s something wrong with me?”
“No.” He answers without thought. “You’re perfect.”
Dean kisses you, slow and deliberate. Everything is suddenly controlled and delicate, like he’s weaving together a song.
You think you’re supposed to be the instrument. You don’t realize, though, until he’s already playing you as if you’re a toy.
Dean’s mouth trails down, leaving wet, open kisses over your neck and collarbone. The beard scrapes and tickles against you. You decide you like it. He’s not allowed to shave later.
You shiver, moving your hands to rest on his stomach. His abdomen flexes under your fingers, and you start to grind back down onto his crotch. When you press further forward, you can get that perfect friction from before. The one you needed so bad you almost screamed. Dean nips at your throat and you pick up your pace.
He grunts, and lifts you up like you weigh nothing. You squirm like animal, even as he handles you well. You’re moved backwards, your knees still knocked apart as Dean’s spreads his own legs. He pushes you back until your elbows are resting on the horn, and heat prickles over your skin when you realize the position he’s put you in.
Your barely clothed pussy, wet and on full display to Dean’s lust-blown expression. He traces over your inner thigh, teasing and teasing until you’re almost thrusting up to meet him.
“Remember what I said about patience?” He drawls, eyes sparkling on yours.
You just pant, making to grab his wrist and move it where you want. But he’s too strong, and you don’t even get a budge.
“I- I’ve been patient-“
“Nah. Not enough. But,” he lifts up your skirt, exposing you further. “Look at her. Just begging for some attention.”
Dean presses a single knuckle against your pussy, running it up until it hits your clit, and your elbow slips. Baby’s horn startles you, making you almost scramble back over Dean, and he just laughs. Kisses you sweetly while you pant in his ear, even nipping under the lobe as you try to control your heartbeat.
“Fuck- Fuck-“ Your eyes roll back as you realize what happened.
You’d trapped Dean’s hand between your bodies, and he’s taken full advantage of the situation. For every honeyed and light kiss he presses over your cheeks and lips, he rubs your pussy with light, deft touches. A graze of your clit, then his thumb teasing over your entrance. It’s torture, the touches too light to do anything but make you feel insane, but you’re certain if you move away he’s just going to remove his hand altogether. Leaving you no other choice but to whimper, take it, and plead for mercy.
“More- There-” You bury your face in Dean’s neck, when he rubs your clit back and forth in a frenzy, then simply moves away. “Dean- I- I need to come, please, just, up- No-“
You tremble when he moves away again, humping against his hand. It doesn’t do anything—he’s too good at this—but you don’t think you could stop if you wanted to.
“Please, please, please-”
“You’re real good at begging, sweetheart.” Dean kisses the side of your head, and you nod weakly. “You think I’m not give you what you need?”
“I- I don’t think you’re showing any signs of it.” You breathe, and he laughs.
“Can’t argue with that. But you’re kinda restricting my movements.” He splits his two fingers, placing them around your pussy lips and rubbing slowly up down. “And trust, I’d love to play with your wet little pussy until you were coming all over my hand, but you started something on my pants. Think you should finish it.”
You lean back in slow confusion, and Dean nods between your bodies. You flush when you see it.
The faint dark spot, on his still hard crotch. You can’t look away from it.
Dean pulls your panties forward, then snaps them back against your pussy. Your hips jerk, wild eyes flying up to his, and he grins.
“Keep them on.” He smirks, dragging you back to sit on his crotch. “And take what you want.”
You nod breathlessly, grabbing the bench behind his head and starting to fuck down against Dean’s bulge. You’re more deliberate than before, gaze locked onto Dean’s, knowing exactly where to move to get the best friction. Dean watches you as if you’re sent from Heaven, licking his lips and rubbing your ass. He’s hiked up your skirt, giving him full access to whatever he wants. You expect handprints, maybe more teasing touches to keep you on the edge.
Instead, he grabs the back of your neck, and just watches you move on him. His mouth falls open, and when you lean a little down, he doesn’t hesitate to close the space.
Your speed picks up. The ruined fabric of your panties only adds to the friction, almost completely letting you feel the rough, tantalizing sensation of the denim. When you get your clit, it’s like being rolled between two pinched fingers, and you start to hump that one spot.
Dean groans, and when you catch against something, you realize you’re hitting the head of his cock.
You reach between your bodies, grabbing for something of him to hold onto, and find what has to be his balls. They’re big, heavy even when you’re not really holding them, and when you squeeze softly Dean’s whole body jerks.
“Fuck- Son of a bitch, you can’t just-“ Dean’s words turn into a long moan of your name, when you squeeze again.
You smile to yourself, riding him faster and faster. Dean’s eyes flutter, his fingers weaving into your hair. You throw your head back, and he chases. Starts to bite and suck on your neck again, pushing further and further up until you can no longer get a grip on his balls.
For a second, you try to push back, but Dean’s a solid wall of muscle. You’re using all your energy to keep yourself moving against him, and every thought empties from your head as his lips travel down.
Dean rips the top of your dress open. You hadn’t been wearing a bra. It would’ve ruined the outfit.
He has a clear, direct line to wrap his lips around your peeked nipple, and start to suck.
A loud, uncontrollable sound escapes your lips. You don’t know how he can be so good at that. His tongue flicks and swirls, teeth grazing against the bud, and all you can think of is what he’d do between your legs.
You movements are becoming shorter. More desperate. You press your breasts up, trying to demand more attention. Dean obliges, giving a harshsuckle before a series of kitten licks. He lazily kisses over the valley of your breasts, taking the neglected bud between his lips and sucking even harder than before.
“Oh- Oh my god.” You pull at the short, soft hair on the nape of his neck. He moans, mouth wet and warm wrapped around you. “Yes, Dean- Oh- Oh fuck-“
Your eyes roll back in your head, the pressure in your lower tummy just needing a little more to snap. You’re barely even humping him anymore, just thrashing around and trying to find the right position to get you there.
“I- I can’t-“ You scratch Dean’s back, pressing your cheek to the side of his head as you almost sob. “Dean, I need to cum, need to cum so fucking bad, Deeaan-“
His hand shoves between you, shoving one finger into your dripping pussy. Even with how wet you are there’s a slight stretch, and it’s just the one finger. You slam down onto him, your clit getting plenty of attention against his jeans, and you’re getting lightheaded with the need to find release.
Dean finger crooks inside you. Right against your g-spot. He wiggles it, rubbing fast and firm. His tongue presses flat against your nipple, swirling as he moans, and your shriek with delight.
You cum, shaking and moaning right into Dean’s ear. His finger slowly fucks you through it, but the moment you make a broken sound of his name, his lips are back over yours to swallow it. You don’t think you’ve ever cum that hard before. You can feel it all the way to the tips of your fingers, electric on your tongue as Dean kisses you.
Your pussy is clenching around his finger, and he grunts, angling his head to kiss you deeper. He pulls out slowly, rubbing your cunt until your wetness is smeared all over your thighs.
“The back.” He grunts, words thick and strained. “Get in the back.”
You feel bubbly. You’ve never felt bubbly before. There’s a rough command in Dean’s words that’s probably going to make you melt in a matter of minutes. But right now, you just giggle.
Dean leans back, looking at you like you’re insane.
“Sweetheart.” He wipes the hair stuck to your brow, and you can feel the tension in his voice. He’s trying to be patient. “What’re you laughing at?”
You shake your head, beaming as you press back over him. Dean grunts when you kiss him, but kisses back immediately.
“I just came on your pants.” You breathe.
He hums, leaning back to give you an exasperated look. “And that’s funny?”
“Last week I was crying about how I was never going to hold your hand.”
“Ah.” That makes him smile. He kisses your cheek, squeezing his hold on you. “We can do that later.” He mutters. “After we get in the back.”
You hum, going back in to kiss him again. Dean gives you five seconds, before you’re being picked up like a sack of potatoes and tosses over the bench. You land with a squeal, scrambling up to your palms, and Dean laughs.
“What the fuck-“
“Told you.” He shrugs, pulling his shirt over his head. “But don’t worry. Was counting on you not giving a damn what I told you to do.”
You gape at him. “I- I do what you tell me-“
“No, you don’t.”
“What about when you told me to go grocery shopping, I did that-“
“You got everything wrong.” He gives you an amused look, and you scowl, crossing your arms over your chest.
“Your list was confusing. And when I tried to call, you didn’t pick up.”
“List works for Sammy.”
“I’m not Sam, I need you to make a list for me-“
“I did make a list for you.” Dean crawls over the bench, grinning down at you. “And you still bought that fuckin’ turkey meat.”
You swallow, unable to stop yourself from drinking him in. You’ve seen him shirtless before, but it’s always been quick glimpses you forced yourself to look away from, or in the context of a wound. But this, here, the car is filled with steam from your fun before, there’s only to golden halo of the streetlamp, and Dean is all yours to stare at, as much as you want.
His chest is broad, softer in some places than he’s probably been in his youth, but perfect. You’re going to be completely smothered in him, you could shove your face between his pecs, feel his thick biceps wrap tight around you as he fucks you like you’ve always dreamed. He’s covered in jagged scars and freckles. You want to touch every single one.
“Sam gave me twenty dollars not to get red meat.” You breathe.
Dean chuckles, pulling at his belt. “And you chose him over me?”
You meet his gaze again, sure you must look like a lost doe under all of him. You’re not sure what to do with yourself at all. “You didn’t give me twenty dollars.”
“And if I gave you twenty bucks?” He grins, pulling down his pants.
That’s your queue to say something smart. You can’t think anything smart.
Dean’s cock stands proud above you, and it’s pretty. Prettier than a porn cock, and those things look like they’re plastic. Dean’s thick and veiny. He’s well groomed, his balls heavier than they felt before—they could fit in your mouth, and you might choke, but would that really be so bad—and the tip of him nice and curved. Just the sight of him makes your pussy clench around nothing. Your legs spread wider.
Dean’s throat bobs, as he follows the movement. He’s slowly stroking himself, and you watch his grip get white knuckled as you spread your legs wider.
You need to touch him. He touched you. It’s only fair.
But you reach for him, and Dean catches your wrist. Pins your arm over your head, forcing him to lower down. He settles between your legs, giving you a stern look that makes your breath hitch.
“No.” He chastises, and you pout.
“I wanna put you in my mouth.”
“You- Jesus, woman.” He lets out a sharp breath, closing his eyes. “You can’t freakin’ say that-“
“Why not-“
“I ain’t as young as I used to be, alright?”
You frown. “I know that.”
He shakes his head. “No, I mean-“ He sighs, dropping his brow against yours.
You pull your hand carefully out of his hold, running your fingers through his hair. He lets out a low rumbling sound, almost like a purr, so you keep going. He makes nice sounds. You’d like to collect all of them, and keep them in little jars on your shelf you can listen to whenever you want.
“I like the hair.” You say, soft and casual. Like his cock isn’t pressed right against your cunt. “And the beard?”
Dean huffs a low laugh. “Yeah?”
“Mhm. Makes you look your age.”
“I am my age-“
“In a sexy way.” You blurt, and he sits up, brows raised.
“A sexy way?”
“Yeah.” You nod, suddenly wanting to hide your face. “I mean, you’re- You’re always sexy- I’ve always wanted to have sex with you, but- But I also think, if it’s- If you’re going to be kissing me all the time- I’d like this-“
Dean shuts you up with a deep, open-mouthed kiss. You hum, thankful for the mercy, and shiver when you feel him peeling away the scraps of your underwear and dress. You don’t think you’re going to haver anything to ride home in.
Something to worry about later. When Dean’s not rubbing his dick against your pussy. The large head of his presses against your clit, Dean’s beard tickling your neck as he kisses everywhere his mouth can find, and you feel the pressure starting to build again.
“Dean…” You mumble. “Oh- Oh-“
He sucks on a hickey from before, and the previous orgasm had already made you more sensitive. Your back arches, forcing your swollen button to rub against his shaft, and your mouth falls open in a loud, lewd moan.
“Easy,” he mutters, dropping his weight. Forcing you back down. “Tryin’ to tell you, sweetheart. I’m barely fuckin’ holding it together, and if I blow before I get inside of you, I’m gonna drive myself off a cliff.”
You giggle despite yourself, letting your body relax into his touch. You trust him, and the idea of him just having you is enough to make your pussy ache. “Aw.” You turn, smiling at him. “You care.”
He snorts. “You always a brat? Or just when I’m fuckin’ you.”
“Do you want the real answer to that?”
“Hm.” Dean tilts his head, gaze raking over your body. Over every mark he’s left, to the point that you’re mostly a map of his hands and lips.
A smirk curve on his lips, and you feel one strong hand grab under your knee, moving it up to your chest. Putting you on full, naked display.
“Nah.” He drawls. “I think I’m good.”
The air is knocked from your lungs, as he presses forward. His cock slides slowly into you, filling the car with the hottest, wettest sound you’ve ever heard. You grab his forearm, just trying to ground yourself, and he goes for your other knee.
Dean bends you in half under him, folding you into a pressed little ball. You can see yourself swallowing his cock. See every inch disappear into your pussy, every vein right before it bumps inside your gooey walls. Dean’s chest is heaving, his features open and slack.
“Fuck.” He grunts. Reverent and as wrecked as you feel. “Son of a bitch, you fit me like a goddamn glove. Takin’ me like a champ, sweetheart, c’mon- Just a little more-“
He spits on where you’re meeting, on your clit, and you try to arch up. He grunts, pushing the last few inches fully in.
You throw your head back, trying to adjust to the feeling of being so full. He feels even bigger than he looked, and you’d forget to breathe if he didn’t wrap his hand around your ribcage, and squeeze gently.
“Good?” Dean’s voice cracks, and you can almost see his chest rippling with the restraint to hold still.
You nod, opening your mouth, then closing it when words fail you. He’s just- He’s so big and everywhere. He’s pushed over your g-spot, and it’s making you feel like you’re being dragged through a pool of pleasure. There’s nothing else to think about.
Dean’s brow furrows. “Baby, I need you to talk to me-“
“Good.” You breathe out. “So- So good, Deaaaan-“
You tug on his wrist, trying to bring him down to your level. He immediately understands, bending over for a kiss. You relax as his lips move against yours, pushing your hips a little up to take in more of him. You might be able to cum just like this. Impaled on Dean’s cock. Usually you’d need something more, but you’re hypersensitive, and it’s like he was made to be inside you.
You smile at him, when he pulls back up. He swallows, slowly reaching up to grab your jaw.
“I’m gonna move, alright?”
You hum, still smiling, and Dean takes in a slow breath.
“Can you keep lookin’ at me?”
You nod, and his lips twitch.
“You really can’t talk right now, huh?”
Head shake. Dean’s eyes glint, and your mouth falls open as he thrusts. Once, harsh and short against your g-spot.
“So fuckin’ cockdrunk you can’t speak.” He drawls, grinding slowly into your pussy. Still too shallow to be anything. Just working your g-spot until tears prick at your eyes. “You think you can at least say my name, baby?”
“Deeean-“ You mewl out, gasping as he finally gives a full, deep thrust. “Dean- Dean-“
“That’s it.” He grunts, pulling almost fully out before slamming back in. “That’s my girl. Nice and dumb on this cock. Just letting it happen, aren’t you sweetheart.”
“Mmmm.” Is all you can manage, but it’s Dean’s fault.
He’s fucking you like a man possessed. Cock slipping in and out of your channel, drilling into your g-spot and cervix. You can see it, see the vein in his brow as he moans your name, see the mess forming around your pussy as you soak his dick.
“Dean.” You babble, a strange, tight heat forming deep inside you. “Deaan, ‘s- ‘s big-“
“I know.” He coos. “I know, baby, but- Shit- You’re takin’ it so well. Best thing I’ve ever fuckin’ felt-“
He grunts, balls slapping against your ass. His body is sticky and shining with sweat, and you can’t stop yourself from staring at how he moves as he fucks you. Each motion is so powerful, and there’s an impossibly good, perverted feeling you get from watching where you meet, and-
“Look.” He grunts, tapping your chin with his thumb. “Look at me, sweetheart, come on-“
You blink up at him, and he groans, bending over as he slams inside.
You don’t think. Your mouth opens, and you take his thumb between your lips, sucking softly. It’s nice to have something to do, when you’re too fucked out to even remember your own name.
And it does something to Dean. His thrusts stutter, and a deep, growling sound comes from his chest. You hum, blinking up at him from glossy eyes. He groans, chest heaving, and something snaps in his expression.
Dean fucks you so hard you could swear the car was shaking. His thumb pushes further between your lips, and you take it happily. You can feel the sensation between your legs building, a little different than your usual orgasm, but it’s good. Tingly and hot, almost like you’re being shot up with direct euphoria. Your lashes flutter, and you moan around Dean’s thumb as he starts to give sharp, abusing thrusts to your g-spot.
He bends like he’s trying to get his mouth on your pussy, only just remembering his body can’t move like that and pulling his hand away from your mouth. You’re about to whine in frustration, but then Dean finds your clit.
He gives it tight, back and forth rubs that make your hips buck up. He uses his cock to bully them back down, rubbing even harder, and the sensation explodes like fireworks.
It’s wet and messy, spilling out of your pussy with Dean still seated deep inside you. He moans, dropping over you as you milk his cock, dragging him into orgasm with you. You’re shaking, cumming and cumming harder than you can keep up with. You can feel the release—yours or Dean’s, doesn’t really matter—sticking inside of you and dribbling down your ass.
Dean kisses you, and you barely manage to kiss him back. You’re boneless and floaty again, your body so washed with pleasure you might be shaking from it. Like he’d struck you with lightning.
“You did so good.” Dean murmurs, pulling slowly out. “That was- Fuck, that was awesome.”
You smile in a dazed agreement, beaming up at him, and everything in Dean seems to soften. He presses a gentle kiss to your brow and pulls you upright, helping you settle in the bench before getting himself to work.
He tries to clean up the seats, but gives up fast and mumbles something about doing it back home. You were right in assuming your clothing was ruined, so Dean just gives you his shirt and wraps an arm around your shoulders, holding you against him for the drive home.
When you pull in to the garage, he doesn’t give you a chance to try and walk. You’re hauled into his arms like a princess and marched inside, Dean only pausing to wipe the back bench and stop a smell.
First stop is the bathroom. Then Dean offers to bring you to your bed—the words weighted and reluctant—but you shove your face into his neck and shake you head.
Dean. You need to be near Dean.
He carries you to his bed with a tall pride, and somehow manages to keep a hand on you as he changes into his own sweats. You cuddle into him, smiling when he presses a kiss to your brow.
“If I forget this,” he murmurs. “Remind me in the morning.”
You laugh softly, voice quiet but returned. “If you forget, I’m going to kill you.”
“And I woulda earned that.”
“Mh.” You curl further into his arms, and—unable to help it—whisper. “Don’t forget.”
Dean kisses the top of your head, words a lullaby as you drift off to slip.
“Never. I’m yours now, sweetheart. Like it or not.”
You like it.
You don’t think you could like it more if you tried.
✦End note: deeply unfair that he isn't real. we gotta talk to someone about that.✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
pairing: war vet!mechanic!bucky barnes x fem!reader | au
w.c: 11.5k+
summary: you and bucky explore your budding relationship during the last week of your beach vacation. it's shocking how easy adoring him comes to you, but with bucky's past and exploring intimacy, there are a few bumps that litter the road. good thing your partner is a mechanic who is good with his hands and not afraid to get dirty.
warnings: MDNI 18+ ONLY, fluff, beach setting, angst/comfort, descriptions of bucky's past, baby's first smut, bucky having a ptsd episode, tooth rotting affection and fluff, yearning hardcore even though they are already together (lmk if i missed anything else!)
a/n: i cannot say thank you enough for all the love and support i received from the first part of this lil fic. as someone who is picking up writing again after 10 years, it means the world to me that people have enjoyed my writing. thank you again! i hope you enjoy this last part! editing was a pain, but i'm mostly happy with this ending!
i really love this couple and im thinking of making a lil universe for them with blurbs and other one shots
shoutout to Zara Larsson for the incredible album "Midnight Sun" which inspired this story! that's my baby girl right there
previous | read on AO3 | moodboard | masterlist
Time passed quickly over the next week.
Actually, you weren’t sure if it passed by quickly or if you were just living in a haze with the early buds of whatever was blooming between you and a certain mechanic.
For the most part, everyone spent most of their time at the beach soaking up the warm sun and soft sand while you could before retiring to the house for the night where intense debates about what movie to watch would always follow dinner.
Your friends, both old and new, were enjoying themselves and it was such a pleasant feeling to see a smile on Natasha’s face that wasn’t sarcastic or a knowing smirk. Seeing her around her chosen family made your heart burst out of your chest for your friend.
Speaking of things that made your heart burst out of your chest, you leaned back into the warm body behind you as the movie the group chose ran across the wide screen in the living room. Strong arms constricted around your torso before a plush pair of lips connected with the skin of your neck. Your eyes fluttered shut momentarily as you soaked in the affection.
“All good?” Bucky whispered into your ear as he pulled his lips from your neck. You looked up at him and gave him a smile and a nod of your head. The corner of his eyes briefly crinkled as he fought to keep a smile from forming on his face while Sam was in a twenty-yard vicinity. The man had an uncanny ability for catching Bucky showing emotion and made sure everyone knew it; each and every time. While you found it to be endearing and a sign of a healthy relationship between friends, it would always take Bucky a moment or two to come back to the moment you were caught in and you preferred him to stay for the whole moment and however much longer he would give you.
You felt his lips brush your temple briefly before trailing down to your ear. “This movie is boring,” he grumbled. Each movement his lips made producing his words caused a barrage of tingles to explode beneath the shallow flesh barrier of your skin. It took all of your willpower, and the tensing of most of your muscles, to fight off the sound that threatened to fall from your mouth. When you didn’t respond, he continued to voice his thoughts.
“You know, there’s a telescope up in the observation room,” he whispered.
You arched an eyebrow, not knowing exactly where he was going, but aware of the general direction.
“We could go up there and entertain ourselves,” he said, his timbre seeming to drop an octave. “The couch up there is very comfortable, too.”
The implication of entertaining yourselves made a warmth unfurl inside of you and spread to your hips. You shifted slightly, needing to feel some relief, and felt Bucky’s fingertips dig into your sides in the same second. You stilled and felt his body tense underneath you.
“Bucky,” you whined beneath your breath, only loud enough for him to hear. Your hands, which were holding his forearms, squeezed before gently rubbing circles into the muscle and metal beneath your fingertips. “We’re watching a movie with our friends.”
“You mean we’re all stuck watching Sam’s pick for the second time on this trip? A person can only watch Godzilla so many times,” he argued, making a smile appear on your lips instantly at his quip.
“I can hear you,” Sam hissed from his seat on the opposite end of the sofa you and Bucky were sitting on. Your eyes shot over to Sam, only to see him looking at you guys with an irritated look, but a softness in his eyes that let you know he was teasing.
“Yeah, well, I wasn’t trying to hide it,” Bucky shot back, giving his friend the famous deadpan stare that Bucky has perfected.
“Man, just leave with your girl,” Sam huffed. “The rest of us actually enjoy watching this cinematic masterpiece.”
“I wouldn’t say enjoy,” Nat added.
“Cinematic masterpiece is a big stretch,” Wanda chimed in at the same time, making Steve laugh after taking a sip of his beer.
“What? You guys voted for this movie. It’s the Monster Universe,” Sam said, getting defensive since no one was siding with him.
“More like we didn’t want to see you pout for the rest of the night,” Natasha corrected.
That caused Sam to erupt and the rest of the group to tease him or try to get him to calm down. Bucky used the opportunity to pull you away from movie night and up towards the observation room on the third floor. You eagerly followed him as he ran up the stairs, feeling giddy and slightly nervous.
Now, you and Bucky had only known each other for about two weeks and in that span of time, you both got close to one another rather quickly. However, you had yet to go further than a few heated make out sessions much to both of your dismay.
The first time you and Bucky were able to keep your lips locked for more than twenty seconds without being interrupted had been absloutely thrilling. After everyone finished dinner at a local seafood restaurant, you and Bucky had gone outside to “get some air” while the others finished their drinks and paid the bill. With interlocked fingers, Bucky led you to Sam’s pickup and leaned against the back of the truck, pulling your body between his thick, muscular thighs. The parking lot was packed with all of the patrons’ cars, but everyone seemed to be inside and you found yourselves in a bubble of privacy right there, in the barely lit back of the parking lot.
As you leaned into him, Bucky wrapped his metal arm around your waist while his flesh hand tangled itself in the hair on the back of your head. The second his fingertips made contact with the skin of your scalp, you shuddered against him. It felt as if every ounce of tension flowed down into the ground underneath the soles of your beat-up sandals.
In no time at all, he had dazzled you with a smile and some pretty words before the two of you were fused together in a heated exchange of passion. Your limbs entwined with each other’s, and your hands roamed his form, eagerly seeking any patch of skin that you could. Your blissful moment was ruined by Steve awkwardly clearing his throat, tearing the two of you apart, only to see everyone slowly coming out of the restaurant and towards the car.
“You’re lucky it was only me,” Steve mumbled, giving Bucky’s shoulder a shove.
Bucky pushed his friend back playfully and grumbled something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like “punk” while you rushed to smooth down your clothes and hair.
The second and third time were at the beach.
The second time, everyone else was taking a walk while you and Bucky were floating in the water together. You clung to the soldier in front of you, still not too comfortable in the water, and Bucky took full advantage. With your legs wrapped around his hips and your arms around his shoulders, he swooped in and planted a rushed kiss to your lips. You followed his lips as he pulled back, not wanting your lips to be separated from his even for the half second to take a breath.
Bucky was very enthusiastic about your eagerness, as made apparent by the erection that was straining against his swim trunks. The second your core brushed against his obvious arousal it felt as if the world tilted on its axis and everything slowed down until it was just the two of you. You eagerly chased the electric feeling of grinding against the most attractive man you’d ever had the pleasure of seeing, only to be broken apart by a giant splash next to you that left both of you looking like wet dogs.
The two of you pulled apart and looked to the side, only to see Sam and Steve come up from the water with a football between their hands, arguing over who got the ball first.
The third time was just yesterday. You were lying on your back in the sand, soaking in the sun and Bucky was sitting next to you reading a book, with his body fully angled towards you. His shirt had come off after the first chapter; the heat and humidity made it uncomfortable to wear any clothing you could afford to take off. His chest had a sheen of sweat on it that looked so tempting and made your mouth water slightly. His thigh was pressed up against the side of your body while he kept the rest of his body in shade under the umbrella while reading aloud from the book he had picked up from the house’s collection for visitors. You weren’t sure what the book was about. You could only pay attention to his gruff timbre and how the sound made your body come alive.
You turned your body to face him fully, propping your head up on your hand and resting your other one on the skin right above his knee. He trailed off as he sensed your gaze on him in addition to your soft caresses. Bucky put the book down and leaned forward, brushing his fingers along your jaw. He placed a light kiss on the corner of your mouth before trailing them down to your neck and then back up to your mouth. The second his soft lips touched yours, you threw your arms around his torso and pulled him down to your body. He laughed as he fell forward and you used the opportunity to explore the cavern of his mouth.
Unfortunately, the moment was ruined by some kids who were running by, screaming at seagulls trying to steal their snacks; their terrified shrieking effectively ruining the mood.
As you climbed the final staircase to the observation room, you felt the nerves from the anticipation creep up your throat. The booming of an action scene playing through the surround sound system was able to still reach your ears, but knowing your friends were two floors below made the situation feel like sneaking around your parents’ house as a teenager.
But this time with a man.
Not just any man – Bucky.
The devastatingly handsome Bucky, who had pulled you into a whirlwind when he grabbed your broken suitcase without hesitation and you met his eyes. From the moment you saw him, you practically began to drool. Sure, it had been years since your last sexual exploit and you had found all your past partners attractive at some point, but you’d never, ever seen anyone whose beauty struck you like a lightning bolt until two weeks ago.
Just watching his back as you ascended the stairs was enough to make your brain go fuzzy. The muscles gently rippled and shifted under his shirt as he climbed the stairs ahead of you. The sight of his hand wrapped around yours was enough to make your knees weak, but you forced yourself to continue following him, not wanting to miss out on any moment with him.
When you finally stepped into the observation room, the two of you were surrounded by the moon, stars, and trees swaying in the sea breeze behind the floor to ceiling glass windows. Bucky pulled you to the middle of the small room where a telescope stood. He dropped your hand to uncap the telescope, and you had to physically fight a whine from leaving your throat. He bent down and looked through the lens of the instrument, a small smile gracing his lips at whatever he saw.
You stood beside him, watching in awe as the man before you occupied space around you and wanted you closer. A warm, fuzzy feeling slowly surrounded through your body.
It was a privilege to be here with him and to be chosen by him.
“I can feel you staring, sweetheart,” he chuckled while pulling away from the telescope lens.
“Just appreciating the view,” you quipped back, trying to look as normal as possible and not like you were falling hard and fast, head over heels for the man in front of you.
He nudged you and pinched your waist while switching positions, moving you in front of the telescope. You followed his lead and leaned down to look through the telescope. A view of the sparkling stars greeted you as you peered through the instrument and you immediately understood why Bucky had smiled upon looking through the lens. It was breathtakingly beautiful and inspiring.
One warm and one cold hand encased your hips as you were bent forward to look at the stars. The fingers of said hands squeezed into the flesh of your hips and pulled your bottom back into Bucky’s hips, settling against the growing arousal that was growing underneath his pants. Your hands flew to the telescope and held on tightly to keep yourself upright while all the blood drained from your head and the breath left your lungs.
“I prefer this view,” Bucky whispered in your ear, leaning his body over yours. The tip of his nose fell against your jawline as his lips placed themselves behind your ear, before his teeth grazed your earlobe and gave a light tug. Your knees gave out momentarily, but Bucky quickly secured you to his chest with his strong arms which were now banded around your waist and chest.
The heat radiating from his chest up against your back was intoxicating. It felt like you were making your way to Cloud Nine; drifting up towards the highest cloud in the sky and feeling the softness from said clouds brush against your skin. You chased the feeling, arching your back into his form before angling your head to the side so his lips could continue their wandering path on the side of your neck. Instinctively, you pushed your hips back into his and gasped at the feeling of his thick length sliding deliciously between your ass cheeks.
The grumble that escaped from his chest rolled down your spine and relaxed all of your muscles. Your thighs spread apart a little as you felt yourself heat up from the inside out as the sensation of his firm muscles, warm skin, soft lips, and gravely voice hijacked your mind.
“Those stars have nothing on you,” he purred as his lips paused their barrage on the skin of your neck. His lips continued their journey as his words sunk into your lust hazed mind. His compliment stoked the embers that were already burning in your lower belly.
“Mm,” you sighed, leaning back against him even more. “You’re one to talk. I’ve never seen someone as pretty as you until we met.”
The corner of his mouth curled up in a smile as he ceased his caressing of your neck. His head moved to hook his chin over your shoulder while simultaneously moving the arm banded around your chest lower so his hand could cup your breast. You couldn’t help yourself. You had to look down and soak in the view of him cupping your chest so openly and appreciatively. The sight sent you further into heat: his large hand grasping your tit, some flesh still falling out of his hand, and the slow squeezes of his palm around the soft skin.
“You know what I bet is pretty?” he asked, barely waiting for an answer before twisting you around in his grip and responding. “The view underneath this shirt.”
Your hazy eyes caught the heat in his eyes the second you saw them and you felt yourself reaching for the hem of your shirt before you knew what you were doing. You’d give him anything he wanted when he looked at you and talked to you like that. He released his hold on your body briefly to help you yank it over your head and toss the fabric behind him. His hands came back to your skin and gripped your hips, holding you in front of him while he took in the sight before him.
His blue irises shrunk as his pupil dilated upon looking at your chest without any barriers in the way. You could practically feel the path of his gaze roam you from the underside of your breasts to your taught nipples. “Oh, baby,” he groaned. “I knew I was right, but goddamn, this is better than I expected.”
You grinned, feeling drunk off his sultry words. You quickly reached for the hem of his shirt, too, and Bucky ripped the offending fabric from his body faster than he had for your shirt. Now, you had seen his chest before almost every day you have been at the beach, but something about it being bathed in the moonlight and stars made it so much more mouthwatering. It looked like he was glowing under the ambiance and you reached forward, needing to feel his smooth, firm skin under your palms.
The second your skin made contact with his chest, Bucky grabbed your face and crashed his mouth on to yours, intensifying the fire building between you both. His wet muscle wrapped around your own before it traced the backs of your teeth.
Your hands ran down the expanse of his chest, caressing his bulging pecs and the nipples hanging on the curve, to his abdomen, where the muscles rippled upon feeling your warm touch slink further down his body. The trail your fingers left reduced the man in front of you into his baser instincts, letting out a long and deep groan.
Just as your fingers were about to trace his happy trail, he caught your hand with one of his own and pulled it up to his lips, peppering your knuckles with sloppy kisses. “Not now,” was all he could mange to say before he pushed your body gently down to the plush couch that lined most of the windows. The squeak you let out was louder than you intended to be and you were very grateful for the extra floor between you and your friends.
In a flash, Bucky was on his knees in front of you, pushing your thighs apart, forcing your skirt to gather around your waist. With no fabric in the way, you knew that he would see how much of a wet mess his kisses and caresses had left you and, surprisingly, the embarrassment you were waiting to feel never came. Instead, the warmth churning inside you intensified as he slowly leaned forward and caught the edge of your panties with his teeth and started to move down your leg. The thin cotton obeyed his actions, and you vaguely made out how he deposited his trophy on top of his shirt.
With his gaze focused on the most intimate part of your body, you couldn’t help but preen when you saw his eyes darken further before slowly moving towards you, like he was under the enchantment of a siren. His tongue ran over his lips twice before he spoke. “This is the prettiest view of all.”
His fingers ran through your damp curls enshrouding your mound. His touch was so calming and electrifying all at the same time, it made your head swim. Parting his fingers, he parted your lips shortly before blowing on your hot skin.
You jolted, your body unable to handle the sensations he was giving you. To keep you in place, Bucky moved his shoulders further between your legs, effectively spreading you open further for his exploration. The feeling of a cold, metallic digit circling your sensitive bud of nerves and the feeling of a warm, flesh digit pressing over your slit made you whine like you were going into heat. It had been years since you were touched but you never remember it ever feeling this good.
Your teeth trapped your lower lip between them as you tried to muffle your sounds, but you felt his left hand lift and pull it out of its trap. “Don’t,” Bucky pleaded. “Let me hear you.”
He returned to his ministrations once he saw you nod your head in agreement with his plea. His fingers kept teasing you, rubbing you lightly and applying pressure every so often, but it wasn’t enough. If anything, it made you more frustrated.
“Bucky, please,” you panted, bringing a hand up to his head to latch on to the dark hair at his crown. “I need something more.”
“More?” he teased, trailing a finger down your sensitive slit before stopping at your entrance. His blue eyes met yours briefly before they were pulled back to your expectant pussy which was fluttering for him. “No need to be greedy, sweetheart.”
A frustrated sigh left your mouth and was abruptly cut off when he slid his middle finger into your weeping hole, stroking your velvety walls. You clenched around his finger, only letting him move so far inside of you.
“God,” he growled. “She’s so tight.” His finger pulled out to the first knuckle before sliding back in. The drag of his calloused fingertips sent you into orbit. Sure, you were no stranger to touching yourself, but your fingers never felt this thick, this firm, or penetrated you this deep. He kept pumping his finger in and out of you, collecting little sighs and whimpers from your lips. While his right hand worked to open you up, his metal hand started to circle your clit. The pleasure shot right from the base of your spine up to your brain, sending all your senses into overtime, unable to comprehend the amount of pleasure flooding through your system.
When Bucky slid a second finger in, he was met with resistance from your body. You watched as he licked his lips and leaned closer to get a better view of your pussy attempting to swallow his digits. “There we go,” he cooed as he was able to push his second finger in further. You could feel tears forming behind your eyelids from the sensations his fingers were able to bring you.
“Please,” you cried, feeling tears gather behind your eyelids. What you were begging for, you had no idea. All you knew was that it wasn’t enough.
“Shh,” he hushed, placing a kiss on your clit as his metal fingers disappeared. He kissed you a second time, slower and sloppier than before, letting his spit and your arousal mix under his tongue which was circling your clit. Your eyes rolled back in your head under the wet heat of his mouth on the most sensitive part of your body. You needed him closer, so you pulled one of your legs back and used a hand to press his face further into your wet cunt. He moaned, sending vibrations through your spine, back down to your womb.
He pulled back with a lewd pop! that echoed in the small room. You opened your eyes and looked down at him, only to be greeted with a possessive smile that captured his glistening lips. Your arousal shimmered in his beard underneath the moonlight, and you felt yourself become that much more wet at the debauched sight in front of you.
“So sweet,” he whispered, leaving kisses all over your dripping slit and the sensitive skin surrounding your pussy lips. “She’s drooling so much, sweetheart,” he said before dragging the flat of his tongue through your folds, drinking up all he could.
“Bucky,” you moan, “please.”
His eyes snap up to meet yours and you feel yourself turning to liquid underneath his smoldering gaze. You’ve never seen someone look at you with such blatant lust, devotion, and awe before. Looking down at the man on his knees before you, you knew that he had ruined you for any other man, and you hadn’t even orgasmed or seen him naked yet. Your limbs scrambled to pull him up to you upon the realization settling into your mind. Even though you knew he wanted to stay down where he was, he followed your desperate grasps and moved up your body, placing wet kisses on any skin that he passed on his way up to meet your lips.
As soon as he was close enough, you crashed your mouth onto his and felt yourself go up in flames just from tasting yourself on his mouth. If you burnt alive here and now, you would die a happy woman. While the two of you embraced and invaded the other’s mouth, you managed to turn around and place Bucky’s hard, warm body beneath yours.
“Sweetheart, I wasn’t even close to being finished with your tight little hole,” Bucky groaned in faux annoyance as his hands came up to clamp around your hips and bring your weight down on top of his erection, which was leaving a stain on the front of his sweatpants from the amount of precum he had already leaked.
Your lips had their chance to trail down the side of his neck and you enjoyed every second of it. Feeling his body respond to your touch was intoxicating and gave you a brief power trip, knowing that you could make this mountain of a man tremble beneath you. As you lightly raked your teeth over the crook of his neck, you could feel his dick twitch beneath you. Your hips instantly dropped into his, adding more of your weight as you rocked over his excited cock.
“You can have more time later,” you promised. “I just need to feel you.”
A loud groan fell from his throat as he pulled your body flush against his and rolled you over so you were under him once again. The little fight for dominance you were having was only making the warmth in your veins grow.
“Yeah? You need to feel me?” he asked, rutting down into your slick folds, making the front of his sweatpants an even bigger mess than before. The pressure sent all coherent thoughts out of your head and you moaned as you swiveled your hips to move against his.
You nodded your head and looked up at him with wide eyes as you moved your hands to slip under the waistband of his sweatpants. Your fingers met with smooth skin and no other barriers between your hand and him. One hand stayed clutching his ass while the other moved to pull the front of his pants down, letting him escape the confines of his pants. The sound of his cock slapping his abdomen had you choking on air and gushing all over the couch beneath you.
The moment his cock and balls were free, Bucky pulled back to kick his clothes all the way off. Now both of you were naked and the heat between you two was about to reach the boiling point.
His cock was a glorious sight.
Standing tall and proud, the ruddy cockhead wept more pearlescent fluid from the tip and you watched, enraptured with the sight of the fluid leaking down the underside of his length, following the side of a prominent vein all the way down to the dark, coarse hair between his legs.
“Jesus, Bucky,” you practically sang. “I don’t know if it will—”
He cut you off by shoving the fingers that were inside of you a moment ago into your mouth. Your tongue immediately swirled around the pads of his fingertips and you had to fight to keep your eyes open at the display of dominance. “If you say it won’t fit, I’m going to finish before we even start,” he said.
You moaned around his fingers and sucked the rest of your essence from his fingers before pulling back and sliding off the couch to sit on the floor. The movement had his cock right before your mouth in less than a second and you gave him no warning before your lips engulfed the tip of him.
The sound that Bucky let out was masked as the music from the movie downstairs came to a crescendo. Twirling your tongue around his cockhead, you tilted your head a little to look up at his face. The sight before you nearly sent you over the edge yourself.
Bucky was staring down at you with the look of a predator waiting to devour his prey. The fire behind his eyes and the way his pupils swallowed all of the blue that you always admired had you doubling down on your efforts to please him. You hollowed out your cheeks and gave a harsh suck while dipping the tip of your tongue into the slit on the head and were rewarded with Bucky hissing your name after gathering your hair in his clenched fist.
“Jesus Christ,” he panted, “Just like that baby.”
You repeated your action several times before you dared to take more of his gloriously thick member into the cavern of your mouth. Bucky pressed forward on instinct, pushing your head back to rest on the seat of the couch while he leaned over the furniture and fisted at the soft suede material.
A hum left your lips as his movement fed more of himself into your mouth. Your jaw opened further and you silently took the discomfort while worshiping his velvety skin. You’d never been a huge fan of giving head in the past, as previous lovers had been head pushers or just too enthusiastic that the experience became painful. That, plus the bitter taste of precum had added to your dislike for the activity.
But with Bucky, you couldn’t bring yourself to find anything worth complaining about. He was gentle and so enraptured with the sight of your lips wrapped around his cock that you became drunk off his movements. Plus, he tasted simply divine. The blend of salt, musk, and something that was uniquely him had you eager to bring him further and further into your mouth.
“Shit,” he bit out before reaching down to run his finger over your cheek, adding pressure to the suction you already had around his member. “You feel so good wrapped around my dick. I’m not going to last much longer, sweetheart.” You moaned your approval and dared to take another inch of him into your throat, eager to taste him.
That moment never came, though.
The sounds from downstairs had gone quiet right before a series of explosions sounded through the surround sound speakers. Bucky’s body went rigid and you saw his lustful eyes switch to fearful and panicked. His hand that was in your hair tightened its grip and you furiously blinked back tears at the pain, trying to draw yourself from him. His stiff body refused to move and you began to panic yourself a bit as you started to choke on his length. His breathing became irregular and you could see a cold sweat start to bead at his brow.
Your heart was breaking inside of your chest as you watched him succumb to the depths of his mind during your intimate moment. Your panic increased as you saw him become more distant in his eyes and you gave his thigh a forceful pat to try and gain his attention. You were momentarily relieved when he pulled back, but the relief was short lived as you saw him fall back harshly on his ass and scoot himself into a corner with his hands gripping his hair.
You sputtered and coughed for a moment before clearing your throat to reach out to him. “Bucky,” you whispered.
He didn’t register your voice and started to rock a bit, trying to soothe himself. You scooted closer to him slowly and tried again in a slightly louder tone. His eyes flicked around the room this time, trying to gain a semblance of normality that would help pull him from the depths of his memories. You slowly reached a hand out towards him, not knowing what else to do to get his attention. The second your hand was in his line of sight, his metal hand reached out and gripped your limb with an extraordinary pressure.
Pushing through the pain, you let him keep his grip, but called out to him once again, this time, more panicked than the other times. “Bucky!”
He immediately turned to look at you and you could see the cloud over his eyes move away as he slowly returned to the present moment. You couldn’t resist the urge to comfort him and you moved closer to him, following your instincts.
Bucky remained frozen where he was sitting, but his eyes tracked your movements. His chest was heaving, trying to regulate his breathing and heartbeat. Sweat still clung to his brow and you could see his body start to tremble.
“It’s okay,” you murmured, bringing your hand that was not in his hold to cup his face. As you brushed your thumb under his eye, you could see them start to well up with tears as his mind caught up to the present. “I’m here for you.”
“I’m so sorry,” he nearly sobbed. “I thought I was past this.”
“Hey, it’s okay,” you repeated in a tone that you hoped was soothing, continuing to stroke his cheek. “Healing isn’t linear. Sometimes things come back when you least expect it.”
He searched your eyes, looking for a hint of deception or placation, but you were nothing but sincere and serious. When he found no judgement, he began to relax a little bit, loosening the tense muscles in his shoulders and relaxing his grip on your wrist.
“I can’t even enjoy being in the moment with you without my fucked-up brain short circuiting.”
“Bucky—”
“No,” he said forcefully, dropping your hand in favor of holding his head in his hands after pulling your comforting touch from his face. “Don’t say it’s okay, because it’s not. I could have hurt you. Hell, I fucking choked you because I couldn’t get out of my head.”
“I’m okay, though,” you defended. “And you didn’t do it on purpose. That’s all that matters to me.”
He looked up at you then and you were met with the most heartbroken look on his face. The tears that had welled up in his eyes out of fear and frustration had spilled over his lower lash line and traced paths down his cheeks. He shook his head, trying to push your comfort away. “I feel horrible for doing it, though.” He looked down at your wrist, and though it was hard to see clear details in the moonlight, he was able to see the marks he had left on your skin. “I could have really hurt you and I don’t think I’d be able to live with myself if I did.”
You sighed, frustrated that he wasn’t listening to your words, but understanding where he was coming from. You didn’t know what would make him feel better in this moment, but you knew you had to try.
“Look at me,” you asked softly, reaching out to angle his face towards you. Once his sad ocean eyes met yours, you gave him a watery smile and took a deep breath before continuing. “I’m not naïve. I know that you’ve experienced horrible things and I know that the human mind can be cruel to itself. But, I knew all of that going into this, Bucky. I chose to explore this with you knowing that there would be set backs and moments that you wouldn’t feel like yourself. But, I’m here. I still want to be with you, even after this.”
“But you deserve someone who isn’t broken. Someone who can have sex like a normal person and not break when they hear loud sounds,” he argued.
“Maybe that’s true,” you conceded. Upon hearing your words, his face instantly crumbled and he dropped his gaze to his lap. “But, I chose you and I’d do it all over again. I want you and all your broken pieces, all your jagged edges, and all your bad days.”
He looked back up and you could see something akin to hope fill his eyes.
“I’ll take you at your bad days and I’ll take you at your good days,” you continued. “But, I want you to choose me, too, and not make decisions for both of us without talking to me. Because I want to be here for you.”
Bucky murmured your name and reached his flesh hand out to your face. You moved even closer and leaned into his warm, rough palm. “I must have done something right in a past life to deserve you.”
You felt your heartstrings being pulled taught. His skewed view of what he thought he deserved hurt, but you would reassure him every step of the way. Because he was worth it.
“It doesn’t matter what you did in a past life, pretty boy. You have me in this life and that’s enough for me.”
He leaned forward and captured your lips in the gentlest kiss you had experienced with him yet. Your arms came up to wrap around his neck and you pulled your body closer to his, enjoying the feel of his skin pressed against yours. Bucky broke the kiss earlier than you wanted, but you were content to still bask in his warmth.
“I hope you know I’m never letting you go,” he whispered against your lips.
“Good, because I’m not letting go,” you answered, pecking his lips afterwards to seal your sentiment with a kiss.
He leaned his forehead against yours and pulled you into his lap. You felt his cock twitch between you, half-hard and stirring again after the emotional drop-off. Bucky huffed at his body’s response and you shook your head, threading your fingers through his hair.
“I’m flattered,” you joked, “but I think we should pump the breaks for tonight.”
Bucky nodded his head in understanding and agreement, but still held you close as if he was unwilling to let you leave his embrace.
After a few more moments of holding each other, you both parted to put your clothing back on before snuggling up together on the plush couch. Bucky remained silent and you didn’t want to disturb the peace. You closed your eyes and rested against his chest, listening to the sound of his steady heartbeat. It was enough to lull you to sleep.
You woke the next morning to find yourself in a bed, covered in blankets and a very warm body. You nuzzled deeper into the cocoon of warmth and fought to fall back asleep. You were close to succeeding when you felt the body covering yours move slowly, stretching its limbs. After a moment, you felt a pair of plush lips brush your forehead, layering kisses on your skin.
“Morning,” Bucky rasped in his gravely morning voice.
“Mmm,” you grumbled, not sure if you were greeting him or trying to avoid truly waking up. His chest shook with a chuckle as he tightened his hold on you. You both embraced the silence for a moment before Bucky broke it.
“Thank you for last night,” he whispered, as if he was afraid to shatter the peaceful atmosphere with the memory of his moment of weakness.
You pressed your face further into his chest and peppered the skin with kisses, not yet awake enough to formulate a reply. He responded by giving you a squeeze and kissing your forehead.
“I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to thank you enough,” he thought aloud. “But, I’ll start with making you breakfast.”
“Scrambled eggs are a great way to say thank you,” you quipped, smiling against his pectoral. Your first words of the day earned a full body laugh from the soldier draped over you.
With one last kiss, Bucky pulled himself off your body and out of the bed before slipping out the door, leaving you to bask in the warmth of your shared body heat trapped under the covers. You buried your face in the pillow he used and inhaled his scent. It was comforting enough that it pulled you back to sleep for a few minutes before you were brought back to the real world by the smell of eggs, toast, and orange juice.
Your eyes fluttered open just in time to see Bucky almost trip over his clothes strewn about the room from. He regained his footing in time to avoid dropping or spilling anything and you giggled as a relieved look washed over his features.
Upon hearing your laugh, Bucky looked at you and gave you a faux glare. It lasted all of three seconds before he broke out into a smile and made his way to the bed, delivering your breakfast with another kiss to your forehead. You pushed yourself to sit up after stretching and eagerly reached for the man holding both of your plates and drinks on a tray. He sat down next to you and placed the tray over your lap before he slid under the sheets to be closer to you.
The two of you ate and exchanged small talk, enjoying the moment together. Once you finished, the two of you stayed under the covers and enjoyed hot and heavy touches and kisses until you were startled by a pounding on the bedroom door.
“Buck! C’mon! Get your ass in gear,” Sam shouted through the door. “I want to go on this run before it gets too damn hot.”
Bucky groaned and buried his head in the crook of your neck briefly. “I’ll be out in a minute,” he shouted back after pulling away from you begrudgingly. You remained in bed while you watched him shed his clothes and look for clean athletic wear. A smile took over your lips as you basked in the domestic normality of the moment.
Once he was dressed, he turned back to you in the bed and flung himself over you, pressing kisses wherever he could access your skin. You giggled uncontrollably and pulled him closer so you could bring your lips to his. Morning breath be damned, you needed to get your lips on this man to shower him in the affection he was so freely giving you.
After another bang was heard on the door, the two of you parted and Bucky left the room to go on his jog with Sam and Steve after winking at you and promising to continue your moment later.
You laid in the bed for a few minutes after his departure and thought about all that had occurred in the last twelve hours alone. You had experienced the best intimacy you had ever been apart of and you had seen Bucky at one of his lowest moments. You were rattled by the depth of compassion that you had for this man knowing that last night was only a glimpse of what you would go through if you were to continue seeing each other long term. Even though it was a frightening and unexpected incident, you wouldn’t change it for the world.
Being able to stand by him and provide a bit of comfort was more meaningful to you than you thought it would be. And it only solidified the intense feelings you were garnering for the mechanic who had been warming your bed recently.
After getting dressed and ready for the day, you headed downstairs to see Wanda and Natasha sitting on the back deck, sipping their coffees. You joined them after pouring your own cup.
“I was wondering when we would see you,” Natasha teased as you sat down in the Adirondack chair next to hers. You narrowed your eyes at her and stuck out your tongue before you took a sip of the warm liquid in your cup.
“I’m surprised you both kept pretty quiet last night,” Wanda added.
You shook your head at the girls and debated telling them about last night. You didn’t want to share Bucky’s trauma with them, but you wanted to tell them about your experience. You ultimately decided to keep the night’s events to yourself and changed the topic to your plans for the day.
You wanted a peaceful day and it seemed so did the girls, so you all agreed to spend the day at the house, lounging around and taking it slow. While you were discussing your plans to watch the latest season of whatever trashy reality television show Natasha was currently watching, you heard the back door slide open as all three boys stepped out on to the deck.
“Ladies,” Steve greeted, plopping down in a chair that was covered by the shade. “Any plans for the day?”
As Natasha answered his question, you felt a sweaty arm band around your shoulders and a very warm head lay on top of yours.
“You have a good morning?” Bucky asked as he pressed a kiss to your hair.
You nodded and gave his arm a squeeze before pushing him away so you could turn to face him.
It was so unfair how beautiful he was even after exercising. The man behind you was dripping in sweat, flushed all over, and still looked like Adonis. His muscles rippled as he moved his body and you could feel yourself start to heat up from the inside out.
“Ew, Barnes,” Natasha groaned from next to you. “I can smell you from here. Go take a shower.”
Bucky rolled his eyes at his friends and pressed a fleeting kiss to your lips before turning around to go clean up. The other two men followed in his footsteps, and you were left alone with the women once again.
“The PDA is disgusting,” Nat groaned.
“I don’t know. I think it’s rather sweet,” Wanda said, beaming in your direction. “It’s nice to see you both so happy.”
Natasha agreed but still held her ground on not being a fan of public displays of affection. You couldn’t fight the smile that broke across your face because it was true. You were very happy and it was apparent that Bucky was as well. Knowing that you were able to make him happy caused butterflies to erupt in your stomach and you had no intention of freeing them.
Somehow, after a relaxing day at the beach house, the entire group found themselves at a local dive bar playing darts, drinking whatever was on tap, and laughing about whatever old songs came on the jukebox in a corner of the establishment.
You were leaning against the bar, sipping your beer and chatting with Wanda, when you felt a presence behind your back. You turned around and saw Bucky looking down at you with a fond smile on his face and twinkling blue eyes. His cheeks were a bit flushed from all the beer he had drank and you thought he looked so adorable in this moment.
“Hi,” he slyly greeted, snaking an arm around your waist to pull you into his orbit.
“Hi there, pretty boy,” you returned, pecking the corner of his mouth.
“What do you say we ditch this place and go back to the house?” he proposed, kneading your flesh with his fingertips.
“I’m in the middle of a conversation with Wanda,” you said, feeling guilty about being swept away while you were spending time with your friend.
“No, you aren’t,” the auburn-haired woman laughed. “We can talk about our shopping trip later. I’m going to go play darts with Steve, Sam, and Tasha.”
With that, your friend left the bar and headed towards the rest of the group, leaving you and your mechanic alone together.
“So, what do you say, gorgeous?” he pressed, leaning down to trail kisses behind your ear.
“I guess I’m all yours now, sarge,” you quietly moaned. His lips curved into a smile on your neck and you felt yourself become light-headed from his presence and the alcohol in your system. “Are you good to ride?”
He nodded his affirmation and pulled back to look in your eyes. “I’m good. I only had two beers and Steve made me chug water when I told him my plan.”
“Your plan?” you asked, arching an eyebrow. “Now I’m suspicious.”
He let out a boyish laugh and began to guide you both towards the exit. You clung on to his strong arms and followed him eagerly after waving goodbye to your friends who were watching you both with knowing smirks and smiles.
The cool night air was a welcome sensation to your warmed skin as you both walked over to his motorcycle. After settling himself in the seat, you grabbed his shoulders and perched yourself on the seat behind him, scooting as close to his solid form as you could. Bucky fastened his helmet and you did the same before he returned the kickstand to its rightful space and backed his bike out of the parking space.
His bike roared to life and you wrapped yourself around him right before he took off into the night, heading back towards the beach house. The ride was fairly short since the bar was only two miles from the house, but you soaked in every moment that you could with his body pressed tightly to yours.
Less than five minutes later, thanks to a certain soldier surpassing the speed limit, you reached the house and parked the bike. You climbed off and set the helmet down on the seat while you watched Bucky do the same.
He grabbed your hand and pulled you towards the house as he walked backwards and held your gaze with blazing eyes. You knew that look and you knew what it meant.
“It’s criminal that we haven’t enjoyed a dip in the pool this whole trip,” he said as he walked you both around the house and to the backyard where the pool sat beneath the extensive deck. “I say we fix that.”
“Bucky, I’m not wearing my swimsuit,” you pointed out, looking down at your thin camisole and terry cloth shorts. “And neither are you.”
“That’s what skinny dipping is for, sweetheart,” he replied, winking at you before he dropped your hand and started to strip himself of his clothes. You watched with rapt attention while his shirt and shorts fell to the concrete, marveling over each inch of skin that was revealed to your gaze. He reached for his boxers next and pulled them down his thick thighs slowly, watching you gawk at his physique with a smirk on his face.
Once he was stark naked, you couldn’t resist chewing on you bottom lip as your eyes raked up and down his form. In all his naked glory, he walked towards you and started to undress you when he was close enough. Your camisole fell to the floor before he tugged your shorts down to join them. You could hear his breath catch when he noticed that you weren’t wearing any underwear beneath your shorts. You grinned at him and stepped out of your clothes before quickly diving into the pool.
When you broke the surface of the water, you were met with a giant splash from Bucky cannonballing into the pool after you. You felt his hands slide up your legs to grip your ass as he came up to the surface as well. Your arms wrapped around his neck and your legs entwined themselves around his waist, pressing your core to his groin. His hips gave a shallow rut against yours as he fused his lips to yours, stealing your breath away and leaving you floating in bliss.
He pulled back briefly and rubbed his nose against yours, peering into your soul with his hypnotic eyes. “I don’t want to wait anymore, darling,” he whispered. “I want you so bad.”
“Then what are you waiting for, pretty boy?” you inquired as you leaned in to capture his lips once more.
The kiss turned heated quickly as his hands explored your body and you rubbed yourself against his rapidly hardening cock. He groaned into the kiss and swept his tongue into your mouth, savoring the taste of you and the beer still on your tongue.
One of your hands gripped the hair at the base of his neck while the other one reached down into the water between you and grabbed his erection. You dragged the tip through your folds and preened at the feeling of your most intimate parts finally meeting. No word in the English language could convey how wonderful it felt to be so intimate with this beautiful man before you.
One of his hands reached down and pulled your hand from his dick, taking over so he could tease you with the fat head of his aching cock. The heat in your tummy roared to life with each stroke against your lower lips. You let out breathy moans and clutched him closer as he notched his head against your entrance.
“God, I can’t believe you’re real,” he said as he shuddered at the feeling of your hole pulsing against the most sensitive part of him. With that, he pressed in slowly, inch by marvelous inch, until he was sheathed and his pelvis was pressed to yours.
The feeling of being completely filled and molding yourself around his cock was simply divine and the sound that came from your throat was lewd and breathy. Bucky brushed his lips against your throat and groaned as he let you adjust to his length.
“So fucking tight,” he hissed as your walls strangled him and pulsed with your desire.
“Bucky,” you moaned, throwing your head back to give him better access to the delicate skin of your throat. “It feels so big.”
His pornographic moan cut through the space between you and it had you bearing down on him and swiveling your hips to get some friction.
“Move, please,” you panted as the ache in your pussy became unbearable from the stillness. “I want you to move.”
Bucky drew his hips back, leaving half of his cock inside of your warm cunt before he thrust forward, filling you up and massaging your inner walls. His hips began a steady, yet sloppy rhythm and you felt yourself rapidly approaching the edge of your climax embarrassingly fast. He could tell by your moans and whimpers and the way your walls clenched around him that you were quickly approaching your orgasm.
“That’s it,” he moaned as your walls fluttered around him. “Milk my cock, sweetheart.”
“Bucky,” you nearly cried. His filthy words were sending your body into overstimulation in the best way possible. “I’m so close. Please, keep going.”
He doubled down on his efforts and you peered down between you to see the distorted view of where your bodies were joined together. It was erotic and filthy and everything you wanted and more. As his hips pistoned into yours, you felt the tip brush against a certain spot in your walls that sent stars across your vision.
You’d never had anyone reach this spot before and had only done so yourself once or twice with a particularly big toy when you were in college. Feeling him hit that sweet spot after years of neglecting it had you tumbling over the edge with no warning.
You screamed as your orgasm swept over you and you couldn’t pull yourself close enough to his chest, wishing to become a part of him in the haze of your pleasure.
“Fuck!” Bucky exclaimed as your walls constricted around him and pulled pleasure from him. “I can’t hold out any longer, baby.”
With that, he followed you over the edge, spilling inside of you and filling your pussy with extra warmth and his seed. The feeling of being filled by him was so euphoric, your orgasm was extended, leaving you floating in the most pleasurable fog you’ve ever experienced.
Bucky buried his head in your neck while he continued to fill you up and clung to you desperately.
Once both of your pleasures subsided, you were left wrapped around each other, trying to catch your breaths.
“That was…” you trailed off, not knowing how to express what you were feeling inside.
“Yeah,” he agreed, “and then some.”
You giggled and leaned forward to kiss his lips, pouring all the affection you could into the action. His warm, wet tongue traced your lower lip before you felt his teeth nip at the soft skin, earning a moan from the back of your throat. Bucky pulled away from the kiss and met your gaze with his lust blown eyes.
“Let’s clean you up, sweetheart,” he said before wading through the water towards the shallow end with you still wrapped around his softening cock.
You still felt so full from all his cum and didn’t want to lose the sensation of holding his release, but you were too spent to protest as he hoisted you up and set you on the ledge of the pool.
He pushed your legs apart and dropped his gaze to your glistening folds that were covered in water and mixture of both of your fluids. He reverently ran a finger through them and collected your essences on the tip of his finger before he brought it to your mouth. Without hesitation, you licked his fingertip clean and moaned around his digit at the heavenly taste of the two of you mixed together.
“My turn to taste,” he said before diving into your pussy and lapping up the rest of the mess between your thighs. Your hand flew into his hair and tried to pull him even closer, loosing yourself in the feeling of his velvety tongue between your folds. No one had ever eaten your pussy with that much gusto and you could feel yourself approaching yet another orgasm.
“Bucky, I’m gonna cum,” you warned him. He just grunted against your sensitive skin and flicked his tongue even faster, trying to bring you over the edge once more.
He was successful after a few more flicks of his wet muscle and you clenched his head between your thighs as you rode his face while your climax engulfed you once again.
When he pulled away from your pussy, his lips, his beard, and his cheeks were glistening in your spend and you swore you had never seen a more divine sight before. You eagerly pulled his face to yours and licked his cheek, tasting yourself on his salty skin.
Bucky growled and clutched you closer as you cleaned his face just as he had cleaned your cunt. You’d never cleaned your past lovers of your cum before, but after tasting yourself on his face, you knew that this would become one of your favorite past times.
“Jesus Christ, baby,” he moaned loudly as you continued to clean his face. “You’re fucking perfect.”
You pulled back, satisfied with your cleaning job and gave him a quick kiss before pulling back to get a better look at him. He looked utterly depleted and spent and the sheen of sweat that covered his skin made him look like something holy.
“I’ve never cum that fast in my life,” you confided in him. “I swear, you must be magic.”
He glowed under your praise and leaned in to seal his lips over yours once more. The two of you stayed wrapped in your own haven, exchanging molten kisses and heated touches. Bucky’s excitement became evident as he rutted his hips against your legs.
“Already, sarge?” you quipped, looking down to see his fully erect cock protruding from the water.
“I can’t help it around you. It’s like your body was made to draw me in.”
Before you could respond, Bucky grabbed your hips and gently flipped you over so your tummy was pressed into the concrete ledge and your ass was in the air, presenting him with a perfect view of your still soaked folds. Without any preamble, Bucky pushed his pulsing length into your hole once more and set a ravaging pace.
You reached out, trying to grab at the concrete to find purchase, but ultimately ended up holding yourself up so you could look behind you and watch your lover’s face as he pounded into you.
He brought his prosthetic hand up to your pussy and used his pointer and middle finger to rub tight circles around your clit, sending fire rippling through your veins. An animalistic sound escaped from your chest as you cried out and clenched profusely around his thick cock.
“Just like that, baby. Squeeze my dick and make a mess,” he begged from behind you, bending his top half over your back to feel your skin pressed to his. “It’s yours now. Do what you want with it.”
All the pleasure and warm feelings you had for Bucky sent you over the edge quickly again. You were slightly embarrassed by how quickly you finished with him tonight, but you let the thought go as you heard him whimper behind you as you brought him more pleasure.
“My cock is yours, just like this pussy is mine,” he growled, pumping his hips faster, prolonging your euphoria.
He pulled out of you soon after and pumped himself twice in his fist before he sprayed his cum over your pussy, ass, and back of your thighs. It made you feel dirty in the best possible way.
“Fuck, what a sight, sweetheart,” he murmured before leaning forward to make out with your pussy lips and clean his cum from your skin with the wet heat of his mouth. He licked all his mess from your skin before you turned around and crashed your mouth on to his, eagerly licking into his mouth to taste him.
You broke apart when a harsh flood light came on and illuminated the pool. You scrambled to submerge yourself in the water, not wanting anyone else to see your naked body. Bucky protectively and possessively wrapped his body around yours, concealing your bare skin from the intrusive light.
“Gross!” you heard Sam groan as he stepped out on to the deck above the pool. “Now the pool’s contaminated.”
You buried your head in Bucky’s shoulder as your face flamed with the heat of embarrassment. You felt his arms tighten their hold on you and you melted into his comforting embrace.
“Fuck off, Sam!” Bucky shouted back. “And while you’re at it, throw down some towels.”
Sam muttered under his breath as he left the two of you alone to hopefully go retrieve towels for you.
You pulled your face from the cavern of Bucky’s body and glanced up at him to see him already looking down at you with a look of awe and pride on his face. You both leaned in to steal one last kiss. When you pulled apart, your heads were immediately hit with two beach towels and Sam shouting about how he needed to bleach his eyes now.
The two of you ignored his childish antics and emerged from the pool, wrapping yourselves in towels, sharing giddy grins and giggles.
This was easily one of the best nights of your life.
The last week you had at the beach went by quickly in a haze of blazing heat, soft sand, and intimate moments shared between you and your lover. It was now the last day of your trip and everyone begrudgingly accepted that they had to return to real life.
Everyone’s bags were packed and you were all enjoying one last meal out on the deck, trying to soak up as much time away from reality as possible. Sam and Steve were manning the grill, Natasha was sunbathing on a lounger nearby, and Wanda was peacefully pulling tarot cards while hiding from the sun in the shade. You were sitting on one of the lower steps as you watched Bucky check over his motorcycle, ensuring she would be able to make the ride back without any issues.
Your head was tilted to the side and propped in your hand as you watched his muscles expand and contract as he tightened whatever it was he was messing with on his bike. The heat was also making his shirt stick to his skin with all his sweat, hugging all of his bulging muscles so intimately that you felt a little jealous of the flimsy piece of cotton.
“Finished?” you asked as he pushed himself up from the ground and wiped the grease from his hands on a towel he had nearby.
He looked back at his motorcycle and gave a proud nod. “She just needed some extra love to make it back home comfortably,” he explained. “Speaking of, will you be riding back with me?”
The question was one you had been asking yourself for the last day and a half. While it was thrilling to feel the wind blow your hair back and to have your body pressed against Bucky’s beefy body, you were still apprehensive about having to share part of the drive with semitrucks once you neared the city.
Bucky could see your thoughts flicker across your face. You watched as he came closer before crouching in front of you, cupping your cheek. “There’s no pressure. Plus, if you’re riding with me, I’ll have Steve drive in front of us and Sam behind us so that way we’re buffered from other people on the road.”
You melted into his touch and turned your head to place a kiss to the palm of his hand. He was the most thoughtful person you had ever had the pleasure of dating and it made your insides feel fuzzy and warm.
“If that’s the plan, then I’ll ride with you,” you answered, earning a half smile, half smirk from Bucky.
“Then it’s settled,” he echoed, leaning forward to press a kiss to the corner of your mouth. He stood up from his crouched position and held his hand out to you. Without knowing what he wanted, you slid your hand into his and let him tug you close. “Come sit with me under the trees?”
You nodded your head in agreement and followed closely behind him as you walked the couple hundred feet away from the deck to the small grove of trees on the edge of the property. Bucky plopped himself down on the ground and gently pulled you down with him, settling your body between his firm thighs and pulling your back to meet his chest.
“You know, I almost passed on this vacation,” he murmured into your hair.
You twisted to look at him in disbelief. You didn’t want to imagine a trip where you didn’t meet him; you were grateful for whatever pushed him into coming.
He chuckled at your slightly alarmed expression and gave your body a soft squeeze in reassurance.
"Steve ended up calling my Ma and telling her about the trip and she marched over and chewed me out for not giving myself a break,” he reminisced. “I was irritated with him the whole way down, but as soon as I saw you get out of Sam’s truck, I was thanking him profusely in my head.”
“Remind me to send him an edible arrangement,” you half joked. Part of you was completely serious because if it weren’t for Steve, you wouldn’t be this happy and content.
Bucky chuckled and shook his head in amusement before leaning back further against the tree behind him.
As the two of you sat in the shade, enjoying a comfortable silence, your mind raced through all the memories that were made on this trip.
Finally meeting all of Natasha’s chosen family.
Being stunned by Bucky’s kindness and charm.
The shy back and forth between you two.
The pictures at the tidal pool.
Bucky bearing his soul to you.
Choosing him knowing about all of his so-called baggage.
The intense make-out sessions.
The heated night in the observatory which was interrupted by Bucky’s still healing mind.
The reassurance between you afterwards.
And, finally, all the times you intimately explored Bucky following that night at the bar and your first skinny dipping experience.
“Hey, what’s the matter?” Bucky asked in a worried tone, pulling you from your thoughts. His flesh hand reached up to brush away the tears that you didn’t notice fell from your eyes.
“Nothing,” you reassured him. “It’s just been a while since I’ve cried over something so nice.”
“There’s no need to cry over me, sweetheart,” he hushed. “I’m right here and I have no intention of going anywhere. Not unless you are behind me on my bike.”
You let out a watery laugh and turned your body around so you were straddling his lap. Your fingers found their natural place in his hair as you played with the soft strands and he leaned into your touch, savoring the affection you so freely gave him.
“James Buchanan Barnes, I’ll go anywhere that you go,” you vowed before kissing him senseless in the shade of the trees surrounding you.
With Bucky by your side, you had a feeling that your happiness would only grow from this moment on.
Summary: Between the echoes of a past that feels too vivid to forget and a present that refuses to recognize her, Y/N carries a love that exists in the spaces between two lifetimes. The man she once loved gives her different eyes, a look they made her go understand that sometimes you need to let go to have an happy ending.
Word Count: 16,6k
Warning: Very angst and emotional, mentions of depression, alcoholism, heartbreak, rejection, weed usage, slow-burn
Note: This was suppose to be a one-shot, simple story, but people requested, and I adore the opportunity to write some a sad story. So there you go, I hope you all enjoy it!
Chapter I
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Y/N didn't know to describe the situation. It seemed like she lost the touch to reality and drowned in this fantasy/mission she was doing.
Y/N remembers it very well. The mission was for her to search and retrieve Howard Stark's documentation of the mutant project, the same one that would be stollen by one of his works, that later built the orphanage that would turn into his project, ending with several children killed or turned into weapons for him and his business associates. The project was simple: rescue orphans promising new homes, families and love; inject them with the serums that Howard discarded for Captain America with the intetions of studying how the formulas would affect their bodies; if successfull, the little children would use their new powers for assigned missions given by the associates. None of them stayed with those families more than two months, they would either kill them or work for them for a temporary period.
She had retrieved the documents on her first month.
Her dream was to remove it. Remove the serum from her body and live the simple life that she was once promised.
When the Avengers first took down the orphanage and rescued several children, teenagers and now grown adults, the only way to understand the formula and composition to (maybe) find a way to make them normal again, was to go back in time.
But now she was leaving it, she had a normal job, she had friends, she found a family, even if it was just Miss Stanford, it was hers...and she found love.
After three months on this time period, eventually she began to forget where she came from, she had nothing back there. Sure she had Bruce but he had a happy life and Natasha, she was nothing of importance for him she believed. She missed Steve but she had Steve here, it's the same Steve just...smaller.
But most importantly she had Bucky.
After those months and Bucky going after her like a lost puppy was almost amusing, he fell in love with her while she kept kicking him to the curve and avoiding him; and she fell in love while trying her hardest not to. So she changed her plan, even if selfish, she wanted this, this is the dream that was stolen from her, this is the simple normal life she needed, she wasn't obliged to use her powers, she could breath, she could actually live by her emotions, she could say no, she could say yes, she could cook, she could dance.
There were no blood in her hands in this world, she wasn't weaponized. She was loved.
And Bucky...oh Bucky...her Bucky.
Their first kiss happened in the same way they met — dancing. Their first date was the next day, the second the day after, by the end of the week there were no days that were spent alone. They spent every day seeing each other after that.
And now this.
She knew the future...she knew their future, she knew what happened to Bucky, Peggy, Steven, maybe she could create a new reality, maybe she could change everyone future. Theirs, hers, the other children that died or grew up by her side.
She had locked the watch on her drawer. The same watch that would bring her back and mission acomplished. She didn't had any intention to touch it again, until it was too late, because of course...she ended up back anyway.
--
2 weeks back to the present
The days blurred into each other.
Two weeks had passed since Y/N had been pulled back — ripped away, really — from the one place that had ever felt like home. And in those two weeks, her world had shrunk to the four walls of her room. Curtains drawn, air stale, her body a fragile weight pressed into the mattress.
She barely ate. She barely slept. She cried until there were no tears left, then stared blankly at the ceiling until the cycle started again. The sound of her own sobbing had become background noise, just another reminder of how hollow she felt.
Bruce had come knocking at first, his voice gentle, coaxing her to open up. “You don’t have to go through this alone, Y/N. Talk to me. Please.” His words broke against her silence like waves on stone. She couldn’t bring herself to answer — not because she didn’t want comfort, but because she couldn’t explain. How could she tell him she had abandoned her mission for love? How could she explain she had found everything she ever wanted, only to have it ripped away like a cruel joke?
Steve had tried too, his knock firmer, his tone quiet but full of the same sincerity he had carried even back then. “Y/N, I don’t know what happened while you were gone, but you don’t have to shut us out.” His voice cracked once, just enough to twist the knife in her chest. She bit down on her sobs until her throat burned, waiting for his footsteps to fade. She couldn’t tell him either — not when she had seen his younger self, not when she carried the image of his smile, unchanged, unburdened, while the man here bore the weight of loss and sacrifice.
And Bucky…
She hated herself for it, but she waited for him. Every sound in the hallway, every creak of the floorboards, she prayed it would be him. She prayed she’d hear his voice, gruff and reluctant but there, reaching out. But he never came. Not once.
Maybe that was what hurt the most.
Because in the 1940s, Bucky had chased her relentlessly. He had seen her, wanted her, loved her despite her walls. He had made her laugh, made her feel safe, made her feel human. His arms had been a shelter, his lips a promise. Every dance, every walk home, every late-night confession had tied her tighter to him until she believed, foolishly, that she could keep that world forever.
But this Bucky — the present Bucky — didn’t even knock. He didn’t ask. He didn’t notice, or maybe he noticed and chose to look away. The thought alone carved another hollow into her chest.
Y/N mourned him like a widow. She mourned her simple life in Miss Stanford’s boarding house, the warmth of being called “dear,” the hum of Peggy’s laughter at the office, the way her heart had soared every time Bucky had reached for her hand. She mourned the stolen mornings, the stolen kisses, the stolen future that could never be.
Now, there was nothing.
--
The decision came slowly at first, born from sleepless nights and the gnawing ache in her chest, but once it rooted itself, it consumed her.
He had loved her once.
She told herself that truth over and over again until it rang like gospel in her mind. James Buchanan Barnes — the soldier with the charming grin, the man who held her hand in crowded rooms, who whispered against her hair that he wasn’t going anywhere — he had fallen in love with her once. So why not again?
That thought became her lifeline, her way out of the endless mourning that had turned her into a ghost in her own home.
From that day forward, Y/N forced herself out of bed. Not because the grief was gone — it wasn’t — but because she clung to the idea that if she could just remind him, if she could just show him the girl he had once chased so recklessly, then maybe, just maybe, the spark would catch again.
The rituals began.
She started with the showers. Long, steaming, deliberate. She scrubbed herself until her skin flushed pink, as though she could wash off the sorrow that clung to her like a second skin. The water ran over her face, and sometimes she cried beneath it, but she always stepped out with a new determination. She would not let him see her broken. Not this Bucky.
Her vanity became her altar. She lined her makeup carefully, recalling the little things he used to murmur about in the 1940s — how he liked when she wore her lipstick in subtle shades, not too bright, but enough to draw his eyes; how he thought she looked “classy” when her eyeliner sharpened her gaze. She styled her hair every morning, brushing until it shone, pinning it up or curling it down, sometimes even shaping it into the waves she’d worn back in the forties. She wanted to see his reaction, to see if he preferred the familiar or the modern.
Then came the clothes.
She spent hours choosing, laying dresses across her bedspread, rejecting each until she found one that whispered elegant, not desperate. Some days she wore tailored pants and blouses, sharp and crisp, to remind him she could hold her own in this modern world. Other days, she slipped into the soft dresses Miss Stanford had once praised, dresses that clung in the same way her wardrobe had in Brooklyn. Each outfit was a question, each appearance an experiment: Do you like me this way? Do you remember me like this?
She practiced her smile in the mirror. Small, demure, the kind that had once made him lean closer. Then wider, teasing, the kind that had coaxed him into laughter during their long walks home. She rehearsed her laugh too, quiet and low, because she remembered him telling her it made him feel like he’d won something when he got her to laugh.
When she stepped out of her room, she was transformed. To the team, she was polished, elegant, perfectly put together. Not the ghost they had feared losing, but someone determined to rejoin the world.
But only she knew the truth.
Every brushstroke, every curl of hair, every swipe of lipstick — all of it was for him.
And Bucky noticed. But not the way she had hoped.
The first time, she had walked into the kitchen, her hair styled in vintage waves, her lips painted in the same muted shade she’d worn the night he first kissed her in another life. She forced her hands to stay steady as she poured coffee, waiting for him to glance up. And he did.
But his brow furrowed, his gaze lingering in confusion rather than admiration. He didn’t smile, didn’t tease, didn’t reach for her the way she remembered. His eyes slid past her as though he couldn’t place why she seemed familiar, then dropped back to his cup.
The ache of it nearly doubled her over.
Still, she persisted.
Day after day, she sought him out. She would approach when he sat with Steve, offering casual conversation, never pressing too hard. She’d smile at him in the halls, her heart leaping at the chance of eye contact. She’d position herself nearby in the common room, pretending to read, hoping he would notice her presence and bridge the space between them like he once had.
Sometimes he looked at her, but never in the way she remembered. His expression was puzzled, wary even, like she was a song he almost recognized but couldn’t place the melody. Other times, he didn’t look at her at all. She would speak, carefully measured sentences that danced between friendly and inviting, and his responses were short, polite, detached.
The more she tried, the stranger his looks became.
She caught him once, whispering something to Sam, who gave her a glance heavy with pity before quickly looking away. That pity hollowed her out worse than silence ever could.
She doubled down after that.
More showers. More makeup. More rehearsed smiles. She studied herself ruthlessly, searching for flaws, for cracks, for the piece of her that might have broken somewhere between timelines. If he had loved her before, then there had to be a way to make him see her again. There had to be.
But every attempt was met with the same response. Confusion. Distance. Sometimes even avoidance.
And still, she couldn’t stop.
Because letting go meant admitting she had lost him — her Bucky — forever. And if she admitted that, if she faced that reality, then what was left for her?
So she painted her lips and pinned her hair, day after day, pouring herself into the possibility that one look, one smile, one word might break through. That the man who had once chased her like a lost puppy might someday turn his head again.
But with each indifferent glance, each puzzled frown, Y/N’s hope thinned. What had once been a lifeline now wrapped around her throat like a noose.
And still, she clung to it.
Because the alternative was unbearable.
--
That morning, Y/N sat in front of her mirror longer than usual. The steam from her shower still clung to the air, fogging the glass until she wiped it with a towel, revealing her reflection. Her hands trembled slightly as she traced the curve of her lip with muted red lipstick, the same shade she’d chosen so many times before. She whispered to herself, soft and steady, like a prayer she had memorized.
He loved me once, he will love me twice.
She repeated it again as she brushed her hair into soft waves, again as she pinned the sides back with delicate clips, again as she buttoned the pale blue blouse that brought out the light in her eyes. He loved me once, he will love me twice. Each word anchored her, steadied her, pulled her out of the black hole that loomed whenever doubt crept too close.
By the time she walked into the common diner where the team gathered, her armor was complete: polished hair, precise makeup, blouse tucked neatly into a flowing skirt. She wore hope like perfume, layered thick enough that maybe, just maybe, he would notice.
The room hummed with life. Sam sat at the counter, scrolling through his phone. Wanda was nursing a coffee, deep in thought. Natasha and Clint argued playfully over something that made Steve shake his head with a faint smile. Everyone was busy in their own rhythm.
And then there was Bucky.
He sat at one of the corner tables, a steaming mug of tea by his side, his focus locked on the laptop in front of him. The blue glow of the screen reflected faintly in his eyes as his metal fingers tapped the keys with steady rhythm. His shoulders were relaxed, his jaw clean-shaven, a faint crease in his brow that told her he was concentrating. He looked — normal. So perfectly normal, so effortlessly himself. And to her, that was everything.
She hesitated only for a moment before crossing the room, forcing a smile into place as she slid into the chair opposite him.
“Morning,” she said brightly, her voice a little higher than she intended.
Bucky glanced up briefly, his expression unreadable, before returning to the screen. “Morning,” he murmured, not unkind, but not inviting either.
She folded her hands on the table, leaning forward slightly. “Tea again? You always drink tea. Back then you used to—” she stopped herself, biting down on the words too late. “I mean, uh, don’t you ever want coffee instead?”
Bucky’s eyes flicked up again, faint confusion flashing across his features. “I don’t do well with coffee,” he said simply, tapping something into his laptop. His tone made it clear the conversation could end there.
But she couldn’t let it. Not today.
“Oh, right. That makes sense.” She laughed softly, a practiced sound. “I guess you’ve always been… consistent. That’s a good thing, you know? It means people can rely on you. Like Steve. You and him — steady as ever. That’s nice. Really nice.”
He hummed in vague acknowledgment, fingers still moving across the keyboard.
Her pulse thudded in her ears. She needed more. She needed him to look at her, to see her.
“You know,” she continued quickly, filling the silence before it could stretch too far, “I’ve been thinking about trying tea myself. Maybe green tea, or peppermint? They say it’s good for the nerves, and God knows I’ve been… well, I’ve been wound up lately. But you already knew that, didn’t you?” She let out another nervous laugh, her words tumbling faster now. “I mean, you’ve probably noticed. I talk too much sometimes. You used to like that, though. You’d say it gave you an excuse not to—” Again, she cut herself off, forcing her smile wider.
This time, Bucky’s hands stilled. His jaw flexed. Slowly, he looked up at her, really looked, his blue eyes sharp and direct.
“Y/N,” he said evenly. “Is there something you need?”
The question was blunt, almost clinical. It landed in her chest like a stone. She swallowed, leaning in further, desperate to bridge the space.
“No, I just thought... we could talk. Spend time. You don’t talk to me much, and I thought maybe I could remind you— I mean, not remind, not exactly, but just...” Her words tangled, tripped over themselves as she tried to reel them back, but her mouth wouldn’t stop. “You always look so serious, you know? I thought maybe I could make you laugh again. You used to laugh so easily with me. With— with people. With Steve. I just wanted..”
“Y/N.”
His voice snapped like a whip, low but sharp enough to slice through her rambling. She froze, her throat tight, as the weight of his gaze bore down on her. The laptop clicked shut with a firm motion, the sound echoing in the sudden hush of the room.
“You’ve been acting… weird around me,” Bucky said, his words slow, deliberate. “For weeks now. Dressing up, staring, starting these… conversations that don’t go anywhere. It’s—” He exhaled, dragging a hand down his face. “It’s making me uncomfortable.”
Her heart stopped.
Uncomfortable.
The word rattled through her bones, louder than any gunshot she’d ever heard.
Around them, chairs creaked softly. Conversations had stilled. She felt the weight of eyes pressing into her back, the kind of silence that meant everyone was listening. Watching.
“No, I...I didn’t mean—” Her voice cracked, panic clawing up her throat. “I just wanted to talk, Bucky. Just to be around you. I didn’t think, I wasn’t trying to—”
But he shook his head, jaw tightening. “Whatever it is you’re trying, stop. Please. I don’t know what’s going on with you, but I can’t. I won’t keep doing this.”
Her breath caught, trembling in her chest. She wanted to explain, to tell him everything, to shout you loved me once, don’t you remember?, but the words turned to ash on her tongue. She saw only the frustration in his eyes, the guarded distance, the wall she could not climb.
The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating. No one spoke. No one moved.
Y/N forced a smile, brittle and thin, her fingers knotting together until her knuckles whitened. “Of course,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “I understand.”
But she didn’t. Not really.
Because how could she understand a world where he no longer loved her?
Y/N didn’t remember leaving the diner. One moment she had been sitting there, every eye fixed on her as Bucky’s voice cut like glass, and the next her legs were carrying her down the corridor, blind, unsteady. She barely heard Sam call her name, or the scrape of a chair as Steve half rose to follow. She didn’t stop, couldn’t stop. The walls blurred, the air felt thin, her chest tight and raw. All she knew was that she had to get away before the tears broke free in front of them all.
By the time she reached her room, her hands were shaking so hard she nearly dropped her keycard. The lock beeped, the door swung open, and she stumbled inside. The moment it shut behind her, the dam burst. She pressed her back against the door and slid down until she hit the floor, sobs tearing through her chest with such violence it startled even her.
“He loved me once,” she whispered, her voice hoarse, clinging to the words like a lifeline. Her hands dug into her hair, nails scraping her scalp. “He loved me once, he will love me twice.”
She repeated it again and again, rocking forward and back, each repetition more frantic than the last. But the mantra, once her anchor, now sounded hollow, ridiculous, broken. Her voice cracked, strangled by tears, and still she forced the words out, as though if she said them enough times they would bend reality to her will.
“He loved me once… he will love me twice… he loved me once…”
The words fell apart into sobs. She pressed her palms hard against her ears as if she could drown out Bucky’s voice echoing inside her skull, the way he had said it: uncomfortable. She hated the way the word wrapped around her, suffocating, making her own skin feel foreign. In her desperation, her nails dragged down her arms, leaving red crescents. She smacked her forehead lightly against her knees, again and again, trying to silence the storm inside, trying to punish herself for failing him, for failing them.
Minutes or maybe hours passed this way. Her tears blurred her vision, her throat raw from crying. Her chest ached from the force of her sobs. Slowly, exhaustion crept in, weighing down her limbs until she could no longer fight. Her rocking slowed, her fists uncurled, and she slumped sideways onto the floor, her body trembling from the aftermath.
She dragged herself weakly across the carpet toward the nightstand, pulling open the bottom drawer with shaking fingers. Inside lay the small collection of treasures she had carried back from the past — the only proof that it had been real. Her hand hovered for a moment before she picked up the photograph: her and Bucky, captured in a grainy black-and-white snapshot, both of them smiling, carefree, in love. His arm was around her shoulders, her head tipped toward him. It was a face of his that no one here had ever seen, not this version of him.
Her tears blurred the photo as she traced his jawline with her thumb. “You loved me,” she whispered, voice breaking. “I swear you did. I didn’t make it up. You loved me.”
Next she reached for the bundle of letters, the paper yellowed with age, each envelope bearing his messy scrawl. She pressed them to her chest, rocking slightly, breathing in the faint scent of old ink and dust as if it could conjure him again. The words inside were burned into her memory — promises, confessions, jokes, longing — but she couldn’t bring herself to open them tonight. To read them would be to break herself further, to peel open wounds that already gaped too wide.
Finally, she reached for the ring.
It sat in a small velvet box, worn at the corners, the lid loosened from years of opening and closing. Inside gleamed the simple silver band Bucky had pressed into her hand all those decades ago, his voice shaking as he asked her to marry him. She remembered the way his eyes had shone, the way his fingers trembled when he slid it onto hers, the way her heart had swelled with a joy so pure it had felt like it might lift her off the earth.
Now, in this time, it was nothing but a meaningless ring. To him, this Bucky, it was just metal, just a circle without weight, without memory. He wouldn’t recognize it. Wouldn’t recognize her.
She clutched it tightly, curling her body around it like it could shield her from the ache gnawing her insides. Her tears soaked the carpet as she kissed the cold band, whispering promises into it as if it were his ear. “I’ll make you remember. I’ll find a way back to you. I’ll make it real again. You loved me once, you’ll love me twice. You have to.”
But even as she said it, she knew. She could feel the hollowness in the words, the futility.
Her sobs softened eventually into hiccupping gasps, her energy drained. Her body ached from tension, her head pounded from crying, and still she refused to let go of the ring, the photograph, the letters. She curled into bed clutching them all to her chest, cocooning herself in the remnants of a life no one else believed existed.
And there, in the silence of her room, Y/N let exhaustion pull her under, her final thought a fractured prayer:
He loved me once. He will love me twice.
Even if she was the only one who remembered.
--
Life didn’t stop, even when Y/N wanted it to.
Every morning she forced herself out of bed with the same mechanical rhythm, repeating the same hollow affirmations as she brushed her hair, painted her face, pulled on clothes that made her look alive. She’d stare into the mirror and whisper, “He loved me once, he will love me twice.” But her reflection always looked back with empty eyes, a stranger who carried the ghost of a girl who had once been happy. She looked the part of someone in control, but inside, she was crumbling.
On missions, she was efficient. She moved when told, fought when needed, retrieved what was asked. Her body responded out of habit, muscle memory guiding her through combat, but her heart was absent. She didn’t banter, didn’t smile, didn’t join the others afterward when they debriefed and traded jokes to lighten the mood. She drifted silently back to her quarters, like a shadow slipping away from the team.
The only person she spoke to willingly was Bruce. Not because she had the energy to, but because he was different. Bruce didn’t push, didn’t prod, didn’t pry open wounds she wasn’t ready to show. He’d check on her in small ways — sliding tea across the table without a word, reminding her softly to eat, letting her sit in the lab and lose herself in silence while he worked. He had once saved her when she was nothing more than a broken experiment, and for that she had always viewed him as something unshakable, almost paternal. But even with him, she couldn’t bring herself to care as deeply as before. He was there, and she appreciated it, but she was numb.
The numbness was the worst part.
It started creeping in during the evenings. When the missions were done, when she returned to her room and there was nothing left to distract her, the silence pressed in on her again. She’d sit on the edge of her bed, staring at the drawer where the ring and the photograph waited, her fingers itching to open it. Some nights she did, clutching them until her chest ached, other nights she didn’t, too afraid of the pain that would follow.
And so she began to look for ways to fill the silence.
At first, it was a glass of wine. Something to help her sleep, something to soften the edges of her grief. Then it was two glasses. Then she started sneaking bottles back to her room after missions, telling herself it was just for the nights she couldn’t handle the weight of her memories. Soon it wasn’t just nights. A drink before a briefing to steady her nerves. A flask tucked into her bag for downtime. A bottle shared with no one but herself.
Alcohol dulled the ache. It blurred the edges of her thoughts, made the past feel less sharp, made the present easier to endure. For a little while, it let her pretend. With enough in her system, she could almost believe she was still back in the 1940s, walking home with Bucky’s laughter in her ears, Peggy’s arm hooked through hers, Miss Stanford waiting at home with a warm meal. It was a fragile fantasy, but it was better than the emptiness.
But when the haze wore off, the crash came harder. Her body ached, her head throbbed, and the weight of what she had lost returned twice as heavy. The shame of it gnawed at her, but not enough to stop her from reaching for the next bottle. She told herself it was normal — she was just unwinding, just trying to cope like anyone else would. But deep down she knew. She was no longer drinking for comfort. She was drinking to disappear.
Her teammates noticed, of course. How could they not? The way her eyes glazed at dinner, the faint smell of liquor clinging to her breath, the sloppiness in her once-perfect movements during training. Whispers passed between them, concerned glances thrown her way. But no one confronted her directly — maybe out of fear, maybe out of respect for the walls she had built. They didn’t understand what she had lost. They couldn’t.
And so, day after day, she went through the motions. Missions. Showers. Makeup. Smiles painted on with careful precision. But now is wasn't for Bucky, it was for HER James. Night after night, she drank until the world blurred and the silence dulled. Morning after morning, she repeated her affirmations with a trembling voice:
He loved me once, he will love me twice.
But the words no longer rang with hope. They sounded like a prayer abandoned by its god. She didn't even tried anymore, she just...kinda hoped that her dream would drown her and maybe something magical would happen and give her love again.
She wasn’t living anymore. She was surviving, barely.
And deep down, Y/N wondered if maybe she was already gone, if the girl who had once laughed and danced in Bucky’s arms had died the moment she was dragged back to the present, leaving behind only a hollow shell in her place.
--
The bass rattled in her chest like a second heartbeat.
The club was thick with smoke and neon light, bodies pressed together, sweat and perfume clinging to the air. Y/N was somewhere in the middle of it all, glass in one hand, cigarette dangling between her lips, swaying to the music like a puppet strung loosely on invisible wires. Her head lolled with the beat, too heavy, too empty, her thoughts drowned in the haze of liquor that burned in her veins.
She couldn’t even remember how many drinks she had tonight. A shot at the bar, another pressed into her hand by one of the girls she had met last week, two more she bought herself just to feel the burn slide down her throat. They weren’t friends, not really — just strangers who liked the way she looked and welcomed another girl to their table. They laughed, shouted, clinked glasses, disappeared into the crowd, and she went with them because being surrounded by noise was better than being alone.
She tipped her head back, exhaling a plume of smoke toward the flashing lights above. The cigarette crackled between her fingers, its glow sharp against the dim. It went so well with the drink, she thought, the bitter taste curling with the sharp burn of vodka. She had picked up the habit without even thinking, one night when someone offered her a light, and now it felt as natural as breathing.
Her phone buzzed against her thigh. Again. She tugged it from her pocket, eyes squinting at the screen.
20 missed calls — Bruce.
Her stomach twisted, but only for a second. She shoved the phone back, ignoring the guilt that tried to claw its way up. He’d been calling for days now, every time she didn’t come back to the compound, every time she vanished into this haze. He was worried — she knew that. She didn’t care. Not enough to stop. Not enough to leave. Not enough to face the silence waiting for her back there.
The beat shifted, faster now, pulling her deeper into the crowd. She moved with it, not dancing so much as drifting, her arms loose, her hair damp at her temples. She could feel the stares on her — men, women, people searching for a spark, for someone to touch, for someone to take home. She didn’t mind. Let them look. Let them want. She wasn’t even sure if she was real anymore.
“Hey there,” a voice slid through the noise.
She blinked, turning sluggishly. A man had stepped into her orbit, tall, smiling, harmless. His words weren’t sharp, his body language easy. Just a man flirting with a pretty girl on a dance floor. She should’ve brushed him off, but something in her, cracked and desperate, let him stay.
She tilted her chin up, a lazy smile tugging her lips.
And then she saw his eyes.
Green. Bright. Familiar in a way that made her chest cave in.
Her breath hitched.
Her gaze darted up — dark hair falling into his face, that roguish smile curling his mouth. Her stomach dropped, knees weakening beneath her. It couldn’t be. It couldn’t be. But it was.
“Bucky…” she breathed, her voice lost in the music, her lips forming the name anyway.
It was him. Not the cold, distant Bucky who barely looked at her now. Not the haunted soldier. This was her Bucky. The one who held her when she cried, who whispered promises against her lips, who made her feel alive. Younger, softer, brighter. The man she loved. The man she lost. He was here.
Her hands shook as she reached for him, laughter bubbling in her chest, broken and euphoric. “You came back… oh my god, you came back.”
He leaned closer, said something she couldn’t hear over the pounding bass, but it didn’t matter. His presence was enough. His smile was enough. She drowned in his eyes, convinced for a heartbeat that the universe had bent, that love had broken through time again.
But then—
She blinked.
The crowd shifted. The lights strobed red, then blue, then gold. She turned, searching.
And he was gone.
No trace of him in the throng of dancers. No dark hair, no green eyes, no smile that belonged only to her. Just strangers grinding to the beat, strangers laughing at the bar, strangers moving on with lives that weren’t hers.
Her heart thudded against her ribs, frantic. She spun in place, shoving past the girls who called her name, her drink sloshing over her hand. “Bucky?” she whispered, louder, her voice cracking, though no one heard her. “Bucky?”
Nothing.
Her cigarette burned down to ash between her fingers, forgotten. Her eyes blurred, tears stinging, as the truth clawed its way in. He hadn’t been there. He never was. He never would be.
She had hallucinated him. Her brain, drowning in liquor and smoke, had conjured the one thing she wanted most and dangled it in front of her like a cruel joke. She was losing her grip — not just on him, not just on the dream of their life, but on reality itself.
Her chest caved as she realized: she had gone crazy.
He was there. She kept telling herself that, even as she knew it wasn’t true. She had seen him. She had touched him. For one perfect moment he had belonged to her again, and maybe that was enough. Maybe being insane was easier than being heartbroken.
She laughed so hard her ribs ached, head thrown back, cigarette smoke curling into her hair. She wasn’t herself anymore. She wasn’t the girl who cried herself to sleep. She wasn’t the soldier who had fought alongside gods and heroes. She wasn’t even the girl who once believed in love. She was a shell in glitter and sweat, screaming into the void, convincing herself that losing her mind was liberation.
Hours blurred.
At some point, she stumbled outside into the night, the air thick with city fumes and the acrid sweetness of weed. A circle of people passed joints around, lighters flickering like fireflies. She sat down among them without asking, accepting the smoke with a giggle, lungs burning as she dragged it deep. Her mind was already fogged with alcohol, but this—this took her higher, so high that the concrete beneath her felt like clouds.
Her vision fractured. Neon lights bled into the stars, and the laughter around her warped until it sounded like music. She leaned her head back against the brick wall, exhaling smoke, and let herself drown in the haze.
For the first time in months, she felt happy. Not real happiness, a false, sticky version that dulled the ache, smoothed over the grief with numb euphoria. Her cheeks hurt from smiling, but she didn’t stop. If this was madness, she welcomed it. Better to be lost than to feel everything.
Her phone buzzed again. She ignored it. It had been buzzing all night, the name Bruce flashing across the screen until the letters blurred. She’d stopped counting the missed calls.
The laughter around her grew louder, but she wasn’t sure if it was theirs or hers.
Two days. Two whole days of disappearing into this haze. Of never answering. Of never going home.
And then—
A car rolled up to the curb, headlights slicing through the smoke and shadows. The group groaned, squinting, some scattering away, thinking it might be cops. But Y/N just stared, blinking slowly, too drunk, too high, too gone to move.
The passenger door flew open.
“Y/N!”
Her heart stuttered.
Bruce.
He climbed out of the car with urgency she hadn’t seen in years, his face twisted with fear and anger all at once. Behind him, Steve sat behind the wheel, his jaw tight, eyes searching, his hand gripping the steering wheel like he’d tear it off.
“Y/N,” Bruce said again, rushing toward her. His voice was rough, breaking. “Oh my god.”
She blinked at him, giggling, smoke spilling from her lips as she smiled up at him like a child caught doing something forbidden. “Brucey,” she slurred, her voice cracking around laughter. “You found me.”
His expression shattered. He crouched in front of her, hands trembling as he tried to steady her shoulders. “You haven’t answered your phone in two days. Two days. Do you have any idea—” His words broke off, his throat too tight to finish.
Steve had gotten out of the car now, his presence looming in the dark. His eyes swept over her, the glassy stare, the unsteady body, the reek of liquor and smoke clinging to her. For a moment, something like pain flickered across his face, but he hid it quickly, falling into the silent strength he always carried.
“Let’s get you home,” Bruce said softly, pleading this time. “Please.”
But Y/N just laughed again, tipping her head back, tears springing unbidden to her eyes even as she smiled. “I saw him,” she whispered, voice slurring, a secret meant only for herself. “My Bucky. He came back. I didn't even know it was possible.”
Bruce froze, confused. Steve’s eyes flicked to her sharply.
But Y/N didn’t notice. She was too far gone, lost in her illusion, clutching at the ghost of a dream that had never been there.
--
They brought her back like carrying glass — fragile, cracked, already splintering.
Bruce didn’t let anyone else near her as they crossed through the compound’s halls. Steve walked alongside, silent, his shoulders tense as if the weight of her destruction rested on him too. The guards at the elevator stared, the late-night staff whispered, but no one dared ask questions. Everyone could see it: the wreck of Y/N, limbs loose, head lolling against Bruce’s shoulder, her perfume drowned in liquor and smoke.
By the time they got her into the tower, Bruce was already speaking to her softly, desperate. “You need to talk to us. You can’t keep doing this, Y/N. You’re not some teenager sneaking out of class. You’re an agent. Do you understand what this looks like? Do you understand what this does to you?”
Steve shut the door behind them, his voice firmer, sharper. “He’s right. You’re reckless. Drinking until you black out, smoking, disappearing for days. It’s dangerous, and it’s beneath you. You’re stronger than this.”
But Y/N, sitting slumped on the couch with her makeup smeared and her hair tangled, just laughed. Not a bitter laugh, not even a mocking one. Just a hollow sound that slipped past her lips like she couldn’t contain it, her chest shaking with something between hysteria and despair.
Bruce crouched in front of her, eyes burning, trying to catch her gaze. “Why?” he asked, his voice breaking with the kind of grief that only a father figure could feel. “Why are you doing this? You were the shyest girl in this team, you barely spoke when we first brought you in. Sweet, kind, terrified of stepping out of line. And now—now you’re like a stranger. What happened to you?”
For the first time, she looked at him. Her eyes were glassy, unfocused, but the smile that tugged her lips was raw, cracked. “I had everything, Bruce,” she whispered, the words running together, heavy with drink. “You don’t get it. That mission… it was everything. Everything.”
Steve stepped closer, frowning, his arms crossed but his jaw tight with unease. “What do you mean? Did something happen? You’ve been different ever since you came back. Tell us.”
Her laughter bubbled again, spilling out too loud, too bright, her head tipping back as tears streaked her face. “I had a normal life,” she said, half-choking on the words. “Do you hear me? Normal. I worked, I cooked, I danced. I wasn’t a soldier, I wasn’t a weapon. I was just..me.”
Bruce’s breath caught, but she didn’t give him time to respond. She leaned forward suddenly, eyes wide, voice rising as though she were confessing a sin. “And I fell in love. God, I fell so hard. He chased me like some lost puppy, wouldn’t leave me alone, and I fought it, I fought it so hard, but I loved him anyway. He conquered me. He—he asked me to marry him.”
Her hands fumbled at her side, trembling, before she held them up for both of them to see. The silver band gleamed faintly against her shaking fingers, catching the low light of the room.
“I said yes,” she whispered, a sob catching at the edge of her voice. “He gave me this ring. He was mine.”
Bruce froze. Steve’s mouth parted, his chest rising sharply, the color draining from his face.
Neither of them spoke, but the horror was written across both their expressions, horror at the words, horror at the ring, horror at the idea that the mission they had thought was routine had instead rewritten the core of Y/N’s soul.
Steve finally found his voice, low and edged with disbelief. “Who?”
Y/N’s smile stretched wider, almost delirious now, tears glinting on her cheeks as she met Steve’s eyes and whispered, “Bucky.”
The silence after was absolute.
Bruce’s hand fell from her knee. Steve’s fists clenched at his sides. The world seemed to tilt, the reality of her confession crushing down on both men as they realized just how much she had lost, and just how little they had understood until this moment.
Y/N sat slumped forward, the silver band still trembling in her fingers. Her smile had already fractured, giving way to quiet sobs that broke through the alcohol’s haze. But once she started talking, the words wouldn’t stop. They came like floodwaters, spilling every memory she had buried.
“It started with a dance,” she whispered, her voice trembling, her gaze lost in some place only she could see. “That’s how we met. He asked me, and I laughed it off, I recognized him. So I said no. And then he asked again and...it was harmless when I said yes at first. And the night after that. He didn’t stop.”
Steve’s breath hitched quietly, but she didn’t hear him. She was too far gone in her own spiral.
“I told myself it was nothing,” she went on, words tumbling fast, uneven, “that I’d never fall, that I’d never let anyone close. But he was everywhere, Bruce. He was persistent. Relentless. He smiled, and it wasn’t the smile I know now. It wasn’t broken. It wasn’t cold. He was warm. He was whole. He wanted me.”
Her chest caved with a sob, and she clutched at the ring as if it were the only anchor keeping her steady. “He was my first kiss. My first date. My first time. The first man who made me believe I was worth loving. Do you understand? For the first time in my whole damn life, I wasn’t an experiment, or a mission, or a mistake. I was just...his. We dreamed together. We talked about a future. About a house, about children, about growing old.”
Her tears blurred her vision, and she turned helplessly toward Bruce, the man she trusted most. “I loved him, Bruce. God, I loved him so much.”
Bruce’s throat tightened, but he stayed quiet, letting her spill. His hands had curled into fists against his knees, fighting his own grief as hers poured out.
Her voice dropped, heavy with guilt, breaking as the next confession tore through her chest. “And I tried to change it. His future. I thought if I was careful enough, if I loved him hard enough, if I warned him… maybe Hydra wouldn’t take him. Maybe he’d never fall, never be tortured, never become what the world made him. Maybe he’d be safe—with me.”
Steve’s face went white, his knuckles taut against his crossed arms.
Y/N broke entirely then, her body folding in on itself as tears streaked down her cheeks. “But I failed. I failed, Bruce. They took him anyway. It was already written, already too late, and I—I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t save him.”
Her words were strangled by sobs, but she forced them out, desperate for someone to hear, to understand. “So I came back. Because there was nothing left for me there. I knew what would happen, and I couldn’t live it again. And now I’m here, and he doesn’t remember me, he doesn’t even know me. And I lost him all over again.”
Bruce closed his eyes, his face pinched with pain, but when he opened them again they were glassy, soft. "Oh, kid."
She shook her head, sobbing harder. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I messed with the past, I just wanted him. I just wanted him to be happy—and with me. I thought I could do it, I thought I could fix it, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t.”
Her hands clutched the ring so tightly the band cut into her skin, her knuckles pale, her whole body trembling with the force of her grief.
Steve finally stepped forward, his voice low and raw, though his chest burned with a thousand unspoken emotions. “Y/N...are you telling me that in the past...in my time...you and Bucky…” His words faltered, his throat thick, as though saying them aloud made them too real.
But she didn’t answer him. She just buried her face in her hands, whispering broken apologies into the hollow space of the room, the sound of her sobs shattering both men who watched her drown.
Steve stood frozen in place, his stomach knotted in ways he hadn’t felt in years. Bucky’s name on Y/N’s lips had cracked something inside him, something fragile and buried. He stared at her as though she had just confessed to stealing time itself—because in a way, she had. The Bucky she described… warm, whole, relentless in his affection..that was the Bucky Steve remembered. The boy who never gave up, who laughed too loud, who lived life with a fire in his chest. The boy who had been his anchor before the world drowned them both.
But hearing Y/N speak of him like that, of kisses, of first dates, of promises of a future—Steve’s heart stumbled. He felt protective, confused, almost betrayed. This was his Bucky, his best friend, the man whose ghost he had carried through decades of ice and war. And now here was Y/N, painting a picture of him that Steve hadn’t been able to see for years.
Bruce broke the silence first, his voice even, careful, trying to ground the spiraling tension in the room. “Alright… let’s take this one step at a time. Y/N, you’re saying you and Bucky… the Bucky from the 1940s… you had a relationship?”
Y/N lifted her tear-streaked face, eyes glassy, and nodded shakily. “More than that. He loved me. He wanted me. He asked me to marry him.” Her hand trembled as she held up the simple silver band again, proof etched into her skin. “I said yes. I had a home, a life… with him.”
Steve’s throat closed. The ring glinted in the low light, and he couldn’t stop staring at it. His Bucky, offering this girl a future. It felt wrong, and yet heartbreakingly right. He could picture it all too clearly—the way Bucky would have smiled when he asked, the way he would have poured his whole heart into it, the way he always had. Steve swallowed hard, his voice finally scraping out of him. “That… that sounds like him.”
Y/N’s lip trembled, the sound of Steve’s agreement almost undoing her all over again. “And now” her voice cracked, raw with desperation, “now I’m stuck here. With him again. But not him. Not the man I knew, not the man who loved me. This version, this Bucky, he looks at me like I’m nothing but a nuisance. Like I’m insane every time I try to talk to him. Cold. Sharp. Distant.”
She wrapped her arms around herself as if to keep from splintering apart completely. “Do you know what it’s like, Steve? To look at the face of the person you love, the same eyes, the same voice, the same smile, and know he doesn’t remember, doesn’t care, doesn’t want you? To feel him look at you like you’re a stranger when you were his everything?”
Her words shook Steve down to his marrow. He did know. He knew that exact feeling, watching Bucky return from Hydra’s grip a stranger, hollow, changed into something cold and sharp. Steve’s fists tightened against his sides, nails digging into his palms. The memory of chasing after Bucky across continents, desperate to remind him who he was, burned behind his eyes. And here was Y/N, reliving that same agony in her own way.
Bruce leaned forward, voice steady but firm, his gaze flicking between the two of them. “We need to be careful here. This isn’t just about you, Y/N. If what you’re saying is true, if Bucky fell in love with you back then, if you really tried to change his future..then telling him now could…” He exhaled slowly. “It could break him. Or it could break you both.”
Y/N’s chest rose and fell in uneven gasps, but she forced herself to meet Bruce’s gaze. “I already tried, Bruce. I already tried to reach him. I dressed the way he liked, I made conversations, I tried to just.. be there. To give him reasons to look at me the way he used to. And every time..” Her voice faltered, thick with humiliation. “Every time he looked at me like I was crazy. Like I was a burden. He doesn’t see me. He doesn’t feel me. And it’s driving me insane.”
Her eyes brimmed again, wild with grief. “Because he did love me once. He did. He promised me everything. And now he can’t even stand to be in the same room with me.”
--
The weeks that followed were like trudging through molasses. Time moved, but slowly, as though it pitied her. Y/N had stopped disappearing into clubs, stopped drenching herself in liquor and smoke until she forgot who she was. She had Bruce and Steve to thank for that—two anchors who never judged her brokenness, who sat with her through the silence, who reminded her to eat, to drink water, to breathe. They couldn’t fix the hollow ache inside her, but they steadied her enough so it didn’t swallow her whole.
Still, some wounds lingered raw. Every time Bucky walked past her in the compound, barely sparing a glance, something inside her shriveled. He existed in her orbit but not with her, never with her, and that rejection still stung like a fresh bruise. Steve and Bruce knew it, but there was nothing they could do. They couldn’t force him to feel something he didn’t remember, couldn’t pull love out of a man who hadn’t lived it.
So Y/N clung to what she had left. The ring. The letters. The photographs she had smuggled back across time like fragile glass. Her treasures, her proof. The reminders that she wasn’t crazy, that once, she had been loved deeply, fiercely, without hesitation.
That afternoon in the lab, she sat across from Steve and Bruce with those photographs spread out carefully on the table, their corners curling with age. Her fingers traced each one like a prayer.
“This was our first dance,” she said softly, almost to herself, sliding a sepia-toned image forward. A young woman in a patterned dress smiled shyly at the camera, her hand clasped in Bucky’s. His grin was wide, full of that cocky charm Steve remembered so well. His eyes shone with a spark Steve hadn’t seen in decades.
Steve leaned closer, studying the picture. It felt like looking at a ghost—and yet, there it was. His best friend, alive, vibrant, pulling a girl close as though she was the only person in the room. Steve swallowed thickly. “He looks..happy,” he murmured, voice cracking just slightly. “Happier than I’ve seen him in a long time.”
Y/N’s lips trembled into the faintest smile. “He was. He really was.” She slid another photograph forward, her hands shaking less now. “This one was after our first date. He insisted on buying one of those instant photos, even though I told him I hated how I looked.” She laughed quietly, the sound lined with both joy and ache. “But he said he wanted proof that I existed, that I wasn’t a dream. That if he ever woke up, he’d know I was real.”
Bruce’s brows knitted, but his lips softened. He studied the photo like a scientist and a father all at once, seeing not just the evidence but the emotion between them. He had long since stopped doubting her. What he saw now was a girl who had lived something extraordinary and lost it.
The pictures kept coming: a blurry one of them laughing at a diner, Bucky kissing her temple; one of her tucked against his chest, his arms wrapped around her as though he’d never let go. Each image pulled Steve deeper into a swirl of nostalgia and grief. Part of him wanted to look away, wanted to shield himself from the ache of knowing this version of Bucky would never recall these moments—but another part..another part was glad. Glad that, even if he couldn’t remember it, Bucky had once had this.
“You gave him somethin’ good,” Steve said finally, his voice quiet but steady, his eyes fixed on the photo where Bucky’s smile was so wide it looked boyish. “Better than most people ever get. I think… I think he’d be glad he had that, even if he doesn’t know it now.”
Y/N blinked, her throat tightening, but she nodded. Steve’s words were balm and blade at the same time. She wanted so badly to believe them, to cling to the thought that somewhere inside the fractured man in her world was the boy who once asked her to dance.
Bruce leaned back in his chair, folding his arms as he watched her. His expression was pained, but gentle. “You can’t live in the past forever, kid. But that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.”
For the first time in weeks, Y/N let herself breathe. The ache didn’t leave, but it loosened just enough for her to manage a small, tired smile. She pressed the photographs into her palm like lifelines, whispering, “That’s all I need. To know it mattered. To know he mattered.”
The letters began as fragments. A few sentences scrawled in the middle of the night, words that burned too heavy to keep inside. I miss the way you held my hand when we walked across the street. I miss your laugh when you pretended you couldn’t dance but did it anyway just to make me smile.
Soon they grew longer. Whole pages, ink smudged from trembling hands or the trail of her tears. She wrote to him when she needed him most, when the silence pressed in too tight or when she caught herself reaching for someone who wasn’t there.
None of them were ever meant to be read. They were her way of talking to him when she couldn’t anymore, of keeping him alive in the only way she knew how.
Over time, the lines in her mind began to sharpen. She stopped waiting for the present-day Bucky to suddenly see her, stopped chasing recognition in eyes that only looked through her. This man—the man walking the halls of the tower, the man whose life had been carved apart by Hydra—wasn’t her Bucky. He never would be.
And once she accepted that truth, the pain eased. Not gone, never gone, but softened into something she could carry without breaking every time. She had lived the love. She had lost it. And it hurt—God, it hurt—but she knew now it would always hurt. That kind of love wasn’t meant for a lifetime, but it had been hers, and nothing could take that from her.
The ring stayed on her finger. A quiet, silver reminder. Not a chain, not a prison—just a promise she once made, and a proof that it had been real. She wore it not because she couldn’t move on, but because she didn’t want to erase it.
Meanwhile, life at the tower went on. Missions were planned, reports filed, training sessions held. Bucky lived as though nothing had happened, because in his world, nothing had. Sometimes he caught Steve watching him with a strange kind of weight in his eyes, but he never asked. Steve was Steve, he carried his secrets until he was ready to share them.
One afternoon, wandering the quiet hallways, Bucky slowed as he passed one of the wide windows. Y/N was there, sitting curled up in the golden wash of sunlight, a cup of coffee warming her hands, a book resting open across her lap. Her hair caught the light, her face softened in rare stillness.
The tower was empty that afternoon, quieter than it had been in weeks. Steve had taken off for a briefing, Natasha and Sam were out on recon, even Bruce was buried in the lab. The air carried that rare silence that only came when the compound emptied out, and Y/N had chosen to spend it with her coffee, a patch of sunlight, and the comfort of well-worn pages.
She heard the sound before she saw him. Heavy, even footsteps down the corridor. Instinctively, her eyes flicked up, but just as quickly dropped back to her book. She turned a page deliberately, pretending she hadn’t noticed him. Her fingers smoothed over the print as though it demanded her full attention, though she could feel his presence lingering in the space like static in the air.
Bucky slowed, caught between retreat and intrusion. He had the same plan as her—find a quiet corner, spend an hour reading to escape the noise of the world. But she’d been quicker, had already claimed the spot. He thought briefly about turning back, about avoiding the awkwardness entirely, but then his gaze snagged on the cover of the book in her hands.
The Hobbit.
Not just The Hobbit, but an old edition, the kind that had long disappeared from shelves. For a moment, it startled him. He shifted the book in his own hand, the newer print he had picked up just last week. A strange echo—both of them, in the same place, reading the same story. It wasn’t just coincidence. It felt like…something.
He cleared his throat, his voice gruff but curious.
“Those are rare,” he said, nodding toward the volume resting in her lap. “Haven’t seen one like that in a long time. Tried to track one down, couldn’t get my hands on it.”
She didn’t look up, not fully. Only tilted her head just enough to answer, her tone clipped, careful.
“It was a gift,” she said softly. “Someone told me I should read it.”
The words stung her tongue with memory, the same memory she had tried to bury. But she kept her eyes on the page, refusing to let him see.
Bucky lingered anyway. The coincidence tugged at him, unsettling in a way he couldn’t explain. He could’ve walked on, left her to her solitude, but instead he held up his own copy—dog-eared and fresh-printed.
“Guess we had the same idea,” he murmured. “It was one of my favorites. Read it when I was just a kid. Thought I’d pick it up again. Brings back some…good things.”
There was a pause. He wasn’t sure why he was telling her this—why his voice had gone softer, almost wistful.
He glanced down just in time to catch it: the flicker of a smirk at the corner of her lips. It was quick, almost invisible, but it was there before she caught herself and flattened her expression.
Her voice came quieter than before.
“It’s good so far.”
The silence stretched after her last words, fragile but alive, like something that could either bloom or break at the slightest pressure. Bucky shifted his weight, glanced at the book in her lap again. He shouldn’t have cared, shouldn’t have let his curiosity push him further, but something about it nagged at him.
“I always liked it,” he said at last, voice low, thoughtful. “Not just the story. The way it… felt. Like you could disappear into another world where people weren’t out to hurt each other. Where it wasn’t all blood and war.”
Her breath caught. He didn’t know it, but those words sounded like an echo—like the very reason she had fallen in love with him in another life. She kept her head bent toward the pages, fighting against the trembling in her hands, forcing herself to act as if it was nothing.
Bucky tilted his chin toward the worn cover.
“Mind if I…?” He gestured lightly, asking to see it.
Her stomach twisted. Every instinct screamed to say no, to keep it pressed to her chest where it would be safe, where he couldn’t stumble upon the truth hidden in plain sight. But she also didn’t want to arouse suspicion. So with stiff fingers, she slid the book across the table toward him.
He opened it carefully, as though it were a relic, flipping through with surprising reverence for a man who usually handled everything like it could break under his touch. He turned the pages until his gaze fell on the familiar sight he’d been chasing—the map. A soft smile tugged at his mouth, distant, warm.
“I remember this,” he said, his thumb brushing along the edge of the parchment. “They don’t even print it like this anymore. Used to trace the roads with my finger, pretending I was the one walking ‘em. It was silly.”
For a heartbeat, she let herself watch him, the way his expression softened, his shoulders eased, his mouth curled into something boyish—something she had known all too well. Her heart ached so violently she thought it might tear open inside her chest.
And then his brows knit. His hand stilled.
“What’s this?” he muttered, voice sharpening, shifting. He angled the page toward himself, squinting as if making sure he wasn’t seeing wrong.
At the bottom of the map, in faded ink, were words scrawled in handwriting only one man could have written.
For my everything, a little escape of reality when needed,
Don't let those beautiful eyes get to distracted,
Love, your Bucky.
Her breath went cold.
He stared at it. Read it again. And again. His throat worked as he swallowed, then his eyes snapped up to her, his face now caught somewhere between confusion, disbelief, and the beginnings of something harder.
“Why…” He stopped, shook his head, then tried again. “Why does this say that? Why’s my name in here like this?”
Her lips parted. No sound came out. She hadn’t even known the note existed—hadn’t seen it when he first gave her the book in another lifetime. Her Bucky had slipped it in silently, like a secret, like a promise. Now, in the hands of this Bucky, it looked like something entirely different.
Bucky’s jaw tightened, his voice cooling with every syllable.
“Why are you reading this book, Y/N? Why the hell is there a note with my name signed under it? Did you… forge this?” His voice dropped lower, edged with incredulity. “Is this some kind of joke?”
Her eyes widened, stinging with tears, and she reached for the book with trembling hands, yanking it back toward her chest like a shield. “I—I didn’t—”
But she couldn’t finish. Because for the first time since she’d come back, she saw it, saw the look on his face, and it shattered her.
Not indifference. Not irritation.
Disgust.
His lips pressed tight, his brows lowered, and his blue eyes narrowed on her like she was something he needed to step around. A girl with a silly, embarrassing crush who had taken it too far. A weirdo who couldn’t let him breathe without weaving him into some delusion.
The way his gaze moved over her wasn’t hateful, not yet. But it was sharp with suspicion, edged with the thought he didn’t say out loud: what the hell is wrong with you?
“I knew you were acting strange,” he said, shaking his head slowly, the anger in his tone hushed but simmering. “Always hanging around. Always pushing conversations when I didn’t want them. But this?” He gestured toward the book, the ghost of the note. “Making it look like I—like I signed something like that? That’s… that’s sick.”
Her lips trembled. “No! Bucky, please, I swear—I didn’t even know—”
“Then what is it?” His voice cracked sharp enough to cut, though he didn’t raise it. “You think this is funny? Pretending? Playing some fantasy where I’m...yours? You don’t get it, do you? You’re making everyone uncomfortable with this.”
Her body froze, but her heart felt like it was clawing out of her chest. She wanted to explain, to tell him everything, to fall to her knees and beg him to believe her, but the disgust in his eyes glued her tongue to the roof of her mouth. One more word and he’d hate her. Hate her in a way she wouldn’t recover from.
Her chair scraped loudly against the floor as she stumbled up, clutching the book so hard the corner dug into her ribs. “I—I didn’t—”
But she couldn’t finish.
She ran.
Her feet pounded against the compound’s hallway, her vision blurred with tears until the world smeared into shapes and colors. She gasped for air as if she were drowning, but the memory of his face, that look, that tone. It followed her like chains rattling behind her heels.
She didn’t stop until she crashed into the lab doors, forcing them open with shaking hands. Her voice cracked like glass.
“Bruce—”
He turned, startled, seeing her red-eyed and trembling, clutching the book to her chest like it might vanish.
Her sobs came fast, unstoppable. She collapsed against the table, tears soaking her sleeves, words spilling broken from her lips: “He thinks I’m crazy..he thinks I forged it. I didn’t know, Bruce, I swear, I didn’t know..”
She didn’t give Bruce time to ask; the words tumbled out in ragged, urgent breaths, about the map, the note, Bucky’s face when he’d seen it. How he’d looked at her, a mixture of disgust and pity that had cut right through her like frost. The sentences broke and reassembled themselves as she spoke; she didn’t try to make them neat. It was all grief and shame and the bone-deep tiredness of someone who’d been fighting a losing war inside her chest for months.
Bruce listened the whole time, quietly, like he had learned to listen to things that couldn’t be fixed with equations or lab protocols. His expression was pulled tight with concern, but not the wide-eyed alarm of someone surprised; he’d seen this kind of break before. When she finished, when the crying that had no rhythm finally slowed enough for her to breathe—she looked at him with those desperate, childlike eyes and asked, voice small and raw: “Have you ever been in love, and it just..didn’t work out?” The question hit the room so softly it might have been imagined, but it landed with the weight of a dropped object between them.
For a heartbeat Bruce smiled—a small, rueful thing, the kind of smile people wear when they remember something that stings. “Yeah,” he said, and the single syllable carried more than she expected. He reached for her without thinking, wrapping her in a careful hug as if she were something fragile and rare. It was the same motion he used when he steadied anything that might break: slow, deliberate, protective. She folded into him like a map refolding, legs going weak, the book pressing against his side through her arms. She leaned into the shoulder he offered, the steady, solid place he’d always been. For a moment the world narrowed to the rhythm of his breath and the dull ache behind her ribs.
He let her talk, she did, in half-sobs and scraps of sentences, telling him how living with Bucky in this timeline had become unbearable. “No matter what I did,” she whispered, “I’m the stupid girl he’s uncomfortable around. The weird girl who follows him and pretends he’s mine. And I can’t stand being like that, Bruce. I can’t stand how small it makes me feel.” Her voice scraped at the edges of the lab, thin and raw. She curled the book tighter into her fist as if holding it could keep the memories from spilling out.
Bruce’s voice was soft when he replied, honest and low, the kind of answer that felt like it had been through too many drafts to be simplistic. “Love can break you in ways that don’t show up on scans.” He didn’t sugarcoat it. “It’s not just an ache in your chest. It’s like a bruise that blooms under the skin. You can hide it, you can laugh through it, you can put on makeup and go to work, but it’s still there. Sometimes it’s worse because the person who caused it is the only one who can’t see it, either because they don’t remember or because they never knew how deeply they could wound.” He paused, drawing a quiet, tired breath. “I’ve been burned by something like that. People you invest in, people you expect to be anchors, sometimes they shift. It hurts. It’s physical. It’s angry. It’s bewildering.”
She pressed her face against him and cried again, a softer sound this time, the kind that seemed to come from somewhere deeper and more exhausted than before. “How...how do you keep going?” she asked, muffled, fingers worrying at the ring that still weighed warm and real on her hand. “How do you wake up and not just fold?”
He tightened his hold, that small human attempt at making her small world feel a little less hazardous. “You breathe,” he said simply, and there was no condescension in it, only hard-won truth. “You let other people do the holding when you can’t. You let yourself be ordinary in small ways; a bad cup of coffee, a terrible TV show, a stupid joke that makes you snort. You grieve. You get angry. You let the world see the broken parts so they don’t have to pretend they’re fine either.” His fingers brushed the page of the book in her arms, as if acknowledging the thing that tied her to both joy and ruin. “And you keep putting one foot in front of the other. Not because you have to, but because sometimes surviving is enough. Sometimes surviving is loving yourself in the simplest way.”
She hiccuped a laugh through her tears, half of it disbelief, half of it the first thread of acceptance. “It just feels so..physical,” she rasped. “Like he put his hands around my lungs and squeezed until I couldn’t find air. How could the person who made me feel alive make me feel like this?”
Bruce held onto the truth of it with his whole body. “People can be everything to us and still hurt us,” he said. “They can give us a reason to live, and they can break that reason without meaning to, or because the world breaks them first. That doesn’t mean you loved wrong. It doesn’t mean you’re wrong. It means you’re human.” He swallowed. “And humans are messy and resilient both. I can’t promise it’ll stop hurting. But you don’t have to suffer alone.”
She pressed her face harder into his shoulder, soaking it with the last of her tears, gripping the book as if its spine could anchor her to reality. For a fragile, trembling moment the tremor in her body steadied. Not because the wound closed—no—but because someone else had put an arm around her and named the thing hurting her without flinching from the mess of it. She was exhausted, and when Bruce gently tilted her chin up, his eyes steady and warm, she saw more than pity there. She saw a steadiness that might, slowly, clumsily, be enough to help her remember how to breathe between the cracks.
She whispered into his chest, words swallowed and uncertain. “I don’t want to be the kind of person who clings to the past.” It wasn’t a plan so much as a wish.
“You don’t have to decide all of that tonight,” Bruce answered. “Tonight we let the world be as messy as it needs to be. Tomorrow we take a step.” He didn’t offer platitudes; he offered proximity, and that was more powerful. He rested his forehead against hers briefly, a small, human benediction, then guided her gently up to the lab stool and set a glass of water in her hand. “Eat. Sleep. When you’re ready, we’ll do the next thing. And Y/N..” he paused, measuring the word like a promise, “you were loved. You are loved. That doesn’t disappear just because someone else can’t see it.”
She knew she took this for granted but she felt loved, Bruce loved her. Even if she only saw Bucky she needed to acknowledge that this type of love also fullfilled her...well...half filled.
“Would you hate me if I went away, or just..move by myself and start a brand new boring life ? Maybe I..Maybe I'm not cut for this, I went to that mission to help people like me and help them reverse all the mess that man made in my orphanage but...I also went away and I loved how boring and normal my life was maybe if I get that..maybe part of me will be happy. I won't get Bucky but I'll get you, the memories, and maybe some studies, a boring job, I don't know. Will you accept if..that was my decision?”
Bruce looked at her almost offended, a smile on his face amused by her. For the first time, she thought about being just a little selfish and chose herself, give up using her powers to help others and life the life she was stolen.
“Hate you? I could never hate you, besides I would be very proud of you if did that, I mean, you going to college? I would be so happy for finally getting mad at you for failing a class or for a bad grade I could pretend to be your dad when your in trouble and everything. I mean if you chose the science field I could help you cheat!”
--
A few months had passed since Y/N walked out of the Tower. Since she’d stood in Bruce’s arms, crying until her chest ached, promising herself she couldn’t do it anymore. Couldn’t wake up under the same roof as the ghost of the man she loved. Couldn’t keep catching glimpses of him in the hallways, could never quite breathe when his eyes brushed past her like she was no one.
Now, her life was something else entirely. Smaller, simpler.
Tony, despite all his quirks, had understood better than anyone that she needed space. He’d quietly bought her a little apartment in Brooklyn, no strings attached, and told her to call if she ever needed an upgrade in locks or security systems. She hadn’t argued. She hadn’t had the strength to.
The apartment was modest, almost laughably so compared to the luxury of the Tower. A shoebox with one window that creaked when it rained, chipped tiles in the bathroom, and floors that always seemed colder than they should be. But it was hers. And that was enough. Beside, all the needed fixing became her little project on her free time.
Her days fell into routine quickly. She’d enrolled in computer science classes at a local college — something to give her brain a new puzzle to hold onto, something to imagine a future around. Mornings meant lectures and labs, the kind where she kept her head down, filled her notebooks, and quietly made a few friends with the kind of people who had never heard of Hydra or the Avengers or the Winter Soldier.
Afternoons, she wore the green apron of the café a block from her place. The job was simple, mindless even — grinding beans, steaming milk, scrawling names on cups. Her coworkers were loud and funny in the way young people with no real baggage often were, and she let herself laugh with them sometimes. Customers came and went, most of them rushing, a few regulars lingering long enough to ask about her day. None of them looked at her with anger, confusion, or disgust. None of them made her chest cave in the way Bucky had.
It was cliché, sure. A college student in a too-small apartment, working a part-time job to scrape by. Boring. Ordinary. But that was exactly what she’d begged for. The peace of invisibility.
And yet, there were still traces of her old life woven in.
Her phone lit up every evening with Bruce’s face — sometimes a quick check-in before a mission, other times an hour-long call where he told her about some new project in the lab while she washed dishes. They met in person when they could, usually somewhere quiet, a diner or a bookstore, Bruce always soft-spoken, always listening. In him she found a tether to the past that didn’t hurt quite as much. He didn’t make her explain herself anymore. He just stayed.
She didn’t talk to Bucky. She couldn’t.
But the ring was still on her finger. The little band she twisted when she studied, when she took orders at work, when she stared out her tiny window at night. The love she’d lived was locked in her bones, something she could never dig out. It hurt less now, the sharp edge dulling into something that lingered, a wound she’d accepted would never close.
Bucky hadn’t expected it. Not from her. Not like this.
When Steve slid the small wooden box across the table, his jaw had already tightened. He thought it was some kind of parting gift, some final attempt to get his attention before she left the Tower. Something dramatic, maybe even manipulative, at least, that’s what his gut told him. He hadn’t been kind to her, after all. He hadn’t given her any reason to believe he’d care.
But then he opened it.
Inside were stacks of folded letters, some frayed at the edges from being opened and reopened countless times, some still crisp, never touched after the ink dried. Beneath them, photographs— dozens of them —each one capturing a piece of a life he couldn’t remember living.
At first, he thought it was some elaborate prank. A cruel joke. Maybe a fantasy she’d built up and put to paper. But the more he read, the more the weight of it pressed down on his chest until he couldn’t breathe.
The letters...they weren’t the silly scribbles of a girl with a crush. They were conversations. Arguments. Confessions. Promises. Notes of tenderness, of frustration, of laughter shared in ink. They were his handwriting too, scattered in between hers. He traced the grooves of the letters with his finger, staring like the words might dissolve if he blinked too long.
“Love, your Bucky.”
Every sign-off carried a punch to the ribs. Every curve of the letters was unmistakably his. Not the stiff, jagged script of the man Hydra had spat back out into the world—but the looser, more confident scrawl of someone free. Someone happy. Someone who had loved and been loved back.
And the photographs. God, the photographs.
There he was, smiling in ways he couldn’t remember his face ever moving. Arm slung around her shoulders like it belonged there. His eyes bright, unshadowed, his grin stretching wide without hesitation. In one, they were dancing, her head tipped back laughing at something he’d said. In another, he was pressing a kiss to her temple, her smile so soft it made his stomach twist. In all of them, he looked whole.
And that was when it hit him — this wasn’t a fantasy. Not for her.
His past self had lived this. Had held her hand, kissed her lips, laughed with her until his ribs ached. He had loved her. And she had carried the weight of it alone, trapped in a present where he looked at her with annoyance, irritation, maybe even disgust.
The guilt came in waves, hot and choking.
How had she survived that? Living under the same roof as him, day after day, knowing he would never look at her the same way again? That the man who once called her his would now barely spare her a glance? He thought of every time she’d tried to talk to him, the way her voice always carried a strange, trembling edge. How often had he shut her down, brushed her off, snapped at her because he thought she was being strange?
Now he knew. And it made him sick.
He envied his past self. That version of him had lived what he never got to, a love so deep it had carried her through time itself. And here he was, staring at the proof of it, knowing he’d never feel it, never remember it. It wasn’t his. Not really. But it was. And that contradiction tore at him like barbed wire wrapped around his ribs.
Confusion sat heavy alongside the guilt. Should he be grateful to her? Angry? Sad? He didn’t know. He didn’t know if he had the right to any of those feelings.
Part of him wanted to track her down and demand answers. Why hadn’t she told him sooner? Why had she let him go on treating her like a stranger, like less than a stranger, when she carried all this inside her? Another part of him wanted to apologize, to fall to his knees and beg forgiveness for the cruelty of his indifference, for every cold look and sharp word.
Mostly, though, he just sat there staring at a photograph of himself kissing her cheek, looking like the man he wished he could be.
Steve had said nothing. Just stood off to the side, arms crossed, his face unreadable. He wasn’t going to tell Bucky what to feel, and maybe that was worse.
Bucky ran a hand down his face, dragging at the stubble on his jaw, his throat tight. His chest hurt in a way he hadn’t felt in years. It wasn’t the dull ache of guilt Hydra left him with, or the sharp sting of nightmares. It was something else. Something… heavier.
He had lived a love story he couldn’t remember, and she had lost a man who was standing right in front of her.
And now both of them had been broken by it.
He doesn't remember how much time after that day he had spent reading and looking at the pictures, at first it was confusion, trying to understand this unknown, but after it was comfort. He was living their love through those letters, they had written dozens and dozens of them, like a book describing every feeling towards each other. God, he could be so cheesy and is now finding out that trait of himself.
When reading them, and the letters she wrote when back in her timeline, it almost felt like a journal. A recollection of memories she didn't want to let go, and so she described them in paper to relieve them. And he was grateful for it, because it was the only way he could do it for the first time.
He still didn't understand how could love someone like him so easily. Sure, he was not the same person, but he was still Bucky.
He wanted to reach out to her, but it felt unfair for her after all this time. She tried so hard for him, and after losing her, he wanted her? That sounds cliché, the man who didn't know what he had because he lost it.
He knew he didn't love her, he didn't live their love, he didn't love her like she did. But their letters made him understand her...know her. Which made him realise why his past self chase that girl so hard.
She was the dream love he always though he would end up with. Which made everything worse, if he hadn't treat her as an obsessed weirdo...he would actually know her personally.. and he could see himself fall...and hard.
God, it felt like a bullet. The fact that she had been wearing his mother's ring and he never looked twice at it.
That's how he ended up here. Bucky had been walking past the café for weeks before he found the courage to go inside.
The little bell over the door chimed as he stepped in, the sound almost painfully ordinary compared to the storm in his chest. He had rehearsed a dozen times what he might say, how he might explain himself, but all of it fell apart the second his eyes found her.
She was behind the counter, apron dusted with faint coffee stains, her hair pulled back with strands loose around her face. She was laughing at something one of her coworkers had said, and for a moment, he just watched. Her laugh wasn’t forced, wasn’t broken, wasn’t carrying the same brittle edge it used to when she lived in the Tower. It was light. Softer. Almost free.
Then her gaze shifted, and she saw him.
The smile faltered. Not completely but he saw it dip, like the ground had been pulled out from under her. For the briefest heartbeat, her eyes widened, and then, slowly, the smile returned. Careful. Guarded. Polite.
“Hi,” she said, voice tight with the kind of customer-service warmth she put between herself and the world now. “What can I get you?”
Bucky swallowed, his throat dry. “Coffee. Black.”
She nodded, turning to the machine. He couldn’t stop staring at the silver band on her finger, catching the light as she moved. It twisted something in him — a reminder, a confession, a claim. His past self’s promise wrapped around her hand like it was carved into her skin.
When she set the cup down in front of him, her fingers brushed the paper sleeve just a second too long. He could tell she didn’t mean to. He could also tell she felt it.
“Thanks,” he murmured, his voice lower than he intended. He hesitated, then forced the words out. “Can we talk? After your shift.”
Her whole body seemed to pause. She looked at him fully now, really looked, her eyes searching his face like she was trying to measure how much of this was real. How much of this was safe.
“Talk,” she repeated, her tone flat. Almost disbelieving.
“Yeah,” he said. His fingers tapped against the cup nervously. “Just a few minutes. I..I need to say some things. If you’ll let me.”
She glanced away, her lips pressed together, breathing slow like she was steadying herself. The war in her chest was written all over her face: the urge to keep walking forward, to protect herself from reopening a wound she had worked so hard to scar over. But also… the pull of wanting to hear him. To know what had dragged him here, to this tiny café in Brooklyn.
When she looked back at him, her eyes softened just slightly. “I finish in an hour.”
His relief was immediate, though he tried to keep it from spilling too obviously onto his face. He nodded, almost too quickly. “Okay. I’ll wait.”
And that hour crawled by. He sat at a corner table, untouched coffee cooling in front of him, pretending to read the newspaper he’d grabbed from the stand. His eyes kept flicking to her — the way she smiled at other customers, the way she wiped the counter down, the way she tucked her hair behind her ear when she thought no one was looking. She carried herself differently now. Not the broken girl who used to laugh through tears, but not the girl from the letters either. Somewhere in between. Someone he was only just beginning to recognize.
When her shift ended, she walked over slowly, tugging her apron loose, folding it between her hands like a shield.
“Alright,” she said quietly. “What is it you need to say?”
He stood, nerves thrumming through every movement, and gestured toward the door. “Maybe...outside?”
She hesitated again, then nodded, following him out into the evening air. The city buzzed around them, neon lights flickering across her face. They stopped a block down, near a quieter stretch where the noise dulled into a hum, only the low sound of jazz music playing by a street performer across the street.
Bucky shoved his hands into his jacket pockets, searching for words. For once, words were hard for him. Harder than they’d ever been. “I read them,” he said finally. His voice cracked slightly, but he didn’t stop. “The letters. The pictures. All of it.”
Her breath hitched, shoulders tightening. She looked away, down at the pavement, like she could sink into it. “Well...I didn't expected you too. And too be honest and didn't think they would give it too you at all. You weren't supposed to have them..”
“Steve and Bruce thought I should know, and please don't be mad at them, I'm very glad they did what they did.” he admitted, stepping closer, then stopping himself short. “At first I didn’t… I didn’t believe it. Thought it was—hell, I don’t even know what I thought. But the more I read, the more I saw…” He trailed off, exhaling shakily. “I saw myself. A version of me I didn’t even think could exist anymore.”
She pressed the folded apron tighter against her chest, eyes wet though she didn’t blink. “That wasn’t you,” she said, her voice almost breaking. “Not this you.”
“I know,” he said, quickly, firmly. “I know it wasn’t me. But it was me. And I’ve been trying to wrap my head around that ever since. Because those letters, those memories, they’re real. And they were yours. And mine. Just not...this mine.”
Her lips trembled as she let out a shaky laugh. “You sound as confused as I’ve felt every day since I came back.”
“I am,” he admitted, and the honesty in it hung heavy between them.
For a long moment, neither spoke. The city passed them by , strangers walking, cars rushing, life moving. And there they were, two people tied together by a love that existed and didn’t, both standing on opposite sides of it.
Finally, Bucky lifted his gaze to hers, the lamplight catching in his blue eyes. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with this. With us. I just know I couldn’t let you walk out of my life without saying something.” His eyes flicked down, inevitably, to the silver ring glinting on her hand. He lingered there before looking back up. “You still wear it.”
She swallowed hard, following his gaze to the ring, then back up to him. Her voice was soft, almost a whisper. “It’s all I had left of him. Of you. Of us. I can’t take it off. Not yet.”
Bucky nodded slowly, his chest tight. “I get it.” His voice roughened. “More than you think.”
She stared at him, her heart slamming against her ribs, torn between anger, longing, and the quiet hope she hated herself for feeling. “So what now, Bucky?” she asked, her voice breaking with the weight of the question. “What are you here for? To say sorry? To try to fix something that can’t be fixed? I don't need you too petty me, I'm doing fine. ”
He opened his mouth, then closed it, his jaw working. Finally, he whispered: “To understand. To try. Because after reading those letters… I can’t look at you the same way anymore. I know...I'm an asshole. Believe I don't understand what's going through my head either. This thing of having an unknown emotional towards someone you don't know? At least we have that in common.”
Her breath caught. Her hands shook where they clutched her apron, her ring glinting in the light. For the first time in months, she didn’t feel invisible to him. And that was terrifying. She was starting to make peace with it, why now? Why is her chest so light?
She wanted to be angry, wanted to laugh bitterly in his face and tell him he was months too late. She wanted to run. But instead, her lips parted and her voice came out low, trembling but steady enough to be understood.
“I don’t even know what I want anymore, Bucky. I’ve built something here. It’s small, it’s ordinary, but it’s mine. I can go to school, I can make coffee for strangers, I can walk home without feeling like the ground is going to split open beneath me. And you—” her voice cracked, eyes flickering up to meet his, “—you were never part of this life. You weren’t supposed to be. You make everything complicated.”
He listened quietly, no judgment in his eyes, just the weight of someone absorbing every syllable like it was precious.
She shook her head, a shaky laugh spilling out that sounded almost like a sob. “And yet… I can’t tell you no. Not when you’re standing here telling me you want to try. So fine. We’ll talk. We’ll… explore whatever this is. I don’t promise anything, Bucky. I can’t.”
For the first time that night, his lips curved into a small, genuine smile. Not the haunted smirk he wore to keep people away, but something gentler, more open. “That’s all I’m asking for. Just a chance. I know I'm being extremely selfish here, I know. But... at the very least we can say that we both understood it. At least we can know each other I mean...We both liked different versions of each—”
"Love. I love a different version of you...I don't like."
Almost without thinking, he extended his hand toward her. His voice was soft, almost boyish, when he asked, “Dance with me.”
Her head snapped up, eyes wide, a startled laugh tumbling out of her throat. “Seriously? Here? Now? That’s your big move?” She rolled her eyes but couldn’t fight the tug at her lips. “You do realize how ridiculously cliché that is, right? First time you chased me down in the 40s, it was with a dance too.”
His grin deepened, teasing but tinged with something deeper. “Worked once, didn’t it?”
She stared at his outstretched hand, her pulse thundering in her ears. For a long, fragile second she thought she might refuse. But her fingers betrayed her, reaching out slowly until they rested in his. He pulled her gently toward him, no music, no audience, just the hum of the city around them.
They swayed to the soft music that became theirs without the artist knowing, their steps uncoordinated but tender, her hand pressed lightly against his chest while his arm wrapped around her waist. Eventually, her resistance softened, her head tipping forward until it rested against him. She felt the steady rise and fall of his breathing, the warmth of his body, the way he smelled faintly of leather and soap. And then, gently, his chin came to rest on the crown of her head.
For a moment, it felt like the world had stopped spinning.
“You know,” he murmured into her hair, his voice rough but intimate, “that ring you wear. It’s my mother’s.”
She stiffened instantly, her head snapping up to look at him, eyes wide and glassy. “What?”
Bucky met her gaze, his eyes heavy with something unreadable. “Yeah. My ma gave it to me before I shipped out. Told me one day, if I found someone worth it, I’d know what to do with it.” His thumb brushed over her hand where the silver band gleamed. “Looks like..I did. I don't how I did it with you, but if he—I asked for that ring for you...damn was I in love.”
Her chest tightened, panic rising like a wave. She shook her head, pulling slightly back from him. “No, no! You can’t. You need to take it back, Bucky. If it’s hers, if it’s that important, you can’t just let me keep it like this. Not when you didn’t even—” Her words tumbled over themselves, frantic and broken.
But before she could rip the ring from her finger, his hand pressed gently against the small of her back, pulling her firmly against his chest again. His voice was soft but steady, a low murmur that vibrated against her ear.
“Calm down. Just...dance with me.”
Her breath stuttered, tears burning hot in her eyes as her body trembled in his hold.
“If Ma gave me that ring,” he continued, his tone fierce in its quiet conviction, “then it means she trusted me to give it to the right person. It means she approved of you, whether she ever met you or not. And if the younger me looked at you and thought you were worth it, then I believe him. I believe her. More than I believe anything else.”
Her throat worked around a sob, but no sound came. She buried her face against his chest, her tears dampening the fabric of his shirt as his words wrapped around her like a lifeline. He held her closer, his chin still resting on her head, swaying with her gently like the world outside of them didn’t exist.
“I don’t know how this works, Y/N,” he admitted quietly. “I don’t know what we’re supposed to be, or if we’ll ever have what you and he had. But I want to see what he saw. What she saw. I want to see you.”
She clung to him then, her fingers curling into his jacket, her sobs muffled against his chest. For the first time in months, the ache in her heart loosened just slightly, replaced by something terrifying and fragile and new.
Well than..he loved once, could he really love me twice?
pairings: pre civil war!bucky x fem!reader, congressman!bucky x mom!reader
summary: your life is forever changed after a tender night with your quiet, traumatised neighbour in bucharest. years later, you're living in brooklyn with your five year old daughter and run into congressman barnes. he's everything you remembered and more, and now he wants to be part of yours and jamie's lives.
warnings: 18+ MDNI, plot with porn, angst, fluff, mentions of nightmares, a lot of plum pie, slooow burn, tender soft sex, then not tender sex, accidental pregnancy, explicit detailed smut, protected and unprotected pnv, slight dom!bucky, praise kink, dirty talk (bucky is a bit feral), pregnancy/breeding kink, body worship, oral (f!receiving), fingering, a lil spanking, multiple orgasms (f!receiving), reader cries during, love confessions, very few physical details of reader, reader's daughter has blue eyes and dark hair, no use of y/n (i'm trying something new), timeline inconsistencies (i tried tho), partly proofread, let me know if i missed anythingggg
word count: 19k (no but seriously can someone tell me to chill)
authors note: 2 fics for the price of 1! partly inspired by this post, partly inspired by @metal-armed-muse's second chances fic (dad congressman barnes has me weak in the knees). i needed a break from man on your mind and this just appeared like the sun through rainclouds (though it definitely put me in the trenches i won't lie). this is written from reader's pov, but might do some bucky pov blurbs if y'all are interested! reminder that i am a new writer so my style & formatting is ever evolving - ai will never be used in this household. please like, reblog, and comment :)
song inspo: river - zinadelphia
I’m somewhere in between
The things that I’ve lost
And the things I’ll gain from losing
Either way I will leave something behind
But I’m dying to do something different this time
June 2016 - Bucharest, Romania
Sleep had become a rare commodity the past couple weeks.
The group of guy backpackers staying below you refused to turn their music down after eleven—if anything, they turned it up louder to spite you—and you could hear them fucking the poor girls who made the mistake of going home with them after the pub. Every night. Fortunately for you, the guys had awful stamina and they were finished within five minutes. This wouldn’t normally be a big deal, if you hadn’t ‘lost’ your headphones three days after you moved in to the short-term stay apartment—you were ninety-nine percent certain one of them had broken in to your room and stolen them, but you had no proof.
Sleep would welcome you for a few hours before the screaming across the hall started. The first time the deep, throaty screams made their way through your paper thin walls, you startled awake so violently you jumped out of bed and twisted your ankle. You limped out of your apartment—if you could call it that—with a Romanian dictionary held high as your weapon, your socked feet quiet on the concrete floor. It wasn’t hard to find the source of the screaming—the aftermath of a nightmare, heavy breathing and sobbing, was crystal clear through the door opposite yours.
It was on day four of being woken up by your neighbours nightmares when you finally saw him. You were running late for your first class of the day, arms full of marked papers and keys hanging from your mouth as you opened your door, when you caught movement in your periphery. He was climbing up the stairs silently, his head titled towards the ground with a cap on top of his long dark hair, obstructing the view of his face. The first thing you noticed was the size of him—he was tall and broad, big muscles still noticeable under layers of clothes. The second thing you noticed was his gloved hands—an odd sight in the Bucharest warmth—one of them holding a bag of plums.
Plum guy. You had seen him while out on your daily morning walks, buying plums at one of the fruit vendors down the street. You had no idea that the gentle giant you watched make quiet conversation with the vendor was the man whose sobbing and whimpering had your heart clenching at three every morning.
The keys in your mouth dropped on top of the paper stack, the small jingle and thud making the man tense, his eyes darting to you—standing in your doorway staring at him. You quickly looked away, grabbing your keys and locking your door.
He was opening his own door when you crossed the short distance to the stairs—and to him, given that his door was right next to the stairs. He turned his head slightly, a gloved hand clenched tight on the doorknob.
You smiled softly as you walked closer to him. “Bună dimineaţa,” you said quietly. He tracked your movements closely, offering you a brief nod before he disappeared inside his apartment. Not a talker, then.
Later that night—or technically early the next morning—you were bent over the small kitchen table, struggling to read your student’s handwriting. You had just over a week left teaching English to Romanian middle-graders, and then you would be on a flight back home to the States.
You were trying to rub the red ink off your hand when the first gasp echoed from across the small hallway. You looked towards the apartment door on instinct, halting your movements and waiting for another noise. It came a few seconds later—a loud gasp that sounded like someone was struggling to breathe. Then a pained shout, in what you were almost certain was Russian. The shouting turned into whimpered pleas within minutes. You felt tears well behind your eyes listening to the man across from you have another nightmare. Your heart bleed for a man you didn’t know, didn’t even know his name. You only knew he spoke gently to fruit vendors and bought fresh plums everyday.
Call it sleep deprivation, homesickness, or basic empathy, but you felt deeply enough to come up with a plan—to offer the hurting man some kindness. You finished marking papers as quietly as you could before you fell into bed, barely audible sniffling sending you to sleep with a heavy heart.
In the morning you thought strategically about how you would approach him. Knocking on his door empty handed made no sense, and following him around the fruit market seemed an even worse idea. But, like him, you wanted to buy plums. And, it made sense to buy them on your usual morning walk.
You left earlier than you normally would, wanting to be at the market before him so it didn’t look like you were stalking him. You were making idle chit-chat with the vendor, asking what traits constituted a ‘good’ plum—half of you was interested, the other half was stalling in the hopes that plum guy would show.
Conscious that you were in the way of paying customers, you turned to leave and found your neighbour standing two metres away, watching you apprehensively. How long had he been there?
“Bună!” You greeted him with a kind smile, a little louder now that you were outside. His eyes narrowed slightly, giving you a once over as he studied your body language. Despite how hard you worked on your Romanian pronunciation, your American accent came through strong and you knew he noticed it.
Another brief nod was your reply. You tried to not let your disappointment show but his eyes darted to your shoulders, watching them deflate.
“Morning.” Oh. You were not expecting that.
You were expecting the American accent even less.
He spoke quietly, his voice rough from lack of use. He stepped to the left, turning his body slightly to let you pass. It was progress at least—you would take the simple greeting as a win.
You saw him again later that day. You were stomping up the stairs cursing to yourself, more papers to grade overflowing your arms and a takeout bag dangerously close to slipping from your fingers. You tripped on the last step, the takeout dropping on the floor and spilling right in front of your neighbours door—half of the papers in your arms following shortly after.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!” You exclaimed louder than you intended, pissed that your dinner was now all over the floor—some of your students work now stained with pho.
You bent down slowly, gently lowering the rest of the papers on the clean ground next to your ruined dinner. You didn’t notice the door in front of you opening—the sight of boots next to your mess making you flinch. You jerked your head up to find your neighbour watching you carefully, the side of his mouth twitching in faint amusement. You flushed red, embarrassed by the mess you’d made and flustered from seeing him without his baseball cap. He was handsome.
“Shit, I—sorry, I’m in the way. I’ll just, uh…” You stumbled over your words, feeling suddenly intimidated by him.
He squatted down to where you were crouched awkwardly, your arms still holding the pile of papers. He looked down at the mess of pho and essays, his eyes assessing the damage.
He picked up a soggy paper, a stray noodle sliding down the page. He read the page slowly, noticing the name and age in barely legible scribbles. He let out a quiet huff, his blue eyes flicking to your shocked ones. “Might have to give out a few automatic passes.”
He spoke first. He’s looking at you with amusement swirling in his gorgeous blue eyes, and he spoke to you first—even more, he made a joke.
You let out a breathy laugh, leaning closer to see what students name was written at the top. “He struggles more than anyone else in the class, giving him a pass may cause suspicion…” You trailed off with a small, teasing smile.
He placed the ruined essay back on the mess, his movements gentle.
He stood to his full height, nodding towards the stack in your hands. “You should put those inside. I’ll clean this up.” He moved back towards his door to let you pass.
You stood back up and hesitated, biting your lip as you looked down at the mess. “No, this is my fault. I’ll sort it out.”
“You should put those down first. Don’t wanna ruin more of your student’s work.” A muscle in his cheek twitched, like he was holding back a smile.
“Right, yeah, that’s smart.” You stepped over the mess and walked the few steps to your door, fumbling with the keys in your bag. You glanced over your shoulder as you opened the door, seeing plum guy crouched down and picking up papers gently. You shook your head fondly at the sight—of course he would clean it up anyway.
You entered the small apartment, making your way over to the dingy kitchen table and dropping the stack of papers and your bag onto it. You closed your eyes and took a couple breaths, shaking off the nervousness seeing your neighbours face properly had caused.
He’s just a guy. A handsome, tormented, gentle guy—whose name you still don’t know.
In the time it took to give yourself a pep talk, plum guy had finished collecting the papers and was standing in your doorframe. He cleared his throat softly causing you to turn around quickly. His eyes roamed around your small apartment while yours focused on him—he made the doorframe look small, his shoulders just as wide and his head close to touching the top.
“You didn’t have to do that,” you said as you walked towards him.
His eyes met yours, soft and hesitant. “I know.”
He looked down at the papers in his hands, extending them towards you. You offered him a grateful smile as you grabbed them. “Thank you, I appreciate it.”
He stuffed his hands in his front pockets, shrugging his shoulders at your gratitude. “It’s fine,” he murmured, his eyes scanning you and the apartment—looking for any hidden threats.
He took a step back, nodding his head once in goodbye.
You blurted your name out quickly, not wanting to miss the first chance you’ve had to properly connect with the man.
He tilted his head towards the ground, a strand of hair falling in front of his face. His eyes darted side to side, like he was thinking. Hard.
Finally, he lifted his head but kept his eyes downcast. “…Bucky.”
Your eyebrows lifted a fraction of an inch, surprised by the unusual name. “Well, it’s nice to meet you, Bucky.” His eyes met yours again, more sure this time.
“Likewise,” he muttered before leaving your apartment, closing the door softly behind him.
You felt a small smile take over your face as you stood still, watching the space he just occupied. Progress.
Half an hour later you were bent over the drying essays, determined to make sense of the smudged scribbles when two sharp knocks sounded against your door.
You furrowed your brows, not sure why anyone would be knocking on your door—the only person who knew you lived here was your neighbour, Bucky. You shot up from your chair quickly—it must be him.
You opened your door a second too late, just catching his door across the small hall closing behind him. You looked down to the floor, surprise knocking you breathless for a moment. There on the concrete at your feet was a bowl of soup, steam rising from it. You picked it up slowly, your heart doing flips in your chest. Bucky had made you soup. He had cleaned up your mess outside his door, and had made you soup to replace your ruined dinner.
That night you found yourself silently crying along with him, the sounds of his nightmare causing you physical pain. What had happened to him?
It was Saturday afternoon and you were pacing the length of your apartment, trying to hype yourself up. Bucky’s clean bowl was resting in your palms, feeling like a loaded gun. You had a plan—to return the bowl and try make conversation, maybe even get him to laugh. That would be nice, right? For him to laugh, for you to hear something from him that wasn’t sounds of agony in the middle of the night.
You raised your hand hesitantly to his door, giving it two soft knocks. You waited patiently, straining to hear any movement behind the door. A minute passed and nothing. You tried again, knocking with more confidence this time. Thirty seconds passed and you were shifting on your feet, starting to feel disheartened.
“Bucky,” you called softly. “I—sorry for disturbing you, I just wanted to return your bowl—from the other night?” It came out as a question, your confidence fading and you started to feel silly. Obviously the guy wanted to be left alone.
You turned to leave when the door in front of you opened, Bucky’s large frame obstructing your view of his apartment. He was without his baseball cap again and his hair was damp, like he had just stepped out of the shower. He was wearing a long-sleeved shirt and jeans like usual, gloves covering his hands. His eyebrows were raised slightly at you standing in front of him, nervously biting your lip with his cheap bowl in your hands.
You extended the bowl towards him. “Thank you, for the soup the other night. I…wasn’t expecting it. Beats the granola bar that’s been sitting in my bag for weeks.” You chuckled awkwardly.
He grabbed the bowl with a quiet nod.
“And, thank you again for cleaning up the mess I made. You really didn’t need to.”
“It’s fine. You don’t need to worry about it.” His voice was deep, still rough from lack of use. You found it comforting—you wanted to hear more.
You took a breath to steel your nerves, plastering on what you hoped was a disarming smile.
“I was planning on baking a plum pie this afternoon.” You started, watching as a confused expression took over his face. “My mom’s recipe—I used to bake with her, and I’ve been feeling homesick lately so…” You trailed off, hoping the lie wasn’t obvious.
Your mom didn’t bake plum pies, and the last time you baked with her was when you were nine—you ended up in tears with little burns on your hands.
“Would you…would you like some? Or want to join me?”
His surprise at your invitation was evident, though it was quickly replaced with suspicion.
“…Why?”
“You like plums, right? I saw you down at the market.” He was still looking at you skeptically, his big arms now crossed over his chest. Your voice wavered slightly, “think of it as a thank you gift, for your help the other day.”
He sighed at you thanking him again.
“…Fine. I’ll come over in a couple hours.”
Bucky looked abnormally large sitting at your small kitchen table. His shoulders were tense, his gloved hands clutched together tightly in his lap, his eyes darting around the small space absorbing every detail he could. His brows furrowed at your suitcase on the other side of the room, your clothes spilling out next to the bed.
You followed his line of sight, an embarrassed chuckle escaping you. “Sorry for the mess, this is just a temporary situation. I wasn’t expecting to be living out of my suitcase, still.”
His eyes flicked back to yours in interest. “Temporary?”
You turned back to the dirty dishes, needing something to do with your hands when he’s looking at you like that. Like he wants to know more about you.
“Yeah, I was meant to fly back home a couple weeks ago, but the school I’m teaching at asked me to stay until school finished for the year—they offered to pay for the flight transfer.” You shrugged lightly.
He shifted slightly, the small chair squeaking and straining beneath his weight. “Home?”
You noticed he didn’t talk much and when he did it was in small sentences. Though he was asking you questions now, and you took that as more progress.
“The States—Philadelphia, to be exact.” You took a breath before asking him, “where’s home for you?”
He was silent for a minute before quietly muttering, “Brooklyn.”
You turned to him, flashing him a bright smile you couldn’t tame. “Oh cool, my parents are planning on moving there in a couple months! Any non-touristy places they should check out?”
He hesitated again. “It’s—uh, it’s been a while since I was last…home.” He wasn’t looking at you anymore, instead staring intently at his clenched hands. You took the hint that he didn’t want to talk about it anymore.
You bent down to check on the pie in the oven, sighing in relief that it didn’t look like an absolute disaster.
Turning back to Bucky you tried to think of anything else to talk about, wanting to know more about the quiet man.
“The pie should be ready in a few minutes. Do you want to…watch something, maybe? While we eat.”
His response was a small nod.
You walked over to grab your laptop off your bed. You sat down on the chair across from Bucky, noticing how he leaned away from you and put his hands in his lap.
“Anything in particular you want to watch?” You briefly glanced at him as you scrolled through the streaming apps.
“Dealers choice,” he hummed quietly.
You picked A New Hope, deeming it an acceptable movie to watch while eating pie with your neighbour.
Bucky waited until you took your first bite of pie before he inhaled his slice in less than a minute. You let out a small laugh at the sight of him—hunched over in the small chair, shovelling the pie in his mouth like he hadn’t eaten for days.
He looked up at you sheepishly when he heard you laugh.
“Sorry,” he mumbled, mouth full of plum and pastry.
“No, don’t apologise—I take it as a compliment,” you smiled at him, licking your fork clean. His eyes tracked the movement carefully, causing your smile to turn to a small smirk. He looked back down to his empty plate quickly, his shoulders tense after being caught staring.
You stood up and grabbed his plate, cutting a much larger slice of pie for him. He offered you a bashful smile as you put the plate in front of him.
“Thanks…it’s, uh, pretty good.”
Your body rushed with warmth at his compliment, your cheeks flushing and a small smile now permanent on your face.
“I’m glad.”
He ate the second piece at a normal pace, only half interested in watching the movie playing from your laptop on the table. You caught his eyes watching you every few minutes but it didn’t put you on edge. From the few times you’ve interacted with him you gathered he’s a cautious, suspicious guy—the occasional staring didn’t bother you.
Suddenly, the floor started to shake below you—the telltale sign that the backpackers had started partying early. Their music was more bass than anything, making everything in your apartment vibrate slightly. You rolled your eyes and sighed in annoyance—you knew it was going to be a long night.
Bucky stood up and grabbed your empty plates, walking over to the sink to wash them. You opened your mouth to stop him, to tell him you’ll sort it out. He shut you up with a sharp look and shake of his head.
“That happen often? The…music?” He asked, his head tilting towards the floor.
You let out a small scoff. “Yeah, basically every night. This isn’t even the worst of it.”
He grunted in response, displeased.
“You don’t hear it from your apartment?”
“I do, it’s just not this bad. Becomes background noise after a bit.” He let out a bitter chuckle. “It’s fucking awful music.”
You laughed at that. “Right?! I’m pretty sure they’re aspiring DJ’s…all I know is that I hate them.” He let out a deep laugh that sent a thrill through your body. God help you, you wanted to hear it again.
“What music do you like?” You tried to ask casually.
He paused, deliberating his answer. “I like…older music, jazz. Not a fan of the modern stuff.”
That didn’t surprise you at all.
You hummed in response. “Yeah, I get that. My grandma made sure I listened to all the classics—I have a soft spot for Sinatra, among others.”
“Huh,” was all he offered. He started walking towards the door, stuffing his hands in his pockets.
“This was…nice. I—um, I enjoyed your company. Pie was good, too.”
You giggled at his nervousness—there was something so charming about this big guy being awkward.
“Yeah, me too. We should do it again, before I go home.”
He hesitated opening the door. “When’s your flight?”
“Friday morning.”
“Monday after work. I’ll bring the plums.”
Later that night, you made the unsafe decision to take an after midnight stroll around Bucharest, choosing to potentially put your life in danger than listen to the gut wrenching sounds of Bucky’s nightmare. It was a bad one—you tried burrowing your head in all the pillows and blankets you had, but you could still hear the harrowing screams and cries. Potentially being mugged seemed a lot more appealing in that moment.
Bucky knocked on your door an hour after you got home on Monday, with plums in his hand and a request that you teach him the plum pie recipe.
“Oh Bucky, it’s really not that special. Any recipe you find on the internet will be just as good!” And you knew that was true, because your recipe was the first result when you googled ‘plum pie recipe’.
“I want to know your one. Promise I won’t get in the way.” His eyes were almost pleading, and you hated the way your heart clenched at his kicked puppy expression. You could see the exhaustion lining his eyes, how his torturous, sleepless nights were taking a toll on him. Your eyes burned with tears just looking at him.
That’s how you ended up hiding in your bathroom, staring unblinking at your phone screen trying to commit the plum pie recipe to memory.
He didn’t get in the way, just like he promised. But you could feel him hovering over your shoulder, his eyes solely focused on your hands as you made the pie. His rapt attention made you stumble a few times, completely forgetting steps and measurements.
He still didn’t talk much, only offering small grunts and hums when you explained techniques and made the occasional awkward—trying to be funny—comment.
You sat closer to him at the table this time, cheering internally when he didn’t lean away or move his chair further from you.
You let out a breathy chuckle as a thought crossed your mind.
“What?” Bucky asked curiously.
“Nothing, just had a thought.” You shook your head with a small smile, pushing around a large chunk of plum with your fork.
“Do you not get those often?”
You gasped in shocked delight, not expecting him to make a lighthearted dig at you. You looked up from your plate at him, seeing his blue eyes twinkling and an almost smirk tugging his mouth.
“Wow,” you dragged out. “And to think, I was just starting to like you…” You teased him back.
He huffed out a small laugh.
“M’sorry, couldn’t help it. What were you thinking about?” He shovelled more pie in his mouth, waiting for your response.
“You remind me of a cat.”
“What?” He laughed out, his mouth full of pie.
“You’re like a cat. Aloof, wary of people, ready to run out the nearest exit.” You spoke softly, not wanting him to perceive your words as an attack. “But, with a bit of patience and treats,” you nodded towards the pie, “you start to become curious…even trust a little, maybe. It’s not a perfect analogy—it was just a thought.”
He looked at you with a strange expression on his face—something achingly tender, with a mix of disbelief and sorrow. He didn’t answer for a minute, just watched you like he still couldn’t figure you out.
“What kind of cat would I be?”
“A black cat, for sure.”
You saw him two more times before Thursday afternoon. The first time he joined you on your morning walk around the neighbourhood, the both of you silent—basking in each other’s company and enjoying the quiet summer morning. The second time was late on Tuesday night, when you finally had enough of the backpackers bullshit and were banging on their door demanding they shut the fuck up. Bucky was there within a minute of you shouting, gently pulling you away from the door where two sleazy backpackers were leering at you.
“It’s not worth it,” he said your name softly.
“Fucking assholes,” you seethed. “I know they stole my headphones, Bucky!”
You were no match for his strength as he carried you up the stairs, your legs thrashing uselessly. “They were expensive,” you whined like a pouting toddler.
Saying goodbye to your students on Thursday was by no means easy. Even though you only taught there for a few months as part of your gap year, the kids had dug their way into your heart and left you in tears when they hugged you goodbye.
You recovered by the time Bucky knocked on your door in the late afternoon, plums in one hand and a small bunch of wildflowers in the other. You were frozen, staring at him with what you were sure was a lovestruck expression on your face.
He held the flowers out for you to grab, your hand brushing his gloved one in the process. He quickly pulled his hand back at your touch, running it through his hair as he looked everywhere but you.
“For your last day,” he said, like that explained everything. “Sorry, they’re nothing, uh, special—they were the only ones the florist had left…” He shrugged his shoulders, his eyes fixed on a spot over your shoulder.
You snapped out of your smitten daze, a soft giggle leaving you at his nervousness. He looked at you then, his shoulders relaxing.
“They’re perfect.”
You opened the door wider for him to come in, walking to the kitchen to put the flowers in a glass of water while he closed the door behind him.
You turned your head sideways, shooting him a teasing look. “You know…they’re going to die in a couple days. I won’t be here to look after them.”
You watched in fascination as a flush climbed up his neck, painting his cheeks red.
He rubbed the back of his neck, letting out a nervous huff. “I didn’t think about that.”
“You can always break in after I’ve left, grab them for yourself before the pricks downstairs steal them.”
“We don’t want that happening,” he chuckled, putting the plums on the counter next to you. “I’m starting to see why you hate them so much.”
“You’re only seeing it now? They’ve been my number one enemies since I moved in.” You grumbled bitterly.
You rolled your shoulders back with a sigh—you didn’t want your bitterness clouding your last night with Bucky.
“Okay, let’s change the subject,” you clapped your hands together, turning to face Bucky fully. “I’m thinking one last plum pie, and maybe we can finish that movie we were watching the other night?”
“Whatever you want.”
An hour later you were both sat at the small table, the half-eaten pie between you and Bucky barely paying attention to the movie, again. His eyes were fixated on your packed suitcase and duffel bag next to the bed. He looked…sad, mournful even. There was a small crease between his furrowed brows, the sides of his mouth downturned, and he hadn’t eaten much in the last few minutes.
“Hey,” you started, voice low and soft. “You okay?”
He whipped his head back to you, his glassy eyes meeting yours for a second. “Yeah,” his voice broke faintly. He cleared his throat, looking down at the pie.
“I’m…gonna miss you.”
You sucked in a breath, the emotion in his voice making your throat feel tight. Tears pricked behind your eyes as you looked at the man in front of you. You wished you could take away all his pain, all his sadness.
You gently laid a hand on his arm, your eyes darting between his for any signs of unease—the only other time the two of you had touched was when he dragged you away from the backpackers door. His arm was solid and cold through his long-sleeve, almost unnaturally hard. His shocked eyes looked into yours as your thumb rubbed his sleeve faintly.
“I’m going to miss you, too.”
You removed your hand and looked back at the movie, a single tear slipping down your cheek.
Tension hung thick in the air, causing you to clear your throat and try relieve some of the tightness in your chest.
“You kinda look like him,” you said to Bucky, nodding towards your laptop—a close up shot of Luke Skywalker on the screen.
“Yeah, I can see it,” you continued, turning your face to see him already looking at you. “If you cut your hair short, shave the beard…” You trailed off, your eyes catching on a bit of plum on his chin.
You raised a hand without thinking, your attention transfixed on the piece of fruit and his pink lips an inch above. His stubble faintly pricked your thumb, your touch featherlight as you swiped the bit of plum away. A small gasp caught in his throat, his chin leaning towards your touch unconsciously.
Your eyes couldn’t leave his lips, a faint purple tint to them from the pie.
“You really like plums.”
“They’re meant to help with memory,” he murmured, distracted.
That caught your attention, your eyes darting up to his in question. He let out a deep exhale, the air brushing against your hand.
“I had an accident…a few years back. Can’t remember much from before, it’s—uh, it’s coming back in bits and pieces.” Your heart clenched painfully, the sorrow for his lost life bleeding through his eyes.
“Is that—,” you swallowed against the lump in your throat. “Is that what your nightmares are? Memories coming back?” You asked gently, your thumb rubbing soothing circles on his chin.
His eyes widened in panic. “You—you know about the nightmares?”
You moved your hand from his chin, your fingers brushing against his cheek as you pushed a loose strand behind his ear. His body involuntarily shivered from your gentle touch.
“Yeah…I’ve known since my first night here,” you whispered. “The walls are pretty thin.”
His eyes dropped to his lap in shame. “God, I am so sorry,” he rasped out your name, his deep voice thick with emotion.
You cupped his face with both your hands, tilting his head up until his eyes met yours. “Never apologise for your pain, Bucky.” The anguish and self-hatred you saw in his eyes made yours tear up. “Can I—would it be okay if I hugged you?”
He stared at you for a long moment, then finally gave you a nod.
You stood up slowly with Bucky following your lead. You looked into his eyes once more, checking he was still comfortable with this, before stepping forward and winding your arms around his waist, your palms resting lightly on his back. He sucked in a sharp breath at the touch, his muscles going stiff under your hands. You gently rested your cheek against his chest, his heart beating fast beneath your ear. He didn’t reciprocate the hug for a moment, his arms hovering at his side like he didn’t know what to do.
“Breathe,” you whispered into his shirt. He took a few shuddering breaths in and out then raised his right arm slowly, hesitantly draping it over your shoulder. You felt some of the tension leave his body as he sunk into your embrace. His gloved hand instinctively traveled from your shoulder to the middle of your back, pulling you closer into his warmth—surprising you both.
“Sorry,” his voice was quiet, a slight tremble lacing through. “It’s…been a long time, since I last…hugged someone.” His voice cracked at the end and your heart broke into a million pieces.
You hugged him tighter, your hands clutching the back of his shirt—tethering him to you. A small sound slipped out of you, something between a gasp and a pained whimper. The lump in your throat grew bigger, spreading down your chest and sitting heavy on your heart.
He rested his chin on the top of your head, so gently you barely noticed it at first. He let out a staggering breath and then rested the weight of his head on yours fully, purposely. He moved slightly, his nose brushing against your hair as he inhaled deeply. His arm around you tightened, pulling you tight against his strong body.
“…I can’t believe you’re real.”
You croaked out a watery laugh against his chest. Fuck, he had no clue what he was doing to you—that you were going to be leaving half of your heart behind when you got on that flight in the morning.
You pulled away from him an inch, moving your hands from his back to cup his face gently. You looked into his glistening blue eyes before looking down at his lips, watching as his tongue peaked out to wet them.
“Can I kiss you?”
He leaned in slowly, brushing his lips on yours hesitantly. He sucked in a sharp breath before pressing his lips to yours firmly. You let him set the pace, letting him know he was the one in control here. His hand moved from your back to your waist, pulling you up into his chest as he deepened the kiss. A whimper caught in your throat when his tongue swept along your bottom lip, your mouth opening for him immediately. His chest rumbled with a low moan, his kisses growing more desperate. Your hand slipped from it’s place cupping his jaw, trailing along his skin before tangling in the long hair at the nape of his neck. He let out a whimper at the feeling, breaking the kiss and taking in deep breaths.
“You okay?” You asked softly.
His breathy chuckle brushed against your lips. “Yeah, more than okay.”
He kissed you again, more sure this time. Both your hands tangled in his hair, gently tugging his scalp as you kissed him with just as much desperation. His stubble scratched against your skin as he moved his lips, kissing along your jaw and making you gasp. The noise encouraged him, his kisses gaining more confidence, making their way down your neck. You titled your head back, granting him more access. He kissed and licked all over your neck, gently biting down on a spot under your ear making you release a moan. He focused on the spot, sucking and biting as you let out more moans and gasps. His hand on your waist gripped tighter, his fingers digging slightly as he pulled you flush to his body. That’s when you felt it—hard and unmistakable, pressing against your lower stomach.
You broke away from the kiss, watching his eyes flutter open to look into yours. You moved a hand from his hair, brushing your thumb against his jaw.
“Let me help you feel good.”
He swallowed audibly, his eyes leaving yours to glance at his left arm hanging stiffly at his side. You watched an internal struggle play out on his face, his darting eyes exposing his overthinking mind.
“We’ll only do what you’re comfortable with,” you said softly.
He let out a small, disbelieving chuckle before kissing you again—his mouth both achingly tender and bruisingly desperate against your own.
“Did you fall from heaven?” He whispered against your lips, walking backwards and pulling you towards the bed without breaking the kiss.
You giggled and rolled your eyes at him. “Shut up,” you mumbled.
He sat down on the edge of the bed and pulled you onto his lap, your knees on either side of his thighs. He took his hand off of your waist and ripped the glove off with his left hand. He brought his hand up to your face, tracing your bottom lip with his thumb and gazing at you reverently. You let out a little gasp, not expecting him to initiate skin to skin contact first. He leaned in to kiss you again, hungrily claiming your mouth with his. He moved his bare hand down to your hip, slipping tentative fingers under the hem of your shirt and brushing your skin—igniting your nerves and sending shivers along your body. His hand cupped your waist under your shirt, pressing your hips down ’til they were flush with his.
He let out a wrecked moan from the contact, his hips jerking against yours involuntarily. You rolled your hips experimentally, relishing when he let out a deep groan—his body vibrating beneath yours. You rolled your hips faster, spurred on by his noises and his bulge pressing deliciously against your jeans. He broke away from your mouth, dropping his head to your shoulder.
“Shit, I’m not gonna last long if—if you keep doing that.” He sounded ruined. A needy whine tore out of you, your need for Bucky overwhelming you. You ground down on him harder, the ball of desire in your core slicking your underwear and making you greedy. He moaned out your name, clutching your hip to stop your movements. He lifted his head off your shoulder, his glazed eyes meeting your own.
“Do you have a condom?” He asked, panting already.
You jumped off his lap, opening your suitcase in a rush to find a condom. You found the open—but unused—box at the bottom, grabbing a couple before joining him on the bed again. He rolled you onto your back, hovering over you with a small smirk on his face.
“Eager, are we?”
You nodded quickly in response, grabbing his face and pulling him down into a needy kiss. He gripped the hem of your shirt and slowly pulled it up and off your body, pausing to stare at your clothed breasts. He kissed down your neck, lavishing your collarbones and chest in tender, hungry kisses.
“God, you’re a work of art.” He mumbled into your skin. Your heart swelled in response, unexpected tears pricking behind your eyes. No guy has ever said anything like that to you, it’s normally ‘you’re hot’ or they don’t compliment you at all.
“Take off your pants,” he muttered. He removed himself from your body, standing at the foot of the bed to take his own jeans off, your eyes widening at the impressive bulge in his boxers. You felt more wetness gather in your core, preparing you for what was to come.
You eagerly pushed your jeans down, kicking them off your feet. He climbed back over you, holding his body up with his left arm next to your head. His right hand trailed down your torso slowly, stopping at the wet patch of your panties. He pressed down on it, pulling a desperate whimper from you, your hips rolling up to his touch. He pulled your underwear down your legs one-handed, throwing them somewhere behind him.
He pulled his boxers down to his knees, grabbing one of the foil squares on the bed next to you and ripping it open with his teeth. He rolled the condom down his cock, gasping from the sensitivity.
He leaned down to kiss you tenderly. “Still wanna do this?” He asked breathlessly.
“Please, Bucky.” You whimpered.
With his mouth on yours, he lined himself up and pushed in slowly. You both gasped at the feeling—he was the biggest you’ve had and you couldn’t control your walls clenching down on him. A pained moan tore from his chest as you gripped him tight, your hands winding through his hair and tugging the dark strands.
He mumbled curses, taking deep breaths to calm himself. He pushed in more, and you let out a sound you’d never heard before—the stretch of him sending you to another world. He started off with slow thrusts, letting you adjust to his size.
“More,” you moaned against his mouth. He picked up the pace, hitting the spot that had your back arching and stars forming behind your eyes. You clenched down on him hard, his hips stuttering and head dropping onto your chest at the feeling.
“Christ, shit—I’m not gonna last long.” He whimpered, his thrusts starting to lose rhythm. He moved his hand to your centre, finding your throbbing bundle of nerves and rubbing firm circles. Your eyes rolled back at the feeling, the fire in your core spreading through your veins.
Bucky thrusted a few more times before coming, your name slipping from his lips in a half moan, half whimper. He continued thrusting into you, his release long and overwhelming. He doubled his efforts on your clit, sending you over the edge with a sharp gasp of his name. It wasn’t an all-consuming, white hot pleasure but it was good. Warm, like golden sun rays spreading through your body.
He laid his head on your chest, the both of you panting after your releases. You raked a hand through his hair, rubbing soothing circles on his scalp. He shuddered at the feeling, tears slipping from his eyes and wetting your chest.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
“For what?”
“For making me feel human.”
You woke up before six the next morning, finding cold sheets next to you where Bucky once was. Sitting on the small kitchen table was your stolen headphones, a ripped piece of paper with chicken scratch handwriting next to them.
You were right
- Bucky
A week later you were at your parents place in Philly, sitting on the floor in their lounge sorting their stuff into boxes for donation or storage. Your mom turned the TV up louder, drawing your attention to the breaking news story. There on the screen was a video of the man officials suspected bombed the United Nations—James Buchanan Barnes, the Winter Soldier. Bucky.
Oh, shit.
Present day - Brooklyn, New York
The referee’s whistle shrieked loudly, piercing your ears and signalling the end of the soccer game. You had little time to prepare for the blur of messy dark braids and mud sprinting towards you, colliding with your legs and making you stumble back.
“I did it, mama! I didn’t let a single goal in!”
“I saw, peanut—I am so proud of you!” You squatted down and hugged your daughter tightly. “Did you have fun?”
She bounced in your arms, nodding vigorously. You pulled back, seeing the beaming grin on her face—proudly displaying the small gap in her top front teeth. She lost her first tooth the week before and she was ecstatic when the tooth fairy visited her—she tried to stay up two hours past her bedtime to ‘catch’ the tooth fairy, but fortunately for you she was out like a log long before you went to sleep.
“Can we get ice cream? Pretty please?” She asked, her blue eyes wide and bottom lip jutted out in a small pout—the puppy dog expression pulling on your heart strings.
You stood up, combing the loose strands back from her face and wiping a smudge of mud off her forehead.
“Hmm, how about we go home first and get cleaned up?” The both of you headed towards the field’s exit, waving goodbye to her teammates and their parents.
She rolled her eyes. “But home is far away, the ice cream store is closer!” Where she got her attitude from, you had no idea. Well, you did—while she was the spitting image of her father, her personality was a mirror of your own.
“You have a great point, Jamie. But—” you leaned towards her and took an audible sniff of her hair, dramatically taking a big step back and holding your nose. “—you’re stinky. We need to get you cleaned up for the public’s sake.”
She let out a high-pitched giggle, a familiar smile gracing your face at the sound. It was the most beautiful sound—your daughters joy was all that mattered to you. It meant you were doing something right.
“Okay,” she dragged out. “Does that mean I get two scoops?”
“What?! Two scoops? You won’t be able to sleep after that, bug.”
The two of you made your way down the street, walking the normal ten minute route back home. She continued to try her luck, trying to guilt trip you into giving her more sugar and you were close to breaking once—when her big eyes glistened with tears—but you held strong even when your heart tugged. God, what you would do for those baby blues.
You were halfway home when a group of men in suits stepped out of the cafe ten metres ahead of you. They were taking up the whole sidewalk, laughing obnoxiously and all exuding alpha male energy. You pulled Jamie closer to you out of instinct, your eyes scanning for an open gap in the group of men when something—someone—caught your eye.
He looked…older, more refined. His hair was slightly shorter, the once styled strands tousled—likely from him running his hands through his hair. His suit was tailored to him perfectly, the faded blue and dark grey combination making his heavy stubble stand out. He held his head high, his shoulders rolled back in a quietly domineering stance. He looked confident, comfortable even.
You stopped in your tracks, your heart beating wildly in your chest. The world around you faded, your attention focused solely on him as he shook his head with a small laugh, a faint smile curving his lips.
Bucky Barnes, in the flesh.
Shit. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Jamie’s little hand tugged on yours, confused as to why you stopped walking.
“Mama?”
You sucked in a sharp breath, reality crashing down on you—along with a bucket of anxiety and fear.
You tightened your grip on her hand, spinning the both of you around and hurrying in the direction you came from.
“What’s wrong? Where are we going?” Jamie asked in her sweet small voice.
You brushed a hand over her head, tucking loose strands behind her hair. “Nothing’s wrong, peanut. I just—you were right, it makes sense to get ice cream now!”
She instantly perked up, her little feet walking faster than you—dragging you towards the store.
“Finally! Can I get two scoops?”
You nodded in a daze, your mind racing. “Yeah, sure. Whatever you want, honey.”
Had he seen you? Had he seen Jamie?
You spent countless sleepless nights tossing and turning over the past five years, playing out millions of different scenarios. You had numerous scripts drafted in your head, what you would say to him—how you would tell him he had a child, a daughter. But seeing him a few feet away from you, alive and well—and so fucking handsome—your mind went blank.
It wasn’t the right time, you told yourself. Other people were around—you couldn’t put Jamie in that situation.
Trying to get a sugar crazed Jamie to bathe was like trying to tame a sticky-fingered tornado. She jumped over furniture, slid between your legs, and slipped through crevices like she was boneless. You were starting to regret enrolling her in taekwondo classes.
“The hell? How are you moving like that?” You flopped on the couch in defeat, the pounding in your head exacerbated from chasing her around the apartment.
You blinked and suddenly a jar was shoved in your face, half full of crumpled dollar notes, glittery pink and purple letters spelling out ‘swear jar’ on the white label.
“You said a swear word!”
You pounced on her, securing your arms around her waist and pulling her tight against you. You blew raspberries on her face and neck, holding her tighter as she squirmed.
“Let me go!” She squealed through giggles, trying to wriggle out of your arms.
“Not a chance, peanut.”
After her bedtime routine that took twice as long with the sugar in her system, you sunk into the couch with a glass of wine in one hand and your phone in the other.
Your phone shook slightly in your grip, anxiety pinching your chest. The last time you looked up Bucky on the internet was over a year ago; you found out he was saving the world alongside Captain America and had been pardoned of his crimes from when he was the Winter Soldier. It was hard to process—that the gentle man you had spent a tender night with in Bucharest, the man that was Jamie’s father, was off saving the world when the world had been anything but kind to him.
But now, you knew he was in the same city—the same borough—as you, and you couldn’t keep running from the truth.
Ever since that night you’ve felt an ache in your bones, like you had left a part of yourself behind in that shitty apartment. You missed him, but you were so confused. After the UN bombing you tried to find out everything you could about him, and when the two pink lines appeared clear as day on the pregnancy test you knew you had to tell him. But, he had disappeared—gone off the face of the earth and you had no ways to contact him. You thought he had died.
Then the blip happened. Jamie and you came back to find a world that had changed—that had forgotten about you. Your apartment in Philly had new residents, all your belongings gone—you had taken Jamie for a walk in the park and then suddenly five years had passed when you blinked. You moved to Brooklyn to live with your parents while you rebuilt your life, and keeping Jamie safe in a world that was torn apart was all that mattered. The Avengers had brought back half of the world, and that’s when you found out Bucky was alive—his face plastered on the TV screen along with dozens of other superheroes. You didn’t know how to reach out and you didn’t know if you wanted to—you and Jamie were just finding your footing and you didn’t want anything to jeopardise that. And truthfully, you were scared.
When Jamie asked about her dad you told her that you had lost contact when the blip happened, and that you were looking for him. You told her he was once in the army and fought for your country, that he took down bad guys like it was nothing. She occasionally asked, “have you found daddy yet?” and your heart broke every time you looked into her bright, hopeful eyes—the exact same shade of blue that you had fallen for over plum pie.
Taking a long swig of wine, you typed his name into google—your thumb shaking as you hit the search button.
And there he was.
Congressman James ‘Bucky’ Barnes. Representative for Brooklyn.
A memory from two weeks prior surfaced, when you were slumped over your home desk—trying not to panic over the next months budget. Jamie had begged to join a swim club, even with her already busy schedule of school, soccer, and taekwondo. You were starting to struggle on your teacher’s salary, but you couldn’t say no to her. You wanted to provide her with everything she wanted and more.
You were barely paying attention to your mom on the phone, gossiping about brunch with her book club friends earlier that day.
“You’ll never guess who we saw—that new Congressman, the handsome one. You know, I heard that he’s single…”
You sighed at her tone, knowing what she was suggesting. “Great, I’ll make sure to tell dad he’s got competition.”
“Oh, hush! That’s not what I was implying and you know it.” You dropped your head onto the desk with a groan. “It’s about time you put yourself out there, give dating a go again. You never know who you’ll meet.”
“Mom, I’m busy—“
“We’re worried about you, honey. All you do is work and take care of Jamie—who takes care of you?”
“I don’t need anyone to take care of me, thank you very much. Jamie and I are happy on our own.” You mumbled, a headache starting to pound against your temple.
There was a pause on her end, and you braced yourself for what was coming.
“…Have you—has there been any updates on Jamie’s father?”
“No—look, sorry, I’m busy with school stuff. I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?” You ended the call without waiting for your mom’s goodbye, guilt gripping your chest like it always does when someone brings him up.
Little did you both know, the congressman she was gushing about was Jamie’s father.
You gulped down the rest of your wine, saving the number for his office in your phone.
“What the fuck.” You muttered, your voice echoing in the quiet apartment. You had no clue what you were going to do.
Jamie’s giggles could be heard from across the grocery store, bringing an unconscious smile to your face. She was with your mom in the bakery section, giving her opinion on what her grandpa’s birthday cake should be. You could already picture the awestruck expression on her face—no doubt her nose was pressed against the glass with wide eyes taking in all the baked goods.
You were in the fruit and vegetables section, gathering ingredients for your plum pie. It had become a tradition without meaning to—baking the pie for your loved ones on special occasions, or even when they just needed comfort. It was a staple in your kitchen now, you had even altered the recipe throughout the years, truly making it your own.
In the weeks after you left Bucharest, you would find yourself making it when you missed him. When you couldn’t get to sleep at night, the sounds of his nightmares echoing in your mind, you were in the kitchen making the goddamn pie. And then when your pregnancy cravings kicked in, all you wanted was that stupid pie. And him. But you couldn’t have him, so the sugar filled pastry would have to do.
Walking through the section, you felt your phone sitting heavy in your pocket, weighed down by the numerous email drafts in your inbox and his office number in your contacts.
You were focused on selecting the right apples—Jamie was seriously picky with them—when a deep voice called out your name. A low, gravelly, familiar voice—one that you hadn’t heard in years.
You turned around and there he was, standing a few feet away, wearing a similar suit to when you saw him outside the cafe. His hair was just as messy, dark strands swooping on his cheeks, making his blue eyes look even more electric, intense. You watched as they widened in surprise, an awed smile overtaking his face. He took a small step towards you and you resisted the urge to take one back, your brain struggling to comprehend that Bucky was right in front of you.
“It really is you.” He spoke softly, dazed.
You blinked.
This wasn’t how this was supposed to happen. You were meant to meet at a cafe, or a park—a safe, common ground. Not at your local grocery store after five pm on a Friday, your hair frizzy from a long day at work and running around after your daughter.
“Bucky, hi,” you mumbled, still in shock.
“You—you look great, beautiful.” He shook his head as if in disbelief, his eyes trailing up and down your figure.
Your nerves lit up in response, your body begging you to step closer—to close the gap between you and the man you had spent the past five years yearning for.
“How are you? Are you still teaching?” Your breath caught in your throat—he remembered. He remembered you, and he remembered the brief conversation you’d had about teaching during your gap year.
Then, as if fate had orchestrated this whole interaction, your daughter came skipping over, a big giddy grin on her face.
“Look, mama! Nana said I could get Pop the Captain America cake for his birthday!”
Bucky watched closely as Jamie crashed into your legs, your hand instinctively rubbing her back in soothing circles—more for you than her. You watched his eyes drift over her, starting at her messy dark braids, then taking in her taekwondo uniform, finally ending on her crocs—covered in princess and Captain America charms.
She peered into the basket in your hands. “Oooh! Are you making plum pie tonight?!” You think the whole store heard her yell.
Bucky’s eyes shot up to yours, a stunned and confused expression on his face. He looked speechless.
Jamie turned around, finally noticing the other adult in front of her. You watched the infectious grin take over her face, proudly showing off her missing tooth. She waved to Bucky. “Hi!”
You had taught her the importance of stranger danger—well, as much as you could teach a five year old—but her kindness was built into her DNA, she couldn’t help smiling at and greeting every stranger she met.
Bucky was still speechless, his wide eyes looking into your daughters—seeing the same blue you imagined he saw in the mirror. He let out a stunned breath, his body swaying slightly like the rug had been pulled out from under him—because it had. You knew he knew.
“Sorry, hun. I don’t know what you feed her, but I’ve never seen a kid run that fast.” Your mom panted as she joined the accidental family reunion, the Captain America cake in her hands. She looked at the man in front of you, doing a visual double take as she recognised him.
“Oh! Congressman Barnes, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” She stuck her hand out to Bucky, shooting you a side-eye that screamed “what the fuck aren’t you telling me.” Bucky shook her hand absentmindedly, his eyes not leaving Jamie for a split second.
You were stood frozen, unable to think. Both your mom’s and Jamie’s eyes were watching you curiously. Why weren’t you saying anything?
Bucky finally looked away from Jamie, his confused yet hopeful eyes meeting your panicked ones. He opened and closed his mouth a couple times, at a loss for words. He licked them nervously then tried again.
“…Is she—“
His voice brought you back to earth, back to your body.
“It was really great seeing you, Bucky—I hope you’re well! We’re running late—like super late, so we need to get going.” You grabbed one of Jamie’s hands tightly, using it to pull her with you and to ground yourself. Your mom hesitantly followed, her eyes darting between you and Bucky—suspicion written clearly on her face. “We’ll—I’ll see you later!” You said to him over your shoulder, scurrying towards the checkout as fast as you could.
Your hands shook as you bagged your groceries, barely noticing that you had only gotten half of what was on your list. You took in a deep lungful of air once the three of you were outside.
Your mom called your name softly yet sternly. “What was that in there? How do you know—did you call him Bucky?”
You sighed, exasperated. “Mom, it’s nothing—“
“No, that was not nothing! You’re acting strange—what’s going on?”
“Please, just drop it!” You nodded towards Jamie next to you, completely oblivious to your inner turmoil. “We’ll talk about it later, promise.”
She narrowed her eyes at you but ultimately let it go.
The next morning you were rushing around the lounge, struggling to get Jamie into her soccer kit as she zoomed through the apartment.
“Jesus—just sit still, peanut. Don’t you wanna go play with your friends?” She nodded eagerly, stopping her mad dash around the place so you could get her shirt on. She didn’t stay still for long though, running back into her room with one sock on. “How do you always have so much energy?” You muttered to yourself.
Three heavy raps sounded against your front door. You knew who it was immediately—who else would be knocking at your door before nine am on a Saturday.
Your heartbeat hammered in your throat as you walked to the door slowly, trying to delay the inevitable. You took a deep breath in and grasped the doorknob, stopping for a second to collect yourself.
You opened the door and were greeted by the sight of Bucky, looking devastatingly handsome in a blue t-shirt and black leather jacket. It should be criminal to look that good so early in the morning. His eyes met yours and you could see the emotion swirling in them—hope, determination, and something that looked too close to hurt for your liking. Shit.
You opened your mouth to speak but he beat you to it.
“We need to talk.”
“Bucky, hi—how do you know where I live?”
“I have my ways.”
He looked over your shoulder, straining his neck to see into your apartment behind you.
“Look, I agree we need to talk—“
“Why did you run off?”
And yup, there it was—the hurt crystal clear in his voice.
You closed your eyes briefly, the familiar clench of guilt overwhelming your chest.
“I—it wasn’t my intention to…run off, I just—“ You stopped, suddenly at a loss for words. He looked at you expectantly, the exhaustion from a sleepless night evident on his face.
“You what? Were you ever gonna tell me?”
The accusation in his tone slapped you across the face.
“Bucky, that’s not fair—you don’t even know—“
And, like usual, your daughters timing was impeccable.
“We’re gonna be late!” She barrelled towards you, knocking you off balance as she slammed into the backs of your legs.
Bucky instinctively grabbed your upper arms, holding you steady as you regained your balance. Your nerves buzzed alive under his hands and you couldn’t help but notice—no gloves, he wasn’t wearing gloves anymore.
He stepped back from you just as quick, and your body felt the loss of his touch immediately. Goddamn traitor.
He squatted down to Jamie’s level, smiling at her with the softest look you’ve ever seen on the man.
“Hi, I’m Bucky.”
You were suddenly annoyed with him. Coming to talk to you unannounced was one thing, but introducing himself to your daughter when you hadn’t had a chance to place boundaries—yeah, that pissed you off.
“Hi, I’m Jamie!”
The look he shot you had some of your anger dulling, the guilt you were so familiar with clouding over. You both knew the name Jamie was no mistake, and the flurry of emotions that crossed his face showed what the name meant to him.
“Jamie?” His voice wavered. “That’s a great name.”
She beamed brightly at him and you felt the world shift beneath the three of you. There was no going back now.
“Are you coming to my soccer game?”
That shocked both of you.
“Only if your mom wants me there.” And then two pairs of blue eyes are staring at you—one pleading, the other just waiting, letting you know the ball is in your court. And it’s not fair.
“Jamie, we need to talk about you inviting strangers out with us.” Bucky visibly flinched at the word ‘strangers’—it hit like a punch to your gut. “But, sure. Bucky can come with us.”
The ten minute walk to the soccer field was…nice. Bucky fit in like the missing puzzle piece, and it was doing complicated things to your heart. To be fair, Jamie talked the whole time. She was excited to tell someone new all her stories from school, yapping his ear off about everything she could think of. And Bucky was lapping it up. He had a soft smile permanently plastered on his face, his eyes on Jamie the whole time. From the second you stepped outside of your building, he positioned himself to be on the car side of the street, angling his body to protect Jamie—making your heart flip in your chest even more, and waking up something dangerous in your core.
There was no missing the looks sent your way from the other parents when you arrived—especially the looks your fellow soccer moms shot Bucky. Great, the last thing you wanted was Jamie to be stuck in the middle of their rumour mill.
Jamie sprinted towards her friends already warming up for their game, leaving you and Bucky alone for the first time. You drifted towards the other side of the field, putting distance between you and the gossip hungry parents. No one else needed to be privy of your conversation.
The air around you and Bucky grew heavy, neither of you speaking for a few minutes as you watched Jamie hug her friend after they fell, asking if they were okay. An overwhelming sense of pride took over you, tears warming your eyes at the sight of your daughter being so kind, so caring.
Bucky cleared his throat softly.
“She’s…happy,” he said wistfully.
“Yeah,” you mumbled softly. “Means I’m doing something right.”
He looked at you then, his eyes scanning your face as you kept your attention trained on Jamie. You couldn’t look at him. The exhaustion from the last few years was weighing heavily on you, and you knew one glance at Bucky would have you breaking.
He turned back, watching Jamie put her oversized goalie gloves on, chuckling softly as they dwarfed her hands.
“She looks like my sister.”
That had you looking away from your daughter, focusing on the man next to you offering more information about himself. You didn’t know he had a sister.
“Becca was full of energy at that age, too. We both were,” he shook his head with a small laugh. “Ma used to say our house was tornado central with all the damage we caused.”
You let out an amused huff. “I figured she got her energy from you—I was more on the reserved side as a kid. She’s now in three different after school sports activities, but I think they just make her more energised.”
He made eye contact with you briefly. “Three, huh? That’s…a lot.”
You both grew silent again, watching Jamie dive for a ball and successfully defending the goal.
Bucky let out a heavy sigh, stuffing his hands in his jacket pockets.
“Were you gonna tell me?” He asked again, no accusation in his voice this time—a pensive sadness in its place. It only made you feel worse, the tears from earlier blurring your eyes.
“Bucky, I—“ you took in a deep breath, trying to control your emotions. “I was planning to, I swear.” You kept your eyes on Jamie, her smile bringing you some comfort.
“When I found out I was pregnant, I tried looking for you—I really tried. But, you just vanished…I thought you were dead.”
He sucked in a sharp breath at that, looking down at the ground.
“I didn’t want to go through the pregnancy alone, I was fucking terrified. Then, Jamie was born and she became my whole world—I would do anything for her.” Your throat grew tight and a single tear slid down your cheek.
“After the blip, I could only focus on her, on building a better life for her. And then I found out you were alive, that you had helped save the world, and I was…scared. I didn’t know what I was doing half the time, and Jamie’s father—you—being a superhero, putting your life in danger…it was a risk I didn’t want to take. I didn’t want you in our lives if you were just going to be…ripped away from us. It would break Jamie—it would break me.”
Your voice cracked and Bucky lifted his head, looking at you with concern. You brushed the tears off your cheeks and continued.
“Plus, I don’t know if you know this, but getting in contact with the Avengers when you’re a civilian…it’s pretty fucking hard.”
He let out a small laugh, nodding his head. “Yeah, that tracks.”
“I thought about reaching out last year, when I saw you were fighting alongside Captain America—who Jamie is obsessed with, by the way—but I just couldn’t get past that fear. It was easier to…live without you than potentially have you torn from us. Well, that’s what I tried to tell myself.”
You both watched as Jamie hit the ground, hard. Bucky stepped forward instinctively, like he was about to run to her side. She recovered quickly, jumping back up with a giggle.
“She’s tough,” he mumbled with a small smile.
He turned to you, determination and longing shining in his eyes.
“I get that. I get why you didn’t reach out, you were putting Jamie’s safety, her happiness, first.” He let out a humourless chuckle, “it’s a fucking complicated position to be in, I’ll give you that.”
“I want to be in her life, in your life—if you’ll have me.”
You looked back at Jamie in time to see her waving at you, at both of you.
“Yeah,” you muttered softly. “I don’t think she would let you leave, even if you tried.”
“Good.”
You both settled in to a comfortable silence, before you couldn’t resist asking what you’ve wanted to know for the last five years.
“Where were you—“
“What does she know—“
You both laughed softly. You tipped your head towards him. “You go first.”
“What does she know…about me?”
Yeah, you were expecting that.
“I told her you were in the army, that you fought bad guys…that we lost contact after the blip. She asks for updates, wanting to know where her daddy is.”
His brows pinched, his mouth trembling slightly like he was holding back tears. He cleared his throat twice.
“How do we tell her?”
There it was, the question you had been dreading—because you had no fucking clue.
“…I don’t know—hope she figures it out herself?”
The look he shot you was deadly.
You sighed. “Fine, I’ll sit her down one night, tell her gently.”
“I want to be there.”
Of course he does. Of course he just walks back into your life and wants to be involved in everything. Half of you is fucking thrilled he’s here and wanting to be part of your lives, but the other half is terrified he’ll think it’s too much and leave you both—or worse, die and leave you broken.
His eyes watched you carefully and you knew he could sense your internal battle.
“I’m not going to leave, I promise.”
And, because it was the reason you suffered many restless nights, you couldn’t stop yourself from asking.
“What happened to you? After Bucharest?”
He closed his eyes briefly, letting out a breath.
“I was in Wakanda. I…couldn’t trust my mind, and they helped me. Brought me a bit of peace.”
You could see it, how different he was to the man who once lived across from you. He was still gentle, soft, but more sure of himself—more confident in who he was. He no longer walked around like he was ashamed to be alive.
“And now…you’re a Congressman? I’ll admit I’m a little shocked, it’s quite the difference to the guy who could barely make eye contact with me.” You teased lightly.
He scoffed, shaking his head with a small smirk.
“Trust me, speaking in front of Congress is much easier than talking to the pretty girl across the hall.”
Your body flushed with warmth. Was he seriously flirting with you?
You bit the inside of your cheek, trying to keep your emotions in check. You were not going to crumble for him that quickly.
“We need to set ground rules, if we want this to work. For Jamie’s sake.”
He nodded solemnly, catching the seriousness in your tone.
“No showing up unannounced—we have a routine, and Jamie can get easily distracted.”
“Noted.”
“Communication is important, okay? Let me know if you want to see her, or if you have to cancel last minute. We have to be honest with each other—you need to tell me if it’s too much. If we’re too much.”
“Not gonna happen,” Bucky muttered.
“And absolutely no funny business—I’m serious, Bucky. I’m not jeopardising her relationship with you because we couldn’t keep it in our pants.”
A muscle in his jaw jumped, but he nodded regardless.
“Whatever you say, doll.”
You glared at him when he said ‘doll’—that was not helping.
“Should I come ‘round tonight to tell her? I can bring dinner.” Bucky was rocking back and forth on his feet, barely containing his eagerness. You bit your lip to suppress a smile.
“No, not tonight. She has a playdate this afternoon and she’s always a nightmare to calm down afterwards.”
“Tomorrow, then?”
You rolled your eyes, the smile breaking out across your face.
“Fine.”
“…Any chance you can make that plum pie?”
Jamie was lying on the couch, her head hanging off the side when Bucky knocked on the door the next evening. You had told her earlier that he was coming around for dinner and she had barely sat still since. It was a pain in the ass, if you were being honest. She clung to your torso like a koala as you tried to vacuum the apartment, making the chore take twice as long. Her crayons and toys covered the dining table—you had already put them back in her room three times that afternoon but she kept on bringing them back out. And there was a purple stain on her chin—which you were fairly certain was a bit of plum pie mixture she had swiped when you turned your back.
“I’ll get the door!” She all but screamed as she ran towards it.
“I hope you like burgers,” came Bucky’s deep voice from behind you. You turned to find Jamie giving him a tour of the apartment, starting with the small kitchen you were standing in.
She gasped, delighted. “They’re my favourite!”
“Thank you,” you said, taking the bags from his hands and putting them on the counter.
“Of course,” Bucky replied, his eyes traveling down your body before meeting your eyes. You tried to not let that affect you, busying yourself with gathering plates and napkins.
“Peanut, can you please grab your stuff off the table?” You asked Jamie. “Don’t forget to wash your hands, too.”
Jamie grumbled her objections but did as you asked, huffing as she gathered her mess of toys.
You turned to Bucky. “Sorry for the mess, I cleaned earlier but…”
Bucky nodded, a small smile on his face. “Tornado central.”
You grinned at him. “Exactly.”
Jamie ran back to the kitchen, grabbing Bucky’s hand and pulling him towards the lounge. “C’mon, I’ll give you the tour.” She was no match for his super soldier strength yet he let her drag him around with no complaint.
You put the finishing touches on the plum pie, sticking it in the oven before setting the dining table for dinner—all while listening to Jamie show Bucky your quaint apartment.
“And finally, this is mommy’s room—“
“Peanut, I don’t think he needs to see that.” You raised your voice slightly, rushing down the hallway to see them already in your doorway. You did not need Bucky in your room—that would just open pandora’s box and you were not prepared to deal with that.
“Your mom’s right, I don’t need to see her room,” Bucky said, though the small smirk on his face said something else entirely. You really hoped he didn’t catch the bra hanging from the laundry basket.
“Let’s eat before it get’s cold, yeah?” Jamie didn’t need to be told twice, forgetting her tour and sprinting down the hallway.
You and Bucky followed behind her, and he was an inch too close for your liking.
“Red, huh?” He muttered lowly. Your body went hot—he definitely saw the bra.
The burgers were good, like really good, and you weren’t afraid to tell him.
“Where did you get these? I think they’re the best I’ve had in Brooklyn—wait, no, in the city.” You practically moaned.
Bucky’s smirk was bright and smug. “It’s a small hole-in-the-wall near my office. I can take you there sometime.”
Jamie was bouncing in her chair, happily nibbling away at her food—unaware that her life was about to change in a second. You made eye contact with Bucky, both your faces falling serious. It was time.
“Hey, Jamie? There’s something I—we—need to talk to you about.” You spoke to her gently, putting your burger down and wiping your hands. Her bright eyes met yours and you knew you had her attention.
“You know how I said I was looking for your dad?” She nodded eagerly, her eyes briefly flicking to Bucky. She was a smart kid, you could practically see the gears in her brain turning.
“Well, I—uh,” you stuttered. Now that you were here, your mind had gone blank. How the hell do you tell your daughter her dad is sitting right next to her?
Bucky placed a hand on yours, brushing his thumb over your knuckles. He shot you a look saying “I’ve got this” before turning to Jamie fully.
He sucked in a breath. “I’m…I’m your dad, Jamie. And I would love to be in your life, if you’re okay with that.”
Bucky had barely finished his sentence before Jamie lunged, wrapping her little arms tight around his neck—no doubt smearing sauce on his shirt and hair.
He was taken aback for a quick second before returning her hug, his hands gently cradling her back. And that’s when you noticed it—his arm, the left one. You had seen it in pictures, on TV, but never in the flesh. His vibranium thumb was rubbing soft circles on her back, soothing her as sobs wracked through her—her little frame overcome with emotion. A tear slipped down your cheek as you watched them—overwhelmed with guilt from keeping them apart for so long, and something else warm blooming in your chest.
Bucky pressed a kiss to her head, closing his eyes tightly like he was fighting back tears. He pulled back slightly, his hands moving to brush away the tears on Jamie’s cheeks.
“Does this mean you’re moving in?” Jamie asked sweetly.
He let out a watery chuckle. “No, no I’ll be staying at my place. It’s not far from here.” His eyes shot up to yours quickly before continuing. “But, I’ll come ‘round as much as I can. And, I’ll be at all your soccer games—promise.”
By this point she had fully crawled onto his lap, bouncing happily in his arms. “What about taekwondo and swimming? Will you be there?”
“If I don’t have to be away for work.”
She pouted at him, opening her mouth to argue when the oven’s timer went off. She jumped off his lap, running the short distance to the kitchen. “Plum pie!” She squealed, excited.
You put a hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “Thank you,” you whispered. He looked at you with glassy eyes that you were sure mirrored your own.
“Get the pie, I’ll clean this up.” He nodded towards the mess of burgers and napkins.
You shooed Jamie away from the oven and she climbed back onto Bucky’s lap—natural, like it was where she belonged. You put your hands on the counter, dipping your head down and taking a few breaths. This was going better than you imagined, but it was also dangerously twisting your heart.
“You’ve got no idea how much I missed this,” Bucky muttered, looking at the pie in your hands. His eyes dragged up your body, meeting your own with a darkened gaze—it was obvious he was not just talking about the pie.
Your hands shook imperceptibly as you plated up three slices. Bucky was the first to dive in, letting out a low moan as he tasted the pie for the first time in five years. Jamie giggled at him from her place in his lap.
And you? You were frozen in your chair, a warmth spreading in your core from his moan. It was fucking sinful, and he had no right to make a noise like that at your dining table—even if it was him showing his appreciation for your baking. It felt like it was more than that.
You were in the kitchen cleaning up while Jamie had convinced Bucky to sit on the lounge floor with her, showing him her favourite toys. You looked over your shoulder, catching her holding his vibranium arm in her little hands—gazing at it in wonder.
Then you watched the realisation hit her.
“…You know Captain America.” It wasn’t a question.
“Sam? Yeah, I know him.”
And then she was shrieking, hugging the arm tightly.
“Can I meet him? Please, please, pretty please?!”
Bucky laughed loudly at her excitement. “Yeah, princess. I’ll see what I can do.”
You watched as he stood up slowly with Jamie hanging from his arm. She swung on it, giggling nonstop. A smile spread across your face, despite the way your ovaries were screaming at the sight. The ‘no funny business’ boundary you set was looking a lot less appealing now, and it had barely been twenty-four hours.
The three of you were stood at your front door, Jamie clinging onto Bucky’s leg like her life depended on it. You and Bucky had your phones out, syncing your calendars so you were aware of each others schedules, routines.
“You weren’t joking,” Bucky muttered, looking at the colour coded schedule you had for all of Jamie’s activities. You rolled your eyes—you took your schedule very seriously, there was no joking when it came to having your daughter’s life prepared.
Bucky squatted down, pulling Jamie into a hug. “I’ve gotta go now, angel. You be good for your mom.” He tried to pull back but she held on tighter, her little fists clenching his jacket.
“No,” she whined. “Please don’t go.”
“The sugar crash, right on schedule.” You mumbled, gently prying her hands off of him. She let out a cry as you gathered her in your arms, her little hands reaching for Bucky. “I’m sorry,” you whispered to him. He gave you a small smile and shake of his head, stepping forward to kiss Jamie’s forehead.
You were exhausted by the time you tucked Jamie into bed. She cried for half an hour after Bucky left, and it fucking broke your heart. You weren’t expecting her to get attached to him so quickly, but that was your daughter—she loved with her whole heart. And you couldn’t blame her, you felt like crying after he left too. All your feelings for him came rushing back as you watched him with your daughter—his daughter.
This was not going to be easy on your heart.
A few weeks passed and everything felt so right. Bucky kept true to his promise—he didn’t miss a single one of her games and came to her taekwondo and swimming classes when he wasn’t needed at the Capitol. He spoiled her with gifts—even when you told him not to—and he had started spoiling you too. You tried to brush him off with an eye roll every time, but the flush on your cheeks gave you away.
First, it was a nice bottle of wine, one you would never buy for yourself. Next, a box of expensive chocolates he had been “gifted” and didn’t want—you called bullshit. Then, it was a massage voucher—when you tried to refuse it, he promptly said “it’s either this or I give you one myself, doll” and you snatched it out of his hands before he could see the deep red crawling up your neck. The more he did for you and Jamie, the harder it was for you to ignore the way your heart tugged towards him—the way your body lit up every time he threw you that secret smirk. You were growing more frustrated each day and it was starting to show.
You were sitting in the break room at work, half paying attention to the geography teacher who was gossiping about one of her sophomore classes—apparently two of her students had a cute back and forth and she was coming up with a plan to push them together.
She called your name, looking at you expectantly.
“Huh? Sorry, bit out of it today,” you muttered, your cheeks growing warm.
“I was talking about Sophie and Ben—they’re in your third period English class, right? Don’t you think they would be cute together?” She all but squealed.
You let out a small laugh. “Yeah, I’ve noticed them. I don’t know if we should be meddling in our students relationships, though. Besides, it’d just make me feel depressed about my lacking love life…” You trailed off, your mind already wandering to Bucky and the look on his face when Jamie called him ‘daddy’ the night before.
Your colleague dropped into the chair next to you, chin in her hand as she peered at you in interest. “Oh? Are you looking to date?” You were about to shake your head, but she continued. “My cousin just moved here and I think you would be perfect for each other! You’re definitely his type.”
You rolled your eyes, the last thing you wanted was to be set up on a blind date. “No, I’m not dating. It’s fine, really—“
But she was already grabbing your unlocked phone, pulling up your calendar and looking for a free slot. She found one—next Saturday, when Jamie would be staying the night at Bucky’s for the first time. She typed on your phone, setting up an appointment for eight pm—“Date with Michael!”
“I’ll text you his details!”
There was no way in hell you were going to text him to arrange a date. You already had a date scheduled that night—your bath, a bottle of red Bucky had given you, and the toy you hadn’t unboxed yet.
Later that night, Bucky was in your kitchen drying dishes slowly, a faraway look on his face. You had just tucked Jamie in for the night, and he didn’t notice when you returned to the kitchen.
“Hey,” you started. “You okay?”
“Who’s Michael?” He asked gruffly, his eyes boring into yours.
You furrowed your brows at him, very confused. “Michael? I don’t know a Michael.”
He pulled his phone out of his pocket, turning the screen to show you an appointment in your synced calendar—the appointment you had forgotten to delete.
You let out a breathy chuckle, rolling your eyes. “Oh, that. My coworker was trying to set me up with her cousin, she put that in my calendar.” You shrugged.
“And you didn’t think to tell me?” He looked pissed.
“Tell you what, Bucky? I’m not going.”
“I think I have a right to know if you’re dating, doll.” He crossed his arms over his chest, glaring down at you. Fuck, he looked hot.
“I’m not dating, Buck.” He leaned against the counter behind him, still staring at you intensely.
“But, you would tell me if you were?” You were starting to get aggravated, this felt like an interrogation.
“What does it matter to you?” You said, voice louder than intended.
“We have a child together. I should know if you’re bringing random guys home.”
Now you were mad. He made it sound like you were out hooking up with any guy that showed you attention.
You stepped towards him, pressing a finger into his ridiculously sturdy chest. “For your information,” you seethed, glaring into his darkened eyes. “I haven’t slept with anyone since Bucharest. Don’t you dare imply I’m hooking up with randoms.”
You watched as his pupils dilated, his eyes turning almost black. His vibranium arm whirred as he clenched the counter behind him.
“You haven’t been with anyone else?” He asked, voice dangerously low.
You hadn’t meant to let that slip, to tell him that he was the last guy you slept with.
You took a step back, dropping your hand and putting much needed space between you two. When did it get so hot in here?
“It’s a bit hard to find time for yourself when you’re raising a kid solo.” You were sick of the focus being on your nonexistent sex life.
“What about you, Bucky? Now that Jamie is going to be staying at yours, I have a right to know who you’re dating.” You were only asking for Jamie’s sake. It had nothing to do with the twisting in your gut at the thought of Bucky with anyone else.
He stepped forward, crowding you against the counter behind you. His eyes did a slow drag up your body, lingering on your lips for a few seconds.
“I’ve got all I need right in front of me.”
Goosebumps erupted across your skin, your breath hitching. This was not the Bucky you knew in Bucharest, he was never this forward.
“No funny business,” you whispered, though there was no heat to it.
“It’s not funny business, it’s the truth. Thought you wanted me to be honest, doll.”
You glared at him. How dare he use your words against you.
You pushed at his chest and he took a step back, giving you some much needed breathing room.
You went back to cleaning up the kitchen, Bucky falling in step beside you after a minute.
There was a buzz in the air between you and Bucky, your body hyperaware every time he shifted next to you—slowly closing the gap.
“Do you have photos?” Bucky suddenly asked.
“Photos of what?”
“When you were pregnant.”
You whipped your head to him, staring at him with wide eyes.
“What? Why…why are you asking me that?”
He shrugged like it was a normal thing to ask someone.
“I want to see.”
“Bucky, I’ve already sent you photos of when Jamie was a baby.”
“I’m not asking for those.”
You shook your head at him. “You’re weird, you know that?” He just stared at you blankly. “Fine, whatever. I’ll send you some later.”
The side of his mouth twitched, a faint smirk ghosting his lips.
“Good girl.”
Every time Bucky looked at you all you could think about was those two stupid words. On their own they’re completely acceptable, harmless. Put them together and they’re a totally normal praise to say to a child. But when he said them to you in that low voice? There was nothing harmless or normal about your body’s reaction.
And you knew he knew what he was doing to you. There was nothing subtle about the way his eyes raked over you, and the gifts he kept on getting you? They were not for the sake of co-parenting or whatever bullshit half-excuse he used.
The bouquet of flowers he turned up with the other night? “Something nice for you and Jamie to look at.”
The gift voucher for your favourite clothing store? “Can’t have the mother of my child wearing old clothes.” That was a bullshit excuse and you both knew it.
“You use that massage voucher, doll?” He asked when he came to pick up Jamie for their first sleepover.
You woke up feeling hot and flustered, with a notification on your phone telling you that you were ovulating. The heat lingered all day, your clothes irritating your skin every time you breathed. Now Bucky was standing in front of you with that half-smirk, asking about whether you used his gift, and it was not fucking helping.
“You look…tense, it might help.” He stepped closer, your back pressing against the doorframe.
“Gotta make sure you take care of yourself, sweetheart.”
Oh. That was new. He hadn’t called you that before.
He raised his vibranium hand slowly, running a cold fingertip along the heat blooming on your neck. “Got any plans tonight?”
You shuddered at the feeling, your brain going blank as the dull ache in your core amplified.
“…What are you doing?” You asked, voice barely a whisper.
“Jus’ making sure Jamie’s mom is looking after herself, taking care of her needs.”
Jamie came running from her room, her backpack unzipped and overflowing—even though you had already packed it and double-checked it had everything she needed.
Bucky took a step back, clearing his throat before turning and catching Jamie with ease. Your ovaries started a war inside you, your core cramping with need watching Bucky interact with your daughter.
“Bye Mama!” Jamie kissed your forehead, her spot in Bucky’s arms making her taller than you.
“Have a good night, sweetheart.” Bucky mumbled with a wink, grinning at your cheeks flushing even more red.
Bucky brought Jamie back early the next evening, her body slumped in his arms with little snores escaping her.
“How the hell did you get her to sleep?” You whispered, astonished that she was passed out so early.
He shrugged like it was nothing. “We did some soccer drills at the park, I let her try out some taekwondo moves on me. Helps that the serum gives me a high stamina.”
He walked Jamie to her room, tucking her into bed like it was second nature. He came back to the lounge to find you stood frozen, your mind still reeling over high stamina.
Blame it on your smart mouth, or on your ovulation obliterating your filter, but you opened your mouth without thinking.
“High stamina? Where was that in Bucharest?”
Your wide eyes gave you away—you had clearly not meant to say that. You weren’t disappointed with the sex you and Bucky had, god no, but you wouldn’t say it was a good example of super soldier stamina.
A devilish smirk spread across his face, stalking towards you like he was a predator and you were his prey.
“Cut a guy some slack, doll. You were the first woman I’d touched since the 1940s. I’m surprised I lasted as long as I did.”
He was right in front of you now, pushing a strand of hair behind your ear—his hungry eyes latched on your lips.
“You want a redo? Want me to show you how long I can really go for?”
Your pulse jumped in your neck, a breath getting lodged in your throat, the ache from the day before hitting your core at full force.
“…Bucky, we—we said no funny business.”
His hand moved to your chin, gripping it gently and tilting your head up. There was a fire blazing in his eyes as he stared into your soul.
“No, you said that.” His vibranium hand rested lightly against your hip, testing. You gasped at the cold seeping through your clothes, relieving some of the heat and making your core clench with need at the same time.
He dropped his head, brushing his nose against yours.
“Did you take care of yourself last night, sweetheart?” His voice was low, husky.
Your body flushed even hotter. His proximity had your brain short-circuiting and butterflies raging in your stomach, the smell of his aftershave and something uniquely him overwhelming your senses with every shuddering breath you took.
“I asked you a question,” he gripped your chin tighter, his tone bordering on demanding.
“I…had a bath, drank some wine…” the vibranium hand on your hip slipped higher, cupping your waist and pulling you closer. A tiny gasp got caught in your throat.
“Did you touch yourself?” His nose brushed across your cheek, his mouth dangerously close to your ear.
“You—you can’t ask me that, Bucky.” Your voice shook. Your hand clutched his shoulder, the vibranium cold against your palm even through his shirt. The ground beneath you felt unsteady, your body swaying towards him for support.
“Sure I can, your wellbeing is important to me. Answer the question.” The hand on your chin moved, a calloused thumb brushing your bottom lip.
The touch had your mind blanking, tingles erupting beneath his thumb and travelling through your body, gathering in the pit of your belly. Your head felt fuzzy and the world narrowed to him, only him.
“Yes,” you whispered.
He hummed, satisfied.
“Good girl.”
Your thighs clenched at the praise, the warmth in your core begging for relief. You watched his tongue swipe along his bottom lip, leaving them glistening and looking so fucking tempting.
“It wasn’t enough though, was it?” He walked you backwards slowly, a small gasp escaping you as your back hit the wall. “No, I think you need more.”
His head dropped to the crook of your neck, his stubble scratching your sensitive skin. You sucked in a breath, resisting the urge to moan. It had been so long since someone had touched you—since Bucky touched you—and the need pulsing through you was making you delirious.
Both Bucky’s hands dropped to your hips, squeezing tight as he stepped closer. One of his thighs slotted between your legs, the pressure against your core making you whimper.
“You need to be more careful about what you put in your calendar, doll.”
You struggled to understand what he was saying, too overwhelmed by his closeness and the dizziness it was causing.
He pressed a faint kiss to your throat, right where your pulse was beating wildly. He chuckled lowly, the sound vibrating against your skin.
“God, I’ve been hard ever since I saw that notification yesterday.”
That had you reeling, a fraction of reality slipping through the haze. What was he talking about?
You found your voice, although meek and small. “What notification?”
His vibranium hand slipped from your waist to your back, pulling you into him until your back arched, your core shifting against his thigh. The slight friction made your body thrum, your hips instinctively rolling to chase the feeling.
“The one letting you—me—know that you’re ovulating.”
You gasped, horror running through your body. You didn’t even think about how your tracking app was linked to your calendar.
“I can smell it, sweetheart. How fucking needy you are.” His words had the horror dissolving into liquid honey, the need he was talking about dripping from your core.
His right hand gripped your hip tighter, his fingers digging in as he moved your hips, dragging you back and forth on his jean-clad thigh.
“I wanna take care of you. Let me make you feel good.” He whispered, his mouth hot against your ear.
Any worries you had about crossing boundaries, about ruining Jamie’s relationship with her father disappeared, replaced by a blazing fire.
“Please,” you whispered desperately.
Bucky didn’t waste a second, his lips finding yours in a bruising kiss. His hands pulled you tighter against him, your hips flush with his. Your hands found their place in his hair, tugging the soft strands and making him moan into your mouth.
His tongue slipped past your lips with no resistance, meeting yours in a battle for dominance that you had no intention of winning. He bit your bottom lip, tugging it as he pulled back. He dropped his forehead to yours, both of you panting heavily from the kiss.
“You’ve got no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that,” he murmured, pressing small kisses to your lips like he couldn’t help himself.
You whined when he stepped back, missing his warmth and the friction between your legs.
“Patience, doll.”
And then he was dropping to his knees in front of you, his hands sliding up the sides of your thighs and gripping the waistband of your leggings, pulling them down torturously slow. He groaned low at the sight of your panties, the dark wet patch exposing your need for him.
He pressed a quick kiss to the patch, making your head hit the wall with a thud. He chuckled at you, his eyes filled with a possessive hunger.
“So responsive.”
He placed one of you thighs over his shoulder, peppering your inner knee and thigh with soft kisses. He stopped at your mid thigh, turning his head to lavish your other leg with the same attention. Your breathing grew heavy at the teasing, the need in your core growing unbearable the more he avoided where you needed him most.
“Bucky, please, stop teasing,” you whined, your voice echoing in the apartment.
He chuckled darkly, looking up at you like you were a feast he couldn’t wait to devour.
“Gotta be quiet, doll. Don’t wanna wake Jamie up now, do you?” His tone was mocking and you wanted to slap the smirk off his face.
He relented his teasing, rising to his full height and gripping your hips. His mouth found yours again, softer this time but still just as hungry. Your arms wound around his neck, pulling him impossibly closer as you tried to grind your core against the bulge in his jeans. He let out a small broken moan, leaving your lips to kiss along your jaw and neck.
“Jump,” he muttered into your neck. You did as he said, your legs wrapping around his waist as he hoisted you up in his arms like you weighed nothing. His hands grasped your ass, rolling your hips against him harder. He spun you around, walking towards your room with his face still buried in your neck, biting and tugging your sensitive skin.
He closed the door behind him softly, dropping you gently onto your bed. He stood at the end, quiet as his eyes raked over your half-dressed body. He grabbed your ankles and pulled you to the edge of the bed. He dipped down to kiss you passionately.
His hands grasped the hem of your top, dragging it up your body and over your head. He stopped momentarily, staring at your naked breasts in awe.
“I didn’t worship you like you deserved, sweetheart. I’m not making that mistake again.”
Then he dropped his head, kissing a path down your neck and across your collarbones. He ran his tongue along your skin, biting the soft swell of your breast gently, avoiding your nipple. Your hips bucked under him, desperate for more. His hands tightened on your hips, pushing them into the bed to stop your squirming. He finally took your nipple into his mouth, sucking gently and grazing his teeth against it. You let out a sharp gasp, your hands clutching his shoulders. His flesh hand came up to palm your neglected breast, pulling and twisting the nipple between his fingers, eliciting more debauched gasps from your lips.
“So fucking pretty,” he mumbled, switching his mouth to the other breast to give it the same attention. His vibranium arm whirred as your hips tried to buck more, holding you down with ease.
His flesh hand stayed palming your breasts as his mouth descended, his stubble scratching the soft skin of your stomach. He stopped, pulling back slightly as his eyes focused intently on your skin—more specifically, on the stretch marks covering your lower belly.
He let out a low moan, pressing his forehead against your stomach like he was collecting himself. His hand on your breast trailed down, calloused fingertips reverently tracing the jagged lines your pregnancy left behind.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmured absentmindedly, like he was in a trance. “You’re always beautiful, but seeing those photos of you pregnant with my child.” He let out a dark chuckle. “You don’t know what that did to me, doll.” His dark eyes met yours. “I’ve fucked my fist every night looking at them. Seeing you big and round with my baby—shit, doll.” He closed his eyes and groaned. “Makes me wanna get you pregnant again.”
He dropped his mouth to your skin, his lips kissing your stretch marks with a tenderness that had your heart clenching painfully. He took his time, worshiping every scar with his lips. Your underwear was soaked, his actions and words making you so overwhelming needy that it hurt.
You pushed on his shoulders, trying to get him to move down to your core—to offer you some relief. He relented his soft kisses, grabbing your panties and pulling them down your thighs. He moaned, watching the way the fabric clung to your wet pussy—a line of slick keeping them tethered. He stuffed your panties into his back pocket once he removed them, throwing you a wink.
“A souvenir,” he muttered before diving in.
His mouth was hot on your core, his tongue dragging a line up your slit before latching onto your clit. He sucked greedily, a hum sounding in the back of his throat. Your hands flew to his hair, grasping the strands and pushing him further into your core. He switched between sucking your clit and fucking you with his tongue, listening to your moans and whines to see what you liked. His flesh hand splayed against your stomach, stroking the marks there as he held you down. It was both tender and dirty, and it had the heat in your core spreading like wildfire. His vibranium hand trailed along the top of your thighs, making you gasp and shiver.
He lifted his mouth off you, your slick glistening on his lips and beard—you almost came from the sight alone. He watched you closely as his hand inched higher, a cold finger brushing against your lower lips. You gave him a quick nod, muttering “please” and he didn’t waste any time.
He dipped a finger into your entrance, moaning at the wet heat and little resistance. He pumped it slowly, sucking your clit back into his mouth—making your back arch and hands tug harder, pulling at his scalp and making him moan into you. The noise had you preening, the ball in your core tightening. He inserted another cold finger, curling against the spot that had your legs shaking. You let out a long moan, your breath coming quick as you climbed higher.
“Come for me, sweetheart.” He mumbled, his voice vibrating against your core. A third finger joined in and the stretch had tears brimming your eyes, the pleasure he was unleashing on your body too much. You came with a cry, your body tensing and shaking under him. He slowed down slightly, dragging your pleasure out until you were whimpering and pushing his head away from the overstimulation.
He crawled up your body, peppering more kisses on your skin as you struggled to catch your breath, coming down from your high slowly. You giggled as his stubbled tickled your stomach. He brushed your cheeks gently, wiping away the few tears that escaped from your pleasure. He looked at you with what looked like love in his eyes, causing your cheeks to flush and heart to beat harder.
He kissed you deeply, the taste of you on his tongue turning you on more. You returned the kiss with fervour, wrapping your legs around his clothed waist and grinding your hips against his bulge.
He moaned at the feeling, his arms on either side of your head shaking with restraint.
“Can I fuck you, doll?” You responded with an eager nod.
“Will you let me fill you up?” You continued nodding, a little whine and pleads leaving your lips.
He removed himself from you, ripping his clothes off in a hurry. He dropped on top of you and you relished at the feeling of his bare chest against yours. Your hands found his shoulders as he rubbed his cock along your dripping slit. You both let out matching moans.
“Wanna give Jamie a little sibling.” It wasn’t a question.
You nodded deliriously, your breath hitching as his tip caught your entrance. He pushed in achingly slow, kissing you as a high pitched moan escaped your throat. He grabbed your legs, wrapping them around his waist as he plunged deeper—a deep groan rumbling in his chest. You whimpered at the stretch of him. He thrusted slow and gentle at first, closing his eyes and savouring the feel of your tight walls hugging him. He picked up the pace, hitting your sweet spot—sharp gasps escaping you with every thrust. Your hands clutched his back tighter, your nails digging into the flesh slightly. The obscene sounds of skin slapping against skin, your breathy pants and gasps, and his low moans filled the room.
His hand moved from your hip to your core, rubbing circles on your clit in time with his thrusts. You were still sensitive from your first orgasm and you could feel the fire spreading from your belly at record speed.
“That’s it, that’s my good girl,” Bucky muttered against your lips. You clenched around him tightly, the praise adding more fuel to the fire. “You like that? You like when I call you a good girl?” You nodded, babbling incoherently as everything became too much and you seized below him. A harsh gasp escaped you as you came a second time, your nails scratching along his back and drawing blood.
“Fuck—squeezing me so tight, sweetheart. Shit,” he grumbled out as he continued to fuck you through your high, only slowing down when you let out a sob.
He cradled your face in his hands, brushing away tears with a concerned look on his face. “Hey, hey, you’re okay. Just breathe,” he cooed softly, pushing hair back from your face. His eyes roamed over your features as you collected yourself, gasping in small breaths as your mind came back to your body.
“You still with me?” You nodded shakily. “Wanna keep going?”
“Please, need you to come inside me.” You whispered, a shaky hand grabbing his jaw and kissing him softly.
He groaned into your mouth, his cock dragging inside you slowly—making you whine.
“You got any idea what you do to me, doll? Fucking begging me to breed you,” he gave a harsh thrust and you let out a broken sob.
He shushed you, moving his flesh hand to your mouth as he continued to thrust mercilessly.
“You’re gonna wake Jamie up.” You moaned behind his mouth, your eyes rolling back and your body feeling weightless.
He pulled out suddenly, making you let out a pained cry at the loss of him. “No, no, please, don’t stop.” You babbled, your hands grabbing his arms trying to get him back inside you.
He chuckled at your desperation before grasping your hips and flipping you over, positioning you on your hands and knees. You had little time to adjust to the new position before he was slamming into you, his cock pounding your walls at a relentless speed. Your moans were muffled by the pillow beneath your head, the fabric getting soaked in your drool and tears.
“Fuck, you look so good like this, baby,” he moaned, clutching your ass cheek before bringing his palm down in a harsh slap. Your body jumped forward, pain radiating from his slap and morphing into pleasure. You clenched down on him in a vice like grip, his hips stuttering in response.
“You want another baby, doll? Want me to get you pregnant again?”
You nodded your head vigorously, mumbling out “yes” and “please” like they were the only words you knew.
He slapped your ass two more times and you let out a broken sob, tears flowing down your cheeks as the pleasure became too much. You could feel Bucky getting close, his thrusts losing rhythm and his grunts increasing in volume.
“God, you’re gonna look breathtaking, not gonna be able to keep my hands off you.” He muttered out, cursing as you gripped him even tighter. His hand moved from your hip to your clit, rubbing harsh circles. Your back bowed from the oversensitivity, trying to escape his touch but needing it at the same time. You bit the pillow below you as you came for a third time, your wail ringing out in the dark room. Bucky thrusted three more times before stilling, coming inside you with a long drawn out groan. He kept pumping inside you, his warm seed filling you completely. You sighed at the feeling, bliss running through your veins. Bucky caught you as your body collapsed, all your strength leaving you. You felt completely ruined.
Bucky pulled out with a groan, gently rolling you over so you were laying on his chest. His hand trailed up and down your back in soothing patterns, the both of you quiet as you came down. He pressed a kiss to your head, breathing you in deeply. You traced a pattern on his sweaty chest, sleep pulling at the corners of your eyes.
“We should probably talk,” you mumbled.
“Later,” another kiss to your head. “Wanna enjoy you in my arms a little longer.”
More tears pricked at your eyes and you hugged him tighter. You took in a shaky breath as you prepared yourself to say what’s been on your mind since Bucharest.
“I…I think I love you, Bucky.”
Bucky’s chest shook with a trembling exhale below you.
The kind where devotion borders on obsession, where love isn't just tender—it's consuming.
"I'd do anything for you, love," he murmurs, voice smooth, unwavering. "Anything you desire, and it's yours."
And the other doesn't hesitate, voice laced with something raw, something desperate.
"I want her to split me open—dig her fingers into my ribs and pry them apart. To hold my heart in her hands, feel the pulse of it against her palms, my blood staining her skin. I want her to pick my bones clean, crack them open, suck the marrow dry. I want to be ruined by her, consumed until there's nothing left of me but the taste of her name on what's left of my tongue."
Because love, when it’s deep enough, is a hunger—one that begs to be fed.
pairing: war vet!mechanic!bucky barnes x fem!reader | au
w.c: 15k+
summary: you were a bit nervous when your roommate invited you to the beach with her friends, but after meeting them you realize you had no reason to be. after meeting the recovering war veteran and mechanic of the group, your whole world shifts. he's sweet, utterly handsome, and seems to be fond of you, too. things move quickly and after an encounter on the beach, you begin to worry you imagined everything. but some things are worth fighting for, aren't they?
warnings: fluff, meet cute, love at first sight maybe, beach setting, angst, descriptions of bucky's past, eventual smut (in second installment)
a/n: if this flops, my feelings will be so hurt but life shall go on. also, I know the story moves quickly, but it’s supposed to bc it’s a summer fling and summer isn’t that long. I also envision Bucky after FATWS specifically for the basis of his au character. He’s done the work to help himself, but it still haunts him at times
masterlist | read on AO3
The grass, trees, and the occasional house passed by quickly. The summer air coming through the cracked windows filled your lungs and restored you from the inside out. There were no gasoline, garbage, sewage, or other odors fighting to take up space inside of your chest. Your shoulders lost the tension they normally carried the further away you got from the hell hole you called the city. There were no skyscrapers, advertisements, blinking lights, or honking cars vying for your attention; just the vivid green of nature, the empty backroad you were traveling on, and the clear blue sky above. Your mind felt quiet for the first time since you can remember moving to the city.
You leaned closer to the window and propped your chin on your arm as you gazed out at the rural area you were driving through. The wind wiped in your face and you suddenly understood why dogs stuck their heads out of the car; it was euphoric and free. Euphoric and free weren’t words you would use to describe how you felt in your daily life. Sure, you had moved to the city after college like most fresh graduates would dream of doing, but the job you secured wasn’t as fun as you were led to believe in the interview and you were suddenly drained of energy since joining the real world. During your first year of work, your boss slowly piled more and more work upon your shoulders. You didn’t want to look like you were slacking, so you picked up the extra work with no complaint.
That was your first mistake.
As soon as you proved you could handle the bigger workload, your boss started asking you to spend more time at the office and even called you on weekends occasionally to ask you to draft a contract or schedule a meeting, or whatever other bullshit assistants had to deal with all the time. You grumbled under your breath whenever you had to put in the extra hours but turned on the smile when your boss was around.
Your second mistake was giving too much of your time to work so that you barely had a social life. While you moved to the city knowing no one, you lucked out on finding an incredible roommate – Natasha Romanov. She quickly became a great friend and helped you navigate the city whenever it seemed to bog you down. Natasha had lived in the city since she was ten and knew almost every borough inside and out. During your first year, she made it her mission to take you out every weekend to see one of the sights or to go dancing or whatever she claimed was a “must” for a newbie. It was easy to handle your work life and small but budding social life that first year.
After that, you slowly started to become increasingly burnt out and, being the introvert you were, you started to decline invitations to go out. Natasha hadn’t said anything at first, but over the years she started to drop comments here and there about you missing out on life by giving it all to work.
That was easy for her to say. She had a job that aligned perfectly with her interests and was flexible on hours. The more you got to know Natasha, the more you were sure she was destined to be a private investigator. She was eerily good at picking up on people’s insecurities and emotions. She always watched more than she talked and she always asked the right questions just the right way. Natasha radiated confidence and everyone she encountered knew not to get on her bad side.
She seemed to have her life figured out while you still felt like you were drowning most days. The drowning sensation had lessened once you quit your assistant job six months ago and started to bartend, but you still had no clue what the next few years of your life would entail. It was exciting and nerve wracking all at the same time.
Since making the career jump to being a bartender, you got to spend more time with Natasha, as she frequented the bar when she knew you were on the schedule. To be fair, you would too if the roles were reversed. Having a decent bar just across the street from your apartment was a blessing. You were saving so much money by not using the subways or buses and the tips were nothing short of amazing.
Natasha had even brought two of her close friends by the bar – Sam and Wanda. This was a big deal since she was a private person and tended to keep her loved ones close to her chest. Sam was perhaps the most boisterous person you had ever met, and his charisma always amazed you. When he came to the bar, he would have strangers eating out of the palm of his hand within an hour. Wanda, on the other hand, was more similar to you: introverted, kind, and happy to stick with her small group of people.
Having a somewhat healthy savings account, an understanding boss, and more energy for life had landed you here: stretched out in the back seat of Sam’s truck with Wanda riding shot gun and playing DJ while you headed for a beach down the coast. One of Natasha’s more lucrative clients had offered their beach house as a bonus for successfully getting pictures of her husband cheating on her with not one, but five other women. Needless to say, she had swept the field when it came to dividing their assets and you were able to enjoy one of said assets.
Natasha was already at the house with her other two friends she invited along: Steve and Bucky. You had heard her talk about them in passing but you had yet to meet the two elusive men. From what you gathered, the two served in the military along side Sam and when they were discharged, the two moved back to their old neighborhood in Brooklyn and invited him to join. Steve had become an artist and had just recently had a gallery exhibit that explored the traumas that soldiers face coming home from the battlefield. Bucky was a mechanic at a small repair shop in Brooklyn. He preferred the quieter lifestyle after coming home from their last tour.
You were a bit anxious to meet the two men, but you were more excited that Natasha was showing you her closest friends who she considered family. If they were anything like Sam and Wanda, you were sure that you would have a great time with everyone.
Within an hour, the three of you in Sam’s truck were pulling into the driveway of the beach house and various sounds of disbelief filled the truck’s cab.
“How rich were these people?” Sam asked as he peered up at the house.
“For a three-story house at the beach? I’d say very,” Wanda added as she gazed out the windshield in awe.
“And we have this house – no, mansion for three weeks?” you added.
Said mansion was enormous in your eyes after living in a tiny apartment for the past four years. The windows on the first floor were floor to ceiling, revealing a minimalist décor preference and giant pieces of furnishing in front of a purely white, state-of-the-art kitchen. The second floor, where you assumed the bedrooms were, had picturesque arched windows and a large bay window looking over the property. The third floor seemed to be a small observation room since it was mostly windows with a giant telescope in the middle of the small room. The exterior of the house was the classic beach shake style with small pieces of wood collected to make the siding with crisp white trim and a pale blue door.
“Remind me to give Natasha a bottle of wine or something,” Sam said as he pulled up to the car port where another car and a motorcycle were parked.
“Remind me to name my first born after her,” you chuckled as you all started to gather your things that had been spread across the truck during your road trip down to the coast. Wanda laughed and Sam shook his head with a smile as they shoved their belongings in their bags and pockets before opening the truck doors and sliding out.
You put your phone in your back pocket and grabbed the water bottle you had finished before jumping out and going to the back of the truck to grab your suitcase. As Sam was opening the bed, the front door of the house opened and Natasha stepped out, followed by unfamiliar, large figures. Nat walked over to you and pulled you into a quick hug before pulling back and doing the same with Wanda.
“How was the drive? I see you made it all in one piece,” she quipped as she nudged Sam with her elbow.
“Hey, I drive very well for your information,” he defended as he pulled all three suitcases to the edge.
“More like you drive like a roadrunner,” Wanda joked. “He was going at least ten over the speed limit the entire time.”
“Sue me for wanting to get my vacation started as soon as possible. Plus, we’re all safe, that’s what really matters,” Sam said as he puffed out his chest slightly.
You laughed and shook your head.
“Well, c’mon,” Nat said as she gestured towards the house. “Steve went out and got lunch for us and I’m starving.”
Grabbing your bag, you put it down on the ground before Sam closed the bed and started towards the house with Wanda. You looked up at the house for one moment and took it in before moving to follow everyone. You pulled the handle up from your suitcase and started tugging it behind you when suddenly, the handle slid out from its spot and a wheel fell off of the bottom at the same time. Your cheeks warmed in embarrassment and a bit of frustration, but before you could move, you heard someone jogging over to you.
“Hey, no worries, I’ll bring it in,” a deep voice said behind you.
You turned around and saw the darker haired one of the two men right in front of you. He had beautiful blue eyes that you swore you could drown in. They looked over you as you stared at the man they belonged to. He had short hair that looked so soft and moved with the sea breeze. The lower half of his face was covered with a beard that looked like it had been trimmed recently. The next thing you noticed were his broad shoulders and strong arms. You noticed that one arm was flesh while the other was a very sophisticated, black and gold prosthetic.
He grabbed your suitcase and picked it up like it weighed no more than a feather. Heat spread through you upon seeing his muscles flex with his movements.
“Oh, thank you,” you said as you bent to pick up the stray wheel and broken handle. You turned back to him and slowly started walking to the house beside him, offering your name as an introduction.
A small, but crooked smile spread across his pink lips and he repeated your name, as if testing how it would feel on his lips. “I’m Bucky,” he replied. “I’ve heard a lot about you from Nat.”
“All good things, I hope,” you nervously smiled.
“All good things,” he confirmed.
You looked at him once more and bit your bottom lip to keep your nerves at bay. You were always nervous around men you found attractive and it was safe to say that Bucky was the most attractive man you had ever seen with your own eyes.
When you both reached the front door, he stood back to let you enter first before following and closing the door. He set your suitcase down by the stairs, next to Wanda’s oversized tote bag and Sam’s duffle bag. You dropped your broken suitcase parts on top of your luggage and looked around the foyer that opened to the whole first floor.
“Wow, this house looks like it should be in an architecture or design magazine,” you commented as your eyes scanned all the matching furniture and accent pieces that probably cost more than you made in a month.
"I think Nat said that the owner has had a few design firms take pictures of the interior,” Bucky said.
You turned back to meet his gaze and felt a slow heat creep up the back of your neck when you noticed he was already looking at you. If you were going to be here for three weeks with this beautiful man, you needed to pull yourself together – quickly.
“That tracks,” you laughed. “Most of the things in this house probably cost more than my paycheck.”
“I thought bartenders made good money,” Bucky said with a furrow in his brow.
“How did you know I was a bartender?”
“Oh, uh… Nat kind of talks about you a lot,” he added with a shy smile. Your eyes immediately fell to his lips and watched as his smile grew a bit bigger upon noticing you staring at his mouth.
“She does?” you questioned, glancing back up at his eyes. He nodded his head and watched as you bit your lip to try and suppress a goofy grin from taking over your face.
“She normally doesn’t have much to say about people, but you seemed to have made an impression on her,” Bucky told you.
“Well, I’m just honored just getting to meet you all,” you said. “She really loves you guys and I can see why. You’re all very nice and welcoming.”
“I don’t hang around people who aren’t worth my time,” Natasha’s familiar voice came from behind you. You spun on your heel to see the redhead behind you, leaning on the banister of the stairs with a sly smirk on her face as she looked between you and Bucky. “Now, c’mon. You still need to meet Steve.”
With that, she hooked her arm in one of yours and pulled you further into the house. As you both walked towards the kitchen, you chanced a peek behind you and saw Bucky standing where you were, looking down at his shoes and shaking his head. Your heart skipped three beats before settling back into a normal rhythm.
“You must be the famous roommate!”
You turned around and found another figure standing in front of you. The genuine smile on his face matched the warm timbre of his voice. The blonde haired, blue-green eyed, over six-foot tall man had the energy of a golden retriever, and it felt easy to return his welcoming energy.
“You must be Steve,” you replied. Before you could take another step forward, he swooped in to give you a quick but comforting hug. You returned the embrace at the last second, shocked that he was so outwardly friendly with even his affections. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”
“I could say the same,” he said. “Natasha talks about you enough that I feel like we already know each other.”
You glanced over at your friend who was leaning against the kitchen counter, watching you two interact with a small smile on her face. Your heart swelled, knowing you were now a part of her inner circle.
“Well, I hear nothing but great things about your art. Nat even said she thought about buying a piece or two.”
At that, Steve’s head turned to Natasha and a teasing smile took over his face. “Oh, really? I thought they were ‘just alright’.”
She rolled her eyes and pushed off the counter before putting her chin on your shoulder. “Remind me to not compliment people around you. You’re liable to spill my secrets.” She gave your side a squeeze before sauntering off to where Wanda and Sam were sitting at the kitchen table with their plates full of food.
You turned to the spread that Steve had gotten for everyone and started to pile a plate with food. As you were debating how much food to get, Steve and Bucky joined you in filling their plates.
“So, which one of you has the motorcycle?” you asked, trying to make small talk.
“That’s all Buck,” Steve said, clapping his friend on the back of his shoulder. “He actually built the engine himself.”
You looked up in awe at the man who had helped you earlier. “I’m sorry, you built the engine yourself? I might not know much about cars and bikes, but I know that must have been a challenge,” you said. A faint blush crept up his neck at your attention, and you felt a giddiness spread through your veins knowing that you could get a reaction out of him.
“It’s really not that hard,” he deflected. “The hardest part was finding all the parts I needed, but building the actual engine took about two days.”
You nodded, impressed that he was very gracious about his engineering feat.
“Well, congratulations,” you said. “It looks really good.”
He met your gaze and gave you a shy smile. “Thanks.”
Next to him, Steve was fighting off a smile and shook his head as if he was fighting to keep his thoughts to himself. He left the counter with a plate piled high and sat down next to Wanda. You noticed that the only two seats left were right next to each other, meaning you and Bucky would be sitting near each other.
The two of you walked over to the table after assembling your lunches, sat down, and joined the conversation. The table was made from nice oak wood, but it wasn’t very big; Sam and Wanda were practically smushed together and Steve and Natasha sat at the heads of the tables. During the meal, you noticed that Bucky’s knee kept knocking into yours every so often and you found yourself moving your knee closer to his every time he would pull away slightly. You felt like a schoolgirl with her first crush, and it felt like the feelings were reciprocated, but you weren’t sure if you were reading into it too much.
The next few days were full of exploring the island that you all were staying on. There were a few local museums about the native inhabitants, two art galleries filled with colorful pieces made of sea glass and oil paints, and a handful of Mom-and-Pop shops that had everything from fishing poles to surf boards to Christmas ornaments. You also went to every beach access that you could find, relishing in the soft sand, warm sun, and cool ocean spray.
You had a lot of fun getting to know everyone better. Wanda was very artistic and signed up for an art class held at one of the galleries; Steve ended up joining the class also. Natasha seemed to be immersed in the history of the island and bought a book about the local history at a small book shop. You found out that Sam had a knack for fishing after telling you about how he grew up on a fishing boat with his dad and sister. Bucky had ended up enjoying the beach nearly as much as you did, finding the sound of the waves lulling and comforting.
Getting to know Bucky had been your favorite part of the trip so far, though. You learned about his affinity with machines and science. He told you about his collection of Tolkien’s books and mentioned he’d lost count of how many times he reread The Hobbit.
He asked questions about you and seemed genuinely interested in knowing the answers, unlike most guys you dated. It was refreshing to have your interest reciprocated for once.
You also noticed that the two of you seemed to always be close to one another or touching in some way. He always sat near you during meals and your knees or feet would be touching. When you all explored the museums and shops, he held the door open for you and would guide you out with a hand on the small of your back if it was particularly crowded. At night when everyone would pile up on the furniture in the living room, he always opted to sit next to you. If you were sitting on the floor, he would sit on the couch behind you and guard your personal space like it was his job.
A few days after arriving, you all decided to spend the day at the beach. Sam was surf fishing, Steve and Wanda were sketching, Natasha was reading under an umbrella, and you and Bucky were walking along the shoreline. You were looking through all the shells you came across, and Bucky was content to hold the shells you deemed good enough to keep.
“So,” Bucky started as he watched you bend down to comb through a section of small shells, “what makes a shell good enough to keep?”
You paused in your search and looked up at Bucky, shielding your eyes from the afternoon sun. Standing in front of the ocean in his linen button up that was unbuttoned halfway and his hair moving with the wind, Bucky looked like he could be in a perfume commercial or one of the men on the cover of a steamy romance novel. His sunglasses obstructed his eyes from your view, but you could feel his gaze on your face.
“I guess it’s up to the person collecting,” you said.
“What’s your criteria then?”
“For me, I like shells that look like they’ve traveled through the ocean a long time. They aren’t perfect, but they still have a beautiful color or pattern on them,” you explained, looking back down at the shells in front of you. One that matched your description laid in front of you. You grabbed it and stood up to show Bucky. Holding your hand out, he moved closer, observing the shell in your hand. “See this one? Its edges are a little jagged, but it still has a bright color and feels smooth in my hand. It feels like it has lived a life of its own.”
Bucky reached out and slowly traced his finger down the middle of the shell before trailing his finger over your palm for a second. A shiver ran down your spine, and you had to fight the gasp that threatened to leave your lips. Bucky looked up at you and tilted his head to the side a bit.
“Jagged edges don’t bother you?” he asked. His tone of voice suggested that he wasn’t just asking about the shell’s jagged edges.
You gave him a gentle smile and shook your head. “No, they don’t bother me. Should they?”
“Some edges are sharper than others,” he explained cryptically.
You knew that he served in the military and had suffered many injuries. You had a suspicion he was talking about his jagged edges and not the shell’s. There were so many words swarming your brain, but none of them seemed adequate to quell his nerves. Nonetheless, you still had to try.
“Well, lucky for the shell, time and sand smooth the sharp edges. They never go away, but they become more manageable,” you said.
His mouth opened slightly upon hearing your explanation and you could tell that the words had landed in his chest with impact; you just didn’t know if it was something he needed to hear or something he didn’t want to acknowledge. Instead of thinking about it too much and second guessing yourself, you placed the shell in the front pocket of his button up and left your hand on his chest to cover the shell. He looked down at your hand on his pec before looking up to you.
“This one is for you,” you said, moving one finger in a soothing motion over the skin just beneath the thin material of linen. “The pattern on it reminds me of the bands of gold on your arm.”
You couldn’t tell if what you said hit a nerve or if it landed as softly as you meant it to, but you noticed him go still for a few moments before lifting his hand to cover yours that remained over the shell in his pocket. His fingers wrapped around your palm and gave it a gentle squeeze.
“Thank you,” he murmured under his breath. If the sea breeze hadn’t paused during that moment, you wouldn’t have heard his thanks and you wouldn’t have felt a tightness behind your ribs in response.
“Of course,” you said, slowly pulling your hand away from his chest so you could resume your search for shells. “Pretty people deserve pretty things.”
A smirk pulled at the corner of his lips. “Oh, so now I’m pretty?”
“Um, have you ever looked in a mirror, sir?” you laughed. “Your face could make anyone, man or woman, fall headfirst before realizing. It’s quite unfair.”
“Anyone, huh?”
Realizing you might have just been too forthcoming with your attraction to Bucky, you crouched down once more to the sand and looked down so he wouldn’t notice your flustered expression.
“Uh, yeah. I mean when Sam gets buzzed, he talks about the pretty boy and the golden retriever, and after meeting Steve, I know he’s the golden retriever,” you explained, hoping he would just leave it at that.
“I don’t care about what Sam thinks,” he said, his voice getting closer to your ear. You turned your head to the side to see him crouching next to you, sunglasses now pushed up so you could see his eyes. The blue of his irises were mesmerizing and more enchanting than the literal ocean at your back. You found yourself unable to look away from him.
“Don’t tell Sam that,” you tried to joke, as a deflection. “I bet he would throw a fit.”
“He’ll get over it.”
After a couple of seconds, you pulled your gaze from his and returned to looking through the shells at your feet. Your fingers combed through the shards and fully formed shells, trying to distract yourself so you wouldn’t make the mistake of throwing yourself at him.
How was it possible for someone to look so perfect in the harsh afternoon sun? It was clear that if God was real, Bucky was his favorite creation.
You picked up a pale pink shell and turned it over in your hand, inspecting it, before handing it to Bucky. When he didn’t take the shell you were extending between you, you turned your head to look at him once more just to find that he was still looking at you. The only difference was the soft, gentle look in his eyes as he took in your features. You could feel your internal organs melting together to form one big cartoon heart that threatened to beat out of your chest.
After a second, he took the shell from your fingers before looking down at the object. He flipped it over and ran his thumb over the bumpy ridges before putting it in his other hand with the rest of the shells you wanted to keep.
“Just for the record,” he started as he looked over all the various shells in his hand. “I think you’re pretty, too.”
As if you were on the set of a romance movie, the sea breeze picked up and your hair flew back in the wind as his comment hit your ears. He slowly turned his gaze back to you and you swore that the air between you thickened with something you couldn’t put your finger on.
This beautiful man had just called you pretty.
Was this real life?
Before you could say anything in response, he stood back up and held out his hand for you to take. You slipped your hand into his grasp and let him pull you up, so you were standing right in front of him.
It would be so easy to reach out and pull your faces closer together, but his comment kept you rooted in place, still trying to process the moment.
With a wry, boyish grin taking over his face, he nodded his head in the direction of the shoreline you had yet to reach. “C’mon, let’s go see if there are any other worthy shells. I have my pretty shell, now we have to find one that’s as pretty as you are.”
As he started to walk, you expected him to drop your hand, but you were pleasantly surprised when he kept his hand wrapped around yours. The warmth from his palm seemed to transfer to your skin and soaked into your bloodstream. You felt as if you were walking on clouds and you were so sure that there was no moment in your life that could possibly top this one.
The next day, everyone seemed content to laze around the house, but you wanted to go out and explore the tidal pools you had seen the day before.
“I’m headed out to the tidal pools,” you announced to the group. Sam was asleep on one of the couches, Wanda was attempting to finish her painting from yesterday, Steve was eating something while watching a football game on the television, and Natasha was spread out on a large recliner, nose stuck in her book. Bucky had been missing the better part of the late morning and afternoon.
“Enjoy,” your roommate said without peeling her eyes from the text in front of her. Steve waved his free hand and Wanda gave you a wink.
You turned and walked over to the front door, sliding your sandals on and grabbing your bag which had your sunblock, sunglasses, and camera inside. Just as you were about to wrap your hand around the front door’s knob, the door was thrown open with a gust of wind that blew in along with the man who had been taking up real estate in your head.
His form took up most of the space in the door frame. He was panting and sweating as he stopped when he saw you. A bead of sweat slid from his temple, down the side of his face, and down his neck and you found yourself momentarily envious of the drop of perspiration. His grey shirt looked almost black with all the sweat soaking in the material. His face was a bit red, but you couldn’t tell if it was from the sun or from overexertion, or if it was from both.
“Hey,” he greeted, in a flat tone. The smile that you came to associate with him was missing from his features and his eyes seemed to lack that sparkle you had grown to admire. You offered a shy smile and a quick greeting in return.
“Um, I’m going to the tidal pools, but everyone else is in the living room,” you explained when you noticed his gaze land on your bag and your sandals. He nodded his head and looked over your shoulder to see everyone spread out, doing their own thing. You wanted to ask him where he had been for most of the afternoon, but you didn’t want to push any buttons as he was clearly not feeling like himself, from what you could tell. “You’re welcome to join, if you want. No pressure, though.”
Bucky brought his flesh hand up to scratch at the back of his neck while he contemplated the offer. You couldn’t tell which way he was leaning since he was doing such a good job of keeping to himself. You stood there in the foyer for a while, waiting for his answer. The moment felt like it lasted for five days rather than five seconds.
His hand fell into his pocket and he looked up at you with a stormy expression in his eyes. The feeling of rejection spread through your chest, which was silly, since he clearly needed space and you were offering too much social interaction. You went to open your mouth and retract the offer, but he cut you off with a nod of his head.
“I’ll come with you,” he said. “I just need to shower and change, then I’ll be ready.”
“Yeah, of course. Take your time,” you said quickly, surprised that he was accepting your invitation after all. “I’ll just be outside by the cars.”
He gave another stiff nod before slipping past you and dashing up the stairs. When he disappeared from your sight, you went to head out the front door but caught Natasha looking at you over her book with a mischievous glint in her eyes. You awkwardly cleared your throat and left the house, not wanting to feel her stare probe you for information she probably had already gathered.
You and Bucky had been orbiting each other since you met earlier in the week and everyone had seemed to make something of it, while you were trying to figure out why you felt so out of your depth around him. The only one who had said anything was Steve after he pulled you to the side one night once Bucky had gone to the bathroom following dinner.
He started by asking you how the trip was going so far and if you were having fun. When you mentioned that you were having more fun than you expected, he quickly mentioned that Bucky seemed to be having more fun than anyone thought he would. You looked up at him curiously when he said that and he quickly satiated your need for information.
“Buck had the hardest time out of all of us when we were touring. His story isn’t mine to tell you, but he came back with a lot of baggage. After seeing him this week though, it’s like seeing my friend from college all over again,” he had explained. “You know, it takes a lot from us to get him to smile and break behind his gruff exterior, but you seem like a natural at it.”
“Oh,” you said, looking down to hide the embarrassment on your cheeks.
“It’s nothing to be shy about,” he quickly remedied. “I guess I just wanted to tell you that he seems really happy around you.”
You met his gaze at that and found a heartfelt smile on his face. You returned the gesture with a shy smile of your own and he left you on the porch overlooking the water. You had stayed out there for a while that night, thinking about all that Steve had said and all the pieces of information Natasha had dropped about Bucky over the years.
“If you don’t mind,” Bucky’s gravely voice started, breaking you out of your thoughts, “I thought we could take my bike.”
You turned to look at him and the second your eyes met his, your throat seemed to go dry. His dark hair was still wet from the shower, but he was wearing a white compression shirt that looked like it was straining against his muscles. When your eyes roamed to his face, you could see some of the light had returned to his eyes. A small smile broke across your face at the sight.
“Okay,” you conceded. “I will warn you, I’ve never ridden a motorcycle before, though.”
He grinned and motioned for you to come over to his bike while he swung a leg over the body of the machine. He put his helmet on before digging around in his side bag for another. He produced the helmet and gave it to you. You fumbled to put it on, but eventually got it secured around your head.
Bucky held his hand out for you, and you took it, cautiously climbing on to the motorcycle behind him. Once you were seated, you placed your hands on your thighs, not knowing where else to put them. A rumbling chuckle emanated from his chest before he grabbed your leg and moved you closer to him.
Your chest was pressed against his back and your legs bracketed his. The feeling of his leg hair brushing against your skin made your brain short circuit and you let him manipulate your hands to wrap around his torso.
“You’re going to want to hold on, sweetheart,” he said before bringing the bike to life. The loud sound of the engine was enough to have you plaster yourself to his back and squeeze your arms around his abdomen. You felt his laughter this time but couldn’t hear it over the sound of the idling engine. He lifted his feet off the ground and the bike slowly pulled itself down the driveway. Once the coast was clear, Bucky turned on to the road and that’s when you truly felt the power of the motorcycle.
As the machine quickly picked up speed, you tried to move even closer to his body. Your thighs squeezed around his solid ones and you couldn’t help the giggle that slipped out of your mouth when you let yourself relax a little and enjoy the wind surrounding your bodies.
As he drove, you looked around as nature flew by. You were starting to understand the appeal of a motorcycle, especially since it let you press your body closely to Bucky’s frame. The heat from the sun and his body lulled you into a tranquil state. You leaned your head on to his shoulder and closed your eyes, letting the warmth fill every cell in your body. You had never felt this content to be close to someone before and it was a thrilling feeling. All the love songs, poems, romance books, and cinema you watched about finding solace in another person made complete sense if they felt half as content as you did.
The motorcycle slowed down as Bucky pulled off the main road and came to a standstill in a parking spot on the side of the road. After shutting off the bike’s engine, his slipped his hand down your arm and gave your hands a squeeze while they were still clasped around his body. You dropped your hands reluctantly when you felt his body move to dismount. He took his helmet off as he turned around to face you as you also got down from the machine’s back. You offered him the helmet and he put both away before you started walking towards the shoreline and the tidal pools.
Bucky walked by your side but remained quiet on your trek. You didn’t want to intrude on his thoughts, so you remained quiet as well. The silence wasn’t awkward; instead, it was comfortable. You sneaked peeks at his side profile every few steps, noticing how his brows furrowed occasionally, and how his lips were pursed, but in a tight line. What you wouldn’t give to see inside his mind.
After the five minute walk to the tidal pools, you set your bag down on a big rock and pulled out your camera, ready to shoot some wildlife portraits. The clear waters allowed for you to see sea stars, urchins, barnacles, and tiny, colorful fish feeding in the pools. You looked over your shoulder at Bucky and saw him looking at you already. You gave him a small smile before turning back to the tidal pool and crouching down to get a closer shot.
“I didn’t know you were into photography,” Bucky observed from behind you.
You nodded your head and took another photo before turning to face him. “My parents gave it to me when I left for the city,” you explained. “I never ended up using it. It sat on my bookshelf collecting dust for years, but Nat encouraged me to take it on this trip and finally start using it.”
“Too busy galivanting around the city to use your camera?” he jested.
“I wish. More like I was drowning in work and didn’t realize I was selling my soul to the corporate world,” you said with a laugh at the end. “I would use all my energy at work, trying to prove to my boss and everyone else how good I was with completing tasks. Why? I’m not sure, but it seemed like something I was supposed to do. By the time I would get home, I would barely have enough energy to cook for myself or even shower some days,” you confessed, trying your best to gloss over the harder bits of your life in the first few years after college.
“I understand,” he said after a moment. “Sometimes life takes more from you than you thought you would give.”
You nodded your head in agreement. “Switching careers helped get my life back, I guess.
Or at least it made me realize that some things are more important than my professional life.”
“What have you found that’s more important?” he asked.
“I found out how much I enjoy hanging out with people and that I didn’t need to work all day, every day just to make a living,” you answered. “Being a bartender isn’t exactly the glamourous life, but it pays the bills and lets me have free time outside of work. And that’s where I found that life happens; in those moments you get every day. I was just wasting my life by working and coming home and crashing out from my lack of energy.”
There was a pause in the conversation as he seemed to think over your words.
“Plus, if I was still at my shitty corporate job, I wouldn’t have been able to come to the beach and finally meet you and Steve,” you added with a small smile.
“Well, then I guess I’m grateful for your career change, too,” he muttered. You weren’t sure if he meant for you to hear his words, but you were glad that you did. Your heartbeat picked up its pace momentarily and you could feel the back of your neck flush.
You turned back to the tidal pool and put your camera down, opting for touching the creatures in the water. The fish scattered as soon as your hand reached into the pool. You traced your fingertip over the sea star, feeling its ridges and appreciating its color.
The sound of your camera’s shutter opening and closing stole your attention and you looked over to see Bucky holding the camera in your direction. The surprise on your face must have been another great moment to capture in Bucky’s mind since you heard the camera take two more pictures. A goofy grin took over your face and he snapped another photo before pulling the camera down from his eye.
“Too good to not document,” he said with a shrug as he put the camera back down beside you.
“Well, now it’s your turn, mister,” you chided as you picked up the camera and pointed it in his direction.
His features changed from appreciative to mild discomfort as he started to lift his hand to block his face. Your fingers were faster, though, and you caught a candid of him that you were sure was going to turn out beautifully.
“I don’t think you need to take pictures of me,” he said, as if trying to play off his importance. “Save your film for the beach.”
“But you’re a part of this trip and I want to remember you,” you explained.
The discomfort disappeared as a shy acceptance took over and you quickly snapped more pictures, hoping you could capture the expression on his face. You wanted to remember him in this moment for the rest of your life. His gentle appreciation and surprise were sure to make your stomach flutter when you got the photos developed.
“What? Are you going to be done with me after this trip?” he goaded.
A giggle slipped out of your lips and you tilted your head to the side before you answered.
“I don’t think I’ll ever be done with you, Bucky.”
His blue eyes were almost swallowed by his pupils as they enlarged. The small smile disappeared from his lips and he looked at you with a stunned expression briefly before it morphed into a playful one.
“Good, because I’m nowhere near done with you,” he replied.
When his words graced your ears, you felt your lungs stop breathing and your pulse stop briefly. You had never had someone express their interest in you so clearly and to say it was wreaking havoc on your nervous system would be an understatement.
The two of you were walking back to his motorcycle when you passed an elderly couple going for a walk on the beach. An idea popped into your head and you rushed up to them, asking politely if they could take a couple of pictures of you two. After they agreed happily, you skipped back to Bucky who looked confused.
“Smile, pretty boy,” you joked. “I want some pictures of us.”
A chuckle rumbled from his chest as he accepted the circumstances. When you were side by side, he slipped his flesh arm around your waist and tugged you closer in to his side. A surprised squeal came from you as you regained your footing from the surprise movement. You looked over at the couple and gave them a big smile, excited that you would be able to have documentation of his arm wrapped around you.
After the couple took a few photos, they walked over to you and handed you back your camera.
“You two are just adorable,” the woman gushed. “I’ve never seen a better looking couple.”
Bucky stiffened a little beside you before dropping his hand from your waist as if he had been burned and you gave an awkward chuckle.
“We’re not…” you trailed off, not knowing how to finish the sentence. You weren’t a couple, but the way you felt spending time with him was what you assumed partners would feel about each other.
“Sorry, about her,” the man jumped in. “She just loves love and sees it everywhere she goes.”
“It’s no problem,” you quickly said. “Thank you for the photos! Enjoy the rest of your evening.”
They wished you the same as they resumed their stroll along the beach. You put your camera back in your bag and looked up at Bucky. He was looking at you with an emotion you couldn’t quite pinpoint but tried to cover it up when you met each other’s gaze. He nodded his head towards the road and you followed along after him.
As you walked behind him, you couldn’t stop yourself from overthinking. Did the implication of you being a couple make him that uncomfortable? Was it you or just the idea of being in a relationship? Had you been reading too far into your time together and all the smiles you shared? He said he would never be done with you just a few moments ago, but did he mean it in a different way than you had?
You had to stop yourself from going down the catastrophizing route or you would ruin the rest of your day. As much as you wanted to think about all the possibilities, you didn’t want Bucky to see you spiraling since he already seemed to be on edge before you even left for the tidal pools.
When you reached the motorcycle, Bucky handed you the helmet once more and sat down before offering you his hand. Instead of taking his hand, you placed your palm on his shoulder as you swung your leg over the body of the bike. You secured your helmet and placed your arms on his side, waiting for him to start the bike. After a moment, he started the engine and slowly backed out onto the road before taking off towards the house. You wrapped your arms around him but tried not to press yourself too close.
With your feelings and emotions being all jumbled right now, the last thing you needed to do was confuse yourself further by sinking into his warmth. You felt him stiffen after a minute. Could he feel you holding back or was he just adjusting his posture?
You shook the thought off and focused on the dunes and sparse patches of grass instead, reminding yourself not to spiral. All it would do is make the situation more uncomfortable and awkward and that was the last thing you wanted.
When Bucky pulled into the driveway and killed the engine, you took a moment to gather yourself before slipping off the bike and unlatching your helmet’s strap. As you handed the helmet back to Bucky, you glanced over him briefly and mustered up a smile.
“Thanks for the ride and coming with me,” you said.
“Yeah, no problem,” he said after coughing to clear his throat. He looked as if he wanted to say more, but no words came out of Bucky’s mouth afterwards.
With that, you turned and headed for the house, needing a little space to sort out your thoughts and feelings. You could hear Bucky walking behind you, but his footsteps weren’t as close as they had been in the previous days. It’s like he knew you needed space and was granting it to you. You didn’t know if that hurt more or if you were glad for it.
The rest of the day passed by quickly with dinner and a small game of poker before everyone went to bed. Bucky had been the first to call it a night, followed by Sam, Wanda, and Steve.
You and Natasha were cleaning up the poker chips, drinks, and cards when she turned to you and examined your body posture.
“What happened?” she asked. “You weren’t as smitten when you got back from the tidal pools.”
“It’s nothing,” you deflected. “Just tired from the sun.”
She narrowed her eyes and cocked an eyebrow. You prayed she would let it go for now, because you didn’t even know how to voice what was going on in your head. As if she could sense you pulling into yourself, she let out a sigh before she continued to clean up after everyone.
Natasha retreated to her room for the night after giving you a much needed hug, leaving you all alone in the living room. You weren’t tired, but you didn’t want to make too much noise and disturb anyone’s sleep, so you grabbed a light blanket and walked out onto the deck. You sat down in one of the chairs closest to the railing and draped the blanket around you.
You sat with your knees pulled into your chest and rested your chin on top of your knees. Above you, the moon was in the process of waning and the stars twinkled around it as if they were talking to each other. The sight was beautiful and it helped to calm the storm brewing in your head.
Just as you were starting to truly relax, the back door slid open and you heard footsteps approach you from behind. You kept your head forward, refusing to tear your gaze from the cosmos in front of you until you heard the chair next to you scrape against the deck as someone took a seat next to you.
You looked over and saw a familiar pair of blue eyes looking at you with something akin to regret in their eyes. You didn’t say anything as you turned your head back to the stars. If you continued to look into Bucky’s eyes, you were sure you would crumble or burst apart.
“My real name is James,” came a quiet murmur from the man next to you. You looked at him out of the corner of your eyes and saw him fidgeting with his hands, entranced with the sight of his own fingers moving around. Your head remained on your knees, but you tilted it in his direction instead of the stars’. “Bucky comes from my middle name, Buchanan. My mom had an affinity with names from the early nineteen hundreds.”
“You kind of look like a James,” you chimed in.
He huffed out a laugh and shook his head before looking up to meet your gaze.
“My sister used to call me Jimmy,” he added, earning a small smile from you. “I remember Steve tried to call me Jimmy once.”
“What happened?”
“I chewed him out and he never said it again,” he admitted with an embarrassed grin presenting itself on his face. “I let him get away with a lot of other things, though. He was practically my brother.” He paused and turned his gaze out to the stars you were admiring earlier. You didn’t know where this conversation was going, but you were content to let him think through his words before sharing them with you. “We first met in kindergarten. He was this small kid who could have disappeared with the wind if it was strong enough. There was another kid on the playground, Connor, who used to tease him and push him around. I didn’t do anything to stop it the first week of kindergarten, but once he started to talk about his mom, I could see that Steve was ready to fight. I couldn’t let him fight when one punch would have sent him to his early grave. So, I stepped in and gave Connor a pretty good beating. I got in a lot of trouble for it and had to spend the rest of the week’s recesses in the classroom instead of on the playground. But Steve stayed back with me. The first few days, he didn’t say anything to me, then one day he came over and sat at my table and started talking about some cartoon he saw on the television and ever since then, we’ve been best friends.”
You had no problem conjuring a small Bucky and even smaller Steve in your mind. It was heartwarming to know that Bucky was a defender of those who needed help.
“We went through school together, got our driver’s license together, pulled pranks on my sister, Rebecca, and the other neighborhood kids, and talked about everything we wanted to do. We were best friends and I can’t imagine growing up a different way. Right after we finished college, we went into the army. My old man had served and Steve was hellbent on protecting others any way that he could. I wasn’t going to let him go by himself, so I joined with him. My parents were proud. My sister was mad that I wasn’t going to be able to drive her and her friends around anymore, but also proud.”
As he told his story, you watched him intently, watching his thoughts and emotions play out in real time across his face. By the way he kept fiddling his fingers and the way his brows pulled together tightly, you could tell that this was taking a lot of effort on his part.
“Steve got drafted into this government program for soldiers and disappeared for about a month before coming back a completely different person. Before, he was so thin and lean and when he came back, he seemed to grow almost a foot and gained muscles that should have taken years to build. He couldn’t tell me about what happened, but the changes spoke for themselves. The kid that used to wheeze when spring would come around was suddenly running laps with me without breaking a sweat.”
“That must have been jarring for you,” you noted.
He nodded his head. “Yeah, it took a while for me to get used to. After another month of training, we got assigned our divisions. I was a sergeant in the one-oh-seventh and Steve was going to be returning to whatever program made him what he is today. I shipped out pretty soon after that and I was thrust into the middle of war. Everything we learned in basic training was miles away from what was happening on the ground. There was one night when we were resting in the barracks when the power cut out. At first, we thought nothing of it, but then we started hearing gun fire. Turns out, we were being ambushed in our sleep. I remember stepping out with my gun held in front of me before being hit in the head with something hard. I blacked out and when I came to, I couldn’t tell where I was.”
Bucky took a deep breath and balled his hands into fists before continuing.
“I was strapped to a table, hooked up to an IV and something else that was a bright blue. I didn’t know it at the time, but whoever took me was using their own version of whatever the government gave Steve. They were building biologically enhanced soldiers. I can’t remember much of my time being held captive, but I just remember a searing pain running through my veins and people talking above me in a different language.”
His knuckles were white from how tightly he was clenching his hands and you could feel your heart break into pieces from watching the pain he was going through just to retell the story to you. You didn’t want to invade his space or push him too far, so you reached a hand out and placed it on the arm of his chair. Your index finger extended and you gently traced circles in the side of his sweatpants. The touch seemed to help him as he relaxed his hands a bit and took another deep, steady breath.
“Eventually, Steve’s division found me and saved me and a few of my other men. When we came back to the base, I was brought to a room with Steve and the head of the government program he had been a part of. They explained everything in detail and before I could process everything, I was thrust into the same division as Steve. There were only a handful of us that had survived the biological experiments. After a week of rest, I was back in the field running operations with Steve and the others. Everything was fine for the first month. Our missions always ran smoothly and we could handle the loose ends that came up every now and then,” he said in a somber tone. “But one mission came and before we knew we had been compromised, we were separated by a blast. I was knocked back so hard that I couldn’t stay fully conscious. I couldn’t hear anything through the ringing in my ears and my arm felt like it was being pulled from my body. Someone dragged my body somewhere and the same foreign language filled my ears from my first time being captured.”
“Bucky, you don’t have to—” you tried to reassure him.
“I know, but I want to,” he said, grabbing your hand that was resting on his chair’s armrest. His gaze turned down to your hands clasped together before he continued. “I remember bits and pieces of what happened, but it’s all a blur. I remember waking up and feeling a heavy weight on my left shoulder and when I looked down, my left arm looked like it belonged to a cyborg, not me. Looking around, all I could see was blood everywhere and people talking around me. I couldn’t understand what they were saying and I ended up passing out from the pain. The next time I woke up, I was in a hospital in the States with a commanding officer in front of me telling me how I was being honorably discharged for my service.”
Tears pooled in your eyes as you imagined a young and distraught soldier who had already been altered without his consent waking up to find that he had lost a limb. You squeezed his palm and brushed your thumb over the back of his hand. All you wanted to do was wrap your arms around him and keep him safe for the rest of his life, but you knew that wasn’t possible.
“My parents came and took me home. I remember my mom nearly falling down when she saw me for the first time in the hospital room. My dad had gone ghost white and sat in silence. When I got home, Rebecca was there and I remember her falling apart when we first saw each other.” Bucky took a deep breath and finally looked over at you after telling his story. You could see the devastation in his eyes and the quiver of his bottom lip. “It was a long road to recovery, and honestly, I’m still living with the ghosts of my past every time I close my eyes. I don’t think I’ll ever be normal again.”
You moved your body closer to his chair and nodded your head. “I don’t think anyone expects you to be, Bucky.”
“I just – it’s hard for me to imagine anything normal in my life,” he nearly sobbed. “Today was the anniversary of me coming home and it all piled up as soon as I woke up this morning. I ran myself ragged trying to literally run from my past this afternoon, but then you offered me an escape that wasn’t a form of punishment. Going to the tidal pool with you was a momentary breath of fresh air and I could feel myself letting all my thoughts go. But then that woman made that comment about being a couple and it just tore the wound open again.” His eyes became glassy with unshed tears. “After everything, it’s hard for me to want to open up and see myself sharing a life with someone because that means they have to hold my baggage and that’s not fair. But then, meeting you…”
He trailed off and brought your hands to his lips, gently brushing them over your knuckles. At the gentle touch of his skin to yours, the tears you were holding back escaped from your eyes. After hearing his story, your heart swelled ten times its normal size. To know he had been through hell and back, twice, and still chose to continue living his life to the best of his ability was more than admirable. It was awe inspiring.
“The day we met, I felt like a young boy again, seeing a beautiful woman for the first time. For the first time since I returned home, my first thought wasn’t to run away, but to stay and get to know you,” he explained. “It was like opening the window after a long, harsh winter and feeling the first warm breeze of spring.”
You didn’t know what to say. There were so many thoughts and affirmations you wanted to shower upon him, but you knew this wasn’t the moment to overwhelm him. This was a moment to comfort him and just be here.
“Thank you for telling me, Bucky,” you whispered, hesitant to break the silence that followed his past. “I’m so sorry that you had to experience what you did, but I think you are still worthy of everything you wanted before life dealt its hand to you.”
He looked at you and held on to your hand as if it was anchoring him to the earth. In a rare moment of vulnerability, you felt him pull your arm closer to his body and you followed, getting out of your chair and standing in front of him as he pulled you closer, between his knees.
“It’s hard for me to believe I’m worthy of normalcy, but I think I want to try when it’s you saying it,” he said, gazing up at you with his turbulent blue eyes. “I’ve never felt this way with someone before and I know it’s selfish, but I want it.”
Your hand that wasn’t encased in Bucky’s reached up and threaded itself through the soft locks of his hair. “It’s not selfish,” you stated, leaving little room for disagreement. “It’s human.”
The tears that made his eyes glassy finally spilled over his lids, streaming down his face as he pulled you closer to bury his face in your stomach. His hand let go of yours in favor of winding around your waist to bring himself that much closer to you. Your now free hand joined the other one and you gently swept your fingers through his hair, comforting him during his moment of emotional turmoil. You could feel his tears soak through your shirt and his hold tighten around you, but you remained still, giving him just a fraction of the comfort he deserved.
After a few moments, he pulled away and looked down at his feet. You could feel the awkwardness trying to worm its way between you two, and you would be damned if you let it. You gently cupped his chin and tilted his head up to meet your gaze. “I want this, too,” you admitted, earning a small but genuine smile from him. “And just so we’re clear, I’m not stuck carrying your baggage. I want to help you carry it.”
You could see the moment the words landed with Bucky. The weight of his shoulders lessened, the sorrow left his eyes, and his eyes sparkled with warmth instead of tears. His metal hand slid up your waist, slipping under your shirt to land on the warm skin of your lower back. The sensation of the cool metal sent shivers down your spine. Your fingernails scratched his scalp and you watched as his eyes fluttered shut in contentment.
Everything that happened today made perfect sense after hearing him out and you wanted to kick yourself for selfishly thinking that you were the root of his unusual demeanor. People were nuanced and knowing what he’d been through had ripped your heart open, but hearing him admit that he still wanted whatever was happening between you – even if it scared him – had mended your broken heart and fortified your admiration for the man in front of you.
His piercing blue eyes opened after a moment and you could practically feel the heat emanating from them. Bucky guided you to sit in his lap, sealing the remaining distance between your bodies. You were nose to nose and seeing him this close had your stomach churning in anticipation. Your eyes traced his features from the crow’s feet by his eyes, the slope of his nose, to the dark pink of his plush lips. His lips were less than an inch away and you couldn’t bring yourself to look away from them.
They looked so soft and inviting and you knew that if you had a taste, you would be addicted for life. It was taking all of your willpower to stop yourself from leaning in and sealing your lips over his mouth. You knew you shouldn’t especially after the day he had gone through. Revisiting the past was never fun, but in Bucky’s case, it was probably one of the seven layers of hell. You didn’t want to overwhelm him or take advantage, so you settled for brushing the tips of your noses together.
You could feel his body relax further underneath yours and it brought you a sense of comfort that you could relieve him of whatever plagued his mind, even if for a moment. One hand rose to bury itself in his hair once again while the other came up to rest on his jaw. His beard was surprisingly softer than you thought facial hair could be. You lightly scratched your nail through the hair and you swore you could hear him purring.
A soft, but crisp breeze blew across your forms and you couldn’t help but shiver. The light blanket you had draped over your shoulders had fell the moment you moved closer to him and while the heat from his body was entrancing, you knew that you should move inside.
As if sensing that you were about to move, Bucky’s metal arm wound tightly around your waist and his flesh hand gripped your thigh tightly. “Don’t go,” he said in the softest whisper.
“I’m not going anywhere except for inside,” you said with a smile. “It’s a bit too cold out here for my liking.”
“Mm,” he hummed while clutching you even tighter.
“C’mon,” you gently urged. “Let’s just move this moment into a warmer place, like the living room.”
After a little more coaxing, Bucky relinquished his hold on you while the two of you moved indoors. When your bodies reclined on the couch, you gravitated towards each other and found your limbs intertwined once again with Bucky’s head resting on your sternum and your fingers working their way through his hair. It didn’t take long for him to drift off and you were content to remain his pillow for the rest of the night.
As you slowly woke from the grips of your slumber, you felt a heavy weight on your chest and a warmth against your left side. Before you could process the sensations you felt, you heard the click of a camera shutter and the whispering of multiple voices around you. You opened your eyes slowly to see Natasha, Steve, Sam, and Wanda standing above you, all with different expressions on their faces ranging from shock to pride to feigning disgust; the latter obviously being Sam.
You looked down at your chest to see Bucky slowly waking up from the noise and you wanted to chide the adults in front of you as if you were a mother hen protecting her own. As he woke from sleep, Bucky sat up slowly and rubbed his shoulder before opening his eyes. He froze in his movements and stared at your friends who were still standing above you both. When he noticed the camera in Natasha’s hands, he turned to look at you and you could see the recollection of last night catch up to him as he saw you still laid out next to him.
A flush quickly spread across his cheeks and the back of his neck as he realized you were caught cuddled up on the couch together. You stifled a laugh and sat up as well.
“Sleep well?” Natasha coyly asked as she looked between you two.
You grabbed a pillow from beside you and threw it at her playfully, getting everyone to give you both some space. Once they dispersed, you turned to Bucky only to see him already looking at you.
“I guess we should get ready for the day,” he said in a gravelly voice due to not using it for hours.
You nodded your head and let him pull you from the couch and up the stairs towards your bedrooms and bathrooms. The two of you separated to get showered and dressed. Once you finish putting your bathing suit on and pulling your coverup on, you descend the stairs and head to the kitchen to get some food. There, you find Bucky sipping coffee from a mug, scrambling eggs on a pan over the stove. As you walk over to stand beside him and make your own coffee, Natasha and Wanda slide up beside you.
“We’ve decided that we are all spending the day at the beach again,” Wanda said with a kind smile on her face.
“Yep, and you’re going to hang with us and not Barnes today,” Natasha added.
Next to you, Bucky’s shoulders slouched hearing the girls demand your presence. You had to admit you were also sad that you wouldn’t be able to spend the whole day with him. After last night, the connection you felt to Bucky had strengthened and you wanted to explore all the other ways you guys could deepen the budding feeling between you. But you also wanted to spend time with your ladies.
“Yeah, and Barnes, you’re going to spend the day with us,” Sam mocked as he walked over to put his breakfast dishes in the dishwasher. Bucky flipped him off without turning around from the stove and you suppressed a giggle. “Damn, I thought you loved me,” Sam continued to tease. “I’m wounded.”
“Fine,” you said to Natasha and Wanda. “But I just want to lay on the beach today.”
“Deal!” Wanda squealed. “I’ve been needing to work on my tan.”
With that, the two women left to get dressed for the day and you and Bucky sat down at the table to eat your breakfast. Sam and Steve had left the room quickly after Bucky shot them a glare that was meant to wither. The two of you ate in a comfortable silence.
“So, what are you going to do today?” you asked Bucky after drinking the last bit of your coffee.
“I’m not sure,” he said, pushing his plate and cup away before turning to face you. His eyes were twinkling with a hint of mischief. “Maybe I’ll work on my tan.”
You laughed, throwing your head back as you imagined you, Wanda, and Natasha laying on the beach, under the hot sun, with Bucky next to you, doing the same.
“Mm, you are looking rather pale,” you played along. “Plus, we’d still be able to spend the day together.”
“That’s the idea, sweetheart,” he said with a wink before collecting your dishes and cleaning them up. You were practically beaming as you watched him clean up around the kitchen, admiring him as his large frame carried him around the kitchen gracefully. You watched the way the muscles in his arms contracted as he scrubbed the pan and put it on the drying rack. And with his back to you, you were free to ogle the rippling muscles on his back. It was a lovely sight to behold.
A simmering heat appeared in your stomach and you could feel it spreading further south, making you clench your thighs together. You tried to regain your composure. This man had just told you about his horrific past and here you were less than twelve hours later, lusting over him while he did something so domestic and normal.
Bucky turned towards you when he was done and leaned against the counter. You slid out of your seat and slowly walked over towards him. When you were within arm’s reach, he wrapped his metal arm around your waist and pulled you against his body. You put your hands on his chest, steadying yourself from the sudden movement.
“Good morning,” he muttered as he brought his nose to the crown of your head. Your body melted into his and returned his sentiment.
“Good morning, pretty boy.”
He grunted and pulled back to look down at you once more.
“Sorry we were woken up by those idiots,” he apologized while rubbing small circles into your hip as his cool hand slipped lower. His flesh hand brushed a few strands of hair out of your face and lingered on your cheek.
“It’s okay,” you said. “I’m just hoping I don’t look like a mess in the picture they took.”
“I’ve never seen you look like a mess,” he reassured.
“That’s what you’re supposed to say,” you brushed off.
“Whether I’m supposed to say it or not, the statement still stands,” he said as he brushed his lips against your forehead. At the sensation of the soft sign of affection, you gripped his shirt and tipped your head up to look into his cerulean eyes.
“Thank you,” you said, not knowing if you meant it about the compliment or if it was for sharing a part of his soul last night. Regardless of whatever the reason was, you didn’t know what other words could sum up the circus that was going on in your heart.
The look on his face changed to one that was similar to awe and you wished he could look at you like that all of the time. You leaned forward on your toes as he began to lean down and you both paused when you were close enough to brush your lips against one another’s. You looked into his eyes and swore you could swim in them and never tire of it. How could someone have eyes this marvelous?
Just when you were about to close the distance and finally fuse your lips together, you heard Natasha call your name in a teasing tone. You both deflated a bit upon having the moment disappear. Your limbs slowly detangled from each other and you took a step apart before exchanging shy smiles and turning to see everyone standing at the door, looking like they had been waiting on you for minutes.
You walked over, trying to ignore the flush of embarrassment on your cheeks, and Bucky followed. Once everything was gathered, you all piled into Sam’s pickup truck. The boys sat in the cab of the truck while you, Nat, and Wanda sat in the bed of the truck. The weather was perfect and the wind was soothing as you closed your eyes and leaned your head back, enjoying the wind blowing through your hair. Natasha was grumbling about the wind messing up her hair and you could hear Wanda laughing at her. When you opened one of your eyes, you saw a miffed looking Natasha, Wanda was moving her hands through the air in childlike joy, and a pair of brilliant eyes staring at you through the back windows of the truck.
Bucky didn’t avert his gaze when you opened your other eye and peered at him in curiosity. Instead, he just smirked and continued to look at you. While you enjoyed his attention, you didn’t know what to do with it in this moment, so you settled on an instinct you’ve had since you were four.
You stuck your tongue out at him and watched as he broke into a fit of laughter. Smiling, you looked down and shook your head. It was amazing to you how Bucky brought out this side of you that you had thought was lost to time. You weren’t scared to be yourself around him and to be goofy or affectionate. Other relationships in the past had felt like learning experiences compared to this. This felt freeing and exhilarating and you couldn’t wait to see where this summer trip would lead you two.
About five minutes later, Sam pulled up to the beach access and everyone piled out of the vehicle, gathering their towels, sunblock, and whatever else they brought. You pulled your sunscreen out of your bag and started to lather the protective balm over your skin. You were able to get it everywhere except for your back. When you turned to ask Wanda or Nat if they could help you, you saw that they were already helping each other.
“I can help,” Bucky’s voice said from behind you.
You turned around and saw him standing in front of you without his shirt, already slick with sunscreen. He extended his hand and you put your lotion bottle in his hand and turned around, gathering your hair into your hands so it doesn’t get in the way of the sunblock.
You thought you had mentally prepared yourself for having his hands on your skin, but when his hand made contact with your shoulders, you could feel yourself turning boneless under his strong touch. His touch spanned from your shoulders and the back of your neck, down your arms, and over the expanse of your back. His calloused hands felt like magic as they rubbed the sunscreen into your skin. His touch left a trail of tingles in their wake and you had to fight a whimper that tried to escape from your throat as he pulled his hand away.
Spinning around, you took the bottle and put it back in your bag before gazing up at the man in front of you. “Thank you,” you said.
“It was my pleasure,” he said while his eyes trailed over your skin before meeting your eyes.
“Alright lovebirds,” Sam yelled to get your attention. The two of you looked over and saw everyone holding their belongings, ready to head to the beach. “If you’re done, the rest of us would like to hit the beach.”
“Nothing’s stopping you,” Bucky shouted back, waving his friend off playfully before taking your hand in his. The two of you followed the group and walked over the dunes to the beach. After a short walk down the shoreline, you all found the perfect space. It wasn’t too close to other beach goers and it gave the boys enough room to throw the various balls that Sam and Steve had brought with them. You dropped Bucky’s hand as you were pulled over to the tanning area where Natasha already had her towel set up. You set up your towel next to Wanda’s and sat down as Natsha laid down, propping her hands over her eyes for protection. You looked over at the men as they threw a football back and forth. Bucky was facing you and sent you a playful wink when you shot him a smile.
“So,” Wanda started, “that happened quickly.”
“Yeah,” you agreed. “I wasn’t expecting it, but there’s something about him that makes me feel…”
“Seen? Smitten? Lovey-dovey?” Natasha filled in as you trailed off in thought.
You rolled your eyes and laid down on the towel, covering your eyes as Natasha had done. The warm rays of sunshine and the soft sand and towel under you had you slipping into a very agreeable mood that you normally wouldn’t have in a situation like this.
“Honestly, yes,” you answered. “I haven’t felt like this since I was eleven and had a crush on Zac Efron.”
Wanda broke into a fit of giggles and Natasha remained silent, but you had no doubt she had a victorious smirk on her face.
“You laugh, but the second I laid eyes on him in High School Musical, I was done for,” you replied with a small laugh of your own.
“Well, I think it’s cute,” Wanda said. “And I’ve never seen Bucky open up like this to anyone, let alone this quickly.”
You hummed, not knowing what to add as your thoughts turned to the soldier who had occupied your thoughts over the last week.
You remember Natasha telling you about Bucky before you met him; about how he was gruff, grumpy, and dealing with an intense load of PTSD from the service. Apparently, he was still able to go through the motions of life, but Nat said it often felt like he was waiting to make his departure when they would hang out.
Reconciling that version of Bucky with the warm, thoughtful, and deeply feeling man you had come to know wasn’t as hard as you thought it might be. After he opened himself up last night, you knew that if you continued chasing whatever feeling was blooming between you there would come a moment when you would have to deal with his “baggage” as he put it.
There wasn’t a moment of hesitation when you jumped in last night and there was no feeling of dread hanging over you now. You knew that your relationship wouldn’t remain in this rose-tinted affection stage, but after seeing just a few parts of him, you knew you weren’t going to leave him unless he wanted you to. You wanted to stick around for the hard nights and days, you wanted to be there when he was feeling grumpy, and you wanted to be there for whatever came next.
You lifted one of your arms off of your eyes and looked around, seeing the boys continue to toss the football at one another, trying to make the others fall or fumble in the process of diving for the ball. Bucky had a relaxed air about him and Steve and Sam were all smiles. The sight made you feel warm and content on the inside.
“He told me about what happened to him while he was serving,” you said after a moment. A gasp was heard next to you and you turned your head to see Wanda looking at you with surprise and Natasha lifting an eyebrow. “I can’t begin to understand what he went through, but I know that it’s not something that will make me turn away from this. He’s been so strong by himself for so long and last night I could see just how tired he was.”
Wanda’s eyes began to water and Natasha’s lips slowly curved into a smile.
“It almost felt like he was trying to scare me off, but he seemed like he needed me to understand more than anything,” you continued. “I told him I wasn’t going anywhere and that I wanted to help carry the weight of his past. I think that really put things in perspective for him and after that, we committed to seeing where this thing goes.”
“That’s so beautiful,” Wanda said, her Sokovian accent seeping into her words as she was overcome with emotion for her friend. “It’s like something out of a romance novel.”
It did sound like something out of a romance, but it was really happening to you. Life was funny like that sometimes. Less than six months ago, you were stuck at a dead-end job, withering away, and wishing for a change. Now, you had a savings account that was growing slowly but surely, you were on vacation with your friends, and you had met someone who fit so naturally into your life.
“I think it’s better than a romance novel,” Natasha chimed in before turning over to tan her back. Wanda smiled in agreement before doing the same.
You stayed on your back, feeling the sun beat down on your face and body while you tried to remain in the present. You didn’t need to think about the future with Bucky because that would just put you in your head and you wanted to be here, in the present, where you could enjoy every moment for what it truly was.
After a few minutes, you flipped over and reached behind you to untie your top so your back could tan evenly. You floated off into a light slumber as the sun warmed you. There were no thoughts on your mind other than the sound of the ocean waves and the sound of other beach goers a little further down the beach from you.
You had lost track of how long you were on your tummy when you were woken by cold water dripping on your back. Your head shot up and you looked around, trying to figure out what was going on. As you went to turn on your back, a pair of hands, one cold and one warm, halted your movements.
“You’re going to flash the whole beach if you move, sweetheart,” a familiar voice cooed as you felt deft fingers grab the strings of your top and tie them together. “And I’d prefer if you kept the sight just for me.”
You turned over and saw Bucky hovering above you. His hair was dripping sea water on you and running down his neck and torso, making him look irresistible. His smile revealed his white teeth and you briefly wondered what it would feel like to have them sink into your flesh.
“Are you assuming you are going to see me topless sometime soon?” you playfully questioned.
“If I play my cards right, I’m betting on it,” he answered as he looked down at you. His eyes strayed from yours and wandered down to your chest before coming back up to stop at your lips.
“Why are you wet?” you asked, knowing it had something to do with the ocean in front of you.
“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”
The smirk that took over his features was devastating for your heart. You pushed at his shoulder and he moved back, sitting up at the end of your towel. You followed suit and sat up, looking at him as you waited for an answer.
“Sam threw the football into the water and Steve pushed me in to go get it,” he said.
You laughed before thinking of his arm. “Wait, can your prosthetic get wet?”
He gave you a shy smile before nodding his head. “Yeah, it’s waterproof which is really nice.” His eyebrows wiggled on his forehead and you rolled your eyes at the implication. “You going to join me in the water?”
You shook your head. “I don’t think so. That’s the fish and shark’s home, I don’t need to invite myself in.”
Bucky threw his head back in laughter and you could see the look of boyish joy temporarily take over his features before he controlled himself and looked back down at you.
“That is the weirdest thing I’ve ever heard someone say about the ocean,” he commented. “But don’t worry, I’ll be there to defend you even if it’s in their house.”
“Think about it! I hate seeing bugs in my apartment. Their house is outside, where they belong, so the same goes for ocean life. I don’t need to go inside their house to appreciate it,” you said.
Bucky shook his head and stood up, pulling you up with him. Once you were both standing, he started to walk backwards towards the ocean, tugging your hand so you would follow him. “But the water is so nice, I want you to come in with me.”
“You just want an excuse to feel me cling to you in the water,” you said as you stared at him with a knowing look.
“Guilty,” he said before bending down and throwing you over his shoulder. You screamed and pounded your fists on his back, laughing even though you wanted to be put down. “Don’t worry, I’ve got you. The fish told me you were invited.”
The moment the water hit your feet and legs, you shivered, getting used to the colder temperature. Bucky continued to wade out into the ocean with you over his shoulder, only pulling you down his body once the water was up to his waist. Instinctively, your legs wrapped around his waist and your hands clung to his shoulder. His hands wound around your body, one under your bottom and the other around your back as he continued to walk further into the waves.
He came to a stop once the water was almost over your shoulders. You could feel his hands squeezing your body in reassurance which caused you to relax a bit in his hold. You looked over his shoulder to see the rest of your friends also in the water, but a little further down the shoreline. They were playing chicken and from the looks of it, Sam and Wanda were winning.
“You know,” Bucky started, drawing your attention back to him. “We were rudely interrupted this morning.”
You tried to keep your face neutral, fighting the smile that wanted to spread across your face. “Oh, really? I can’t seem to remember what it was we were doing…” you trailed off, pretending you were forgetful of the almost kiss between you two.
With a pinch to your bottom, you squealed and pushed your body closer to his body and further from his hands.
“I’d be more than happy to remind you,” he teased as he leaned into your space. Your noses brushed as you rested your foreheads against each other. After a moment, he angled his head so he could better reach your lips with his. At the slight brush of his lips to yours, you tensed in anticipation. Bucky searched your eyes with his for any signs you didn’t want him to be in your space, but he found none.
Finally, after dreaming of this moment since you met him, your lips met in a tender kiss and your body surrendered to the affection. His lips were slightly chapped, but the kiss was no less sensational because of it. He pulled away, but the distance was short lived as you surged forward to capture his lips once again.
This kiss was less tender, but still just as sweet. Your lips molded to the shape of his bottom lip and he groaned as he felt the scrape of your teeth against the soft flesh. You used the opportunity to sneak the wet muscle of your tongue into his mouth, much to his surprise. Just as the kiss began to intensify, so did the grip that you had on each other. Your legs clenched around him, pulling his hips to yours as his arm around your back pulled you flush to his chest and his fingers spanned the expanse of your skin.
Shortly after your tongue made its way into his mouth, his barged into your mouth and stroked itself against yours, eliciting a moan from the back of your throat. Your hands slid from the tops of his shoulders into the hair at the nape of his neck, manipulating the angle of his head so you could deepen the kiss. Bucky’s hips bucked into yours roughly at the feeling of your fingers and your control.
You pulled apart with a gasp, glancing between his features as his eyes remained closed in bliss. The smile on your face couldn’t be wiped away as you remained in his arms and brushed the tips of your noses together.
“Woah,” he said after a minute, opening his eyes to look at you.
You giggled and nodded your head in agreement. “That was...”
“Amazing,” he filled in.
You leaned forward and gave him a quick kiss before pulling back just to see your friends frozen in the water, staring at the two of you with mixed expressions of entertainment and disgust.
“Don’t look now, but we have an audience,” you said.
Bucky groaned in embarrassment and hid his face in the crook of your neck. You laughed and buried your head in his neck, too, enjoying the closeness of your embrace. The two of you remained like that, wrapped around each other and sharing kisses every now and then, for a while before you convinced Bucky to take you back to the sand.
As the two of you stepped out of the waves and headed for the towels still stretched out on the sand, you saw the rest of your group throwing a frisbee back and forth, enjoying themselves.
When you reached the towel, you stopped in your tracks, causing Bucky to bump into your back and halt his movements.
“What is it?” he asked, concerned when you had stopped and remained silent.
You pointed down to the sand where a giant heart was drawn with your initials and Bucky’s inside with “4ever” written under them. You knew this had to be the work of Natasha or Sam, but you couldn’t help but feel your heart soar at the elementary display of feelings.
“How childish,” Bucky muttered. When you looked back at him, he had a smile on his face, betraying how he truly felt about the sand art. You gave him a smile and a peck to his cheek before you laid down on your towel once more, letting the sun dry the water from your body. Bucky flopped down on Wanda’s towel next to yours and propped himself up on his elbows to look at you.
You extended your hand and trailed your fingertips over his bicep, watching as goosebumps rose in the wake of your touch. You were content to sit in the silence with him as you soaked up the sun once again.
For the first time in a long time, you felt truly happy.
You never wanted this feeling to end.
next
drop a comment to be added to taglist for the next part. reblogs, comments, and likes are much appreciated <3
summary: It was supposed to be a simple mission. Get the intel and go home. Until everything goes wrong and you’re taken captive by Hydra. While you struggle to stay alive and hold your sanity, Bucky begins to lose himself to a darkness and gives into the soldier because he doesn’t know how to breathe without you. Not until he brings you home. If he even can.
pairing: bucky x reader
word count: ~100,000
warnings: graphic descriptions of violence, torture, minor character death, vague/brief suicidal ideation, smut (marked with *), slow burn/longing/mutual pining
BROTHER’S BEST FRIEND BUCKY X F!READER (college au)
SUMMARY. Being Steve Rogers’ sister meant years of boys looking at you like a warning sign. Now that you’re in college, your lack of experience becomes a major problem. So you ask your brother’s best friend to teach you everything. What starts as lessons becomes something neither of you have a name for yet.
WORD COUNT. 12.1K
WARNINGS. college au, brother’s best friend trope, MDNI, inexperienced reader, tit play, smut, virginity loss, protected pnv, talks about aftercare, miscommunication, angst. No use of Y/N.
NOTES. You can imagine reader as Steve’s adopted sister, there will be no physical descriptions. Just a heads up, Reader and Bucky met when she was 8 and he was 10.
And thank you @sheriff-bodecker for always handling my crashouts 😭
Main Masterlist || Series Masterlist || 1 ~ 2 ~ 3
READ ON AO3
You'd imagined it to feel at least a little weird. It doesn't. If anything, this is the most comfortable you could've felt moments before your first time having sex.
Yes, the final lesson. Probably gaslighting yourself by calling it a lesson, but then this is you.
The most alarming thing you can say about the moment is that it feels completely, devastatingly ordinary. Like you've been here a hundred times. Which you kind of have, just not like this.
Not with that small square of foil sitting on his nightstand being very loud about itself.
Bucky's talking. He's doing the responsible thing, the Bucky thing, making sure you have the information you need. And you're listening, because he's right about all of it.
Condom, doesn't matter what the guy says, non-negotiable.
Yes. You're nodding.
But he keeps saying 'the guy'. He. Some future hypothetical person standing in this exact spot who you'll have to talk to. And something about that specific word keeps catching in your chest, snagging on a part of you that you have been carefully not naming for weeks.
You'd really rather it stopped. You're not going to say anything about it. There's nothing to say. You came to him with a very specific ask and he said yes and that's the entire thing, start to finish.
You're not going to make it weird by having feelings about a pronoun.
You're not.
"Hey." His hand finds your jaw and tips your face up. Of fucking course he caught it. One moment you zone out, and get caught. His eyes move over your face with attention. You feel like being read by someone who's already a few pages ahead of you. "Talk to me."
"I'm fine."
"You just went somewhere."
"Bucky." He's starting to pull the thread until it unravels. And because you can already see it happening, you lean in and kiss him.
Because it's easier than explaining. Because you've learned by now that this is the fastest way to shut down a conversation you're not ready for.
It's a deflection. You know it's a deflection. The difference between kissing him to avoid something and kissing him because you want to is fucking massive.
Only it doesn't go the way you planned. He kisses you back in a way that feels like being held still. Whatever you were going to outrun dissolves. Something blooms in its place that you don't have a category for and don't try to make one.
When he pulls back, he looks at you. Something in his expression that he keeps mostly to himself.
Then he tips you back. Everything after that stops being about thinking.
His mouth is warm on your jaw, your collarbone, and lower. His tongue drags over your nipple and you make an embarrassing noise. He repeats it, to embarrass you further, you think. Only it's slower, sealing his mouth around it and sucking until it's aching and tight.
Equal attention is given to the other one.
By the time he starts moving lower, you've got a fist in his hair and a completely unreasonable amount of feeling in your chest for someone in the middle of an educational exercise.
Educational. Right.
His mouth presses into the soft of your stomach, the skin below your navel, making you jerk. He smiles against you, which you feel more than see. You feel it everywhere. You feel everything. His mood through the room, his attention like a physical weight, his amusement before it reaches his face. You've been feeling him for longer than you want to admit.
Without any hurry, his hands are spreading your thighs and his breath is on your inner thigh and all of that thinking goes quiet. Everything else goes quiet.
He looks up at you from between your legs, and the look on his face makes something clench in your chest that has nothing to do with what his mouth is about to do. It's want, is what it is, and it's not just the physical kind. You are not going to look at that right now because his face is between your thighs and this is not the moment.
Bucky drops his head and noses through your folds. When you make yet another embarrassing sound, he groans back.
Like you just gave him something good, and licks up through you in one long drag that has your hips lifting off the bed.
The noises he makes when he eats you out are something you are going to be thinking about for a very long time. Sounds of a man who is genuinely, thoroughly into what he's doing. Tongue working through your folds and circling your clit and sliding down to your entrance and back up. Drinking you.
You can hear how wet you are. A week ago that would have mortified you. Right now it barely registers because he makes that greedy, wanting sound every single time and presses closer, like the answer to you is more of you.
When your fist tightens in his hair he groans straight into your cunt. Vibration everywhere. Your thighs clench around his head before you can stop them.
His lips seal around your clit, sucking with with intent, and you actually cry out this time. He does it again and keeps doing it, tongue working against you while he holds the suction.
You realise your thighs are shaking on either side of his head, hips rolling into him. Holding them with his forearms, he keeps going. Like he made a decision and he's seeing it all the way through.
There's something devastating about his certainty. He always knows what he's doing. He always knows what you need before you've fully understood it yourself. That quality, which you have admired in him for years — not in this context though — is currently taking you apart.
Two fingers press inside you to curl. "Just stay with me."
You don't have much choice. The whole world has narrowed down to his mouth and his hand and the devastating combination of his tongue working your clit while his fingers find that specific spot inside you with the ease of someone who has been paying very close attention. You're gripping his hair with both hands now and making sounds that you'll think about with mild horror tomorrow. But right now tomorrow doesn't exist.
Right now there is only this, him. The tension coils tighter and tighter, everything pulling to one point, and then everything snaps.
You come with his name somewhere in your throat. He works you through every single wave of it, slower and softer as you come down, drawing it out until you're shaking and your hands in his hair have gone slack.
Pulling weakly at his hair to get him to stop doesn't seem to faze him, even then he presses a last kiss to your inner thigh before he moves.
You hear the soft tear of foil and press your face into the pillow for those few seconds because you need them. Your heart is doing something with a lot of force and nowhere particular to put it.
The specific feeling of not knowing what to do with how much you feel is not a new one. By this point, you've been managing it for the past several weeks with varying degrees of success. But it's never been this loud before. It fills up the room. It fills up the pillow. The pillowcase smells like him and that is not helping.
He settles between your thighs, but looks at you. The reading-you look. "Still with me?"
"Uh-huh. Yeah."
His hand presses flat against your lower belly, all five fingers spread across your skin. He holds it there while he lines himself up. Like he wants to feel what's about to happen from the outside too. Like that's something he wants.
You don't know what to do with that so you just feel it. You feel his palm pressing warm against you, the blunt pressure of him at your entrance, the gravity of the moment without any of it needing to be said out loud.
"Breathe," he says.
"I'm breathing."
He gives you a look. Look that says 'don't start shit now'.
You breathe.
He pushes in. Slow. So careful. The stretch of him opening you up is significant and new. You make a sound that you've never made before in your life, this broken wrecked thing. He just stops. Palm still flat on your stomach. Holding you, letting you have a second.
"You okay?"
The far end of your brain wants to laugh, a little. Because the answer is yes and also something much larger than yes, something that doesn't fit inside okay. The far end of your brain tells you that nobody would compare to him. Nobody would ask you this, nobody would be considerate of you like this.
But the part that's currently in control of your body is not the one. It's the one that breathes, "don't stop. Just — don't stop."
He searches your face. Whatever he finds there must be sufficient because he pushes in, impossibly slow, the fullness building and building until he's all the way seated. The exhale that comes out of him sounds like something leaving him, something he'd been holding for longer than just tonight.
He drops his forehead to your shoulder. His weight settles against you. You feel his heart going fast against yours, faster than his breathing would suggest.
His heart going fast. His heart going fast because of you.
There's something warm at the corner of your eyes at this information. Completely uninvited there are tears you didn't anticipate. You blink hard at the ceiling trying to sort yourself out. Before he notices.
But Bucky lifts his head and goes completely still.
"Did I hurt you?" His voice has changed. Softer, lower, stripped of the easy composure.
"No."
"Tell me the truth —"
"You didn't." Your hand goes to his face. Cups his jaw, and he stops talking. His eyes find yours and they search, careful and very blue and intent. "I promise. They're good tears. I'm okay."
For what, you can't say. You're not going to say. His palm has been on your stomach this entire time, and he stopped the moment he heard something in your voice. Right now, he's looking at you like your answer is the only thing in the room that matters. Like he would wait all night for it.
You've spent the last however many weeks telling yourself this is a practical arrangement. A smart, useful, sensible arrangement that you came up with yourself and that made complete sense at the time. Clean and contained.
Somewhere in the middle of all of it you stopped believing that. You can't remember exactly when. The crying is just your body being honest in a way you haven't been letting yourself be.
You don't say any of that.
"Good tears," you manage. "Really."
He holds your gaze for a long moment. Long enough that you think he might push it, might ask the actual question underneath the one you answered. The real question — what are you crying about?
If he asked it, you genuinely don't know what you'd say. Something true, probably. Something that couldn't be forgotten.
But he doesn't. He leans down to kiss you instead and starts to move.
Long, slow drag, his cock pulling back until just the head remains, then pushing home again just as slowly.
The fullness of it, the completeness of it. You don't think there's a word for it. His hand stays flat on your stomach and you feel him through it, feel the movement from the outside and the inside simultaneously, feel your own body accommodate him. It is an almost absurd amount of sensation. Not just physical. All of it, all at once, too much to sort through while it's happening.
He mouths at your throat, comes back to your lips. The kissing gets less careful the longer he moves, goes softer and messier and more real. You feel the difference between careful-Bucky and less-careful-Bucky.
Less-careful-Bucky is catastrophic.
You have thought, a lot, over the past weeks, about what it means to be careful with someone. He's been careful with you from the start. Patient. Never rushing, never making you feel like you owed him anything, never letting the patience have a price. And you categorised that under 'he's a good person'. You categorised everything under 'he's a good person'. What you didn't think about was why he is specifically like this with you.
But he's less careful now, and that is also him being specifically like this with you, and you are going to need to deal with that later.
His hips find a rhythm. The drag of him hits somewhere deep and your cunt clenches in response and the sound you make into his mouth is not measured. His breath catches, a short, almost surprised sound. His grip on your hip tightens a fraction, like he didn't expect that. Like your body surprised him. The thought that you could surprise him, that there are things about you he's still discovering, makes you feel warm inside.
"More." You didn't plan to say it out loud. It just comes out.
His eyes, which were focused on the place you two were joined, leave it reluctantly to look at your face. The longest he's ever taken to look at you. There's a question in them.
"Harder. Please."
At that, his hand tightens on your hip and he gives you what you asked for.
Your breath punches out. Wherever your hands land, you grab. His shoulders, the plane of his back. His cock drives through your slick with this obscene, wet sound you've never heard before and the drag of it hits that deep spot with every stroke and your brain is nowhere useful, it's just gone. There's nothing here but sensation and Bucky and the specific sound of his breathing coming apart.
He's making sounds now. Barely contained. Hearing him like that is almost as good as the rest of it combined. Maybe better. You've been collecting his composure slipping in pieces for weeks and this is all of it at once. He's not controlling it anymore, he's just in it, with you.
His thumb finds your clit without warning. "Look at me."
You whimper into his ear. He makes a sound low in his chest like you just handed him something he badly needed.
His lips find your forehead. There's this soft, unbearably tender kiss that has absolutely no business existing alongside everything else he's doing to you. His voice goes rough. "Cum for me."
You cum for him. His eyes are almost black and he's looking at you like you're the most precious thing in the room. Thing is he's not doing anything to hide it. That is what that tips you. His thumb and his cock would be contributing factors, sure. But the way he's looking is more than anything physical ever could be.
"Bucky—"
"I've got you." Against your mouth.
Your walls clench tight around him, as he buries himself and stills. You feel him throb inside you while you're still shaking.
There's nothing else except the two of you, and this fragile thing that could end any moment.
His weight on you is the heaviest you've ever carried. Nothing physical in this too. You think the weight of it comes from knowing this could be the last. The thought evaporates when his lips nip at your throat.
You hold him. Both arms. You don't decide to do it, your arms just do it. Your hands press into his back and hold, like you could keep him here, like you could make this not end.
He lets you.
For a moment that goes on longer than a moment, everything stills. His breath is warm on your skin. You feel his heartbeat starting to slow under your hands. Something fragile exists in this room and you are aware of it.
You don't think about that. You think about his heartbeat instead. You think about the fact that his breathing is still a little uneven, and that you did that. That you are the reason his breathing is uneven.
You have spent a significant amount of time over the past weeks thinking about how you were learning things. Processing experiences in the tidy way of someone taking notes. The date on the beach — lesson. The kissing — lesson. All of it, catalogued and labelled and filed away under something that felt safe.
And somewhere it stopped being safe and you kept going anyway.
You can feel him tense, not wanting to pull out. You want to clutch at him, tell him that you don't want that either. What you want is what you have.
But you don't say that.
He pulls out.
It is so careful, tears threaten to spill out. You close your eyes, you will not let him see that.
The absence of him is physical in a way you weren't prepared for, a hollow feeling that has nothing to do with the physical and everything to do with something you still haven't put a name to. It claws at your chest. It is like giving away something that's been yours all along. Takes everything in you to not reach out, not grab him, not push your face into his neck.
You don't do that. He walks away.
Faint sounds of him running the tap.
He comes back with a cloth, warm from the tap, the right kind of warm. Like he stood there testing the temperature until it felt exactly right.
Sitting beside you, he's close enough that his thigh brushes yours. His other hand rests on your knee the whole time, thumb stroking slow little circles.
"How’re you feeling?" His voice is rough from everything you just did to each other. You mumble a little 'fine’ and he huffs a soft laugh.
The cloth drags gently over your inner thighs first, wiping away the slick. Then he folds it and presses it right against you, the tender skin around your entrance, from the crease where your thigh meets everything that’s still throbbing and sensitive.
What you're doing is something entirely different. You stare at the wall and blink and think about literally anything else.
You physically cannot bring yourself think about anything else.
You think about how nobody has ever done this. Not because the chance hasn't come up. Obviously the chance hasn't come up, that's entirely the point of the last few weeks.
But even imagining it, you wouldn't have imagined this. Someone sitting beside you after and just quietly, without being asked, taking care of you like it is simply what you do for a person. Like not doing it would be the strange thing.
There's not going to be another person like him. That's the thought you've been keeping in a box with the lid pressed firmly down. It's out now.
He takes his time, folding the cloth again when it gets too wet, going back over every inch like this is the most important thing in the world right now.
You feel yourself twitch under the warmth of it and he murmurs, "Easy… I’ve got you," like he can read every tiny reaction your body makes.
"So I take care of you every time we do something, right?" He's still focused on wiping you clean. "That’s called aftercare."
"That’s — that’s a thing?"
He huffs a soft laugh that’s mostly breath, eyes still on what he’s doing between your legs. "Sorry. I forgot to tell you." The words come out so easy, like it never even occurred to him that this part needed explaining. Like he’s been doing it on instinct every single time and didn’t stop to think it was something he had to teach you.
The realization settles warm and a little devastating in your chest. He didn’t see this as a lesson. It was just second nature to him. Taking care of you like this was never part of the curriculum. It was just Bucky.
He keeps talking, voice never rising above that low murmur. "After sex, after something this intense, your body goes through a lot. Sometimes you feel strange or sad or cold for no reason. Sometimes you cry, like you did earlier. It’s normal. Just your system coming down. Needs a little tending." He folds the cloth one last time and presses it gently over you, letting the warmth soak in.
"So what do you do for it?"
"Water first, always. Warmth. Touch. Doesn’t have to be anything fancy. Main thing is you don’t disappear on each other. You stay. The other person needs to know you’re still right here."
He sets the cloth aside but doesn’t move away. His hand stays on your knee, thumb still moving in those slow circles.
He's still there. He's stayed. He's taken care of you.
He's taken care of you every time. Every single time, without fail, without exception. And you have done none of it in return. You never thought to ask what he needed. You never thought to stay and take care of him the way he's taken care of you.
"What do you need?" When he holds your gaze, you continue, "For aftercare. What do you actually need?"
The question surprised him, you can see that. He's been very thoroughly in the mode of what you need and coming at it from this direction might be unfamiliar ground. It requires him to be on the receiving end, he doesn't live there.
There's a small internal thing happening that you can see clearly and he probably thinks you can't.
"I like to cuddle." Without any of the careful composure he sometimes wraps around the things.
Not even a second is needed for you to process this, you open your arms.
He looks at them. One beat. One second of stillness that you read as surprise, or something softer than surprise, something that looks a lot like being moved. Then he comes down. Head to your chest, arm across your stomach. Your chin finds the top of his head.
The long breath he lets out when he settles. Something goes out with it. You feel it in his shoulders, the way they drop, the way his hand on your stomach stops holding anything and just rests.
Your hand moves up his back in slow passes. His hair is soft under your jaw. He's very warm, almost too warm. It makes you want to stay put indefinitely. His heartbeat under your palm is steady and slowing.
His hand finds yours after a while. Folds your fingers into his.
The thing you've been struggling with is still there. It's been there longer than tonight. You've been careful about it, genuinely careful, because you're not an idiot and you knew what you were walking into and you were going to be sensible about the whole thing.
You were so sensible. Right up until you weren't.
Twenty years old and, in the notable absence of any prior romantic experience, you went and fell for the one person you specifically arranged things with in order to avoid exactly this. The irony is not lost on you. Steve would absolutely never let you hear the end of it. Steve cannot ever find out about any of this.
You press your lips to the top of his head. Barely a thing, just for a second, because the feeling needs somewhere to go and this is the least damaging option available.
He makes a soft sound and pulls you fractionally closer, arm tightening across your stomach. Reflex, probably. Something that happened without him deciding to do it.
There's always a moment with Bucky, when he's coming out of sleep, where his face does something unguarded. Where all the easy competence he walks around with during the day hasn't quite loaded yet. He's just a person, blinking at the room, figuring out where he is.
You've seen it a handful of times now and every single time it does something to you that you'd rather it didn't.
He looks at you.
"Morning."
"Morning." His voice is rough with sleep, different from his regular voice. Softer. You've thought about this voice, oftentimes than you'd like to admit. "How'd you sleep?"
"Fine. Good." Both true. You slept better than you have in weeks, actually, which is information you're keeping to yourself. "You?"
"Yeah." He scrubs a hand over his face. "How're you feelin'? You sore?"
He's been awake for approximately twelve seconds and that's what surfaces first.
He thought of that before anything else. Before his brain had fully loaded. You didn't think of it first. Your first thought this morning was not about whether your body was still feeling last night. You're not sure what your first thought was. Something less generous to yourself. But his was this.
"A little bit," you say.
The corners of his mouth pull down. The softest frown, private, the kind you only see on someone who doesn't know they're being watched. "I'm sorry, baby." Quiet. The soft version of his voice, the one he doesn't use for everything, just for when he means it.
"Bucky, it's fine—"
"I am sorry."
"You were—" careful, you want to say. You were so careful, and patient, and you went so slow that it almost felt like being taken apart by someone who actually gave a damn whether you were still in one piece after. You also want to say his hand on your stomach was the best and worst thing that has ever happened to you simultaneously. But you say, "you didn't do anything wrong. First time is just — first time. It's a body thing."
"I know what it is."
"Then stop doing that with your face."
"I'm not doing anything."
"You're —"
He looks at you sideways. The face is still happening. You reach over and push at his jaw with two fingers, gently, like you're trying to manually rearrange the expression. Catching your hand, he presses his lips to it. For one second, just held there against your palm. Nothing about it is incidental.
"I'm fine. Really." You might be fine from the soreness, but you sure aren't fine from that gentle press of lips.
His thumb moves over your knuckles, and you let him. You feel that thing in your chest that you decided not to think about until you got home, doing its thing anyway without your permission.
"Guess I'll have to deal with Jenna's scrunchie situation again." You don't entirely mean to say it. It just sort of comes out, like your mouth was filling the silence while your brain was doing something else. You hear it the second it drops and you hear exactly how it sounds and you cannot take it back.
"What do you mean?" His body goes still beside you.
Here you are. Standing at the edge of something, the words already out there, sitting between you both. You can see exactly where they came from. Probably from the feeling you've been carrying since the beach, maybe earlier, maybe much earlier, looking for any door that might lead somewhere without you having to walk through it directly. Poorly disguised as a casual observation. Even you are not entirely sure what you were hoping for when you said it. Something. Anything. Some signal.
You're not brave enough to say it plainly. But you're past pretending it wasn't anything.
"I mean— I mean you've kind of — taught me everything." A small, careful shrug. Casual. Like it's just an observation, like your heart isn't doing something extremely loud. "So."
You look at him.
He looks back at you and for a second — one second — there's something in his face that you can't read. Something that moves across it fast, like a thing he almost lets out but doesn't. And then he gets it under control, or puts something back in place, or whatever the thing is that he does when he decides to be Bucky-who-is-very-calm about something.
He looks unaffected.
It stings so badly you feel it in your stomach.
"So I should be able to, like. Date. Go out there. All of that." Your voice comes out completely fine, which is impressive because nothing inside you is fine. "That's the whole point, right? We're obviously done with lessons."
Something about saying it out loud — lessons — makes you feel sick. Like the word is a trap you built yourself and walked into with your eyes open. You handed him the word and he used it and now you have to live inside it.
He opens his mouth. You wait. You are waiting very hard, in a way that probably shows, in a way that you'll be embarrassed about later, but you wait. You wait with everything you have.
"Yeah." One syllable. Like it's the most uncomplicated answer in the world.
All the air leaves your body at once.
You stare at the wall where there's a photo of him and Steve. You look at it very carefully because it's better than looking at him.
Yeah.
Yeah, obviously, yes. That was the point, that was always the point. You came to him with a specific ask and he fulfilled it. Now you've asked if you're done and he said yeah. That's the appropriate answer, that's the correct answer, that's the answer you should've been hoping for. You knew this. You went in knowing this.
Your heart doesn't agree. Your heart is being extremely unhelpful.
The warmth of his skin where it's touching yours is suddenly too much. Last night you would have stayed here indefinitely. Now the room is too small and he's too close and that word is sitting in the air between you and you need to leave. You need to be somewhere that isn't next to him while you figure out what to do with the fact that you've been an idiot.
You sit up. The sheet catches and drops. Half a second where you're just there, bare in the grey light, all of you in front of him.
You grab for the sheet. Too late, but you grab it and pull it up to your chest with a speed that you'll be mortified about later, like something happened in between last night and this morning, like there's a rule about daylight that nobody told you but you feel it anyway. He saw everything last night, has seen everything multiple times over. He was inside you less than six hours ago. Yet you still you grab for it like it matters. Your body making its own decisions about vulnerability without consulting you.
He doesn't look at you the way you expected. He looks at your face — once, just your face — and then looks away. His jaw does something. Like he started to say a thing and decided against it. Like he weighed it and found the moment wasn't right or the words weren't ready or some other reason he is keeping to himself, because that's Bucky, he holds things until he's sure about them. You don't see what his face does after that because you're looking at your hands.
Bucky pushes back the covers on his side and swings his legs off the bed. You realise after a second that he's giving you space. Going to the bathroom so you can get dressed without feeling looked at.
A small courtesy, a Bucky courtesy, and it makes something in your chest ache so badly you want to laugh at yourself.
You hear the bathroom door.
You move fast. Faster than you probably look cool doing, but he's not watching so it doesn't matter. Underwear, jeans, your shirt from yesterday, shoes. Phone off the nightstand. One look around the room for anything else that's yours.
There's a moment where you think about waiting for him to come back out, where you think about the conversation you could maybe have, where you think about the look on his face before he got it under control and what might have been on the other side of it.
But you walk away.
Out the front door and down the steps and out onto the path. The morning is bright and completely indifferent to the fact that you just made a very cowardly exit from the apartment of a man who is not your boyfriend and never will be.
The walk back to your dorm takes ten minutes.
It feels both longer and shorter than that. You're fine.
You're going to be fine.
This was always going to be the ending of this particular thing, and you knew that, and you were always going to have to walk home the next morning and feel however you feel about it, and now you're doing that, so. Progress.
When you get back, Jenna is asleep and the room is dim. You sit down on the edge of your bed and look at the photo on your nightstand. It's the same one on his wall. Steve and Bucky.
Two days.
Two days of checking your phone and then putting it face down and then picking it up again, like something might have changed in the eleven seconds since you last looked.
Two days of Jenna asking if you're okay and you saying 'yeah just tired', which is technically true, you are tired, you're tired in a way that has nothing to do with sleep.
You sit at your desk and open your book and read the same paragraph four times without absorbing a single word of it. You have no idea what it says. You close the book. You open it again. You close it again. You put it on the floor so it stops looking at you.
Jenna makes you a cup of tea on the morning of day one. You say thanks, and she sets it on your nightstand, and it goes cold while you stare at the ceiling. She doesn't push it. She's perceptive in that quiet specific way and she knows when to leave someone alone.
On the afternoon of day one you get up and go for a walk because lying still is making you feel sorry for yourself in a way that's becoming circular. The campus is busy in the end-of-classes way. People in groups, the noise of uncomplicated days. You walk until your feet hurt and then you go back and lie down again.
On the morning of day two you pick up your phone, look at his name in your contacts, and put it face down. You are not going to be that person. You went in knowing how this ended, you made a decision, and you are going to get through the next few days without doing anything embarrassing.
The plan does not account for the fact that you still have his hoodie in your bag because you left in such a hurry that you forgot to give it back. You have put it at the bottom of the bag. You are not thinking about it.
But this situation in itself is embarrassing. And there's nobody you can tell about it. Which makes it worse. Because at least if you could tell someone you could be embarrassed out loud and get it over with.
Instead you're just sitting here being embarrassed at yourself in private, which is somehow the worst version.
The thing is, it was always going to end like this. You wanted lessons, he provided lessons, lessons concluded. That's not a tragedy, that's just a transaction completing.
So the part you can't figure out is at what point your brain decided to stop treating it like that.
Because something went wrong in the gap between what you told yourself this was and what it actually became.
And you can trace it. If you're honest with yourself — which you haven't been — you can trace it all the way back to a parking lot and a bunch of hydrangeas in one hand.
It was a lesson, you reminded yourself at the time. You just didn't file it properly. You put it somewhere mislabeled and kept going.
That's your own fault. That's entirely your fault and you know it. You can't even be angry at him about it because he didn't do anything.
He did exactly what you asked. He was kind and patient and thorough and he told you the truth at every step.
Never once — not once — did he say anything that suggested this was anything other than what you agreed it was.
If anything, he was more careful than he had to be. He gave you just pleasure an innumerable number of times before he let things go any further. He was careful with you. He was so careful with you.
And the fact that he was careful with you is part of the problem. Because it made it very easy to forget that being careful with someone isn't the same as wanting them.
There will not be another person like him.
That's the real damage. You went in with no experience and he's what you got, and now you have a reference point. Now you know what it feels like to be with someone who puts you first without making a thing of it. Who would rather wait another week than rush you through something. Who puts his mouth on you for your benefit, not as a warm-up for something else.
You remember every single time. The tent in his sweats, the controlled breathing, the way he always made sure you finished before he even came close to thinking about himself. You filed it away under 'body being body', under 'he's experienced he can handle it'.
You did not let yourself think about what it meant that he lay next to you hard enough to be uncomfortable and not doing a single thing about it except holding you.
Body being body needs relief. That's just biology. He could have asked. You would have. Obviously, eagerly. Hell, he didn't even have to ask.
But he didn't.
He never once made you feel like you owed him anything, like the patience had a price, like the patience was even something he was exercising rather than just something he had.
There's not going to be another person like that.
The sad little story goes like this : She wanted experience, she got it, and somehow managed to ruin herself for everyone who comes after.
Congratulations. Growth.
You walked in wanting a lesson and fell in love with the teacher. Which is the most clichéd possible version of this story, by the way. You'd hate yourself for it if you had the energy.
Tired of sitting still, you decide you'll go see Steve.
He's been texting all month asking if you've settled in and you've been saying 'yeah, great, so busy', which is the oldest deflection in your sibling playbook. He buys it every single time because Steve is earnest and takes people at their word. You could use some of that energy right now.
The bus gives you an hour. An hour of towns sliding past the window and music you're not actually listening to. Your brain is doing a thing, where it is turning the whole situation over and over like it's looking for an angle that makes you look less stupid.
It hasn't found one yet. You're starting to think it's not going to.
Here's the thing you've been trying not to look at.
You've always liked Bucky.
The whole tape, you're running it back now. He's there earlier than you want him to be. Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, Steve bringing him over and you finding reasons to be downstairs.
Bucky was older and loud and took up all the air in whatever room he walked into. You told yourself you found that annoying. You did find it annoying. You were also ready in ten minutes every time Steve said he was coming over. Which is not the behaviour of someone who finds a person annoying.
You were seventeen when you saw him talking to a cheerleader at one of Steve's games. Long legs, laughing at something he said. And you felt something. Something you classified as 'general bad mood' and immediately forgot about. You were in a bad mood that whole week. Funny, that.
Because here's the thing about Steve always bringing Bucky. Here's the thing about all those years of hanging around whenever he came over. You told yourself you were just being sociable. You liked having people around. You liked Bucky's stupid arguments about films and the way he laughed when something caught him off guard. You liked him the way you like someone who's been around since you were small enough that they're just part of the furniture.
Except the furniture doesn't make you feel like hell when it talks to a cheerleader. The furniture doesn't talk to a cheerleader.
You put your headphones in and stare at the window.
The boys you didn't date in high school. You've spent years blaming Steve for that. Watchful eyes and warning looks. And Steve was a factor, you're not letting him off the hook entirely. But you're on this bus right now and you're turning the question over properly for the first time and you're wondering : Was it Steve?
Or was it that none of them were Bucky?
Was it that you'd had Bucky as some kind of baseline since you were fourteen, all that warmth and sharpness and the way he actually listened and remembered things. And every boy your age just felt thin by comparison? Was it that you set an impossible standard completely by accident and then spent years confused about why nobody was clearing it?
Your stomach turns over.
And then, because your brain apparently hasn't finished being cruel to you today, it offers up the next one.
College. New place. Clean slate. Steve an hour away. Finally, finally some room to breathe, finally a chance to figure all of this out without his shadow in the frame.
And you came here and knocked on Bucky's door inside of a week.
You went to Bucky.
You told yourself you wanted experience. Told yourself you were being practical, that you picked him because you trusted him and he was close and you'd known him forever and it just made sense.
All of that was true. But you could've done any number of things. Downloaded an app. Gone to a party. Done literally anything that normal people do when they want to figure this out.
You went to Bucky.
You wanted Bucky.
If you're being fully and completely honest with yourself, you've always wanted Bucky. And your brain built a whole reasonable-sounding explanation for why going to him was the logical choice. You'd bought it completely, and walked into his apartment and asked him to teach you to kiss and told yourself it was educational.
You are so stupid.
You are so fucking stupid.
The bus pulls into the stop and you get off. You've made a decision on the way here. You're going to tell Steve. Not everything. Obviously not everything, there are details that you should be taking to your grave. But something.
You've been carrying this alone for two days and it's pressing against your ribs. You need to put it down somewhere, even briefly, even partially. And Steve is your brother and he loves you and he'll know what to say or he won't and you'll feel better anyway because he's Steve.
Third floor. You know this building. Your feet know this building.
You knock.
The door opens.
Bucky's standing there with a mug in his hand and his hair doing the morning thing and a grey shirt that's seen better decades. And he looks at you.
The floor drops out from under your stomach so fast you actually put one hand on the doorframe.
The universe has a genuinely terrible sense of humour.
Steve's voice carries through the apartment before Bucky's even finished stepping back from the door.
"Is that — oh my god!"
You hear the genuine delight in it when he calls your name.
Bucky is not looking at you, and that's the first thing you notice. Not your brother.
"This is literally the best day of my life," Steve says, from the couch, with the energy of a golden retriever who just saw two of his favourite people walk side by side.
He looks between you and Bucky and back, radiating a happiness that is completely disproportionate to what is actually happening in this room.
"Hi, Steve." You sit in the armchair. The armchair is good. The armchair is far away from the kitchen — where Bucky currently is — and gives you a clear sightline to the door if you need to leave quickly.
"You look terrible." Steve tells you, which is his version of concern.
"Thanks."
"No, I mean — are you sleeping?"
"I'm fine."
"You look—"
"Steve." You give him the look. He subsides. He's known you long enough to know when the look means drop it. To his credit he usually does.
Bucky comes back from the kitchen with a glass of water and sits at the other end of the couch from Steve.
He hasn't looked at you once. He looks at Steve, at the coffee table, at some middle distance that isn't your face. You, on the other hand, look at your own hands. And Steve looks between the two of you with an expression you can't quite read from this angle and choose not to try.
There are two people in this room actively not acknowledging something, and the third is Steve. Who is either genuinely oblivious or performing oblivion with professional precision. With Steve it's sometimes impossible to tell which.
He talks. He tells you about the internship, something about a project that went sideways and then un-sideways. You listen and nod and make the right noises and in your peripheral vision Bucky sits at the other end of the couch with his elbows on his knees and his eyes somewhere that isn't you.
This is fine. This is completely fine. You've been in rooms with Bucky before. You've sat on this couch with him three feet away, you've watched bad television next to him for hours. You know how to be in a room with Bucky Barnes.
You just haven't done it … since you-know-what.
Steve somehow doesn't notice what's happening here.
You've always marvelled a little at Steve's skill for that. For being so thoroughly good that he just assumes everyone around him is also okay, that the world is basically fine, that people he loves are probably not sitting six feet apart doing an extremely committed impression of strangers.
"Hey," he says suddenly. The way he sounds when something's occurred to him. "Buck, who's this girl Sam keeps going on about?"
Your hand goes very still.
Bucky glances up. "What girl?"
"The one you've been hanging out with? Sam said something about it."
"Sam needs to mind his own business."
"So there is a girl."
"There's not a—" Bucky stops himself. "It's nothing. It was nothing."
"Sam said you were sneaking around."
"I was not sneaking around."
"Said you're being weird, Buck."
"I'm not weird, I'm just—" His jaw works to spit out the rest of the sentence. "It's nothing. Drop it, Steve."
Steve, with the particular stubbornness of a man who has known Bucky Barnes his entire life and has never once successfully dropped anything, looks at him for a long moment and then does something shocking. He drops it.
He turns to you instead. "What about you? How's things? You seem off."
Your brain is doing several things at once right now. It is attempting to formulate an answer for Steve. It is also replaying the last thirty seconds on a loop — was nothing, it was nothing — and trying to figure out what nothing means and who nothing was. And whether the timing of it lines up with anything.
Nothing. He said it in the voice of someone saying something they don't mean, the voice of someone getting the word out because it needs to be said and not because it's true. You know his voice. You have been listening to his voice since you were eight years old and there are versions of it you know as well as your own. That was not his honest voice. That was his covering voice. You know the difference.
"I'm fine," you come back from your head to tell Steve.
"You keep saying that."
"Because I am."
Steve gives you the look that is his version of your look, which you've been on the receiving end of since you were approximately six years old and it has never once stopped working. "Something happen?"
"No."
"You sure?"
"Steve, I'm—"
"She said she's fine," Bucky says, from the other end of the couch. Like he's doing you a favour, giving you the exit.
You look at him.
He looks at you.
It's the first time he's looked at you properly since you walked in, and it lasts about two seconds, and then he looks away again.
But two seconds is enough. Two seconds is more than enough because you've gotten very good at reading Bucky's face over the past few months and what you just saw on it was in fact, not nothing.
Unaware, yet again, Steve starts talking. "Hey, you know Jenna's boyfriend? The one from your dorm?"
Something about the subject change is so random that you answer without thinking. "Yeah, the one who kicks me out of my own room every other night."
"Right." Steve nods. "He works part-time in my building, actually."
"How does he even have time for work anyway?" Bucky quips, and you want to throw a throw pillow at him.
You don't.
"Saw him in the lift the other day," oblivious-Steve continues.
"Small world."
"Yeah." He pauses. "He was saying he hasn't been able to visit Jenna for two days because her roommate's been in the room the whole time. Moping, apparently."
Your mouth goes dry.
"Wouldn't leave. Just lying there all day." Another pause. Steve is looking at absolutely nothing in particular, which is how you know he's being very intentional. "Funny, right?"
Your jaw is doing something. You're fairly sure Bucky has gone completely still on the other end of the couch.
"Steve—"
"I know," Steve says.
Two words. The calm of someone who has been sitting on this information for a while and chose this exact moment to put it on the table.
The silence that follows is genuinely one of the more extraordinary silences you've ever sat in.
"How long?" Bucky asks because you currently cannot bring yourself to speak.
"Buck, I've known you since we were eight." Steve looks at him with a fondness that is also, honestly, a little smug. "You think I couldn't tell?" He looks at you. "And you're my sister. You really thought I don't notice?"
You think about every time you found a reason to be downstairs when Bucky came over and told yourself it was nothing. You think about Steve, who notices everything and says nothing, who has apparently been sitting on all of this like a very patient man waiting for everyone else to catch up.
"You didn't say anything," you say.
"Wasn't mine to say." He stands up. The smug falls away and what's underneath is just Steve, your brother, Bucky's best friend, who loves you both and has clearly been quietly hoping about this for longer than you knew. He puts one hand on your shoulder and one on Bucky's.
"Talk it out."
He picks up his jacket, his keys, and he leaves.
The door clicks shut.
You and Bucky sit in the wreckage of that. Both still sitting in the positions you were in when he stood up, like neither of you quite knows how to be the one who moves first.
You become aware, slowly, that you are gripping the arm of the armchair.
Bucky shifts on the couch. "You know, you should be out there dating." He says it like he's picking up something he set down earlier, like it's a thought he's been turning over. "Isn't that what all of this was for? Why are you moping around your dorm room?"
And there it is. The tone. The slightly pointed tone that you know as well as you know your own name, that you've been on the receiving end of since you were old enough to give it back.
You take the bait. You always take the bait with him, that's the whole problem, that's been the whole problem since you were fourteen years old and you didn't know it. Now you know, and do it anyway. "Go back to your girl."
"What?"
"Go back to your girl." You parrot.
Confusion paints his face. "What girl?"
"The one Sam told Steve about. The one you've been seeing this whole time —" You want to complete the sentence by saying 'behind my back', but even you know that you don't have any rights for that.
"Jesus." He drags a hand through his hair like he can't quite believe what's coming out of your mouth. "Can you not?"
Fury comes from somewhere specific, somewhere you'd been keeping a lid on, and it tastes a lot like hurt. "Seriously, Buck. Go back to your girl."
"Why —" He looks pained as he runs his hand through his hair again. "Why can't you just fucking understand?"
"Understand what?"
"You're the girl." His voice isn't by any means muffled, but it still reaches your ear warbled.
"What?"
"You." He looks right in your eyes for the first time since you walked in. "Are. The. Girl."
The thing that happens to your chest is immediate and enormous and you don't do anything with it yet because you're still processing the words. You. Are. The girl. The one Sam mentioned. The one Bucky's been sneaking around with. The one who he'd said was nothing, but there was something.
"I don't—" You shake your head. "What does that even mean? We were just — I just asked you for help. I asked you to teach me —"
"Can we stop?" He says that like someone who has run out of patience for the performance of it. "Can we just stop doing this?"
"Doing what, I'm not doing anything —"
"You're doing everything! You did everything! You ran out on me." His elbows come to his knees as he leans forward, pinning you under his gaze. "I came out of the bathroom and you were gone. Your shoes were gone, your phone was gone, you were just… gone. Why?"
"Because you said I was ready to date." You cross your arms in front of you. "Why do you care if I left?"
"Because it was the morning after the best night of my life." He says it like he'd rather not be saying it but he's saying it anyway. "I was already sitting there feeling like shit because you were sore, and then you came out with —" his voice shifts, doing something that is a deeply unflattering impression of you, "I guess I have to go deal with Jenna's scrunchie situation again."
"Don't do the voice."
"You said it like you couldn't wait to leave."
"I said it because I wanted you to say something!" The words come out louder than you meant. You correct yourself, lower your voice. "I was testing the waters. I wanted to see if you'd—"
"And then," he keeps going like he needs to finish, "you asked me point blank if you were ready to go out there and date other people." He looks at you like he still can't quite believe it. "What was I supposed to say?"
"Something other than 'yeah' maybe?" The yeah is intentionally higher in octave, mocking him.
He doesn't take the bait like you. "What would you have had me say?"
"I don't know, something! Anything! You could have — I don't know, pushed back, said wait, said—"
"You covered yourself."
That stops you. "What?"
"The sheet." His voice is quieter now, different. "You sat up and you grabbed the sheet and you pulled it over yourself. And I've — we'd just — I've seen you. All of you. Every single part of you, and you looked at me like you needed to hide, and I thought—" He stops to catch his breath, voice dropping lower. "I thought you'd already decided something and I wasn't going to be the guy who makes that weird."
The memory of it is very specific. The grey morning light. The sheet slipping. The way you grabbed it like you didn't want to be seen.
"I covered myself because you said it was fine for me to date." You bring up technicalities even though he probably knew it himself. Like talking about the timeline of it all could shift the blame. "Not before. You asked me to date other people and I felt about this big— " you bring your pointer finger and your thumb together to specify that you felt so small. The gesture softens something in his eyes, in him. "— and I didn't know what to do with my hands so I grabbed the sheet. That's the only reason."
When he opens his mouth, you continue. "You looked completely fine about it. You were just… fine. Like it was the obvious answer. And I thought 'okay, that's it then, that's where we actually are', I left because I didn't know what else to do."
"I looked fine because you asked me like it was a real question." His voice has lost the edge now, the flatness of it gone. "Like you'd made up your mind already and were checking in. What was I supposed to do — tell you 'no, don't go date anyone, stay here'?"
"Yes! That's what I wanted you to say."
He looks at you like he cannot quite believe the audacity.
"I wanted you to say no." You're past the point of dressing it up. "I wanted you to say you didn't want me going out there with someone else. I wanted you to ask me to stay instead. I didn't know how to just ask for that so I asked a question I thought might get there eventually, and it didn't."
Bucky is quiet for a moment, where he sighs like he has to deal with this shit. "That is the most complicated route you could have possibly taken."
"I —"
"You could have just said—"
"Could I have?" You look at him straight. "You had the same information I had. You knew how the morning was going. You could've said something before I even asked the question. You could've said it the night before. You could've said it any of the other times we were sitting in your apartment" You watch him clench and unclench his jaw. "But you didn't. So we're the same amount of stupid and I think we have to just accept that."
"You know, you really wanted them to be lessons."
"Bucky."
"The beach —"
"James Buchanan Barnes."
"Okay," he says. "Okay, fine. We're the same amount of stupid."
"Thank you."
"It's not a compliment."
"Right."
He leans back against the couch. You sit in the armchair. The gap between you is exactly the same as it's been all afternoon and somehow it feels different now.
"Why were you moping?" This time it's not pointed, it's just a question.
You look at your hands. At the armchair arm. At the bookshelf full of Steve's books on the wall behind Bucky's head.
"Because I've always liked you." It's easier when you're not looking at him. "I think I've liked you for a long time. Way longer than I realised." You inhale and exhale once. "I always wanted to hang out with Steve because you were there. I think that's been true for years and I just didn't look at it directly." You do look at him then, because it feels cowardly not to. "And I think when I came to you about all of this — about the lessons, about teaching me — I think I came to you because it was you. Not because I needed teaching. I did need, that's besides the point, but I could've done a million other things, but I came to you — I think I just wanted an excuse to —" You stop because that was long and you need a breath. You need a breath because what you're about to say might be the truest thing you've ever said. "It was always you, Buck. I think it's been you for a long time." And, you try to deflect with sarcasm, true to self. "Possibly since you used to steal my Halloween candy when I was eight. I'd like to have some words about that, actually, but probably not right now."
Bucky doesn't say anything. But he does something you weren't expecting, which is that he gets up from the couch, crosses the space between you, and drops down to kneel beside the armchair so he's at your level. He looks at you from there, close enough that you can see the exact colour of his eyes in Steve's place. "It's always been you too."
Something in your chest cracks open in the quietest possible way. "Wha —"
"At first —" He almost smiles, but it's too soft to be a smile, it's something adjacent to one. "At first it was just Steve's little sister that I couldn't get rid of. You were everywhere he was and you had opinions about everything and you'd argue with me about anything and I thought, fine, annoying." His eyes stay on yours. "And then I went to college and you weren't around and I —" A moment he takes to gather his words, but his eyes don't leave yours. "I missed you. One second, you were there, and then you weren't. And, God I missed you. I tried not to, I tried telling myself you were just Steve's little sister. But you were never just that."
"Bucky—"
"When Steve told me you were coming here," he continues, "I took the internship at the same campus. Originally, I was supposed to go with Steve. But I took this because you were coming."
You stare at him, thinking you like his voice. You've always liked his voice. Now you like it exceptionally more, because his voice is saying things about you. Nice things.
"My allotted dorm was on the other side of town," he confesses. "Did you know that? I moved off campus because your dorm was ten minutes from the apartment and I wanted —" He shakes his head slightly, like he's still getting used to saying this out loud. "I wanted to be close."
"Your apartment is ten minutes from my dorm," you repeat.
"Yeah."
"You moved there on purpose."
"Yeah."
"You absolute —" You don't finish that sentence because you don't have a word big enough. "I think I chose this college because of you," you say instead. "I told myself it was because Steve studied here. Because the programme was good. Because I knew the area, because it made sense logistically. Those are all true. But —"
"What?" His turn to look surprised.
"I knew you would be here, and I wanted to be close to you."
He looks genuinely thrown. Like he didn't expect that particular surprise from this conversation, like he'd braced for other things and not this.
You look at each other from about eighteen inches apart. The whole weight of the last however many years sits in the room with you.
And it's a lot, and it should probably feel heavier than it does, except that it just feels true. Like something that was always going to lead here, just took the scenic route.
"We've been so stupid," you break the minute long silence.
"Yeah."
"Years of stupid."
"To be fair—"
"No, there's no fair. It's been years, Bucky."
"Okay, yeah." The almost-smile again. "Years."
The afternoon light comes in through Steve's window and does something to the angles of his face. You've been cataloguing those angles without meaning to for six years now and you're done pretending you haven't.
You lean forward. You're not asking if you're doing it right this time. Because it's not him teaching you.
This is your decision, your need to be close to him, to close the distance and meet his mouth with yours. He makes a sound and kisses you back immediately, his hand coming up to your jaw.
It is different from every other time, it is completely different, because this time you both know what it is.
His thumb traces your cheekbone and he kisses you just as slowly. "Go on a date with me," he says against your mouth, your lips moving with his.
"No." You reply against his mouth too.
Bucky pulls back. "Sorry?"
"No."
"What do you —" He looks at you, and you can see him trying to figure out if you're joking. The look on his face is so genuinely confused that you'd feel bad about it if it weren't also the funniest thing you've seen in two days. "I just — we just —"
"You can take me on a date… after you ask me to be your girlfriend."
The confusion rearranges itself. The corner of his mouth starts to commit to something, his hand still at your jaw. His eyes are doing several things at once. His face is fond and exasperated and something much softer underneath both of those things. "Will you be my girl?"
"Yes."
"Thank god." He kisses you again, speaks against your mouth like it's the only way he knows now. "I moved across the entire city."
"I know. It's very romantic."
"You should have seen my commute."
"I'll make it up to you," you reply. He laughs against your mouth, the one that gets all the way to his eyes, the one you've been storing up without knowing you were storing it.
Time becomes a foreign concept now. For you don't know if it's been minutes or hours.
From somewhere down the hallway comes the unmistakable sound of a door, and then Steve's voice, entirely too casual. "So should I come back later or —"
Bucky doesn't stop kissing you. "Later, Steve," you say into his mouth.
"So how did the two of you start anyway?"
Steve's looking at you both with this expression that's mostly fond but also slightly curious. Like he has most of the pieces but still not the whole picture.
You're sitting on his couch, Bucky's at the other end, and there's approximately three feet of space between you that feels like it's doing a lot of work right now.
"I asked Bucky if he could teach me dating."
The words come out before you've really thought about whether this is information Steve needs. But here you are, might as well commit.
Steve looks at you like you’ve grown two heads. "Teach you dating?"
"Yeah, Steve." Your tone is pointed. "For people who are so inexperienced because of an older brother, there should be lessons for these kinds of things."
In your peripheral vision, Bucky has gone very still. When you glance at him, he's looking at the coffee table like it's the most fascinating thing in the room. There's a flush creeping up the back of his neck.
Steve's eyebrows are doing something. "No, I mean — why did you ask him to teach you?"
"Because he's Bucky."
"Precisely why you shouldn't have asked him."
Bucky shifts, opens and closes his mouth before he decides to speak. "I think what he's trying to—"
“Why?” You ask, cutting him off exactly the same moment Steve says, "he's never dated anyone."
What?
Your head whips around to look at Bucky. He's still staring at the coffee table, but now the flush has spread to his ears.
"Sorry, what?"
Steve's looking between the two of you like he's watching something unfold that he finds deeply amusing. "Yeah, he was too busy pining over you to actually date anyone in college."
A deadly silence follows.
Bucky looks up at Steve with something between betrayal and resignation. "I'm sorry, how did you know I was pining over her?"
"Guys. You really aren't that slick. Both of you.” He points at Bucky, “especially you.”
You're still processing. The whole time — every single lesson — you'd assumed he was this experienced person showing you the ropes because he'd done all of this a hundred times before. And he just... hadn't?
You turn to Bucky. "So you've never dated anyone?"
He finally looks at you. His eyes are doing that thing where they're very earnest and also slightly embarrassed. "Yeah..."
"What about the other stuff?"
Steve's up and out of his chair in half a second. "Aight, I'm out. I don't need to hear this."
"I've kissed a girl once." Bucky’s voice has gone quieter.
The words register slowly at first. Then all at once. "So that's why you came in your pants!"
Steve, who's almost made it to safety, stops dead in his tracks. His shoulders go rigid. "You did what—" Then he shakes his head violently, like he's trying to physically dislodge the information from the crevices of his brain. "You know what, I don't wanna know."
He disappears into the kitchen. You hear the tap running far too loud. The sound of a mug being set down too hard.
You're still looking at Bucky. He's looking back at you with this sheepish expression, but also something else.
"What about—" You lower your voice even though Steve's clearly trying to give you distance. "What about when you... with your hand. You definitely said you'd done it before."
His mouth twitches into a half formed smile. "My hand's met my dick many times."
"Bucky!"
"What? It has."
"No, you were — you said that about blowjobs. Said you’d done it before."
Bucky exhales loudly like a child caught in a lie. You don’t know how exact that analogy is going to be, to the point where it’s not an analogy anymore, just the truth.
He closes his eyes for a second before meeting yours again. "I lied."
There's something blooming in your chest that you're trying to figure out what is and falling short. Something warm and a little bit ridiculous.
"You what?"
"I lied."
"Why?"
"Because — " he takes a deep breath like that could help and continues, "you’d asked me to help you and I just — I just couldn’t say no. You came to me. And I didn't want you to know you were my first everything too. Seemed like a lot of pressure to put on the whole thing. You were already nervous enough without knowing I was figuring it out same time as you."
"But you—" You gesture vaguely at him, at the space between you. "You were so good at it. Like you knew exactly what you were doing."
"I watched porn."
A laugh startles out of you. "You watched porn?"
"I watched an unhealthy amount of porn." He scrubs a hand through his hair. "I spent about three weeks on some deeply questionable websites making sure I wasn't going to fuck it up when you actually let me —" He stops himself to clear his throat. "Yeah."
The warmth in your chest is spreading. It's taken up residence in your ribs, your throat, behind your eyes, making him blurry.
"So all my firsts… are your firsts too."
"The ki—"
"Except the kiss." You cut him off because you know where that's going. "You kissed a girl once. I'm not counting that."
"It was in eighth grade and it lasted maybe two seconds."
There's something in his expression that's so open it makes your chest ache. Like he's giving you every single card in his hand and trusting you not to do anything terrible with them.
From the kitchen, you hear Steve muttering something that sounds like "...should've shut this shit down when I saw those hickeys..."
Your brain catches on the word. "You showed him your hickeys?"
"He facetimed me."
"And you answered with those hockeys?"
"I forgot about the — I wasn't thinking, baby."
You lean in closer, try dropping your voice to a whisper. "So that's how he figured it out."
"Guys." Steve's voice carries from the kitchen, done with it but fond at the same time. "You genuinely aren't slick. Like at all."
Main Masterlist || Series Masterlist
EXTRAS. Dedicated to this anon (adding this here bc I didn’t want to spoil anything lol)
Thank you for reading this. I told myself I would never start another series because babydoll gave me such burnout. But this idea got rooted into my head and just wouldn’t leave. I got so many comments and asks, and it genuinely made me so happy. I appreciate each and every single one of them. Thank you, thank you 💕 I truly hope I met your expectations.
I also HAVE to know if you saw those two things coming (not me thinking I’m that slick lol). If you don’t like the last scene, pretend it didn’t happen. Personally, I just fancy the idea of a guy being so in love with his girl, he doesn’t even try. Less realistic, more endearing and romantic — basically me.
Any asks and requests for these two babies are always welcome. Please send some, they will genuinely make my day.
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