Characters: 40’s!Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader, ft. Rebecca Barnes and Steve Rogers
Word Count: <3.9K
Summary: One date has changed everything. What should be an ordinary summer day at Rockaway with friends becomes the turning point between what was and what could be.
Prompt(s): "Do you trust me?" / "Do you have any idea how fun it is to watch you try to keep your composure?" / 🌌 “So… what happens after this?”
Content Warning: Fluff, best friend’s brother, reader is falling but Bucky’s already down bad, gun usage (skill game), creative liberty when it comes to photo development in the early 40s (it’s for the plot, sue me), love confession, first kiss (everyone cheer!).
A/N: Apparently I can’t write this series without making each entry part of a writing event. And this is a three-for-one. Oops. Going out with a bang. Thanks to @castielscaplan for the Disney Celebration challenge, to @star-and-shield-monthly for July’s challenge prompts, and to @juniebjonesin for setting up the amazing picnic blanket prompts. And a quick thank you to @phoenix-in-writing for your gun knowledge! Felt silly asking, but you’re a supportive queen and ily. Gif credit.
Main Masterlist
Sleep doesn't come easily.
You try to tell yourself it's the faint honking from passing vehicles three blocks over, the distant crash of a steel trash can on a curb, or it being a warm summer night. But the only thing warm is your cheek, the feeling of Bucky's lips lingering for far too long and making your skin tingle.
Every time you roll over and smack the pillow in an attempt to find a more comfortable position, your mind replays memories of the night like images flashing across the silver screen. The crooked, excited smile on his face. His hand tugging yours to the dance floor. The gentle way he held you when the music slowed, his arm wrapping more securely around you. The look in his eyes when he pecked your cheek, like he wanted more but wasn't going to take it.
Your heart stutters.
Bucky wanted more.
The man who is—was?—like a brother to you, who listened to you complain about the way men treat you like you're something to claim, who never actually gave the advice you asked for and offered reassurance instead. He wanted more. But he didn't take it. He didn't even ask for it.
Because despite all the stories people have told about him since his freshman year of high school, despite all the women who have chased him, James Buchanan Barnes is, first and foremost, a gentleman.
Your gaze flicks to the vase your mother set near your windowsill. The flowers he brought specifically for you stand proudly under the soft glow of the streetlights outside, each petal a delicate display of something dangerously close to affection. Knowing he somehow knew exactly what flowers you prefer has something warm settling in your chest.
Years of being around the Barnes siblings, of being Rebecca's best friend. Years of looking at him like he's just Bucky. Now? The world has shifted, tilted on its axis before you could even think to brace yourself for the flood of realizations and subsequent emotions that can only mean one thing: you have feelings for him.
The thought makes your heart race and cheeks burn like a nervous schoolgirl.
Flipping your pillow over for the cool side, you shove your face into it hoping if it doesn't help you fall asleep, maybe it'll smother the thoughts running rampant in your brain.
Because Bucky Barnes is suddenly no longer just anyone.
And Rebecca is going to kill you.
The sun is just beginning to light the sky when sleep finally claims you, only waking at the incessant ring of the telephone down the hall. You're already pulling yourself out of bed and rubbing sleep from your eyes when the warm sound of your mother's voice answers the call. She smiles when you poke your head out the door.
"Phone's for you, dear." She holds out the receiver.
Mind still foggy with sleep and remnants of a dream you can barely recall, you head to the phone.
"Hello—"
"Come over, we're going to Rockaway," Becca's voice comes over the receiver, quick and impatient.
"No greeting?" you tease, leaning against the wall and fighting back a yawn. The house smells of lemon and sugar, making your stomach growl.
She sighs and you swear you hear her eyes rolling. "Hi, hope you're well. Bucky and Steve both have the afternoon off and if we leave soon we might still see daylight. Get over here."
— — —
The door to the Barnes residence swings open almost as soon as your knuckles touch it. A wild-eyed Becca beams the second her eyes land on you, the scent of Winnifred's fresh baked bread wafting out into the street.
"It's about time! That train is going to take us forever," Becca turns, calling to who you can only assume is Steve and Bucky in the living room. "She's here! Let's go!"
Steve's the first to come around the corner, a couple strands of his blond hair falling to the middle of his forehead. He offers a polite smile and a nod in greeting before Bucky rounds the corner, tossing an arm around his best friend's shoulders and meeting your gaze.
He looks unfairly handsome today; dark hair perfectly mussed, a grease smudge lingering near his temple from working at the garage this morning. The easy smile forming on his lips makes your stomach flip.
"Nice of you to finally show up," he says coolly. His gaze trails over your face, like he's searching for something. Or maybe he sees right through you.
Before you can even think to stop yourself, your mouth opens. "Miss me that bad?"
Bucky's eyebrows lift almost imperceptibly, his eyes flashing with something too quick to interpret.
"Maybe I did."
Becca, who is pretending not to watch the interaction and failing miserably, smirks and clears her throat. "Hey, Romeo, can we go now?"
Your eyes widen. Steve bites back a laugh while silently mouthing "Romeo?" and Bucky chuckles, already stepping forward and dragging Steve along with him out the door. Becca grins, clearly proud of herself, the loose curls of her hair bouncing as she falls into step beside you.
The day is bright and warm, bordering on uncomfortably hot as the mid-afternoon sun beats down on the sidewalks of Brooklyn. By the time you step off the train in Rockaway, mild relief comes in the form of a salty ocean breeze as the group walks down the boardwalk.
People sprawl out in all directions along the beach and across the street to Rockaways' Playland, earning a displeased grumble from Becca before leading the way through the crowd. She slips through easily, Steve following quickly behind her. Bucky falls in step behind you. Despite all the people, you can't help but be aware of exactly where he is, the sound of his shoes on the pavement, the low "excuse me" as he brushes past someone to keep up with you.
The crowd inside the park is only slightly less crowded as the beach itself. A line for the park's specialty wooden coaster snakes around in a neat line before ending near the carousel. The scent of fried funnel cakes and popcorn mixes with the salty air. It brings back memories of all the times this same group went to Coney Island growing up, when everything felt effortless for four kids in Brooklyn.
Your gaze lands on Bucky. He's laughing with Steve as they approach the line for the ticket booth ahead, carefree and happy as the afternoon sun highlights his sharp features.
Becca catches you looking and hooks her arm in yours. She leans over and whispers conspiritorially, "How was the date last night?"
Your eyes snap to hers, heart racing. Bucky glances over across the midway.
"Date?" you ask a little too quickly. As if Rebecca Barnes hasn't been able to read you like a book for most of your lives. You hadn't told her yet. You hadn't mentioned any Friday night plans to her, let alone that said plans had involved her older brother.
She gives you a look, all but rolling her eyes as the corners of her lips pull into a knowing smile.
"With my idiot brother, obviously."
Years of friendship, of shared laughter, tears, secrets and jokes have made you as close as any two people can possibly be. Things have changed overnight. You know it. She knows it. Yet she doesn't seem angry. If anything, she sounds relieved, like she's been waiting for the day Bucky finally stepped up.
"You're not mad?"
"Of course not," she scoffs before pressing further, giving you a little shake. "Details, girl, come on."
You swallow and huff a nervous laugh, suddenly finding a nearby pigeon incredibly interesting. "It was fine." Understatement of the century.
"Just fine?" she asks, leaning closer, voice raising in utter disbelief. "He came home practically floating on cloud nine last night. I've seen him go on a lot of dates over the last ten years, but there's only one person I've seen make him smile like—"
"Atom Smasher, ladies, let's go!" Bucky calls, his voice booming louder than necessary and pointing to the coaster rumbling by. People nearby glance at him sideways. Someone spills popcorn. He's staring at Becca with the look of an older brother knowing exactly what's about to be said and silently begging her not to continue.
She looks at you but doesn't finish her statement, turning on her heel and leaving you standing near a hot dog cart processing her words. You follow slowly, stomach flipping from more than just the thought of the roller coaster.
The afternoon moves in a blur of laughter, adrenaline, and too much sunlight for anyone's own good. Bucky attempts to play ring toss, insisting his aim is perfect, before wildly missing two of the three shots.
"What was that?" Becca snorts, doubling over in laughter and wiping non-existent tears from her eyes.
"Distracted, Buck?" Steve asks. His lips twitch with a knowing smile.
"What? No," he says quickly. The tips of his ears turn pink. "My arm's tired from the shop, shut up."
You bite back a smile from the sudden realization that James Barnes isn't always as suave as he appears and is, in fact, human—nerves and all.
He catches your eye before he rubs the back of his neck and clears his throat. "Anyone up for the shooting gallery? A quarter says I can hit the bullseye on the first try."
Steve and Becca glance at each other sideways.
The gallery sits toward the middle of the park, tucked between concessions and skill games against the roller coaster, with scooter cars across the midway. Lights flicker on, the sun beginning to set and casting an orange glow across the various structures. Bucky doesn't hesitate the moment the gallery comes into view. He rushes over and hands a dime to the attendant, wearing a grin that is far more confident than it probably should be.
The moment the gun touches his hand, his demeanor changes. He lifts it with all the seriousness in the world—intense focus and smooth movements that speak of a man who's done this more times than he can count. He pulls back the forend and fires a shot before you even blink. A bulb flashes immediately.
"Bullseye!" The attendant calls, grabbing the photo that just printed and setting it on the counter next to Bucky.
"Lucky shot," Steve scoffs.
"Jealous, Rogers?" he asks, lowering the gun.
"How—" you start.
Bucky glances over at you, his grin back. He grabs the picture and shoves it in his pocket unceremoniously. He shrugs, but the look on his face betrays just how confident he is. "Easier than it looks."
"Liar," Steve and Becca mumble simultaneously.
Bucky ignores them, his focus solely on you. "I'll prove it. Give it a try." He gestures with his head for you to come closer, the gun securely in his hands.
As you step towards him, interest piqued yet moving slower than strictly necessary, you barely register Steve clear his throat. "We're gonna go find something to drink," he announces before dragging Rebecca off somewhere.
"I'm going to embarrass myself," you mutter when you finally reach him.
Bucky's lips curl into a smirk that would be almost infuriating if it didn't make your pulse spike. "Not a chance, I'll help you. Do you trust me?"
"After ring toss? No."
He blinks, looking offended for a moment before a smile spreads across his face. "Oh come on, did I not just prove myself right here?" he laughs. "I'm better with a gun, I promise."
"Fine." With a resigned sigh and a roll of your eyes, you take the gun from him and step up to the counter. It's heavier than expected, the metal cool against the summer air, the wood polished just enough to be smooth in your palms.
Bucky waits for you to nod before he steps behind you. His hands are warm and careful as they guide your form; firm grip on the forend, butt plate braced against your shoulder, elbow just so.
His hands move to your shoulders, fingers squeezing gently. "Relax. Too stiff in the shoulders and you'll definitely feel it tomorrow."
"Easier said than done," you mutter, all too aware of how close he's standing and how heat is radiating from him.
He doesn't respond right away. Instead, he just watches, waiting. Your eyes are locked on the center of the target, finger on the trigger guard, breath coming out a little too quick.
You can feel the weight of his eyes on you, making your heart beat quicken. Then he leans down slightly.
"Do you have any idea how fun it is to watch you try to keep your composure?" His breath is hot against your ear. You shiver. You don't even have to look at him to know his lips are curved into that familiar Barnes grin that means trouble.
"Shut up," you huff, the gun still aimed at the target. Heat warms your cheeks, and the way your heart beats against your chest makes it hard to focus on the target in front of you.
He chuckles and takes a half step back, giving you space to focus.
"Rest your cheek against the wood. Line up both sights and take a breath. You can do it."
You take a deep breath, grateful for the space. The coaster roars by, rattling the ground beneath your feet. Then, with relaxed shoulders and a slow release of breath, you pump the forend and squeeze the trigger.
A bulb flashes.
"Bullseye!"
You stare at the target in disbelief. A beat passes. Two. A low whistle sounds from behind you.
"Would you look at that," Bucky murmurs, tone full of pride. "Careful. With a shot like that, they might send you to Camp McCoy."
A laugh slips from your lips and you shake your head, lowering the gun and handing it back to the attendant who hands you the souvenir photo.
You glance at the picture in your hands and everything stops.
Centered in the image is you, hair slightly ruffled from the afternoon's activities, face focused. Behind you is Bucky. Standing just beneath the Shoot-A-Photo sign, he stands tall. Proud. His eyes aren't on the target; they're on you, with a look on his face you've never noticed before—a soft smile, softer eyes. It makes your breath catch.
Bucky peeks over your shoulder at the picture, your silence making him curious. His gaze lingers on the photo for a moment before flicking up to your face, watching your expression.
"You're overthinking again," Bucky teases softly, pulling you from your thoughts. He nudges you with his elbow for good measure, chuckling when you attempt to swat him away.
"I'm not."
"Your eyebrows say otherwise."
You huff and turn to look at him. He grins before you speak again. "I'm just…trying to make sense of some things."
"Yeah," he sighs, his expression softening with an understanding nod. "I know the feeling."
His gaze drifts down the midway, finding Steve and Becca near the carousel. Steve suddenly finds something interesting in the sky, but Becca doesn't back down from watching the scene unfold.
"Walk with me?" Bucky asks, his eyes finding yours again.
You hesitate for a moment before nodding, the grip on the photo in your hands tightening slightly.
As the two of you walk through the park, each step slow, Bucky lets the silence stretch, allowing the amusement park's general chaos and tinny music fill the space instead. It's comfortable in a way you hadn't expected. Years of friendship now teetering on the edge between possibilities that could make or break everything you've ever known.
Bucky breaks the silence first, his hands shoved in his pockets. His shoulders are tense. "Remember how we used to spend essentially entire summers at Coney Island?"
The reminder makes you smile. "We spent far too much time there. Too much sun."
Bucky laughs. "And too much cotton candy. Becca used to badger me to not eat so much sugar."
"You never did listen. Those poor employees."
"Hey,"—he throws his hands up in surrender—"it's not my fault they offer pure sugar for so cheap and then have the best coaster in Brooklyn directly opposite the stand. It's like they encouraged it."
You both laugh, the nostalgia a welcome distraction for a moment before your thoughts comes crawling back. Bucky gives you a moment before speaking again, his voice low.
"Anything I can help you make sense of?"
You shake your head, unsure where to even begin or how honest to be. Your mind replays the past twenty-four hours and Rebecca's words. The photograph in your hand is physical proof that you aren't crazy.
"I don't even know how to explain it."
"Try."
"I'll sound ridiculous."
"Impossible."
You sigh, shoulders raising with a deep breath to brace yourself. "I thought you asked me out because you pitied me."
He stops in his tracks. His brows pinch in confusion as he looks at you.
"Pity?" The word leaves him like he's not sure he heard right. He says your name with a short huff of disbelief. "Why on earth would you think that?"
You shrug, not quite meeting his gaze. "Because my love life is hopeless. Because you're Rebecca's brother. Because I've watched women throw themselves at you for years. Take your pick."
His mouth opens and closes a couple times, processing your words. When he doesn't answer right away, you finally look at him, and for a moment, he looks torn between being honest or making a joke to ease the tension thickening the air. He picks the former.
"Last night was the furthest thing from pity. That was me finally doing something I should've done several years ago."
That admission hits hard, making your heart skip. "What?"
Bucky hesitates, rubbing the back of his neck. He takes a deep breath, voice low and steady.
"Every smile aimed in my direction makes me feel like I can take on the world. Every time you laugh at one of my stupid jokes…" he chuckles and shakes his head, his gaze falling to the concrete where the toe of his shoe scuffs the concrete. "Then you came over after another bad date asking me for advice with men that don't deserve you, and I had no idea what to say. Because to me, those men are just too blind to see how incredible you are."
The silence stretches between you, your mind and heart racing. His eyes lift to find yours again.
"Every time I look at you, I have to fight not to reach for you, to hold you. I took you out last night because I wanted you to know how I'd treat you if you gave me the chance."
"Why didn't you tell me sooner?" you whisper, voice barely audible among the noise.
He sighs. "I was scared—I still am. The last thing I want is to ruin what we have. You mean a lot to me."
The air stills.
"You really mean that?" Your feet move a half step closer.
Bucky looks at you, hoping flickering in his eyes. The tension in his shoulders ease.
"Every word," he murmurs. His hand lifts, his fingers brushing against your cheek. The touch is soft, barely there and different than last night—tentative and full of silent questions.
You find yourself leaning into his touch, warm and familiar in the best way. His eyes glance at your lips before searching your face for any signs of hesitation. His thumb brushes your cheekbone.
Then, slowly, he leans in.
The kiss is short but sweet. A simple press of lips, uncertain, yet enough to forget the noise and people around you as his hand moves to fully cup your cheek.
It ends too soon.
Bucky pulls away just enough to rest his forehead on yours. Opening your eyes, you find his still closed, lips parted with breaths that fan across your face in light puffs, brows drawn together just enough to cause a crease between them. He slowly pulls back again. A muscle in his jaw twitches when he finally opens his eyes, immediately flicking to your lips like he's committing how they feel to memory.
You smile before you can stop yourself, feeling lighter than you have in a long time. He licks his lip and grins back, a soft laugh escaping him.
"That was…" he starts.
"Terrible?" you offer. Bucky laughs again, his free hand lightly touching your waist like he wants to pull you closer.
"Better than I'd hoped, actually."
The admission is soft and makes your heart flutter.
"So…what happens after this?" you ask.
He nods thoughtfully, taking a half step back like he just remembered you're in public, Rockaways' Playland hardly being a place for privacy. His touch lingers for a moment before dropping back to his side.
"I'd like to give us a real chance. If you're open to it."
You don't let him finish before your answer comes tumbling out. "I'd like that, too."
Bucky's blue eyes sparkle under the midway lights. He doesn't say a word as he reaches for the hand not holding the photograph, fingers intertwining with yours like it's second nature.
"Perfect," he says softly. "Come on, I think fireworks are starting soon."
The walk back down the midway feels shorter than it did before. Maybe it's the weight of everything now lifted off your shoulders, or maybe it's the feeling of his hand in yours. Maybe it's the lingering memory of his kiss—an answer to the million questions you asked yourself over the last day. Whatever it is, the crowds heading towards the beach barely register.
Steve spots you first, smiling to himself at the sight of your joined hands before gently nudging Becca's side. Her eyes go wide. Her grin goes wider. No one says a word as the four of you follow the crowd to the beach across the street.
The sand is still warm from the day when you sit down, placing the picture on your lap. Bucky doesn't let go of your hand, his shoulder brushing yours as he joins you, his long legs stretching in front of him.
It's a short wait before the first firework bursts, red lighting the sky and reflecting across the water. Golds and blues join quickly and fill the air with a dazzling display.
You glance at Bucky. He's not looking at the fireworks. He's watching you, lips curving into a soft smile when your eyes meet.
His fingers tighten around yours, and you scoot a little closer, resting your head on his shoulder. He lets out a quiet sigh and gently leans his cheek against your head before finally looking at the fireworks overhead.
A/N: If you’ve made it this far, I just want to extend a massive thank you for reading and supporting this story. It’s been almost a year in the making, which blows my mind when it wasn’t meant to go this far. You’ve also seen me grow significantly as a writer and it genuinely makes me emotional. Anywho…as of now, I’m tentatively calling this the end—but you never know what inspiration might hit me and maybe there will be a sequel someday. Lots of love 💜
Summary: In wartime London, Bucky Barnes steps into a crowded bar and mocks the sound of a bagpipe - only to be thoroughly humbled by you, the Scottish woman who decides to teach him a lesson in music, pride, and heartbreak. Years later, after everything the world took from him, one familiar sound sends him back to the memory of a love he thought had been lost forever.
A/N: This one has lived quietly in my head for a very long time, and I’m really happy to finally share it. Please mind the warnings before reading.
Masterlist
London smelled of wet brick, coal smoke, and rain.
It clung to uniforms and overcoats, to the cuffs of gloves and the edges of scarves, to every narrow street that curled black beneath blackout curtains and the thin, cautious glow of lamplight. The war lived in the city even when no sirens sounded. It waited in the darkened windows and the ration lines, in the faces that smiled too quickly and slept too little, in the way every room full of laughter seemed built against collapse.
Bucky came into the bar carrying all of that with him and trying, for one evening, to set it down.
Steve walked beside him, shoulders hunched against the cold, hat low, expression already resigned in the way it often was when Bucky dragged him somewhere loud.
“This had better not be another place with warm beer and a piano that’s never seen a tuning key,” Steve said.
Bucky pushed the door open with his shoulder and grinned over at him. “You say that like you don’t love my taste.”
“I say that like your taste got us thrown out of a place in Soho last month.”
“That was one time.”
“That was three times.”
Inside, the bar glowed amber through smoke and crowded warmth. Soldiers filled most of the room, British and American uniforms muddled together with working men, girls in worn dresses, and old women who sat straight-backed with their drinks and judged everybody equally. Somebody laughed too loud near the counter. Glass clinked. Boots scraped over the floorboards. In one corner, a handful of musicians crowded together with the familiarity of people who had played shoulder to shoulder for years.
Bucky barely registered them at first. He shrugged off his damp coat, ran a hand through his hair, and looked around with the easy hunger of a man determined to wring something good from a bad century.
Then the bagpipes started.
He stopped dead.
The sound cut through the room, wild and high and strange as a mourning cry dragged through reeds. It rose over the fiddle and whatever else accompanied it and drove straight between Bucky’s eyes.
His face twisted at once.
“Oh, come on,” he muttered. “What is that?”
Steve followed his look and failed, very visibly, not to smile. “Music.”
“That,” Bucky said, “is a wounded animal making peace with death.”
Steve gave a quiet huff that passed for laughter. “You could try being less dramatic.”
“I am being restrained.”
The note swelled, fierce and nasal and unashamedly itself, and Bucky winced harder.
“Whoever invented that thing had a personal grudge against joy.”
“Well,” a voice said nearby, cool and distinctly amused, “good evening to you too.”
He turned at the sound of it.
You stood not far from the musicians, one hand curled around a glass, the light from the bar catching along the line of your cheek and the dark sweep of your hair. Nothing about you seemed arranged to be noticed; perhaps that was why he noticed you all at once. You belonged there in a way he did not. The room seemed to bend around you naturally. Even before he knew anything else, he saw that much.
For a second, he could only look.
Then his mouth curved, slow and easy, instinct taking over before thought quite caught up with it.
He smiled on instinct, because smiling had always been easier for him than caution.
“Now,” he said, shifting closer, “I could pretend I didn’t mean a word of that, but I figure honesty might serve me better.”
“Will it?” you asked.
Your accent brushed the words soft at the edges, shaped by someplace older than London. Scotland, he guessed a moment later when he really looked at the musicians. You did not sound offended. You sounded amused. That was worse. Amusement meant you had measured him quickly and found him manageable.
Bucky leaned an elbow on the nearest table like he had all the time in the world. “Depends how much you like honesty.”
“I imagine it depends on the honesty.”
Steve, traitor that he was, drifted away toward the bar with the deeply suspicious look of a man abandoning his friend to a fate he deserved.
Bucky kept his eyes on you. “Then here’s some more. You’re the prettiest thing I’ve seen all week, and I’d like to know your name.”
Your mouth curved. “That sounded practiced.”
“It was,” he said. “But not inaccurate.”
A few of the musicians shifted. The piper adjusted his grip. Bucky heard the scrape of the drones starting up again and grimaced before he could stop himself.
Your eyebrows rose.
He caught the expression and knew at once he had made a mistake, but he did not yet understand how much of one.
“That your first love over there?” he asked lightly, trying to recover. “Because if it is, I should tell you I’m not built for competition.”
“My brother,” you said.
Bucky closed his eyes for half a second. “Well. That is unfortunate.”
“For you?”
“I’m beginning to think so.”
You regarded him in silence long enough to make him feel it. Not embarrassed, exactly. Bucky Barnes did not embarrass easily. But something close. He had expected laughter, or annoyance, or perhaps a sharp remark if you had a taste for sharpness. He had not expected to feel like a schoolboy who had spoken out of turn in front of a teacher cleverer than he was.
Then you glanced toward the musicians and said something to them in Gaelic.
Bucky did not understand a single word, but the piper – your brother – snorted under his breath and looked at you the way brothers looked at sisters when they had known them their entire lives and still sometimes found themselves outmaneuvered.
“No,” he said in what sounded like weary affection.
You answered him in the same language, calm and unmistakably certain.
Another musician laughed.
Your brother sighed, adjusted the bag beneath his arm, and nodded once.
Bucky narrowed his eyes. “What was that?”
You turned back to him, and there was satisfaction in your face now, bright and dangerous.
“A lesson,” you said.
Before he could answer, the room shifted.
The fiddle drew out first, gentler than before. Then the bagpipes came in beneath it, not as a noise now but as a long, carrying ache. The chatter nearest the musicians faltered. A few people turned. Someone at the bar lowered his voice.
And you sang.
Not for the room.
Not for applause.
For him.
Bucky knew it with the same instant certainty with which he knew that he had been foolish. You had not lashed out. You had not taken offense and walked away. You had done something worse, something more elegant and much more devastating.
You had decided to show him exactly what he had mocked.
Your voice was not loud. It did not need to be. It was clear in the way cold water was clear, and old in the way some griefs were old – polished by being carried, not dulled. The bar seemed to fold itself around it.
By yon bonnie banks and by yon bonnie braes,
Where the sun shines bright on Loch Lomond...
He did not know the song. He caught the place-name, the shape of the words, the rhythm of something held for generations and offered now without flourish. You did not sing to charm him. If anything, you sang with a kind of composed defiance, as though each line laid another stone in the case against his ignorance.
Where me and my true love will never meet again
On the bonnie, bonnie banks o’ Loch Lomond...
Something in the room stilled.
Bucky had heard beautiful women sing before. He had flirted with chorus girls and danced with girls who sang in Brooklyn parlors and knew the warm, easy thrill of being near sweetness. This was not that. There was too much sorrow in the song, and too much pride in the way you held it. You sang as though it belonged to your bones. As though the words had passed through your family long before they ever reached his ears.
The bagpipes rose with you, and this time the sound did not strike him as ugly. It cut, yes. It keened. But beneath the strangeness he heard something else now – distance, mourning, country, farewell. Not a joke. Not a grotesque instrument. A wound with breath in it.
You looked at him once, only once, in the middle of the refrain.
O ye’ll take the high road and I’ll take the low road,
And I’ll be in Scotland afore ye...
It was a look with a point to it. Not cruel. Just precise.
See? it said.
Listen.
Learn.
For the first time in many years, Bucky had no idea what to do with himself.
He stood where he was and forgot the room, forgot Steve, forgot the drink he had not yet ordered. He forgot, briefly and entirely, how to perform. There was only your voice and the strange grieving cry of the pipes, which had become beautiful without asking his permission.
Then the line came again, the one that lodged somewhere deep before he fully understood it.
For me and my true love will never meet again...
The words should not have meant much to him. Not there. Not then. Yet they landed with a force he could not explain, as if some part of him recognized the shape of loss long before the rest of him had to.
By the time the song ended, he was lost.
He knew it with perfect clarity in the small silence that followed. Not in the cheap way he had used the word before, with girls and evenings and charming lies that dissolved by morning. He was undone in a quieter, more dangerous fashion. He had come over to flirt with a beautiful woman and found himself standing before something he did not know how to touch without reverence.
Around you, the room breathed again. Glasses lifted. Somebody clapped. A few people murmured praise. Your brother pretended not to be pleased and failed entirely.
You turned to Bucky.
“Well?” you asked.
He opened his mouth and closed it again.
You smiled then, slight and victorious.
“That bad?”
“No,” he said, and his voice came out rougher than he expected. “No. I just–”
He stopped, then laughed once at himself and shook his head.
“I think I owe your brother an apology.”
From the corner, the man in question barked a laugh.
You looked over your shoulder at him, then back to Bucky. “That would be a start.”
He glanced toward the bar. Steve stood there with two glasses in hand and an expression of such open satisfaction that Bucky wanted, briefly, to kill him.
Instead he looked at you and asked the only question that mattered.
“What did it mean?”
That changed you.
Only a little. Your amusement softened into something more attentive, more serious. You studied him for a heartbeat as though deciding whether he had earned the answer.
Then you nodded toward an empty table near the wall.
“Sit,” you said.
Bucky did.
Steve passed behind him on the way and muttered, “You look stunned.”
“Get lost.”
“With pleasure.”
You sat across from Bucky with your glass between your hands. Up close, he saw details he had missed the first time – the steadiness in you, the quick intelligence, the faint shadow of tiredness beneath your eyes that war had written there like it had on everyone.
“It’s an old song,” you said. “Older than either of us. There are different stories told about it. The one most people know is about two Scottish prisoners. One died. One lived. The dead one took the low road home.”
Bucky frowned slightly. “Home.”
“To Scotland,” you said. “Before the living man could get there by the ordinary road.”
He leaned back, trying to catch up with the shape of it. “So the low road was–”
“Death.” You said it simply. Not theatrically. Just as fact. “Or the road of the dead, depending on who tells it. The high road was the one the living took. The long one.”
He looked at you for a long moment.
“And you sang that,” he said slowly, “because I made a face at the pipes.”
“I sang that,” you replied, “because you insulted something you didn’t understand.”
The candor of it hit him like cold water, and he laughed despite himself. “That was a lesson, all right.”
Your chin lifted a fraction. “Did you learn anything?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
He looked at you, at the curve of challenge still in your mouth, at the room around you with its smoke and shadows and impossible temporary warmth.
“That I was wrong.”
You waited.
“And,” he added, “that you sing like you’re trying to haunt a man.”
That earned him a real smile.
“That,” you said, “was a little better.”
He asked your name then, properly this time, with none of the easy arrogance from before. You gave it to him. He repeated it once, careful with the shape of it, and you laughed at the way his American mouth handled it.
The bagpipes started again later that evening.
He did not grimace once.
He came back the next night.
He told himself he might not find you there, and that was true enough. London turned people into chance encounters and absences with equal speed. But some part of him had known he would return from the moment he stepped out into the rain.
Steve knew it too.
“You’re going back for the girl with the bagpipes,” he said as they walked.
“She’s not the girl with the bagpipes.”
“She’s adjacent to the bagpipes.”
“She sang one song.”
“You look like a man who got clubbed over the head with it.”
Bucky shoved his shoulder. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Steve’s smile was faint in the darkness. “Sure.”
You were there.
You stood near the bar this time, speaking to your brother with your head bent toward him. When you saw Bucky, your expression gave nothing away for a second. Then one eyebrow arched, and he knew he had been expected after all.
“Back so soon?” you asked.
“Couldn’t stay away from the terrible music.”
Your brother, close enough to hear, made a rude sound.
You laughed.
That laugh became, in the days that followed, one of Bucky’s favorite sounds in the world.
The war did not pause for you. That was what made everything between you feel both brighter and more fragile. Nothing happened in a place protected from danger. You met in streets still carrying bomb damage, beneath signs dimmed by blackout rules, in cafés where the tea was weak and the bread rationed, in parks where the grass bore the memory of barracks boots and drill lines. The city gave you no illusion of permanence. So you took what it offered and made something of it anyway.
He learned the shape of your hands around a cup.
He learned that your brother pretended to be suspicious of him while quietly making space at the musicians’ table whenever Bucky appeared.
He learned that you had lived in London long enough to move through it without hesitation and yet still missed Scotland with an ache that sharpened when the air turned damp.
He learned that you could cut through his nonsense with a single look.
He learned that you did not forgive foolishness, but you did reward sincerity.
You learned, in turn, that behind Bucky’s practiced charm sat a quick mind, a reckless loyalty, and a tenderness he hid as if tenderness embarrassed him. You learned the way his face changed when he spoke of Steve, and how rarely he spoke of fear except by joking around its edges. You learned that he liked to touch when he laughed – a hand on a shoulder, a brush at your elbow, the casual contact of someone who had grown up crowded and warm and never quite unlearned it.
One evening, after the musicians finished and the last of the crowd thinned, he walked you back through wet streets shining under the moonless dark. Your gloved hands brushed once. Then again. Neither of you pretended the second time was accidental.
“You never told me why London,” he said.
You glanced up. “For work at first. Then because war made moving anywhere else rather difficult.”
“That sounds practical.”
“It usually is.”
“And Scotland?”
Your expression softened at once, as if the very name had opened something.
“Home,” you said.
He thought then of the line in the song.
And I’ll be in Scotland afore ye.
For reasons he did not examine too closely, it touched something in him every time.
“What did you ask your brother that first night?” he said.
You laughed under your breath. “You still want to know?”
“Of course I do.”
“I told him,” you said, “to play properly if he meant to cure an American of his bad taste.”
Bucky groaned. “You set me up.”
“You deserved it.”
“I walked right into it.”
“Yes,” you said. “You did.”
He stopped beneath the shadow of a doorway, looked down at you, and saw the city in fragments around your face – the wet shine of stone, the thread of cold air, the pulse of distant traffic and soldiers’ voices and all the things that made the war feel, for one impossible second, far away.
“Do you always punish men by singing at them?” he asked softly.
“Only when they are particularly arrogant.”
“And did it work?”
You searched his face like you meant to catch him trying to be clever. He let you look. For once, he had no trick he wanted to use.
“Yes,” he said. “It worked.”
The kiss that followed was careful at first.
Not because he was uncertain of wanting it. Because he was not.
It was careful because you had not been won with any of the easy methods that had once served him elsewhere. You had seen through those in an instant. So when he touched your face and bent toward you, he did it with the strange, new seriousness you had called up in him. Your gloved fingers rose to his coat, caught there, and then your mouth met his.
He had kissed women in crowded dance halls, on stoops, in cabs, behind theater curtains. He had kissed for the joy of kissing, for the spark of being young and wanted and alive.
He had never kissed like this.
When you drew back, your breath warmed the cold air between you. He rested his forehead briefly against yours and heard you laugh once, quiet.
“What?” he asked.
“You looked very pleased with yourself when you walked over to me that first night.”
“I’m always pleased with myself.”
“No,” you said. “You were certain.”
He smiled. “I was.”
“And now?”
He touched the edge of your scarf, tucked it closer against the wind. “Now,” he said, “I’m trying very hard not to say the wrong thing.”
That pleased you. He could tell.
“Then perhaps you are improving.”
The bagpipes stopped sounding harsh.
That, more than anything, made Steve laugh at him.
It happened on the sixth or seventh evening – Bucky never afterward remembered the exact day, only the astonishment of realizing he had sat through an entire set with your brother playing at full force and had not once flinched.
You noticed too.
“You didn’t make a face,” you said when the tune ended.
He pretended to consider it. “Maybe I’m going deaf.”
“Or educated.”
“Careful,” he said. “You’ll make yourself impossible to live with.”
Your brother snorted from three feet away. “Too late.”
But Bucky shook his head. “No,” he said, looking at you. “That’s not it either.”
“What, then?”
He could have joked. He often did when anything grew too plain. But you had made plainness easier somehow.
“It sounds different now,” he said.
You held still.
“How?”
He glanced toward the pipes, then back at you. “Like something I know.”
It was the nearest he came to saying it then. Not that he loved you. That knowledge had already taken root, but the word felt too narrow and too fragile all at once beneath wartime skies. Instead he let it live in smaller things – in the way he always turned first when you entered a room, in the way he listened when you spoke, in the way he began to carry your songs inside him without noticing when they settled there.
One night you taught him fragments of Gaelic badly enough that you laughed until you had tears in your eyes. Another time you sang under your breath while he leaned against the wall and watched you, and he understood with a quiet shock that he could have spent the rest of his life listening.
That thought came and went so quickly he almost did not catch it.
The rest of my life.
It was an absurd thought to have in wartime. Perhaps that was why it felt so true.
The order came three days later.
Bucky knew the look on the faces of the men before anyone said it aloud. Something sharper. More focused. A mission with teeth.
He found Steve first. He always did, when things mattered.
“You knew,” he said.
Steve did not deny it. “Not until this morning.”
Bucky exhaled slowly. “Good one?”
“No.”
They stood in silence for a moment in the corridor, the sounds of the base moving around them like distant machinery.
Then Bucky said, “I need to go out tonight.”
Steve looked at him once. “Go.”
That evening London seemed colder than it had in days. The air bit through wool and into bone. Bucky walked to the bar and found you not inside but just outside, wrapped in your coat, one hand braced against the wall while your breath made pale ghosts in front of you.
You turned before he spoke, as though you had felt him coming.
For a moment neither of you said anything.
Then you looked at his face and knew.
“You are leaving,” you said.
It was not a question.
He nodded. “At dawn.”
The street behind you lay quiet except for distant traffic and one burst of laughter from somewhere farther down. Overhead, the blackout left the sky blank and immense.
“How long?” you asked.
He gave the only honest answer. “I don’t know.”
You lowered your eyes once, then lifted them again. Steady. Always steady.
He hated that he had so little to offer you. No certainty. No safe promise. Nothing but himself in a world that could take that without warning.
“I’ll come back,” he said anyway.
The words came out instinctively, half vow, half plea. He heard in them the bravado of every soldier who had ever left a woman on a dark street with war between them. Yet he meant them. God, he meant them.
Your face changed in a way he could not name. Not disbelief. Not acceptance either. Something older. Sadder.
“Don’t promise me because you think you should,” you said.
“I’m promising because I intend to.”
“That is not the same thing.”
He let out a breath that almost became a laugh. “You always do that.”
“Do what?”
“Make it impossible for me to sound noble.”
A faint smile touched your mouth and vanished.
He stepped closer until there was no distance left worth naming. His gloved hand cupped your cheek. You leaned into it for the briefest second, and that small motion hurt him more than tears would have.
“I keep hearing that song in my head,” he said quietly.
“Which part?”
He swallowed.
For me and my true love will never meet again.
He did not say that line. He could not bear to.
“The road part,” he said instead. “The high road. The low road.”
Your gaze held his. “It was meant to.”
He laughed once under his breath, pained and fond all at once. “You really never let me off easy, do you?”
“No.”
“Good.”
You kissed him first this time. Harder than before, as if softness would have broken something in you. He answered with both hands on your face, with every word he could not make useful. When you pulled back, your forehead rested against his and he shut his eyes.
“Sing it for me again,” he said.
Not there in the street. Not truly. He knew that. But you understood what he meant.
You drew one hand up to his collar and said, almost too softly to hear, “O ye’ll take the high road and I’ll take the low road...”
He closed his eyes harder.
“Don’t,” he whispered.
You touched his jaw. “Then come back.”
He kissed your palm.
When he finally turned to go, he did not look back at once. He knew if he did, he might stay. He walked several steps down the street, stopped, and turned anyway.
You were still there.
The wind moved the edge of your coat. Your face was pale in the dark. Somewhere inside the bar, someone struck up the first searching note of the pipes.
Bucky stood very still.
For the first time in his life, the sound of the bagpipes broke his heart.
Steve came alone.
You knew before he spoke.
The war had taught everyone to read grief on sight. It altered the body. It hollowed the eyes, tightened the mouth, made every movement careful as though the world had become full of sharp edges. Steve carried all of it when he stepped into the bar and asked your brother for a word.
Your brother looked toward you.
You crossed the room before either man could come to you, because some instincts were not habits but mercies. Better to meet sorrow standing.
Outside, the afternoon lay cold and gray over the street. Steve took off his gloves one finger at a time as if the order of small motions mattered.
“He fell from the train,” he said.
Nothing in his voice tried to soften it. You loved him for that. He respected you enough not to lie.
For one suspended second the world narrowed to that single sentence.
He fell.
Not died. Not was killed. Fell.
Space opened beneath your feet that did not exist anywhere visible. If you had not already learned, long before London and before him, that grief often arrived without spectacle, you might have expected yourself to break. But breaking belonged to stories told by people who had time. War gave you tasks instead.
“When?” you asked.
Steve told you.
“Did he–”
He shook his head once, answering the question you could not finish.
No body.
No burial.
No return.
You looked past Steve at the wet street, at a woman carrying parcels, at a truck rumbling at the end of the block, at life continuing with the vulgar steadiness it always had.
“Thank you for coming yourself,” you said.
Steve swallowed. “He cared for you.”
The words almost undid you. Almost.
You folded your hands tighter around each other to keep them still. “I know.”
Steve stood there a moment longer, perhaps expecting more, perhaps fearing it. Then he nodded and left you your dignity.
You watched him go until the street swallowed him.
Only then did you close your eyes.
Later, your brother found you in the back room with your hands flat against the table and your breathing measured to the edge of pain. He said nothing. He only set the bagpipes down in their case beside you with a care that bordered on ritual.
Within the month, you and the musicians left London for the work you never called heroic.
You crossed the Channel under false papers and names that shifted like shadows. You carried messages folded into instrument cases and hems. You played in taverns and village halls and farm kitchens where the Resistance met in glances and murmurs and the exchange of ordinary things. Music covered many movements. People underestimated musicians. That helped.
You never stopped missing him.
But missing and mourning were luxuries that had to live in the cracks between tasks.
By then, perhaps, you understood the song differently too.
Not as warning.
As truth.
Years later, in New York, a bagpipe stopped Bucky in the middle of the street.
The sound rose above traffic on a bright afternoon, sharp as a blade and old as weather. Some tourist somewhere laughed. A bus hissed at the curb. Someone jostled past with shopping bags and a phone pressed to their ear.
Beside him, Sam kept talking for two more steps before he realized Bucky had stopped.
“Bucky?”
The note held.
Bucky did not answer.
The world folded.
Not around him. Through him.
He saw wet London pavements. Smoke-light. Your hand around a glass. The slant of your smile when you told him he had insulted something he did not understand. Your voice pouring sorrow into a crowded room while he stood there like a fool and fell in love with you and the song and the sound of the pipes all at once.
He saw your face the night before the mission.
He heard you say, Then come back.
His chest locked so hard it bordered on pain.
“Hey.” Sam stepped into his line of sight. “Talk to me.”
Bucky dragged in a breath that did not feel sufficient. The street around them blurred strangely, as if time itself had slipped. He had lost so many memories over the years that he had learned to live around the emptiness, to accept that whole rooms in his mind remained locked or ruined. But this was not emptiness. This was a door blowing off its hinges.
“There was someone,” he said.
Sam said nothing. Just waited.
“In London,” Bucky went on, the words rough and uneven. “During the war. I–” He pressed a hand briefly to his mouth. “I forgot her.”
The admission came out like confession.
Sam’s expression changed. Not pity. Something better. Recognition.
“Okay,” he said quietly. “Then we find out what happened.”
The piper turned out to be some man from Staten Island with no connection to anything that mattered. It did not matter. The sound had done its work.
Memory gave them pieces first.
A bar.
Scottish musicians.
A brother.
A song.
Gaelic.
Then more came, maddeningly slow and then all at once. A street shining with rain. Your voice rising over the room. The shape of your smile when you decided to make an example of him. Your hand in his. A doorway. A kiss. Your face in the dark the night before the mission. The sound of you saying, Then come back.
That was all Bucky had at first – fragments with feeling still clinging to them, sharp enough to hurt and too incomplete to bear.
Sam helped him as only Sam could – without crowding, without trying to make the grief tidy. They pulled military records, old city directories, oral histories, and the scattered fragments left behind by ordinary people history rarely bothered to keep intact. One name led to another. A musician’s registry. A mention of a Scottish family living in London during the war. A surviving reference in a church archive. Then, eventually, a village in the Highlands and a brother who still lived there under a sky large enough to make silence feel holy.
Scotland met them with wind.
The drive north took them through roads that narrowed and climbed, past lochs holding the pale light of afternoon, past heather and stone and distances that seemed built from old songs. Bucky sat mostly quiet in the passenger seat. Sam did not press him. Every so often he pointed something out – a stand of trees, a ruin, a sheep planted absurdly in the middle of nowhere – not because it mattered, but because gentleness often wore the shape of ordinary conversation.
The cottage stood alone except for a low stone wall and a wash of purple creeping over the hillside behind it. An old man opened the door before they reached it, as if he had seen the car from half a mile away and had no intention of pretending surprise.
He looked at Sam first, then at Bucky.
Everything in him stilled.
Age had thinned him, bent him slightly, silvered his hair. But the eyes were the same. Bucky knew them at once. He had seen them across a crowded wartime room over the shoulder of a bagpipe, bright with long familiarity and no patience for fools.
For a moment nobody spoke.
Then the old man said, in a voice weathered but steady, “James Barnes.”
Bucky swallowed. “Yes.”
The man looked at him a second longer, and something unreadable passed through his face. Not shock. Not exactly anger. Grief, perhaps, finding a form it had not expected to see.
He had your eyes.
The realization hit Bucky with quiet brutality. Not exactly the same – age had changed them, sorrow had dimmed them – but close enough that, for a moment, standing in that doorway felt like standing before a ghost.
Your brother let them in.
The cottage smelled faintly of peat and tea and old wood. Bagpipes rested in one corner of the room, worn with use and time. On the mantel stood photographs, some new, some very old. Bucky’s eyes went to one and stayed there.
You.
Not London-you, though it was still you. Younger perhaps than when he had known you, standing on some hillside with your hair blown loose and your head half turned toward the camera, smiling at the person behind it.
His hand twitched at his side.
“She kept one of you,” your brother said.
Bucky looked up so fast it almost hurt.
The old man crossed to a drawer, opened it, and took out a photograph with movements made careful by habit. He held it out.
Bucky took it like something breakable.
He had never seen it before.
For a moment, he could only stare.
It had been taken in London. You were standing beside him, close enough that there was no mistaking what you had been to one another. His arm was around you. Your face was turned toward him, caught in the beginning of a smile, while he looked back at you with an expression so open it made something in his chest twist. He barely recognized himself in it. Or perhaps he recognized himself too well.
On the back, in your hand, a line had been written.
He finally learned to like the pipes.
Bucky stared until the letters blurred.
Sam, across the room, politely looked away.
Your brother sat down slowly. “She loved you,” he said.
The simplicity of it nearly drove the breath from Bucky’s body.
“I loved her too,” he said.
The old man nodded once, as if that at least had never been in doubt.
For a while the only sounds in the room were the kettle beginning to stir and the wind touching the windows. Then Bucky asked the question that had brought him across an ocean.
“What happened?”
Your brother rested his hands on his knees. They were old hands now, broad and weathered and still. Musician’s hands. Survivor’s hands.
“She kept working after your friend came with the news,” he said. “There was no persuading her otherwise. None of us stopped, but she...” He paused. “She had less fear after that. Or perhaps less interest in obeying fear.”
He told it plainly.
The group traveled through occupied France under the cover of performances. They carried messages, names, routes, codes. They hid what they could in instrument cases and lining and sheet music. Twice they evaded searches. Once they barely escaped an informant. Then, in the winter of 1944, near Lyon, they were caught.
“We were taken together at first,” he said. “Questioned together. She understood before the rest of us that they suspected a network larger than musicians passing letters. They wanted names.” His jaw tightened. “She gave them none.”
Bucky did not move.
“She told them it was her,” the old man went on. “That she had used us. That we knew nothing. She made herself the center of it because she thought, if the story was narrow enough, the rest of us might live.”
“And you did,” Sam said quietly.
Your brother nodded once. “Most of us. Not all. But more than would have otherwise.”
Bucky’s hand tightened around the photograph until he feared he might crease it.
“They deported her,” the old man said. “There were reports for a time. Fragments. A prison. Then transport east.” He looked toward the window and beyond it, to distances only he could see. “After that, nothing. Not nothing, perhaps. History always leaves scraps. But nothing certain. No grave. No confirmation I could hold in my hand.”
No return.
The phrase rang so loudly in Bucky’s head that it eclipsed the room.
He had lived. That was the cruelty in it. He had fallen from the train and not died. He had been taken, erased, broken, remade. The war had stolen him from himself, but it had not buried him. He had gone on breathing through decades you had never seen.
And you – you had waited long enough to hear of his death, gone on fighting, and vanished into the machinery that devoured millions.
For me and my true love will never meet again.
He understood then, fully and too late, what the song had always known.
Sam drove him out later, when the light had begun to turn gold at the edges of the hills and the old man had clasped Bucky’s forearm at the door with a grip that said more than words could have borne. They did not go far. Just to an overlook where the land opened wide and the air smelled of water and heather and old rain.
Bucky got out and stood at the edge of it.
The Highlands rolled away in folds of muted green and purple, cut by stone and distance and the silver thread of a loch far below. Wind pulled at his jacket. Somewhere unseen, a bird called once and went quiet.
Sam stayed a respectful distance back.
Bucky took the photograph from his pocket and looked at it again. At his own younger face. At your handwriting. At the life that might have been small and ordinary and therefore more precious than any grander thing.
He thought of you in the bar, chin lifted, deciding to teach an arrogant American soldier a lesson he would never finish learning. He thought of your voice threading sorrow through smoke. He thought of the way you had said Then come back as if you had known promises and intentions were not the same.
“I’m sorry,” he said aloud, though the wind nearly took it.
Sorry for not returning. Sorry for surviving wrongly. Sorry for forgetting. Sorry for all the years in which you had been dead and he had not even known where to grieve.
The hills did not answer him.
Then, faint and far off, a bagpipe began to play.
The sound came from somewhere beyond the ridge, carried thin and true by the wind. Not close enough to see. Only close enough to hear.
Bucky shut his eyes.
He no longer heard something sharp and ridiculous and foreign. He heard a road. A country. A loss too old for repair. He heard you.
When he opened his eyes again, the light had shifted over the loch below, turning it to muted silver. He stood there until the tune thinned into distance, and when the words came back to him at last, he did not fight them.
For me and my true love will never meet again
On the bonnie, bonnie banks o’ Loch Lomond
Summary: Apparently, you're too old for your hobby. Bucky disagrees.
Word Count: Over 2k
Warnings: Purely self-indulgent, reader has kids, mention of fanfiction and anon hate, writer positivity, age positivity, swearing, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?).
A/N: I had to this, okay? ❤️ Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications as I no longer do taglists. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!
You were sitting on the couch, scanning the words on your screen. You read them once. Twice. Part of you wanted to smile at the terrible grammar that dared to grace your inbox, and the rest of you was stunned by the sheer audacity of what you saw.
Screenshot. Blocked. Done.
Bucky walked in with a mug in his hand and took a seat beside you, which brought a small smile to your face. He liked being close. You were one of the only people he let into his personal space bubble.
“You okay?” he asked when you set your phone down. “You’re being quiet.”
“I’m quiet sometimes,” you tried to tease.
He tilted his head. “No, this is a different kind of quiet. Something happened,” he said because he knew you so well. “And I want to fix it.”
You smiled again. Of course, he wanted to fix it. That was the kind of man he was.
“Apparently, I’m too old to have hobbies,” you stated.
An adorably confused look crossed his face and you wanted to kiss him for being so cute. “You’re… what?”
“I got some anonymous ask on my blog basically telling me to stop posting fanfiction because I’m too old and I should do something my age,” you explained, showing him the screenshot.
Bucky stared at the screenshot, his fingers twitching before they curled into fists. He didn’t say anything. It didn’t even look like he was breathing.
The cold that filled his blue eyes told you he was about two seconds from somehow climbing into the internet and finding this person.
“And before you asked, I didn’t respond. I blocked them,” you explained, keeping the phone out of his reach. “They’re just trolling or trying to get a reaction.”
One of the wonderful things about your blog was that you could curate it for your own experience. If you didn’t want to respond to rude asks or messages, you didn’t have to. If you wanted to, you could. It was that simple.
A downside of the website was that some people seemed to forget to curate their own experiences, like simply unfollowing or blocking blogs and tags if they didn’t like, agree, or want to see them.
“I am reacting,” Bucky said in a quiet voice tinged with building rage.
“I noticed,” you said, not flinching when he set the mug down with a little more force than necessary and took a deep breath.
“That… is one of the dumbest things I’ve ever read, and I’ve read a lot of stuff.”
You almost laughed, but he was dead serious.
“Does this…” He gestured to your phone and flexed his fingers again. “Askhole really thinks that there’s an expiration date on hobbies? Because there isn’t.”
You shifted and tucked your legs underneath you, giving him your full attention.
“That’s so fucking…” He let out a bitter laugh. “People collect baseball cards into their seventies. Eighties. They paint miniature trains. Build model airplanes. Knit. Garden. Fish. Hunt.”
“They do,” you agreed, running your fingers through his hair just because you could.
He closed his eyes at your touch before he continued. “People go to comic cons and cosplay. They play D&D. Video games.” His voice was starting to rise and your nails touched his scalp again. “And what about grown ass men paint their faces and spend entire weekends yelling at sports games?”
“You sound personally offended.”
He looked at you incredulously. “I am personally offended on your behalf.”
You snuck in a kiss because you couldn’t help yourself. You felt some of the anger leave his body when your lips touched. It meant a lot that he cared so much.
“Don’t distract me,” he whispered.
“I’m not,” you whispered back, smiling when you pulled away. “You just have very kissable lips.”
“So do you,” he said with a smile before he frowned. “But I’m still not happy because they’re acting like people writing stories is somehow less respectable because what? Other people read them online and not from a book?”
You shrugged a little. “It’s fanfiction,” you said softly.
He shrugged, too. “So?”
“So…” You tried to find the words. “Some people think it's an inferior form of writing and a waste of time.”
His brows pinched, something sad filling his eyes. “I think creating something that makes you happy is one of the most adult and superior things you could do.”
You were quiet for a moment. “Really?”
“Really.” He opened his arms for you to move close. “You have two kids who love and adore you and vice versa, and they’re busy with so many activities that you have a calendar to keep it all straight. You make sure they’re never without.”
Your heart swelled. Your babies. No matter how old they got, they would always be your babies. And you wanted them to thrive in life. That was one of the reasons you worked so hard to give them not just a nice home, but a loving one.
“You work 40 hours a week. Sometimes more,” he said, his lips brushing the top of your head. “You pour so much of yourself into that job and your teammates that it wears on you by the end of the week.”
Mist filled your eyes. You did put a lot into your job because your parents taught you the value of hard work. And as frustrating as growth in your job could be, there were perks to your job and you had a great team. That wasn’t easy to come by.
“And when you aren’t pouring yourself into the kids or work, you have a pretty amazing husband who always wants your attention,” he teased, tilting your chin up with a tender smile. “Seriously, I can’t keep my hands off you half the time.”
Heat filled your cheeks and a laugh bubbled up. It amazed you after so many years how your husband still wanted you. Still admired you. He was an amazing partner and father.
You couldn’t ask for anyone better.
“And when you aren’t dealing with a handy husband.” He smirked a little. “You’re paying bills, handling responsibilities, and checking on others. Online and offline.”
Your heart sank a little. Messages sometimes went unanswered. Asks got buried. Comments got late replies. Not on purpose. Never on purpose.
But you felt guilty just the same. It didn’t feel like enough some days. There wasn’t enough time. There wasn’t enough of you to go around.
“I try,” you said sadly.
“You do your best, and people see that,” he said proudly. “And after all that, you write.”
“Yeah.”
You wished you could write every single day. Life rarely gave you the opportunity to do so. You accepted that.
“I’m in fucking awe of you,” he said so seriously that your mouth fell open. “And not just you, but the community you all have online. They may not have your same kind of life or schedule, but they have their own struggles and they still find the time to create and share. You all help keep fandoms alive.”
Everyone had a life and a story to tell. Everyone had their hardships. That was one of the reasons so many of you gravitated to certain characters and communities. Life was tough enough. Building connections helped.
“I guess we do,” you said, much softer.
“Does that piece of shit askhole realize that your creations have touched people? Helped people?”
“I haven’t-”
He silenced you with a deep kiss, the words dying in your throat.
“Don’t you dare say that your writing hasn’t touched or helped at least one person because it has,” he said fiercely, cupping your cheek. “Fluff, smut, angst, soft, dark. There’s something for everyone.”
You did your best to provide a variety of stories, and you adored your readers. They were cheerleaders, supporters, and friends. You wanted them to feel loved and cared for. They deserved that.
“And some coward.” The word tasted bitter in his mouth. “Hiding behind a button doesn’t get to treat you like you don’t belong in your own space because of your age.”
Your eyes burned again. “Bucky…”
“Not to mention, you do this for free in the very limited free time you have.” He brushed his thumb along your cheek. “I’m glad you blocked them. You don’t need that trash in your inbox.”
“I’m glad, too.”
It wasn’t the sort of energy you needed in your space, and blocking them helped take your power back.
“And look at me? I’m over a hundred years old. I’m an old fucking man, and I still have hobbies.” He smiled when you snorted. “Like jumping out of planes.”
“You take after Steve,” you joked.
That beautiful man could be reckless in the best way.
“I like old records.”
“And we dance in the kitchen while listening to them.”
You always felt cherished when he held you close.
“I read,” he said, nodding to the chair where he usually sat to read.
“I should get you reading glasses,” you mused.
Even if he didn’t need them, he’d look sexy in them.
“I’m a science nerd,” he stated proudly.
“I still want to get your glasses.”
Because nerds were sexy as hell.
“I like fixing motorcycles.”
You sighed dreamily. “And you look good on your bike.”
Maybe he could take you for a ride later… in more ways than one.
“I bake with Sam’s nephews.”
You sighed again because the man looked good with kids. “They do love when you add extra chocolate chips to cookies.”
“Extra chocolate chips make it better.” He winked. “And I’m still saving the world every so often.”
You put your hand over his. “My hero.”
“So, if I can still have hobbies at my age, why can’t you?” he asked rhetorically. “If this person really thinks people should stop once they hit a certain, they’re going to live a sad life. If anything, people get better at their hobbies because they’re getting more experience which happens with age.”
You didn’t disagree.
“I don’t care if you’re in your twenties, thirties, forties, fifties, whatever age,” he promised you. “If it brings you joy? If you love it? Then don’t stop creating. Don’t stop writing your stories.”
You closed your eyes when he kissed your forehead. “Even the self-indulgent ones?”
He smiled against your skin. “Especially the self-indulgent ones.”
“Even if I write about other characters?”
“I’ll support you,” he promised.
“What if someone else says I’m still too old?” you asked.
“Then I’ll remind them, once again, that I’m over a hundred years old and they can get fucked.”
“You look very good for your age.” You giggled when he playfully growled and managed to grab your phone. “Hey!”
“You look very good for your age.” You giggled when he playfully growled and managed to grab your phone. “Hey!”
“Forget about them,” he ordered, tucking the device away. “And talk to me about one of the next ideas brewing in that beautiful brain of yours.”
An almost shy smile appeared on your face. Almost. He knew better.
“It might be better if I… show you.”
He leaned back against the cushion and helped you straddle him, his eyes dark as his hands settled on your hips. “I like the sound of that.”
You stopped him before he could pull you down for a kiss. “Bucky?”
“Yeah, sweetheart?”
You gazed at the man who brought so much light into your life. He helped you connect to others. He fueled your creativity.
You felt very lucky.
“Thanks for loving and seeing me,” you whispered.
His eyes softened. “Thanks for loving and seeing me, too,” he said, meeting you halfway. “And if some askhole bothers you again, send them my way.”
“Yes, sir,” you teased, letting him kiss you.
So, yes, you’d keep posting your stories on your blog.
The self-indulgent ones. The ones you struggled to tell. The ones you put your blood, sweat, and tears into.
You’d joke about the writing process. You’d apologize for late updates. You’d keep on doing what you were doing.
Because there was no expiration date on creativity and hobbies.
And anyone who thought there was?
Well, they didn’t need to read your stories.
Yep. I'm a mom. A wife. A friend. I work. I adult. Fanfiction isn't just fanfiction, lovelies. It's community. Keep doing you. Curate your own experience. Love and thanks for reading. ❤️
This is my masterlist for the June Jukebox Scribbles hosted by the wonderful @societynsoelsscribbles 𐚁˚
I am so grateful that you guys did this, because I've been blocked for a while and this is the most I've written in a while! Music is honestly the best muse, I poured my heart into these little ficlets, I hope you enjoy them.
↻ ◁ | MAIN MASTERLIST | ▷ ↺
Please read the warnings on each track, your media consumption is your own responsability.
Summary: The summer heat is almost unbearable, but with Ma gone for the night, your wandering thoughts have you crawling into his bed anyway.
Content Warnings: 18+ {MDNI}, smut, stepcest, somnophilia, dubcon (previously agreed consent, which is mentioned), cheating (not on reader), age gap, handjob, oral (m. receiving), pussyjob, cowgirl, use of pet names, unprotected p in v (please don’t do this, wrap it up), praise, daddy kink, cumshot, aftercare.
A/N: Happy (almost) Father’s Day! I missed my stepdaddy. Dedicated to @phoenix-in-writing, who I’ve accidentally edged with this fic for months. I’m so sorry, this is me begging for forgiveness. Written and edited on my phone; any and all mistakes are my own.
Main Masterlist
The house is quiet—almost stiflingly so—with the wooden floorboards creaking softly under each silent footstep to the primary bedroom.
Just a peek.
That's what you told yourself when you finally threw the covers off, the summer heat making sleep impossible and the oversized shirt you wore to bed stick to your skin, and padded down the dark hallway.
You hold your breath and push the bedroom door open a crack.
Moonlight spills into the room from between half-open curtains, a steady stream of silver that settles perfectly at the foot of the bed on the side Ma usually occupies.
Lee's flat on his back, blanket thrown in a heap on the floor. One arm is outstretched toward the center of the bed, his pale skin practically glowing in the soft light like an invitation meant just for you.
The excuse shifts.
Bare feet cross the threshold, the door's hinges squeaking when you push it open further, but he doesn't stir and you keep moving. You're curling against his side before your brain even catches up.
It's easy. Almost too easy. Just a few minutes, you tell yourself. Harmless, really, until his arm pulls you in tighter so your chest presses against his ribs and your head rests on his shoulder.
Lee hums, an unusually soft sound from the man half the town fears, his nose brushing against the crown of your head. He inhales. For a moment you think he might be awake. His thumb rubs soothing circles just beneath your arm over the soft cotton of your shirt, his hot breath tickling your skin, but then he mumbles something unintelligible upon exhaling.
You lay there in silence. Heat radiates from him, yet his heartbeat and the gentle rise and fall of his breaths beneath your palm has you melting into him anyway, legs tangling with his.
The warmth should be too much, sweat already beading where your skin meets his, but being in his arms—a place that has quickly become your favorite to be—has a different heat pooling between your thighs.
You try to focus on something else instead. The soft chirp of crickets outside the window. The hum of electricity. The way his calloused fingers catch on the fabric of your shirt.
Squeezing your eyes shut to try and regain any self control you have left when it comes to him, you take a deep breath.
And then his fingers slowly slide down your side, flooding your mind with memories of his rough hands making that same trail along the soft skin of your ribcage. Your heart stutters.
It was a conversation you'd had before.
His hours at the station are crazy. His role as sheriff—and his other extracurricular activities—means he comes home at all hours, day and night. It also means he has an enormous amount of stress laid on his broad shoulders, and on nights like tonight when ma is called for a late shift in the next town over, that left him to either suffer through it or handle it alone.
And you didn't want that.
It came out fast when you originally offered, like a confession that wasn't meant to be heard. Any time, any where—even if you're asleep—Lee could take what he wanted as long as Ma didn't know.
He had stared for a minute, blinking rapidly like his brain was short-circuiting, before a mischievous grin and a twinkle in his eye accompanied his quick promise you could do the same.
The conversation felt like a lifetime ago now despite being a matter of mere weeks.
The memory has your teeth catching the flesh of your bottom lip, the ache between your legs growing when he gently caresses your waist in his sleep. Your hips move without even thinking, pressing slowly against his in an effort to relieve the growing desire.
Fingers toying with the fabric of his white undershirt, slightly damp with sweat, you begin tracing the neckline before wandering slowly down towards the soft curve of his belly. Lee hums again when you draw nonsensical lines across it.
A small sliver of skin peeks from below the hem, which you don't hesitate to move towards. Warm skin and a soft patch of hair greet your careful touch, goosebumps rising in your wake. He shivers before tightening his hold.
You finally slip your hand beneath his undershirt, fingertips staying light as a feather as they move across his skin. Lee's breath hitches, lips grazing your hairline when you look up.
He looks content. A scowl tends to grace his handsome features, blue eyes cold from years of law enforcement and the corruption Ma somehow isn't aware of—or turns a blind eye to. But in his sleep, the lines of his face have softened and he almost looks younger.
It makes your mind wander to what he must've been like when he was your age. Was he always bitter? Was he fit? Did women see him in his deputy uniform and swoon? Those piercing blue eyes paired with the smug smile he's given you when your ma isn't looking must have done a number on the women in this town over the years.
Your fingers dip beneath the waistband of his boxers finding more warmth. You pause.
"Tell me to stop, Lee," you say into the moonlit darkness, watching his face for any signs he's uncomfortable. "Tell me to stop and I will."
He mumbles something in his sleep, but nothing that sounds like rejection.
Keeping an eye on his face for any possible sign of discomfort or unwillingness, you slip your hand fully inside and wrap around his soft length.
He grunts, his brows twitching up. A quiet sound but encouraging nonetheless. You take your time, pushing the fabric of his boxers down in a half successful attempt to free him. He moans softly with every light squeeze and pump of your hand, his cock twitching to life.
Lee's breath picks up slightly, hips bucking up to meet your hand, when he murmurs your name. Faint, almost imperceptible, but you heard it. And then—
"Good girl."
Fighting back a groan, you carefully maneuver out from his side—earning a small sound of protest from him—and place yourself between his thick thighs, which part easily. His musk fills your nostrils quickly when you lean close. It's almost intoxicating.
With a bit more tugging on the fabric of his boxers, half his cock springs free, tip flushed and leaking.
"Are you gonna let me have all the fun alone?" you tease. He grunts.
Wrapping your fingers around him again, his brows furrowing, you lean in to press a kiss against the tip.
Lee whines softly, his hips bucking towards your face. A smirk tugs at your lips.
"Yeah?" A kitten lick has you tasting the salty precum and his hips move again, his cock twitching in your palm.
Licking a stripe from base to tip has him moaning a bit louder, filling the quiet room. His head presses back into the pillow, eyes fluttering, and when you envelope him fully into the warm wetness of your mouth, a groaning sigh of relief rumbles from deep in his chest.
For a brief moment, his eyes open just enough to look down at you. The corners of his lips twitch with smirk and a mumbled, "fuck," before they close again.
You take that as a sign to keep going.
Bracing one hand on his hip, thumb stroking the line where his hip meets his belly, your head bobs slowly along the freed portion of his length, tongue swirling and tasting every vein, every inch it can reach. He's warm, heavy, heady.
Lee's hips move at your pace, slow with small, eager twitches like a silent plea to speed up. He groans again. It's music to your ears.
And then his hand moves from the sheets it had begun to grip in quiet desperation until it finds your hair, resting on top of your head like he's trying to ground himself even in his sleepy state. You look up beneath your lashes, mouth not leaving his length, to find his lips parted and eyelids fighting to open.
Releasing him with a pop, you continue to stroke his cock.
"C'mon, Lee…you're missing your favorite part."
You're back on him without blinking, slowing it down—if that's even possible—and savoring it even more, which earns you a deeper groan from him that sends a jolt straight to your core.
He grunts again, eyes fluttering more before finally reopening. He blinks, adjusting to the darkness and clearly disoriented until he looks down at you, taking in the way your lips stretch around him.
"Oh, fuck," he mumbles. His voice is rough with sleep, lips curling into a tired smirk. "What're y'doin', sweet thing?"
You pull off him slowly, eyes locked on his.
"Needed you," your voice comes out sickly sweet. "That okay?"
"Mm. More than okay, darlin'."
With a grin, you hook your fingers into the waistband of his boxers, and with his help, slip them completely off.
The room is dead silent for a moment as your gaze flicks between your fingers wrapped around his saliva-slick length and his blue eyes glittering in the darkness. But then an idea occurs, and the way want burns hotter between your legs makes you release him quickly and slip your own soaked panties off.
Lee watches you curiously. His mouth opens with words only half formed when you climb on top of him, oversized shirt dangling off your shoulder—except instead of sinking onto his throbbing cock, you guide him through your slick folds…and keep him there.
"What—"
His question is cut off when you slowly begin to roll your hips. One pass. Two. His hands come up to rest on your hips while yours brace on his belly, the undershirt bunching under your fingers.
His brows draw together and deepen the permanent crease between them, a rougher sound that's not quite a growl pulling from his throat. His grip tightens subtly.
"Well now you're just teasin' me," he says, his hips rolling in time with yours. "Wakin' me up with your beautiful mouth only to keep your perfect pussy from me? This what you needed me for?"
You can't help but smirk and continue rubbing your sopping cunt along his length. Up. Soaking up the feeling of every ridge gliding through your folds. And down. The way the flushed tip of his cock nudges against your clit as it passes.
"Who says I want you inside me tonight?" you retort, though the wobble in your voice betrays the resolve keeping you from giving him what you both want.
Lee's lips twist into a full blown grin, but he doesn't say a word. Instead, he seemingly settles further into the pillows, his hips slowing their momentum and forcing you to do all the work.
Your resolve cracks fast.
Pressing a hand to his chest and leaning forward, you lift your hips just enough that the head of his cock notches tantalizingly against your entrance.
A moment passes where the only sound is your heart beating rapidly against your ribs. Both of you hold your breath, gaze locked and burning, before you finally sink down onto him.
Every inch splits you open, filling you more completely than any of the guys at college, and no matter how many times you feel it, it's like the first time all over again. Your mind goes blank.
"There we go," he mutters, his eyes slipping closed. His hands slide down to your bare thighs for the first time tonight, kneading the soft flesh and pulling you back to the present.
Your hips begin to roll, your hand still pressed to his chest where you can feel his racing heartbeat. It's a slow start at first, savoring the way he feels, the way his cock drags against your walls, hitting the one spot that makes you see stars without even trying.
But then impatience takes over and the need for more becomes overwhelming. You pick up the pace.
Lee's hands slip under your sleep shirt, thumbs sliding up your inner thighs until rough palms find your hips and help guide you.
A soft whimper falls from your lips.
"That's it," he groans. "That's my sweet girl. Look at you ridin' my cock so well. Let me hear you."
Another sound, desperate and needy, escapes you as his cock drags against your inner walls. He grins, the look on his face full of pride and unadulterated lust.
"Let it out, sweetness, let daddy hear you. I know you want to."
Leaning forward and pressing both palms to his chest now, you work your hips faster, the new angle making you moan.
That doesn't quite satisfy him. Lee's pink tongue sweeps across his bottom lip, one hand coming up to cup your cheek with hunger in his eyes before his hips slowly thrust up into you.
"Oh," you breathe, feeling yourself clench around him.
He pulls you in for a kiss, tender and sweet, continuing his thrusts and swallowing the little noises spilling from your lips.
"Good girl," he murmurs. "Just like that. Let daddy take care of you."
Every move, every quiet grunt from his lips, every thrust sends sparks up your spine. It's like someone started a fire in your veins—one that Lee has no intention of putting out any time soon.
He kisses you again, only this time he uses it to roll you over until your back hits the mattress with a soft thump, lips moving slowly over yours before becoming desperate and trailing to your jaw. His hips pick up speed now, arms braced next to your head to keep too much of his weight off you. Your arms encircle his neck, pulling him closer as your legs wrap around his waist. Lee growls against your neck, sweat dripping off his forehead and onto the sheets.
"Fuck, darlin', best way to wake up," he grunts, his thrusts only picking up speed when he hears you moan. "Pretty little thing needs her daddy when he's sleepin', she's gon' get 'im."
The sound of skin slapping skin fills the room, mixing with sounds of pleasure to create a symphony not meant to exist, let alone heard. Lee's hand trails down the side of your face, stopping only briefly at the neckline of your shirt before continuing your breast to roll your nipple between two fingers.
"Know what I wanna do, baby girl?" he asks, looking deeply into your eyes. It's almost soft and romantic given the situation and how wrong this relationship is. But the blue you've come to know is almost gone, something that looks like possessiveness flashing briefly before a smile crinkles the corners of his eyes.
"Some day I'm gon' get you a pretty little necklace." His gaze flicks to your mouth, lips kiss-swollen and agape. His large hand moves down your ribs and keeps going, slowly, torturously, to the hem of your shirt. "Maybe a little gold chain, somethin' dainty."
Your nails lightly scratch his scalp as he keeps talking.
"Or…" his hips pause, only the tip remaining. He meets your gaze again. "Maybe pearl."
Lee doesn't give you time to register what he means before his hips snap into yours, hard, his thumb reaching between your sweaty bodies and brushing against your clit. You gasp, clinging onto him for dear life and moving your hips to meet his thrusts, pressure building fast in your gut the way only he seems to know how to do.
"Lee—" you whine. His lips cut you off, pounding into you so hard the headboard knocks against the wall above your head.
"You're grippin' me so tight, darlin'. You have no idea how"—he groans—"addictin' that is. I know you're close. Let me hear you."
His thumb works your clit in tight, furious circles, his cock hitting all the right places and making you moan. Three more thrusts and you're crying out as the climax washes over you, air becoming difficult to breath as he keeps working you and drawing out every bit of pleasure he's giving.
Suddenly he pulls back and tugs at the hem of your shirt until your stomach is exposed, the underside of your breasts just barely peeking out. He growls at the sight, his pace unrelenting until he pulls out without warning, his release landing on your skin in hot spurts.
Lee drops down on the bed beside you, one arm wrapping around the still-clothed part of your torso, his heavy body making the springs of the mattress squeak. Your gaze stays on the ceiling for a moment to allow your breath and heartbeat a chance to slow as his breath fans across the side of your face. The moonlight reflects faintly off the eggshell paint, the sounds of the crickets outside filling the newly returned silence.
After several minutes, he lets you go and stands, his footsteps heavy on the floor, and makes his way to the en-suite bathroom. He returns with a warm, damp cloth, and carefully cleans your sensitive folds before wiping up his release still clinging to your stomach and tossing it in the laundry basket in the corner.
"C'mon, let's get you back to bed before your ma gets home," he says, holding out his hand. You take it and climb out of bed, snatching your discarded panties off the floor before he walks you back to your bedroom with nothing but his undershirt on.
Before you can enter, he gently grabs your arm and turns you, cupping your cheek with one hand and kissing you with more tenderness than he's ever shown.
"Good night, Lee," you whisper when he finally pulls away. The ghost of a smirk tugs at his lips.
Summary: After bombing your European History exam, you seek comfort from your secret boyfriend, Professor James B. Barnes.
Pairing: Professor James Barnes x College Student!Reader
Word count: 2.5k
Warnings/tags: porn with absolutely no plot; secret relationship; age gap (bucky in his 40s, reader in her 20s); semi-public sex (office sex); student anxiety; student stress relief; kind of comfort sex?; oral sex (f receiving); fingering; praise kink/worship kink; one instance of pussy pronouns; use of petname (love & goddess); bucky is the gentlest lover; bucky loves being on his knees; no use of y/n; unbeta’d
Notes: so. we're all crazy about the new cartier photoshoot, right? right. i feel like every time a new Seb photoshoot comes out, some new inspiration for Professor Barnes comes to the light for me. here's the new hallucination somewhere in that universe.
Dim lights of the humanities building are practically vibrating as you walk through the hallway. There’s a chance it might just be the sheer volume of caffeine and panic coursing through your veins causing you to feel that way, too.
It’s half past six in the afternoon when you open the door to office 304, the one that has Professor James B. Barnes written on a small rectangle in golden letters. You don’t knock. Simply push the door open, slip inside and click it shut behind you, the sound definitely too loud in the quiet hallway now that most students have already gone home.
Inside, Professor Barnes, who has the reputation for being the toughest grader in the department and object of half the campus’ unrequited crushes, looks up from his desk, one brow arched, red pen hovering whatever he had been grading, silver-rimmed glasses perched on his nose and sleeves rolled up to his forearms.
You recognize it immediately, the slightly judgemental expression of someone who was not expecting to have his work interrupted with even as much as a knock; but the moment he notices the expression on your face, your hands still shaking with adrenaline, his own shifts from professional uptightness to something much softer. A soft look you’ve come to know, too, after the two of you began a secret relationship a little over four months ago.
“Sorry,” you say, already stumbling through words. “Sorry, I know I didn’t knock, I just—"
“Come in. Lock the door.” His voice drops, shifting from Professor Barnes to your James in the space of a few words.
You do just that. Then you stand there, backpack still hanging off one shoulder, hands twisting the strap.
“I’m freaking out about the European History exam,” you start. Professor Barnes shows no signs of being bothered by you immediately firing information his way.
“Sit down first.”
“I can’t sit down, James. I’ve been sitting for the past four hours, trying to—" You drop your bag onto the floor and start pacing the narrow strip of space between his bookshelf and the leather couch pushed against the wall. “I completely bombed it, okay? I know I did. Question three asked about the socioeconomic impacts of the Treaty of Tordesillas. I wrote about trade routes, James. Why did I write about trade routes? That wasn’t the prompt. And then I couldn’t remember some exact years, so I guessed, and I’m pretty sure I guessed about two decades off. If I fail this exam—”
“Please, sit—”
“—my GPA drops, and if my GPA drops, I lose my seminar slot for next semester, and then my entire track is ruined, and I'll end up living in a cardboard box—”
“Love.”
You stop, the way you always stop when he calls you that, like your mind still hasn’t quite learned to process that this man, older, more experienced, with a salt and pepper beard that makes your knees weak, would want to call you love.
James is leaning back in his chair now, arms crossed with muscles straining slightly against the shirt, and watching you with a particular patient expression, despite your serpentining conversation.
“The exam is done. You're spiralling," he tells you, and the second after he is getting up from his chair and stepping into your pacing path. A hand reaches for your wrist and makes you stop in front of him. “Breathe for me?”
“I’m not breathing, I can’t breathe, I have three more finals this week and I feel like my skull is gonna fracture from the pressure,” you whine, but are already leaning into his touch, seeking the warmth of him through your most stressful moments. He lets out a sympathetic sigh, fingers curling firmer around your wrist and pulls you fully to him before he presses a lingering kiss to the top of your head.
“There’s nothing you can do about it now.” And he’s not wrong. You open your mouth, close it, then sigh. Because there is nothing you can do about it now, and that’s somehow better, but also considerably worse. James tips your chin up with two fingers, ocean blue eyes meeting yours from behind his glasses.
“You have barely slept or eaten properly for the past week. I don’t like it. The way you chastise yourself whenever something goes wrong.” His thumb traces your jaw, and some of the tight coil in your chest loosens very much against your will. “Take a seat.”
“James, I don’t need to—"
“I’m not asking,” he says gently, which makes it incredibly more effective than if he had said it any other way, then nods towards the leather couch. “Sit. You’ve been white-knuckling it for days, give yourself ten minutes.”
You consider it. Not because you want to sit down, not because the exam is finally slipping away from your mind, but because James has shifted into that version of him he only ever lets out when he’s near you, with you, the one that breaks down all your defenses and leaves you bare, although not unsafe. You always feel safe with him.
Slowly, you agree and take a seat on the couch, back slumping against the cushions. Your body recognizes it as home almost immediately, letting the familiarity seep into your bones and making you relax.
James crouches down in front of you and rubs one hand over your right knee.
"Still thinking about it?" he asks.
"...A little."
You sink deeper into the worn leather of the couch, the tension in your shoulders only kind of melting under the weight of his gaze. James remains crouched between your knees for a long moment, large hands taking residence on your thighs, now, thumbs stroking soothing circles through the fabric of your jeans.
“You know I’ve always got you, right? Prettiest girl I’ve ever met. Smartest, too,” he murmurs, voice wrapped in velvet. That does it quickly, for you, and you know he knows it. He showers you in praise every time, because every time your body opens to him like a flower blooming in the sunlight.
Before you can overthink it, you simply nod. There’s a brief moment where you’re sure he whispers something like ‘let me take care of you’, and you do, you let him, the permission being the way your legs gently pry open right in front of him. A shaky exhale, head falling back against the couch. All the agreement he needs.
His long fingers travel upward and make easy work of the button of your pants before peeling them down your legs slowly. James pulls your boots off, then the pants along with them, and he leans forward, mouth pressing a kiss to your left knee. Upward, to the skin of your thigh, a bit to the side, to the inside of your leg. Three days' worth of stubble prickles against you as he moves, and you make a noise, something he sees quickly as desperation, and you know the complaint is futile. When has Professor Barnes ever given you anything quicker than the exact pace he wanted to?
“Relax,” he says against your thigh, then presses his lips to the skin again, an open-mouthed kiss before he bites down so gently you are barely even able to call it a bite. “Didn’t I just say I’ve got you?”
Large hands slide from your thighs to wrap firmly around the backs of your legs, fingers digging in with just enough pressure to tug you forward on the couch, sliding your ass closer to the edge so you’re perfectly positioned for him. That’s when you open your eyes again, just in time to watch him hook his fingers into the waistband of your panties and peel them down slowly, dragging the fabric along your thighs and off your ankles. And he does it all with his eyes on yours, two blue pits making you feel dizzy, but you still don’t look away. You couldn’t if you tried.
Cool air hits your now exposed pussy, making you shiver. James lets out a quiet hum of approval at the sight of you, already glistening with arousal.
“She’s always so beautiful,” a reverent whisper before his large hands wrap around your legs again and lift effortlessly to drape them over his broad shoulders, heels of your feet resting against his back. The new angle tilts your hips up towards his mouth, spreading you open for him completely, and before you can even catch your breath, or take a moment to push down the flush on your skin growing from the vulnerable way you are exposed to him, he leans in and drags his tongue through your folds in a filthy stripe from your entrance to your clit.
A breathy moan tears from your throat, echoing in the quiet office like a confession, and it unravels the last threads of your anxiety as pleasure rises in its place. Then James does it again, a little slower, savoring the taste of you, messy and unhurried, spit mixing with your arousal until your folds are slick and shining. On his knees in front of you, this brilliant man, esteemed professor, becomes nothing more than a servant doing worship at the altar of his Goddess. His broad shoulders carry your legs like an honor he would gladly take forever, and his eyes flutter shut as he presses closer.
He’s incredible at this; you’ve known it from the first time he fell to his knees, right here, in this office, always reading every twitch, every gasp, mouth moving with exquisite skill. Slow and indulgent at first, mostly for himself, drowning in the taste of your slick, before giving way to teasing flicks of the tip of his tongue around your swollen clit only to dip lower again, lapping messily at your entrance where your arousal flows for him.
Wetness coats his silver-streaked beard, glistening on his chin as he buries his face deeper between your thighs. The obscene sounds of his mouth feasting on your fill the room, wet slurping and sucking noises, a slick glide of his tongue, an occasional hungry groan into your cunt that sends sparks flying up your spine, all of it the actions of a man who could be on his knees for hours.
Your hands fly to his hair, gripping the dark strands as your thighs tremble around his head. “James…”
No words come out of his mouth then, none you can understand, anyway; instead, the response comes in the way he sucks your clit between his lips, wet suction making your hips jerk, before he releases it with a lewd pop. One hand claws at your thigh, keeping your legs right in their place, while two thick fingers slide into your welcoming heat, curling against the spongy spot inside you that makes stars explode behind your eyelids. James pumps them slowly, in time with the dance of his tongue over your clit.
Exam long forgotten, the world narrows to nothing but him, the way his blue eyes will sometimes flick up to watch you through fogged glasses, dark with lust and adoration. Only when he needs to take a moment to breathe, a quick one, enough to allow him to keep going for as long as you need him to, does he speak again.
“Goddess,” he whispers teasingly, slowing his fingers as if to get your attention. Your head tilts forward and you watch him through hooded eyes. “Will you cum for your most loyal subject?”
You huff in soft frustration, the sound breaking into another shaky moan as your body refuses to cooperate with your irritation. Because the edge is so close, molten in your belly, and here he is, being a wicked scholar and working you through comedic words.
“James, don’t… fuck, I’m so close, don’t play with me right now…” you manage, trying to reprimand him. But even as you say it, your cunt betrays you completely, clenching hard around his fingers, fluttering and squeezing with need and pulling them deeper as slick coats his hand.
Your favorite Professor gleams with amusement, lips curled into a devastating half-smirk, swollen and shiny. “You like it when I’m funny. You’ve told me before.”
You want to protest, but he curls his fingers again, strokes the perfect spot and dips his head again, sucking your swollen bud with perfect pressure, flicking the tip of his tongue rapidly in a rhythm that makes your vision spark white. For a second, he slips his fingers out and instead fucks you with his tongue, thrusting it inside you, before dragging it back up to torture your clit again while his fingers move back to their rightful place. His free hand grips your thigh harder, holding you open for him as you start to grind against his face, chasing the pleasure.
The combination is merciless. Frustration melts instantly into overwhelming pleasure, and another broken moan rips from your throat as your thighs tighten around his shoulders, heels digging into his back. Every stroke, every suck makes the coil in your belly tighten, pulling you deeper into a sea of sensation where exams and fears cannot reach. His beard scrapes deliciously against your sensitive skin with every movement of his head, and arousal drips down his chin onto the leather couch, but he only presses closer, as if he would gladly drown in you.
And just like that, your orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave, sudden and blinding. You cry out sharply, back arching off the couch as pleasure tears through every nerve in your body. James moans against your pussy like a man receiving divine absolution, your walls pulsing and fluttering around his fingers, gushing against his mouth. And he drinks down every drop of you until your trembling begins to quiet down, slowly easing his movements before pressing a couple of tender, open-mouthed kisses to your oversensitive pussy and to your inner thighs.
Still, he keeps your legs draped over his shoulders a moment longer, gazing at you through glasses that look slightly uneven with the most loving expression you have ever seen on a man. Breathless and floating, you manage to meet his eyes, and you smile at the sight of your brilliant professor on his knees, face glistening with the evidence of your pleasure.
“You’re trouble,” you whisper, though the words carry no real heat in them. James is busy kissing down your legs, lips reaching softly to every inch of skin, but he smiles in the midst of it.
“Trouble?” he repeats, feigning offense. “My goddess calls me trouble after I’ve knelt here and offered proper tribute? How cruel.”
You let out a breathless laugh that turns into a soft gasp when he nips gently at the crease of your thigh.
“You do know I love you, right? Even when you’re being silly while going down on me.”
That makes him smile wider. “I reckon you love me especially when I’m being silly while going down on you.”
Pairing: Husband!Bucky Barnes x Pregnant!Female Reader
Summary: During a fun and relaxing afternoon, Bucky overhears someone making fun of your body. He doesn’t take too kindly to that.
Word Count: Over 2.9k
Warnings: Established relationship, pregnancy, pet name (sweetheart for you, baby nicknamed Sprout), mention of stretch marks (they are beautiful), pregnant body shaming, threat of violence (not against reader), fluff, feels, domestic life, Steve and Sam are good friends, protective vibes, putting a jerk in his place (sorry if your name is Chet), Bucky Barnes (he's down bad and a warning, okay?).
A/N: What can I say, lovelies? I love a Bucky down bad and sticking up for you. Part of Soft Echoes, Strong Roots AU. ❤️ Beta read by the wonderful @mumbles411, but any and all mistakes are my own. Divided by the talented @saradika-graphics . Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!
It was meant to be a relaxing and fun afternoon.
Nothing major. Just a small gathering with a few familiar faces, some friends and agents, and good food. Maybe a few games, some music and conversations. Bucky only agreed because you batted your eyes and promised that you wouldn’t overdo it.
As if he could ever say “no” to you.
“You could smile a bit more, you know,” Steve teased, handing him a beer.
He scoffed, the bottle cool against his warm hand. “I am smiling,” he argued.
His general demeanor had improved since you came into his life. He liked to think he smiled more than he scowled most days. Well, at least he smiled more when you were around. Or when he thought of you, which was all the time.
So, yeah, his demeanor was much better.
“You only smile like that when you look at or think about your wife,” Steve pointed out, like he knew exactly what he was on his mind.
Bucky’s gaze softened immediately when he heard you laughing, watching you from where you stood a few feet away.
You were glowing.
A pregnancy glow, yes, combined with something warmer. The dress you picked somehow flowed while showing off the shape of your body perfectly. Your smile lit up your face and you had a hand on your belly like you’d done for weeks now without thinking. It was beautiful.
You were beautiful.
“Can you blame me for having a smile just for her?” Bucky asked.
“Not at all,” his best friend replied.
You shifted your weight before you took a seat, your smile brighter when you spotted Bucky watching you. He never strayed far from you. Didn’t even sip the drink in his hand. He had his eyes on you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.
You and Sprout.
Pride flickered through his chest when his gaze dropped to your belly. His wife and his baby. His family.
Everyone was waiting on you hand and foot. At least, they tried to. The moment someone tried to bring you a drink or food, he stepped in. He couldn’t help himself. Once you were taken care of, he went back to his spot. The perfect place to keep an eye on his surroundings since some old habits died hard.
And you just smiled, soft and bright.
Steve nudged him with his shoulder. “You deserve this, you know.”
Bucky swallowed hard. It didn’t always feel like he did. The past liked to seep into his mind at unexpected moments and make the world look a little darker. Depending on the day, he’d either hug you close or take you to bed to drown out the noise. Sometimes both.
And no matter what, you made the world look brighter again.
“So, you’re saying I deserved to knock up my wife?” he joked to deflect.
The blonde snorted. “Yeah, that’s what I’m saying,” he said, giving him a small smile. “Also saying you deserve this life.”
His chest tightened when you laughed at a joke Sam made, your head tipping back slightly and your hand going back to your belly. There was no fight to worry about. No past to haunt him. Just small precious moments like this.
His lips twitched upward when you found his gaze again, your love for him burning bright in your eyes.
He did deserve this kind of life.
“Thanks, punk,” he mumbled, clinking their bottles together.
“Jerk.”
You turned your attention back to Sam and Bucky pushed off the wall to move closer before a voice stopped him.
Something low and careless.
“Is that chair gonna break? Jesus Christ, she’s fucking huge. How many are in there?”
The thought of domesticity and peace left Bucky’s mind, replaced by something cold and dangerous.
You were blissfully unaware that some prick had just insulted your beautiful body, still smiling and enjoying yourself. As you should be. You only deserved good things. No one else around you seemed to notice the change in the atmosphere either.
But Steve stiffened out of the corner of his eye. He heard it. They both heard it.
Super soldier senses really were handy at times.
Ice took over the blue of his eyes, his head slowly turning to look at the fucker stupid enough to open his mouth and even breath the same oxygen as you. A new agent with a very punchable face who wore too much cologne. There was a good chance that you kept your distance for that very reason since some smells still overwhelmed you. The snickering prick certainly wasn’t a friend of his or yours. He was only “invited” because someone else thought it would be good for him to hang out outside of work.
That wouldn’t happen again.
“Better snag a brownie before she stuffs her face with the whole tray.”
My wife can have all the fucking brownies she wants, you fucking piece of shit.
The bottle in his hand began to crack. It would shatter if he kept squeezing. He didn’t want to draw attention to himself.
Not yet.
“You know that’s Barnes’s wife, right?” The asshole’s friend shifted uncomfortably. “She’s really nice, and he’s… well, he’s pretty protective of her.”
Bucky’s gaze flicked back to you, much softer, before looking at the soon-to-be-dead fucker again.
No. Can’t kill the guy. I have a wife and kid to think about.
The prick had the nerve to laugh. “So? Does that give her a pass to look like a whale?”
…He’s fucking dead.
Steve took the cracked bottle from his hand. “Want me to handle him?” he asked, his voice low.
He exhaled through his nose. Steve didn’t like bullies. Never had. But he knew why he was asking instead of just stepping in and taking care of it.
Because you were his wife. His to defend. His to love and care for.
This was his fight.
“I got this,” he replied, subtly nodding to where you were sitting. “Just keep an eye out for a minute?”
Steve nodded in understanding, positioning himself to block your line of sight without looking too obvious.
Bucky took deliberate steps toward the table, his movements controlled and measured. His jaw tightened the closer he got, his fingers itching to toss the guy out with his bare hands. He wouldn’t cause a scene out of respect for you.
But he wasn’t going to stay silent.
The atmosphere shifted the second he got to the table, the chatter ceasing immediately.
The prick, of course, had the nerve to smile.
“Hey, man! You-”
“You got something to say about my wife?” he asked, his voice as cold as his stare.
The man’s eyes widened, maybe from shock that he was overheard or that he was being confronted. “I… What?”
Had no problem using your words seconds ago, asshole.
“You were talking about her.” Bucky tilted his head slightly, his eyes flat and unreadable. “My wife.”
The air shifted more, something cold settling over the surroundings as the guy sputtered to come up with an excuse.
“Say it again,” he ordered, placing his hands on the table and leaning down to his eye level. He made sure there was no warmth in his expression. “Where I can really hear you.”
The idiot swallowed and looked to his friend for help and found none; his friend was suddenly very interested in the beer in his hand. “Um… Barnes, I-”
“My wife, the love of my life, is carrying my child. Our child.” His lip raised in a small snarl and he leaned in enough that Agent Asshole had to back up. “And you think you can sit here and make fun of her? You think I won’t do something about it?”
“I-It was a bad joke,” he tried to reason.
Reasoning only worked with people when they were in a forgiving mood.
He wasn’t.
“Oh, now it’s a joke? You think you’re funny?” He smiled with no trace of friendliness behind it. It was likely how a wolf looked baring their teeth before sinking them into their prey. “You think I’ll laugh while you crack ‘jokes’ about my wife?”
The prick looked like he was a heartbeat away from pissing himself, which made Bucky question the hiring process for agents. This sort of “interrogation” was nothing. Child’s play.
Then again, how many agents could say they had the former Winter Soldier in their space?
“I-I really didn’t mean-”
“Don’t.” His voice dropped even lower. “Don’t insult my intelligence.”
He glanced back and saw Sam looking his way, his eyes narrowing when he sensed the tension. Steve subtly shook his head. There was no reason to intervene. He was still in control.
Barely.
But you were still smiling, which was the important thing.
“You know what I see when I look at her?” he asked rhetorically, his chest tight. “I see the strongest person I’ve ever met.”
He smacked his hand on the table hard enough to make the bottles rattle and the guys flinch.
Sam, thankfully, chose to tell another joke at the same time and Steve cackled so the noise at the table wouldn’t draw your attention.
I really do have good friends.
“I’ll say it again. She’s carrying our baby. She’s uncomfortable and exhausted and guess what? She still walks into a room smiling and thinks of others first. And you sit here and act like she’s something to mock when she’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” His jaw clenched even as his heart swelled with pride. “You should be ashamed of yourself.”
The guy shrank lower as every word washed over him.
Good.
Bucky stared at him for another long moment before something colder settled into place behind his eyes.
“Get up, Chet,” he ordered.
“Chet’s” mouth fell open. “That’s not my-”
“I know what your name is, and I don’t care,” he cut him off, straightening up. “Because you don’t respect my wife, so I refuse to respect you.”
A bright shade of red passed through his cheeks before he paled.
As someone who was stripped of his own agency for years, identity mattered to Bucky. Basic decency mattered. So, maybe it was a little petty to call him by the wrong name, but it was also a good way to put him in his place by letting him know he didn’t matter.
Chet, as his name was Chet to him now, got to his feet on shaky legs. “Sorry.”
“I’m sure you are sorry now, but it’s a little too late for that.”
Bucky clamped a hand on the back of his neck. To just about anyone looking over, it would’ve looked casual. Almost friendly. But they would’ve missed the firm squeeze.
“Move.”
The prick didn’t need to be told twice.
He guided him away from the table and made sure to smile as he did so. He shot his friend a quick glare for good measure, but at least he stuck up for you. That was the only reason he didn’t make him leave, too.
The chatter continued behind him, but he barely noticed it over the sound of Chet’s pounding heart and his own blood roaring loudly in his ears. But then he heard your laughter and he took a deep breath, picturing your loving smile and hand on your belly.
It kept him from snapping completely.
Once they were in the driveway, Bucky shoved him forward. Hard. He stumbled, but somehow managed to stay on his feet. He wished he could punch him for good measure, but he seemed like the type of coward who would cry and call the cops.
Even if they let him off with a warning, he didn’t want to add any stress to your plate.
“Christ, man,” Chet muttered.
“You stay the fuck out of my house and never come back,” Bucky said, his voice low and lethal as he stepped forward. “And don’t you ever disrespect my wife again.”
Chet nodded quickly. Too quickly. “I won’t.”
Bucky looked every bit like the Winter Soldier wrapped in civilian clothing when he added, “You’ll never speak about her like that again. You’ll never look at her like that again. And you sure as hell will never come near my family again.”
“I understand,” he swore, his voice cracking.
“Good.” Bucky’s nostrils flared as he looked him over one last time, disgust curling in his stomach. “And the next time you come across someone pregnant, maybe try showing them some goddamn respect.”
He looked down at his feet, avoiding his gaze and swallowing any excuse he had left to give.
Fucking coward.
Bucky pointed toward the street. “Get the fuck out of my sight.”
The idiot practically ran to his car.
Bucky glared as he drove down the street, rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck once he disappeared. He exhaled the remainder of his anger through his mouth, his hand moving through his hair. There was nothing to be upset about anymore. Agent Asshole was gone and now he could get back to you.
Where he belonged.
The second he walked back to the yard, his eyes found you automatically.
Still smiling, safe, and his.
He grabbed a couple of brownies from the tray before he walked over, giving Steve and Sam two nods. One to let them know everything was fine. The other to thank them for shielding you from that display.
They nodded in return.
You were his wife and family, but you were their family, too.
“There’s my handsome husband. I wondered where you went off to for a minute.” You smiled up at him when he approached, his heart skipping a beat. “You okay?”
Bucky stared at you in awe.
God, she’s so fucking beautiful it makes my chest ache.
Up close, your glow was even brighter. You looked at him like he put the sun in the sky just for you. He would if he could. And your belly moved slightly under your hands, and he wanted to feel Sprout move, too.
“I should be asking you that,” he replied, his brows furrowing. “Are you okay? Are you thirsty? Hungry?”
He observed you carefully, looking for signs of discomfort or fatigue. The conversation with Chet and kicking him out didn’t take very long, but it felt like hours now being apart from you. Steve and Sam had been watching over you, but it wasn’t the same.
“I’m just fine,” you assured him, and he knew you weren’t just saying that for his benefit. “But you didn’t answer my question,” you added teasingly.
Always thinking of me.
“Yeah,” he murmured, gentler than he had spoken all day. “Everything’s fine now.”
You studied him for a moment, sensing something underneath the surface. He didn’t falter under your gaze. There was no need to.
“Everything’s fine now, which means it wasn’t fine before,” you guessed.
Bucky sighed. He should’ve known you’d feel that something was off. You were too intuitive for your own good. That was one of the things he loved about you. And part of him loving you was trying to protect you from harm, physically, mentally, or verbally.
But there was also no hiding from you, even when he did his best to shield you.
“Just… needed to throw some trash out,” he said carefully.
It was true.
Chet was trash.
“That’s one way of putting it,” Steve muttered into his drink, making Sam snort.
Before you could question him further, he set the brownies down and crouched slightly in front of your chair so he could rest a hand gently over your belly. He didn’t chastise Sam for snapping a photo, and he didn’t care who saw him like this. The two of you were his world and he wasn’t going to pretend otherwise.
“Hey, Sprout,” he murmured, his entire expression softening. “You behaving for your mama?”
The baby kicked almost immediately beneath his palm.
He smiled wide, making him temporarily forget about the dickhead he just threw out.
“Sprout’s just fine, too,” you promised, placing your hand on his, your gaze thoughtful. “You sure you’re okay?”
He leaned up slowly, pressing a kiss to your forehead. He remembered sitting on the couch and comforting you after the mean voice in your head made you doubt that you’d be a good mom. And how you didn’t think your stretch marks were pretty but he thought they were so beautiful. You were so strong and inspiring. His wife. The mother of his child.
He wasn’t about to ruin your fun and relaxing afternoon by telling you what happened.
But as much as he wanted to protect you, he would tell you later once everyone left because he refused to keep secrets from you. There was a good chance you’d cry. Not because of the cruel words spoken or hormones, but because he stuck up for you so fiercely. He would always stick up for his family.
And if you wanted him to punish Chet even more, he’d do it without question.
That was how much he loved you.
And he’d take you to bed later, kissing and touching every inch of you he could. He’d make you feel beautiful and cherished if any of your insecurities began to surface. He’d silence any mean voice in your head, hopefully for good, the same way you drowned out the horrors he experienced and made him feel loved.
I love you both so much.
“Yeah, sweetheart,” he whispered, glancing down at your stomach with so much love. “I’m better than okay.”
We all deserve to have someone in our corner. Love and thanks for reading! ❤️
Summary: Every Tuesday morning the housewives of Waiting Willow Lane eagerly wait for the handsome milkman. Pearls around their neck, red lips and a tight apron to accentuate their waist, at 5AM ready to bat their eyelashes at Bucky, not you though, but what happens when you smell another woman's perfume on your husband's shirt?
Warnings: 18+ MDNI, angst, misogynistic themes, cheating (not on reader), smut, mutual masturbation, yearning, accidental pregnancy, Carol Danvers and Wanda Maximoff slander (i swear it just happened, I love them i swear), reader wears glasses and there's a small barely there reference that she's plus size. Please let me know if I missed anything.
Word Count: 6.3k
A/N: Took me a while, and it's so so late (carrot? late???) So I'm forever grateful to my friends at @stantastic-association for letting me submit this piece of trash (affectionate) for the Bucky's Dreamhouse collab 🩷 I humbly hope you enjoy it.
The sheets felt unusually cool to the touch, buried in Egyptian cotton, your hand reached to the other side of the bed— empty — is he not in bed anymore?!
You were up before you could even put on your glasses on first, "shoot shoot shoot!". The scent of fresh coffee lingered in the air, that meant he was one foot out the door if he hasn't left already.
The front door slammed shut, the echo of it like a held breath finally released.
With a reluctant sigh you sat on the bed, looking into your beautiful papered walls; mentally preparing yourself for the day that would come.
Since you didn't have to cook for John anymore, you opted for a simple breakfast, a piece of toast and a soft boiled egg, but of course not before making the bed, ironing his pajamas and robe, refilling his liquor cabinet and placing a new package of his favorite cigars — which you hated the smell of — sometimes you wondered if he noticed the small things you did for him.
With your hair securely in rollers, and a special little red dress you wore the first time you met John, you tweaked your eyebrows until you accidentally drew blood, maybe he'd like that shade of blush on you, no no no, too much red, you know what they say…
A fair amount of time later you walk up to the full length mirror, feeling like a hundred bucks! that is until you carefully examine yourself — the hair —horrified you pull the pins out of your hair without a second thought, today you had to be perfect.
With a fresh new look and determined to make the best of today, you decided some ice cream would hep with the summer heat, you bargained with yourself that the cleaning could wait just a little.
Wiping the dust off your grandmother's hand-cranked ice cream maker, you put yourself to work, on your counter you lined up sugar, eggs, heavy cream, strawberries from your garden and of course some milk.
Earlier in the morning the milkman dropped off fresh bottles, you wondered why Bucky hadn't dropped by to say hello, probably just busy with Mrs Scavo down the street, or according to Carol Danvers he's been making extra special deliveries to Wanda Maximoff, a real operator that one.
As you cranked, you wondered why those women had such an easy time cheating on their husbands, sure Bucky had eyes that made you want to swim in the ocean, a smile that could make you feel like you're in front of the sun… soft hair that you'd love to rake your fingers through while he sleeps next to you-
Your hands stopped moving — gosh, what a silly crush! — Not even that, curiosity, you decided to call it. Surely it was normal to wonder if so many women raved on and on about him, your marriage was safe and you loved your husband, — he gave you everything — you reminded yourself.
You churned until your shoulder ached and the handle grew stiffer with every turn, focusing on making the perfect consistency instead of the real reason you decided to make the sweet treat in the first place.
With the ice cream locked away in the freezer, you saw the time and you felt your stomach drop, if you wanted to get everything done on your list you'd need a miracle.
You would never tell this to another living soul but you found it aggravating to clean such a big house, you felt ungrateful for even thinking it, it was any woman's dream to take care of such a lovely home, you tried to make it your own, to imagine your children playing and laughing; you always wanted a big family, but you still haven't been able to get pregnant, maybe buying such a big house jinxed it, you told John as much and he laughed in your face, even after 5 years of marriage, you still weren't used to such nice things, you felt out of place in your own home.
A small part of you, the voice you rarely let speak its mind, felt relieved you haven't been able to carry a son for John, you loved him of course but-
Shaking your head you caught yourself standing at the sink with the water running, not sure how long you'd been there, with a sigh you took off your gloves, —the cleaning would get done so much faster if you lived in a smaller house.—
You pick up his shirt to smell the neck, powdery and sour of course, what kind of self respecting- wait no, you're not mad at her. You should focus all of your anger on your idiot of a husband.
Moving from room to room, dusting and sweeping, finally the last thing you had to do was laundry. As you picked up clothes to put on the basket, there's a particular smell in one of John's shirts that caught your attention. It was unfamiliar, powdery, sharp.
It wasn't yours.
You stood there for a long moment, the shirt still in your hands, the smell of it settling into something you couldn't understand. Powdery. Sharp. The kind of perfume a woman wears when she wants to be remembered. You knew it wasn't L'Air du Temps — too bold for that — and it certainly wasn't Chanel, whoever she was, had no taste. You almost pitied her.
You folded the shirt and put it in the basket with the rest.
The roast was resting on the counter when you heard his key in the door. You had set the table the way he liked it — napkins folded, glasses polished, the good place mats — and changed into something presentable, something that didn't look like you'd spent the afternoon unraveling.
"Something smells good," John said, the way he always did, dropping his briefcase by the door without looking at you.
"Pot roast." You smoothed your apron and carried his plate to the table. "Sit down."
He loosened his tie and settled into his chair with the comfortable authority of a man who had never once questioned his place in the world. You poured his drink without being asked.
You always did.
The conversation moved the way it always did over dinner — his day, Henderson's incompetence, the traffic on Millbrook Avenue. You listened with your chin resting lightly in your palm, nodding at the right moments, laughing softly at the right places. Picture perfect wife.
"Carol Danvers called today," you offered, when the silence stretched a little too long.
"Mm." He cut his meat without looking up.
It was somewhere between the second glass of bourbon and the end of dinner that he said it — the way he always eventually said it — casual as a change in weather.
"She is expecting again, isn't she?" He reached for his glass, ignoring anything you had to say. "Third one."
You kept your smile exactly where it was. "Yes, she is."
"Three years younger than you." He swirled his drink. Not looking at you. Never quite looking at you when he said things like this. "Funny how these things work out for some people."
Right on time.
"It is," you agreed pleasantly, and stood to clear his plate.
In the kitchen you ran the water hot — hotter than necessary — and stood over the sink scrubbing a dish that was already clean. Through the small window above the faucet the night had settled dark and still over Waiting Willow Lane. Across the street a light was on in the living room, blue and quiet behind their curtains, you wondered if they ever felt as miserable as you did now.
You knew what perfume it was, you just hadn't wanted to name it yet.
You set the dish in the rack and reached for the next one.
You asked about his secretary on the way to bed — her name, how she was managing with the new filing system — and watched his face for just a fraction of a second twitch before he answered. He was a decent liar. You had married a decent liar and spent five years becoming a better one.
Goodnight, you said.
Goodnight, he said.
The morning came the way mornings do after nights like that — indifferent and bright, the sun spilling through the curtains without permission.
Like muscle memory, despite your anguish you did your hair and makeup quickly, cooked him a delicious breakfast and packed his lunch, all with a graceful smile.
As he shut the door on his way out you just stood there for a moment, as the house settled into its particular morning quiet, and then you moved.
You made coffee you didn't drink, stood at the kitchen window in your robe and watched the sprinkler next door sweep back and forth across a lawn that looked exactly like yours, funny. As hard as you tried to locate something useful inside your chest — anger, resolution, a plan — you came up with nothing.
He gave you everything, you reminded yourself.
The thought felt different than it used to.
When he bell rang you hesitated to answer, despite having your hair and makeup done, you felt as if you were the living dead, so when it rang again you pulled your silk robe tighter and opened the door.
"Fresh milk, straight from the farm!"
Bucky Barnes stood on your doorstep with two glass bottles tucked under one arm and a smile that had no business being that easy this early in the morning. He was already in his whites — sleeves rolled to the elbow despite the hour — and his hair perfectly soft in the morning light.
"Morning," he said, adjusting his tone slightly, the way people do when they realize they've walked into something quieter than they expected.
"Good morning." You held the door open a little wider. An invitation, "You brought me that butter I wanted?"
He tilted his head, just slightly. Something shifted behind his eyes — curiosity, or recognition — and then he smiled again, softer this time, and crossed the threshold, "of course!".
The kitchen felt smaller with him in it, he set the bottles on the counter and stood there with his cap in his hands while you poured two cups of coffee without asking, because it gave you something to do with yours.
"Lovely home," he said, and he meant it — you could tell the difference, he wasn't performing the way some men did, eyes moving around a room cataloguing what things cost. He was just looking, genuinely, the way people look at things they find beautiful.
"Thank you." You set his cup in front of him. "I try to make it feel like one."
He looked at you over the rim of his cup and didn't say anything for a moment. That was unexpected, it wasn't uncomfortable, surprising actually, most men filled silences, Bucky seemed comfortable in it.
"I heard you've been making special deliveries," you said lightly, settling onto a chair. "All over Waiting Willow." You paused, smiling into your cup. "Mrs. Maximoff must go through an awful lot of milk."
Something crossed his face — not guilt exactly, amusement, maybe, edged with something more careful. "You been talking to Carol Danvers."
"Carol Danvers talks to everyone."
He laughed at that — a real one, low and easy — and set his cup down. "And what do you think about it?"
You turned your cup slowly in its saucer. "I think you're a real operator," you said pleasantly, "the kind that practices in mirrors."
He looked at you for a long moment. Then — "And yet here I am in your kitchen."
"And yet," you agreed.
The silence that followed was a different, the dangerous kind that you recognized at a distance, the way you recognize weather changing before you can see it.
"I made ice cream yesterday," you said, standing before it could settle any further. "Strawberry. From the garden." You moved to the freezer and retrieved the metal container, setting it on the counter between you, deliberate. "Have some."
Not even waiting to be asked a second time, Bucky took a spoon and scooped some pink delight. He went very still for a moment, "is it good? I haven't tried it yet".
He looked up at you with an expression that was almost accusatory. "You made it and didn't try it?"
"I got distracted."
"That's a crime." He said it so seriously that you almost laughed. He was already feeding you a spoonful before you could even react. The strawberry hit your tongue cold and sweet and perfectly balanced and you understood immediately why he'd looked at you like that.
"Oh," you said.
"Right? It's so much better than store bought", he took another spoonful but his eyes remained on you, attentive, you felt seen.
You hadn't noticed you'd gotten some on your chin until his thumb was already there — just below the corner of your mouth — catching it with the kind of ease that suggested he hadn't thought about it either. His hand didn't move away immediately, neither did you.
Suddenly the summer heat became suffocating and his eyes dropped, just briefly, to your lips.
The percolator chose that exact moment to let out a sharp hiss from the stove top and you both came back to the kitchen at the same time, the morning light, the two coffee cups, now unfrozen.
Bucky pulled his hand back slowly and cleared his throat, reaching for his cap.
"Best ice cream on Waiting Willow Lane," he said, and his voice was only slightly hoarse.
You smiled as your heart beat in your throat, walked him to the door and stood on the threshold watching him go back down the path to his truck, bottles clinking softly against each other. He didn't look back, but the air felt different, you knew he would be back.
You stood there long after he had turned the corner, your heart doing something unreasonable in your chest, your thumb pressed lightly to your own chin where his had been.
Curiosity, you reminded yourself.
You went back inside and washed both coffee cups, feeling really curious.
Days had passed and for days you couldn't stop thinking about the infamous milkman.
You felt despicable for even thinking how his lips would feel across your skin, if his arms would be strong enough to hold you; over and over you thought of the way you almost took his thumb in your tongue, your mouth watered imagining the saltiness.
Despite your husband's disregard for your marriage, you still hated the thought of betraying your vows, you didn't know if you'd be able to live with the guilt.
But that damn voice, it told you things in the dead of night, you'd find yourself rubbing your legs together imagining Bucky whispering terrible terrible things in your ear.
Would he be a gentle lover, or would he take your virtue like something that belonged to him?
Was it worth destroying your marriage?
Then again, John already had.
You had every intention of keeping your distance, set boundaries…
But this morning you woke up with a particular ache between your legs, too painful to ignore. Staring at the ceiling you tried not to wake your husband, almost praying over and over that you felt nothing.
It wasn't working.
At 4:37 in the morning you gave up entirely, pulled your robe around you, and went downstairs.
The street was the kind of dark that exists only in the hour before the world wakes up— completely still and strangely serene. You sat on the front steps of your porch with your knees pulled up and your glasses on watching the street all the way down the Lane where the road curved out of sight.
You heard his truck before you saw it. That familiar low rumble, unhurried, moving through the dark in peace.
He almost didn't see you.
The truck rolled to a stop in front of the house and Bucky climbed out with two bottles and made it halfway up the path before pulled up short.
He looked at you for a moment. Then at the window behind you. Then back at you.
"You're up early," he said carefully.
"Couldn't sleep."
He nodded slowly, the way people nod when they know that isn't the whole answer. He set the bottles down by the door and instead of going back to his truck like you thought he would he stayed where he was, cap in his hands again,raked his fingers through his hair and waited.
You looked at the end of the street where the sky was beginning — barely, there to consider the color blue. —
"Would it be so wrong?," you asked quietly, shame be damned.
The silence that followed had weight to it.
"No," he answered.
"Then why are you looking at me like that?"
With a huff he walked to the other side of the porch, you followed shortly.
Bucky kept his distance, avoiding your eyes, you had to swallow the urge to grab him and make him look at you, as if he sensed your frustration after looking out the dark street he finally set his eyes on yours.
"Because I actually like you," he said simply. "And I don't want to be something that happens to you."
Your chest did something complicated.
"It wouldn't—"
"Don't tell me it wouldn't hurt you." He said it gently but without apology. "All these other housewives, they don't care about me— and I see the way you look at me."
"You look at me too!" you whispered defensively, feeling your cheeks heat up.
You took your glasses off and cleaned them on the hem of your robe for something to do with your hands.
Put them back on. The street came back into focus — the identical lawns, the sleeping houses, the tulips along your front path standing perfectly still in the windless dark.
"I'm not asking you for anything complicated" you said finally. "I just—" You stopped. "I'm so tired of being careful."
He turned and looked at you then, really looked, the way he had in the kitchen days ago, like he was trying to find uncertainty.
"I won't break," you said.
Something shifted in his expression — something that had been holding itself back — As he moved toward you, you walked back until you hit a wall, the distance between you on that porch became a different kind of distance entirely.
"Your husband is right upstairs," he said. His voice was very low, almost like a warning.
"I know."
As the smell of his cologne overwhelmed you in the most delicious way, he slowly raised his hand towards your face, his rough fingers a stark contrast against your soft cheeks, it made your knees weak.
The sky had gone from black to the deep bruised blue, almost morning. Somewhere down the street you could hear the faint chirp of the birds waking up.
His other hand found the doorframe beside your head and the world narrowed down to the small warm space between you and the thrill of it — the sleeping street, the dark windows, John right upstairs, the whole of Waiting Willow Lane not yet awake — you've never felt more alive.
His mouth found yours slowly, the kiss was sweet and gentle, the kind that you dream when you're a girl, but then there's a spark of guilt that unconsciously makes your head tilt back but he's quick enough to hold you by the back of your head and chin, his tongue asks for more and as easy as breathing, you let him in.
You'd only ever kissed John and this was nothing like it, with him it was proper, painfully slow. This felt like a rush, everything moved so quickly; you could feel your blood pumping and his heart felt like it was your own. Smashed between the wall and him, a small gasp escaped you when your hand grazed the outline of his hard cock.
Logic and all sense went out the window as you unbuckled his belt, the sight of your beautiful hands handling him with such hunger, that alone almost made him come. With the same fervor he worked open your robe to find you completely nude.
"Well, aren't you a firecracker" he grinned, while his fingers found your clit with ease. As you worked on him with quick tugs, his weight dropped on you, the grunts against your neck mixing with your quiet moans.
"We're gonna get caught if you keep singing for me" Bucky nipped your skin, proud of being the one making you like this; the thought of getting caught by John or your neighbors, the scandal, was enough to make you both finish at the same time, you had to bite your tongue to silence your scream while he groaned into your jaw, you could feel his cream between your fingers, you shivered in delight.
"You're dangerous" he whispered to himself.
It started with hushed moans and grunts in his truck.
Parked three streets over on a road that went nowhere in particular, engine off, the early morning sitting quiet around you like it was keeping your secret too. It felt reckless and nothing like the life you had ironed and folded and tucked into neat corners for five years. It felt like something that was entirely yours.
On Wednesdays you met him in the park when John had his lunch meeting with Henderson, coming home late and smelling like cheap perfume. You sat on a blanket under the elm tree, it wasn't just about using each other anymore, Bucky would bring you something from the bakery on Millbrook and you would talk for hours before you did anything else. That part surprised you, that he wanted to talk.
He told you about his route, the way he could see small moments in people's lives that most never saw. It was strange how easy you opened up to each other, you told him things John laughed at, and he marveled at. If you were honest with yourself, he's the first person you've ever been completely honest with, you told him about your life before John, about the affair…
He never judged, listened like it mattered, every word.
Over the next few months it was harder and harder to stay away from Bucky or for him to keep his hands to himself. You got reckless the way you always feared you would.
It started small — a moment too long on the doorstep when he made his deliveries, coffee that stretched past the reasonable hour, Wednesdays in the park that edged too close to afternoon when every mother took their children to play. You told yourselves each time that you would be more careful next time, and next time you were even less careful , you realized somewhere along the way you just stopped caring, the urge to be together was all consuming.
It was Carol Danvers who heard it first, which meant it was everywhere by the next 24 hours.
It's on the days you never expect when horrible things happen, John came home on a Friday. You knew he was angry before he was fully through the door — something about each step he took, the way he put his keys and briefcase down like it insulted him.
Taking a deep breath, your brain already expected the worse, you were at the stove and you kept your eyes there, kept on whisking batter, your face arranged into the pleasant neutral expression like nothing was wrong.
"Heard something interesting today," he said cold and calculating, from somewhere behind you. Looming.
"Oh?" The spoon kept moving.
"About you." A pause. "And the milkman."
The silence was heavy, as you felt your blood run cold, the day you were most afraid of was here.
You turned from the stove with a careful smile. "You know how people talk on this street."
"I do." He loosened his tie with one slow pull. "I also know you could never do that to me" he stated with venom in his voice… "But why would Carol Danvers tell such lies about you?", if you didn't know any better you'd say he was actually confused.
Of course . "Carol Danvers once told Wanda Maximoff she saw a UFO over the Hendersons' roof." You set the spoon down and reached for two glasses. "Dinner is almost ready Hon-."
His hand smashed down against the kitchen counter, rattling the utensils.
"Don't do that." His voice dropped a register. Not loud — John was never loud, that wasn't what made it frightening. He was the kind of man who got quiet when he was angry, he's never laid a hand on you, but deep down you always feared one day he would.
Clearing your throat, you set the glasses on the table and smoothed out place mats that didn't need smoothing.
"I'm not doing anything," you said calmly
"Look at me."
Without hesitation, you did, kept your face open and calm and faintly puzzled, the face of a woman who has nothing whatsoever to hide, and you held his gaze without flinching. If John ever found out what you did, what you have been doing under his roof, you don't know what he would do to Bucky, and you would do anything to keep him safe.
Something moved behind his eyes — rage building up — his fists closed tightly, the silence making your heart beat incessantly, acting on instinct your hand came to rest against your stomach, protectively.
You moved it away before he noticed.
"I am married to you John" you carefully said, "no matter what, that's the only thing that matters", your own words slapped you like a brick to the face.
He looked at you for one more long moment, still not quite convinced, but refusing to push any further, tentatively you took off your apron, revealing your waist perfectly accentuated by your dress, your eyelashes fluttered as you walked up to him, arms slowly wrapping around his neck, his stare remained cold but he couldn't help but grab onto your hips, pulling you closer
"Miriam Patterson had her baby. A boy." He muttered with the particular cruelty of a man who knows exactly where to press, you felt the sting behind your eyes but in a blink you replaced the hurt with a small smile.
"How wonderful for them," you whispered, as you kissed his cheek, then the other, next his neck, "Maybe we'll be just as lucky soon" you purred into his ear, fingernails scraped lightly against the back of his neck.
As his hands wondered your body, you wondered if you'd ever stop feeling sick.
You were on the porch before four.
Sat on the top step in the dark with your robe pulled tight and your glasses on, hands folded in your lap while your fingers nervously nitpicked your skin, despite having made your decision, knowing it was the right thing to do, you felt like a wicked woman, cursed to ruin anyone who cared for you…
You didn't mind waiting for him, the tulips along the path were black in the dark, you enjoyed watching the sun slowly shine on them, slowly turning them red again.
You heard his truck at the end of the lane and felt your heart do the thing it always did — that stupid, inconvenient, involuntary thing — and then he was coming up the path and kneeling down in front of you, worry taking over his face, "Jesus Doll, what are you doing out here? it's freezing", his arms wrapped around yours, rubbing them to warm you up and kissing your cold face with his warm-soft lips —You almost smiled —
Because you didn't respond, Bucky pulled back , his face going soft the way it always did when you were upset. He smelled like the warm bread and something underneath that was just him. You had take a deep breath before you trusted your voice.
"I need to tell you something," you said.
He waited.
"I'm pregnant." You blurted.
Bucky didn't move. You couldn't read his face until you saw the biggest smile break out — still in disbelief a genuine laugh escaped him, the joy that radiated off of him almost made your resolve crack.
"Okay," he said quietly, cupping your face with pure adoration is his eyes. — "Okay."He repeated, like he was already making plans in his head. "Okay, so we—"
"Bucky."
He stopped.
You were going to be sick but you weren't so sure it was morning sickness, swallowing down any hesitation, you sighed.
You turned and looked at him. In the thin grey light just beginning to suggest itself at the edge of the sky his face was very open,
"I'm can't leave him Buck," you whispered.
He looked at you. Something shifted behind his eyes — understanding arriving before he was ready.
"You don't want to leave him… there's a difference."
"I'm sorry."
A long silence.
"You're sorry," he repeated. His voice had changed, not mad, at least you didn't think he was mad, he was good at keeping his feelings at bay.
"We can't see each other anymore" you said in defeat, your throat aching to let yourself cry.
He stood up abruptly and took three steps down the path and stopped with his back to you, one hand pressed to the back of his neck, his shoulders tense in a way you had never seen on him before. Your Bucky who was easy about everything, Bucky who worshiped you and listened like it mattered, his eyes were red, and he could barely keep looking you in the eye.
"Did you sleep with him." It wasn't quite a question. The words came out low and tight. "Once you knew. So he wouldn't suspect," he spat.
You were too stunned to answer. He'd never raised his voice to you like this, you couldn't blame him.
He laughed — a short, broken sound that had nothing of his real laugh in it — and turned around and looked at you from the bottom of the path with something in his face that you would spend a long time trying to forget.
"Bucky—" You cried, quick on your feet, moving down the steps, your voice lower than a whisper. "You have to be quiet, please, he's right—"
"I know where he is." His voice cracked, "Maybe I should go up there, talk to the man who's going to raise my son!"
"Please." You reached him and put your hand against his chest and felt him breathing too fast, he tried to back away from you "our son!" the words caught in his throat, but you wouldn't let him, looking up at him with everything you had left you pleaded "Please."
You took his hand and brought it slowly, carefully, to your stomach.
Held it there.
He went very still.
His jaw worked, eyes were bright red, you could see his internal fight, his body begged him to push you away and go inside your house to kill the bastard, but then his thumb rubbed your belly, reminding himself that you were carrying the best parts of himself.
You don't know for how long you stood there, the sleeping houses remained quiet, except for the faint sound of their sprinklers. You watched him trying to ground himself .
"Let me go," you whispered, tears falling down both your faces. "Do this for me. Let us go."
The sky from black to blue to the first pale suggestion of morning Waiting Willow Lane was beginning, to wake.
His hand was still on your stomach when he closed his eyes, committing to memory the sound of your laugh, the smell of your hair in the mornings, he imagined a perfect world where he would raise a family with you, a world where he could be enough.
When he opened them again the look on his face told you with a quiet and terrible certainty, he would do as you asked.
He pulled his hand away gently, stepped back. You knew it was selfish but you desperately wanted to kiss him one last time, but before you could even take a step forward his eyes told you it wasn't a good idea.
He might never let you go if he kissed you right now.
Straightening his cap with the careful deliberateness of a man reassembling himself from the outside in, he looked you in the eyes one last time.
"I loved you well", he didn't say it anger or disappointment, just a gentle statement.
You nodded in return.
"Take care of yourself," he said, his voice was even. It hurt more than when he yelled.
You stood on the path and watched him walk back to his truck, you did not call after him, you just held your stomach like your life depended on it.
The truck turned at the end of the lane and was gone.
You stood there until you couldn't hear it anymore.
Wiping your tears with your sleeve, you went inside and washed your hands at the kitchen sink, started the percolator and began, with care and precision, to make your John's breakfast.
Then return to their familiar situation 250 words
The baby came on a Tuesday.
Small, perfect and furious about it, the way all new things are, the moment the nurse had placed him in your arms, you looked down at that small outraged face and felt something so large move through you that you forgot, for just a moment, every single thing that had brought him to this world.
He had his eyes.
Back at home, John held him the way most men held babies — carefully, at a slight distance, as though he were something that might make a sudden movement. He'd been slightly more helpful than you expected after the delivery, he said the right things, fed him when you couldn't, changed one diaper, still you couldn't help but wonder if you'd made the right decision.
"He has my eyes" he said, settling the baby into the crook of your arm.
"He does" you said softly, holding back a laugh.
Looking down on him again. His little face was simply looking now, experiencing the world, his cerulean blues wide and new and completely unimpressed, there was something in his expression that was so familiar and so devastating that you had to press your lips together for a moment and breathe very carefully through your nose.
"He's perfect," John said, and for once you believed he meant it.
You nodded and looked at your son, this way he would be taken care of , you reassured yourself.
Across the street the night was still.
Bucky sat in his truck with the engine off and the lights off , watching the warm yellow square of your bedroom window the way a man watches something he has no right to anymore and cannot look away from.
He had told himself he wouldn't come. He had told himself every night for 9 months he'd respect your wishes and leave you alone, despite his military training, you made him weak.
He could see your shadow behind the curtain. Just the outline of you, soft and warm against the light, and the smaller shape in your arms that you were rocking with the slow, unconscious rhythm of a woman who had been waiting her whole life to do exactly this.
Bucky smiled, despite everything, he wouldn't want any other woman to be the mother of his child, you were happy and he would be happy too, that's all that mattered.
He watched you move. Back and forth, back and forth, the shadow of you against the warm light of that room, that house, that life that had no place for him in it.
The tulips along your front path had come back. Red and perfectly upright in the dark, standing in a row like they didn't know anything had happened, which of course they didn't. Things grew back. The world kept its own schedule, indifferent and bright, the same way mornings came after nights that felt unbearable.
He thought about a Wednesday in the park under the elm tree, a blanket on the grass, paper bag from the bakery on Millbrook. The way you had talked about wanting a family and to be able to care and protect them; the way you had looked at him when you thought he was distracted.
Your shadow stilled at the window. — Just briefly — you stopped rocking and stood there, and in the perfect quiet of the room, with every house dark and every curtain drawn he had the irrational, hopeful feeling that you knew he was there.
He stayed until he couldn't anymore, fingers gripping the wheel until white and then he stayed a little longer, when he finally reached for the ignition his hands started shaking.
The truck moved quietly down the empty street.
At the end of the lane it turned, and was gone, and the night closed back over Waiting Willow Lane like water over a stone, as though nothing had ever been disturbed at all.
In the warm window your shadow rocked on.
End Notes: Thank you so much for reading 🥹, The Director always appreciates comments, reblogs and feedback!
Summary: Bucky comes home carrying more weight than he’ll ever say, but that doesn’t mean he’s alone. Not when he has you and Alpine.
Content Warning: Fluff, mild angst if you squint I guess?, gender neutral reader
A/N: Just a little something while I try and break out of burnout and back into my fluffy roots. Please enjoy!
Main Masterlist || AO3
Raindrops patter against the window, a soft tapping sound covering the noise of Friday night traffic on the street below. Overcast skies leave the small living room darker than usual at this time of day, providing a calm ambiance in an otherwise chaotic life.
You lit a candle—something scented and calming—about an hour ago, sometime between the first distant rumble of thunder and when Bucky finally stepped through the front door, boots heavy on the hardwood floor, scraped up and dirty from another mission.
He didn't say much when he came in. He usually doesn't. The tension in his jaw, rigidity of his shoulders, and deep bags under his eyes is more than enough to know he needs a moment—or a few—to collect himself before he can say a word.
So he moved through the apartment, footsteps almost unnoticeable once his boots are off, and disappeared into the bedroom with barely more than a single nod in your direction.
It used to hurt. It felt like a casual dismissal, like maybe you were impeding on his territory somehow; an unwanted presence after being alone for decades. But mission after mission, you came to learn he needed a break, however small, to gather his thoughts. To unwind from the stress that comes with being Bucky Barnes.
So you give him time. Let him come to you instead, like an animal who's been hurt too many times and is still learning to trust. Sometimes it takes minutes. Sometimes hours. Occasionally, if the mission was bad enough, it'd be days before he says more than a grunt. You never push. You never ask. But every time, without fail, he comes back to you.
The bathroom door creaks open, followed by a soft meow, before a blur of white fur rounds the corner and leaps onto your lap. Alpine purrs as she settles onto the blanket thrown over your lap, nudging the book in your hand like it's in the way of her getting your full attention.
"Yeah, yeah," you murmur, placing a bookmark between the worn pages and setting it on the side table. "Miss Princess needs some attention. Did you not get enough tuna treats earlier?"
She meows, bright blue eyes giving you a look that says she could always use more.
"Don't trust her," Bucky grunts softly as he exits the bedroom. "I don't know how many you gave her, but I'm sure it was too many."
His hair is damp from the shower, hands stuffed in the pockets of the gray sweatpants he's changed into. He slowly moves towards the couch, steps silent, shoulders still tense. You can almost hear a sigh of relief when he sits down, thigh pressed to yours, his large frame sinking into the plush cushions.
"I've never given her that many. She just acts like I've never fed her in her entire existence."
His head, resting on the back cushions, rolls to the side to look at you, one corner of his mouth tipping up.
"Are you starving my cat?"
"Our cat," you correct, "and no. She's just spoiled." Alpine meows indignantly, moving to lay on his lap instead as though she's offended.
He almost laughs, a sharp exhale of air from his nose just loud enough to be heard over the rain. He stays quiet for a moment, tired eyes roaming over your features like he's studying them…or recommitting them to memory.
"Fair enough," he finally mutters, his gaze falling to the book you were reading. The seemingly permanent crease in his brow deepens just a fraction, hardly noticable if you weren't paying attention. "Is that mine?"
You follow his gaze to the old copy of The Hobbit that had been carefully tucked away on the bookshelf, small and unassuming. It'd been there long before you moved in and left untouched, a fine layer of dust had gathered on top of the pages before you pulled it out.
"Is that okay?"
You glance back at him, his eyes locked on the cover like he's trying to remember something he had forgotten existed.
The silence that falls isn't uncomfortable, but emotion swirls in the blue depths of his eyes and it oddly feels like you're intruding on a private moment.
"I'm sorry, I'll put it back." You pick up the book and move to stand, but his metal hand reaches out and grabs your wrist. Not tight, just enough to halt your movements.
"Don't." His voice is quiet, rough in a way it wasn't before despite the exhaustion that has seeped into his bones. "It's okay."
It's quiet again for another moment, Bucky's grip loosening slightly but not fully letting go. You don't meet his eyes, both of you staring at the hardcover of the book in your hands until he finally breaks the silence.
"Will you read it to me?"
The thought crosses your mind to push back, to argue that reading Tolkien aloud is hardly ideal when reading it could already be difficult. But Bucky knows that already, surely. There's something in his tone—softer than it was a moment ago, a hint of nostalgia mixed with something you can't quite name—but it's the loosening tension in his shoulders that tells you he might need this; a welcome distraction from whatever is going on in his head.
So you nod instead, flipping the book back open to the first chapter. He releases your wrist, his hand falling back to the couch in the small space where your thighs aren't touching, the metal whirring softly.
"'In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit…'"
His gaze finds the ceiling again as you begin to read, his jaw working.
The rain continues its rhythm against the windowpane, Alpine's purring accompanying it like a beautiful symphony of white noise. Bucky slowly relaxes next to you, eyes slipping closed as he listens to a tale about a hobbit going on an unexpected journey.
Summary: After you disappear, Steve Rogers is left with a letter that feels more like a confession than a goodbye. What began in hatred became something darker - something obsessive, intimate, and impossible to name. A story of jealousy, silence, devotion, and the kind of love that bruises before it saves.
Wordcount: 6.1k
Pairing: Steve Rogers x Female Reader (no use of Y/N)
Warnings: toxic relationship dynamics, obsessive love, emotional dependency, jealousy, possessiveness, violence, dark themes, emotional manipulation, unhealthy attachment, conflict-heavy romance, trauma, disappearance themes, abandonment themes, implied sexual content, war-related atmosphere, angst, longing, enemies to lovers, hurt no comfort, doomed love
A/N: this has been dormant in my files for years. And I'll be honest, I don't know if it can become something else, but since it's Steve week, I ended up improving it to post it. This has been beta read.
Masterlist
Steve,
If you are reading this, then I am gone.
I do not know whether that means I left, whether I was taken, whether I ran before the walls closed in, or whether the world finally did what it has always tried to do to people like us and swallowed me whole. Maybe by the time this reaches your hands, the difference will not matter anymore. Maybe it never did. You have always liked clear lines, haven’t you? Causes and consequences. Good and bad. Right and wrong. Things that can be named, understood, carried like a shield. But there was never anything clear about us. Never anything clean. Never anything simple.
So if you are looking for a precise explanation, for the exact turn we took, the exact mistake that ruined us, the exact hour at which everything began to rot – then I am sorry, because I cannot give that to you.
Do you remember how we got here?
Not here as in this room, or this city, or this war-torn life that keeps dragging us from one battlefield to another. I mean here – to this place between us, this ruin we built with our own hands, this thing made of longing and resentment and hunger, this bond that never knew whether it wanted to kiss or kill. Do you remember the road? Do you remember which path we followed, which road we ran beside, which exits we did not take, which warning signs we ignored? Do you remember what was too much, what was missing, what we should have said, what we should have buried, what we should have resisted, what we should have surrendered to?
Do you remember those intersections we crossed without seeing them? Those moments when everything could still have become something else, something easier, something gentler? Do you remember when we still had the chance to turn around?
I do not.
That is the cruelest part of all of this. Not the pain. Not the loss. Not even the fear.
It is the fact that I cannot remember where the hatred ended and where the rest began.
I do not remember which hatred brought us here, which love dragged us further, which wound first made us turn toward each other instead of away. I forgot how it started. Sometimes I think it was with an insult, something sharp and careless and full of the kind of contempt that only matters because it hides something deeper underneath. Sometimes I think it was with a blow, some act of violence aimed at one of us while the other stood too close, close enough to feel it, close enough to take it personally. Sometimes I think it started much earlier than that – before either of us had spoken, before either of us had touched, before we were anything at all to each other – back when we were only two people built in opposition, destined to recognize the worst and the most familiar parts of ourselves in someone else’s eyes.
What I know for certain is this:
It did not begin in peace.
There was never any peace in us.
Not the first time you looked at me, and not the last.
You looked at me like I was an offense. Like I was something wrong in the architecture of the world, some flaw you had not expected to find and now could not stop seeing. And I looked back at you like I wanted to drag every bright thing in you into the dark just to prove it could survive there – or to prove that it could not.
You were too much from the start.
Too steady. Too righteous. Too controlled. Too infuriatingly good at carrying your pain without letting it spill onto the floor for everyone else to see. You wore decency like skin, and I hated you for it. I hated the way people breathed easier when you walked into a room. I hated the way they looked at you, as though you were proof that not everything in this world had rotted through. I hated that hope seemed to cling to you like a second shadow. I hated that you made impossible things look survivable.
And most of all, I hated that you looked at me and did not look away.
There should have been fear. There should have been disgust, distance, caution – something. Anything. But you kept looking. Not kindly. Never kindly. But honestly. Like you understood, from the very beginning, that I was dangerous not because I was monstrous, but because I was familiar. Because there was something in me that recognized something in you, and we both resented it before we ever had the language for it.
So yes, I hated you.
I hated you because you were easy to hate at first. Because you stood for everything I had learned to distrust. Because you made loyalty look effortless. Because you believed in things I had spent my whole life watching fall apart. Because the world had put you on a pedestal and told the rest of us to measure ourselves against your silhouette. Because you were the kind of man everyone wanted to become and the kind of man I wanted to break.
And maybe you hated me too.
Or maybe you hated how quickly I saw through the performance. Maybe you hated that I did not care about the myth, only the man inside it. Maybe you hated that I knew your goodness was not softness, that your morality was not innocence, that your restraint was not peace but discipline, hard-won and white-knuckled. Maybe you hated that I kept pushing at the places where you were still bleeding.
Whatever it was, it was there from the beginning: that sharpness, that friction, that constant sense that the air changed when we were forced into the same room. It unsettled people. I noticed. They could feel it, even when they did not understand it. They thought it was only hostility, only competition, only ideological contempt. They thought we despised one another because we were opposites.
But hatred is rarely that simple.
Hatred watches.
Hatred learns.
Hatred memorizes.
Hatred waits.
And ours did all of those things. We studied each other like enemies, yes – but enemies who had somehow become landmarks. Constants. Proofs.
You became proof for me, Steve.
That is another truth I hate admitting, even now.
You were proof that something in this world would remain. That no matter how far things fell, no matter how badly everything shifted and twisted and burned, I would still find you there – stubborn, furious, glaring back, alive in exactly the way I had come to depend on. You were not warmth. You were not comfort. You were not kindness, not really, not with me. But you were there. You were solid. A rock, perhaps. Not a gentle one, not one anyone would want to rest their head against without bleeding, but a rock all the same. A marker. A point on the map. If I could still find you, then the whole world had not yet gone mad beyond recognition.
That was the first trap, I think.
Not desire.
Need.
Need is always uglier.
I needed your hatred because it met mine without pretending to cure it. I needed the certainty of your disapproval because it meant you were still close enough to judge. I needed your anger, your eyes on me, your refusal to let me vanish into the corners where I had learned to survive. I needed the shape of your resistance because everything else in my life moved too easily, broke too quickly, betrayed too often.
You were difficult. You were infuriating. You were relentless.
You were still there.
And then, somehow – quietly, treacherously – that stopped being enough.
I cannot tell you when trust came into it.
I have tried to find that moment in my head, to isolate it, to pin it down and accuse it properly, but it slips away every time. Maybe because it did not arrive like revelation. Maybe because nothing that ruins you ever arrives with ceremony. It comes in slowly, like a draft under the door, like poison diluted in clear water, like exhaustion turning enemies into confidants because they are too tired to keep performing their hate with proper conviction.
That is how it happened, I think.
At night.
It was always at night with us.
Daytime belonged to everyone else – to missions, to politics, to expectations, to the roles the world had written for us before we were ever asked if we wanted them. In daylight, we remembered what we were supposed to be. Opponents. Contradictions. A man made into a symbol and a woman made into a problem. In daylight, we knew how to look at each other the way they expected us to. Coldly. Sharply. Like a loaded question.
But nights were treacherous.
At night, there was less of the world between us.
At night, hatred became tiring.
That is the truth no one ever tells you about hate: it is exhausting. It takes effort to keep cutting someone with the same blade over and over. It requires performance, posture, intention. And some nights, after all the battles we had already fought against everyone else, we simply did not have the strength left to keep fighting each other too.
So there was a truce.
Never spoken. Never negotiated. Never acknowledged. But there all the same.
The late-night kitchen. The safehouse balcony. The hallway outside medical after a mission gone wrong. Long drives with the city unspooling outside the windows and silence humming in the car like a third presence. Rooftops. Fire escapes. Empty training rooms. Those strange in-between hours when the rest of the world slept and two people who had spent the whole day pretending could finally stop.
We talked then.
Not about us. Never about us.
We talked about the world because it was easier to hate the world aloud than to admit what had begun mutating between us. We spoke about failure, corruption, compromise, the filthy machinery that kept grinding people up and calling it justice. We spoke about war and power and governments and grief. We spoke about the cost of being used. We spoke about exhaustion. About not fitting in the versions of ourselves other people kept demanding. About how lonely it was to be needed for what you could do and never for what you were.
And in the middle of those conversations, trust happened.
Not the kind that heals.
Not the kind that softens.
Ours was a worse kind. The kind built on knowing exactly where the knife could go and choosing, for one more night, not to use it. The kind built on shared silences and unfinished confessions and the certainty that if the whole room turned on us, the other would at least understand why we were dangerous.
We were not friends.
That word has always been too innocent for us.
We were not lovers either, not then.
We were something darker. Something in between. Something without a proper name. Two people who knew they might one day be forced to stand on opposite sides of the same disaster, and who still kept coming back to these stolen hours as if understanding each other were already a form of betrayal.
Do you remember when I started walking beside you?
Not physically. I had walked beside you on missions before, shoulder to shoulder, back to back, all discipline and muscle memory and necessity. I mean truly beside you. When I began following that twisted road of yours, that impossible road that never promised safety but still somehow promised movement, light, purpose. That road of yours was winding and ugly and exhausting. It was paved with sacrifice and duty and stupid, impossible hope. I should have hated it. I did hate it. And still I followed.
I followed because you asked me without asking.
I followed because there was a light in you that repelled me and drew me in with equal force.
I followed because being alone had become heavier than being angry.
I followed because you looked back, once, as if you expected me to disappear, and I realized I wanted to prove you wrong.
I followed because I thought I had nothing left to lose.
That was naïve, of course.
I had everything to lose, and eventually I lost it all.
But at the time, it felt simple: you and I, two solitary creatures too damaged for anything clean, walking forward because standing still would have meant acknowledging how broken we already were. We never paused long enough to ask what was happening. We never named anything. We just kept going. Side by side, against reason, against instinct, against every warning either of us might have heard if we had been wiser.
And as we kept moving, something grew.
Respect, first.
That came before anything else.
A reluctant respect. Bitter, stubborn, almost insulting in the way it settled into us. I learned the shape of your courage, not the theatrical kind, but the miserable, costly kind – the kind that makes a person get up again when there is no glory left in it. You learned mine too, I think, though you rarely said so. You watched me survive what should have broken me, and I watched you carry burdens that should have crushed you. That was the beginning of a different kind of seeing.
Then came understanding.
Then the glances.
Then the pauses that lasted too long.
Then the quiet smiles neither of us was supposed to notice.
Then the hand at the small of my back that stayed there a second beyond necessity.
Then my fingers brushing yours and neither of us moving away quickly enough.
Then the nights that stretched and stretched because ending them meant returning to daylight, and daylight had become unbearable once darkness taught us what truce felt like.
We still did not call it love.
Even now, I am not sure that was the right word for it at first.
It was attraction, yes. God, it was attraction. Violent, humiliating, consuming. It lived under my skin like a fever. I could feel it every time you came too close, every time your voice dropped low, every time you said my name like it was either a warning or a confession. But attraction alone would have been easier. It would have burned fast and ugly and then left us. It should have. It should have stayed simple and physical and temporary.
But it did not.
Because it attached itself to everything else.
To trust.
To resentment.
To admiration.
To loneliness.
To the impossible relief of being understood without being forgiven.
And that is where it became dangerous.
Do you remember the first time I almost left?
You must.
You were standing by the door, your hands bruised, your mouth split, your silence worse than any answer you could have given me. I had heard enough by then – enough from you, enough from myself, enough from the thing growing between us that neither of us was brave enough to touch in daylight. I was angry. No, not angry. Anger is hot and useful. I was emptied out. Hollowed. Afraid in the way I only ever was with you, because you had become one of the few things in this world capable of hurting me in ways I could not heal from alone.
So I said I was done.
I said it quietly.
That is important. Quiet is always worse.
I put my hand on the door and for one second – one impossible, suspended second – I believed I might actually leave. I believed I might tear myself out of this before it rooted any deeper.
You did not stop me.
I hated you for that.
For days, for weeks, maybe longer, I hated you for staying still. For keeping your hands at your sides. For letting me walk away as though I were not already carved into you somewhere deeper than either of us wanted to admit.
But later I understood.
You did not stop me because you were afraid.
Not of losing me.
Of wanting me to stay.
That was when I realized how far gone we already were. Because if you had touched me then – if you had grabbed my wrist, if you had said my name the way you said it when your control slipped, if you had taken one step toward me – I would have stayed.
And you knew it.
And I knew that you knew it.
So I left.
And then, of course, I came back.
I always came back.
That was our most pathetic, most inevitable truth: no matter how many times we wounded each other, no matter how fiercely we tried to keep our distance, absence only sharpened everything. Distance did not cure us. It made us worse. Made the hunger meaner. Made the silence louder. Made your ghost appear in rooms you had never even entered. I could not get away from you because you were no longer outside me. By then, you had already settled somewhere under my skin, where no amount of pride could reach.
When I came back, we did not speak about it.
Of course we did not.
We looked at each other and let all the missing days stand between us like an accusation.
Then you smiled – that awful, knowing smile of yours, the one that always felt a little like a threat – and asked if I could not stay away.
And because I have always been at my weakest when I am trying to wound you, I told you that neither could you.
That was the first honest thing we said to each other about this. Not what it was. Not yet. But that it existed. That it had power. That it had already begun to decide things for us.
After that, the line dissolved.
I do not know how else to say it.
There was no grand confession, no clean surrender. Just a long sequence of almosts. Almost touches. Almost admissions. Almost mercy. Almost escape. Until one night almost was no longer enough.
Do you remember the stairwell?
I know you do.
Dark except for the emergency light. The smell of dust and concrete. A fight between us that had started over something trivial and ended, as our fights always did, somewhere rawer and uglier and truer. You had said something cruel. I had said something crueler. We were too close. Breathing too hard. Looking at each other like we were already on fire and trying to decide whether to spread or extinguish.
I shoved you.
You caught my wrist.
And then everything changed.
There are moments when the body understands what the mind is still too cowardly to admit. That was one of them. Your hand around my wrist. My back against the wall. Your face close enough that I could see every fracture in your restraint. Fury, yes. But not only fury. Never only fury with us. There was hunger in it too. Hunger and fear and something like grief, as though we both knew we were seconds away from making a mistake that would ruin any chance of returning to the clean lie of hatred.
You asked me to tell you to let go.
I should have.
God, Steve, I should have.
Instead I told you that you would not.
And you did not.
Your mouth on mine felt like violence first. Then like relief. Then like disaster. There was nothing tender about it. Nothing accidental. It was all the things we had refused to say turned into impact. Months, maybe years, of anger and tension and starving restraint collapsing into one unbearable point. You kissed me like a man who had spent too long pretending not to be starving. I kissed you back like I wanted to punish you for it.
When it ended, we looked at each other like we had both been betrayed.
Perhaps we had.
By ourselves.
After that, there was no going back.
That is the simple truth of it, stripped bare: once we crossed that line, every other line became theoretical.
We became greedy.
For touch. For proof. For each other.
A hand on a shoulder became fingertips at the throat. A glance became a challenge. A challenge became a fight. A fight became a kiss. A kiss became an embrace. An embrace became teeth and nails and gasping breath and the kind of desperation that makes the whole world disappear for a few stolen minutes. You learned the map of my body with a reverence that looked too much like anger to be gentle. I learned every way your control broke, every tremor in your breath, every expression you tried to hide after. We tore into each other like the world was ending and we wanted to meet it already ruined.
And still, even then, hatred did not leave.
That is what makes this impossible to explain to anyone who has not lived it.
We did not stop hating each other when we started touching. We did not stop resenting the power the other held. We did not become soft or safe or simple. If anything, the hatred grew sharper because now it had teeth. Now it had a body to live in. I hated how much I wanted you. I hated the way you could unmake me with one glance, one touch, one command spoken in that low voice that always made me feel like I was standing on the edge of something irreversible. I hated how alive I felt when I was with you. I hated how ruined I felt when I was not.
And I think you hated it too.
You hated your lack of control around me. Hated that I could drag something savage out of you with barely a word. Hated that all your discipline, all your restraint, all the years you had spent building yourself into someone reliable and good and strong could come apart in my hands so quickly. Hated that I made you want things you could not justify in the language of heroes and duty and noble sacrifice.
We were like magnets, I once thought.
But that was too neat, too scientific, too innocent.
Magnets do not choose.
Magnets do not wound.
Magnets do not lie awake at night trying to decide whether what they feel is desire or damnation.
Still, there was something true in it. You were all impossible light, all stubborn hope, all forward motion. And I was everything that recoiled from that, everything darker, sharper, meaner. We should have repelled. We did repel. Again and again. Yet every time we pushed away, we came back harder. Drawn in by the very opposition that should have kept us apart.
And then the whole thing shifted again.
Because eventually, Steve, our hatred found a better target.
At first, it was easy to aim it at each other. Convenient, even. We had been taught to stand on opposite sides. Taught to distrust. Taught to classify. Taught to simplify each other into roles. But the world made a mistake.
It pushed too hard.
It tried to use us.
It tried to define us.
It tried to separate us and sell that separation back to us as order, as necessity, as righteousness.
It tried to make you into a symbol and me into a warning.
And in trying to force us back into those shapes, it only taught us how much we had already become something else.
So the hatred turned outward.
Together.
That was when we became truly dangerous.
You and I against each other had always been inevitable. But you and I against the world? That was catastrophe. Because by then we knew each other too well. We knew how to move together. How to read silence. How to anticipate violence. How to trust in the ugliest, fiercest, most complete way possible. We became a closed circuit. A private war. A language no one else could speak. We hated the people who tried to manipulate us. Hated the games, the politics, the false moralities, the systems that devoured people and called it peacekeeping. We hated the ones who fed on chaos from a distance and never got blood on their own hands. We hated a world that kept asking us to die beautifully instead of live honestly.
And all of that hatred – every drop of it – bound us tighter.
That is why I cannot separate the love from the hate when I think of us. They grew from the same root. They fed on the same wounds. Without love, perhaps we would never have hated with such intensity. Without hate, perhaps we would never have understood how much power the other had to destroy us. Each feeling sharpened the other until they became almost indistinguishable.
Do you know what the worst part was?
The desire.
Not because it was there. Desire is easy. Ordinary. Human.
No, the worst part was what it did to us.
We stopped being able to leave. We stopped being able to think straight around each other. It became too much and never enough all at once. The need for the other’s presence, the other’s breath, the other’s touch – God, Steve, it made us pathetic. It made us reckless. We could go from screaming at each other to tearing into each other’s clothes in the span of a heartbeat. We could spend days avoiding eye contact and then end up with my nails in your back, your mouth at my throat, both of us shaking like the world had narrowed to skin and heat and the kind of hunger that feels half like worship and half like revenge.
And afterward – always afterward – there was that silence.
That terrible silence.
Not peaceful. Never peaceful. Just full. Heavy with all the words we did not say. We could talk for hours about missions, failures, governments, betrayals, casualties, consequences. We could analyze the whole broken world with ruthless precision. But speak about us? Never. Not really. We insulted. We mocked. We snarled. We bit at each other with language because language was safer when it wounded than when it confessed.
I think we were afraid of words.
Afraid that once spoken, they would become real.
Afraid that real things can be taken.
Afraid of loving wrongly, unevenly, alone.
Afraid that if one of us said too much and the other did not say it back, then whatever remained would not be hatred anymore, only humiliation. And neither of us had ever been built to survive tenderness without armor.
So we kept it silent.
We let our bodies speak. Our glances. Our choices. Our violence. Our restraint. You standing between me and danger before I asked. Me keeping your secrets when I had every reason not to. You touching me like you were trying to remember I was alive. Me watching you sleep and hating how much peace there was in your face when no one was demanding anything from you.
That was our compromise.
We did not confess.
We enacted.
We did not promise.
We returned.
And maybe that was worse, in the end, because it allowed us to pretend that what we had was temporary, nameless, survivable.
It was none of those things.
You know, I think we came closest to happiness in those moments no one else ever saw.
Not some soft, innocent happiness. Not the kind from stories. Not the kind they promise children when they speak of love like it is a reward for being good. Ours was darker than that. Dirtier. It came dressed in guilt and exhaustion and bruises. But it was real. In the mornings when you were half-asleep and unguarded. In the moments when your forehead rested against mine and the whole world seemed held outside by nothing more than our shared refusal to let it in. In the rare, impossible seconds when we laughed and neither of us regretted it immediately after. In the way your hand sometimes found mine without permission, without ceremony, as though it had known where to go all along.
That was happiness, wasn’t it?
Or the nearest thing people like us were ever meant to touch.
Maybe we were only capable of it together.
Maybe that was the curse.
We were cursed lovers, Steve.
Not in the sweet, tragic way people mean when they compare themselves to old stories. Not in the foolish, theatrical way of teenagers who think suffering makes them profound. No. We were cursed in the ugliest and simplest sense: we found the one thing that could have saved us and discovered it carried the power to destroy us too.
We were never going to love each other gently.
There was too much ruin in us for that.
Too much blood already on our hands.
Too much rage.
Too much fear.
Too much history that had taught us closeness is always leverage waiting to be used.
And yet I loved you.
That is the sentence I have spent the whole letter circling because it is still the hardest one to write.
I loved you.
Not sweetly.
Not safely.
Not in any way that would make sense to decent people.
I loved you with the same ferocity with which I fought you. I loved you in all the places I had once reserved for anger. I loved you with suspicion and obsession and hunger and grief. I loved you in the pause before impact and in the trembling aftermath. I loved you when I wanted to leave. I loved you when I wanted to hurt you. I loved you when I could not stand the sight of you and when I could not breathe without it. I loved you when you were cruel, and when you were careful, and when you were exhausted, and when you looked at me like I was the one thing in this world you did not know how to survive.
I loved you as much as I hated you.
Maybe more.
Maybe they were the same thing by then.
And perhaps that is why I had to leave.
Or why I let them take me.
Or why I made myself disappear before the world could do worse.
Choose whichever explanation helps you sleep, if any of them do.
But listen to me carefully now, because this is the closest thing to truth I know how to give you:
I did not go because I felt nothing.
I went because I felt too much.
Because loving you had become a weakness other people could smell on me.
Because wanting me had become a fracture in you they could exploit.
Because one day, sooner or later, someone would realize that the easiest way to destroy us was not by aiming at our bodies, but by aiming at the thing we had never dared name aloud.
And they would not hesitate.
The world has always known where to strike.
It would use me against you.
It would use you against me.
It would put your goodness on trial and my darkness in chains and call the whole spectacle justice.
I could not bear that. Not for you. Not because I think you are fragile – God knows you are not – but because I know what you would do if given the choice between the world and me.
And that terrifies me.
It has always terrified me.
So I am writing instead of speaking. Hiding instead of asking. Leaving instead of staying long enough for us both to be cornered by the truth. Cowardly, perhaps. But then, you and I were always cowards when it came to the words that mattered most.
Do not make me into something pretty after I am gone.
Do not clean me up in your memory. Do not turn this into some noble tragedy where we were victims of timing and circumstance and fate. We did this too. We built it. Fed it. Kept choosing it. There was rot in it from the beginning, and we loved it anyway. That matters. The ugliness matters. The obsession matters. The damage matters. If you remember me, remember me whole. Remember the cruelty and the tenderness and the jealousy and the ruin. Remember the way I could wound you with a sentence and undo you with a look. Remember the way you held me like restraint was a language your body had forgotten. Remember the fights. The bruises. The laughter that sounded almost shocked to exist. Remember the nights when we hated the world together and thought that was enough to count as hope.
Do not forgive me too easily.
I am not asking for absolution.
I am asking to be remembered accurately.
And if part of you still wants directions, still wants cause and effect, still wants a final answer to the question at the start of all this – how did we get here? – then perhaps this is the only answer I have left:
We got here because hatred was easier to admit than love.
Because love would have asked too much of us.
Because hatred let us stay armed.
Because desire made liars of us.
Because trust came quietly and ruined everything.
Because we were lonely in exactly the same places.
Because the world gave us opposite masks and we got tired of wearing them.
Because you saw me.
Because I saw you.
Because once that happened, there was no clean way out.
So this is my confession, if that is what you need to call it.
You were the worst thing that ever happened to me.
You were the only thing that ever made me want to stay.
You were the wound.
You were the fever.
You were the truce.
You were the war.
You were the only person I ever looked at and thought: if the world ends, let it end with you this close.
And for whatever it is worth, for whatever remains worth anything at all now –
I loved you.
I loved you in every broken language I knew.
I loved you in silence because I was afraid of the sound.
I loved you in anger because anger was safer.
I loved you with my hands, with my mouth, with my absence, with every return.
I loved you enough to leave.
Or enough to hope you would follow.
You see? Even now I am not honest all the way through.
That has always been our problem.
I want to tell you not to look for me.
I want to tell you to let me become one more ghost among all the others you carry.
I want to tell you to put this letter away, to burn it, to hate me properly, to survive me.
But if I am honest – truly honest, for once – then I know exactly what I am doing by writing this. I know you too well. I know what these words will do inside you. I know the shape of your loyalty. I know how impossible it is for you to leave unfinished things in the dark, and I know that I have never been unfinished to you.
So no, I will not insult you by pretending this is a clean goodbye.
It isn’t.
It never was.
This is me putting the knife in your hand and trusting that if you use it, you will know where to cut.
This is me leaving you the truth too late.
This is me telling you that if there was ever any holiness in my life, it did not come from innocence. It came from the terrible, wrecked, unholy way I belonged to you.
And if there was ever anything worth saving in yours, I hope it survives me.
If it does not, then at least let the ruins be honest.
Do you remember how we got here, Steve?
No.
Neither do I.
But I remember you.
I remember your glare, your mouth, your hands, your impossible restraint, your terrible mercy. I remember the first time I trusted you and the first time I let you hurt me and the first time I understood those two things had become inseparable. I remember every night that made a liar out of the day. I remember every time I almost left. I remember every time I came back. I remember how we turned our hatred into a bridge and then set fire to it while we were still standing on it.
And I remember this, most of all.
I loved you as much as I hated you.
Maybe that was always the same thing.
– Yours, in all the worst ways
GENERAL taglist: @/mellowfurynight | @castielscaplan | @whatisanniedoin
Pairing: Taxi/Cab Driver!Bucky Barnes x Passenger!Female Reader
Summary: You’re Bucky’s favorite passenger. He knows your schedule by heart. The same day, time, and location. You’re kind. You talk to him like he’s more than just the man behind the wheel. You always tip well.
He can’t help but fall for you.
But he’s just a cab driver. You deserve better than that. Better than him. So, he keeps things professional… until you lean on him one fateful night when the world feels too heavy.
He doesn’t just want to drive you home anymore.
He wants to be someone you can come home to.
Word Count: Over 12.2k
Warnings: Pining, mutual pining, slow(ish) burn, a bit of idiots in love, hurt/comfort, angst with comfort, emotional breakdown, crying, insecurities, sick family member, Bucky Barnes (his POV and he's a warning, okay?)
A/N: @tavners suggested Bucky as a cab driver ages ago and the Barbie Dreamhouse helped bring him to life. Huge thanks to @miraclediviner for putting it together and for being patient and letting me submit this late and @stantastic-association for letting me participate. ❤️ Beta read by the lovely @mumbles411, but any and all mistakes are my own. Dividers by the talented @saradika-graphics. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!
The city sky was still light as Bucky pulled onto your street, a smile touching his lips briefly. Every week for the last three months he picked you up to take you to your brother’s apartment. Same time, same day without fail. He knew the route by heart. Could do it in his sleep.
Thursday had become his favorite day of the week thanks to you.
His favorite passenger.
Someone bright and soft during his long shifts and rough nights.
He came to a stop in front of your building, making sure he adjusted the heat so you wouldn’t be too cold. There was a blanket in the back just in case it wasn’t enough. He also changed the radio station to something he knew you’d enjoy but kept it low enough in case you wanted to talk.
He liked it when you talked to him.
“Do I look okay?” he asked himself, checking his hair in the mirror before he chuckled.
Bucky didn’t dress up a lot since he drove a cab for a living, but he tried to take a bit of pride in his appearance. Clean clothes and a subtle amount of cologne. Beard and hair kept neat, too, even with the bit of gray showing more in his chestnut strands these days.
He liked to think it gave him a refined look.
Something you might notice.
The steady hum of the engine grounded him as he looked at the door, his breath catching when you stepped outside. You paused on the top step, your gaze sweeping along the street as you adjusted the bag on your shoulder. Something warm bloomed in his chest when you spotted him and gave him that familiar soft wave and smile. He wanted to believe that smile was reserved just for him.
Get it together. You’re just her driver. Nothing more.
It didn’t stop him from hoping.
He straightened up when you made your way to the car and opened the door.
“Happy Friday Eve, Buck,” you said, sliding into the backseat.
The corner of his lips twitched at the familiar greeting. Not “driver” or “sir” or anything like that. Just Buck. Steve was the only other person who called him that.
It sounded right coming from you.
“You mean Friday Junior,” he teased, trying hard not to make a show of breathing in your scent.
There were plenty of passengers who practically bathed themselves in colognes and perfumes. It was enough to choke on before he aired out the cab. But not you. You always smelled so nice. So sweet.
Jesus fucking Christ. Get a grip.
“Same thing,” you teased back, slipping your shoes off and tucking your legs beneath you.
The first time you asked if it was okay for you to take your shoes off, he almost laughed. It surprised him more than anything that you cared enough to ask. Like you cared about his space and him. He didn’t mind as long as you were comfortable.
He always wanted you to feel comfortable and safe in his presence.
“We made it through another day,” you sighed.
“And your prize for making it through another day is spending time with me,” he joked.
You laughed, a soft sound like music to his ears. “Lucky me,” you said without a hint of sarcasm.
He cleared his throat, his heart skipping a beat. “Blanket back there and the heat’s on.”
“Thanks,” you said, adding above a whisper, “You’re so good to me.”
Bucky opened his mouth and closed it. “Just doing my job,” he said, the words bittersweet on his tongue.
“Well, I appreciate it.” You hummed a little as you dug through your bag. “And… I got something for you.”
He already knew what it was.
“Protein bar?”
“Protein bar,” you confirmed.
He made an offhand comment in the beginning about his favorite brand.
You surprised him by giving one the following week, and you have brought him one every week since then.
Part of him wanted to save the wrappers, but Sam shut that down by saying it was serial killer behavior.
Your fingers brushed his when he reached back to grab, a jolt running through his body and settling deep in his chest. “I think you’re too good to me,” he said.
It was a thoughtful thing for you to do.
“Just being a good passenger,” you said casually, but he caught the hint of affection there.
Something soft… and real.
Bucky glanced at you in the mirror, his gaze lingering longer than it should’ve when you covered yourself with the blanket and settled into the leather with a sigh. His chest puffed out a little, a sense of pride filling him since you used the blanket. He picked the softest and warmest one he had.
You looked completely at ease, like you belonged there.
“Heading to your brother’s place, or you gonna switch it up on me?”
“Same trip as always,” you replied.
Of course.
A visit to your older brother’s place on the other side of the city. Dinner. Helping your sister-in-law with some chores. Spending quality time with your niece and nephew.
Every Thursday.
He knew about your routine more than he probably should, but he couldn’t help but pay attention. It was nice knowing that you had family close by. Nice that you got to spend time with them.
Some nights though, you looked a little worn down by the time he brought you home.
He carefully pulled away from the curb and glanced in the mirror again, catching your eye. “How was your day?”
Bucky was polite to his passengers, but didn’t typically initiate small talk. It wasn’t that he didn’t care about the people he transported. He did. But his job was to get people where they needed to go, not force them into conversations to fill the silence. If he sensed that they wanted to talk, he’d engage. Most were glued to their phones anyway. But not you.
Never you.
You groaned, your head falling back against the seat. “Work was a pain today. Short-staffed. Didn’t really get a full break. You know how that goes.”
He hummed sympathetically. “Sorry you had to deal with that.”
“Don’t be. Not your fault,” you said with a small shrug. “On the plus side, we’re close to the weekend, and I can relax once I get home.”
“Glad you can still see the bright side,” he said.
It wasn’t always easy to do that.
“I try.” You lifted your head with a soft smile. “How are you?”
He swallowed hard. It was nice to have someone outside of his normal circle ask him sincerely how he was doing. “Not too bad. Some guy tried to correct my driving.”
You sat up straighter. “Are you kidding me? You’re the best driver in the city.”
Warmth bloomed in his chest from how fiercely you defended him. You stated it like it was a fact. He wasn’t one to brag, but he was an excellent driver.
“I want his name,” you added, narrowing your eyes. “I’ll handle him.”
He laughed. “Oh, you’ll handle him, huh?” he asked, turning his blinker on.
“Oh, yeah,” you answered, his heart racing faster.
“I appreciate that,” he said above a whisper.
You really were something.
“And if I can’t, Alpine can scratch him up for me,” you mused lightly.
A wide smile broke out on his face. “Al’d make sure he never messed with anyone ever again.”
Alpine, his beautiful white cat. He found her in an alley when she was just a kitten, trying to stay warm on a chilly day. One look in her blue eyes and he knew he couldn’t leave her there.
“My place isn’t much,” he warned her when he crouched down. “But it’s warm and I have milk.”
She curled right in his arms and tried to burrow her face in his leather jacket.
She became his partner-in-crime from that day forward.
The feline flourished in his apartment, making herself right at home and sticking by his side whenever he was around. He admittedly spoiled her with toys and such, but she deserved it. She was also protective of him, quick to hiss at anyone who got too close, and could imitate his grumpy stare well. He knew she’d adore you.
He certainly talked about you enough to her.
He talked about you with his younger sister, too.
“Becca messaged me a bit ago, too,” he said, smiling a little. “You know how she likes to check in and make sure I’m not living off just protein bars and stubbornness.”
Becca didn’t live as close as your brother did, but he visited when he could. She visited, too, between work and her new boyfriend. She seemed happy, and that made him happy.
“And here I am giving you protein bars. I hope she doesn’t mind.”
“Not at all,” he promised. “She knows one extra bar a week won’t hurt.”
You smiled softly. “She cares a lot about you, doesn’t she?”
“Yeah,” he said warmly. “She does.”
And she liked that he had someone like you who cared, even when he tried to argue that you were just being nice.
“She isn’t just being nice, big brother. She cares.”
He liked to think so.
“Hey!” you said suddenly, leaning forward in your seat. “You know what I just realized?”
“What?”
“This is the thirteenth Thursday that you’ve driven me around.”
“Is that right?” he asked softly, knowing full well exactly how many Thursdays he had seen you.
Because he had been counting.
“That is right.” You settled back into your seat with a smile. “Feels like ages… and not long at all.”
It seemed like only yesterday to him.
He remembered the exact shade of blue you wore on the first ride, something pleasant against the harsh city lights. How you shivered when you slid into the car, and the smile you gave him when he turned the heat on. You were so beautiful. And kind.
The kindest passenger he had that day.
“Thanks for getting me here safely, Bucky! Happy Friday Eve!”
“Friday Junior,” he’d called after you like an idiot.
“Same thing!”
He was a goner.
Every week his crush grew stronger.
But every week he told himself he was just your cab driver and nothing more.
“Thirteen Thursdays,” he said. “That why you look so nice today?”
Your gaze flickered to your lap, smiling. “You think I look nice?” you asked gently.
His heart hammered in his chest. “Yeah. You always do,” he said honestly, willing himself to concentrate on the road.
Don’t make it weird. Don’t make her uncomfortable.
“Thanks, Buck,” you whispered.
He should’ve left it at that, but he didn’t.
“You sure I’m taking you to your brother’s and not some date?” he blurted out.
The air thickened in the cab, his grip tightening on the steering wheel. Something uncomfortable twisted in his gut. He paid enough attention to know that there wasn’t a ring on your finger, and you hadn’t mentioned having a boyfriend.
Not once.
But what if there was someone? What if one day you dressed up for someone else? What if you gave some other man that soft smile you always gave him?
His jaw clenched and he was thankful you couldn’t see his expression.
I have no reason to be jealous. She isn’t my girl. She can see whoever she wants.
I just wish it was me.
“A date?” Your laughter made its way to his ears. “Please. I’m very single.”
For a moment, all Bucky could hear was the sound of his heart slowing to a steady rhythm, effectively blocking out the moving vehicles around him. His next breath was easier, his grip loosening. It shouldn’t have been such a relief to hear that, but it was.
Single. Good. That’s good. Stay single. Stay away from bad guys. Stay… here. With me.
…I’m in deep.
“Haven’t dated in months,” you added.
That made him pause.
“Months?” he repeated. “I find that hard to believe.”
“Well, it’s true,” you said, quieter than before and gazing out the window. “Guess I haven’t caught anyone’s eye.”
Your words wiped out his relief. You didn’t have to say out loud that you were lonely. He sensed it. Recognized it.
It just didn’t make sense to him that you were alone. You were a catch. How were guys not lining up down the block to ask you out?
Your words also weren’t true. Because he was there and he saw you. Wanted you.
“Or… maybe you have,” he said carefully. “And they just haven’t said anything yet.”
A beat passed. “Maybe,” you said.
He tapped the wheel when he stopped at a red light.
Say it. Tell her. Tell her that she caught my eye. Tell her that she’s…
He sighed to himself, the cab feeling smaller than usual. He wanted to admit how he felt, but he couldn’t like this. It wasn’t right when he was in the driver’s seat and you were back there.
“And what about you?” you asked, turning away from the window. “You seeing anyone?”
He huffed out a laugh. “No.”
Women weren’t exactly fighting to date a cab driver.
“My ‘date’ nights are me, a book or a movie, and Al,” he told you. “That or kicking the guys out of my place once the pizza and beer are gone.”
You smiled. “Those sound like good nights to me.”
“They’re not bad,” he said casually.
As if the idea of a date night with you wasn’t painting a picture in his mind.
“You know,” you said, snuggling into the blanket more. “If you ever need anyone to critique your book or movie choices, I’m available.”
He didn’t think it was possible for his heart to trip over itself, but it did. “Yeah?” he asked, keeping his voice even.
“Yeah,” you said casually, but your eyes flicked to the mirror. “I mean, I’m sure you have great taste, but it doesn’t hurt to get my own confirmation.”
Bucky swallowed hard. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
You smiled. “You better.”
The cab fell into a comfortable silence after that, but something shifted. You had given him an opening that would’ve been easy to take. But maybe you were just being nice. Maybe it didn’t mean anything at all.
Or it might mean everything.
He eased the car to a stop at your brother’s building minutes later. “Here we are.”
You slipped your shoes on and folded the blanket as best as you could. “Thanks,” you said, holding out the cash for him.
He reached back automatically to grab it, feeling that spark again when your fingers touched. He didn’t need to count it to know it was all there, along with a nice tip. You were generous.
Always.
“Anytime.”
You lingered when you opened the door. “Hey, Buck?”
“Yeah?”
“You look nice today, too,” you said.
It was a simple compliment, but it hit him square in the chest.
“Yeah?” he managed to ask.
“Yeah,” you said, smiling softly. “You always do.”
It was an echo of his own words to you.
Before he could respond, you slipped out and tapped the roof twice. “See you later. Drive safe.”
“See ya,” he whispered.
He didn’t leave right away. He watched as you made your way inside safely, his hand still clutching the cash. Glancing at the protein bar on the seat beside him, he exhaled.
You said he looked nice. Offered to watch a movie with him. Kind of.
But he was just your driver.
Nothing more.
“I’m in trouble,” he muttered.
By the time Bucky pulled back up to your brother’s building later that night, things felt quieter. But his mind didn’t. It was too busy racing with thoughts of you and wondering how long he could keep his line drawn in the sand.
You waved to him when you stepped outside, your steps a little slower. Your smile wasn’t as bright as earlier, but it was still soft and easy. It made sense. Family time after a long work day was tiring, even if it was nice.
“Hey,” he said once you got in.
“Hey,” you echoed, settling in.
“Good night?” he asked, easing back into the road.
“It was,” you replied, laughing a little. “But those kids wear me out.”
He smiled to himself. No way they didn’t adore spending time with you. “Sounds about right.”
“Did you have a good night?”
It was the best night because he got to see you again.
“Not too bad,” he answered.
You checked something on your phone and put it away. “Random, but I have a few extra dollars in my account, so I may do takeout for dinner tomorrow as an end of the week treat for myself.”
You could have takeout with me.
“Get those noodles from the place you like on 5th,” he suggested instead. “The number seven, right?”
Why did I say that?
“That’s right.” You giggled. “Am I that predictable?”
He almost said, “I notice everything about you.”
“You’re not predictable,” he replied instead, easing his foot off the gas. “I just… pay attention.”
Because you’re… you.
It was quiet for the rest of the ride.
He glanced back a few times and saw that your eyes were heavy. He hoped you were able to relax more when you got back to your place. You deserved the rest.
A pang of disappointment hit him when he got to your place, the drive seeming quicker than normal. “Here we are.”
You stifled a yawn. “Thanks.”
“Anytime.”
“Oh. I almost forgot.” You sat up, seemingly more awake now. “I have something for you.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You already gave me a protein bar.”
“Well, this isn’t from me,” you said, handing him a folded piece of construction paper along with the cash. “It’s from my niece and nephew.”
He opened it carefully, his heart melting on the spot.
A drawing of a car stretched across the sheet. It was lopsided with uneven wheels and windows that were too big. There were two stick figures inside. One in the back with a large smile that was clearly you. And one in the front with brown hair, blue eyes, and a small smile.
It was him.
There was a message in crooked letters above the car, surrounded by glitter glue.
BUCKY DRIVING AUNTIE! YAY!
His throat tightened unexpectedly. “That’s us?” he asked with a hint of disbelief.
You mentioned him to your family?
“That’s us,” you said affectionately, making him wonder if that was for him or your niece and nephew. “They wanted to thank you for always getting me there and back every week.”
He swallowed, his throat dry. “You… talk about me?”
“Of course, I do,” you said like it was obvious. “You’re part of my week.”
He folded it back up like it was something fragile, your words slowly sinking in.
You talked about him. Your family knew he existed. Your niece and nephew had never met him, but still made him a card like he mattered.
His heart felt full.
And he didn’t know what to do with that feeling.
“Tell ‘em I said thanks,” he said quietly. “Really.”
“I will,” you promised, hesitating when you reached for the door handle.
You waited long enough for him to look at you over his shoulder. Long enough that his heart thudded. Hope flickered deep within.
She feels something, right? It can’t just be me.
Your fingers tightened around the strap of your bag, but your eyes were soft. “I…” Your gaze flickered down before looking back at him, sighing a little. “I’ll see you next week, Buck.”
He exhaled, trying not to let disappointment show. Something passed between you. He felt it. It was real.
Or… maybe he just imagined it.
“Yeah,” he said, offering you a small smile. “Next week.”
“Good night.”
“Good night,” he repeated. “And thanks again for the card and tip.”
You smiled softly before you got out.
He leaned against his seat and once again stayed to make sure you got inside safely. You didn’t rush inside when you got to the door. You paused instead and glanced over your shoulder at the door, like you were waiting for him. It was an opening. Maybe.
But he didn’t take it.
He kept that line drawn.
You waved before you went inside, and he closed his eyes, the quiet surrounding him once again.
His fingers brushed the construction paper in his lap.
Steve and Sam would flip when he told them about it. Hell, they already did whenever he talked about you. He could practically hear them now once he gave them the recap of tonight’s events.
Sam shaking his head and saying, “She gives you protein bars, offers to watch movies with you, her family knows about you, her niece and nephew made you a card, and you didn’t ask for her number?”
Steve, a little quieter but no less insistent, with, “Buck… you’re allowed to want something.”
Bucky’s jaw clenched. They acted like it was simple, like he could just ask and it wouldn’t change a thing. It would change everything.
He didn’t want to risk losing you or holding you back when he didn’t have you to begin with.
For now, he’d continue driving you where you needed to go and leave it at that.
Coward. Life’s too short.
He set the card aside and took one last look at your building.
“Yeah,” he sighed. “I’m in big trouble.”
Bucky arrived a couple of minutes early the following Thursday.
He told himself it was habit. Being mindful of traffic. Not because he was eagerly waiting for you.
Not at all.
And you also weren’t the reason he spent ten extra minutes picking out a shirt.
Just because she said I look nice…
He made a mistake of checking the group chat he had with Steve and Sam while he waited.
Sam: “Be a man and get her number.”
He gritted his teeth, quickly typing. He almost regretted confiding in them about you. It would’ve been easier to keep his mouth shut.
“Fuck off, Samuel. I am a man.”
The dots appeared with both of his friends writing something back.
Sam: “OOH. Samuel. My full name. Hit a sore spot, huh?”
Maybe he did.
Stevie: “Just go at your pace, jerk. We got your back.”
Some of the tension left his shoulders.
“Thanks, punk.”
He put his phone away and smiled just a little. They were good guys. Had been with him through thick and thin. Brothers.
Sam definitely acted like an annoying brother in the most supportive way.
And as much as he adored Becca, he didn’t want to bother his little sister with his lack-of-relationship woes. She had enough on her plate. He’d be just fine.
Eventually.
His attention snapped in your direction when you left your building and everything else faded away.
There you were again.
The same familiar sweep of your eyes along the street before you found him. The soft smile. The small wave. How you always looked incredible no matter if you dressed up or down.
Like tonight, you had on the same soft sweater you wore last month. It reminded him of comfort. It also made you look gentle in a way that made him want to take care of you.
The instinct hit him harder than before.
Yeah. I’m royally fucked.
He straightened up as you walked closer, his brows furrowing. You were still smiling at him, but your steps didn’t look as light as normal. There was tension in your shoulders.
“Happy Friday Eve, Buck,” you said, unfolding the blanket with extra care.
There was a touch of weariness in your tone under the warmth.
It would’ve been easy to miss if he wasn’t paying attention.
“You mean Friday Junior,” he said automatically.
“Same thing,” you murmured.
“Your brother’s place?” he asked gently.
“Same trip as always,” you replied just as gently.
He looked at you in the mirror after pulling away from the curb. You were already gazing out the window, relaxed but not completely. His chest tightened when he spotted the slightest frown on your face.
It didn’t belong there.
Is she okay? Was work extra rough?
He waited a couple of blocks before he asked, “Long day?”
Bucky didn’t want to push if you didn’t want to talk, but he did want to make sure you were okay. If something upset you, he wanted to fix it. If someone upset you, he wanted to handle it.
Let me help however I can.
“Yeah,” you replied after a second. “Long week, actually.”
“Those are the worst.” He tapped a finger on the wheel. “Becca always tells me to take a breath and not let the week eat me alive.”
“That’s good advice.” Something soft and a little sad flickered in your eyes. He didn’t know if his words triggered a memory, but it felt important. “Especially coming from a sibling.”
“It is,” he replied. “Siblings just get it some days.”
You hummed in agreement, but didn’t say anything else.
He bit his tongue. It was times like this when he wished he wasn’t driving. He wanted to turn around and give you his attention. You deserved it.
“Would it make you feel any better if I said you look nice today?” he asked, hoping he didn’t sound as desperate as he felt.
That brought a smile to your face. “It does make me feel better,” you said, your tone almost back to normal. “Thank you.”
He smiled back gently, the sound of the engine and low music filling the space for a moment. It didn’t fix your long week, but he was glad the compliment helped. He’d consider that a win.
“You look nice, too.” You craned your head to look at him. “I really like that color on you.”
His pulse jumped. The usual ease was coming back, the cab lighter. And you noticed his shirt.
I chose well.
“Oh, this old thing?” he teased, like it wasn’t a big deal. “Really brings out my eyes.”
You giggled. “It sure does.”
He stole another glance at you when you looked out the window again. You were tired, but you were okay. Still warm. Still you.
He felt like he could breathe again.
“Hey,” he said after another block, reaching into the console. “I, uh… made you a list.”
“A list?” Your eyebrows went up. “What kind of list?”
“Movies. Some I like. Some I think you’d like,” he clarified, passing it back to you before he could change his mind. “You did offer to critique them.”
“And you’re taking me up on it?” You gasped, putting a hand to your chest. “I’m both shocked and flattered.”
“You should be,” he deadpanned before grinning.
You smiled, a little tired but genuine. “The first title has a star next to it.”
“Because it’s my favorite and a good one to start with.”
“Did you get Steve and Sam’s seal of approval?”
He scoffed. “They’d like it. Enough oldies for Steve, and Sam has somewhat decent taste in recent stuff… but he’ll never know I said that.” He coughed into his hand and added, “They’ve heard about you.”
You smiled. “Is that right?”
“Yeah, I talk about more than I probably should.” He shrugged, but his left foot lightly tapped. “You’re a good passenger.”
And I’m just your driver.
Your smile faltered, just for a second, before you smoothed it over with a laugh. “And you’re a good driver.” You scanned the small piece of paper once more. “You put a lot of thought into this, didn’t you?”
Warmth rushed to his cheeks. “You should see the book list I’m making for you,” he muttered.
He valued your opinion, and the lists were a way for you to think of him between rides. A way to keep you two connected. Maybe it was selfish that he wanted you to have him on your mind.
But maybe it wasn’t.
“You’re making me a book list, too? Oh, I can’t wait for that.” You folded it neatly and put it in your bag. “I’ll watch the first movie tomorrow night.”
Another Friday night with no date? I wish I could man up and change that.
“I expect a full report next week,” he teased.
“You got it, Sarge,” you teased back.
His breath caught. “Sarge?” he repeated. “You remember my military ranking?”
Sergeant Barnes.
It was mentioned only once, just like the protein bars. A passing comment and nothing more. But you listened.
You remembered.
“Of course, I do.”
The same thing you said about mentioning him to your family.
He blinked rapidly, trying to steady the emotions stirring inside him as he drove. You continued to surprise him with your soft words and smiles, making him feel special in your eyes. You undid him in ways nothing or no one else could.
“Here we are,” he said minutes later.
“Thanks, Buck.” You gathered your things before you stopped, your inhale sharp. “Oh… you kept it.”
He followed your gaze to the dashboard. Your niece and nephew’s card was proudly on display. It was a beautiful reminder of you.
“Of course, I did,” he said, trying to play it cool. “It’s a nice drawing.”
“That’s really sweet, Buck.”
He shrugged a little, but heat crept up his neck. “It deserved a front and center spot.”
Your gaze softened more. “They’ll think you’re the coolest guy ever when I tell them.”
They made him feel cool by giving him the card.
“Guess I’ll have to try to live up to that.”
“You already are,” you said without missing a beat, passing him a protein bar with the cash.
His heart pounded in his chest. Another thoughtful gesture. More words that made him feel good.
Say something. Do something.
But he didn’t.
There was a small pause before you sighed and got out, the door gently closing behind you. Tap. Tap. The familiar rhythm against the roof should’ve felt normal and comforting.
But why did it feel like you were disappointed?
“See you later,” you said. “Drive safe.”
“See ya,” he exhaled.
He watched until you went inside, half tempted to hit the dashboard since he chickened out. He held himself back. There was no sense in taking his frustration out on the car. He could hit a punching bag later.
Maybe he could knock some sense into himself, too, and man up.
“Should’ve said something,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair.
Some of the frustration at himself faded when he looked at the card. He imagined your niece and nephew were the kind of kids who loved when the garbage men came by every week or drivers dropped off packages. They’d probably have a blast riding around in his cab, cheering him on for driving you around. If Becca ever had kids, they’d likely be the same way.
He wondered, briefly, if you’d ever meet her, and the thought didn’t scare him the way it should.
But what would your brother think of me? Would he think I’m good enough?
At the end of the day, didn’t it matter only what you thought and saw in him?
His phone buzzed.
Sam: “Well??? We’re waiting.”
Bucky stared at the message before typing back. “Dropped her off. Didn’t ask.”
Three dots appeared immediately. He didn’t want to look. Didn’t need the additional salt on the open wound of his self-doubt.
But he looked since he was a glutton for punishment.
Sam: “Man, if we can even call you that, you're killing me! I’m gonna lose the bet.”
Bet? What fucking bet?
Stevie: “There’s no bet. You’ll do it when it’s right.”
Sam: “Don’t make me get Becca and Sarah involved. I’ll do it.”
He tucked his phone away and shook his head. Tough and gentle love. He needed both.
And he needed just a little more time to convince himself to erase the line he had drawn.
The next passenger he picked up, a man complaining about the state of the economy, didn’t shift his focus fully away from you. The restaurant he dropped him at seemed like a nice one to take you to, something quiet and romantic. A couple of women he drove after that mentioned an acoustic concert in the park, which made him picture you leaning your head on his shoulder while listening to music together. Every passenger was like that, managing to tie something back to you.
He still got everyone where they needed to go safely since that was the job.
He just couldn’t stop thinking about you.
By the time he arrived to pick you up again, the city lights had taken over the streets. He spotted you immediately, your arms wrapped around yourself to keep warm. You looked about the same as when you went in. A little more tired, but okay.
And you still gave him a smile when you got in.
Smiling like she’s happy to see me.
“Hey.”
“Hey,” he replied, double checking the heat. “Kids wear you out again?”
“You know it. They had so much energy tonight, and I almost stepped on a lego when I was chasing them around.”
“Occupational hazard of being a great aunt.”
“You know it.” You laughed a little. “They were also thrilled that you have their card up.”
That warmed his heart. “So, they think I’m cool?”
“The coolest.”
He smiled at the sincerity. He believed that they believed that. It was a feeling he needed to lean into more.
“Did you have a good night?”
“Yep. Just driving. Getting everyone where they need to go,” he answered.
And thinking of you. Always thinking about you.
He turned the radio up a notch after that instead of trying to fill the silence, letting you relax. For a moment, he pictured swaying with you. Minus the quick brush of your fingers, he hadn’t touched you in any way.
To hold you would be a gift.
“Hey, Buck?” you asked once he pulled up to your place.
“Yeah?”
You bit your lip. “I wanted to give you something.”
“Yeah?” he asked, his chest tightening in anticipation as you reached into your bag.
You hesitated before you nodded. “Yeah.”
Your hand shook a little when you passed him a small slip of paper with the cash. He unfolded it, blinking hard to make sure he was reading it correctly. He turned it over, too.
It was your handwriting. Your name. Your number.
You gave him your phone number.
His heart forgot how to beat before it thundered. He imagined this scenario for weeks, but he hadn’t prepared himself for the reality of it. He didn’t think the universe would be that kind to him.
“I just figured, this way you don’t have to wait until next week for my report on the movie. You could just text me and see what I think,” you explained, trying to play it off casually. “Or if you ever want to send me pictures of Alpine. Or you’re just… bored.”
His pulse roared in his ears. You wanted to hear from him. You gave him another opening while he kept mentally blocking the door with his foot.
You trusted him enough to want a connection outside of the cab and the rules he internally created and enforced.
“But you don’t have to,” you added quickly, reaching for the door handle. “I can wait until next week to talk to you and-”
“Wait,” he begged, trying not to panic. The last thing he wanted was for you to think he didn’t want to reach out. “I’ll, um… give you mine, too.”
You met his gaze in the mirror. He wanted to memorize how you looked at this moment. Hopeful. Beautiful.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” he whispered.
He found a pen and a receipt, making sure his writing was legible as he jotted it down. Your smile when he handed it over soothed his nerves. The smooth thing to do would’ve been to put his phone number on the movie list when he gave it to you earlier. But this was better.
This felt more right.
“Thanks.” You tucked it away like it was something sacred. “I’ll text you.”
He nodded, his throat tight. “I’d like that.”
You stepped out into the cool air, glancing back at him. The tension was almost completely gone from your shoulders. The glow from the street lamps made your eyes sparkle.
He couldn’t look away from you if he tried.
“Good night, Buck.”
“Good night.”
Once you were inside, he glanced at your number again, reading it until the numbers ran together. He reached for the phone to message the guys and Becca before deciding against it. Sam would lose his mind. Steve would tell him not to overthink it. Becca would be somewhere in the middle. He didn’t need that tonight.
He wanted to hang onto this just a little longer and let it sink in that it was real.
Besides, it was just an exchange of phone numbers. You didn’t ask him out. He didn’t ask you out. He was still being professional.
But he did check his phone immediately when a new message popped up.
“Happy fourteenth Thursday. Thanks again for the ride.”
Still counting like me.
“Anytime. Get some rest. And let me know when you watch the first movie.”
A neutral message. Polite. Professional.
“I’m still in trouble.”
And he grinned like an idiot because of it.
You messaged him on Friday night.
He saved you under his contacts as MFP, my favorite passenger.
MFP: “Halfway through the movie.”
His fingers hovered over the screen. If he typed back too quickly, he’d look desperate. If he waited too long, he’d look aloof.
A full minute was enough time.
“And?”
He winced at himself. That was too short. Too blunt.
MFP: “They switched part of what happened in the book. Trying to reserve my judgement until the end.”
A sense of awe filled him. You read the book. Of course, you did. That made him want you even more.
But he couldn’t say that.
“I didn’t like the switch at first either, but keep watching. Trust me.”
MFP: “I trust you.”
That made his breath catch.
He scratched behind Alpine’s ear, smiling when she purred. “She’s watching it and texting me. That’s good, right?”
She meowed happily.
He put the movie on, too, in the hopes that he wouldn’t keep checking his phone.
You messaged him again an hour later.
MFP: “My score: 8/10. Adventurous, heartwarming, and visually stunning. I see why it’s your favorite.”
He smiled, typing out, “Dinner and tell me more?”
He deleted it and started over.
“8/10? I’ll take it. What didn’t you like besides the book switch?”
MFP: “A one point deduction was for the book switch. Another deduction for the bad wig. I mean, a huge budget like that and they couldn’t give the lead some good hair? Tragic.”
Bucky chuckled. “You make a good point. It was pretty bad.”
MFP: “But movie wise? So far, so good for your taste.”
That was a win in his book.
You didn’t message him again until Saturday night.
MFP: “Is brinner an acceptable choice on a Saturday night?”
He smiled immediately.
“Brinner is an acceptable choice every night.”
MFP: “I knew you’d understand. I can eat while I watch the second movie on the list.”
“I bet you’ll give it a 7/10.”
MFP: “We’ll see if you’re right. Hope you're having a good weekend.”
He reread that statement twice. It felt measured. Careful.
“You, too.”
He read the message again after sending it.
Maybe it was another message that was too short.
And it was too late to erase it.
You sent him a photo of a white cat on Sunday.
MFP: “Is this Alpine’s doppelganger?”
He chuckled. The image wasn’t too far off but Alpine was prettier. He was a bit biased when it came to his feline.
“There’s no cat like Al.”
MFP: “I believe it. And you were right, but the way. 7/10. I deducted two points for the one terrible accent.”
He tilted his head and laughed again. He had almost forgotten about the bad accent. It was amazing how one actor or actress could throw off an entire scene.
“Much deserved deduction. Al would approve.”
MFP: “I’m honored.”
He didn’t hear from you for the rest of the day.
It was his turn to message you first.
“Hope you have water and caffeine to get you through Monday.”
He stared at it after sending. Maybe that too personal. Maybe it wasn’t enough.
MFP: “Do I have to have water?”
He laughed, picturing you scrunching up your face.
“Need you to stay hydrated.”
Because he cared.
MFP: “But what if I try to live on stubbornness like you?”
You’re too good to live on stubbornness.
“Still need water.”
MFP: “Yes, Sarge.”
Oh, that did something to him.
MFP: “But only if you drink some water, too.”
“I will.”
He would for you.
He didn’t hear from you on Tuesday.
That was fine. You were busy. You had a life outside of him. And he didn’t want to bother you.
But he checked his phone more than he should have.
You messaged him first thing on Wednesday.
MFP: “Is it Friday Eve yet?”
Relief hit him faster than he expected.
“Almost. You surviving?”
There was a delay this time. Long enough for him to notice.
MFP: “Barely, but I’m trying.”
He frowned a little.
“Hang in there.”
He hesitated before adding another message.
“I’ll see you tomorrow.”
There was another pause.
MFP: “Yeah. See you tomorrow.”
He stared at it longer than he meant to.
Something about it felt different. Quieter. He could’ve been imagining it.
He sent one more message before he could stop himself.
“Can’t wait.”
He meant it.
Even if something told him tomorrow would feel different.
Bucky waited at the curb as patiently as he could, checking his hair three times. Just like every week before, he looked forward to seeing you. But this felt different because the texts had been good overall. Almost effortless.
Almost.
Tonight could be a turning point.
Bucky checked his phone again, even though he told himself he wouldn’t.
Sam: “You better not fumble this now that you got her number.”
Stevie: “Ignore him. Just be yourself.”
He huffed under his breath, locking the screen.
Like it’s that easy.
He turned his attention back to your building, his heart sinking the moment you stepped outside.
The usual sweep of your gaze didn’t happen since you were looking at your feet. You hardly seem to notice or care that your bag slipped from your shoulder. When you finally lifted your gaze, you looked worn out in a way he had never seen before.
It was like someone took the light inside you and dialed it down.
Everyone had bad days. That was a normal part of life. But this was you.
It didn’t sit right with him at all.
“Happy Friday Eve,” you stated with a dim smile, hugging the blanket against your chest like a pillow. Your fingers trembled just enough that he spotted it.
“Friday Junior,” he said because that’s what he was supposed to say.
Same thing.
You didn’t say it.
You looked out the window, your jaw tight enough that he could see the tension in your neck. There was no teasing either as he drove. No references to any of the messages between you, like brinner or the bad wig or accent from the movies. No jokes about staying hydrated or calling him Sarge.
There were no comments on anything.
Just the kind of silence that for the first time felt off between you two.
Something was wrong.
I fucked this up, didn’t I?
He thought back to every message he sent like he could figure out the exact moment things flipped.
He responded in a timely manner. He initiated at times so it wouldn’t all fall on you. They weren’t overly flirty but they weren’t cold either.
Maybe you expected more and he let you down.
Or maybe he leaned in too far with the “can’t wait” message and now you were pulling back.
“Hey, um…” He cleared his throat, his grip shifting on the wheel. “If I said something wrong, or if I upset you with one of my texts…”
“What?” Your head snapped toward him, your brows pinching. “Buck, no.”
He blinked, surprised at how quickly you shut that down when his mind was screaming at him. “You sure?” He bit the inside of his cheek. “You just seem off, and I didn’t want it to be because of me.”
He was sure he could handle just about anything but that.
He didn’t want to lose the one bright part of his week because he misread a moment or sent the wrong text.
“Buck,” you said, even gentler this time. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
His shoulders dropped. “Really?” he pressed, needing to be absolutely certain.
“Really. I like talking with you… a lot,” you promised, a shallow breath leaving your lungs. “I swear, it isn’t you.”
The weight in his chest eased enough for him to breathe but not enough to feel okay since your voice cracked. You liked talking to him, which was good. Better than good. But if he wasn’t the issue, it was something else. Something you weren’t telling him.
It worried him.
“Can I ask you something?” you asked softly.
“Yeah. Anything,” he said honestly.
“I don’t think I’ve ever asked you this.” You paused to consider your words. “Why do you drive?”
He inhaled. It wasn’t unusual for you to ask about him. But most people didn’t care enough to ask why he did this job.
You weren’t most people there, were you?
Your gaze was back on him instead of looking out the window, waiting patiently for his answer because you wanted to know.
Like Becca said… you care.
“I guess the easy answer is having a flexible schedule, getting decent money on the right nights, and it beats being in an office with some boss hounding me.”
You gave him a knowing, very small smile. “And what’s the real answer?”
He took a breath. “You remember I served in the army.” You nodded in acknowledgement. “When I got out… there was no clear objective. No structure.” His voice stayed even, but quieter. “It was just… a lot of noise.”
He stared at the taillights in front of him, lost for a moment.
His smile had been wrong for days when he got out. Everything seemed like too much or not enough. And the world didn’t slow down just because people couldn’t keep up.
“I had my friends. My sister. I wasn’t alone,” he said like it mattered because it did. Not everyone had that support. “But it still felt like I was supposed to be doing something… and I didn’t know what that was.”
You didn’t interrupt or rush him, so he continued.
“But this?” He gestured around the cab. “It gave me something again.”
A sense of purpose. A mission.
“I have an objective… orders,” he explained, tapping the dashboard. “I pick a passenger up and I get them from point A to point B. That’s the job.”
You nodded slowly. “That makes sense.”
“And how I get you there? That’s on me.” He tapped his chest. “If the weather’s bad, I take it into account. If there’s awful traffic, I adjust. If my usual route is blocked, I find another way.”
“So, it gives you a sense of control,” you mused. “You know what you have to do, but you choose how you execute it.”
He nodded. You seemed to understand. Not everyone did.
“It’s simple in a good way. Discipline and structure with adaptability.” He ran a hand along the wheel, smiling to himself. “I know what I’m supposed to do. I know I can do it well.”
He glanced at you in the mirror, vulnerability shining in his eyes.
“And at the end of the ride… I get someone where they need to go. Safely.”
He paused, the sounds of honking horns and engines surrounding him. It was strangely comforting. But the most comforting thing was your presence and tender expression.
“And sometimes… that’s enough,” he finished.
“It is. It matters,” you insisted, gently but firmly. “More than you think.”
You make me feel like I matter.
“I do my best.” The words came out nonchalantly but he meant it. “I can’t control what others do when they’re on the road, just like they can’t control me. But if something does happen, I fix it.”
Your expression shifted. “And if there’s a time that you can’t fix it? You can’t control what’s happening?”
Bucky stilled before he realized it. That didn’t sound like you were talking about driving. He had a good read on people, but he couldn’t read between the lines of this. Couldn’t figure out why you were asking that.
What needs fixing?
“I just keep driving,” he finally answered. “Like Steve always says… We have to move forward.”
You shifted in your seat. “I guess it’s all we can do,” you said more to yourself than him. “And for what it’s worth, you really are doing a great job,” you added.
He inhaled sharply. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. You help people every time you drive. You don’t just drive well. You do it safely, like you said,” you pointed out, giving him a small smile. “I always feel safe when I’m with you.”
Those words landed in the middle of his doubt in himself, threatening to tear it apart. There was trust within your compliment. It was pure in an impure world.
“Good.” He had to swallow to keep his voice steady. “I’m glad you feel that way.”
You smiled again, but it didn’t reach your eyes.
His chest ached. Every smile seemed to take more effort than it should, like you were chipping away little pieces of yourself. He hated that.
He hated that he couldn’t shoulder the weight still pushing you down, even just a little.
“Here we are,” he said once he stopped, quieter than before.
“Thanks, Buck,” you said, handing over a protein bar with the cash. “And I’m sorry if I made you think that you upset me.”
“Don’t apologize,” he said quickly, turning around as best as he could so he could see you. “You don’t have to do that with me.”
There was no reason for you to apologize when he was the one overthinking.
“But are you sure you’re alright?” he asked, searching your face for the answer your lips may not say.
Lean on me if you aren’t.
Something passed in your eyes and then it was gone. “I will be,” you assured him.
His stomach dropped when you took the blanket with you, like you forgot you were holding it. You clutched it like a lifeline as you walked away from the cab. He watched you go, reaching for the door handle. You disappeared into the building before he could follow, which he had never done before.
You weren’t okay.
For the first time since he met you, he had no idea how to fix it.
But something told him he was about to find out.
By the time he came back, he was tense. He told himself you just needed time with your family tonight. That whatever was on your mind eased with some laughter and familiar warmth.
It had to have helped.
…Right?
His heart didn’t sink when he saw you.
It cracked.
You had the blanket around your shoulders, trying to hold yourself together as you put one foot in front of the other. The look of sadness on your face wasn’t fleeting or light. It was the kind that settled in your bones.
What the hell happened?
You forced a smile when you met his eye and it twisted something inside him painfully.
Don’t do that. Please, don’t do that.
“Hey.”
“Hey,” you replied, your voice thin.
He didn’t drive off right away, giving you a moment to get your bearings.
But you didn’t.
You didn’t slip your shoes off or tuck yourself in. The blanket stayed around your shoulders like an afterthought. Your breaths were too measured. Too careful.
He held the wheel so tight that his fingers ached.
You were a heartbeat away from unraveling.
“Ready?”
“Yeah.”
The city bustled around like normal, but nothing inside the cab felt the same.
The air felt even heavier than earlier. The silence was too loud.. Louder than any word you ever spoke.
And you simply stared ahead like you were bracing yourself for impact.
His teeth snapped together, trying hard to keep himself in check. His job was to get you home safely. If you wanted to confide in him, he’d listen. But you didn’t have to lean on him.
He was just…
Your breath hitched on the next turn.
He made it three more blocks before he couldn’t take it anymore.
Fuck this. I’m not just your driver.
He switched lanes and turned down a road he had never taken on your route before. It was familiar to him, of course. Away from some of the noise. It had a soothing view, too.
Exhaling through his nose, he stopped the car and turned to look at you.
He recognized pain when he saw it. Had lived through it. He couldn’t recall ever seeing you look so fragile.
It’s okay to break with me.
“Hey,” he said carefully because you needed something gentle. “I know you said you’ll be alright… but you’re not.”
“I will be,” you said quickly, your lower lip trembling. “I have to be.”
“Hey…” he whispered again.
You don’t need to be strong tonight.
You shook your head automatically, your next breath shaky. “I don’t want to dump this on you.”
“You’re not dumping anything on me,” he promised, needing you to believe him. “You’re hurting.”
Your eyes filled and you tried to blink the moisture away.
He didn’t think when he got out of the cab, his body moving on instinct at the sight of your tears. He got in the back with you, leaving you enough space so you wouldn’t feel cornered. His hands rested on his knees, making sure not to touch you since he didn’t know if that would help or make things worse.
But he wanted to be there for you.
“Please, let me help,” he begged, his voice thick. “Even just a little.”
That did it.
A sob burst from your chest, your hand coming up to cover your mouth and failing to keep it in.
His heart stopped, his fingers curling to hold himself back from hauling you into his arms.
You hastily wiped your tears away that fell, like it would hide them. Your shoulders shook the more you tried to hold them in. Another broken sound escaped, the threads inside you slowly pulling apart.
“He’s sick,” you whimpered. “My brother…”
Your words were like a punch to the gut.
Oh, no…
“He has been for a while. They thought he was getting better, but the last couple of weeks have been bad,” you admitted, your face crumbling. “He barely made it through dinner tonight before he had to lay down.”
His jaw tightened in that helpless way when grief felt too close and overpowering.
“And the kids… They don’t get why their dad is so tired or why their mom looks so sad when she thinks no one’s looking.” You hiccuped, the sound raw. “And I’m trying to help when I can. I’m trying to be strong for everyone, but I’m scared and… I can’t fix this.”
His throat went tight.
“And if there’s a time that you can’t fix it? You can’t control what’s happening?”
It all made sense now.
The nights where you looked a little worn down. Your smiles that didn’t reach your eyes. Your light dimming. The talk earlier tonight.
While he had been overanalyzing his interactions with you, you were carrying this.
Alone.
And he couldn’t fix it for you.
“I help cook, clean, make the kids smile, but I don’t know what to do anymore,” you whimpered, looking at him with teary eyes. “It hurt for me to smile tonight.”
Trying to smile through pain was one of the hardest things a person could do.
“I’ve been holding this in and I… can’t anymore.”
Bucky couldn’t keep staying behind the line he drew.
Not anymore.
His arms went around you without another thought, strong and steady, pulling you in like it was the most natural thing in the world. You clung to him, your fingers curling in his shirt as you sobbed painfully into his neck. He closed his eyes, willing whatever being was watching over them to feed some of your pain into him.
Don’t do this to her. Give it to me. I can take it.
“I’ve got you,” he murmured, cradling the back of your head as your cries continued. “I’ve got you.”
He didn’t say it was okay because it wasn’t. But he was there. Solid and real. Nothing else mattered except you.
“He’s my big brother. He’s a good guy. He’s supposed to be okay,” you choked out between sobs. “But he isn’t, and I can’t make it any better.”
He pressed his cheek to your temple. He knew how afraid Becca had been when he served and how relieved she was when he came back. If he were to get sick now… If anything happened to him…
“You just need to love him,” he whispered against your ear. “And you do. You have such a big heart.”
You cried harder, making him hold you closer.
“Just let it out,” he urged, rubbing your shaking back.
Minutes passed before your cries eventually slowed to small sniffles. Your body slumped against his, the tears wearing you out. And he held you through it all, letting you feel his warmth and comfort.
You lifted your head slowly, your cheeks wet. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.”
“Don’t you dare apologize for that,” he said, wiping a stray tear away with his thumb. “Sometimes saying it out loud makes it more real and it opens up the floodgates before you’re ready.”
Like me being a coward about my feelings for you.
You leaned into his touch briefly. “I didn’t want to be a burden,” you said, your voice wrecked.
“You’re not.” He pulled back enough to really look at you. “You never could be.”
You searched his face, your lip trembling again. “Am I doing enough?”
Your grief already cut open his heart, but your question made him feel the blade all over again.
“You’re doing more than enough. You’re showing up for everyone. That matters,” he swore to you, echoing some of your earlier words as he held you tighter. “More than you know.”
Your eyes shimmered again, but the tears didn’t fall.
“And you can lean on me whenever you need to,” he added, giving you a tender smile. “You don’t have to do this alone.”
You smiled back faintly. “Thanks, Buck.”
“Yeah,” he whispered. “Anytime.”
You let go of his shirt, but didn’t make an effort to move out of his arms. He didn’t move either, taking a second to breathe with you and memorize how it felt to hold you. He’d keep you in his embrace all night if he could.
“Can I just...” You glanced down, your fingers absentmindedly tracing a pattern on your thigh. “Can I say something?”
“Anything,” he answered, adjusting the blanket around your shoulders.
Say whatever you need to. I got you.
“Seeing you… talking to you,” you began. “I always look forward to it.”
You lifted your gaze, somehow more exposed and vulnerable than your earlier tears.
“It’s the best part of my week,” you admitted.
Bucky froze completely.
You exhaled shakily, like you said too much.
“I didn’t want to fall apart in front of you,” you went on while his brain was scrambling to catch up. “But everything felt heavy and I just… I felt safe enough that I could. So… thank you. For that.”
He didn’t speak. He couldn’t. Your words flowed through him, filing every crack he couldn’t seal shut himself.
I’m the best part of your week?
Not work, your friends, or even your family?
Me?
Since the beginning, he told himself to stay in his lane and keep things simple. To be professional. Driver and passenger. That was it.
But you were here in his arms, trusting him enough with something so raw and admitting that he was the one thing that made your week a little lighter.
Him.
And he was still acting as if there was a line he shouldn’t cross?
His thumb brushed your shoulder. You looked to him for comfort tonight. You needed him in a way.
Maybe you wanted him, too.
If that were true, what the hell was he waiting for?
Don’t rush her. Don’t make this about me.
“I appreciate you telling me that,” he whispered once he found his voice. “Let’s get you home, okay?”
You nodded, your energy spent as you shifted from his hold. He felt the loss immediately, the cab feeling colder. But he didn’t linger, as much as he wanted to.
He moved back to the driver seat grudgingly and started the engine.
You weren’t too far from your place, but he drove a bit slower and checked the mirror more than he needed to. You had your legs curled up now, your eyes heavy but open. Not distant or shut down. Just tired.
You had a good reason to feel tired.
But you also gave him a smile when you caught him looking the last time. A small, real one. Because you felt safe.
You’re safe with me.
The lights didn’t seem as harsh when he turned onto your street. The breeze wasn’t as strong. The world seemed to realize you needed little wins after breaking down.
Neither of you moved right away when he parked.
“Hey.” He turned slightly in his seat, your expression glassy but more clear when you handed him the money. “I’m gonna walk you to your building tonight.”
It wasn’t a question or suggestion.
Should’ve been doing that since the first night.
“I’d like that,” you uttered.
“And you can take the blanket,” he offered when you started to fold it. “If you want.”
“Really?” Your eyes widened in realization. “Oh, my God. I took it with me earlier. I’m so sorry.”
Bucky had to smile at the way you looked genuinely distressed, like you had done something unforgivable.
“It’s okay,” he said gently. “You had a lot on your mind.”
You hesitated, but didn’t set it down. “Are you sure I can take it with me?”
“Yeah.” His gaze softened. “I put it back there so you’d be comfortable, and it kinda defeats the purpose if you don’t use it.”
He wouldn’t be there to hold you tonight if you cried again, so the blanket would have to do. It was a small piece of comfort. A small piece of him.
Warmth filled your eyes. “Thank you.”
“Anytime,” he replied, meaning it in more ways than one.
He stepped out first, going to your door to open it. He didn’t rush you as you gathered your things, letting you go at your pace. He understood how the body lagged sometimes after everything spilled over.
And his hand was already outstretched to help you out if you wanted it.
You took it.
Instead of the usual spark when your fingers touched, something steadier and grounding moved between you both.
It felt like your hand belonged with his.
It feels right.
He helped you out and fell in step beside you, matching your pace without thinking. Your thumb brushed his skin, making his grip tighten a fraction when he glanced at you. Faint exhaustion lingered in your body, but you weren’t as tense. Your breathing had evened out.
The hurt was still there, but you were safe.
You made it to the door, the light above it casting a glow over you, but you didn’t reach for the handle or let go of his hand.
The soft good nights usually happened at the car, but not tonight.
“Thank you for tonight,” you said above a whisper.
He nodded, everything from the last few weeks pressing into his mind.
Sam on one shoulder. “Be a man and get her number.
Steve on the other. “You’re allowed to want something.”
The teasing. The smiles. The protein bars. The card your niece and nephew made. The movie list.
How you quietly gave him your number. The careful texts. The deeper talks.
The way you trusted him and broke in his arms tonight.
The way you said he’s the best part of your week.
The way he was done pretending that there wasn’t something there between you.
Time to erase the line for good.
He kept your hand in his, refusing to retreat into neutral territory. “I, uh…” He rubbed the back of his neck and exhaled. “I was thinking.”
You gazed at him expectantly.
“I know things are… a lot right now,” he said, trying to be careful and not add pressure when you had so much on your mind. “With your brother and everything.”
Your grip tightened on the blanket, but you nodded for him to continue.
“And I’m not trying to…” He huffed a little, almost frustrated with himself. “I’m not trying to make things harder for you.”
That was the last thing he wanted to do.
“You’re not,” you said, stepping closer. “You never could.”
That gave him just enough courage to keep going, taking one last deep breath.
Just say it.
“I just… I don’t want to keep pretending that I’m just your cab driver anymore. Not after tonight,” he said, his forehead almost touching yours. “Because you’re the best part of my week, too.”
Your breath caught enough that he felt it.
“So. When things feel less heavy, or you just need a break…” His heart was pounding now. “Would you like to have dinner with me?”
He didn’t breathe as the question hung in the air.
Opening up and asking you out wasn’t going to magically erase the pain or worry you felt. It wouldn’t fix what was happening with your brother. But you didn’t need to go it alone.
You stared at him, almost like you were afraid he’d take the offer back. “Dinner?” you echoed.
“Yeah. Dinner. With me,” he said, his voice low. “No meter running or route. Just… us.”
Just the two of you enjoying each other’s company.
“Because I want to see you outside of the cab.” His thumb brushed your knuckles. “I want to critique movies and books with you and eat pizza or noodles or brinner and just talk. I want Al to finally see my favorite passenger in person.”
A small laugh escaped you, the sound like sunlight appearing after a storm.
“But only if you want, and only when you’re ready.”
You stared at him for a long moment before you smiled, one that reached your eyes for the first time tonight.
“I’d like that,” you said
The rush of relief hit him so fast it almost made him lightheaded. You wanted to have dinner with him. You wanted to see him outside of the weekly routine.
“Yeah?” he asked, just to be sure.
“Yeah,” you replied, tender and certain. “Is… tomorrow too soon?”
Bucky blinked, genuinely thinking he misheard you.
Tomorrow?
His heart stuttered. He expected an offer to check your schedule or something weeks down the line. But not this.
“Tomorrow?” he repeated breathlessly.
You nodded, a tad shy. “Yeah. I mean, if you’re free… and it’s not too fast or anything?”
Too fast?
I’ve been waiting fifteen Thursdays now for this.
“It’s not too fast.” He shook his head, a faint, disbelieving smile tugging at his lips. “It’s actually kinda perfect.”
“It is?”
“It is,” he said, more certain. “Tomorrow’s great.”
Tomorrow meant you wanted this. Not just someday down the line, but now. Even with everything going on.
“We can keep it easy,” he said, his thumb moving over your knuckles again. “Whatever you’re up for.”
“Movie?” you suggested, a small hint of your usual warmth slipping back in. “And noodles?”
He laughed. “Number seven?”
“Number seven,” you confirmed, your smile widening.
“Alright. Noodles and a movie at my place.”
“It’s a date,” you whispered.
A date.
You were still standing close. Close enough that if he leaned in just a fraction… God, he wanted to kiss you. More than anything.
The two of you took an important step. He finally stopped being a coward. You didn’t hold everything in.
But he didn’t kiss you.
Tonight wasn’t about that.
His forehead, however, did intentionally brush yours this time.
“I’ll text you,” he murmured.
“I’ll be waiting.”
And I’ll be counting down the minutes.
You squeezed his hand before finally stepping back, his blanket tucked against your chest. “Good night, Buck.”
He memorized the way you gazed at him, basking in that glow. “Good night.”
You slipped inside, the door clicking shut behind you. There was no drop in his stomach. No nerves.
He didn’t have to wait for another Thursday to see you again.
He finally turned back toward the cab, running a hand through his hair like he was trying to physically process what just happened.
Dinner and a movie.
You wanted to spend time with him.
“Jesus,” he muttered happily under his breath as he slid back into the driver’s seat.
His gaze drifted to the backseat, landing on the empty space where you had been curled up just minutes ago, his blanket wrapped around you, trusting him with something rough and fragile.
When he picked you up tomorrow, you could sit in the front beside him.
His phone buzzed, his heart picking up before he even saw your message.
Of course, it was you.
MFP: “Curled up on the couch with your blanket. Thanks again. For everything.”
It gave him peace of mind knowing you made it into your place safe and sound since he only walked you to the building door.
“Thanks for letting me help.”
He made a difference tonight.
He almost set the phone down when another message popped up.
MFP: “My brother was awake when I reached out.”
He held his breath. Was he okay? Did something happen?
“Yeah?”
Three dots appeared long enough that he sat up straighter.
MFP: “I told him we’re having dinner tomorrow, and he said he’s looking forward to meeting the guy who keeps me safe every week.”
He reread the message until the screen went dark.
Your brother, the one you were terrified for, wanted to meet him.
Becca would want to meet you.
He rubbed a hand over his mouth, trying to ground himself. Something earnest and dangerously close to overwhelming spread from his chest, the card on the dashboard staring at him. It brought a smile to his face.
“I’d be honored to meet him. I’ll have to make a good first impression.”
As a big brother, Bucky sensed and respected that he would be a bit protective of you.
MFP: “You already have.”
The additional layer of assurance did wonders.
MFP: “Get some rest tonight, okay? Happy Friday Eve.”
There it was.
Soft, familiar, and you.
“You, too. And it’s Friday Junior.”
MFP: “Same thing. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow,” he whispered, happiness filling him to the point where he thought he’d float away.
He shot off a quick message to the guys and Becca. “Got a date tomorrow night. I’ll let you know how it goes.”
With a smile, he put the phone away. He could already see Sam losing his mind and Steve would try and fail to act subtle about it. Becca would demand every detail after. He’d wait until later to see and hear their stunned reactions.
For now, he was going to drive and get a few more people where they needed to go.
But not before taking one last look at your building and picturing you curled up with his blanket.
Fifteen Thursdays.
Fifteen weeks of watching you slip into his cab with tired eyes, soft smiles, and sweetness that made a difference in his day. Fifteen weeks of falling for you in steady increments. Fifteen weeks of chances he almost let slip by because it took him some time to feel brave.
And tonight he erased the line he drew in the sand for good because you mattered more.
You let him see you and it was a beautiful thing.
“Tomorrow,” he said again like a promise, starting the car and pulling away from the curb.
Tomorrow there wouldn’t be a meter running or rearview mirror glances. No pretending it was just another ride. It would just be you and him.
He was counting down the minutes.
And for once, he didn’t feel like he needed to second guess any of it.
Whew! Did we make it? This isn't the end for these two. It's very much a beginning. Would love to hear your thoughts!
Series Summary: You thought she knew what she wanted. You thought love was supposed to look a certain way. Between ambition and attachment, between what feels intense and what feels right, you navigate law school applications, complicated friendships, and relationships that don’t always evolve at the same pace.
Some choices are made loudly.
Others are made quietly, and change everything.
Wordcount: 12.8k
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader / Steve Rogers x Reader (no use of Y/N)
Warnings: college AU, friends to lovers, slow burn, love triangle, choosing yourself, emotional infidelity, long distance relationship, law school AU, career-focused female reader, mutual pining, breakup, healing, adult relationships, eventual engagement, happy ending, emotional neglect, jealousy, public confrontation, karaoke-induced emotional damage (😉), angst with a happy ending, explicite intimacy
A/N: I've had this story in my docs for quite a long time, but I never really took the time to get it ready for posting.
As always, it was supposed to be a one-shot, but then it got over 20k and I am SO done with Tumblr dumb system of blocks and shit that I prefer to make it into two parts.
This was beta read.
Masterlist - Series Masterlist - Next
The morning light looked harmless as it slipped through the blinds, but you didn’t buy it for a second. It fell across your dresser in neat, pale stripes, catching on the clutter of an ordinary life – hair ties, a half-empty tube of lip balm, your student ID, a spiral notebook with a cracked spine. The kind of morning that pretended it wouldn’t ask anything of you.
You stood in front of the mirror with a toothbrush in your mouth and your hair in a half-made knot, squinting at your own reflection like you were cross-examining a witness.
“Okay,” you mumbled around the toothbrush. “We’re not doing dramatic today. We’re doing functional.”
Your reflection raised one eyebrow as if to say: Sure you are.
You spat, rinsed, and leaned closer to inspect the faint smudge of mascara beneath one eye. It looked like a bad decision from last night, clinging to you out of spite. You wiped it away with your finger and then washed your hands, already moving on, already making a mental list.
Keys. Wallet. Laptop. Notes for Criminal Justice Policy. The reading you swore you’d finish and didn’t. A hoodie because the lecture halls always felt like a refrigerated warehouse. And, apparently, the fact that today was your birthday – something that sat in the back of your mind like a tag on a new shirt you kept forgetting to cut off.
It wasn’t that you hated birthdays. You just didn’t like the attention that came with them, the way people acted like you became fragile for twenty-four hours. You weren’t a porcelain figurine. You were a person with deadlines.
Still… there was a tiny, stubborn spark of anticipation. It showed up in small, inconvenient ways: the extra care you took applying your eyeliner, the little pause while you debated between the comfortable jeans and the ones that made you look like you had your life together.
You chose the ones that made you look like you had your life together, because you were petty like that.
The apartment was quiet. Too quiet.
You pulled on a sweater and went to your desk, flipping open your notebook to the page you’d left marked with a torn-off sticky note: CRIM JUST POLICY – WEEK 6. You stared at your own handwriting and tried to remember what you meant by half the bullet points. You had written them at midnight with the confidence of someone who truly believed future-you would be grateful.
Future-you was not grateful.
You dug into your bag, checking and re-checking the essentials as if you expected them to vanish. Your phone was face-down on the bed, the screen black, the case scuffed at the corners from being dropped too many times.
You glanced at it again.
Bucky didn’t always text in the mornings. Sometimes he did – something blunt and deceptively simple like You up? or Don’t skip breakfast. Sometimes he didn’t, and you got a message at lunch with a photo of something he’d seen that reminded him of you. Those were your favorites. He never said I thought of you outright, but he didn’t have to.
You weren’t the type to sit around waiting for a notification like it was permission to breathe. You told yourself that. Frequently. Loudly, in your own head.
Still, you flicked the screen on.
Nothing new.
You locked it, tossed it into your bag, and walked back toward the mirror to tame the last of your hair.
That was when your phone rang – sharp and sudden, vibrating against the mattress like it had something urgent to say.
You froze for a second, a bobby pin between your fingers. Your heart did that stupid little jump it always did when you thought it might be him. It was ridiculous. You weren’t some lovesick teenager. You were – well. You were an adult, allegedly.
You crossed the room in two strides and grabbed the phone.
A notification banner slid across the screen: a message.
You smiled before you even read it.
Bucky.
Your brain filled in the name automatically, like muscle memory. Like hope was a shortcut you kept taking even when you told yourself you didn’t need it.
You unlocked your phone.
The name at the top of the screen made you blink.
Steve
You stared at it for a beat, thrown off, like you’d walked into the wrong classroom.
Then the message loaded.
Happy birthday. Hope your day doesn’t treat you like a suspect before you’ve had coffee.
A laugh escaped you – soft, surprised, real. It curled in your chest like warmth.
Steve was… Steve. He was impossible to dislike, even if you had tried in the beginning out of sheer principle. There was something disarming about him, something steady. He was the kind of person who remembered things, the kind of person who made remembering feel like care and not obligation.
You sat on the edge of the bed, the phone in your hand, rereading the message once, twice. The corners of your mouth stayed lifted.
“Of course you’d be the first one to say it,” you muttered, fondness threading through the words.
You typed back quickly.
Thanks, Rogers. I’ll try not to commit any felonies before noon.
You paused, thumb hovering, then added:
Also– save me a seat later in Criminal Justice Policy. Somewhere not directly under the professor’s gaze, if possible.
You hit send.
Almost immediately, the three little dots appeared. Steve was typing.
You waited, swinging one foot slightly, eyes flicking toward the clock on your nightstand. You still had time, but not much. If you didn’t leave soon, you’d end up speed-walking across campus, and you refused to start your birthday sweating and annoyed.
A new message popped up.
Deal. I’ll secure prime real estate. End of the row, easy escape route. Birthday privilege.
Your smile widened.
You typed again.
End of the row is always the right answer. See you there.
You sent it and leaned back, letting out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding.
It was a small thing. A simple message. But it softened the edge of the morning, made it feel less like a routine march and more like… something slightly special.
Your phone stayed warm in your hand for a moment longer. And then, almost like the universe heard your thoughts and decided it couldn’t let you have peace for too long, you glanced at the top of the screen again.
No new message from Bucky.
You didn’t frown. You didn’t let it turn into a thing. You refused.
You tossed the phone into your bag with more force than necessary and stood.
“Fine,” you told the room, to the quiet air, to yourself. “I’m not waiting around for anybody to remember what day it is. I have class.”
You grabbed your hoodie, slung your bag over your shoulder, and checked yourself one last time in the mirror.
Your eyes looked sharp. Awake. Determined.
Good.
If today wanted to test you, it was welcome to try.
The campus shuttle ran late, as if it took personal pleasure in making students question their life choices. You stood at the stop with your bag hugged against your side, hoodie zipped up to your chin, watching the street like you could will the bus into existence through sheer resentment.
Cold air nipped at your fingers. People clustered in little islands of conversation, half-asleep, clutching coffees like lifelines. You kept your gaze forward, not because you were shy – because you weren’t – but because mornings asked too many questions and you weren’t in the mood to answer any of them.
Your phone stayed quiet in your pocket. You didn’t check it. You refused to make a habit out of it.
When the shuttle finally rolled up with a wheeze and a hiss, you climbed on, paid, and wedged yourself into a seat near the window. The glass was cool against your temple when you leaned your head there, watching the city slide past in smeared colors and early light.
You told yourself you were thinking about class. About the reading you had half-finished. About the professor who loved cold-calling students like it was a sport.
Instead, your brain – traitor that it was – drifted back to the night you met them. The night that had started as a favor and ended as a pivot you hadn’t seen coming.
Sharon had dragged you to that frat party like she was escorting a prisoner.
“You need to loosen up,” she had said, already halfway out the door of your dorm room, already jingling her keys like they were a promise.
“I am loose,” you had answered, dead serious. “I’m so loose I’m practically liquid.”
Sharon had turned, one eyebrow rising, unimpressed in the way only she could manage.
“You have been studying for three hours,” she had pointed out. “On a Friday.”
“Exactly. Living on the edge.”
She had rolled her eyes, walked back into your room, and shut your laptop with a decisive snap.
“You’re coming,” she had declared.
You had stared at the closed laptop like it had been a wounded animal. “You can’t just– Sharon, I have– ”
“Notes,” she had cut in. “And stress. And a personality that’s currently trapped under a pile of textbooks. I’m liberating you.”
“I don’t need liberation,” you had said, but your voice had lacked the heat it should’ve had. Not because she was right – absolutely not – but because Sharon was relentless and you had always been smart enough to know when to stop wasting oxygen.
Besides, the truth was you didn’t want to go because parties like that weren’t your scene. Too loud, too crowded, too many strangers pretending they weren’t strangers. Too many people who acted like confidence was measured by how little they cared.
You cared. About everything. You just didn’t advertise it.
So you had gone, because Sharon had grabbed your wrist and tugged, and because some part of you had been curious in spite of yourself.
The frat house had been visible from the street, spilling light and noise like it couldn’t contain itself. Music thumped through the walls. People streamed in and out, laughing too loudly, shouting over each other. Someone on the porch had been waving a red cup like a flag of surrender.
You had stopped at the bottom of the steps and looked up at Sharon.
“If I die in there,” you had told her, “delete my search history.”
Sharon had grinned, bright and wicked. “If you die in there, it’ll be because you’ll be murdered by someone for growling at them for stepping on your shoes.”
“That is a possibility,” you had conceded.
Inside, the air had been warm and crowded, thick with perfume and sweat and spilled beer. The living room had been a sea of bodies. A Christmas-light string had been stapled to the ceiling in crooked lines, more effort than necessary for a place that already looked like it had never heard of consequences.
Sharon had slipped into the crowd like she belonged to it. You had followed, mostly because getting lost would’ve been worse.
You had been trying to find a corner – something solid, something quiet enough to breathe – when you’d bumped shoulder-to-shoulder with someone turning at the same time.
“Sorry,” you had said automatically, already stepping back.
“No, it’s– it’s my fault,” a voice had answered, calm and warm, easy to hear even with the music pounding.
You had looked up.
He had been tall. Not in a looming way – more in a how is this man fitting under that doorway way. Blond hair, earnest face, polite expression that somehow didn’t look fake. He held a red cup like it was a prop he didn’t quite know what to do with.
And you had recognized him.
Because you’d shared two criminology courses with him. He sat near the front, took notes like his life depended on it, and somehow managed to look like he was listening even when the professor went on tangents.
Steve Rogers.
Your surprise had shown, because his mouth had curved just slightly, like he found it amusing.
“Hey,” he had said, testing the word like it was a handshake. “You’re in Professor Danning’s class, right? Criminological Theory?”
Your brain had caught up with your mouth a second late. “Yeah. And Comparative Systems.”
His expression had brightened. “Right. You always argue with the guest lecturer.”
“I don't argue,” you had corrected, because you were incapable of letting inaccuracies live. “I ask questions. There’s a difference.”
He had laughed – an actual laugh, not the polite kind – and it had startled you. It was too genuine for this room.
“Fair,” he had said, nodding like you’d just made a compelling legal point. “Questions, then.”
You had tilted your head, studying him in a way that would’ve made most people uncomfortable. Steve didn’t flinch. He just watched you back, patient.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” you had said.
He had blinked. “I’m not?”
You had gestured vaguely at the chaos around you. “This. All of this. You look like you showed up because you felt morally obligated to support… whatever this is.”
His eyes had flicked around the room, taking in the yelling, the dancing, the beer pong table like it was a battlefield.
“I’m in the fraternity,” he had admitted, like it was something he still hadn’t fully accepted himself. “Technically.”
“Technically,” you repeated, amused. “So you’re one of them.”
He had looked faintly offended by that, which had made it even funnier.
“I’m not– I mean, yes, but…” He had searched for the right words, earnestness written all over his face. “It’s complicated.”
You had leaned in slightly, loud enough for him to hear over the music. “Complicated how? Like you lost a bet?”
He had smiled again, softer this time. “Like I thought joining would help me meet people.”
You had stared at him.
Then, before you could stop yourself, you had said, “And did it?”
His mouth had opened, then closed, then opened again. “I… met you.”
You had blinked, caught off guard. It wasn’t flirtatious. It wasn’t smug. It was just… honest.
And for reasons you still couldn’t explain, that honesty had hooked into you like a thread.
You had crossed your arms. “That’s one point in favor, then.”
He had lifted his cup a fraction, like a quiet toast. “I’ll take it.”
You had found yourself talking to him without effort. The conversation had moved like it belonged between you, jumping from class to professors to the way campus security acted like jaywalking was a federal crime. Steve listened like you mattered. He didn’t talk over you. He didn’t try to win.
At one point, someone had slammed into Steve from behind, nearly spilling his drink. Steve had steadied them instinctively, hand out, gentle but firm.
“Easy,” he had said, calm as if the room wasn’t a storm. “You alright?”
The guy had mumbled something incoherent and stumbled away. Steve had looked back at you, apologetic, like sorry about the interruption.
You had raised an eyebrow. “You always like this?”
He had pretended to consider that, eyes narrowing slightly as if he were analyzing evidence. “Maybe I just don’t like watching people get hurt.”
There had been something in his voice then – something steady and unshakeable – that had made you pause. It had been too sincere for a frat party. Too real.
You had recovered quickly, because you didn’t let moments linger unless you wanted them to.
“So,” you had said, changing gears, “what are you doing here right now? Besides looking like you’re about to volunteer to clean up after everyone.”
Steve had glanced at the hallway, then back at you. “I promised I’d show up. Sam’s somewhere in here, and–” He stopped himself, the tiniest hesitation.
“And?” you had pressed, because you did not let hesitation slide.
His smile turned a little rueful. “And a friend of mine might be doing something stupid.”
“A friend,” you echoed, catching the careful way he’d phrased it. “Does your friend have a name?”
Steve’s eyes had held yours, and for a second he looked like he was debating whether to tell you at all.
Then he said it, simple and matter-of-fact.
“Bucky.”
The shuttle hit a pothole, jolting you back into the present. Your shoulder bumped the window. You straightened, blinking, the memory still vivid enough to taste: cheap beer in the air, Sharon’s laughter, Steve’s steady voice saying a name that would later become your whole problem.
Outside, the campus came into view – brick buildings and winter trees and students crossing with backpacks like shields. The bus slowed near your stop.
You shifted your bag, eyes narrowing slightly as you watched the familiar paths.
It had started with Steve. With a conversation that shouldn’t have mattered.
But it had mattered anyway.
The shuttle rolled closer to campus, the buildings rising in familiar blocks of brick and glass, and your mind kept pulling at the thread you’d just remembered – Steve in that living room, looking out of place in a way that was almost brave.
You should have stopped there. Let it be a clean memory: the one decent conversation in a sea of noise.
But memory never behaved. It always wanted the next piece, the missing angle, the moment that changed the whole picture.
And after Steve had said Bucky, after that tiny pause like the name carried weight, you had watched his gaze flick past your shoulder, tracking someone moving through the crowd.
You had turned before you meant to.
Bucky Barnes didn’t enter a room. He arrived.
It wasn’t in an obnoxious way – he didn’t shove people aside or demand attention. It was worse than that. It was effortless. People simply made space without realizing they were doing it, like he had his own gravity.
He looked like he belonged in motion: shoulders loose, steps sure, hair slightly messy as if he’d run a hand through it and never bothered to fix it. A dark T-shirt, sleeves pushed up, a faint smirk that suggested he already knew the punchline to whatever you were about to say.
You had recognized him immediately, because everyone did.
He had a reputation on campus – one of those reputations that spread like gossip and then became a story people told with a shrug, like it was common knowledge. He wasn’t the kind of guy who cycled through girls like a hobby. He wasn’t sloppy with it, wasn’t cruel. If anything, people said he was… charming. Dangerous word, that. It made him sound like a fairytale and not a person.
A mini Casanova, Sharon had called him once, like she couldn’t decide if she was amused or annoyed.
And you’re not his type, she had added, like she was doing you a favor.
Which had made you roll your eyes and say, “Good. I don’t have time to be anyone’s type.”
Now, watching him move through the room, you had wondered what his type was, exactly. And how much of the rumor was real.
Bucky had drifted closer, pausing at Steve’s shoulder. Steve had said something – too quiet for you to hear – and Bucky had answered with a tilt of his mouth that looked like trouble and familiarity wrapped into one.
Then Bucky’s eyes had landed on you.
It wasn’t like being stared at. It was like being noticed. Like a spotlight you hadn’t asked for.
You had felt it, sharp and immediate, right under your skin.
Bucky’s gaze had flicked over your face as if he were reading you, and then his expression had shifted into something easy, confident. He didn’t look surprised to see you there. He looked like he’d been expecting you.
He had stepped in, smooth as a tide, and pointed his cup at you in a lazy sort of greeting.
“Hey,” he had said, voice low enough that you heard it clearly despite the music. “You’re new.”
You had blinked once. Twice. Something about the way he said it – like it was a fact, not a guess – made your spine straighten.
“Am I?” you had asked, tone dry. “Or are you just observant?”
Bucky had smiled like you’d entertained him. “Both.”
Steve had opened his mouth, like he might have introduced you, but you hadn’t given him the chance. You weren’t a prop in someone else’s conversation.
“I’m not new,” you had said. “I’m just not–” you gestured around the room, letting your expression do the rest.
Bucky had followed your gesture, taking in the chaos, the shouting, the sticky floor, the sweaty bodies bouncing in time with the bass.
And then he had looked back at you, something like understanding in his eyes.
“Not a fan,” he had said.
“Not even a little.”
“And yet,” he had replied, “here you are.”
You had lifted your chin. “And yet.”
Steve had watched this exchange with the careful stillness of someone observing a situation that could go either way. He didn’t interrupt. He didn’t try to steer it. He just stood there, steady, like he was letting you choose.
Bucky’s gaze flicked briefly to Steve, then back to you.
“Come on,” Bucky had said, nodding toward the hallway that led deeper into the house. “Dance with me.”
You had stared at him like he had just suggested you rob a bank.
“No.”
He didn’t even flinch. He didn’t act insulted, didn’t pout, didn’t double down with the usual frat-boy persistence. He only smiled a little wider, like your refusal was part of the game.
“Why not?” he had asked, genuinely curious.
“I don’t dance,” you had said. Simple. Final.
Bucky tilted his head, as if he were considering evidence. “Everybody dances.”
“No,” you had corrected. “Everybody sways when the music’s loud enough and they’re drunk enough. There’s a difference.”
Steve had coughed out a laugh beside you, quickly covering it with his hand.
Bucky’s eyes lit, amused. “Okay,” he had said. “Then sway with me.”
You had felt Sharon somewhere behind you, watching, likely preparing commentary you didn’t want to hear. You had also felt the weight of Steve’s attention – not heavy, not demanding, just present.
And Bucky, still waiting, patient in the most irritating way.
“Give me one song,” he had said, like he wasn’t asking at all. Like he had already decided it was happening and you were just catching up. “If you hate it, I’ll stop bothering you for the rest of the night.”
“That’s a suspiciously generous offer,” you had answered.
“I’m a suspiciously generous guy.”
You had narrowed your eyes. “You’re not even denying you’re suspicious.”
Bucky’s smile turned into something a little sharper. “Not gonna insult your intelligence.”
Something about that – about being spoken to like you were capable of seeing through him – had snagged. Most guys at parties tried to charm you by playing dumb or playing superior. Bucky just… met you where you were, like it was the obvious place to stand.
You had looked at his outstretched hand.
You didn’t know why you took it.
Maybe it was spite. Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was the small, reckless part of you that Sharon was always trying to drag out into the sunlight.
Or maybe it was the fact that Bucky looked at you like you were interesting, not intimidating. Like your sharp edges were something he wanted to touch just to see how they felt.
His fingers had closed around yours, warm and sure, and he had pulled you into the crowd without hesitation.
You had expected awkwardness. You had expected him to spin you like some cliché and laugh when you stumbled. You had expected to hate every second.
Instead, Bucky moved like he belonged to the music. Not choreographed, not showy. Just… natural. He kept his hand at your waist, firm enough to guide but not enough to trap. He didn’t yank. He didn’t crowd you.
He leaned in just enough to be heard. “See? Not so bad.”
You had scoffed. “It’s been twelve seconds.”
“Twelve seconds,” he agreed, “and you haven’t murdered me. That’s progress.”
You had surprised yourself by laughing – an actual laugh, the kind you didn’t ration. It escaped before you could catch it, and Bucky’s grin flashed like he’d just won something.
“Hey,” he had said, voice softer now, as if the noise around you had thinned. “You look like you’re about to bolt at any moment.”
“I was about to bolt before I even got here.”
“Then why’d you come?”
You had opened your mouth, ready with a sarcastic answer, and then realized you didn’t want to give him one. Not because you owed him honesty, but because he’d asked like he actually cared.
So you had said the truth.
“Sharon,” you had answered. “She forced me.”
Bucky had hummed, amused. “Sharon Carter?”
You blinked. “You know her?”
“She’s loud,” he said, as if that explained everything. “And she has good aim with a sarcastic comment.”
“That’s an understatement.”
Bucky had laughed, and the sound was warm enough to make you forget the room was too hot. He guided you through the crowd like it was nothing, like bodies and noise couldn’t touch you as long as he kept you moving.
At some point you realized you weren’t tense anymore. Your shoulders had dropped. Your jaw unclenched. You weren’t counting down the minutes until you could leave.
You were… having fun.
It annoyed you, on principle.
Bucky leaned closer, eyes bright. “What’s your name?”
You paused, because there was something weirdly intimate about giving it to him. Like a small surrender.
And then you said it anyway, chin lifted like it was your idea.
He repeated it, testing the syllables like he wanted to memorize them.
“I like it,” he decided.
“You would,” you replied, “you seem like someone who likes a lot of things.”
His eyes narrowed, playful. “Is that what you’ve heard about me?”
You met his gaze without blinking. “People talk.”
“And you believe them?”
“I believe half,” you said. “And assume the other half is worse.”
Bucky’s laugh was immediate, delighted. “Damn.”
You smiled, sharp. “You walked into that one.”
“Yeah,” he admitted, “but you made it worth it.”
The words should’ve sounded like a line. Like a practiced thing. But he didn’t deliver them with arrogance. He said them like he meant them in that moment, like he wasn’t thinking past the end of the song.
And that – more than anything – made you feel wanted.
Not in a cheap way. Not in a come home with me way.
In a I see you way.
You hated how good it felt.
Time moved weird at parties. Songs blurred. Laughter became background noise. You and Bucky kept ending up together, like he’d decided you were his orbit for the night and didn’t feel the need to explain himself.
He made you laugh again and again, not with jokes but with that quick, sideways commentary he had, the little looks he gave you when someone did something ridiculous. Like you were co-conspirators. Like you were in on it.
At one point, you had forgotten to be annoyed at being there.
At one point, you had leaned in to say something in his ear and felt his hand tighten at your waist, just slightly, and your stomach had flipped like you were seventeen.
Toward the end of the night, when the crowd thinned and the music slowed into something heavier, you finally looked up and found Steve.
He stood near the edge of the living room, half in shadow, cup still in his hand. He wasn’t watching the room. He was watching you.
You caught his eyes across the distance.
For a second, you thought he might smile – might lift his hand, might give you that steady, polite warmth you’d started to like.
Instead, his expression shifted.
Not anger. Not judgment.
Something quieter.
Like he was stepping back from a place he’d thought he might belong. Like he was erasing himself from the scene before anyone could ask him to stay.
And beneath that… regret.
It was subtle. Steve was too controlled to let it spill. But you saw it anyway, because you noticed things. Because you always did.
Your breath caught.
Bucky said something to you – another comment, another half-joke – and you laughed automatically, eyes still on Steve.
Steve’s gaze held yours for one more beat.
Then he looked away.
He didn’t say anything. He never did.
And on the shuttle, with campus drawing closer and your birthday waiting like a line you hadn’t read yet, you wondered – still, after all this time – if that night had been the first time Steve decided to let something go without a fight.
Or if it had just been the first time you’d noticed.
By the time the shuttle reached the edge of campus, the memory of that party still clung to you like the smell of beer on a jacket you swore you’d washed. You watched students step off at different stops, watched the familiar paths open up outside the windows, and you told yourself – again – that it was ridiculous how one night had managed to reroute so much.
You should have been a statistical impossibility after that.
Not because Bucky was out of your league – whatever that meant – but because your schedules were built like two separate universes. You were a Sociology major, buried in seminars and readings and discussions that turned everything into a question. He was Engineering, strapped to labs and problem sets and a workload that made sleep feel optional. Different buildings. Different sides of campus. Different crowds.
You should have become a footnote. The girl he danced with at a party, mentioned once in passing and then forgotten.
Except Bucky refused to let you become anything small.
It started the next Monday, when you left your morning lecture and found him leaning against the wall outside the building as if he had always belonged there. He wore a hoodie and that same easy confidence like it was stitched into him, hands shoved into his pockets, gaze lifted the moment you stepped out.
You slowed automatically, suspicious.
He smiled as if he had been waiting for exactly that reaction.
“There you are,” he said.
You stopped a few feet away, eyes narrowing. “I’m sorry, is this the part where you pretend we ran into each other by accident?”
Bucky’s grin widened. “We did run into each other. Technically.”
“Technically,” you echoed, unimpressed. “Did you stalk my schedule?”
He lifted one shoulder. “Stalk is such an ugly word.”
“It’s accurate.”
“It’s proactive,” he corrected, unbothered. “I asked around.”
You stared at him. “You asked around.”
“Yeah,” he said, like it was the most normal thing in the world. “I wanted to see you again.”
The bluntness hit you harder than a flirtier line would have. You hated that. You hated how simple it was. How it left you with nothing clever to deflect it.
So you did what you always did when you didn’t know how to respond.
You went on the offense.
“Why?” you asked.
Bucky blinked, like the question had never occurred to him as something that needed justification. “Because I had fun.”
“That’s not a reason,” you said.
“It is,” he replied. “You just don’t like it.”
You stepped past him, because you had places to be and because standing still felt like agreeing.
He fell into step beside you without asking.
“You’re busy,” he observed, glancing at the folder tucked under your arm. “Always look like you’re about to start a fight with someone’s argument.”
“I’m not looking for fights,” you said. “Fights find me.”
Bucky laughed under his breath. “Yeah. I noticed.”
You walked faster. He matched it easily.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“A meeting,” you said.
“Of what?”
“Sociology club,” you answered.
He made a face like he was trying to picture what that looked like. “Do you… do you guys meet up and complain about society?”
You shot him a look. “We meet up and discuss policy implications and research methods.”
Bucky held up his hands, mock-surrender. “Okay. See? That’s even worse.”
You didn’t smile. You absolutely did not smile.
He followed you anyway, stopping only when you reached the stairs to the building where your club met.
“So,” he said, stepping backward, hands still in his hoodie pocket. “Can I walk you to class tomorrow?”
“No,” you answered automatically.
He nodded, like you’d said maybe. “Cool. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
And then he left.
You stood there for a second, staring after him, irritation sparking under your ribs.
Not because he had shown up.
Because he had left like he was sure he’d earned the right to come back.
The next day, he appeared again – outside your seminar this time – with a coffee in his hand.
You stopped short when you saw him.
“What are you doing here?” you demanded.
Bucky held the cup out to you like an offering. “Peace treaty.”
You eyed it. “Did you poison this?”
“Not yet,” he said. “But you keep accusing me, I’m gonna start considering it.”
You took the coffee anyway, because you were tired and because caffeine was a necessity, not a luxury.
Bucky’s smile turned softer, like he’d won something small.
“Don’t look so proud,” you warned.
“I’m not proud,” he said. “I’m pleased. There’s a difference.”
You had scoffed, but you hadn’t handed the coffee back.
After that, it became a pattern.
A coincidence turned into a habit. A habit turned into something that made you roll your eyes, then check your surroundings without meaning to. You started noticing him before he noticed you – leaning against a wall, sitting on a bench, hovering near the steps of whatever building you had class in, as if Engineering had suddenly required him to be everywhere you were.
It wasn’t constant. He didn’t suffocate you. He didn’t demand your time like he owned it. He just… showed up, persistent in a way that wasn’t aggressive. Like he didn’t want to wear you down.
Like he wanted to win you over.
And it worked, which was the most infuriating part.
He remembered what you said. Not just the big things, but the tiny ones you tossed out like they didn’t matter – the way you hated cilantro, the professor you couldn’t stand, the fact that you always forgot to eat lunch when you got stressed. He teased you without being cruel. He flirted without making it feel like a performance.
He looked at you like you were a challenge he actually respected.
A week after the party, you walked out of class to find him sitting on the low brick wall outside the building, legs stretched out, phone in one hand. He lifted his eyes and smiled, lazy and familiar now.
“You’re avoiding me,” he said.
“I’m busy,” you corrected.
Bucky hummed, like he accepted that but didn’t intend to let it stop him. “Then let me borrow you for two hours.”
You stopped. “Borrow.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I’ll bring you back. Mostly intact.”
You folded your arms. “What is this, Barnes?”
“A date,” he said simply.
You stared at him. “We’ve known each other for one week.”
“I know,” he replied. “Long enough.”
“That is not how that works.”
He leaned forward slightly, eyes bright with something that felt dangerously like sincerity. “Tell me you don’t want to.”
The worst part was that you opened your mouth, ready to say I don’t want to, and the words didn’t come.
Because you didn’t know if it was true.
Because he had made you laugh all week. Because he had been there in the margins of your days like a low, steady hum. Because the thought of saying no didn’t feel like relief.
It felt like missing out.
You shifted your weight, scowling like you could intimidate your own indecision into behaving.
Bucky watched you, patient. Too patient.
“Fine,” you said at last, sharp as a snapped ruler. “One date.”
His grin flashed. “One date.”
“And if it’s bad,” you added, “I reserve the right to leave without explanation.”
“Fair,” he said. “If it’s good, I reserve the right to ask for another.”
You rolled your eyes. “You’re insufferable.”
“You’re smiling,” he countered.
You glared at him hard enough that any sane person would’ve backed off.
Bucky only looked more pleased.
The date was supposed to be simple. Coffee, maybe. Something quick, something you could label as an experiment and then file away.
Instead, it turned into dinner – because he claimed he was starving and you refused to let him guilt you with that ridiculous puppy expression he somehow managed to pull off.
Dinner turned into a walk across campus, the air cold and sharp, your breath visible in front of you. You argued about everything. You teased each other. You debated whether people were inherently good or inherently self-serving, and Bucky surprised you by having opinions that weren’t stupid.
At the end of the night, when you stood outside your flat building, you expected it to end with something polite.
Bucky didn’t do polite. Not in that careful, distant way.
He stepped closer, gaze dropping to your mouth, then lifting back to your eyes as if he was still giving you the choice.
“You gonna punch me if I kiss you?” he asked.
You lifted your chin. “Depends. Do you deserve it?”
His mouth curved. “Probably.”
You didn’t punch him.
You kissed him first.
And then you kissed him again, because the first one had been too quick, too cautious, like you were still trying to keep it under control.
Bucky made a quiet sound against your mouth, something between a laugh and a breath, and his hand slid to your waist with that same firm warmth you remembered from the party. He kissed you like he meant it – like he wasn’t collecting a win, like he was claiming a moment.
You stepped back before it could turn your bones soft.
“Goodnight,” you said, a little breathless, a little annoyed at yourself.
Bucky’s eyes stayed on you, dark and amused. “Goodnight.”
You walked inside and didn’t look back.
You also didn’t sleep much.
One date became another. Another became three. You stopped calling them dates and started calling them plans, which was somehow worse because it meant you were making space for him like it was natural.
There were late-night study sessions where he sat across from you pretending to understand your readings, only to ask pointed questions that proved he’d been listening anyway. There were afternoons where you found him waiting outside your building again, a grin on his face like he liked the way you pretended you didn’t.
There were kisses in hallways, stolen between classes. Kisses in the quiet corners of the library that you absolutely should not have taken, except you did, because Bucky had looked at you with that spark in his eyes and you had decided rules were negotiable.
And then it wasn’t just kissing.
It was him showing up at your door late one night, hair damp from the cold, hoodie half-zipped, eyes tired but intent.
It was you letting him in without asking why, because you already knew.
It was his hands on your hips, the way he breathed your name like it mattered, the way he made you feel wanted in a way that was physical and honest and impossible to mistake for anything else.
It was the heat of him against you, the laughter that slipped out when you bumped into the bedframe, the muttered Jesus when you tugged at his shirt with less patience than you pretended to have.
It was you, afterward, staring at the ceiling while he lay beside you like he had always belonged there, and realizing you couldn’t even pretend it was casual anymore.
You tried once. Briefly.
“This doesn’t mean anything,” you had said, mostly to see if he’d flinch.
Bucky had turned his head toward you, eyes half-lidded, expression unbothered. “Yeah?”
You met his gaze, stubborn. “Yeah.”
He reached out, traced his knuckles lightly along your jaw, and smiled.
“Okay,” he said. “Then why do I want to stay?”
You didn’t have an answer that didn’t terrify you.
So you said, “Don’t get used to it.”
Bucky had laughed, low and soft. “Too late.”
By the end of the month – by the time you had accumulated enough memories to make denial feel stupid – he said it like it was the obvious next step.
“So,” he had said one day, walking with you across campus, his fingers hooked casually through yours. “Are we doing this?”
You glanced at him. “Doing what?”
“Us,” he answered, like he couldn’t imagine why you’d complicate it. “Officially.”
You stopped walking.
Bucky stopped too, turning to face you, waiting. He didn’t pressure. He didn’t push. He just watched you like he trusted you to choose.
You stared at him, at the boy with the reputation who had somehow turned into someone reliable. Someone who remembered your coffee order. Someone who sat through your rants and didn’t tell you to calm down. Someone who made you laugh and made you feel desired and never once made you feel small.
You exhaled slowly.
“Yeah,” you said. “We’re doing this.”
Bucky’s smile hit like sunlight.
“Good,” he said, and kissed you right there in the middle of the walkway, like he didn’t care who saw.
And you let him.
Because for once, you didn’t feel like hiding the thing you wanted.
By the time you reached campus, the memory trail shifted again – less sharp edges, more overlapping lines. Because while Bucky happened fast, Steve happened quietly. Almost inevitably.
It started with the obvious: you already shared classes, you already spoke the same language of actually thinking before talking, and Steve already came attached to Bucky like a fixed point in his orbit. You didn’t have to force anything. You didn’t have to perform.
You and Steve simply… fit.
He walked with you after lectures sometimes, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, listening with the kind of attention that made most people accidentally reveal their entire life story. He didn’t interrupt. He didn’t half-listen. He didn’t treat your opinions like a debate he needed to win.
And you, for your part, didn’t treat him like a mascot or a saint – because Steve had enough people doing that already. You called him on things. You teased him. You made him roll his eyes in that long-suffering way that meant he liked you.
One afternoon, you and Steve sat outside the library with your notes spread between you like evidence.
Steve pointed at one of your margins. “You wrote ‘this is nonsense’ three times.”
You glanced down, unimpressed. “It was nonsense three times.”
“That’s not very academic,” he said, but there was a smile in his voice.
“It’s honest,” you corrected. “Also, I wrote a paragraph underneath explaining why it was nonsense. That’s academic enough.”
Steve’s mouth twitched. “You always do this in class.”
“Because people always say things that deserves it.”
He shook his head slowly. “You and I… we are the only ones who look like we want to fight the textbook.”
You snorted. “You fight it politely.”
“I fight it strategically,” he said, offended on principle.
“Sure, Captain Strategy.”
He sighed like he regretted ever letting you start. “Don’t call me that.”
“You hate it,” you observed.
“I do.”
“Then I’ll do it more.”
Steve stared at you for a beat and then, very quietly, laughed – soft and real, like he couldn’t help it.
That was how it went with him. Easy. Familiar. Like you’d been friends longer than you had.
Bucky noticed, too. He watched you and Steve fall into conversation the way some people watched a show they secretly liked. The difference was that Bucky never looked jealous. If anything, he looked… relieved. Like he was glad Steve had someone who understood him without coddling him.
And the early months with Bucky – those were almost laughably good.
It surprised you how good.
He showed up when he said he would. He texted when he couldn’t. He learned your schedule like it mattered. He walked you to your building when it got dark earlier and refused to pretend it was “because it was on his way.” He sat through sociology events he didn’t understand, and when you teased him for it, he kissed you like it was his reward for suffering.
He made room for you in his life without acting like you were invading it.
There were mornings you woke up with his arm heavy around you, his face slack with sleep, and you stared at him with a kind of disbelief that made you angry at yourself – because you didn’t like being soft, and he made it happen anyway.
There were nights you argued – about politics, about class, about whether pineapple belonged on pizza – and it never turned mean. It never turned into a power struggle. It stayed sharp and alive and oddly safe.
He made you feel chosen.
And you let yourself enjoy it, because you were not going to punish yourself for being happy. That was a rule you’d written in your own head long before you met him.
Then, somewhere around the thrid or fourth month – long enough that “new” wore off, long enough that you had stopped looking for the catch every time something went well – you noticed a pattern that didn’t belong to you.
It started small.
A name that came up too often in passing. A “Nat said this” tossed into conversation like it was casual. A phone buzzing late at night and Bucky going still for half a second before he declined the call.
The first time you heard it, you barely registered it.
The second time, you raised an eyebrow.
By the fifth time, you sat up straighter.
You knew Natasha, of course. Everyone did. She existed on campus like a rumor made flesh – smart, beautiful in a way that made people either worship her or hate her. She didn’t move like she was trying to be seen, but she was seen anyway. She didn’t need to chase attention; it followed.
You had met her once, briefly, at a get-together at the frat house. She wore black like it was a declaration, laughed with her hand near her mouth like she was hiding the punchline from the world, and when she looked at you, you felt like you’d been assessed.
Not threatened. Not dismissed.
Assessed.
You didn’t like that. You didn’t like feeling like a file someone could flip through.
But you had shrugged it off, because Bucky was with you. Because Steve was there too, steady as always. Because you weren’t insecure, and you refused to become that girl.
Then one night, you and Bucky sat on his couch, your legs draped over his lap. He flipped through something on TV you weren’t watching, his thumb idly tracing patterns over your ankle.
His phone lit up on the coffee table.
Natasha
You didn’t look away fast enough.
Bucky’s thumb paused.
The silence lasted maybe one beat too long.
You lifted your head slightly. “Are you going to answer?”
Bucky glanced at the screen, then at you. “No.”
“Okay,” you said, waiting for the rest.
It didn’t come. He reached over, flipped the phone face-down like that solved it, and went back to tracing your ankle as if nothing happened.
You watched him for a moment, the heat in your chest shifting into something sharper.
“What?” Bucky asked finally, eyes still on the TV.
You sat up and pulled your legs back, because you didn’t do conversations while being treated like furniture.
“What do you mean, what?” you said.
Bucky turned his head, eyebrows pulling together. “It’s just a call.”
“From your ex,” you replied.
He exhaled like you were being unreasonable. “She calls sometimes.”
“Sometimes,” you echoed. “That’s a lot of ‘sometimes,’ Bucky.”
His gaze held yours. “Do you not trust me?”
You didn’t blink. “I trust you. That’s not the point.”
“Then what’s the point?” he asked, genuinely frustrated now.
You leaned forward, elbows on your knees, voice calm because you refused to let it turn into something messy. “The point is that Natasha is… present. In your stories. In your phone. In the way you go quiet when her name pops up. In the way your friends talk about her like she’s still part of the group.”
Bucky’s jaw tightened. He looked away for a second, then back.
“She is part of the group,” he said.
“And what am I?” you asked, voice sharp enough to cut. “A guest star?”
Bucky’s eyes widened slightly, like that hit. “No.”
“Then don’t treat me like I’m supposed to accept being in a relationship where there’s a third person hovering over it,” you said. You kept your tone even, but your words didn’t soften. “Metaphorically or otherwise.”
Bucky leaned back, hand dragging over his mouth. “You’re making it sound like–”
“Like what?” you interrupted. “Like she matters.”
Silence.
Not the kind that said you’re wrong. The kind that said this is complicated.
You felt it settle in your stomach, heavy and cold.
Bucky finally spoke, slower now. “Natasha and I… it was a lot.”
“You don’t say,” you muttered.
He shot you a look – warning, tired, defensive. “Don’t do that.”
“Don’t do what?” you challenged.
“Act like she’s nothing,” he said. “Because she’s not.”
There it was.
Not romantic. Not an admission of cheating. Nothing that simple.
Just the truth: Natasha wasn’t nothing. She wasn’t a closed chapter. She wasn’t a clean break.
She was a shadow that still reached into the room.
You sat back, breathing through your nose, forcing your own temper into a line. Because you weren’t going to explode. You weren’t going to cry. You weren’t going to perform hurt for his benefit.
You were going to be clear.
“Okay,” you said, voice low. “So what are we doing with that?”
Bucky frowned. “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” you said, meeting his eyes, “I’m not asking you to erase your past. I’m asking you to stop pretending it doesn’t spill into your present. Because it does. And if I’m going to do this with you – really do it – then I need to know where I stand.”
Bucky stared at you for a long moment. His expression shifted – less defensive, more serious. Like he finally understood this wasn’t jealousy. This was boundaries.
“You stand with me,” he said.
You held his gaze. “Then act like it.”
Bucky’s throat bobbed when he swallowed. “She–” He stopped, shook his head once like he hated the shape of the sentence. “She doesn’t know how to let things go.”
You almost laughed, but it came out bitter. “Neither do you, apparently.”
Bucky flinched like you’d landed a clean hit.
And that was when you understood it fully: dating Bucky didn’t just mean dating Bucky.
It meant dating history. It meant dating unfinished business. It meant learning to live – metaphorically – with the third presence in the room.
Natasha Romanoff.
And you had never been the type to share your space without a fight.
You walked across campus like you owned your space in it – shoulders squared, pace steady, eyes scanning the flow of students as if you were reading the room. The morning air bit at your cheeks, and the wind played with the ends of your hair, but you didn’t slow down. You didn’t hunch. You didn’t shrink.
Still, your thoughts kept circling the same conclusion with irritating persistence.
After that night on Bucky’s couch – after you named the thing you refused to pretend you didn’t see – nothing exploded. There was no dramatic breakup. No slammed doors, no scorched-earth aftermath. If anything, the relationship stayed intact because you both wanted it to.
But it changed.
It became a little less… bright.
Bucky stopped meeting your eyes as easily when certain names came up. He started swallowing words instead of saying them. He began to turn inward, like he was trying to solve something alone that had never been a one-person problem. And because he was Bucky, because he carried everything like it was weight he had to earn, he didn’t announce it. He just… retreated.
At first it showed up in small cracks.
He forgot the day of your midterm presentation, even though you had talked about it all week. He showed up late to a dinner you’d planned, smelling faintly of cold air and stress, apologizing with a quick kiss and a “sorry, got caught up,” like the details didn’t matter.
He texted less. Or he texted like he was checking a box: You good? Busy. Later.
He still held you in bed. He still kissed you. He still looked at you like you mattered.
But the attention – the careful, deliberate attention that had made you feel chosen – started slipping through his fingers.
You were not fragile. You could handle a boyfriend who was distracted. You could handle an off week, even an off month.
What you didn’t handle well was being taken for granted.
And this morning, walking toward your Criminal Justice Policy lecture, your phone silent in your pocket, that truth sat heavy in your chest.
Because it was your birthday.
And he still hadn’t said it.
You told yourself you weren’t counting. You told yourself it didn’t matter. You told yourself you didn’t need anyone to validate the date on the calendar.
But you had smiled at Steve’s message. You had felt that warmth. You had felt seen.
And you couldn’t ignore what it meant that Bucky hadn’t done the same.
You reached the building, climbed the steps, and pushed through the doors into the familiar corridor. Students moved in clusters, voices echoing off the walls, the smell of coffee lingering in the air. Your boots clicked against the tile, confident and impatient.
Then you saw Steve.
He stood near the lecture hall doors, tall and calm, holding two coffees like they were mission-critical. He wore a jacket that looked too thin for the weather and still somehow made it work, his posture easy but alert, as if he was always prepared for someone to need something.
When his eyes met yours, his expression softened. Not dramatically. Just enough.
He lifted one coffee slightly in greeting.
You slowed as you approached, and before you could say anything, Steve stepped forward and offered one cup out to you.
“Hey,” he said.
You took it, fingers closing around the warmth. “You didn’t have to.”
“I wanted to,” Steve replied, like that was the end of the discussion.
You held his gaze for a beat, letting the simple steadiness of him settle your nerves. It was a relief you didn’t like admitting.
Steve fell into step beside you, positioning himself with an easy awareness of space so you didn’t get bumped by the passing crowd. He looked ahead for a moment, then turned his head slightly toward you, voice low enough that it didn’t become public.
“So,” he said, casual on the surface, “did you get the Yale letter yesterday?”
You huffed a quiet laugh through your nose. Of course he remembered the exact day.
You nodded once. “Rejected.”
Steve’s brow knit, a flicker of displeasure crossing his face – not at you, but at the universe.
You lifted your coffee a fraction, like a gavel. “But I expected it. I mean– come on. Yale doesn’t exactly send love letters to people who argue with professors for sport.”
Steve’s mouth twitched. “You don’t argue for sport.”
“I absolutely do,” you said. “Sometimes I don’t even care about the topic, I just hate bad logic.”
Steve’s smile came, small and genuine. He waited, letting you set the pace, like he always did.
You took a breath and kept going, because you refused to make it a tragedy. “Anyway. I’m still waiting on Columbia Law. And I got three acceptances– good schools. Not ‘I settled’ schools. Actual good ones.”
Steve’s eyes warmed. “That’s incredible.”
“It’s not incredible,” you corrected automatically, then stopped yourself. You weren’t going to minimize it. Not today. Not with Steve looking at you like you’d earned it. You exhaled. “It’s… it’s solid. I’m proud of it.”
“You should be,” Steve said, simple and firm.
You let the words land. You didn’t deflect them. You took a sip of coffee instead.
Then you glanced at him, measuring. “And you?”
Steve blinked. “Me?”
“Quantico,” you said, watching his face closely. “You said the decision would come this week.”
For a second he looked almost… shy. Like pride was something he only allowed himself in tiny doses. Then his mouth curved into a smile that reached his eyes.
“Accepted,” he said.
Your chest lifted with something immediate and bright. “Steve–”
“I start field agent training next fall,” he added, voice steady, but his eyes gave him away. He was excited. He was relieved. He was trying not to act like it mattered too much because he had been taught to carry success quietly.
You stopped walking for half a second in the hallway, forcing him to stop too. Students flowed around you both like water around stones.
“Hey,” you said, pointing one finger at his chest like you were delivering a verdict. “That’s huge.”
Steve’s smile widened, just a touch. “Yeah.”
“That’s not a yeah,” you said. “That’s a holy shit, I did it.”
He let out a breath that might’ve been a laugh. “Holy… yeah. I did it.”
You nodded, satisfaction sharp and real. “Good. Because you’re going to be terrifyingly competent.”
Steve glanced away, still smiling, like he didn’t know how to hold compliments without blushing internally. “That’s the goal.”
You lifted your coffee cup slightly, a quiet toast. “To the next chapter.”
Steve lifted his cup too, mirroring you. “To the next chapter.”
And as you stood there with him – warm coffee in your hand, your future cracked open in front of you – you felt it again, that contrast you’d been trying not to name all morning.
Steve had been waiting for you.
Bucky hadn’t even texted.
Lunch came with noise, as it always did – chairs scraping, voices overlapping, the smell of fryer oil and too-sweet soda clinging to the air. The student union cafeteria was packed, bright with fluorescent lights and crowded tables, everyone acting like they didn’t have somewhere else to be.
You spotted them before they spotted you.
Sam sat sprawled in his chair like he paid rent for the space, one arm hooked over the back as he talked with his whole face. Sharon leaned in toward him, sharp-eyed and composed, picking at a salad like it had personally offended her. Bucky sat across from them, shoulders slightly hunched forward, phone in his hand, gaze flicking up every so often – restless, distant. Steve stood beside you for a beat, scanning the table, then met your eyes in silent question.
You lifted your chin. Let’s get it over with.
You and Steve threaded through the crowd, trays in hand, and slid into the open spots. You set your tray down with a controlled clink and took a sip of water like you were arming yourself.
Sharon’s gaze landed on you immediately.
Her face lit with that fierce, delighted grin she saved for her people – the ones she actually cared about.
“Oh my God,” she said, loud enough that a couple heads turned. “Happy birthday.”
The words hit the table like a thrown dart.
You watched it happen.
Bucky froze.
Not slowly. Not subtly. His entire body went still in a way you had learned to recognize – like a switch flipped inside him and his brain raced to catch up.
His hand stopped mid-motion above his phone. His eyes flicked up, sharp and blank for half a second.
And then you knew. With sick, immediate certainty.
He hadn’t been waiting to surprise you later.
He had genuinely forgotten.
Something in your chest went tight, then cold, then strangely calm. It wasn’t devastation. It was clarity. A clean, clinical sense of oh, so we’re here now.
You kept your expression neutral, because you refused to give anyone a show. You refused to let Sharon see disappointment on your face and assume she had to fight on your behalf. You refused to let Sam smell blood in the water and start asking questions.
You weren’t fragile.
But you were not going to pretend it didn’t sting.
You forced a smile – small, controlled – and leaned toward Sharon.
“Thanks,” you said, warm enough to pass. “I’ll accept gifts in the form of you not roasting my life choices today.”
Sharon snorted. “Not a chance.”
Sam’s eyes widened theatrically. “Hold up– today’s your birthday?” He looked back and forth between you and Bucky like he was watching a tennis match. “Barnes, what you got planned?”
Bucky’s jaw moved once, like he tried to form a sentence and swallowed it instead. His gaze slid to you, and for a second you saw it – guilt, surprise, a flash of panic that he masked too late.
You felt it, that familiar impulse to protect him from the consequences of his own actions. The same impulse that had made you soften sharp truths, that had made you fill in his gaps, that had made you do emotional labor he didn’t even know existed.
You hated that impulse.
You used it anyway.
Because you didn’t want this happening here, in the middle of a cafeteria, with Sam leaning forward like a kid waiting for drama and Sharon already sharpening her knives. You didn’t want Bucky embarrassed in public, even if he deserved it a little. You didn’t want your birthday turning into an interrogation.
So you did what you always did best.
You took control of the narrative.
“Oh,” you said, waving a hand like it was nothing, like you hadn’t just watched your boyfriend’s brain short-circuit. “I told him not to plan anything.”
Sam blinked. “You did?”
You nodded firmly, picking up your fork like it was a prop in a courtroom. “Yeah. I’ve got way too much work. It’s the middle of the week. I’m not trying to turn a Wednesday into a production.”
You cut into your food with deliberate calm. “We’re doing something later. Low-key.”
Bucky stared at you. Gratitude flashed there, quick and raw, mixed with something else – shame, maybe. Or relief. Probably both.
Sam leaned back, suspicious. “Low-key, huh?”
“Low-key,” you repeated. “Think: dinner. Maybe a movie. Something that doesn’t require glitter or emotional speeches.”
Sharon’s eyes narrowed at you, sharp enough to slice. She knew you too well to swallow it whole, but she also knew when you were choosing to keep the peace. Her gaze flicked to Bucky, then back to you.
Steve, beside you, made a sound.
A cough – technically.
But it hit like the cover for a laugh.
You didn’t even have to look at him to know his expression. You could feel it, the tiny tremor in his composure, the way his shoulders shifted like he was trying not to smile.
As if he knew exactly what you had just done.
As if he knew you’d just thrown yourself over a live grenade with perfect posture and a straight face.
You finally glanced at him.
Steve had his hand near his mouth, eyes lowered to his tray like he found his sandwich fascinating. But the corners of his lips betrayed him – barely there, a restrained curve. His eyes lifted to yours for half a second, and there it was: quiet amusement. Not mocking. Not cruel.
Just… recognition.
He knew you had lied.
He knew why.
And, annoyingly, he respected the execution.
You held his gaze for one beat longer than necessary, daring him to call you out.
He didn’t.
He only cleared his throat again, softer this time, and reached for his drink like he had never almost laughed.
Bucky finally found his voice.
“Yeah,” he said quickly, too quickly. “Yeah, she– she told me. No big thing. We’ll do something later.”
You didn’t look at him when he said it. You kept eating, because if you looked at him you might have let something real show.
Sam grinned, still fishing. “Man, you better at least get her something.”
You lifted your eyes to Sam, flat and unimpressed. “Samuel.”
Sam held up both hands. “What? I’m just saying! Birthdays matter.”
You smiled without warmth. “They matter to people who remember them.”
The words slipped out before you could stop them – light enough to sound like a joke, sharp enough to be true.
The table went still for half a breath.
Sharon’s gaze snapped to Bucky like a warning shot.
Bucky’s face tightened.
Steve’s eyes flicked to you – quick, concerned, but still steady.
You took a sip of water and let the moment pass, because you refused to let anyone make it bigger than it already was.
You had already done the kind thing.
You didn’t owe anyone comfort too.
Conversation eventually restarted, a little rough at first, then smoothing over as Sam launched into some story about a professor who had mistaken him for a grad student. Sharon sniped commentary in the perfect places. Steve listened. You nodded at the right moments and offered a few remarks just cutting enough to keep Sam honest.
Across from you, Bucky barely touched his food.
Every so often, you felt his gaze on you – heavy, guilty, searching.
You kept your eyes on your plate.
Not because you couldn’t handle the look.
Because you could.
Because you were going to handle it later, in private, when you could choose your words like weapons instead of letting them spill like blood in a cafeteria.
And because, for now, you were not going to let him take your birthday and turn it into his crisis in front of an audience.
The confrontation didn’t happen in the cafeteria. You refused to give them that show.
It happened later, when the day had already drained you dry – after classes, after the library, after the long stretch of pretending you were fine because you were good at it. Evening settled over campus in a thin, cold layer, and Bucky caught up to you outside your building like he’d been shadowing your route for the last ten minutes, working up the nerve.
“Hey,” he said, breath visible in the air. “Can we talk?”
You adjusted the strap of your bag on your shoulder. You didn’t stop walking.
“You mean now you remember I exist?” you replied, tone even, not loud, not dramatic. Just sharp enough to be honest.
Bucky flinched, then matched your pace. “Don’t do that.”
You cut him a look. “Don’t do what, Bucky?”
“Don’t act like I don’t–” He stopped himself, jaw tightening. “I messed up.”
You reached the doors and finally stopped, turning to face him fully. The overhead light cast hard shadows under his eyes. He looked tired. Guilty. Too late.
“Yeah,” you said. “You did.”
Bucky exhaled, dragging a hand through his hair. “I didn’t forget on purpose.”
You stared at him. “That’s supposed to make it better?”
“No,” he admitted quickly. “No. It’s not. I just–” He swallowed. “I just had a lot going on.”
You waited. Silent. Patient. The way you were when you wanted someone to either tell the truth or choke on it.
Bucky looked away for a second, then forced himself to meet your eyes again.
“Natasha had an exam,” he said. “A big one. She was freaking out, and she– she called me last night and I stayed up with her on the phone and I kept thinking about that and then–”
He stopped, like the sentence itself embarrassed him.
You felt something shift inside you. Not anger exactly – anger would’ve been simpler. This was colder. Cleaner.
“So,” you said slowly, “you forgot my birthday because you were thinking about Natasha’s med exam.”
Bucky’s shoulders tensed. “I wasn’t– I mean–”
“You were,” you cut in, voice calm. “That’s literally what you just said.”
He reached for you, instinctively, like he wanted to grab your hand and anchor you. You stepped back before he could touch you.
Bucky’s hand dropped.
“I’m sorry,” he said, voice rough. “I’m sorry. I know how it sounds.”
“How it sounds?” You let out a short, humorless laugh. “Bucky, I’m not worried about how it sounds. I’m worried about what it is.”
His eyes flashed. “Nothing happened.”
You blinked at him. “Did I accuse you of cheating?”
Bucky hesitated, then looked down, jaw working.
“Right,” you said. “I didn’t. Because I don’t think this is about sex. I think it’s worse.”
Bucky’s head snapped up. “Worse?”
“Yes,” you said, and you hated how steady your voice was, how controlled. “Because it’s about priority. It’s about space. It’s about the fact that she still takes up so much room in your head that my birthday didn’t even register.”
Bucky’s face tightened like he wanted to argue. Like he wanted to defend himself.
You lifted a hand. “Don’t. Don’t insult me by pretending this is an accident. You’ve been pulling away for weeks.”
“I haven’t–”
“You have,” you said, and your tone left no room for debate. “I’ve been watching it happen. I’ve been adjusting around it. I’ve been doing what I always do, making it easier for you, smoothing it out, pretending it doesn’t bother me.”
Bucky’s throat bobbed. “I didn’t ask you to do that.”
“No,” you agreed. “You didn’t. You just benefited from it.”
Silence stretched between you. Students passed behind you, laughing, talking, living. You stayed still, pinned in place by a conversation that felt like standing on a ledge.
Bucky took a breath. “Let me make it up to you.”
You tilted your head. “How?”
“This weekend,” he said quickly. “I’ll take you out. Somewhere nice. A restaurant. You pick.”
You stared at him for a moment, weighing. Part of you wanted to say no out of spite. Another part wanted to say yes because you missed the version of him that had tried. The version that had been so attentive it had felt like a force of nature.
And a third part – the part that had started to wake up lately, sharper and less forgiving – wanted to test him.
“Fine,” you said. “This weekend.”
Relief flickered across his face, immediate.
But then he ruined it.
“We could go to that place Nat–” He stopped himself too late, eyes widening. “–that Natasha mentioned. The one near–”
You didn’t move. You didn’t blink. You just watched him.
Bucky shut his mouth, breathing through his nose. “I didn’t mean–”
“She’s in your mouth before I even am,” you said softly.
His eyes tightened, pained. “That’s not–”
“It is,” you interrupted. “It keeps happening.”
Bucky’s hands flexed at his sides. “It’s just a reference. It’s not–”
“A reference,” you echoed, and this time you did laugh, but there was no humor in it. “Do you hear yourself?”
Bucky looked like he wanted to grab the air and reshape the conversation into something he could fix.
“Okay,” he said, forcing calm. “Okay. No Natasha. No references. Just you and me. I promise.”
You held his gaze. “You’re promising what, exactly? That you’ll pretend she doesn’t exist for one dinner?”
His face fell.
And that was the moment you understood how deep the rot went: he wasn’t even sure what promise he was making, because he didn’t know where the line was anymore.
You turned toward the apartment doors. “I’m tired.”
Inside your flat, the silence hit like a wall. You dropped your bag, kicked off your shoes, and stood there for a long moment, staring at nothing.
Trying, you realized, was not the same as changing.
And you couldn’t keep building your life around someone else’s unfinished story.
Your phone buzzed on your desk a few minutes later. You glanced at it, expecting – stupidly, reflexively – that it might be Bucky again, some follow-up apology, some clumsy attempt.
It wasn’t.
It was a message from Steve.
You still on campus? I have something for you. Nothing big. Just… a thing.
You stared at the screen, your thumb hovering.
Your chest tightened for an entirely different reason.
You typed back.
Where?
His reply came quickly.
Outside the library. If you’re okay with that.
You grabbed your coat without thinking too hard about it. Thinking too hard had been ruining your day already.
The walk to the library was colder than before. The campus lamps threw pale circles of light onto the paths. Your breath clouded in front of you. You kept your hands in your pockets and your thoughts on a leash.
Steve waited near the steps, like earlier. Like he always did. He stood with his shoulders squared against the wind, hair ruffled, hands tucked into his jacket pockets until he saw you.
Then he straightened.
His face softened. “Hey.”
You stopped in front of him. “Hey.”
For a second, neither of you spoke. The space between you felt… careful. Not awkward. Just aware. Like both of you knew there were things you didn’t say out loud.
Steve cleared his throat, reaching into his pocket. “So. I told you it wasn’t big.”
“I heard you,” you said. “I’m not going to arrest you for modesty.”
That earned a small smile.
Then he pulled it out and held it toward you.
A flower made of paper.
It was small – folded neatly, shaped with patient precision. The petals were creased with intention. The stem was wrapped in green paper, the whole thing held together by skill and time rather than money.
You stared at it, surprised into stillness.
Steve watched your face like he was bracing for your verdict.
“I know it’s… kind of dumb,” he said quietly. “But I remembered you saying you liked those origami exhibits at the museum. So I–”
“It’s not dumb,” you cut in, immediately. Too quickly.
Steve went still.
You reached out and took the flower. It was light in your hand, but it landed heavy in your chest.
You turned it slightly, examining it. The folds were clean. Careful. The kind of careful that said I sat down and did this until it was right.
“You made this,” you said, voice lower.
Steve nodded once, almost embarrassed. “Yeah.”
You swallowed. Your throat felt tight, and you hated that, because you didn’t cry. You didn’t do fragile. But something about the simplicity of it – the fact that it was thoughtful without being performative – hit you harder than any expensive gift would have.
“It’s really good,” you said, and your voice had turned rough at the edges despite you trying to keep it steady.
Steve’s eyes held yours. “Happy birthday.”
There it was again. That feeling of being seen. Not like a stage light. Like a hand on your back, steadying you.
You looked down at the paper flower, thumb tracing one folded petal.
“This is… really sweet,” you admitted, and it felt like a confession.
Steve’s smile was soft, not triumphant. He didn’t look like he’d won. He looked like he was just glad you liked it.
“I’m glad,” he said.
You should’ve thanked him and left. You should’ve kept it simple. You should’ve gone back to your room and let the evening end.
Instead, you found yourself looking at him – really looking.
At the steadiness. The restraint. The way he never made you feel like you had to be smaller or softer to be liked. The way he had been there, quietly, consistently, while Bucky drifted like he was pulled by tides you didn’t control.
And without meaning to, your mind wandered into the forbidden place.
The road not taken.
You remembered that night at the party – the way Steve had looked away, that faint regret in his eyes. You remembered how easily you and Steve became friends, how naturally you matched, how his attention never slipped unless he chose it.
You thought about the relationship you had chosen – fast, bright, physical, magnetic.
And then you thought about the one that could have happened – slow, steady, built on a foundation that didn’t shake every time a ghost called at midnight.
Your fingers tightened around the paper flower.
Steve studied you. “You okay?”
You met his gaze, and for a heartbeat you considered telling him the truth.
No. I’m not okay. I’m realizing I might have chosen wrong.
Instead, you lifted your chin, because you were still you – proud, stubborn, unwilling to fall apart in front of anyone.
“I’m fine,” you lied.
Steve didn’t call you on it.
He only nodded slowly, like he understood more than you wanted him to.
The wind shifted, cold and sharp, and Steve stepped a fraction closer – not touching you, not trapping you. Just close enough that you felt his warmth cut through the air between you.
“If you need anything,” he said quietly, “you tell me, alright?”
You looked down at the paper flower again.
A small thing.
A careful thing.
And suddenly it felt like proof – of what you had, and what you didn’t.
“Yeah,” you said, voice barely above the wind. “Alright.”
GENERAL taglist: @/mellowfurynight | @castielscaplan | @whatisanniedoin
Series Summary: Amidst growing sexual tension in your shared home - often alone due to your mother’s business trips, you and Steve Rogers, a police officer and your stepfather, finally engage in a forbidden relationship… that is soon joined by his best friend, Bucky Barnes.
Wordcount: 13.4k
Pairing: Stepdad! Steve Rogers x Reader x DBF! Bucky Barnes
Warnings: MDNI, stepcest, breeding kink, dom/sub dynamics, oral (m receiving), p in v, anal play, anal fingering, age gap (reader is of age), threesome, mulitple orgasms, overstimulation, pet names (sweetheart, baby, dollface), praise stuff I guess?, mention of infidelity (Steve cheats on his wife with reader), no use of Y/N
A/N: finally, the moment where we get them both at the same time. This has been beta read.
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Part 3 Executing the plan
Your mother's business trip had been disappointingly short this time, wrapping up in just two days and leaving you and Steve with barely a stolen moment to revel in the quiet of the empty house. The anticipation had built like a slow-burning fire, only to fizzle out before it could consume you both.
Still, the brief absence hadn't been a total loss. Tucked away in your phone was Bucky's number, slipped to you during that heated encounter that still sent a flush creeping up your neck when you thought about it.
Now that he'd already claimed you – his body pressed against yours, his thrusts deep and unrelenting – it felt natural to bridge the gap beyond the physical, to peel back the layers and discover what lay beneath.
You lounged on your bed that afternoon, the late sunlight filtering through the curtains in golden shafts that danced across the rumpled sheets.
Your fingers hovered over the screen before typing out a casual message.
Hey, it's me from the other night.
Figured we could chat a bit more?
His reply came quicker than expected, a simple Sounds good. What's on your mind? that opened the floodgates.
You started with the easy stuff, telling him about your master's program in linguistic didactics. The words flowed as you explained how it focused on the art of teaching languages, breaking down complex structures into digestible lessons for eager minds.
I'm aiming to land a teaching gig in New York, you texted, your thumbs flying across the keys.
It's got everything – diverse classrooms, endless opportunities.
Plus, I want to stick around here, you know?
Build something real.
The unspoken truth lingered in your mind: staying close to Steve, with his strong hands and knowing smiles, and now to Bucky, whose rough edges promised a different kind of thrill.
Bucky's responses came steady, his words painting a picture of genuine interest.
He asked follow-up questions – about your favorite languages to teach, the challenges of adapting methods for non-native speakers – that made you smile, feeling seen in a way that went beyond the bedroom.
In turn, he opened up about why he and Steve had joined the force.
It was Steve who pulled me in, he wrote.
We grew up rough, dodging trouble in the neighborhoods.
He saw the uniform as a way to flip the script – protect instead of run.
I followed because, hell, who wouldn't back him up?
The adrenaline's a rush, but it's the partnership that keeps it real.
You could picture them side by side, badges gleaming under streetlights, Bucky's dark hair tousled from a long shift, Steve's broad shoulders squared with that unyielding resolve.
The conversation meandered into lighter territory, your tastes in music and movies weaving through the texts like a shared playlist. You confessed your love for indie rock with its raw, pulsing beats that mirrored the chaos of city life, and how you'd binge old film noir classics late into the night, drawn to the shadows and moral ambiguities.
Bucky countered with his affinity for classic blues – gritty tracks that echoed the late-night patrols – and action flicks from the '80s, the ones with over-the-top explosions and heroes who never backed down.
We should watch one together sometime, he suggested, the implication hanging heavy, a promise of tangled limbs and whispered critiques in the dark.
As the exchange deepened, you veered into the quirky, revealing your odd aversion to lychee.
I hate the stuff, you admitted with a laughing emoji.
Once I peeled one open, and it looked exactly like a human eye staring back at me… creepy as hell.
Principle of the thing now: can't touch it.
Bucky's reply bubbled with amusement.
Eyes in fruit? That's a new one. I'll steer clear of serving you any exotic desserts then.
But seriously, that's the kind of random I like knowing about you.
His words warmed you, a bridge forming between the stranger who'd fucked you senseless and the man emerging now, layer by intriguing layer.
A few days slipped by in a haze of routine – classes that blurred into late-night study sessions, stolen glances at Steve across the dinner table where his eyes lingered just a beat too long, and the quiet thrill of Bucky's name lighting up your phone screen.
The initial spark of your conversation had simmered into something steadier, a thread of connection weaving through the mundane.
But curiosity gnawed at you, sharp and insistent, until one evening, as rain pattered against your window like impatient fingers, you couldn't hold it back any longer.
You curled up on the couch in the living room, the house hushed with your mother's presence back in full swing, her laughter echoing from the kitchen where she chatted on the phone. Steve was out on a shift, leaving you alone with your thoughts and the glow of your screen.
Your thumbs danced over the keys, crafting a message that balanced playfulness with the undercurrent of heat that always seemed to simmer between you and Bucky.
So, spill it…
How did you and Steve just... decide to share me like that?
Out of nowhere?
Not that I'm mad about it. Hell, the opposite.
You hit send, heart thudding a little faster, imagining his reaction on the other end, perhaps during a lull in their patrol car, the dashboard lights casting shadows across his sharp jawline.
His response took a moment, the typing indicator bubbling up and vanishing once before settling. When it came, it was measured, laced with that dry humor you were starting to recognize as his signature.
Not as sudden as you think.
Steve's been talking about you for months during our shifts.
Nights cruising the streets, he'd start in on the details: your laugh cutting through the noise of a crowded room, the way your hair falls when you're focused on a book.
Physically too, though he'd keep it vague at first, like your curves filling out those jeans just right, or how your eyes light up when you're passionate about something.
You shifted on the cushions, the fabric soft against your bare legs as you read his words, a warmth spreading low in your belly.
The idea of Steve painting such intimate portraits of you to Bucky – of your body, your quirks – stirred something electric, a mix of vulnerability and desire.
You typed back quickly, probing deeper.
Months? Like, what else did he say?
Bucky's replies flowed now, unhurried but revealing, as if he'd been waiting for the chance to lay it bare.
Everything.
Your habits, like how you bite your lip when you're thinking hard, or the coffee you brew too strong every morning.
He'd describe your walks around the block, the sway in your step that drives him crazy.
And yeah, the obsession? It's been brewing way before that night you two crossed the line.
Steve's always been the type to hold onto what he wants, but with you... it's different.
Deeper.
We go back to kid days, scraping knees in the alleys, dreaming up ways to make something of ourselves.
He'd vent to me back then about crushes, heartbreaks.
But you?
You're the one that stuck, even before the rings and the “family” label.
He confided in me early on, how seeing you around twisted him up inside.
Wanting what he shouldn't, fighting it until he couldn't.
The rain intensified outside, drumming a steady rhythm that matched the pulse in your veins.
You pictured them in the patrol car, Steve's voice low and gravelly under the hum of the engine, Bucky listening with that quiet intensity, absorbing every word. It humanized the forbidden pull between you and Steve, turning obsession into something raw and longstanding, a fire banked for years until it roared to life.
Your fingers trembled slightly as you responded.
And you?
What made you want in on it?
Curiosity at first, Bucky admitted, his texts carrying a weight that made you lean forward, breath catching.
Hearing him talk you up like that
Your fire, your softness
It got under my skin.
Made me want to see for myself, touch what he'd been craving.
And sharing?
Steve brought it up casual one night, like testing the waters.
No hesitation from me.
Hell, it excited him too.
The thought of us both having you, watching you come undone between us.
Didn't repel him one bit; if anything, it sealed the deal.
You're worth it, you know that?
His words hung in the air, heavy with implication, painting vivid flashes in your mind: Steve's broad frame pinning you down, Bucky's hands exploring where his couldn't, the three of you tangled in a symphony of gasps and grips.
You felt exposed yet empowered, the secrecy of it all heightening the rush.
The conversation tapered off into lighter flirtation after that – promises of stolen time, hints at what might come next – but the revelations lingered, reshaping the edges of your world with Steve and Bucky into something sharper, more intertwined.
The next morning dawned with the soft hush of an empty house, your mother's car already rumbling away down the street before the sun fully crested the horizon.
You stirred in bed, sheets tangled around your legs, the oversized t-shirt you'd thrown on last night riding up your thighs as you padded barefoot toward the kitchen. Your hair fell in wild tangles over your shoulders, framing the sleepy haze in your eyes.
The scent of fresh coffee pulled you forward, and there he was – Steve, broad shoulders relaxed against the counter, one hand wrapped around a steaming mug, his uniform shirt unbuttoned at the collar, revealing the strong line of his throat.
You approached him without a word, the cool tile floor sending a shiver up your legs. He spotted you immediately, his blue eyes darkening with that familiar hunger as he set the mug down with a quiet clink behind him.
His hands found your waist in an instant, fingers splaying wide over the thin fabric of your shirt, pulling you flush against his solid chest.
He leaned in, lips brushing yours in a soft, lingering kiss that tasted of black coffee and morning warmth, his tongue teasing the seam of your mouth just enough to make your breath hitch.
Then he trailed lower, pressing feather-light kisses along the curve of your neck, each one sending sparks skittering down your spine. You tilted your head to give him better access, a soft moan escaping as his stubble grazed your skin.
“I was thinking of going to Bucky's tonight,” you murmured, the words turning into a gentle whimper under the heat of his mouth.
“Mmmh-mmmh,” he hummed against your pulse point, teeth grazing lightly in a playful nibble that made your knees weaken.
He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, his hands sliding down to grip your hips.
“I could join you later, after your mother and I have dinner.”
“That would be nice,” you breathed, arching into him as his lips returned to your collarbone.
“It's been too long since we did anything.”
He chuckled low in his throat, the vibration rumbling through you.
“It's been four days, baby.”
“That's what I mean: too long,” you insisted, your voice husky with need, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.
Steve shifted then, his thigh slipping between yours with deliberate ease, the firm muscle pressing up against your core through the flimsy barrier of your panties.
He rocked forward slowly, grinding just enough to draw a sharper moan from your lips, heat pooling hot and insistent between your legs.
“Aren’t you a sweet little needy thing?” he whispered, his breath hot against your ear, one hand sliding up your back to tangle in your messy hair.
You pressed yourself closer, hips rolling instinctively against his leg, chasing the friction that sent jolts of pleasure sparking through you.
“Want you...”
The plea slipped out raw and unfiltered, your body molding to his as desire coiled tighter in your belly.
Steve's eyes locked onto yours, a predatory glint flashing in their depths as your words hung in the air, needy and breathless.
His thigh pressed harder against your aching core, the rough fabric of his pants dragging over the damp spot on your panties, building that insistent throb until your hips bucked involuntarily.
“I don't have much time before I have to leave,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through his chest into yours, even as he kept up the slow, teasing grind that made your clit pulse with every shift.
You pouted up at him, lips parting in a soft whine of protest, your fingers digging into his shoulders for leverage.
But before you could voice your complaint, a sharp yelp burst from your throat – surprised and thrilled – as his large hands clamped onto your ass, fingers sinking into the soft flesh with unyielding strength.
He hoisted you up effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his waist on instinct, and deposited you onto the cool granite countertop with a thud that echoed in the quiet kitchen. The sudden height made your heart race, your thighs splaying open as he stepped between them, caging you in with his body.
His mouth crashed down on yours then, the kiss deep and demanding, his tongue plunging past your lips to claim every inch, tasting the faint mint from his toothpaste mixed with the coffee on his breath.
You moaned into him, arms looping around his neck, pulling him closer as your body arched toward the heat radiating from him.
Amid the wet sounds of your mouths sliding together, you caught the faint rasp of his zipper being tugged down, the metallic teeth parting with a decisive zip that sent a fresh wave of anticipation flooding your veins.
Steve's hands roamed upward, bunching the hem of your oversized t-shirt and shoving it roughly over your stomach, exposing the bare skin of your midriff to the morning air.
Goosebumps prickled across your flesh as he gripped your thighs, his callused palms rough from years on the force, prying them wider apart until your knees hooked over the counter's edge.
The thin cotton of your panties was no barrier at all; you felt the cool air kiss your exposed folds, already slick and swollen from his earlier teasing. Then came the blunt pressure – the thick, hot head of his cock nudging right against your entrance, parting your lips with a slick slide that made you gasp into his kiss.
He broke away just enough to hover his lips over yours, breath coming in hot pants as he aligned himself, the tip of his shaft circling your wet heat teasingly.
“...So we're going to have to do it quick,” he finished, his voice gravelly with restraint, eyes boring into yours with that intense focus that always made you feel utterly possessed.
Steve didn't hesitate after those words left his lips. With a firm grip on your hips, he thrust forward in one swift, powerful motion, burying his thick cock deep inside your slick pussy.
The sudden stretch filled you completely, the girth of him pressing against your inner walls, sending a jolt of intense pleasure-pain radiating through your core.
You gasped sharply, your body tensing around him as he held still, giving you those precious few seconds to adjust to the way he split you open, your muscles fluttering and clenching in response to the invasion.
Your breath came in shallow pants, but even through the overwhelming fullness, a rush of heat bloomed low in your belly. You nuzzled your nose along the rough stubble of his jaw, inhaling the clean, masculine scent of his skin mixed with the faint trace of his aftershave.
“Love that,” you whispered, your voice husky and laced with need, as you rubbed against him affectionately.
“Love the feeling of your fat cock inside me.”
A soft, rumbling chuckle escaped Steve's throat, vibrating through his chest and into yours where your bodies pressed so intimately together.
His hands slid up to cup your face briefly, thumbs brushing over your flushed cheeks before he pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, his blue eyes dark with hunger.
Then, without another word, he began to move – pulling out almost to the tip before slamming back in, setting a relentless rhythm that had your moans spilling freely from your lips. Each thrust drove him deeper, the head of his cock hitting that sensitive spot inside you with unerring precision, making your thighs quiver and your back arch off the countertop.
True to his earlier promise, he wasted no time drawing out the tease. One of his hands dipped between your spread legs, his rough fingers finding your swollen clit with expert ease. He circled it firmly, rubbing in tight, insistent strokes that matched the pace of his hips snapping against yours.
The dual sensation built the pressure inside you like a storm, your pussy clenching tighter around his shaft as sparks of ecstasy shot through your nerves.
You cried out, nails digging into his shoulders, your body hurtling toward release with dizzying speed. It crashed over you in waves – your walls pulsing and milking his cock as you came hard, juices coating him while your vision blurred and your cries echoed off the kitchen tiles.
Steve groaned low in his throat, his thrusts growing erratic as your orgasm triggered his own. He buried himself to the hilt one final time, his cock throbbing as he spilled hot cum deep inside you, filling you with pulse after pulse until it leaked out around where you were joined.
He rode out the aftershocks with shallow grinds, his fingers still gently petting your oversensitive clit until you whimpered and went limp against him.
When the haze cleared, Steve eased out slowly, a trail of your combined release trickling down your inner thigh onto the counter.
He straightened up, tucking himself back into his pants with efficient movements, but his eyes never left yours.
There was something softer in his gaze now – tender, almost vulnerable – mingling with the lingering heat of possession. He reached out, his palm cradling your cheek in a gentle caress, thumb tracing the curve of your lower lip as he wiped away a stray bead of sweat.
“Be good until tonight,” he murmured, his voice rough but affectionate, leaning in to press a lingering kiss to your forehead.
“We'll meet at Bucky's.”
After Steve left for work, his cum still warm and slick between your thighs, you lingered on the kitchen counter for a moment, your body humming from the quick, intense fuck.
The evidence of your encounter dripped slowly down your inner leg as you slid off the edge, a reminder of his possession that made your pulse quicken even as you straightened your disheveled clothes.
You had classes to attend at the university, so you pushed the lingering haze of pleasure aside and headed upstairs to prepare.
A quick shower washed away the sticky remnants, the hot water cascading over your skin as you soaped up, fingers lingering briefly on your tender folds, still sensitive from Steve's rough thrusts.
You dried off and stood before your closet, the heat clinging to the air outside your window despite the heatwave finally breaking. It was still oppressively warm, the kind of sticky humidity that made clothes feel like a burden.
You selected a light sage green strapless summer dress, the fabric soft and flowing, hugging your curves just enough to tease without clinging.
No bra – your breasts felt free beneath the thin material, nipples perking slightly against the cool air of your room as you slipped it on.
To add a spark of anticipation for the evening ahead, you chose cream-colored lace panties, the delicate pattern sheer and intricate, framing your hips and barely covering the smooth mound of your pussy. They rode up just right, a secret thrill against your skin as you imagined Bucky's hands discovering them later.
You grabbed your backpack, stuffing in notebooks and your laptop for the linguistics lectures on didactic methods, your master's program demanding focus even as your mind wandered to the men who now tangled your thoughts.
As you stepped out into the brighter day, the sun filtered through the trees, less scorching than before but still baking the sidewalks. The walk to campus was a blur of students rushing by, your dress swishing around your thighs with each step, the lace panties shifting deliciously.
During a break between classes, while sipping iced coffee in the shaded courtyard, you pulled out your phone. The thought of dinner nagged at you – your mother would expect you home, oblivious to the web of secrets weaving around her marriage.
You typed a quick text.
Hey Mom, won't be home for dinner tonight. Heading straight to my boyfriend's after classes. See you tomorrow?
You hit send, a small pang of guilt twisting in your gut, but it dissolved quickly under the excitement bubbling up.
Her reply came almost immediately.
Okay, sweetie. Have fun! Be safe.
If only she knew.
The afternoon classes dragged on, professors droning about language acquisition theories, but your attention splintered, replaying the morning's urgency with Steve and the promise of Bucky's place.
By early evening, as the sun dipped lower and cast long shadows, you made your way to Bucky's apartment on the edge of the city, the police district not far from his building.
Your heart raced as you climbed the steps, the sage green dress fluttering in the faint breeze, your bare shoulders prickling with goosebumps from the cooling air.
You rang the doorbell, the chime echoing softly inside, and after a beat, the door swung open.
Bucky stood there, his broad frame filling the doorway, dressed in a simple black t-shirt that stretched across his muscled chest and jeans that hung low on his hips. His dark hair was tousled, like he'd run a hand through it recently, and those piercing blue eyes – so like Steve's but edged with a sharper intensity – locked onto you immediately.
He didn't say a word at first; instead, his gaze raked over you slowly, deliberately, starting from your face and trailing down the exposed line of your neck, over the swell of your breasts where the strapless neckline dipped just low enough to hint at cleavage, along the curve of your waist, and down to the hem of your dress brushing your thighs.
Hunger burned in his stare, raw and unfiltered, as if he were already undressing you in his mind, imagining the lace beneath and what he'd do to peel it away.
A slow smile curved his lips, but his eyes stayed fixed, devouring every inch, making heat pool low in your belly.
“Damn,” he finally murmured, voice rough and low, stepping aside to let you in but not before his hand brushed your arm, sending a spark through your skin.
Bucky's hand lingered on your arm as he stepped back just enough to pull the door shut behind you, the click of the lock echoing softly in the quiet hallway of his apartment.
The space was dimly lit, warm from the day's lingering heat, with the faint scent of his cologne – something woody and clean – mingling with the fresh laundry from a nearby basket.
He reached out without a word, his fingers brushing yours as he took the backpack from your shoulder, easing the weight away before setting it down gently by the entryway table.
The simple gesture felt intimate, his touch steady and unhurried, like he was already savoring the evening ahead.
Before you could turn fully, his arms wrapped around you from behind, strong and enveloping, pulling your back flush against his chest.
His breath was warm against your skin as he leaned in, lips pressing first to the nape of your neck in a soft, lingering kiss that sent a shiver racing down your spine. He trailed more kisses along the curve of your shoulders, exposed by the strapless dress, his mouth hot and deliberate, tasting the faint salt of your skin from the day's warmth.
One hand splayed across your stomach, holding you close, while the other rested lightly on your hip, thumb tracing lazy circles over the thin fabric. You tilted your head instinctively, giving him better access, your body melting into his as the tension from the day uncoiled under his touch.
He guided you then, his arm still around your waist, leading you through the short hallway toward the living room. The apartment was modest but lived-in – a few framed photos of cityscapes on the walls, a coffee table cluttered with police reports and a half-empty mug – reflecting the life of a man who balanced duty with these stolen moments.
The living room opened up with a large window overlooking the street, curtains half-drawn to let in the golden hues of early evening. He steered you to the sofa, a deep gray sectional that sank comfortably under your weight as you both settled in, your thighs brushing his as you turned to face him.
You knew Steve wouldn't be there for at least two hours – because of the dinner with your mom, giving you this pocket of time that felt like a secret all your own.
Bucky's eyes met yours, that intense blue softening now with a warmth that made your chest tighten. He didn't rush; instead, he cupped your face gently with one hand, his thumb stroking your cheek as he leaned in.
Your lips met in a slow, exploratory kiss, tentative at first, like two teenagers on a first date, hearts pounding with the thrill of discovery. His mouth was soft against yours, tasting faintly of mint from whatever he'd sipped earlier, and you parted your lips just enough to deepen it, tongues brushing lightly in a dance that built gradually.
The kiss stretched on, unhurried and tender, his free hand finding yours on the cushion between you, fingers intertwining as he pulled you closer.
You shifted, your knee pressing against his thigh, the sage green dress riding up slightly to expose more of your legs, but he didn't push for more – not yet.
His other hand slid to the back of your neck, cradling you as the kiss grew a fraction hungrier, breaths mingling in soft sighs.
Time seemed to blur, the world outside fading to just the two of you on that sofa, exploring this budding connection with the patience of something real, even as the undercurrent of anticipation hummed beneath your skin.
Bucky's grip on your waist tightened just enough to draw you forward, his strength effortless as he shifted you onto his lap.
Your legs parted instinctively, straddling his thighs, the fabric of your sage green dress hiking up further to bunch around your hips. The heat of his body seeped through his jeans and your thin panties, a stark contrast to the cooling air from the open window.
He pulled you flush against him, your chest pressing into the solid wall of his torso, the rapid thump of his heart mirroring the quickening beat of yours.
The kiss ignited then, transforming from gentle exploration to something raw and consuming. His lips claimed yours with a feverish urgency, tongues tangling in a heated slide that left you breathless.
You moaned into his mouth, the sound low and needy, vibrating between you as his teeth grazed your lower lip, tugging lightly before soothing it with a swipe of his tongue. His breath came in hot bursts against your skin, tasting of that same mint laced with the faint bitterness of coffee from earlier.
Beneath you, you felt him harden, his cock swelling against the seam of his jeans, pressing insistently up into the soft cradle of your pussy.
The friction sent a jolt of pleasure through you, and you rocked your hips forward on instinct, grinding slowly against the rigid length. The lace of your panties dragged teasingly over your clit with each subtle shift, building a warm ache that made your thighs tremble.
Bucky's hands slid down from your waist, palms cupping the full curves of your ass through the dress at first, squeezing firmly as he guided your rhythm. His fingers dug in just enough to control the pace, urging you to roll your hips in languid circles that had you both gasping into the kiss.
One hand ventured higher, slipping beneath the hem of your dress with deliberate slowness, his calloused fingertips tracing the edge of the lace trim on your panties. He explored the delicate barrier, feeling the damp heat gathering there, and a deep, appreciative groan rumbled from his chest, muffled against your lips.
“Fuck, you're soaked already,” he murmured, voice rough and low, his breath fanning over your jaw as he broke the kiss to nip at your earlobe.
His fingers pressed against the fabric, rubbing in firm strokes over your folds, the pressure making you arch into him with a whimper. The other hand kneaded your ass cheek, spreading you slightly as he encouraged another grind, his cock twitching under the teasing pressure of your body.
Bucky's hand delved deeper into your panties, his fingers parting the damp lace to expose your slick folds. His thumb found your clit immediately, pressing down with a firm, circular motion that sent sparks of pleasure radiating through your core.
You expected him to slide a finger into your pussy next, to fill that aching emptiness, but instead, his touch ventured lower, his fingertip brushing tentatively over the tight ring of your anus.
The sensation was unfamiliar, a soft pressure that made your body instinctively clench.
You tensed above him, your thighs quivering as a flicker of uncertainty tightened your muscles.
You'd never explored anal before, the thought alone sending a mix of apprehension and forbidden thrill curling in your belly. Bucky sensed the shift immediately, his body going still against yours.
He pulled back from the kiss, his lips hovering just inches from yours, dark blue eyes locking onto your face with a mix of concern and desire. The room seemed to hold its breath, the distant hum of traffic outside fading into the background.
You bit your lower lip, the soft flesh caught between your teeth as anxiety fluttered in your chest, your heart pounding a rapid rhythm against his. His gaze softened, and he leaned in to press a gentle kiss to your mouth, lingering there for a moment, his lips warm and reassuring. Then he drew back again, searching your expression.
“Do you want me to try with just one finger?” he asked, his voice a low, husky murmur, laced with patience and that rough edge of want.
The idea terrified you a little – the vulnerability of it, the unknown – but it ignited something deeper, a rush of heat that pooled low in your abdomen, making your pussy clench around nothing. Excitement warred with fear, but the trust in his eyes tipped the scale.
You nodded slowly, your breath catching as you whispered, “Yes.”
“I won't hurt you, okay baby?” Bucky promised, his tone tender yet commanding, as if sealing a vow between you.
He shifted his hand slightly, his index finger gliding through the wetness coating your pussy lips, gathering your arousal to slick his skin. The glide was smooth, deliberate, his touch everywhere at once – thumb resuming its steady circles on your clit, keeping the pleasure humming to ease your nerves.
With infinite care, he positioned his finger at your ass, the tip pressing lightly against the puckered entrance. He didn't push in right away; instead, he circled the sensitive rim, teasing the nerves there until your body began to soften under his ministrations.
The dual sensations overwhelmed you – his thumb working your clit in tight, insistent loops that made your hips buck involuntarily, distracting from the gentle pressure building at your rear. Your breaths came in shallow pants, mingling with his as he watched your every reaction, his cock still hard and throbbing beneath you, forgotten for the moment in favor of this new intimacy.
Slowly, so slowly, he applied more pressure, the tip of his finger breaching the tight muscle just enough to make you gasp.
It burned faintly at first, a stretch that bordered on discomfort, but his thumb quickened on your clit, rubbing faster to flood your senses with bliss.
“Breathe for me,” he murmured against your neck, his free hand stroking your back in soothing sweeps.
You exhaled shakily, forcing your body to relax, and he inched deeper, the intrusion turning from strange to intriguing as your arousal slickened the way.
Pleasure built in waves, your pussy dripping onto his jeans, the fullness in your ass amplifying every flick of his thumb until you were moaning softly, grinding down to chase more.
Bucky's eyes stayed fixed on yours, his expression a blend of tenderness and hunger as he held his finger still inside you, letting your body adjust to the unfamiliar fullness.
“How are you feeling?” he asked, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through his chest and into yours, his thumb never ceasing its steady, rhythmic circles over your swollen clit.
“Good,” you replied, the word slipping out in a breathy whisper, your voice laced with the truth of the building pleasure even as uncertainty lingered.
“A little weird too.”
The admission hung in the air, vulnerable and honest, your inner walls clenching around his intrusion in a way that sent fresh sparks dancing along your nerves.
A soft chuckle escaped him, warm and reassuring, his lips curving into a gentle smile that eased the knot of tension in your stomach.
“I think unconsciously, it's exciting you a lot, sweetheart,” he murmured, his free hand sliding up your thigh to squeeze reassuringly.
“You're soaking my pants with your juices right now.”
His words hit you like a jolt, raw and direct, painting a vivid picture of your arousal dripping down, marking the denim beneath you with slick evidence of your desire.
You bit your lower lip again, harder this time, the sharp pinch grounding you amid the rush of heat flooding your cheeks and core. The thought of your wetness seeping through his clothes, of how desperately your body betrayed your nerves, only amplified the throb between your legs, making your pussy pulse with need.
With a slow, deliberate motion, Bucky had eased his finger fully inside your ass by now, the stretch complete and steady, no longer the initial burn but a deep, insistent pressure that bordered on intoxicating.
Rather than thrusting in and out, he curled it gently within you, the tip pressing against sensitive inner walls in a way that made your breath hitch. All the while, his thumb maintained its insistent loops on your clit, faster now, slick with your arousal, drawing out waves of pleasure that radiated outward, making your toes curl against the sofa cushions.
The dual assault built steadily, his curled finger exploring that hidden spot with subtle twists, coaxing unfamiliar sensations that mingled with the sharp bliss from your clit. Your hips shifted involuntarily, grinding down as the weirdness melted into something hotter, more urgent.
Then it happened – a sudden surge of ecstasy crested, catching you off guard, and a moan tore from your throat, loud and unrestrained, echoing softly in the quiet room. Your body arched against him, pussy clenching emptily as the pleasure rippled through you, surprising in its intensity.
Bucky's smile widened, a flash of satisfaction in his eyes as he watched your face contort in bliss.
“There, just like that, darlin’,” he whispered, his voice husky with approval, leaning in to brush his lips against your ear, his breath hot and encouraging as he held you through the aftershocks, his finger still curled deep, thumb unrelenting.
Bucky kept up the rhythm without pause, his curled finger pressing and twisting with deliberate precision against that sensitive inner spot, while his thumb danced faster over your clit, slick and insistent, building the pressure in waves that crashed through your core.
The dual stimulation overwhelmed you, each subtle movement sending jolts of pleasure radiating from your ass to your pussy, making your inner walls flutter and clench around nothing, desperate for more.
Very quickly, the intensity pulled you under, and you dropped your forehead into the warm hollow of his neck, inhaling the musky scent of his skin mixed with the faint trace of his cologne. Your breaths came in ragged gasps, and a stream of moans spilled from your lips – soft at first, then louder, unrestrained, vibrating against his throat as your body surrendered to the rising tide.
“Oh– Bucky– yes–” you whimpered between sounds, your hands clutching at his shoulders, nails digging into the fabric of his shirt for anchor.
His other hand, strong and steady, wrapped around your waist, holding you firmly in place against his lap, preventing any escape from the building ecstasy. His fingers splayed across your lower back, pressing you down onto him, the denim of his pants rough against your soaked thighs, a constant reminder of how drenched you were, your arousal coating everything in its path.
Then it hit – a strange, coiling sensation deep inside, unlike the familiar rush of a clitoral orgasm, more profound and all-consuming, starting from your ass and spreading like liquid fire through your veins. Your body tensed, hips bucking erratically as the pressure mounted to an unbearable peak.
“I– I think–” you stammered, your voice breaking into a needy whine, words tumbling out in fragments against his skin. “I think I'm going to cum.”
And you did, shattering around his finger with a cry that echoed through the room, your ass tightening rhythmically around the intrusion, pussy spasming in sympathy as waves of intense pleasure ripped through you.
It was deeper, more visceral than anything before, your whole body quaking as you rode the crest, juices flooding out to soak his thigh even further. Bucky guided you through it all, his finger still curled and pressing, thumb slowing but not stopping its circles, drawing out every last pulse until you were trembling in his arms, utterly spent.
Gently, he eased his finger free, the withdrawal sending a final shiver up your spine, and wrapped both arms around you, letting you descend slowly, your heartbeat thundering in your ears as the aftershocks faded. He stroked your back in soothing circles, his lips pressing soft kisses to your temple.
“How do you feel?” he asked softly, his voice a gravelly murmur laced with satisfaction.
“A bit like I have vertigo,” you murmured, keeping your face buried in the crook of his neck, unwilling to lift your head just yet, the warmth of his skin grounding you amid the dizzying haze.
“It was... different. More... intense.”
The words came out hushed, laced with awe, as you nuzzled closer, your body still humming with the echoes of that profound release.
Bucky's breath was warm against your ear as he held you close, his voice dropping to a soft, reassuring rumble that vibrated through your chest.
“Me and Steve, we're gonna take our time preparing that tight little ass of yours,” he murmured, his fingers tracing lazy patterns along your spine, still tingling from the aftershocks.
“We'll go slow, make sure every inch feels good– better than good. You'll get the most pleasure out of it, I promise.”
He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, his blue eyes darkening with intent.
“And after that first reaction you just had? Fuck, dollface, you're gonna love it when we both fill you up– two cocks stretching you, owning you completely.”
The words sent a fresh thrill through your core, a mix of anticipation and lingering haze from your release making your skin flush hot.
Before you could respond, Bucky shifted, guiding you down onto the soft cushions of the couch with gentle but firm hands. He followed immediately, his larger frame covering yours, the weight of him pressing you into the fabric in a way that felt protective and possessive all at once. His hips settled between your thighs, the rough denim of his jeans grinding lightly against the bare skin of your thighs, reigniting the ache between your legs.
Your lips met again in a deep, hungry kiss, tongues sliding together with renewed urgency, tasting the salt of your earlier moans on his mouth. He devoured you slowly at first, savoring the way your body arched up to meet him, then deeper, his teeth grazing your lower lip as a low growl escaped his throat.
One hand cradled the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair to tilt you just right, while the other roamed down your side, bunching the hem of your sage green summer dress higher until it rode up around your waist.
With expert ease, Bucky hooked his fingers into the waistband of your panties – the thin lace already soaked and clinging – and tugged them down your legs in one fluid motion, the cool air hitting your exposed folds and making you gasp into his mouth.
He tossed the garment aside without breaking the kiss, his palm immediately returning to cup your mound, fingers parting your slick lips to stroke through the wetness there. The touch was electric, your pussy clenching at the contact, still sensitive from the orgasm that had rippled through your whole body.
“Your pussy's jealous, isn't it?” he whispered against your lips, his voice husky with amusement and desire as he circled your entrance teasingly, gathering your arousal on his fingertips.
“All that attention I gave your ass... it's dripping for me now, begging to be fucked.”
You whimpered softly, hips lifting instinctively toward his hand, the words stoking the fire low in your belly.
Bucky's free hand moved to his belt, unbuckling it with quick, practiced flicks before shoving his jeans and boxers down just enough to free his cock. It sprang out thick and hard, the veined length curving slightly upward, the head already glistening with pre-cum.
He gripped the base, guiding it to nudge right at your entrance, the blunt tip parting your folds and pressing against your opening without entering yet – just enough pressure to make you feel the heat of him, the promise of what was coming.
Your inner walls fluttered in response, slick and ready, as he rocked his hips forward in a shallow tease, coating himself in your juices.
Bucky's eyes locked onto yours, filled with a tender intensity that made your heart stutter, as he pushed forward with deliberate slowness. The thick head of his cock breached your entrance, stretching your slick walls inch by inch, the sensation of him filling you drawing a soft moan from your lips.
He entered you almost reverently, his body hovering just above yours, every muscle in his frame taut with restraint, savoring the way your pussy clenched around him, welcoming him deeper. The stretch burned sweetly, your inner muscles fluttering and gripping his length as he sank fully inside, bottoming out with a shared gasp that echoed in the quiet living room.
“Your little pussy is so tight around me, baby,” Bucky murmured, his voice rough with emotion, lips brushing your forehead in a gentle kiss.
He held still for a moment, letting you adjust to the fullness of him buried deep, his hips flush against yours, the coarse hair at his base tickling your sensitive skin.
Then he began to move, his thrusts long and languid, pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in with measured precision, each glide dragging along your nerves in waves of building pleasure.
This was nothing like that first frantic time in your and Steve's kitchen, where he'd sat you on his lap in reverse cowgirl, your back to his chest as he gripped your hips and drove up into you with sharp, almost brutal snaps of his pelvis – fucking you hard and fast against the wooden chair, your cries echoing on the walls.
No, this was different; he wasn't pounding into you with raw need. He was making love to you, his body moving in a rhythm that worshipped every curve, every quiver of your form beneath him. His free hand traced the side of your thigh, thumb stroking soothing circles, showing you he cherished the way you yielded to him, not just chasing his own release.
With a soft hum of appreciation, Bucky's hand slid up to the bodice of your sage green summer dress, fingers hooking under the strapless neckline and tugging it down slowly, exposing your breasts to the cool air.
Your nipples hardened instantly, peaks tightening under his gaze, and he wasted no time leaning down to capture one in his mouth. His tongue swirled around the sensitive bud, sucking gently at first, then with firmer pulls that sent jolts straight to your core, making your pussy squeeze tighter around his cock.
He lavished attention on the other nipple next, teeth grazing lightly before soothing with wet laps, his breath hot against your skin as he feasted on you.
Finally, he lifted his head, his lips shiny and swollen, a warm smile curving them as he looked down at you, eyes sparkling with genuine adoration.
“Most beautiful tits in the world. Sweetest too,” he said, voice low and sincere, before dipping back down for another teasing suck, his hips never faltering in their slow, deep rhythm that had you arching into him, lost in the intimate dance of bodies and breaths.
Bucky's large hand cupped one of your breasts, his palm warm and calloused against your soft skin as he massaged it with gentle squeezes, thumb circling your nipple in lazy patterns that made it throb with renewed sensitivity.
He leaned in close, his breath hot against the shell of your ear, lips brushing the lobe as he whispered, “I can imagine it, later, when you're pregnant and swollen with milk, how I'll come to you and suckle from these perfect tits.”
The vivid picture he painted sent a rush of heat through your body, your mind flooding with the erotic vision of your belly rounded with his child, your breasts heavy and leaking for him.
It hit you hard, that fantasy twisting deep in your core, and you clenched around his cock involuntarily, your pussy gripping him like a vice, pulling a low groan from his throat. He captured your lips in a deep kiss, tongue sliding against yours in a slow, possessive dance, tasting the moan you fed him as his hips rolled forward again.
“Would you like that?” he murmured against your mouth, voice husky with desire, his free hand gripping your hip to hold you steady as he thrust deeper.
“That I put a baby in your belly, right here, filling you up with my seed until it takes?”
He didn't wait for your answer, his movements picking up just a fraction, long strokes that dragged his thick length along your inner walls, the head of his cock nudging that spot inside you that made stars burst behind your eyelids.
He kept talking, his words weaving through the haze of pleasure, painting the scene in explicit detail.
“When you're a mom, these breasts will be so full, so gorged with milk that I will drink whatever the baby leaves behind. I'll latch on while I fuck you, sucking down your sweet cream as I pump into your wet pussy, making you come around me again and again.”
His mouth returned to your nipple, latching on with a soft suck that mimicked his fantasy, tongue flicking as if drawing out imaginary milk, his cock pulsing inside you with each pull.
The combination overwhelmed you – the tender rhythm of his thrusts, the filthy promise of his words, the way his body enveloped yours in reverence and hunger. Pressure built rapidly in your core, coiling tight like a spring, your walls fluttering wildly around him.
You shattered with a cry, orgasm crashing over you in fierce waves, your pussy spasming and milking his cock as ecstasy ripped through every nerve, leaving you trembling and arching beneath him, nails digging into his shoulders.
Bucky followed moments later, his thrusts stuttering as he buried himself to the hilt, a guttural moan escaping him. His cock throbbed hotly inside you, spilling thick ropes of cum deep into your clenching heat, flooding you with his release until it leaked out around where you joined, warm and slick against your thighs.
He collapsed gently onto you, lips pressing soft kisses to your neck, both of you panting in the afterglow, bodies still connected as the fantasy lingered in the air between you.
Bucky eased himself out of you with a slow, deliberate pull, his cock slick and softening as it slipped free from your swollen folds, leaving you feeling achingly empty in its wake.
A warm trickle of his cum followed, seeping out onto your inner thighs and the cushion beneath you. He watched it for a moment, eyes dark with lingering possession, then reached down with his index finger, gathering the pearly strands and pressing them firmly back into your pussy.
The intrusion was gentle but insistent, his digit circling your entrance before sliding just inside, pushing his seed deeper into your heat.
“Keep it,” he commanded softly, voice rough from exertion, his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that made your breath hitch.
You trembled beneath him, body still quivering from the aftershocks of your intense release, every nerve ending raw and hypersensitive. The light touch of his finger sent sparks through you, too much and not enough all at once, your muscles clenching weakly around the intrusion as a soft whimper escaped your lips.
He withdrew his hand carefully, wiping it on his thigh before gathering you close, his strong arms wrapping around your form to pull you against his chest. The couch creaked faintly under your combined weight as you settled into the curve of his body, your head resting on his shoulder, legs tangled with his in a lazy sprawl.
For a while, neither of you spoke, just breathed together in the quiet hum of his apartment, the air thick with the scent of sex and sweat. His fingers traced idle patterns along your back, soothing the tremors that still rippled through you, while you nuzzled into the crook of his neck, inhaling the musky warmth of his skin.
Eventually, words came, soft and unhurried, drifting between you like whispers in the dim light filtering through the curtains.
You talked of simple things – the way the summer heat clung to the city streets, making every walk feel like a languid dream; how you'd both hated the taste of spinach as kids, its weird texture turning your stomachs even now. He shared stories from his early days on the force with Steve, the close calls and late-night stakeouts that had forged their unbreakable bond, his voice low and fond as he described the man who was on his way to join you.
You laughed quietly about your university classes, the endless papers on linguistic didactics that blurred into one another under the weight of impending deadlines, and how teaching in New York someday felt like a distant promise amid all this tangled intimacy. Bucky listened intently, his hand stroking your hair, occasionally pressing a kiss to your temple, his touch tender and grounding.
Time slipped by in that easy rhythm, the conversation meandering from favorite dive bars to the stars you could barely see over the urban glow, until the sharp knock at the door shattered the cocoon of your shared quiet.
Bucky shifted, glancing toward the sound with a knowing smile, his body still warm and protective around yours.
“That's him,” he murmured, giving you one last squeeze before untangling himself to rise, pulling on his discarded pants with casual efficiency. You sat up slowly, heart quickening with a mix of anticipation and lingering sensitivity, watching as he crossed the room to let Steve in.
Steve stepped into the living room, his broad frame filling the doorway as the door clicked shut behind him, carrying the faint scent of the summer evening air clinging to his shirt. His blue eyes swept over the two of you – Bucky lounging casually against the arm of the couch, you still nestled into the cushions with your legs tucked beneath you, the flush of recent exertion lingering on your skin.
A slow, amused smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, crinkling the lines around his eyes as he took in the disheveled scene: the rumpled throw blanket half-draped over the back, the subtle musk of intimacy hanging in the air like a shared secret.
“You two look like you've been having quite the fun,” Steve said, his voice warm and teasing, laced with that familiar rumble that always sent a shiver down your spine.
He crossed his arms over his chest, the fabric of his shirt stretching taut across his muscles, watching as Bucky let out a low, genuine laugh, nodding in agreement without a hint of shame.
Steve's gaze shifted to you then, softening with a mix of affection and hunger as he uncrossed his arms and moved closer, his boots thudding softly against the hardwood floor.
“I told your mom I was swinging by to pick you up from your ‘boyfriend's’ place after wrapping up our poker game here with Bucky,” he explained, the words dripping with playful irony, his eyes never leaving yours.
He knew the cover story as well as you did, the little white lie that kept the tangled web of your relationships hidden from the world outside these walls.
“Your mother bought the excuse so easily.”
He closed the distance in a few strides, towering over you as you remained seated on the couch, your body still humming from Bucky's touch, every inch of you attuned to the heat radiating from Steve's presence.
“You were right this morning,” he murmured, his voice dropping lower, intimate, as he recalled the frantic urgency of your earlier encounter – the way he'd taken you hard and fast in the kitchen before heading out, his hands gripping your hips, cock driving deep to quell the ache that had built over those endless days apart.
“It handled the emergency just fine, but four days? That's way too damn long without feeling you like this.”
Leaning down, Steve cupped your face gently with one large hand, his thumb brushing over your cheek in a caress that belied the intensity in his eyes. His lips met yours tenderly, a slow press that started soft and exploratory, tasting of mint and the faint bitterness of coffee from his shift.
You melted into it, your hands rising to clutch at his shirt, pulling him closer as the kiss deepened just enough to reignite the spark low in your belly. His free hand settled on your thigh, squeezing lightly through the thin fabric of your dress, a promise of more to come as Bucky watched from the side, his own smile turning wicked.
Steve's hand trailed upward along your thigh, his calloused palm gliding over the smooth skin beneath the hem of your dress, fingers dipping under the fabric with deliberate slowness that made your breath hitch.
The warmth of his touch ignited fresh sparks, your body responding instinctively as his fingertips brushed higher, seeking the bare heat between your legs.
He paused, brow furrowing slightly in surprise as he encountered nothing but your slick folds, still sensitive from Bucky's earlier attentions.
“Where are your panties?” he asked, his voice a low rumble of curiosity and amusement, eyes locking onto yours with that piercing intensity that always made you feel exposed.
Bucky chuckled again from his spot beside you, the sound rich and unapologetic, his metal-free arm draped casually over the back of the couch.
“That's on me,” he admitted, grinning as he shifted to glance around the room, his gaze scanning the scattered cushions and nearby furniture.
“I must've flung them somewhere in the heat of it al – couldn't keep my hands off her long enough to be careful.”
His eyes lit on the lacy scrap of fabric caught on the arm of a nearby armchair, half-hidden in the shadows. He leaned over, snatching it up with a flourish, and held it out to you, his expression playful and teasing, a spark of mischief in his blue eyes.
“Here you go, gorgeous.”
You took the panties from him, the soft material still warm from where it had landed, and slid them back on under your dress with a shy smile directed at Steve, feeling the fabric settle against your damp skin like a teasing reminder of what had transpired.
Steve watched every movement, his lips curving into a matching smile, though his hand lingered on your thigh, thumb circling lazily just above your knee.
“Not sure that's necessary,” he murmured, his tone laced with suggestion, eyes darkening as he imagined peeling them off again already.
The air between the three of you thickened once more, charged with unspoken promises, as Bucky settled back, his own hand finding your shoulder in a gentle squeeze, pulling you closer into the shared warmth of their bodies.
Steve sank to his knees in front of you, his broad shoulders parting your thighs with firm hands that gripped the soft flesh just above your knees, urging you to spread your legs wider. The cool air of the living room kissed your exposed skin as he nudged the hem of your dress higher, bunching the fabric around your hips to reveal the delicate lace of your panties clinging to your mound.
His blue eyes fixed on the damp spot blooming at the center, where Bucky's thick cum seeped slowly from your swollen pussy lips, soaking through the thin material in a glistening trail that marked the evidence of your recent release.
The sight made his jaw tighten, a low growl rumbling in his chest as he traced the outline of your folds with his gaze, hungry and possessive.
Bucky leaned in closer from your side, his breath warm against your ear as he began recounting the intimate details to Steve, his voice a husky drawl laced with satisfaction.
“I started with just one finger in her tight little ass,” he said, watching Steve's reaction while his own hand rested possessively on your shoulder.
“Pushed it in slow, feeling her clench around me like she was made for it– her body trembling right from the start. Kept my thumb circling her clit the whole time, pressing just hard enough to make her hips buck, but I didn't go near her pussy with anything else. No penetration there, just let her build on that edge.”
Steve's fingers joined the story in action, his thumb pressing gently against the lace over your clit, rubbing in slow, deliberate circles that sent fresh jolts of pleasure-pain through your oversensitive nerves, making your inner walls flutter and push out more of Bucky's seed.
Bucky continued, his tone vivid and unfiltered, painting the scene for Steve as if reliving it.
“She's never done anal before, that's for damn sure– her hole was so fucking tight, gripping my finger like a vice from the moment I breached it. She gasped at first, arching her back, her breaths coming in these sharp little pants while I worked her open, twisting gently to stretch her just a bit. Her thighs shook, and she kept whispering my name, begging without words as the pressure built. When she came, Christ, it wrecked her– her whole body seized up, ass pulsing around my finger in these wild spasms, her clit throbbing under my thumb like it was on fire. She squirted a little too, soaking my hand, screaming out in this raw, shattered way that had me hard all over again.”
Steve's eyes devoured you the entire time, dark with raw hunger, like a predator sizing up his prey, his thumb never ceasing its teasing rhythm over your clit, the lace barrier adding a frustrating friction that had you squirming in his grasp.
“We're gonna have to take good care of that little ass then,” he rasped, his voice thick with desire, leaning in until his breath fanned hot over your thighs.
“I can't wait to feel it cum around my cock, squeezing me tight while you fall apart.”
A weak moan escaped your lips at his words, your body betraying you with a fresh wave of heat, your pussy clenching emptily as more cum trickled out.
“Yes, baby, we're gonna take good care of you,” Steve murmured, his tone rough and reassuring, his free hand sliding up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing your lower lip as he held your gaze.
“We're gonna get you used to being taken from both sides, slow and steady, stretching you out until you crave it. But not tonight– I can feel how sensitive you still are from your session with Bucky, all swollen and dripping like this.”
He pressed a soft kiss to your inner thigh, his stubble scraping lightly against your skin, before pulling back just enough to let the anticipation simmer between you all, the promise of future indulgences hanging heavy in the air.
“Sensitive, but that doesn't mean I don't want you guys again,” you moaned, your voice a breathy plea laced with lingering need, your body still humming from the aftershocks of Bucky's touch.
The words hung in the air, raw and unfiltered, drawing a slow, predatory smile across Steve's lips as he knelt there, his thumb circling your clit with renewed intent, pressing harder now through the soaked lace, the friction igniting sparks that made your hips jerk involuntarily.
You mewled in pleasure, the sound high and desperate, your thighs quivering under his grip as fresh arousal pooled between your legs, mixing with the remnants of Bucky's cum.
“Okay, kitten,” Steve murmured, his voice a gravelly promise, eyes locked on yours with that intense, affectionate dominance that always unraveled you.
“Just because you've been such a good girl for us.”
He eased back just enough to let you catch your breath, but the heat of his gaze kept you pinned, eager and exposed.
Bucky shifted then, stripping off his shirt and jeans with efficient movements, his muscled frame coming into full view – broad chest dusted with dark hair, cock already half-hard and curving upward from the nest of curls at his base. He stretched out on the couch, reclining against the cushions with a lazy grin, his arm draped behind his head as he watched you with hooded eyes.
“Come here, dollface,” he said softly, patting his thigh in invitation, his free hand stroking his length once, twice, to full attention, the thick vein along the underside pulsing visibly.
You moved without hesitation, crawling onto the couch on all fours, your knees sinking into the soft fabric as you positioned yourself above him, your face hovering just inches from his cock. The musky scent of him filled your senses – salty skin and faint traces of your earlier encounter – making your mouth water as you lowered your head, lips parting instinctively, your breath ghosting over the swollen head. Bucky's hand came up to tangle gently in your hair, not pulling, just guiding, his thumb brushing your temple in a soothing stroke.
Behind you, Steve stood, shoving his pants and boxers down his legs in one fluid motion, kicking them aside with a soft thud. His cock sprang free, heavy and rigid, the tip already glistening with pre-cum as he stepped closer, his hands gripping your hips to steady you.
He aligned himself at your entrance, the broad head nudging between your slick folds, gathering the slick mix of your arousal and Bucky's drying seed that still coated your inner thighs. He dragged it back and forth slowly, coating himself thoroughly, the wet sounds obscene in the quiet room, each pass sending shivers up your spine as he teased your oversensitive entrance without pushing in.
“Look at you,” Steve growled low, his fingers digging into your flesh just enough to leave faint marks, holding you open as he rutted shallowly against your pussy lips.
“So fucking ready for us, dripping like this.”
Bucky chuckled beneath you, his cock twitching as your lips brushed the tip, and he guided your head down gently, urging you to take him in your mouth while Steve continued his teasing grind from behind, the anticipation building like a storm between the three of you.
It was the first time your lips wrapped around Bucky's cock, tentative at first, just the swollen head slipping past your teeth as your tongue swirled experimentally over the smooth, salty skin. The taste of him flooded your mouth – musky and warm, with a hint of pre-cum that made your pulse quicken.
Bucky swore under his breath, a sharp “Fuck” escaping through gritted teeth, his hips twitching upward instinctively as the heat of your mouth enveloped him. When you lifted your eyes to meet his, you saw his free hand balled into a tight fist, shoved between his lips to muffle the groan building in his chest, his blue eyes dark and wild, locked on you with raw hunger.
Steve seized the moment, his grip on your hips tightening as he pressed forward, the thick length of his cock breaching your entrance inch by agonizing inch. He moved slowly, deliberately, savoring the way your slick walls parted for him, clenching and fluttering around his shaft like they were desperate to pull him deeper.
He felt every tremor, every quiver of your inner muscles gripping him, the remnants of your earlier arousal easing his slide until he was buried to the hilt, his balls pressing flush against your skin.
A low rumble vibrated from his throat, his hands sliding up to spread your ass cheeks wider, exposing you completely as he held still for a beat, letting you adjust to the fullness stretching you from behind.
Bucky couldn't stay passive for long. His hand in your hair urged you gently but insistently, and he bucked his hips just enough to push more of his cock past your lips, the veined shaft sliding over your tongue toward the back of your throat.
You could have pulled back, resisted the deeper intrusion if not for Steve's sudden distraction – his thumb pulling away from your clit only for him to lean down, gathering saliva in his mouth before spitting directly onto your tight anus, the warm liquid trickling down the crease. You gasped around Bucky's length, the vibration making him hiss, as Steve's index finger followed, dipping into the wetness and circling your puckered hole with firm, teasing pressure.
He worked the saliva in slowly, his finger pressing and rubbing until the muscle began to yield, slick and ready under his touch. Then came the push – a steady, insistent nudge against your ass, the tip of his finger breaching the ring of resistance.
You tensed at first, your body caught between the dual invasions, Bucky's cock now halfway down your throat as you hollowed your cheeks instinctively, sucking harder to steady yourself. But you forced yourself to relax, breathing through your nose in shallow pants, your muscles loosening bit by bit around Steve's probing digit as it sank deeper, the strange, burning stretch mingling with the ache of fullness in your pussy.
Bucky's fist muffled another curse, his body arching beneath you, while Steve's voice came rough and commanding from behind, “That's it, baby, open up for me– just like that.”
The air thickened with the wet sounds of your mouth working Bucky and Steve's finger thrusting shallowly in your ass, the three of you locked in a rhythm that promised to shatter you all.
Bucky's praises spilled out in a husky torrent, his voice rough with need as he watched your lips stretch around his cock, taking him deeper with each bob of your head.
“God, her mouth is fucking heaven, Steve– look at how she sucks, like she was made for this,” he groaned, directing the words at his partner but letting them hang heavy in the air for you to hear, his fingers threading tighter into your hair to guide your rhythm.
Then, softer, almost reverent, he tilted his head to catch your gaze.
“You're incredible, sweetheart, the way your tongue works me... keep going, just like that.”
His hips rolled up subtly, feeding more of his thick shaft into the wet heat of your mouth, the salty tang of his pre-cum coating your throat as you swallowed around him, drawing a shudder from his broad frame.
Steve's thrusts maintained their unhurried pace, long and deep, his cock dragging along your inner walls with every withdrawal and plunge, the friction building a slow burn that had your pussy clenching greedily around him. He felt the slick grip of your body pulling at him, reluctant to let go, and it pulled a deep, satisfied hum from his chest.
With his finger now fully seated in your ass, the tight ring of muscle hugging it possessively, he paused his hips for a moment, buried balls-deep inside you, to focus on that intimate intrusion. He mimicked Bucky's earlier technique precisely, curling the digit inward with deliberate pressure, seeking out that sensitive bundle of nerves deep within.
The moment his fingertip grazed your spot, a jolt of electric pleasure shot through you, making your back arch and your moan vibrate fiercely around Bucky's length. Steve knew he'd found it – your walls spasmed wildly, both pussy and ass fluttering in response, and he pressed harder, rubbing in firm, insistent circles while resuming his strokes, fucking into you with measured power.
“There it is,” he murmured, his free hand gripping your hip to hold you steady as your body trembled between them.
“Feel that, baby? Gonna make you come so hard, just from this.”
The sensations overwhelmed you: Bucky's cock throbbing on your tongue, his praises washing over you like praise from a lover, and Steve's relentless assault on your most hidden spots, pushing you toward the edge with every curl and thrust.
Your breaths came in ragged gasps through your nose, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from the intensity, but the pleasure coiled tighter, promising release as their bodies pinned you in perfect, synchronized ecstasy.
Your climax crashed over you like a tidal wave, every muscle in your body seizing as the dual assault from Steve's thrusting cock and probing finger ignited that hidden spark inside you. Waves of blinding pleasure ripped through your core, your pussy clamping down hard on Steve's shaft while your ass fluttered around his curled digit, milking him with involuntary spasms.
A muffled cry escaped around Bucky's cock, your throat vibrating with the force of it, tears spilling freely down your cheeks as the intensity peaked, leaving you shaking and breathless in their unyielding hold.
Bucky shattered right after, his release triggered by the raw power of your orgasm echoing through him. His grip tightened in your hair, hips bucking once, twice, before he flooded your mouth with hot spurts of cum, thick and salty, coating your tongue and sliding down your throat as you swallowed reflexively.
“Fuck, yes– take it all, sweetheart,” he rasped, his voice breaking on a groan, body tensing as he rode out the pulses, his cock twitching against your lips until he finally pulled free with a wet pop, strings of saliva and his seed connecting you for a lingering second.
The sudden emptiness in your mouth left you gasping, the overload of sensations hitting you all at once now that you could voice it.
“Too much,” you whimpered, the words tumbling out in a broken plea, your body oversensitive and quivering under Steve's continued rhythm.
His cock still drove into your soaked pussy with those long, deliberate strokes, each one sending aftershocks rippling through your clit, while his finger kept that insistent pressure on your inner spot, rubbing slow circles that bordered on torment.
“Steve, please– it's too sensitive, too much... I can't...”
Steve didn't stop, his movements tender yet unrelenting, like he was worshiping your body even as he pushed its limits. He leaned over you, his free hand stroking soothing patterns along your back, grounding you amid the haze.
“You can give me one more, baby,” he murmured against your ear, his voice low and coaxing, laced with that commanding affection that made your heart stutter.
“I know you can– feel how wet you still are for me? Your body's begging for it.”
He angled his hips just right, grinding deeper on the next thrust, his finger curling firmer to tease that bundle of nerves, building the pressure anew despite your protests.
Bucky, spent but attentive, brushed his thumb over your swollen lips, wiping away the remnants of his release with a soft chuckle.
“Listen to him, dollface– you're doing so good, taking us like this. Let it build again; we'll make it worth it.”
Their words wove through the fog of overstimulation, coaxing you toward that impossible edge once more, your whimpers turning to reluctant moans as the pleasure began to coil tighter, betraying your pleas.
Bucky eased himself down to the floor beside the couch, his body still humming from his release as he reached up to cradle your face in his warm, calloused hands. His thumbs brushed your jawline gently, tilting your head toward him before his lips captured yours in a deep, lingering kiss.
The taste of him lingered on your tongue – salty remnants mixed with the faint mint of his breath – and you melted into it, a soft whimper vibrating against his mouth as Steve's relentless pace continued behind you.
Each thrust of Steve's thick cock stretched your pussy anew, the slick friction building that familiar ache, while his finger delved deeper into your ass, twisting with expert precision to stroke those sensitive walls.
The kiss muffled your growing moans, but the pressure coiled tighter in your belly, a sweet, insistent heat that spread like liquid fire through your veins. Overstimulation clawed at the edges of your senses, making every slide of skin against skin feel electric, almost painful in its intensity. Tears welled up unbidden, tracing hot paths down your flushed cheeks, born from the overwhelming barrage of pleasure that left you trembling on the precipice.
Bucky pulled back just enough to notice, his blue eyes softening with concern as he swiped away each tear with the pad of his thumb, his touch feather-light and reassuring.
“Sh, sh, I've got you, dollface,” he murmured against your lips, his voice a low rumble that cut through the haze.
He made those soft, soothing sounds – hushed hums and gentle clicks of his tongue – like a lullaby woven into the storm of your shared ecstasy. One hand stayed on your cheek, holding you steady, while the other trailed down to rest on your heaving chest, feeling the rapid flutter of your heart.
“Just breathe with me, yeah? Let it come– you're so close, and we're right here.”
His words anchored you, even as Steve's hips snapped forward with a controlled urgency, his free hand gripping your hip to pull you back onto him fully.
Steve's breath ghosted hot against your neck, his own control fraying at the edges.
“That's it, baby girl– feel that build? Your pussy's gripping me so tight, like it never wants to let go.”
He punctuated his praise with a deliberate grind, his cock hitting that perfect angle inside you, while his finger curled once more against your inner spot, sending sparks shooting up your spine. The dual invasion pushed you higher, the tears flowing freer now, but Bucky was there, kissing them away from your skin, his lips pressing tender pecks along your temple and jaw.
The coil in your belly snapped without warning, your final orgasm crashing through you with a force that arched your back and tore a keening cry from your throat. Your walls clenched rhythmically around Steve's shaft, pulsing in waves that dragged him over the edge with you.
He groaned deeply, burying himself to the hilt as his cock throbbed, spilling hot ropes of cum deep into your pussy, filling you with his warmth.
Bucky swallowed your cries in another kiss, his arms wrapping around your upper body to hold you close as the aftershocks rippled through, your body shuddering between them in exhausted bliss.
Steve stilled gradually, his finger slipping free from your ass with a slick withdrawal that made you gasp, followed by his cock easing out inch by inch, a trickle of his seed following in its wake. He collapsed against your back, pressing soft kisses to your shoulder, his voice rough with satisfaction.
“God, you were perfect– gave me everything, just like I knew you could.”
Bucky nodded against your forehead, his hands still stroking your face and hair, the three of you tangled in a sweaty, sated heap, the air thick with the scent of sex and unspoken promises.
Bucky pressed one last lingering kiss to your forehead before disentangling himself from the warm tangle of limbs, his body glistening with a light sheen of sweat as he rose from the floor. He glanced back at you with a soft, sated smile, his eyes tracing the flushed curves of your form still draped across Steve's lap on the couch.
“I'll grab something to clean you up, sweetheart,” he murmured, his voice husky from exertion, before padding barefoot toward the kitchen, the faint creak of the floorboards echoing in the quiet aftermath.
Steve shifted beneath you, his strong arms wrapping securely around your waist to pull you closer against his chest. You settled onto his lap with a contented sigh, your bare skin sticking slightly to his as the heat of your shared release lingered in the air.
His broad hands roamed gently over your back, fingers tracing lazy patterns along your spine, while his chin rested atop your head, enveloping you in the familiar scent of his cologne mixed with the musky remnants of passion.
The couch cushions dipped under your combined weight, cradling you both in a cocoon of exhausted intimacy.
“You're incredible, you know that?” Steve whispered into your hair, his breath warm and steady against your scalp. His voice dropped even lower, a gravelly timbre laced with genuine awe.
“The way you took us both, gave yourself so completely– God, baby girl, you were perfect. Every gasp, every tremble... it drove me wild.”
He tilted your chin up with a gentle nudge of his knuckle, his blue eyes locking onto yours with that intense, unwavering gaze that always made your heart stutter. A thumb brushed your lower lip, swollen from kisses and cries, and he leaned in to press a feather-soft peck there.
“I'm so proud of you. Handling all that pleasure like a dream. You make me feel like the luckiest man alive.”
You nestled deeper into him, your cheek pillowed against the steady thrum of his heartbeat, the praises washing over you like a soothing balm after the storm of overstimulation. His hands continued their tender exploration – one cupping the nape of your neck, the other splayed possessively across your thigh – grounding you in the moment.
The room felt hushed now, the earlier frenzy replaced by a peaceful hum, broken only by the distant sound of Bucky rummaging in the kitchen.
He returned moments later with a warm, damp cloth and a soft towel draped over his arm, his steps unhurried as he knelt beside the couch. Bucky's touch was careful and reverent as he parted your legs just enough to tend to you, wiping away the sticky evidence of your union with slow, deliberate strokes. The cloth glided over your sensitive folds, soothing the tender ache between your thighs, and he hummed approvingly under his breath.
“There we go, all cleaned up,” he said softly, his free hand squeezing your knee in reassurance.
Once satisfied, he draped the towel over your lap and settled onto the couch beside you and Steve, his arm stretching along the backrest to brush your shoulder.
The three of you fell into an easy rhythm then, the air thick with a comfortable silence that soon gave way to quiet conversation.
Steve's fingers intertwined with yours, his thumb circling your knuckles as he recounted a lighthearted story from their latest shift at the precinct – something about a misguided suspect and a comically botched stakeout that had Bucky snorting in amusement.
Bucky leaned in, adding his own embellishments with a wry grin, his hand occasionally drifting to toy with a strand of your hair. You chimed in with questions, your voice still breathy and soft, sharing snippets about your day at university and the upcoming linguistics seminar that had you buzzing with ideas.
Laughter bubbled up naturally, low and shared, weaving through the tenderness like threads in a tapestry. Steve's praises lingered in the background, murmured affirmations of how you'd brightened their world, while Bucky's eyes sparkled with unspoken promises of more nights like this. No rush, no demands – just the simple joy of being together, bodies relaxed and hearts full, as the evening light faded outside the windows.
As the conversation tapered into companionable quiet, Steve glanced at the clock on the wall, his expression reluctant but resigned.
“We should head home soon, before your mom starts wondering,” he said, though his arms tightened around you for a beat longer. Bucky nodded, pulling you into a final, enveloping hug that sandwiched you between them both, his lips brushing your temple.
“Until next time, dollface. Drive safe.”
With soft goodbyes and one last round of kisses, you and Steve gathered your things, stepping out into the cooling night air hand in hand, the chapter of this stolen afternoon drawing to a gentle close.
GENERAL taglist: @/mellowfurynight | @castielscaplan | @whatisanniedoin
Summary: Sergeant Bucky Barnes from the 107th gets injured a lot. And when he does, there's only one pair of hands he allows near him.
Pairing: 40s!Bucky Barnes x Female Nurse!Reader
Warnings/tags: Bucky is injured (shoulder gunshot, not heavily detailed); slow burn romance (kinda); pining; unrequited crush (for now and only if you kinda squint); banter; sexual tension; a bit of a sexual innuendo; soft!Bucky; no use of Y/N
Word count: 2.5k words
Notes: so! somewhere around june 2025 i got back into the Bucky fandom after years of not writing a single word and i had this idea for a 40s Bucky series...... which came to be this. i wrote and posted the first two chapters and then lost inspiration. now, almost a year later, i desperately want to go back to this series. i decided to archive the original posts and repost these chapters with new aesthetics. this is the first chapter. i have not changed any of the writing, so if you read it originally, it is literally the same (cough i wanted to but @phoenix-in-writing convinced me to not change the original texts cough). the idea is to finally continue this series, although the new chapters will be a little different because my writing has changed a lot in the last year. but the storyline is the same one i imagine a year ago, just with better writing 🥹 anyway, sorry for rambling. hope you enjoy if you've never read it before!
War breeds misery. You are of the opinion that it could never bring anything good; it won't even bring peace, not a real one. War breeds misery and soldiers, who go back home broken and bruised, not just physically. Many of them don’t even return home. Those who do, leave a part of them behind.
But you’re a just a silly girl, and you had read once in a book that the best thing a girl could be in this world was a beautiful little fool. So you spoke to no one about your disdain for war. No one would want to hear a pretty woman talk about it, anyway. And you did your part, as everyone else in the country did.
You had been a nurse back home. Lived to see too many people die on your hands, many of them from stupid, small things. When the war comes, you tell your family goodbye and you’re sent off to England. Things are worse, there. Your knowledge doesn’t feel enough. Every week, more people die than you could have ever saved in a lifetime working at the local hospital.
Today, however, there has yet to be death on your hands. You're tending to a wounded soldier who's not going to die from his injury. Some shrapnel lodged in his arm, but by the time you finish disinfecting it, he'll be good to go and fight some more. Probably die another day, from another injury. Maybe in your hands, maybe in another nurse’s.
You’re chatting casually with the soldier while you clean his wound when you recognize a very familiar, particularly loud voice in the tent.
“No one's gonna have a look at it unless it's her,” the voice hisses through clenched teeth, and it couldn't sound more annoyed while, simultaneously, annoying.
Sergeant Barnes has been a difficult pain in your side at camp. Whenever he's wounded, he'll come crawling to you. Says you're the most capable nurse in camp, won't let anyhone else tend to his wounds, yet you know he's being impossible on purpose.
The first time Sergeant Barnes was brought to the field station, he had been near a loud explosion and lost part of his hearing for a few hours. He was terrified it would be permanent. He landed on your hands and you watched over him, did some tests, didn’t find anything particularly wrong that would dictate permanent damage.
Next time, a blast injury to the leg. Jessica, another nurse, was supposed to tend to him. He asked for you. You weren’t busy with any other soldier, so you obliged.
From the third time on, it was like clockwork. No other nurse could touch him; it was either you, or no one, to the point the Captain once walked into the tent already yelling your name. “Nurse, check on Barnes immediately!”
It doesn’t take a lot of brains to figure Sergeant Barnes out. He thinks you’re pretty, and this is his attempt at flirting his way into your path. And you’re not blind, he is a handsome man. But you’re not looking to find romance in the middle of war, where he could leave tomorrow and never return. No, you wouldn’t go down that path.
Back to the present, you excuse yourself from the soldier you're taking care of, and you walk in the direction of the Sergeant's voice. Barnes is half-sitting on a chair, shirt covered in blood around the right shoulder area, and Nurse Beth is giving him an exasperated look as she tries to convince him she is just as capable as anyone else in here. “Sergeant Barnes, you were shot, I need to take a look at—”
“No.” He interrupts immediately, his voice stern. Then, he sees you and his expression lightens up almost in a second, a boyish grin settling on his lips.
“Beth,” you say softly. “Could you please finish tending to Corporal Johnson? It’s a simple injury. I’ll care for Sergeant Barnes.”
Beth seems happy to run from this hell-given situation, and she leaves without making a fuss. You approach Barnes with a stern look. “Sergeant. You cannot keep doing this. All nurses at camp are perfectly capable of tending to all your wounds.”
“None have your hands,” he says with a stupid grin. “And I thought we agreed you'd call me Bucky.”
You raise an eyebrow while you find the necessary tools for treating his wound on a nearby cart. “We didn't agree to anything. You made a request, and I ignored it.”
“Shouldn't be ignoring Sergeant's orders,” Barnes says, and he sounds way too smug for his own good. You'd like to slap him out of it, but that wouldn't be much of a good idea.
“Thankfully I'm not a soldier, so I'm not under your orders,” you reply, and that seems to throw him off balance for a minute before he regains his composure and is smirking again. You wish that smirk didn’t mess you up as much as it did. It would make this easier if you were a little more impermeable to his obvious flirting.
“Lord, I missed your quick wit. Had to get myself shot to find an excuse to come talk to you again,” he answers, and something about his tone really feels like he's being way too honest.
You ignore that specific remark.
“Relax, Sergeant. Let me take a look at your wound.” You put on a pair of gloves before you slowly move his shirt down. On his shoulder, there's a small bullet wound, the skin slightly pushed in with a ring of red around it and some gunpowder staining the skin. On his back, there's an exit wound; bigger, tissue pushed out, an irregular shape. You hum in quiet approval, like the sight isn’t as bad as all the blood on his shirt would have led you to believe. “Good news, the bullet came out and it didn't leave fragments behind. We just have to disinfect the wound and patch you up, and you'll be ready to go.”
“So I won't have to stay overnight for observation?” Barnes almost sounds hopeful, but you shake your head no with a chuckle. “I really need to learn to get shot in more dangerous places. What could get me killed? Femoral artery?”
“Sergeant Barnes,” you call out, and there's a clear hint of scolding in your tone. “Don't joke about things like that. I deal with a lot of serious injuries every day. They're ugly and nasty, and worst of all , they really do get you killed.”
“You could stop me from being reckless if you just told me I am your favorite patient,” he answers, smug again, like he's just downplaying your scolding. “And do I have to beg to get you to call me Bucky? I'll do it, I'm not against the prospect of getting on my knees for you.” The double entendre in his last sentence isn't lost on you, but you ignore it. Mostly. Your body does not, because your cheeks turn a light shade of red, and Bucky absolutely catches on to it.
Oh, he notices. Bastard even sits a little more upright on his chair, eyes trailing over your face.
“I can't have favorite patients,” you say, and then you add, like something in you has cracked a little, “—Bucky.”
That seems to take a hit at his smug exterior, too. Like, somehow, he wasn’t truly expecting you to actually follow suit and call him by his preferred nickname. Now he thinks that name will never sound as pretty in anyone else’s mouth.
“I won't tell if you won't,” he murmurs to you, and it sounds a little too sinful to be appropriate. You ignore it. Lord, you're doing a whole lot of ignoring when Bucky is around.
“Lean back. I'll take care of that wound now,” you say, trying to sound as calm and professional as you can. Your fingers work masterfully over the wound, careful, disinfecting with alcohol and cleaning the blood with a white, soft rag before you give him a pitiful look. “The stitches will sting a bit, Sergeant Barnes.”
He gives you a mischievous grin. “Glad I have your pretty face to keep me distracted, then.”
There's a certain soft touch in the way your hands work on stitching his skin, a softer touch than you would normally use with the other soldiers. Of course, you couldn’t admit that Bucky was your favorite patient, but you can't help but have a certain tenderness in the way you take care of him. You're not sure he realizes it. But you also have a very specific sense of humor, and you don't even try to hide that you pinch his skin a little harder on purpose the first time the needle goes through the skin.
Bucky doesn't make a full noise, but he hisses through his teeth. “I thought my pretty face was distracting you,” you comment, clearly amused. He squints his eyes at you, like he's realizing you did it on purpose.
“Didn’t think you had a mean streak in you.” He says back, but after a moment of slight sting in his body, he’s grinning at you. Again. “I like it.” Is all he says before he goes quiet, watching you work.
You finish the stitches relatively fast, and then you cover them with some gauze, protecting them from possible infection.
“You’re all done, Sergeant.” You say, patting him on his good shoulder. He doesn’t seem to appreciate how you’re back to calling him that instead of Bucky. You open the medicine cabinet and grab a bottle of pain killers before handing them to him. “These will help you manage the pain. In a normal situation, I would give you some antibiotics, but we are trying to ration those for more serious situations. I think you’ll heal just fine. In any case…” A deliberate pause, because you know the next part is going to elicit a reaction from him. “…I would recommend you come in every day to change the bandage, so we can keep it clean and lower the risk of infection. At least for the first week.”
And you were right about the reaction, because Bucky is smiling, ear to ear, as he grabs the bottle from your hand. His fingers brush against yours when he does, touch a little rough, and they linger on your skin for a little longer than necessary.
“So I will have an excuse to come see you every day.” He says, like he’s suddenly a kid who has been offered the biggest piece of candy in the store.
“It’s not an excuse. You do need to come in every day to change the bandage. I would prefer if you let any nurse take care of you, though.”
“No.” He answers way too quickly, and his expression is not hard, but there’s an uncomfortable shift to it. It’s quieter when he speaks again. “Just you. If that’s okay.”
If that’s okay.
Well. It’s not like you mind it. You find it strangely affectionate that since June, the first time Sergeant Barnes stepped foot in this camp, there is a sense of routine and normalcy to your life. Soldiers come and go, almost too many different faces to remember. And then, a few days every week, in comes Sergeant Barnes. The one face that is always the same in the mess. His ocean blue eyes, staring at you like you’re God sent in this hell of a place. Hands that sometimes try to reach half-way and see if your own cross the rest of the way. They never did. Even though a part of you wanted them to.
“Okay.” You say, after a moment of silence that definitely stretched too long. “Let whoever greets you know that I gave you the okay to ask for me specifically.”
He seems content with that answer. Slowly, he stands up from his chair and dresses the half-destroyed shirt over his torso again, the blood dry and brown staining his right shoulder. He slides the bottle of pills inside the back pocket of his pants and, for half a second, there’s a look in his eyes. A shift, something softer than the usual flirting. Inquiring. There’s a question behind his eyes.
“We are having a get together tomorrow night.” He finally says when he figures he is tired of holding it back. “Bonfire, stupid music, the whole lot. A part of the unit is returning to camp and we like to welcome back the survivors with some good times.” It takes him a second to continue, and it feels like he’s reaching for the right words. You feel slightly uncomfortable, but you don’t make anything of it. “You should join us.”
Of course you know what he’s talking about. It isn’t the first time, and surely won’t be the last, that the soldiers do this. It’s good for morale, they say, and you think you believe them. Anytime soldiers come back, a lot of dead come with them. But the living are there by their side, dreading, seeing their future laying in a gurney next to them. They need to be reminded of a little happiness, even if fleeting.
Nurses will usually be in attendance, too; they look pretty while they sit on soldier’s laps, singing some happy songs about better times. They dance together, make them happy for a night. Some of them will disappear into the nearby woods for an hour or two. Come back with their hair disheveled and their clothes messed up.
You don’t usually go. Not because you’re not invited—in fact, you didn’t need the Sergeant’s invitation, and you know his words mean something closer to ‘I’d like to see you there’—but because fleeting happiness didn’t particularly work for you. Never in your life did you feel as hollow as you do these days, working to save people who could be killed tomorrow, or the day after, in an instant. It feels pointless and stupid to sing along to pretty little tunes while people are dying for things you don’t defend.
Sergeant Barnes says your name and you’re brought back to your senses, realizing you are a little lost in thought.
“Sergeant Barnes…” You begin, and in a second, his hand wrapping around one of your wrists. It’s soft and quick and you are a little startled because he’s never been this direct. Of course you have noticed him staring, of course you’ve heard his thousand different ways of flirting and saying you have a pretty face, but the touch was new. He never touched you before.
“Bucky. Please. I mean it.” Your stomach does a flip at the way he speaks, because does Sergeant Barnes —or, Bucky—sound… vulnerable? “You don’t have to say yes right now, but, maybe, don’t say no yet?” Hopeful. Vulnerable and hopeful.
“Bucky,” you start, finally giving into his request fully. He smiles at that. “I will think about it.”
And you do. Tonight, when you go back to the sleeping tent and you lay on the hard mattress, under the cold sheets, you think about sitting by the bonfire with Bucky by your side.
Series Summary: After Bucky cheats on you, you leave the Tower shattered, humiliated, and convinced that love has only ever made you smaller. Steve comes back from a mission to find you gone - and when he learns the truth, his loyalty is tested in ways he never expected.
Wordcount: 9.8k
Pairing: Steve Rogers x Female Reader (no use of y/n)
Warnings: tower fic, alternative mcu, slow burn, healing arc, hurt comfort, emotional hurt comfort, angst with comfort, infidelity angst, second chance at love, cheating / infidelity, emotional betrayal, toxic ex relationship, Bucky Barnes is OOC, forced kiss, non con elements (very light), boundary violation, sexual assault implications, emotional manipulation, jealousy and possessiveness, panic attacks / panic response, vomiting due to distress, STI scare / medical testing mention, violence / physical fight, blood mention, breakup grief, trauma recovery, found family, protective steve rogers, soft steve rogers, toxic bucky barnes, self-worth issues, mentions of emotionally abusive family dynamics, reader has a difficult childhood, happy ending, MDNI, some chapters will have smut or explicit intimacy
A/N: This story has been beta read by Cassie (with a lot of yelling at me and at the characters), so as always, a huge thanks to you.
While I think this series can be read as its own, it's a follow-up of this one-shot, and I suggest you read it for a better comprehension of the plot.
Important note about Bucky: Bucky is very OOC in this fic. I want to be very clear about that from the start: I know he is OOC, I know canon Bucky would not act like this, and I am not presenting this as my interpretation of canon Bucky Barnes.
This story uses him in a deliberately darker, more toxic role for the sake of the angst, conflict, and Reader’s healing arc. So please, before sending me an ask or leaving a comment to tell me that Bucky would never behave this way: I know. That is what this warning is for.
I will not be replying to complaints about Bucky being written OOC. You have been warned, and if this version of him is not something you want to read, please feel free to skip this fic.
Masterlist - Series Masterlist - Next
When Steve came back to the Tower after seven days away, he knew something was wrong before the elevator doors even opened.
It was not one thing so much as the shape of the silence.
The common floor usually carried noise no matter the hour – music from somebody’s speaker, Tony talking too loudly to fill a room that did not need filling, the television running unwatched, footsteps crossing polished floors, the low mechanical hum of a building too alive to ever quite rest. Even when the Tower stood quiet, it had a pulse. It felt inhabited.
That evening, it felt hollow.
The elevator opened onto dim light and stillness. Steve stepped out with his duffel slung over one shoulder, the stale taste of quinjet coffee still sitting on his tongue, and found Sam and Natasha in the common room.
Neither of them looked up at first.
Sam sat forward on the couch, elbows on his knees, hands clasped so tightly the knuckles had gone pale. Natasha sat in one of the armchairs with one leg thrown over the other, but there was nothing relaxed about her posture. Her face looked flat and closed in that particular way it did when anger had cooled into something sharper. The television across from them was on mute. Some late-night news anchor moved her mouth in total silence.
A half-empty glass of water sat on the coffee table. Another lay on its side, a dark crescent soaking into a stack of coasters. No one had bothered to clean it up.
Steve let the duffel slide from his shoulder and land by the elevator with a dull thud.
Neither of them smiled.
His stomach dropped.
He looked from Sam to Natasha and, because instinct always made him reach for humor first when the air turned unbearable, he asked, “Okay. Who died?”
Sam looked up then.
There were jokes a room let survive and jokes it killed on sight. This one did not even make it to the floor.
Something in Sam’s face made Steve straighten.
Natasha finally turned her head toward him. Her expression did not change. “No one.”
Steve waited.
No one said anything.
The silence stretched a second too long, then another.
He felt the fatigue of the mission still in his bones – seven days of bad sleep, worse weather, and the kind of work that left no room for thinking about anything except the next step. He had expected to come back to the usual mess: Stark making some comment about how long they took, Sam complaining about quinjet rations, maybe Bucky lurking at the edge of the room with that watchful half-detached look of his. He had expected normal. Or the closest thing the Tower had ever had to it.
Instead he got this.
Steve’s gaze moved between them again. “What happened?”
Sam exhaled through his nose and leaned back at last, like a man resigning himself to an unpleasant duty. “She left.”
For one second, Steve did not understand the sentence.
The words landed, but not their meaning. There were too many people in the Tower for she to mean anything immediately. Maria had not lived here in years. Pepper barely stayed overnight. Wanda spent more time elsewhere than in. There were women in and out of Avengers Tower all the time.
Then understanding hit.
His head came up sharply. “What?”
Sam did not look away. “She left this morning.”
Something cold moved through Steve’s chest.
He had not seen you when he came in. He had noticed that without truly registering it, the way a mind dismissed small absences when it had not yet been told where to look. Now the omission flashed back at him all at once. Your jacket was not hanging over the back of the dining chair where you sometimes forgot it. There was no mug on the table that looked like yours. No book left face-down on the arm of the couch. None of those ordinary traces that meant you had passed through the room recently.
He frowned. “Left for where?”
Sam rubbed a hand over his jaw. “One of Stark’s old safehouses in Brooklyn. I gave her the keys.”
Steve stared at him. “Why?”
Natasha answered.
“Barnes cheated on her.”
The words fell clean and hard into the room.
Steve looked at her as if he had misheard.
The muted television flickered blue-white across the glass wall behind them. A siren moved somewhere far below in the city and faded. Steve heard all of it with unnatural clarity, as if the world had suddenly become too sharp around the edges.
He said, very carefully, “What?”
Natasha did not soften it. She never did when softness would have been a lie. “She had her suspicions. She confronted him last night.”
Steve just looked at her.
He had come back from battlefields that made more sense than that sentence.
Barnes cheated on her.
Not drifted. Not picked a fight. Not said something careless and unforgivable in anger. Not made a coward of himself in one of the quieter, more ordinary ways men ruined things.
Cheated.
Steve felt something like disbelief and nausea rise together.
He glanced at Sam, maybe because some part of him still expected a correction there, some sign this had been exaggerated in the retelling. Sam only gave a grim, weary nod that confirmed the worst of it.
“She packed this morning,” Sam said. “Didn’t take much. Just a bag.” His mouth tightened. “She was already gone by the time most people were up.”
Steve passed a hand over his face.
The skin around his eyes felt gritty from lack of sleep, but the gesture had more to do with buying himself a second than fatigue. He stood there in the middle of the room with mission dust still on his boots and tried to fit the news into any shape that made sense.
It refused.
He had known you and Bucky together long enough to have stopped thinking of you as temporary. The two of you were not easy, not in the glossy, effortless way some couples pretended to be. There had always been edges there. Bucky was Bucky – closed off, haunted, sometimes so deep inside his own head it seemed a miracle he remembered to come back out. And you had never been the kind to smooth yourself down for anyone’s comfort. But Steve had seen the way you looked at each other when you thought no one was paying attention. He had seen Bucky track your movement across a room without seeming to. He had seen you lean into his space like it was the one place in the world that asked nothing false of you.
He had gone away for a week.
He had come back to this.
And worse than that – he had seen nothing coming.
Nothing.
No crack obvious enough to alarm him. No sign in Bucky that screamed betrayal. No whispered argument in the hallway before he left on mission. No strange distance between you two that might have made him stop and ask a question. If anything, the last time he saw you together, it had looked normal enough to let pass without a second thought.
That thought angered him more than he expected.
He looked at Natasha.
“You knew,” he said.
It was not a question.
She held his gaze for a beat before answering. “I saw them. Once.”
Steve felt his jaw harden.
There were a hundred follow-up questions in that sentence. Who. When. Where. How long ago. Did Bucky know she had seen. Did you. Was it really enough to know, or just enough to suspect. But the way Natasha said it told him what mattered most: she had not guessed. She had seen enough to be certain.
His voice came lower. “And you said nothing.”
Natasha’s face did not change, but something colder moved through her eyes. “I saw enough to know something was wrong. I did not have proof of the whole shape of it. By the time I decided I should have dragged him into a room and forced the truth out of him, she already had it.”
There was no apology in the words. Natasha rarely apologized for making a bad call until after she finished surviving it. But there was something else there – disgust, maybe. At Bucky. At herself. At the mess of it.
Steve looked away from her and out toward the windows.
Night lay over Manhattan in a scatter of lights and reflections. The city looked exactly as it always did from up here: bright, impossible, indifferent. He had spent enough years leading people through catastrophe to know how absurdly ordinary the world remained while somebody’s life came apart.
He thought of you leaving that morning while he was still halfway across the Atlantic, probably on a quinjet, probably asleep sitting up with his arms crossed, unaware that you were walking out of the Tower with a bag in one hand and whatever was left of your trust dragging behind you. The image lodged under his ribs with strange force.
He had not seen you.
He had not been here.
The helplessness of that irritated him immediately.
“What did she say?” Steve asked.
Sam answered that one.
“Not much.” He glanced down at his clasped hands before going on. “She didn’t owe me details, and I didn’t push. She opened the door with a bag already packed, and looked like she hadn’t slept.” His expression tightened a little, remembering. “I asked if she wanted to stay. She said no. I asked if she was sure. She said if she started talking, she might stay.”
Steve’s head turned slowly toward him.
Sam met his eyes. “So I handed her the keycard.”
That landed somewhere deep and quiet.
If she started talking, she might stay.
Steve could picture it too easily: you standing there with your face stripped bare by exhaustion and fury, holding yourself together by will alone, knowing that the first real conversation might be the thing that made you weaker instead of stronger. He knew that kind of decision. The ones people made because motion was the only thing keeping them upright.
“Did she say anything else?” Steve asked.
Sam shook his head. “Only that she needed out.”
Natasha let out a low breath through her nose. “Which seemed smart.”
Steve looked at her again.
There was steel in Natasha tonight, but there usually was. What struck him more was the fury she was not bothering to hide beneath it. She had never been sentimental about infidelity. In her experience, betrayal was betrayal. Private treachery and professional treachery shared more DNA than people liked to admit.
He thought again of what she had said I saw them. Once.
That meant at least once there had been a moment clear enough, damning enough, that Natasha Romanoff had taken one look and known what it was.
His stomach turned harder.
“Who?” he asked.
Natasha’s mouth became a thin line. “You really want that answer right now?”
The fact that she did not say she did not know answered him almost as well as a name would have.
Steve did not ask again.
Maybe because the name itself did not matter in this exact second. Not compared to the larger fact of it. Not compared to you leaving. Not compared to Bucky doing something so ugly and ordinary Steve almost had more trouble with the ordinariness than the ugliness. He had seen Bucky as a weapon, a prisoner, a survivor, a ghost trying to become a man again. It did not fit cleanly in Steve’s head – that same man lying to someone who loved him and then doing it again long enough for suspicion to grow teeth.
And yet life was cruelly simple sometimes. A person could survive war and brainwashing and still fail in the oldest, most human way imaginable.
Steve swallowed once and asked the question that had been waiting underneath all the others.
“Where is Bucky?”
Sam leaned back fully now and turned his head toward the hallway that led to the bedrooms.
“Last I heard? In his room.”
There was a bitter kind of humor in his expression now, the kind that had no real amusement in it at all.
“Doing what?”
“Destroying everything he can get his hands on,” Sam said. “Physically, this time.”
Steve stared.
Sam gave a short, humorless huff. “Because I wouldn’t tell him where she went.”
That, at least, Steve could picture.
He could imagine the shape of Bucky’s rage when it had nowhere useful to go. Furniture splintering under metal fingers. Glass breaking. A wall caving in. The deliberate ugliness of a man who had run out of ways to punish himself internally and needed something in the world to show damage too.
A week ago, Steve might have been halfway down the hall already out of instinct alone, ready to stop him before he tore his hands open on the wreckage.
Now he stayed where he was.
“Good,” Natasha said.
Sam glanced at her, but did not disagree.
Steve stood very still.
It was one thing to hear that Bucky was in pain. It was another to discover that the first feeling that rose in him was not sympathy but anger so immediate and clean it almost steadied him. Anger for you, for Sam being put in the middle of it, for Natasha being left to sit on what she knew, for the entire filthy waste of it. Anger that Bucky had shattered something and then turned destructive only after consequences showed up at his own door.
He let out a slow breath.
“When did you find out?” he asked Natasha.
She uncrossed her legs and recrossed them the other way, gaze fixed on him. “About the cheating? This morning, officially. About there being something off? Earlier.”
Steve nodded once.
That matched too well with the room. The bad atmosphere. The fact that both of them looked like they had not slept much either. This had not been a clean morning reveal with tidy explanations. It had been a night of fallout. Confrontation. Packing. One person leaving and another breaking apart loudly enough for the Tower to feel it through the walls.
He looked down at the dropped duffel by the elevator and felt suddenly ridiculous for having come home still half inside mission mode. There had been gunfire forty-eight hours ago. Tactical briefings. Satellite feeds. Blood on concrete. All of it already felt easier to process than this living-room silence.
“Tony know?” he asked.
Sam nodded. “By noon.”
“And?”
“And he’s mad enough not to be funny about it.”
That told Steve plenty.
Tony, for all his mockery and noise, had a vicious protective streak once somebody was considered his. You had been around long enough, close enough, to count. Steve could imagine exactly how cold Tony’s anger might look when it turned practical.
For a second no one spoke.
Steve could hear something faint in the hallway now that he stood listening for it. Not voices. Not footsteps. A dull impact, maybe, far off and muffled by distance and expensive walls.
Sam heard it too and tipped his head slightly in that direction. “See?”
Another thud, heavier this time.
Bucky’s room.
Steve shut his eyes briefly.
He remembered all at once a hundred versions of his oldest friend – the skinny reckless boy from Brooklyn who laughed with split lips, the ghost of him in war, the nightmare that followed, the man clawing his way back to himself in fragments. He remembered fighting for him when nobody else thought there was enough left to save. He remembered believing, stubbornly and absolutely, that whatever the world had made of Bucky Barnes, there had still been a line inside him no cruelty could fully erase.
That belief did not vanish now.
But it changed shape.
Because whatever history Bucky carried, whatever damage had been done to him, none of it absolved him here. Steve knew that with a clarity so cold it almost surprised him. Pain explained. It did not excuse. Not this. Not repeated choices. Not lying to someone who loved you and letting them stand there asking themselves what was wrong with them when the wrongness sat with you all along.
A flash of memory came uninvited: you at the kitchen counter some night weeks ago, laughing at something Sam said, head tipped back, shoulders loose. Bucky in the doorway, saying nothing, but watching you with that small private softness he almost never let anyone see.
Steve had seen that look and trusted it.
His hand curled once at his side.
“Did she ask for me?” he heard himself say.
Sam’s expression changed – subtle, but enough.
“No,” he said carefully. “She didn’t know when you were getting back.”
Of course you had not.
The answer still landed harder than it should have.
Steve nodded once, more to himself than to either of them. It was not a wound, exactly. Just another fact. You had left in the narrow space available to you. You had not asked for him because you had not known he could be there, and maybe because this was not the kind of hurt you handed around to be held by committee.
He respected that.
He hated it too.
Natasha watched him with the sharp attention she reserved for dangerous moments – not because anyone had drawn a weapon, but because she knew emotional shock could turn a room volatile faster than a loaded gun sometimes could. “Steve.”
He looked at her.
She lifted one shoulder slightly. “Whatever you’re about to do, pick the useful version.”
He almost laughed, but there was no room for it.
Another crash came faintly from down the hall.
Sam stood up at last. “I already tried talking to him.”
Steve glanced at him. “And?”
Sam gave him a flat look. “And he only wanted to know where she was.”
“Did he say anything else?”
“He said he loved her.” Sam’s mouth twisted. “Which I’m sure was a big comfort.”
Steve looked away again.
That was somehow the worst part. Not because it softened anything, but because it did not. People liked to imagine betrayal coming from absence of feeling, as if the heart worked in clean equations. It never did. Steve had lived too long to believe that. Bucky could love you and still ruin you. The contradiction did not make the damage smaller. It made it uglier.
He drew in a slow breath and let it out.
“Is she safe?” he asked.
Sam answered immediately. “Yes.”
“Alone?”
“Yes.”
“Does anybody else know where she is?”
Sam’s gaze held his for a second, measuring. “Only me. Probably Tony. And now you know there’s a place, not which one.”
Steve accepted that without argument. He would have done the same in Sam’s place. Maybe he would have done worse.
Natasha rose from the chair in one fluid motion. “If you’re going to see him, do it before he brings the floor down.”
Steve bent, picked up his duffel, then set it back down again. He was not going to carry luggage into this conversation like a man arriving for an ordinary evening.
He straightened and looked down the darkened hallway.
Part of him wanted to turn around instead. Walk back into the elevator, get in a car, find every safehouse Stark owned if necessary until he found you. Not to make you talk. Not to fix anything. Just to see with his own eyes that you were somewhere quiet, somewhere no one could reach you unless you wanted them to.
But Sam’s earlier words stopped him.
If she started talking, she might stay.
You had chosen distance. He would not be another person trying to take that from you.
So that left Bucky.
His chest tightened with something old and terrible. Loyalty, anger, grief, disbelief – none of it separated cleanly. Bucky was his friend. His brother in every way that mattered. And Steve knew, with the kind of certainty that hurt, that if he opened that bedroom door right now and saw the wreckage inside, he was not going to feel sorry first.
He was going to feel furious.
Maybe Bucky knew that. Maybe that was why he had not come out.
Steve started toward the hallway.
“Steve,” Sam called after him.
He stopped and looked back.
Sam’s expression had gone serious again. “Don’t let him make this about how bad he feels.”
Steve held his gaze for a moment and gave a single nod.
He understood.
Bucky would bleed guilt all over the room if allowed. He would talk about shame and self-hatred and how he had ruined everything, and all of it might be true, and none of it would be the point. The point was you packing a bag in the morning light, too hurt to risk one more conversation. The point was you leaving before anyone could stop you because staying would have cost you too much.
Steve turned back without another word.
The corridor seemed longer than he remembered. Lights came on ahead of him in soft succession as he walked, each step bringing the distant noise into clearer focus. A crack of splintering wood. The metallic ring of something thrown hard enough to hit a wall. Then silence. Then another impact.
By the time he reached Bucky’s door, the hall smelled faintly of plaster dust.
Steve stopped outside it.
For one second he simply stood there, hand at his side, looking at the scarred wood panel and seeing too many years layered over it at once. Brooklyn alleys. Army trains. HYDRA labs. Wakanda. Recovery rooms. Quiet dinners. Missions. Second chances. All of it came down, absurdly, to a closed door in Avengers Tower and the knowledge that the man on the other side had just done something Steve did not know how to forgive.
Inside, something heavy hit the wall.
Steve lifted his hand and opened the door.
The frame missed Steve’s face by inches.
It struck the wall just beside the door with a crack sharp enough to ring through the wrecked room, glass exploding across the floor in a scatter of glittering shards. Steve stopped on instinct, his body turning slightly with the old reflex of a soldier who had spent too many years stepping around violence before his mind properly caught up.
For a second, the only sound came from the piece of wood spinning once across the floorboards before falling still.
Then silence closed back in.
Steve looked up.
Bucky stood in the middle of the room like the last thing left after a fire.
His chest rose and fell too hard. His hair had fallen into his face. The knuckles of his right hand were split open and bloodied, the skin torn raw from repeated impact. It had smeared across his fingers, across the heel of his palm, onto the front of his T-shirt in half-dried rust-colored marks where he must have wiped at his mouth or his face without noticing. His metal arm hung stiffly at his side, flexing once, twice, the plates clicking faintly.
The room itself looked as if somebody had torn through it looking for a body.
A chair lay overturned near the desk with one leg snapped clean off. The lamp on the bedside table had been smashed against the wall hard enough to cave in the plaster. One drawer hung crooked and splintered from the dresser, its contents – shirts, papers, a handful of loose ammunition from some carelessly abandoned tactical pouch – strewn across the floor. The mirror above the bureau had cracked through the middle in a violent white line, spiderwebbing outward into fractured reflections that caught Steve’s shape in broken pieces. One of the closet doors hung open at the wrong angle. The mattress had been shoved partly off the bedframe. There were two distinct holes in the wall that looked roughly the size of Bucky’s fist.
Steve took in all of it in one long sweep, and disbelief moved through him so cold and clean it almost felt like clarity.
Sam had not exaggerated.
If anything, Sam had been charitable.
For one stupid second, Steve remembered the common room downstairs – the tipped-over glass on the coffee table, Natasha’s shut face, Sam’s clasped hands, that terrible hollow quiet – and the memory hit differently now, with context. This was what had waited behind it. This was the noise that had been traveling through the walls.
The thought hardened something already sharp in Steve’s chest.
He stepped fully into the room and nudged the broken frame aside with the heel of his boot.
The photograph inside had split behind the glass. Steve did not stop to see who had been in it.
“Is that it?” he asked.
His voice came flat. Not loud. Not sympathetic. There was no trace in it of the concern he would have shown under other circumstances, if this had been about a mission gone wrong or a nightmare or the aftermath of somebody else’s cruelty.
There was none of that here.
Bucky stared at him with eyes gone dark and raw from sleeplessness. “No.”
The answer did not surprise Steve.
Of course it did not.
This was not an ending. This was only the shape a consequence had taken when it finally stopped being theoretical. Rage had always come easier to Bucky than remorse did; Steve knew that better than most. Rage gave a body something to do. It let a man move. Break. Bleed. It saved him, sometimes, from having to sit still with what he had done.
Steve glanced again at Bucky’s hand. The blood had started to drip steadily now from the split skin over the knuckles, dark drops pattering onto the floorboards.
“You should wrap that.”
Bucky let out something that might have been a laugh if there had been any life in it. “That what you came up here to say?”
Steve closed the door behind him with deliberate calm. The latch clicked into place with absurd neatness in a room that looked bombed out.
“No,” he said.
Bucky looked away first.
That did something ugly to Steve, because it made him think of every version of Bucky he had ever known that could still meet a punch head-on and yet flinch from being seen clearly. It made him think of the boy from Brooklyn with bruised eyes and a grin that hid more than it should have. It made him think of all the years in between. It made him think of what Sam had said downstairs, of Bucky asking where you had gone and then tearing his room apart because Sam had refused to tell him.
It made him furious all over again.
Bucky dragged a hand over his mouth, smearing blood across his skin. When he spoke, his voice sounded scraped raw. “I had ended it.”
Steve said nothing.
Bucky swallowed once. The words seemed to drag against his throat on the way out. “Yesterday. When I came back.” He gave a short, shattered shake of his head, not quite looking at Steve. “I went to her. I told her it was over.”
For one beat, the room held still.
Then Steve heard his own voice answer, colder than even he had expected.
“And you want a medal for that?”
Bucky’s head snapped up.
Steve did not move.
He stood just inside the wreckage with his hands loose at his sides and looked at his oldest friend across the carnage of his own making, and whatever Bucky had expected to find on his face, it was not there. Not patience. Not understanding. Not the old instinctive mercy Steve had spent half a lifetime extending toward him.
Only contempt, clean and bright as a blade.
Bucky stared at him as if the tone itself had struck harder than a fist.
“I’m not asking for that.”
“No?” Steve took one step farther into the room, carefully avoiding the worst of the broken glass. “Because it sounded a lot like you were setting the scene. You know, in case I missed the part where you tried to stop being a bastard at the last possible second.”
A pulse jumped in Bucky’s jaw.
Steve saw it and did not care.
He could still hear Natasha downstairs, I saw them. Once.
He could still hear Sam, She packed this morning. Didn’t take much. She said if she started talking, she might stay.
Those words had lodged deep.
He had not seen you before you left. He had not been there for the confrontation, had not watched your face when Bucky failed to deny it, had not stood in the hallway while you walked out. All he had were the fragments Sam and Natasha had given him – and somehow that made the whole thing worse, because his mind kept supplying the rest. You standing in the kitchen after a sleepless night. Bucky saying I love you and meaning it in whatever useless, ugly way a man meant it after betrayal. You taking a bag and choosing distance because it was the only thing that kept you from breaking in front of everyone.
Steve looked at the wrecked lamp, the shattered mirror, the blood on Bucky’s hand, and felt no pity for any of it.
Bucky laughed once, but there was no humor in it. “You think I don’t know what I did?”
“I think you know now,” Steve said.
That landed.
Bucky flinched like he had not meant to, then set his mouth hard.
Steve went on before he could answer. “I think you knew enough to hide it while you were doing it. I think you knew enough to lie. I think you knew enough to come back here yesterday and end it with the other woman only after you’d already spent however long making a wreck out of both sides of this.” His voice stayed level, which somehow made it harsher. “And I think now that she’s gone, you want credit for having a conscience too late.”
Bucky’s breathing roughened. “It wasn’t like that.”
Steve looked around the room again, then back at him. “Then by all means, clear it up.”
For a second Bucky seemed almost unable to speak.
He looked exhausted in a way that went past sleeplessness. He looked gutted. Steve saw it. Steve believed it. It changed nothing.
Bucky turned half away, metal hand rising to grip the back of his neck. “I didn’t mean for it to keep going.”
Steve almost laughed.
That, more than anger, almost made him laugh in disbelief.
“You didn’t mean,” he repeated. “That’s what you’ve got.”
Bucky’s shoulders tightened. “It started and then–”
“And then you kept doing it,” Steve cut in.
Bucky snapped, “I know that.”
The words bounced off the cracked walls and fell dead.
Steve did not raise his voice to match him.
Downstairs, Sam had warned him, Don’t let him make this about how bad he feels.
Steve understood now exactly why he had said it. Guilt came off Bucky in waves. Shame too. The whole room stank of it under the plaster dust and the metallic tang of blood. But Steve had no interest in getting lost inside Bucky’s self-disgust if it meant losing sight of the actual damage.
“You know what I can’t get past?” Steve asked quietly.
Bucky’s eyes lifted to him again.
“That you let her figure it out.”
Something changed in Bucky’s face.
Steve pressed on.
“She suspected something.” Every word came measured, controlled. “Natasha told me that much. She saw enough to know something was wrong. And you still let the woman you claimed to love stand there with that feeling in her gut until she had to drag the truth out of you herself.”
Bucky shut his eyes.
For the first time since Steve entered, he looked less angry than sick.
Steve remembered another line from downstairs with painful precision, She confronted him last night.
He pictured that too easily. You in the kitchen, maybe. Or the hallway. Or somewhere private that had stopped feeling safe the second Bucky lied in it once too often. Your voice gone cold. Bucky going still. The silence after the first direct question. The look on his face when denial failed him.
Steve had not been there, but he knew enough about people to imagine it.
And imagining it made his stomach turn.
“Did you deny it?” Steve asked.
Bucky opened his eyes slowly.
The silence answered before he did.
Steve felt something inside him go hard as stone.
“You did.”
Bucky looked at the floor. “At first.”
Of course he had.
Steve took another step forward.
There were years of memory crowding behind his ribs, all of them trying to complicate this. Every fight he had fought for Bucky. Every grave he had refused to let close over him. Every miracle of survival. Every quiet step back toward personhood. All of it kept trying to stand up between them and say be fair, be patient, remember who he is.
Steve did remember who he was.
That was part of why this cut so deep.
“You had a chance,” Steve said. “Maybe more than one. To tell her. To stop. To confess before she had to come to you already knowing enough to be hurt.” His gaze dropped to the shredded room around them. “Instead you waited until she was gone and started punching walls.”
Bucky looked up fast, anger flashing through the ruin. “You think that’s all this is?”
Steve met it without blinking. “Right now? Pretty close.”
That stung visibly.
Good.
Bucky paced away from him in three quick steps, then stopped because there was nowhere left in the room to go without stepping on something broken. He looked down at his bleeding hand as if noticing it for the first time, then wiped it absently on his shirt again.
“She asked me why I loved her,” he said suddenly.
Steve said nothing.
Bucky laughed once under his breath, the sound cracked straight through with grief. “You should’ve heard how she said it.” He shook his head. “Like it was the ugliest joke in the world.”
Steve felt his jaw tighten so hard it hurt.
He could hear your voice saying it, though he had not been there. Not the exact sound, but the shape of it. Not confusion anymore. Not pleading. Something worse. The moment when love became unbearable because it no longer made sense beside what had been done in its name.
Bucky pressed the heel of his left hand against his eyes for a second. When he lowered it, his expression looked flayed open. “I told her I loved her.”
“And she left anyway,” Steve said.
Bucky stared at him.
Steve did not soften.
That was the truth of it. Whatever words had passed between you in the night, whatever confessions or excuses or shattered apologies Bucky had thrown at the damage, the only thing that mattered now was that you had still walked out in the morning. You had chosen a locked door and a safehouse over one more hour in the Tower with him.
Because you had needed to.
Because staying had cost too much.
Bucky’s mouth twisted. “You think I don’t know she left?”
“I think you still don’t understand why she had to.”
That brought Bucky up short.
For the first time, Steve saw something like uncertainty move beneath the grief. Not ignorance, exactly – Bucky was not stupid – but that more dangerous thing people clung to after doing harm: the belief that if their remorse was large enough, it ought to count for more than it did.
Steve knew better.
“You cheated on her,” he said. “More than once, from the sound of it. You lied until she confronted you. And now you’re upstairs tearing apart furniture because Sam won’t tell you where she ran to get away from you.” His eyes moved over the room one last time. “What part of that are you hoping makes you look less guilty?”
Bucky went still.
Then, very quietly, “I’m not trying to look like anything.”
“No,” Steve said. “You’re trying not to feel it.”
That landed even harder than the rest.
Bucky’s face changed in a way Steve had rarely seen – something almost defenseless moving through it before anger slammed back over the top. “What do you want from me?”
The question came out harsher than it should have, but Steve heard the truth underneath it.
What script was this. What punishment. What was he supposed to say to make the room stop spinning.
Steve knew the answer.
“Nothing,” he said.
Bucky frowned as if he had heard wrong.
Steve held his gaze.
“I don’t want anything from you. She might have wanted honesty. She might have wanted you to stop before it got this far. She might have wanted one conversation where you didn’t let her be the last person to know what was happening to her own life.” His voice lowered. “But me? I don’t want a damn thing from you right now except for you to stop acting like smashing your room changes what you did.”
For a long moment neither man spoke.
Somewhere below them, the Tower hummed on in that expensive, inhuman way it always did, climate systems and hidden engines breathing through the walls like nothing catastrophic had happened inside one of its bedrooms. Steve found the sound obscene.
Bucky finally sank down onto the edge of what remained of the bedframe, not gracefully, not with any real decision, but like his legs had simply given out underneath him. The mattress shifted crookedly under his weight. He bent forward with both forearms braced on his thighs, blood dripping from his knuckles to the floor.
“I didn’t get to tell her it was over,” he said after a while, staring at the boards. “I thought–”
Steve cut him off immediately. “Don’t.”
Bucky’s head lifted.
“I don’t care what you thought that bought you.”
Bucky’s mouth shut.
Steve saw the old instinct there – to explain, to reconstruct the sequence, to lay out the exact order of decisions in a way that might make him feel less monstrous if not innocent. Steve had seen men do it after combat, after failed missions, after friendly fire, after any irreversible thing. They reached for chronology because morality had become too ugly to hold directly.
But there was nothing in the timeline that saved Bucky here.
Yesterday he had gone to end it with the other woman.
Last night you had confronted him.
This morning you had left.
If anything, the sequence made the whole thing more grotesque. Bucky had come home full of belated intentions, as if he might quietly close one ugly chapter and spare himself the public collapse, and then found out too late that you had already seen enough to know your life had changed under your feet.
Steve thought of Sam giving you the safehouse key. Thought of Natasha seeing enough, once, and keeping it in the sharp silence of herself. Thought of Tony learning it too and going cold with it. Thought of all the ways betrayal rippled outward when people liked to pretend it stayed contained between two bodies in one room.
“You don’t get points for stopping only because you were finally forced to look at yourself,” Steve said.
Bucky did not answer.
Steve stepped farther into the room until he stood close enough that Bucky would have had to look up to meet his eyes.
Slowly, Bucky did.
Steve had known that face in every age of its ruin. He knew the set of pain in the mouth, the stubbornness in the jaw, the devastation stripped naked in the eyes. He loved Bucky. Maybe that was why the anger felt so merciless. Stranger fury burned fast. This had roots.
“She left with one bag,” Steve said. “Sam told me that. She got the key for a safehouse and she left with one bag. That’s what your grief looks like on her side of the door.”
Bucky’s throat worked once.
Steve kept going.
“She didn’t wait for me to get back. Didn’t wait for Tony to weigh in. Didn’t turn it into some Tower-wide spectacle. She just got out.” The words sharpened. “Do you understand what that means?”
Bucky looked away.
Steve did not let him. “Look at me.”
It was not loud, but it carried command the way only Steve’s voice could when he let that part of himself show.
Bucky’s gaze snapped back.
“It means she didn’t trust herself to stay,” Steve said. “It means whatever happened last night left her thinking distance was the only thing that would save her from taking you back too soon or letting you talk over the damage. It means she had to protect herself from you.”
The last word hung there.
From you.
Bucky took it like a blow.
For a second, Steve thought he might lunge up out of the bedframe and hit something again, maybe him this time. There was enough wildness in the room for that. Enough shame. Enough blood in the air.
Instead Bucky sat very still.
When he finally spoke, his voice had gone low and ragged. “Where is she?”
Steve almost smiled, but there was no humor in it.
“I dunno. And I wouldn’t tell you if I did.”
Bucky’s face closed on itself. “Steve–”
“No.”
Just that.
Bucky stared at him, breathing hard.
Steve held the line without effort now. Downstairs, Sam had already made the right call. Steve would not undo it. Not for history. Not for loyalty. Not because Bucky looked half-dead with regret. The minute Bucky made this about finding you rather than facing what he had done, Steve knew exactly how dangerous that could become – not physically, not necessarily, but emotionally. Bucky had a way of taking up all the air in a room when he wanted absolution. You deserved at least one place where he could not get to you with that face and that voice and all the old gravity between you.
“You don’t get to chase her because you panicked,” Steve said.
“That’s not what this is.”
“It’s part of what this is.”
Bucky stood again too fast, the bedframe groaning behind him. “You think I’d hurt her?”
Steve did not answer right away.
That silence gutted the room.
Because of course Steve did not think Bucky would lay a hand on you. That was not the injury here and they both knew it. But there were other ways to hurt someone. Bucky knew that now better than anyone.
Finally Steve said, “I think you already did.”
Bucky recoiled.
Good, Steve thought again, and hated how easy that kept becoming.
The room fell quiet except for the faint drip of blood onto wood.
Steve drew a slow breath and felt the rage settle into something colder, steadier. This, more than shouting, was the dangerous version of his anger – the one that stopped performing and started deciding.
“You need to clean this up,” he said.
Bucky stared, uncomprehending.
“The room. Your hand. Yourself.” Steve glanced once more at the destruction. “Then you need to sit down somewhere and think very hard about whether any sentence coming out of your mouth is going to be about her pain or only your own.”
Bucky’s brows pulled together. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
Steve looked at him for a long moment.
“It means that if the first thing you say, every time, is some version of I love her or I ended it or I feel sick or I didn’t mean it to keep going, then all you’re doing is putting yourself back in the center of a wound you created.”
Bucky opened his mouth.
Steve did not let him speak.
“You’re sorry,” he said. “I believe that. You’re ashamed. I believe that too. But don’t confuse those things with having done right by her even once in this.”
Bucky shut his mouth again.
Steve had no idea whether the words were getting through. Maybe not tonight. Maybe not while the adrenaline still burned too hot and the room still looked like an impact site. But he said them anyway because somebody had to, and because Sam had already done the decent thing by protecting your whereabouts. That left Steve with the uglier task.
To stand here. To look directly at Bucky. To refuse to make him feel cleaner than he was.
At last Bucky spoke, barely above a whisper. “You think she’s never coming back.”
Steve thought of the Tower downstairs with your absence already worked into it like a missing step. Thought of the kitchen you would not want to see. Thought of the hallways Sam said you had left behind with one bag and a face that had not slept. Thought of the safehouse in Brooklyn, small and quiet and away from all of this.
“I think,” Steve said carefully, “that whether she comes back to this building and whether she ever comes back to you are two very different questions.”
Bucky looked like he had been punched all over again.
Maybe he had. Only now the blows were landing where they belonged.
Steve moved toward the door.
Behind him, Bucky said, “Are you done?”
Steve stopped with one hand on the frame.
He did not turn immediately.
He looked instead at the smear of blood Bucky had left on the wall near the broken lamp, at the glass on the floor, at the wreckage of a room that had not asked to be made the stage for one man’s collapse. He thought of everything downstairs still waiting – the silence, the questions, the fact that he had come home from a week-long mission and stepped straight into the aftermath of a private disaster he had been nowhere near in time to stop.
Then he looked back over his shoulder.
“No,” he said. “But she was the one you should’ve been listening to last night.”
A sound broke behind him before Steve could open the door.
It was laughter.
Not real laughter. Nothing with life in it. Nothing that belonged in a human throat without setting every instinct on edge. It came out of Bucky low and cracked and wrong, like something rusted through at the hinges had finally given way. There was no humor in it. No amusement. Only the ugly edge of a man standing too close to the center of his own ruin and trying to make it uglier still.
Steve stopped with his hand on the handle.
For one brief second, he did not turn around. He only stood there in the wreck of the room, jaw locked, the cold metal of the handle pressed into his palm, and listened to that horrible half-laugh die into silence.
Then Bucky said, “I was going to ask her to marry me.”
The words dropped into the room like another piece of furniture thrown hard enough to splinter.
Steve shut his eyes.
He did not move. Did not speak. Did not even breathe properly for a second or two.
He had thought the worst of the night had already arranged itself in plain enough terms: the cheating, the confrontation, you leaving with a single bag, Bucky upstairs smashing holes into the walls because remorse had finally found him with nowhere left to run. That had already been ugly enough. More than ugly enough.
But that… That was something else.
Steve’s hand tightened on the door handle until the tendons in his wrist stood out hard beneath the skin. He felt the pressure in his jaw first, then in the back of his neck, every muscle in him drawing taut with the effort of not saying the first thing that came to mind.
Because the first thing that came to mind was not fit to say to his oldest friend. Not if he wanted to walk out of this room without making the wreckage worse.
He opened his eyes slowly and stared at the door in front of him instead of the man behind him.
For one impossible, involuntary instant, the image rose anyway: a ring box hidden somewhere in this room before Bucky tore it apart. A proposal imagined in whatever private hopeful shape Bucky had given it. Maybe a dinner. Maybe a quiet night. Maybe the same kitchen where you had confronted him, where whatever remained of your trust had finally broken open in your hands. Steve did not want the image, but it came all the same, obscene in its timing.
A proposal.
As if betrayal could be outrun by a bigger promise made afterward.
As if a future tense could erase what had already been done in the past.
Steve still said nothing.
He knew silence could wound harder than words sometimes. Right now it was the only thing stopping him from turning around and saying something so vicious it would stick between them for years.
Behind him, Bucky let out another of those broken, mirthless sounds and shifted against the ruined wall. Steve could hear the fabric of his shirt drag over plaster. Could hear the faint wet tack of blood on his knuckles.
“And now what, Stevie?” Bucky asked. “You gonna take your shot, finally?”
That did it.
Steve turned.
Slowly at first. Too slowly, maybe. The kind of controlled movement that was more dangerous than any sudden outburst because it meant the anger had passed through heat and settled into something dense, cold, and deliberate.
Bucky was still where Steve had left him, standing amid the devastation of his room, one hand bloodied, hair hanging half into his eyes, mouth twisted into something cruel and exhausted and self-destructive. But there was a new look on his face now, something meaner than grief. Meaner than shame. As if he had reached the point where if he could not drag the night backward, he could at least poison whatever was left in the room.
Steve had seen that look before too, on men cornered by their own guilt. The moment when pain stopped turning inward and started looking for another target.
His gaze fixed on Bucky’s face. “What exactly is that supposed to mean?”
Bucky’s laugh this time came shorter, rawer. “Don’t act like you don’t know.”
Steve did not blink. “Say it.”
There was danger in the room now, plain and hard-edged. Not the kind that came from weapons. Something older. Two men with too much history and too little patience left between them.
Bucky tipped his head back against the wall for a second, then looked at Steve through lashes heavy with sleeplessness and contempt – contempt for himself first, maybe, but no longer only that. “I know you always had a thing for her.”
The sentence hung there.
Steve felt it hit somewhere low and violent in his chest.
Not because it was wholly unrecognizable. He was honest enough with himself, if with no one else, to know that whatever he had felt for you had long since moved beyond simple fondness. He had buried that knowledge deep, given it no room to breathe, refused to examine it with any real care because you had been with Bucky and that should have been the end of it. Steve was not a boy anymore, whatever Bucky chose to imply with Stevie. He did not build secret hopes out of other people’s relationships. He did not stand around waiting for collapse.
But hearing it spoken like that – dragged into the light now, in this room, from Bucky’s mouth, with all the filth of the night on it – made it feel contaminated.
Made it feel like accusation.
Made it feel like the ugliest possible version of something Steve had spent months, maybe longer, making sure remained harmless.
The distance between them vanished in three strides.
By the time Bucky seemed to register that Steve had moved, Steve’s fist had already fisted itself in the front of his T-shirt.
The fabric bunched hard in Steve’s hand. He drove Bucky backward with enough force to send him slamming into the nearest intact section of wall. The impact knocked a dull thud through the room, rattling what remained of the cracked mirror. Plaster dust sifted down in a pale drift from the damage already done.
Bucky’s head struck first, then his shoulders. He made a rough sound in the back of his throat but did not fight the grip.
If anything, he leaned into it.
That was almost worse.
Steve got right up into his space, holding him there with one hand locked in his collar, his face close enough to see every sign of sleeplessness, every burst capillary in his eyes, every twitch of strain around his mouth. He could smell blood, sweat, broken plaster, and underneath it the bitter metallic scent of adrenaline long since gone sour.
“Do not,” Steve said.
His voice was low enough that Bucky had to listen for it.
“Do not ever make me into some opportunistic bastard standing around waiting for my best friend to screw up.”
Each word came out clipped and controlled, but rage ran beneath them like live current.
Bucky stared back at him. For a second something like surprise flickered over his face – not at the force, maybe, but at the sheer naked disgust in Steve’s voice. Then even that disappeared, and what remained was a darker, uglier expression than before. Something needling. Something almost hungry.
He wanted this.
Steve saw it all at once.
Not the accusation itself. Not the fight in any real sense. The punishment.
There was something in Bucky’s eyes now that looked almost relieved to have finally drawn a clean target. As if he had spent the last hours drowning in emotions too large and shapeless to bear – shame, panic, grief, self-hatred – and had reached the point where a fist across the mouth would be easier. Simpler. A wound he could understand. A pain with edges.
He wanted Steve to hit him.
Wanted the physical blow, the proof, the release of it.
Maybe because broken knuckles and split lips hurt less cleanly than whatever image kept replaying in his head of you leaving the Tower without looking back.
Maybe because being struck by Steve would give him a punishment he could survive instead of the one he had earned and could not control.
Steve saw all of that in a single brutal flash, and it disgusted him more than the accusation had.
His lip curled very slightly. “You’re pathetic.”
The word landed harder than a punch.
Bucky’s expression changed.
For the first time, the viciousness faltered. Not gone, but pierced.
Steve held him pinned a heartbeat longer, staring at him with absolutely no effort to disguise what he felt. Disgust. Anger. A profound, cold contempt for the way Bucky was trying to drag everyone else into the mud with him now that he had finally sunk deep enough to feel it.
Then Steve released him.
Bucky hit the wall once more on the rebound and straightened too fast, jaw tightening, chest heaving. Steve took one step back, then another, forcing space between them before instinct overrode restraint. He turned away sharply and headed for the door.
He got two steps before Bucky spoke again.
“So it won’t bother you, then,” he said, voice rough and poisonous, “to pick up what’s left.”
Steve stopped dead.
There were some lines a man crossed in ignorance, and some he crossed because he wanted blood.
This was the second kind.
For one second the entire room seemed to contract around Steve’s spine. Every muscle in his back drew tight. His hand flexed once at his side so hard the fingers ached. He could feel his pulse in his throat now, hard and heavy, the old dangerous urge rising fast – the one that did not care about regret until later.
He turned so abruptly the broken glass near his boot crunched underfoot.
“Shut up, Bucky.”
His voice cracked across the room like a shot.
Bucky’s head lifted.
Steve took one step toward him, then stopped himself there by sheer force. His face had gone hard in a way very few people ever saw. Not righteous. Not noble. Just furious.
“Shut your goddamn mouth.”
The silence after that was enormous.
Bucky looked at him, breathing hard, but he did not speak.
Maybe he saw something in Steve’s expression then that finally registered as real danger. Not because Steve was Captain America. Not because he was stronger, steadier, more controlled. But because they had known each other too long for Bucky to mistake the difference between anger and the brink.
Steve stood there for one heartbeat longer, maybe two, and felt every possible next move line up in front of him.
He could hit him.
He could say the cruelest thing he knew.
He could drag this into some older, bloodier shape of brotherhood where men broke each other open because they had run out of language.
He wanted, with a suddenness that shocked him, to do at least one of those things.
And that was exactly why he had to leave.
So he did.
He turned on his heel and strode to the door before Bucky could force one more word into the room. His hand closed on the handle, yanked it open hard enough that it slammed against the outer wall, and for one second the cool, quiet hallway lay before him like another world entirely.
He stepped through without looking back.
Behind him, the wrecked room remained silent.
Steve pulled the door shut with more force than necessary. The latch clicked, then settled. It was a small sound after everything else, absurdly neat.
He stood there in the hallway for a second with his breathing too high in his chest and his fists clenched so tight his own nails bit into his palms. The controlled mask he wore so easily for everyone else felt thin as paper right then. He could still hear Bucky’s voice. I was going to ask her to marry me. You gonna take your shot, finally? Pick up what’s left.
The last one stayed.
It stayed because of what it implied. Because of the way it reduced you – your pain, your choice, your dignity – to debris. To aftermath. To something broken another man might claim.
The thought made Steve feel physically sick.
He pushed a hand over his face and kept walking before he could change his mind and go back in there.
The hallway seemed too bright after the room. Too polished. The Tower’s hidden systems hummed softly through the walls, indifferent as ever. Somewhere below, a lift moved between floors. Somewhere farther off, a door opened and shut. The world had resumed its shape while Steve’s pulse still pounded like he had just stepped off a battlefield.
He kept going.
Not because he was calm. Not because the anger had passed. But because he knew himself well enough to understand the difference between restraint and weakness, and tonight leaving was the only thing keeping those two from being confused.
By the time he reached the end of the corridor, his jaw hurt from how hard he had been clenching it.
He did not look back once.
GENERAL taglist: @mellowfurynight | @castielscaplan | @whatisanniedoin
Pairing | Tow truck driver!Bucky x rich girl!reader
Summary | When you step into Barnes' Towing & Auto Repair, you think all you're leaving with is a newly repaired car, simple as that. But Bucky has other plans. After one glimpse of those pink heels and your overly bright personality—too polite to be genuine—he knows you're nothing but trouble. A few choice words slip from his lips before he can stop himself, and guilt hits as soon as you're gone. Now…he can't get you out of his head, and the universe is dead set on throwing the two of you together again and again.
Warnings/tags | MDNI (18+), nsfw, dual pov, slow burn, forced proximity??? age gap romance?? (I imagined reader in her mid to late 20's and Bucky is late 30's) modern au, poor guy x rich girl, grumpy x sunshine, enemies to lovers if you squint, Sam Wilson makes an appearance, reader loves pink (like a concerning amount), reader is described as smaller than Bucky and can easily carry her, reader is a bit ditzy (she's just like me fr), Bucky's an asshole for like .2 seconds (pinky promise he redeems himself), reader is the daughter of a CEO, reader's father is an actual asshole (he doesn't redeem himself...it's the daddy issues in me), John Walker makes an appearance as a NASCAR driver and is a slightly cocky asshole (y'know what, maybe everyone's an asshole in this...my hate for men came through on this one, I fear), use of alcohol, hurt/comfort, angst, miscommunication, fluff, car accident, minor injuries, Bucky is a sexy motherfucker with a soaked tank top, Bucky's a groveler, Alpine makes an appearance, Bucky has a happy trail, reader catches print, mentions of how Bucky lost his arm, grief, mentions of death, mentions of drunk driving, smut, kissing, dirty talk, slightly pervy Bucky, Bucky cums in his pants, masturbation (f+m), oral (f receiving), breast attention, fingering, pussy pronouns, p in v, unprotected sex, biting, marking, praise kink, save a horse; ride a Bucky, multiple orgasms, pet names (princess, baby, sweet girl, pretty boy)
Word Count | 19.5k (can you believe I popped out this big ass baby?)
A/N | hi barbie, please don't be perturbed by the length of this (don't you like it bigger? :smugass:) this is officially the longest fic i've written, and i like it??? i think i really just love these characters, that's why it was so difficult for me to stop writing. i know next to nothing about cars/tow truck driving/mechanics/racing/the air force, so i'm truly sorry if anything is wrong:((
This is my portion of the Barbie Dreamhouse collab brought to you by @stantastic-association!! A heartfelt thanks to @miraclediviner for putting this together and doing such a wonderful job organizing it. And also being such a big support to everyone <3 dt: to my babies @phoenix-in-writing @sheriff-bodecker @metal-armed-muse @buckytakethewheel i love you all so much:))
cloud divider credit: @/uzmacchiato
Sam Wilson tapped the end of his pen against the counter in a steady rhythm, deep in thought, the metallic click filling the silence. Leaning over, he pressed his elbows to the cool surface and released a long, dramatic sigh. The ceaseless ting of metal hitting acrylic was beginning to irritate Bucky, but to be fair, everything about his friend seemed to irk him most days. His jaw ticked before the pen even made a sound, as if he were bracing for it now.
A barely there, unhelpful voice echoed in the back of his mind, suggesting that he reach over the table and snap the pen clean in half. Oh, it would be so satisfying. The hurt look on Sam's face, combined with the following silence after, was getting too tempting by the second. However, he thought better of making a scene, opting instead for taking a steady inhale through his nose and blowing it out through his mouth.
It really wouldn't matter if he did cause a scene. It was one of the slower days at the shop. The kind where only a couple of customers drifted in with quick replies and hurried footsteps, so they could continue on with their day. But most of today was like this—an empty room with a pressing stillness and lingering pauses. Ones that Bucky wasn't keen on filling.
"I don't know, man," Sam finally broke the silence. "The common denominator between all these relationships ending is you. Maybe you need to adjust your attitude."
"I don't need to adjust nothin'," Bucky muttered stubbornly.
Sam raised a brow. "Right. It's them. Every single one. Not the guy who's always in a mood and has a staring problem."
"'m just particular. There ain't nothin' wrong with that."
"Some might say too particular," Sam murmured under his breath. "Look, I just don't want to see your sad little face walk in here, moping around like someone punted your cat."
"Don't bring Alpine into this," Bucky's scowl deepened, his jaw twitching again. "Besides, Alpine and I are fine. Don't have time for anythin' serious anyway."
"Did you ever send a message to…what was her name?" Sam trailed off, tapping the pen against his forehead, as if that would jog his memory. "Oh, Violet."
"No. 'm not textin' your barista, just because she gives you an extra shot of espresso and happens to have a nice smile."
The man behind the counter huffed air out of his nose. "Fine, just know I'm done playing matchmaker for your sorry ass."
Bucky rolled his eyes. Never asked for your help in the first place, he thought. Then, that same instigating voice nudged him, and he gave in this time. "How's Sarah?"
Sam's posture straightened rapidly, pointing the pen at him like it was a weapon instead of a writing tool. "Don't you fucking dare, Barnes."
"What? I was just askin'," Bucky shrugged, a smirk gracing his lips.
"My sister is off limits. You know that."
"Okay, okay." Bucky held up his hands in surrender, dropping the subject completely. Still, it gave him that brief, cathartic release he had been searching for earlier, even if it was fleeting.
Glancing around, his eyes drifted out of the wide windows. The sun was a bright statement in the clear blue sky, only partially blocked by the towering 'Barnes' Towing & Auto Repair' sign outside—bold enough that it could be read by anyone speeding down the highway. The reflection of the window pane left a white cast on the tiled floor. A small black rectangle carved in the bleached reflection forced his gaze up to the flimsy paper posted by the door, its edges slightly creased. The ink fading betrayed just how long it had been hanging there.
Now hiring.
Sometimes, Bucky wondered if this place was less a job and more a coasting point for people to move through to something better. No matter who he and Sam hired, they would leave within a couple of months—the universe was never gracious enough to gift them someone for more than that. Then the cycle would start again, and he'd have to reprint the sign.
So, there it stayed—a permanent decoration on the glass until they could find someone permanent.
The rays of the sun were interrupted by a dark Rolls-Royce pulling into the lot, snagging Bucky's attention immediately. His eyes flicked over the body of the car—spotless, glistening even. Tinted windows. Freshly polished rims. Even the emblem of the tiny woman with wings appeared untouched.
He scoffed at the ridiculous sight. Obviously, this car wasn't a potential customer. This was someone who took a wrong turn along the way and needed a place to swing around, so they could head back to whatever mansion they stumbled out of.
But the car idled. Right in front of the shop. Unmoving.
The driver's door opened, revealing an older man in a pressed suit. The fabric was all clean, sharp lines—tailored perfectly for him. He even wore one of those chauffeur caps, the kind Bucky only saw in movies that Sam would force him to watch on his rare days off.
The whole get-up screamed wealth and status, as though money itself dripped off of him—none of which belonged anywhere near the likes of Bucky's shop. Yet, there he stood.
The man moved around the front of the car, adjusting his gloves and smoothing out wrinkles that weren't visible. After assessing his surroundings, he wrapped his fingers around the chrome door handle, keeping his chin high as he pulled it open.
A single pearlescent pink heel appeared first, the pointed toe hovering for a beat before carefully finding purchase on the oil‑stained pavement below. You were smart enough to avoid the puddles that could potentially ruin your expensive shoes.
You stepped out, rising to your full height. Sunlight glinted off your dark sunglasses, adding a shiny sheen to your hair. You straightened your designer coat and fixed the creases in your pale pink dress before giving your driver a practiced, polite smile.
Then, you sauntered forward, hips swaying as you adjusted the strap of your small handbag over your shoulder. Bucky could hear the loud click of your heels before you ever entered the shop.
"This oughta be good," Sam whispered behind his dark-haired friend.
As you entered, the bell above the door chimed, announcing your arrival. Bucky was hit with a gust of warm vanilla layered with grapefruit, which he could practically taste on his tongue.
You pushed your sunglasses up with two manicured fingers, resting them on your hair. Bright eyes darted around the room as you inspected it with your clear vision. You took it all in before you spoke. Walls filled with old metal signs. Counters lined with tools and little bobbles.
You breathed in the air that smelled faintly of strong coffee and even stronger motor oil, but you didn't wrinkle your nose. You looked…prepared, trained not to visibly react.
Finally, your gaze drifted to the two men who were frozen in place, as if just noticing their existence.
"Hi, I'm here to pick up my car," your voice came, velvet confidence. You introduced yourself, muttering your last name so quickly, he would've missed it if he wasn't listening. He swore he had heard that name, but immediately brushed it off like it was inconsequential.
"My father brought it in for a routine check-up, and he received a call that it was ready," you clarified.
For a moment, no one moved. Bucky didn't even blink. And even though you explained why you were here, he still thought you took a wrong turn on the way to the mall.
Eventually, Sam snapped out of it, fingers finding the computer's keyboard. "Right. The Porsche?"
Of course. He should have known that your car was the most expensive thing to ever roll through here. And if the price of the car didn't give it a way, surely the color did. Pink. The first time he saw it, he wanted it out of the garage, almost called to have it sent to another mechanic because he couldn't stand to look at the damn thing.
"That's correct," you said sweetly, causing something in Bucky's gut to sour.
It must've shown on his face because you gave him a small, courteous wave. The kind of gesture people made when they were raised to address everyone in the room, even the ones they actually didn't want to make conversation with.
Your gaze flicked briefly to his metal arm. He no longer bothered to hide it like some kind of secret. In those first few years, still adjusting to the foreign weight, he’d kept it concealed under layers of clothing—even in the heat of summer. Most days, it was less a badge from his time in the Air Force and more an inconvenience at best.
But as the years rolled by, he cared less and less about what people thought. Customers would stare at him with pity, similar to the look you were giving him now. You offered him a tight-lipped smile, and he hated the feeling it carried.
Instantly rolling his eyes, he turned away; he clearly wasn't interested in your fake-friendly facade. He knew that look all too well, and he knew that under the practiced posture and fancy clothing, you wanted to get the hell out of this place. And he wasn't going to stop you.
Noticing the slight edge of tension, Sam tapped away at the keys as he kept his eyes on the screen, feigning professionalism. He cleared his throat. "Ahh, here it is…Porsche 918 Spyder. Yeah, it looks like all you needed was an oil change and a tire rotation."
"Did you happen to take a look at the weird sound it was making? It sounded…" You paused, pursing your lips, "mechanical."
Bucky let out a dry, humorless laugh, "It's a car. Everything is mechanical."
"Right," you giggled, light and airy, and it sounded like it belonged somewhere less cramped. More open, like a rose garden, to complement the warmth of it.
Was he really comparing your laugh to fucking flowers? Maybe that perfume of yours had gone to his head and messed up his brain chemistry.
"I mean, it sounded unusual," you added after your laughter had faded.
Bucky opened his mouth to respond with something snarky, but Sam cut in immediately. "After the tire rotation, the sound went away. But if you happen to hear it again, bring it in, and we'll assess it further."
He typed out something else, then clapped his hands together as he met your eyes. "Alright, if that's all, I can bring her around."
"Thank you. I appreciate your help, Mister…?"
"Sam will do just fine," he corrected, and you offered a sharp nod in return.
Then, he disappeared into the back, heading towards the garage, leaving you and Bucky alone.
You turned to him, your expression open and approachable, as if you didn't even notice his hostility towards you. "So, you work on cars, then?"
"No, I just stand 'ere and look pretty," he grumbled sarcastically.
"Well, you're doing a great job," you teased, obviously not perturbed by his glum behavior. "Don't let me stop you from your hard work."
The tips of his ears turned red, but he recovered quickly. "'m just glad to get that pink monstrousity outta the garage," he mumbled.
"You don't like it?"
"It's…loud."
"Well, isn't it supposed to be?"
He narrowed his gaze at you, impatience flickering over his expression. "I didn't mean the engine.
"Ohh," you said with a lilt of amusement in your tone. "The color."
"It's pink," he deadpanned.
"Good observation, Sherlock," you shot back, but it lacked the bite he was expecting. Your grin stayed plastered on your face, unflinching. "Maybe you should take up detective work when you're not…y'know…standing there looking pretty."
Bucky leaned against the counter, the cool acrylic biting his heated skin. He clenched his jaw, shaking his head as his eyes flicked over your appearance. "It doesn't take a detective to know that color is hideous."
You crossed your arms, but for the most part, you were keeping your cool. "Like I'm going to take fashion advice from someone who only sees the world in greys and blacks. And is appalled by the simple sight of color."
"I like color just fine."
"Really?" you questioned, arching a brow. "Let me guess, your closet is full of the same black shirt. But when winter rolls in, you'll throw on a flannel to spice it up."
Something shifted in his expression, irritation sharpening on his features. "You think you have it all figured out, huh?"
You leaned in, not backing down from the challenge in his words. "Don't you? You seemed to have made up your mind about me as soon as I walked in the door, without knowing a single thing about me."
"Oh, I know exactly who you are," he smirked, amused. "Bet you don't know what half the buttons in that car do. You just get behind that wheel because Daddy bought it. He even spiffed it up for you. Ain't that right, princess?"
The words hit hard, and it showed on your face. Your expression changed in an instant. Before he could even blink, your smile twisted into a grimace, as if you’d just tasted something bitter.
This time, you didn't brush off his words. Instead, you took a step closer, not backing down. "Here's the thing, I don't expect you to like my car, or the color, or even me." Your voice never wavered, bold and composed. "But don't mistake my kindness for ignorance."
And with that, you made your rushed exit—the echo of your heels lingering long after you disappeared from view.
A moment later, your car zoomed past in a pink blur, merging onto the busy streets of Brooklyn. He wished the image of the hurt etched on your face would have faded, along with the smoke from your exhaust dissipating. But it stayed, lodged between his ribs like a thorn in his side.
Sam stepped into the room a minute too soon, and Bucky could already hear the criticism forming on his tongue. "What the fuck was that? What the hell did you say to her?"
"Nothin'."
"Bullshit. She hopped into that car like she was fatally wounded and needed emergency assistance."
"Don't be dramatic."
"I'm not." Sam shook his head, eyes to the ceiling as if he was praying for strength. "Do you know who her father is?"
"No."
"You don't want to. At least not personally. He's…intense," Sam sucked air through his teeth, rubbing the back of his neck. "Ever heard of Apex Motors?"
Bucky promptly nodded; he was very familiar with the brand. Apex Motors was everywhere. Their parts were the gold standard. Their engines were the kind mechanics whispered about—if you hadn't seen them, you wouldn't believe they truly existed. Their logo showed up at every car show, every charity race, every community event that was always over-advertised.
"Of course, I know Apex. Who doesn't?" Bucky scoffed.
"Yeah, well, her father owns it, dumbass," Sam barked. "He doesn't just own it. He is Apex Motors. The founder. He's the one who elects to sponsor all those races we're lucky enough to attend. The one whose logo is clearly plastered on all the major drivers' cars and even bigger on the fucking banners outside those events."
Bucky's stomach dropped. "Fuck."
"Yeah, fuck is right." Sam dragged a hand down his face. "That man has enough influence in Brooklyn—hell, New York—that he could get us shut down. And forget about getting a job after that. Our names would be on everyone's blacklist."
"I didn't know."
"That's the problem, Bucky. You just don't know when to stop, do you? Not everything needs your input," Sam griped, then his voice softened. "Just pray she doesn't tell her dad, before you apologize."
Bucky's eyebrows knitted together in protest, but Sam raised a hand to stop him. "It's not up for discussion. Act like the adult you are, and apologize to the poor girl."
Poor girl.
Bucky couldn't help but notice the irony in his words; her purse likely cost more than his monthly house payments. However, he decided that it probably wasn’t the best time to laugh at the joke he had thought of, let alone say it out loud.
He spent the rest of the day mulling over his stupid mistake, and the constant side-eye from his friend didn't help.
The ballroom was grand, but at the same time, it was too congested. The weight of everyone’s piercing stares made it hard to breathe. You felt less like yourself and more like an accessory on your dad’s arm at these pointless, flashy events.
The marble floors seemed to glitter under the tasteful chandeliers above. Everything accented with gold looked like embers from a fire in this light. The Champagne flutes were polished to perfection, sparkling on the silver platters that waiters carried with ramrod-straight spines. Banners were strewn around the room, reading 30 years of Apex Motors.
You should be used to this scene by now. Used to the less-than-heartfelt speeches, the handshakes, the forced smiles, the way you tilted your chin just right to make it look like you were interested when you were anything but.
Tonight, that cracked mask felt heavier, and it was slipping.
You weren't sure if it was the series of fake grins and unwanted conversations, but it was overwhelming.
Your father must be so proud.
You look so much like him in this lighting.
Are you thinking about following in his footsteps and running Apex someday?
One too-polite statement after the next, and the pain of it began to ebb at you. The sting burrowed beneath your thick skin like an incessant sliver that refused to go unnoticed.
Or maybe tonight was different because of the feeling of being profiled. Again. You really should be used to that, too. But it never got easier. Living in your dad's shadow meant you were constantly being measured against him.
To your face, they might say that you'll fill his shoes perfectly. But behind your back, they whispered that you'll never be him. You'll never be as smart as him. You'll never amount to his achievements.
Because a girl in a pink skirt could never command a whole room.
Truthfully, it always rolled right off your shoulders. You didn't want to be your father anyway, so those words never struck you.
But now, those words tangled with a deeper voice.
It had been a week. A full week since you visited the auto shop, yet his words were just as loud in your head as the day he said them to your face, without guilt.
Bet you don't know what half the buttons in that car do.
Princess.
The words punctured deep, but what hurt worse was his expression. The certainty in his eyes, the way he looked at you like he’d already solved you. Like you were a simple equation he’d seen a thousand times before.
The thought of your walls—the ones you had so expertly built—crumbling under his penetrating gaze was baffling. How could a stranger know you?
You told yourself he didn't. That you weren't like half the people drifting through this ballroom. You were different. You had to be. Even if it was a thinly veiled lie, you were adamant in believing it.
Click, click, click.
Three snaps of a camera sliced through your train of thought. You glanced up, focusing on the photographer and the scene he was capturing. Your father was chuckling at something one of his business friends said, booming laughter traveling across all corners of the building. It made your jaw twitch; you hadn't heard him laugh like that in years. At least not when you were around.
He spotted you, laughter dying on his tongue as quickly as it bloomed. He muttered something to the man beside him that you couldn't make out, then he excused himself.
He crossed the room like royalty—small groups parted, and guests dipped their chins in acknowledgment. When he made it to you, he paused like he didn't know what to do. He eventually settled for an awkward side hug, the kind that felt void of affection. Hollow. Forced.
When he pulled back, he scanned you as if he hadn't seen you in a while. And frankly, he hadn't. The last time he saw you was when he picked up your car for its routine check-up.
Your regular mechanic had closed up shop and moved across the state, so you asked for recommendations on a new auto shop. He said he'd handle it.
His assistant handled it.
"You came," your father trilled.
"Wouldn't miss it," you said too hastily; it sounded like a lie. It was.
His eyes narrowed, searching for the deception in your words. He always noticed the cracks in your mask before anyone else did, but he didn't comment on it. Too many investors to please and cameras to smile at to break the facade that this was a happy pair—a dad and his daughter simply catching up.
Instead of voicing the slip in your guise aloud, he adjusted the sheer pink shawl over your shoulder. It could've been viewed as a tender gesture to any onlookers, but you knew it was a silent correction to fix your mask.
"Good. I wanted you here for the big speech," he started casually. "I was hoping you could take some notes on what points you'll need to touch on when you're up there."
You opened your mouth to object, but he was waving someone over a second later. "John," he called. "Come here a minute. I'd like you to meet my daughter."
A dirty-blonde, tall man broke away from a nearby conversation. It clearly wasn't as important as your father's needs because he was eagerly striding towards the two of you. He was refined—crisp suit and a nice smile, revealing his pearly white teeth. Exactly the type of man your father wanted for you.
Great.
John gave your father a firm handshake, exchanging pleasantries, then turned to you. You offered your hand, and he took it with a gentle touch as if you were fragile and couldn't risk breaking you. Leaning down, his lips brushed your knuckles. Something in you recoiled at the contact, but you kept your composure.
"I've heard so much about you," he said by way of greeting.
The grin you gave him didn't quite reach your eyes, but he didn't notice. Guys like him didn't notice much. He was too busy gliding his thumb over the back of your hand, like he was trying to convey something unspoken. You reclaimed your hand, gingerly prying it from his grasp.
Noticing the tension in your posture, your father interjected, “This is one of the drivers competing in the NASCAR Cup Series.”
Apex Motors had been sponsoring one of the NASCAR Cup races consistently for the past ten years. You started memorizing the competitors by name around the fourth year you attended. But you were out of touch with the more recent drivers.
This year, Pocono Raceway was hosting. Your father had invited you a month in advance; you still hadn't gotten back to him about whether you'd be joining him.
John nodded, adding, “Yeah, your father hooked all the drivers up with head-to-toe Apex gear and spruced up our rides.”
You forced down the bile rising in your throat. "That’s him all right. He's always been the generous type."
But you knew it wasn't generosity that drove him. It was selfish. Strategic. Anything for the good of the company. More advertisements meant more customers, which always led to more people talking about him. If it didn't benefit him or his company, it wasn't worth his time and energy.
"Maybe you could swing by and watch him drive sometime. You know, to get a feel for the kind of things Apex invests in," your father suggested. He reached toward John, gripping his shoulder tenderly—the son he always wanted. "He's very talented on the track."
"You honor me, sir," John murmured coyly, though the confident smirk on his face betrayed exactly how highly he thought of himself.
The corner of your mouth twitched, but you kept that same easy smile on your face. You leaned towards your father, lowering your voice. "Can I speak with you in private?"
Your gaze flicked to John, who instantly took a step back with a quick nod. "Of course."
You led your father a few steps aside, far enough that no one could overhear, but not so far as to draw attention. Your tone stayed light and casual, the kind you’d practiced and perfected, ensuring nothing seemed out of the ordinary.
"We talked about this," you said softly. "I don't want anything to do with Apex. At least not right now."
Something shifted in his expression, anger carving out the edges of his features. "Then, what are you going to do with your life?"
"I don't know," you muttered brokenly.
"Well, that's not an option."
You inhaled slowly through your nose, keeping your cool. "I'm just not ready to figure it out quite yet."
"You said that after your mother died," he replied, tone clipped. "I'm going to need a different excuse this time."
He rarely brought up your mother these days, so the words landed like a punch to the gut. It wasn't like he didn't include her in your conversations because her death still stung. No. Instead, it seemed like he didn't talk about her because it was better to ignore that she existed altogether.
"No daughter of mine is going to be unemployed the rest of her life," he added, voice rising. "The world doesn't wait for you just because you ask it to. At some point, you're going to have to catch up, and I can't stand here and hold your hand forever."
You didn't recall a time when he ever held your hand.
"I've given you ample time to screw around and grieve," he continued bitterly. "But you need to grow up and reevaluate your life."
You flinched, the words hitting like venom rather than offering sympathy to a daughter who was still mourning. Your breathing stuttered, and you tried to push down the tears welling in your vision.
He sighed, his voice going soft. "We can talk about this later."
Or never would be the better option, you thought.
"Go have fun. Mingle." Then, he hauled you into another uncomfortable hug, kissing the crown of your head.
This time, when he pulled away, he didn't look at you. He didn't notice the tension in your shoulders or the way your fingers curled into your palm, your nails leaving tiny crescent-moon shapes in your flesh.
He simply turned and walked back towards the guests, only to be instantly swallowed by the crowd.
You stood there, feet firmly planted on the ground. Frozen in time, while everything around you seemed to speed up. Maybe your father was right; you couldn't just will the world to slow down.
But there was also no reason for you to stick around here.
You slipped into the crowd, brushing elbows with investors and bumping shoulders with drivers who were probably begging for a sliver of your father's time. None of which made room for you to get through. A photographer said your name as you passed, but you ignored them and kept moving toward your exit.
When you finally made it to the front, you pushed open the door. You didn't even wait for the gentleman stationed there to hold it for you.
The city was calling for you to do something reckless, and that, you couldn't ignore.
The blaring music and strobbing lights inside the bar were enough to give someone a severe migraine or a trip to the emergency room. Thankfully, the former was what Bucky was dealing with as he stepped out onto the cracked sidewalk. The noisy contents of the bar spilled out of the door as soon as he opened it, and somehow it sounded exactly the same beyond the walls. He swore it even sounded louder, if that was possible.
He patted his pockets to make sure he hadn't forgotten his wallet in his rushed exit. Once he found the familiar square outline tucked safely in his leather jacket, he reached for his keys and started toward his truck.
He made it about four long strides before he stopped dead in his tracks. Loud, off-key singing. With the combination of drunken shouting and the thumping bass echoing behind him, he hadn't noticed the noise until he was face-to-face with the image of a very hammered girl.
Streetlights flickered above the woman as she threw her head back, belting out the lyrics to a song Bucky recognized. Yet, the way she was singing, made it feel as if he were hearing it for the first time. Her voice cracked on a high note, and it caused him to wince in response.
"Only the young can saaaaay," she screeched, tripping over her own heels.
His lips twitched upward before he could stop it. She was wasted, no doubt about it, but there was something…blissful about her. Completely carefree. Untouched by the world around her. Chaos incarnate.
She twirled, the night air getting caught beneath her silk dress and lifting at the hem slightly. Her legs twisted, her arms flinging out awkwardly, like a baby bird that had fallen out of its nest prematurely.
"They're free to fly away," she bellowed, a melody only she could hear.
Then, she teetered dangerously close to the curb, her heels wobbling. Snapping out of his trance, he stretched out his arms, lunging to her aid. He caught her right before she landed face-first into the asphalt.
"Careful," he rasped, firmly holding her arms as he guided her back to safety.
Her back hit his chest, and she giggled as if it were the funniest thing in the world. Craning her neck back, her head rested on his shoulder, leaning into his warmth. Soft hair brushed over his cheek as she shifted in his hold.
Too late, it hit him. He recognized that laugh. How could he not?
He gently turned her as she used him for balance. And his worst nightmare materialized in front of him.
You.
His smile instantly dropped.
"Of course," he muttered under his breath, rolling his eyes.
You were still struggling to focus, your eyes locked on the letters of his shirt. Blinking, your gaze flicked up as your laughter faded into the wind. You tilted your head, squinting your eyes as you attempted to steady your vision.
"Hey, I know youuuu," you squealed, like he was a long-lost friend you hadn't seen in years, though it had only been a week. "I don't think I caught your name, pretty boy."
"'s Bucky," he sighed, already annoyed. "And don't call me that."
"You're the one who said you get paid to look pretty," you slurred, raising a manicured finger to poke his nose.
You broke away from his grasp, raising your arms to the sky while you stumbled backward. "You're just in time," you cheered, your voice carrying a block down the street. The thin shawl draped over your shoulders slipped during your celebration. Bucky scooped it up as he steadied you again, his metal fingers gliding across your warm skin.
"Stay still. You're gonna break your ankles and fall flat on your ass."
"Are you thinking about my ass, Bucky?" you teased, ending your question with a wink. "Is that part of your very serious itinerary? Does it usually fall in the afternoon, somewhere between your third cup of coffee and your ritual complaint about the sun being too bright?"
"I am not— I don't—" he stammered, pink creeping up his neck and blooming across his cheeks.
"Aw, you're all flustered," you cooed, sweeping a knuckle across the flush.
There was a gentleness to your touch and a sparkle in your eyes, as if you were just discovering the beauty of this world, and nothing could dim your joy. It made his expression soften faintly, and something in his chest twisted unbidden. He hated it. He hated that it took you so little to make his entire demeanor shift.
He grabbed your wrist, carefully dragging it away from his face. "Quit."
"Sorry, mister grumpy pants," you said, scrunching your nose.
"Anywayyyy," you sing-songed. "Aren't you going to ask me what you're in time for?"
"My own demise, hopefully," he whispered.
"What?"
"Nothin'. What am I just in time for, princess?"
"The," you paused, drumming two fingers on his chest. "Concert. It'll be the performance of a lifetime."
Bucky snorted, "Yeah, I caught the tail end of Journey before I saved your a—" He was not about to make the mistake of talking about your ass again. He restarted, "Before I saved you…The performance itself needs some work. You were a bit pitchy."
Feigning offense, you lightly smacked his chest, a frown finding a way onto your lips. "Asshole. If you're done mocking me, do you have a song request?"
He gazed up at the twinkling stars above thoughtfully. "How 'bout 'go home, you're drunk?'"
"Huh? I don't know that one."
His fingers lifted to his forehead, massaging in slow circles on either side of his temples. "No, 'm tellin' ya to go home."
You blinked up at him, swaying slightly. "Ohhh," you drawled, his true meaning finally clicking through the haze in your skull. "You meant that literally. How boring. The concert just started."
"This isn't a concert," he said bluntly.
"I'll have you know, this is a sold-out show. Very exclusive." You crossed your arms with a very serious expression, lifting your chin. It was…adorable. "You're lucky I haven't kicked your ass to the curb."
He leveled his gaze at you, a smirk lifting his lips. "We're literally standing on the curb."
You glanced down, as if this was your first time noticing. "And? Haven't you heard? Curbs are all the rage now. Very underrated venue. The acoustics are top tier."
A laugh slipped between Bucky's lips before he could catch it. It was a real, genuine one, the kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes and softened the hard lines of his face.
Momentarily surprised by the sudden sound, you dropped your theatrics. You stared at him, unblinking.
"What was that?" you asked.
He forced the grin off his mouth, biting the inside of his cheek. "I don't know what you mean."
"Yes, you do," you insisted cheekily. "You laughed. You actually laughed."
"That's not what happened."
"I just made Bucky laugh," you screamed from the top of your lungs, like you just won the lottery.
His eyes widened in panic. "Shh…" He slapped his flesh hand over your mouth, scanning his surroundings. "Are you crazy? You're gonna wake up the whole city."
You mumbled something against his palm, vibrating his hand. The expression on your face could only be described as smug, mischief glittering in your eyes.
His eyes narrowed, pointing a single finger at you. "If you bite me, I swear—"
Peeling his hand away, you furrowed your brow. "I'm not a biter," you promised. He lowered his hand once he realized it was safe to do so.
"…Not unless you want me to be," you added flirtatiously.
Bucky shook his head in disbelief. "What am I gonna do with you, princess?"
Your smile softened into something warm and inviting, and he didn't mind the feeling that stirred in his chest. Maybe he really did misjudge you that day in the shop; you were nothing as he imagined.
You shivered, an imperceptible shimmy of your shoulders, but he noticed.
"Cold?" he asked, concern laced in his tone.
"A little," you replied, wrapping your shawl tighter around you. It did less than nothing to warm you, goosebumps spreading across your skin regardless of how well it covered you.
"Here." He slipped his wallet into his back pocket and slid out of his leather jacket. He gave you a look, silently asking for permission to touch. It felt appropriate, even though he touched you only moments ago.
You offered him a subtle nod, and he stepped closer, draping the jacket over your shoulders. His touch was light as he adjusted it over your arms, sliding his hands up the zipper. As he tweaked the collar around your neck, his fingers brushed over your bare skin. You shuddered again, but this time, he knew it wasn't from the chill in the air.
Locking eyes with you, he noticed your pupils dilate. He tried to rationalize it, thinking you might be drunk, or it was darker on this part of the sidewalk.
But rationalizing it didn't change the fact that the air around him felt thicker, and he could taste electricity on the tip of his tongue, as if he had just licked a nine-volt battery. An energy seemed to be swirling around the pair of you, drawing him in.
Bucky's fingerpads grazed over your pulse point, testing. He could feel the rapid thrum of your heart beneath his touch, and it made his breath catch. Because that right there was confirmation that he wasn't the only one feeling this.
Pulling away abruptly, he put some much-needed distance between you. You were still wasted, and he…obviously wasn't thinking clearly.
He cleared his throat after a beat.
"Listen, you're gonna forget all this 'n the mornin'," he began, rubbing the back of his neck. You gazed up at him, beaming, your eyes were a little squinty, and you were still very drunk. Oh, you definitely weren't going to remember this. "I wanted to apologize…for before."
Waving him off, you shook your head. "All is forgiven."
"But," he objected. "I was a complete dick to you."
"Yeah, you were," you admitted. "But I've dealt with worse."
Bucky pulled his eyebrows together, something washing over his face—guilt, or maybe irritation. "That doesn't make it okay."
You shrugged, indifferent. "I didn't say it did."
"I shouldn't've said what I did. I didn't know anythin' 'bout you."
"No," you agreed. "You thought I was some spoiled brat who had exactly two functioning brain cells." You giggled, mostly to yourself. "Which might be true as of right now." hiccup. "But I also made assumptions about you." You pointed a wobbly finger at him.
"Oh yeah?" he questioned, intrigued. "What were your assumptions, princess?"
"Grumpy."
"Fair."
"You hate fun."
"Hey, now—" he started, but you interrupted before he could say more.
"And you were only an asshole to me because you thought I'd bite first," you whispered, almost like you were afraid of calling him out. "If you bite first, you're less likely to get hurt, right?"
Bucky gulped, a little taken aback by your boldness. Racking his brain, he wondered how you obtained that information. He hadn't ever told anyone that. Not even Sam. Was he just that easy to read?
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Then tilted his head, not in annoyance but interest.
"I do that, too," you confessed. "Or, at least, I used to. I've gotten better about keeping my cool."
He didn't respond; he didn't know how to. Instead, he just looked at you—really looked—like he needed a second to take in this version of you he hadn’t expected.
"Well, 'm sorry," he repeated because he felt it was necessary.
"It's okay."
"Y'know," he choked on a half-laugh. "I didn't even know who your dad was until Sam said somethin'."
You sobered at that immediately. "Oh."
"He's intense, huh?" he asked, wiggling his hands into his front pockets casually.
"Um…yeah, you could say that," you mumbled, your expression suddenly blank. Your whole disposition had changed in an instant. "Is that why you apologized?"
His eyebrows twitched, confused. "No," he blurted out too quickly.
"It's okay if you did," you assured, but he could hear the tension in your voice.
"No," he restated, firmer this time. "'m genuinely sorry."
You studied him, looking for the lie you swore was hidden somewhere. "Let me guess, Sam said something like 'my father could shut down your shop.'"
Bucky's eyes widened slightly, the color draining from his face. The silence that followed was only confirmation.
You let out a bitter laugh, forcing a smile that didn't quite fit your face. "Right. Well…don't worry. Your shop isn't in jeopardy."
The hurt engraved on your face made his heart squeeze painfully beneath his rib cage because he hadn't meant to hurt you. And he truly didn't know how to fix it. Any response that came to mind didn't seem quite right. So, he just stood there, awkward and foolish.
"You were right," your voice cracked on those three simple words. "I should go home. It's getting late."
You reached for the collar of his jacket, attempting to shrug it off, but he stopped you. "No, keep it. You're cold."
"Thanks," you said stiffly.
The quiet that settled after was agonizing. He stared at you, and you stared right back. Bucky felt exactly how you looked—numb. And for some reason, this felt final.
Two chances. That's what he was so graciously given with you, and he squandered both of them.
You eventually turned on your heels and strode away without another word. You got as far as the crosswalk before he realized where you were headed. Your car.
"You're not thinkin' of drivin', are ya?" he called out, worry evident in his words.
Glancing over your shoulder, your expression was even more pained than before. "I would never," you scoffed, then you restarted, softer. "…I'm calling my driver."
Nodding in understanding, he gave you a tight-lipped grin.
When you reached your pink monstrousity, as he once not-so-lovingly called it, you yanked the door open and vanished behind it as it slammed shut.
And he was sure that was the last time he'd see you.
It wasn't.
Bucky saw you everywhere. Not you physically, but your presence was always there. The color pink. You. Anytime he smelled vanilla. You. A laugh on the wind while he was driving. You. Even the flowers near the checkout at the grocery store. You.
You were a ghost, haunting his every move.
A couple of days after the sidewalk incident, you sent your driver to return his leather jacket, dry-cleaned. It was still in the plastic covering, and the ticket dangled off the neck of the hanger. And even though it had been cleaned to perfection, he could still smell the faint trace of vanilla and grapefruit, as if you were now woven into the fabric.
He wasn't even embarrassed by how many times he pressed the material to his nose, breathing in your scent.
He didn't know how to shake you. He tried throwing himself into work, operating on the vehicles in the shop well into the night—elbow-deep in engines. He worked until his hand ached. Until the only thing on his mind was the soreness in his muscles.
That is, until Sam threatened to leave and lock the door behind him.
It was affecting his work. The way he interacted with customers was unusual; he was short, barely listening to a single word of their monologue of problems with their car. They rattled on about noises their vehicle wasn't meant to make—clunking, or sputtering, maybe both. He nodded at the right times, professional on the surface, but his mind was constantly far off.
It got so bad that on one tow job, he installed the tow hook on the front bumper the wrong way and nearly tore the whole thing off. The one task he used to nail with practiced skill, he botched completely.
The shop lost money that day. Sam gave him shit for it.
Maybe he wasn't the best at human interaction, or he didn't fully comprehend their minds—too difficult a puzzle to put together. But he knew cars. Cars were simple, predictable. He could do a full diagnostic of any vehicle just by hearing the engine purr. He understood them as if they were a second language, and he was an expert in communicating exactly what was being said.
And that was precisely why he royally messed up with you.
You weren’t a problem to diagnose or an engine to operate on. You weren’t some equation he could solve if he just stared at it long enough. But he kept treating you like one. Kept trying to force you into a mold—a predictable one. One he could understand.
And he couldn't get that through his thick skull.
So, no matter how loud the voice in his head got—the one telling him to just call and fix whatever he broke, he didn't give in. Not when he'd pull up a customer's information on the shop's computer, and your name would appear in the system, tucked neatly beneath your father's. Those ten digits sat there, blinking at him like a glaring reminder. Or…temptation.
But he gave you your space. Distancing himself was the best option for both of you…right?
Yet, it was as if the universe kept teasing him with you, like an owner waving a treat in front of a hungry pet. And a man can only be so strong.
It was late that night, legs stretched out on the couch with the blanket half-covering him. He didn't even know why his thumb was hovering over the app, but he found himself pressing it. He barely even used the damn thing, but Sam insisted it would be good for business. It wasn't. He never actually posted anything, except for a single picture of a car mid-repair, and another of Alpine perched by the window, with the sun warming her fur.
He had accidentally clicked the discover page—the little magnifying glass at the bottom of his screen. Twelve posts came into view, blinding him. Blinking, he adjusted to the brightness. He eventually started swiping through the posts. One after the other, depicting images and videos of cars and engines, all curated specifically for him.
Then.
You.
He sat up straight.
How you appeared on his Instagram, he had no clue. Before he could think better of it, he was tapping on the image. You were smiling, green straw between your teeth, and your eyes full of amusement. The arms of a pink sweater were tied around your neck, sunglasses resting on your head as you posed for your photo op.
He couldn't help himself; he pressed on your username. Pretty.in.pink. It suited you.
And, damn, did you have followers. 597.2k hovered between the number of posts you had and who you were following.
Scrolling through your feed, he glanced over your photos. Some showed you flaunting an outfit, pink checkered skirts, and white heels. You were adjusting the strap around your ankle in one. In the next image, you were holding a bouquet of daisies, pressed tightly to your chest, as you gazed up at the sky.
And he definitely didn't zoom in on your cleavage, hidden amongst the petals of the flowers.
You captured images of New York: skyscrapers, billboards, and the Brooklyn Bridge with the sunset as the backdrop. He noted some of the cafes and restaurants you visited, and the reviews that came with them. You had a very clear aesthetic that carried through your posts.
He kept scrolling. A mirror selfie. Pink makeup products on a white marble table. Mid-step off a sidewalk.
He felt like a stalker, looking at you like this. Like he was seeing something personal he wasn't supposed to. But he had convinced himself that this was for public viewing, and it wasn't like he was doing anything nefarious.
Well, that is, until he scrolled too far and saw your series of summer shots.
Sure, some were innocent, harmless. A cute one-piece swimsuit, hugging your curves. You had your hands on your hips, giggling. Or another with your legs dangling off the pier, bare feet kissing the surface of the water.
But most were tastefully suggestive. A floral bikini, barely covering your tits. You were toying with the strings of your bottoms, as if silently conveying that if you tugged just right, you'd be half-naked.
He wished he had stopped there. Because the next one he landed on filled his mind with every impure thought. "Fuck," he whispered under his breath.
You were on your stomach, legs folded behind you, crossing at the ankle with your feet in the air. His gaze dragged down the slope of your back to the curve of your plump ass.
He let out a low growl, his hand already finding the growing erection, pushing against his shorts. A feeling of depravity entered his body, even as he kept stroking himself through the fabric.
Scanning over your body, he noted the sparkle in your eyes as you looked over your shoulder playfully. The soft tilt of your lips. Your silky skin, and how it would feel beneath his fingers. The glimpse of your side boob, spilling out of the cup of the bikini top.
He stroked faster, biting his lip as the pressure built.
He told himself to stop. That this was wrong.
He didn't.
"You see what you do to me, princess," he groaned at the picture. "Y'know what you were doin' when you posted this, huh? Such a 'lil tease, aren't ya?"
Mind drifting, he imagined those same eyes looking up at him, a pout on your lips as he tapped the head of his cock on them. And the way those lips would feel wrapped around—
Hips jerking upward, he let out another low, broken curse. He was close. He could feel it in the way the vein on his neck stuck out, and his thighs tensed. Pressing the palm of his hand harder against his bulge, his breath stuttered.
He realized too late the predicament he was in. There he was, sprawled out on the couch, one hand curled around his phone, the other rubbing his dick through his pants. He came, his release blooming in his boxers and darkening the front of his shorts as your name fell from his lips.
Immediately after, he hissed, his eyes blown wide. Because he just came in his pants. Like a horny fucking teenager. Guilt and disgust flooded his body. He dropped his phone, as if it had burned him, sprinting to the bathroom.
He passed Alpine on his way there, and he swore she looked disappointed as she sat in the middle of the hallway, licking her paw. "Don't you dare," he scolded, but he knew he deserved it.
He banned himself from ever going on that stupid app. Because that couldn't happen. Not again.
After that, things settled. He still thought about you, of course, but he didn't have any more incidents. And the urge to call you faded.
It wasn't until he saw your face in the local newspaper that he almost broke that unspoken rule he had created, and finally called you.
It was dawn, and the sun had barely risen, just peeking over the horizon. The sky was a vibrant orange, and the clouds had a wispy quality that reminded him of the cotton candy he got as a kid on trips to Coney Island.
He was on his second cup of coffee as he reached for the newspaper that was thrown on the counter. Flicking out the paper with one hand, he attempted to right it as he raised his ceramic mug to his lips. The steaming dark liquid hit the tip of his tongue just as he saw you.
Setting down his cup with a sharp click, his eyes fixed on the image just above the article. It was a feature titled, "Upcoming Race in the NASCAR Cup Series: Apex Motors 500."
Your father was clearly the main focus, but that hardly mattered to Bucky. You were positioned behind him, and even slightly blurred, he could see those bright eyes of yours clear as day.
The photo seemed to be taken at some gala—a place he wouldn't be caught dead at. Too fancy and polished for his taste. He doesn't even recall the last time he wore a suit, let alone why he would've worn one.
Flipping the page, he was met with three more photos. Mostly with your father and his team. But there you were again. Another gala shot, but this one you were standing beside a tall man who was leaning in to kiss your hand. The caption read: John Walker, Two-time Lucas Oil Late Model Dirt Series Winner and NASCAR Cup Series Competitor, Seen Getting Cozy With a Potential Girlfriend?
The coffee settling in Bucky's stomach curdled.
John honestly looked perfect for you. Someone you could bring home to Daddy, and he'd have all the correct answers and say all the right things. Someone who fit flawlessly into the world you came from. And, of course, it helped that he was a NASCAR competitor, and in a race your father sponsored.
The smile you gave John wasn't genuine, though. He'd seen a real smile from you; it lit up your entire face. This one looked forced and uncomfortable.
"Buck?"
He jerked his head up, meeting Sam's narrowed gaze, the kind that said he'd called for Bucky more than once. Sam rounded the counter, peering over Bucky's shoulder to see what had so easily captured his attention.
"Man," Sam sighed. "You gotta talk to her."
After one too many of Sam’s knowing looks, the whole story spilled out. Everything that had happened between you and him. Sam had truly listened that day, without judgment or offering any unsolicited advice.
And if Bucky didn't want to talk about it, Sam changed the subject. But now Sam was fed up with it.
"'s…complicated," Bucky replied.
"From where I'm standing, it's pretty clean cut."
"Look at her," he pointed to your picture in the paper. "We come from opposite ends of the world."
"Do you really think she's so superficial that she wouldn't give you the time of day just because you have a different status?"
Bucky's face dropped. "That's not what I meant."
"No?" Sam shot back. "Then stop treating her like that. Stop assuming things you know nothing about." He didn't even wait for a response, just vanished into the garage and got to work.
A few days passed.
Bucky threw himself back into work, a wrench firmly in his fist as he tightened a bolt on an engine. Sam burst into the garage with a wild look in his eyes, panic written all over his face.
Somehow, Bucky already knew without hearing a word. Dropping the wrench, he wiped his hands on the nearest rag. Then, sprang to his feet, snatching his keys off the hook.
“Where is she?” he demanded, already moving.
The difference between the pouring rain and the tears blurring in your vision was indistinguishable. The tears were coming down your cheeks, hot and quick, before you could stop them. It didn't matter how many times you blinked or wiped the wet from your cheeks; they kept coming.
Why did this have to happen? Why today of all days?
The accident happened before you could prevent it. You swore that the family of raccoons came out of nowhere. One minute you were driving, the next you were slamming on your brakes as you yanked your wheel in the opposite direction. Your heart leaped to your throat, gripping the wheel so hard your knuckles had gone white. Swerving on a slick road like that one was always going to be a losing battle. With the combination of braking and swerving too hastily, your wheels locked, and you lost control. That was why the front of your car was curved around a telephone pole.
Now, you sat there with your hands trembling on the steering wheel as the rain pelted your windshield. Your breath was coming out heavy and uneven, fogging up the glass.
You weren't hurt, not really anyway. Your nose hit the top of the wheel from the impact, leaving a warm trickle of blood pooling above your lip. Your ribs ached from the brief constriction of your seatbelt across your chest—a whispering promise of bruising come morning. But you were fine.
After it happened, your hand was already curled around your phone, before you could properly register what you were doing. Anxious fingers flew across your keyboard, typing in the first person that came to mind. Your eyes were locked on ten digits, Barnes' Towing & Auto Repair hovering directly above them.
It wasn't the first time you had been in this predicament. You always talked yourself out of it before. Because you were embarrassed by the display you showed Bucky after he brought up your father. Because you couldn't muster the courage to talk to him.
But this time, as you stared at the phone number, you realized you really didn't know who else to call.
Luckily, Sam picked up the phone instead, so you still had ample time to think about what you were going to say to Bucky. Yet, your mind felt blank.
Weeks had passed, and you didn't even know if that spark you'd felt that night under the stars with too much liquor in your system was still there. Or if it even existed in the first place. You were so drunk that you could've imagined it. Did the laugh that echoed in your dreams ever even happen, or was that something you hallucinated as well? All a trick of the light.
Headlights flared in your rear-view mirror, pulling you from your spiraling thoughts. You squinted against the brightness until the beams dimmed. The truck eased forward, turning around before backing up toward you until there were only inches between your bumpers.
You rubbed the blood from your nose, and you swiped the tears from under your eyes. Adjusting your sweater and running a hand over your hair, you tried to look as presentable as possible.
The driver's side opened, and out stepped Bucky. All six feet of him strode towards your car, white tank top getting soaked as he got closer. You could see the definition in his abs through the thin material, and the flex of his muscles as he…knocked on the glass.
Shit. You'd been gawking as he waited for you to roll down your window.
You were so fucked.
Bucky rapped on the glass one more time as you stared up at him, blinking. Your shimmering eyes eventually met his, lashes fluttering. Fuck, he missed seeing those in person. Your fingers reached for the switch, lowering the window with a mechanical hum. The steady rush of rain began to enter your car, raindrops dotting the interior of the door.
You almost appeared frazzled now that the glass wasn't interrupting his vision. Were you still in shock?
Bucky propped his elbow on the roof, leaning into the opening. "Hey," he greeted. "You still with me, princess?"
"Y-yeah," you stammered.
Now he could see the streaks of dried tears across your cheeks and the smear of crimson right below your nose. His chest clenched, and his skin suddenly felt too tight around his rib cage.
He cleared his throat. "Sam said you assured him you didn't need medical attention…you gonna fight me on that, too?"
"I'm really okay. Just a minor nosebleed. Nothing serious." You offered him a stiff smile that didn't reach your eyes.
He didn't know how to push down the worry stirring in his chest, so he responded with humor instead. "We gotta stop meetin' like this."
"Like what?"
"You're drunk," he teased.
Straightening your spine, you knitted your brows together in offense. "I'm not."
"Just a joke. Bad joke," he admitted, grabbing the back of his neck. "How'd you get in this mess anyway?"
"It's raining," you said, shrugging, as if that alone was an answer.
"I see that, Sherlock," he deadpanned. "But I got 'ere just fine."
"There was a little family of raccoons. Just a momma and her babies crossing the street, and I didn't see them right away. And…well…this happened."
"Adorable." The word slipped before he could stop it. He stared at you, eyes wide, hoping you didn't hear him.
"What?"
"I bet the raccoons were adorable," he offered, too quickly. "And I bet they're thankin' you for sparin' their lives."
Nodding, you sighed. "I just wish I hadn't sacrificed my pink monstrosity in the process."
He softened at the nickname he gave your car. "Uh…before I pull ya out," Bucky started, tapping on the roof of your car. "I'd like to apologize…again. It was never my intention to hurt you, and 'm sorry it came across that way. Your father had nothin' to do with the apology."
You stilled, surprised by the sincerity in his voice. Then, you still didn't move, and the two of you continued to face off in a little staring contest.
But he was getting anxious waiting for a reply, so he kept going. "Listen, I could wait out in the rain all day, beggin' for forgiveness. 'm not afraid to drop to my knees 'n the mud f' you. In fact—"
Doing just as he said, he lowered himself, dropping to his knees. His knees sank into the mud, no doubt darkening his jeans with the sludge. The droplets were streaming onto his face now, hair getting soaked in the process. But he didn't care.
"'m not goin' anywhere 'til you know I mean it," he promised. "'m deeply sorry."
You peeked out of the open window, watching him with your eyes blown wide. "Are you crazy?"
"A 'lil."
"Get up before you ruin your jeans," you order, slightly flustered.
He could ruin a lot more than his jeans on his knees for you. But this was not the time, nor the place.
Realizing he looked like an idiot, he rose with an awful sucking sound as he attempted to free his knees from the mud.
"You did nothing wrong, so there's nothing to forgive," you admitted, gazing up at him as he leaned against your vehicle. "I have some issues to work through, and that's not your problem."
"It could be."
He hadn't even realized he said it out loud, but there the words hung in the air between you like a confession. Lips separating, you released a soft breath, but you appeared too stunned to say anything.
Promptly moving on, he asked, "Did you call anyone to pick you up?"
"Just you."
Bucky hummed. "I know you don't wanna hear this, but maybe you should call your dad."
You instantly looked panicked. "Are you kidding? He'll kill me."
"Okay," he drawled. "How 'bout a friend?"
Grimacing, you shook your head.
"Well, I don't want you to be alone tonight," he mumbled, then thought of the most ridiculous solution. "You can stay with me tonight. You take my bed, and I'll—"
"Yes," you interrupted.
He was taken aback by your immediate response, but nodded. "My house it is," he confirmed. "Now, how 'bout I get you outta this rain, princess?"
The car ride to Bucky's shop was mostly quiet, save for the occasional clinking of the wheel lift that was supporting the weight of your car as it dragged behind his truck. You kept glancing over your shoulder, a nervous tic, though he assured you multiple times that it was secured. It was also an excuse to catch his biceps in your periphery.
You were sitting on a bench seat, so the close proximity was something you hadn't expected. But you weren't complaining. But you didn't know what to do with yourself either. You started by fixating on two separate raindrops on the windshield to distract yourself. In your head, those two clear dots were having a race, and the one you were rooting for slowed as the other one began streaming quicker down the glass, as if it knew.
When that didn't fully shift your attention, you decided to just sit stiffly beside him. You folded your hands neatly in your lap as you tried not to let the faint scent of his cologne mess with your head…again.
You had a hard time sending his leather jacket back after he let you borrow it. Sure, it had undertones of grease and motor oil, but the most prominent scent was a mix of sandalwood and cardamom. You blamed that damn jacket for the reason why you couldn't get him out of your head.
After that night outside of the bar, you had come home and immediately flopped into bed, the jacket still wrapped snuggly around your shoulders. The next morning was torture. You'd draped it over one of your kitchen chairs as you made some coffee and swallowed down some Tylenol to help with your lingering hangover. You stared at the jacket over the rim of your mug until you couldn't take it anymore and started wearing it around the house. It was because of the draft circulating the house, you had told yourself.
And you swore the time your fingers traveled between your aching thighs as you breathed in his scent was only because the alcohol was still in your system. You weren't thinking clearly when you slipped your fingers inside yourself, and you certainly weren't thinking when you came on your palm, his jacket pressed to your nose as your mind drifted to what Bucky's head would look like between your legs.
That familiar scent was flooding your senses as you scanned his profile, following the sharp line of his jaw to the slow bob of his Adam's apple. Your gaze kept dipping to his saturated tank top and the way it clung to his chest. Your lip continued to find its way between your teeth. Because who the hell looks that good fresh from a day's work and a shower in the rain?
His human arm was casually resting over the back of the seat, his fingers kissing the nape of your neck. You hadn't figured out if he was doing it on purpose yet, but it caused a chill to travel down your spine, all the same.
When you reached his shop, it was an easy enough drop-off. He got your car into the garage without any problems, efficient and professional, everything your brain wasn't. The rain was still a wild downpour, and any time he'd had to dry off on the drive over was wasted. He was sopping-wet as he jogged back to the truck.
When he slammed the door shut, his breath was coming out in gasps, his chest heaving as he threw his head back against the seat. The water dripped steadily off his dark hair, and his tank top was plastered to his chest—practically sheer at that point. You couldn't take your eyes off of him, and with the noises he was making from the exertion, you were having a hard time not letting your mind drift to sinful things. If you just crawled over and straddled his lap…would he make the same noises?
Glancing over at you, a slow grin spread across his lips. "You'd think it'd slow down at some point, but 's only coming down harder out there. 'm soaked," he panted.
"Yeah, me too," you sighed before your brain caught up, then your eyes widened, blinking. "I mean— my clothes are still wet. From the rain."
His smile stretched, easy and knowing. You could see the spark in his eyes, but he didn't say anything about your slip-up. Dragging a hand through his hair, he let out a slow exhale. Before you knew what was happening, he was shaking his head frantically, like a dog straight out of the bath. Water went everywhere: the dashboard, the windows, and you.
You gasped, turning your face the other direction as he splashed you with water droplets. "Bucky," you screeched.
"What?" he laughed, a sound that rattled deep in his chest. "I was just helpin' you catch up."
You lightly shoved his shoulder. "You're a menace."
Before you could pull your hand back, he caught your wrist—playfully and unmistakably up to something. His eyes lit with mischief, and that alone should’ve been your warning to scramble away.
"Come 'ere," he teased.
His metal hand dropped to your waist, guiding you toward him into a soaking-wet hug. You squeaked, planting your free hand on his chest in a desperate attempt to get some distance. It was too late, though. His arm tightened on the dip of your waist as his opposite hand curled around the back of your neck, angling you exactly where he wanted you. Like an overgrown golden retriever, he rubbed his face across your cheeks.
The cold droplets smeared across your skin, making you shriek louder. "Bucky! Come on, you're—"
"Drenched?" he finished for you, sounding entirely too pleased with himself. "Hadn't noticed."
You wiggled in his hold, swatting his chest. "Okay, okay. I surrender."
He eventually released you, leaning back. His laughter faded into a gentle smirk, looking way too smug for his own good. Rolling your eyes, you wiped the water off your face with the back of your hand. You thought about scooting away, keeping that distance you so desperately wished for before. But now, as you watched him, the amusement softening his features, you remembered there were worse things than having your skin a little wet.
The ride back to Bucky's house was a stark contrast to the one to his shop. Words were easier. The conversation flowed. It simultaneously felt like no time had passed, and like you'd known him for years and were just catching up.
The pair of you shared soft stories, the kind that made you giggle and made the tension in his shoulders loosen. He shared the time that Sam dragged him to meditation in the park, and it went so poorly that the instructor kicked him out. You shared that time your dress accidentally got thrown in with your father's wash, and it turned all his white dress shirts pink; he had to wear them for a week before they were replaced.
After almost an hour of driving, he turned onto a gravel path surrounded by tall, lively trees. You hadn't seen this part of Brooklyn before. The cityscape slowly diminished, giving way to lush greenery. He passed a sign that read: Green Meadows Farm.
You briefly wondered what your life would've been like if your father had taken you somewhere like this in your youth. If he had just slowed down enough to give you the attention you deserved. Without the buffer of your mother, who was the glue that kept your family stable. But that was too much to ask.
The truck dipped over the rockier sections, but Bucky avoided any major holes. Until he ran over a bump in the road, and despite the seatbelt, you nearly flew out of your seat. But he was quicker, swinging his arm out to catch you and secure you against the bench. He whispered, "I gotcha, princess," then shifted his gaze to the road as if nothing had happened.
Though you were safely back in your seat, his arm lingered, bicep pressed firmly to your chest. When he finally moved it, his hand found purchase on your thigh, calloused fingers bending around your bare flesh. Not gripping, just holding, like he had a right to. Like it was natural.
Eventually, the trees down the path cleared, and his house came into view. The only reason you knew it was his was that it was very…him. There was no other way to describe it. A quaint cabin with a wraparound porch that overlooked the river.
The truck rolled to a stop as he shifted it into park. With the rain softening to an even patter, you could finally hear how quiet it was here. The rustle and bustle of the city felt like a distant memory. Nature was the only soundtrack here, the gentle rush of the river, and you could just make out the faint noises of an owl, high up in the branches of a nearby tree.
Bucky didn't waste any time. He leaped down from the truck, then helped you, offering you a hand. As you hopped down, the heels of your shoes vanished into the mud with a subtle squelch. He sighed dramatically beside you before leaning down and sliding his hands around your waist. With barely any effort on his part, he lifted and threw you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.
You let out a startled wheeze. "I do have two legs."
"Can't have your precious heels gettin' ruined," he cooed in an almost mocking tone. Trudging toward the door, he placed a protective hand over your ass as he smoothed out your skirt.
"I can walk," you ordered, but he was dead set on ignoring your protests. "I'm serious, put me down." You lightly pounded your fists into the dip of his back, but he only huffed a laugh in response. Flopping forward, you figured it best not to waste your energy arguing with a brick wall. Your arms dangled out in front of you as he carried you up the steps, the wood squeaking under the weight of his boots.
He gently set you down with a light click of your heels, reaching for the keys in his back pocket. "Better?"
You crossed your arms, tilting your head. "Thank you," you muttered, trying to sound annoyed, but failing miserably.
"Anythin' for you," he replied coolly. And even if he said the words as a joke, they made the corner of your lip lift.
Unlocking the door, he pushed in. He flicked on the light, bathing the interior in warm light, and you followed him in. You were immediately hit with the scent of cedar, and him. The inside was exactly what you expect—minimal decor, yet it had a lived-in feel. A worn leather couch in the living room with a black jacket draped over the arm. A wall of photos with unusual frames. A small fireplace. Everything was practical, but charming.
"It ain't much," he said, exhaling slowly with his hands on his hips. "But make yourself at home." He kicked off his heavy work boots, then disappeared down a dark hallway. A light flicked on as he entered a room, which you could only guess was his room. He closed it most of the way, but kept it open a crack.
You slipped off your heels, and they hit the floor with a gentle thud. You did a rough sweep of the room, then padded over to the wall of frames. You scanned the photos, some from his childhood, some of his shop, some of him and Sam.
But your eyes lingered on two, hanging beside each other. A navy blue uniform, neatly buttoned with a matching cap. Bucky and Sam stood side by side with perfect posture, saluting the camera. Metal arm. The other image was a solo shot, clad in an army green jumpsuit. No metal arm.
A set of dog tags dangled off the corner of the frame, twinkling under the light. They clinked as you twisted them in your palm. James Buchanan Barnes. You tested the name, mouthing it softly.
You peeked around the corner, ready to tell him what you uncovered. Instead, you were met with carved back muscles just as he was tugging up his sweatpants. You nearly choked on your own saliva, your cheeks warming from guilt of seeing something you weren't supposed to. He turned, pulling a dark shirt over his head, and flattened out the wrinkles in the fabric. His arm glinted, drawing your attention downward, and then your eyes drifted lower. And lower.
You caught the patch of hair above the waistband before disappearing beneath his grey sweatpants. You followed the trail. Fuck. Nothing could drag your gaze away from the subtle bulge against the material of his sweats. No matter how hard you tried to reason with yourself that this was wrong, that you were openly objectifying him, you continued to gawk.
"You can ask about it," Bucky said, walking towards you with a plush towel in his hands.
Shit.
You hadn't even noticed him step out of his room, and now you were caught with no possible way out of this one. But was he really giving you permission to ask about his dick size? Wait, maybe he wanted you to ask about the shape.
No, that's ridiculous…just…play dumb? Yeah. Some guys love that, right?
You've been staring for too long with no other excuse to use. Fuck it.
Play dumb. Play dumb. Play dumb.
You swallowed thickly. "What?"
"I keep catchin' you lookin' at my arm. If you're curious, you can ask. 'm an open book."
"Right, I've been wondering about your arm," you drawled. You mentally thanked yourself because, yes, sometimes playing dumb has gotten you out of some sticky situations. "How'd you get it?"
He motioned for you to turn around, and you scrunched your brows, but did it anyway. His hands moved to your shoulders, sliding your sweater down your arms, then hanging it on a hook by the door. Unfolding the towel, he glided it over your upper back, the nape of your neck, and anywhere else that was out of your reach.
"Sam and I were in the Air Force together. It feels like a lifetime ago," he began as he handed over the towel.
You took it, still a little stunned by how naturally he moved around you. As if he'd done it a thousand times. He guided you over to the couch, hand cupping your elbow. He nodded for you to sit as you started to pat down your hair, squeezing the dampness from the strands. Grabbing the plaid blanket from the back of the sofa, he covered your lower half, tucking the edges in. And he did it all without you ever needing to say a word.
Why did everything feel so natural with him? Why did it feel like he was reading your every thought before you even asked?
Lifting the blanket, he slipped under it, scooting closer until your legs brushed. His arm fell to the back of the couch, turning his full body toward you as he spoke. "That's how we met, actually. We served multiple tours overseas together. Got close in the process. Honestly, don't think I'd be 'ere without him."
The vulnerability in his tone cut you deeper than you expected. His gaze drifted, and he had this faraway look in his eyes that told you to let the silence breathe. So, you waited. You didn't force the conversation, just let him take his time.
He cleared his throat. "We had some aerial trainin' the day it happened. The other soldiers in the aircraft strapped on their parachutes. I was the last one to grab mine."
Bucky went quiet again, finding his words. "Y'know, everyone puts their trust in the manufacturers. You kinda have to have a 'lil blind faith that the equipment's been tested and retested. That they're suitable for jumps of high altitudes, or that 's even capable of carrying a large amount. That's why, when I jumped, I didn't even think twice. Just did it."
Your stomach dropped because you already knew the outcome of this story. You looked at him—really looked at him. It wasn't a look of pity, but understanding.
His eyebrows twitched. "I had a faulty parachute. It wouldn't deploy no matter how hard I pulled. Thankfully, I landed in a tree before I fully hit the ground, so the branches lessened the blow."
You felt your heart crack wide open, raw and exposed. Unfamiliar with this side of grief, you didn't know the procedure. You didn't know whether to reach for him or if he even wanted to be touched. You settled for a whispered apology instead. "I know this doesn't help, but I'm sorry."
Sighing, he offered you a small smile. "From you…it does."
You mirrored his smile, but he didn't dwell on the emotion for much longer. Correcting his posture, he coughed. "After that, I settled back in Brooklyn. Needed a job. Figured I've always been good at fixin' things, so I opened my own shop. Sam gave me a call not too long after, and we've been in business together ever since."
His expression softened, as if he were reminiscing. "Though some days I regret that decision," he jokingly added.
You hummed in amusement, easing into the couch as you shifted to face him. "You love him."
"I tolerate him. There's a difference," he said stubbornly.
"Right."
He rolled his eyes, but you knew there was truth to your words. "So, what's your story?" he asked, shifting the spotlight off himself.
You shrugged. "I don't have one."
Arching a brow, he bumped you with his knee. "Come on. Gimme somethin'. How 'bout why you were cryin' in the car?"
You stilled; you hadn't realized he saw that. "Just overwhelmed," you half-answered. Blinking slowly, he leveled you with a glare. Your head dropped back, puffing air through your nose.
"Fine," you murmured. "I was on the way to visit my mother's grave."
Bucky leaned in, not dramatically, but just enough to let you know he was listening.
"It's the anniversary of her death," you continued, quieter. "Which…ironically was because of a car accident." You nearly laughed, though nothing felt humorous about it. But you hadn't really reflected on the similarities until right now.
Your fingers tightened around the blanket, attempting to ground yourself. "Every year, my father and I make plans to honor her, and every year, he cancels. I guess I got sick of it. No, I am sick of it. Sometimes I feel like I'm the only one who feels the weight of her death."
Your voice wavered slightly, but you pushed on. "I know everyone grieves differently. But I expected…something. Glimpses of pain, maybe? But nothing. He ignores her very existence. And the one time I ask him to acknowledge her, even that's too hard."
Silence settled again, and under the blanket, his hand found your thigh—a grounding pressure you needed. As if to say, I'm here.
You exhaled slowly. "It was a drunk driver that killed her…That's why I got upset when you asked. That night, when I was singing on the sidewalk, was a rarity for me. I don't drink. And I especially don't drink and drive. It's irresponsible and stupid…and—"
Squeezing your eyes shut, you tried to keep the tears at bay. "I lost the most important person in my life because someone couldn't pick up the damn phone and call a taxi."
For a moment, the only sound was the soft patter of rain against the roof and the gentle wind whistling just beyond the windows. Just as you did for him, Bucky didn't fill the silence. He didn't try to fix it. He just offered a light squeeze to your thigh in comfort.
Releasing a shaky breath, you blinked back the threat of tears. "Sorry," you said brokenly. "I didn't mean to dump all that on you."
Reaching up with his metal hand, he tucked a stray hair behind your ear. "You never need to apologize for feelin' things, princess."
His gaze flicked over your features, as if he didn't know where to look. "I know it doesn't help, but 'm sorry," he echoed your earlier words.
You couldn't help the smile that grew on your lips. "From you, it does help," you repeated his earlier words.
The cool metal of his fingers dragged down your jaw, relaxed and measured, as his gaze drifted down to your lips. He inched a little closer, firmly taking your jaw in his hand. Lips parting, he hovered in your space. You felt that same electric energy from all those nights ago. Still present. Still charged.
Your eyes fluttered closed, certainty driving your actions.
Then.
You felt a sudden weight on your lap, causing your eyes to fly open. Backing away, you gasped. A white fluff ball with a pink nose and twitching ears sat on your knees, staring at you with its wide blue eyes. The cat tilted its head, assessing you.
Bucky rolled his eyes, huffing out a laugh. "I guess someone wanted an introduction." His flesh hand loosened on your thigh to scratch under the cat's chin. "Meet Alpine. She's…particular."
Alpine shut her eyes, purring as her owner gave her the attention she'd been missing. "She almost clawed Sam's face off the first time they met. So don't be offended if she isn't the biggest fan of you right—"
He cut himself off as Alpine moved out of the way of his hand. She crept up towards you, her front paws finding purchase on your chest as she lifted her head towards your face. Turning her head, she rubbed the side of her face against your jaw. She let out a long, low purr as she nuzzled into you. Lifting your hand tentatively, you carded your fingers through her thick fur.
"Hey there, pretty girl," you giggled. "I think he's painting you to be some kind of scary monster. You're not, are you?"
"Huh," he said, slightly baffled by the sight. "I don't know what I was worried 'bout. She doesn't usually click with anyone that quickly."
"Aw, just like her daddy," you cooed, winking at him.
Swallowing hard, his cheeks flushed faintly. The tips of his ears turned red, just like that day in the shop. He brushed it off, shaking his head as his hand found your thigh again.
Alpine blinked up at him, then you. Retreating from you, you swore she gave a subtle nod as if to say that she approved. Then she scurried off your lap just as quickly as she came, her tail flicking as she disappeared down the hallway.
A grin still plastered on your face, you let out a soft breath. "She's sweet."
"Don't let her fool you," he mumbled, gingerly rubbing your thigh. "She's opinionated."
The air shifted once more, warmth pooling in your stomach as he touched you. While his earlier grip had been innocent, this felt different. This was eagerness, as if he couldn’t wait another moment longer. The hunger in his eyes was undeniable, silently urging to resume where you’d left off before the interruption.
You forced your thighs together, your heart racing with desire.
"You're a flirty drunk. Did you know that?" he asked arrogantly, his hand still firmly pressed to your thigh, inching higher and higher in intervals so you wouldn't notice. But you noticed. Your body noticed. The space between your legs noticed, which only made you squeeze your thighs together tighter.
"G-guess that's another reason I don't drink very often," you stuttered.
"I dunno, I thought it was pretty cute. You said somethin' 'bout wantin' to bite me at one point?"
"I did not," you objected. "I said if you wanted me to, I would.
"So, hypothetically," he rasped. "If I said I wanted you to right now, you would."
"Bucky," you squealed, lightly slapping his metal arm, which probably hurt you more than him. "I was wasted."
"Yeah, but y'know what they say, drunk words are sober thoughts."
"Are you saying I thought about biting you the first day we met? Because that's as far as my sober thoughts about you went after our little conflict in your shop," you harmlessly teased.
Bucky sucked air through his teeth. "Oof, you wound me, princess." He placed his metal hand over his heart, feigning offense. "But yes, you looked like you wanted to bite my head off that day, so I wouldn't be surprised."
Then, he did something you least expected; he leaned closer. You figured this was all just teasing. That this back and forth was just innocent flirtation. But his lips brushed your ear as he whispered against the shell of it. "Bet that pretty 'lil head of yours is thinkin' real hard 'bout it now."
"Only because you won't shut up about it," you shot back breathlessly, lacking the bite you were intending.
"Ooh, she's got teeth," he chuckled, his warm breath fanning across your neck. He attempted to wedge his fingers between your thighs. A heat washed over your body, your cheeks warm with lust, and your head swimming with thoughts that were anything but pure.
The stubble of his beard grazed your jaw, and your breath caught. "So, when are we gonna stop dancin' around the fact that I've been tryin' to get between these thighs of yours?" he pressed boldly. "Are you ignorin' me? Because we know how well that worked out last time."
"I never ignored you," you said. "In fact, I couldn't get rid of you. You were like a pesky fly that was always there."
Bucky hummed in satisfaction, and you could feel his smirk against your skin. "You missed me then?"
"Yes," you blurted too quickly. "Yes, I missed you."
"I missed you, too," he muttered softly, and you could hear the truth in his words. The way his voice dipped into something gentle and earnest made your chest feel suddenly tight. Then, his tone dipped lower, deep and starving as he nudged your leg. "Lemme in, princess. Wanna show you just how much I missed you."
As if you were under his spell, your thighs parted. His fingers curled around your thigh, squeezing twice in quick succession. "There ya go. Keep 'em spread f'me."
Fingers danced up the inner part of your thigh until they disappeared beneath the hem of your skirt. They kissed the edge of your panties, his touch light as he circled your clothed clit. You sighed at the contact, your chin tipping back blissfully.
"Good girl," he praised, lips scorching the underside of your jaw. "Just relax."
Your breath stuttered at the combination of his lips trailing down your neck and the tantalizing patterns he was tracing over the dark patch on the seam of your panties. Metal-plated digits unexpectedly grazed the heated flesh of your shoulder, causing a shiver to ripple through you.
Bucky leaned back slightly, still keeping his close proximity to you, but needing to see your expression. "This still okay?" he asked, eyes flicking between yours, searching for any indication that you wanted to stop.
You nodded frantically. "Yeah. Please, keep going."
The smirk that graced his lips could only be described as downright smug. He moved your spaghetti strap over your shoulder, dragging it down your arm achingly slow. His mouth followed directly after, lips skimming over your collarbone.
All at once, he began nipping at the protruding bone as his fingers on your clit added more pressure. You moaned loudly—a long, elated noise that made him pause his ministrations.
The realization of how desperate it sounded hit like a force, and you could hear your heartbeat thudding in your ears, louder than before. "Oh gosh," you whispered, shame flooding your face. You raised your arm, concealing the embarrassment etched into your features.
"Ah-ah, don't hide from me, baby," he gently scolded as he pried your arm away. Bringing your wrist to his lips, he pressed them to your fluttering pulse. "Why're you all shy on me now?"
You didn't answer, your eyes sealed shut as the pang of humiliation echoed in your skull.
"What're you doin'?" he asked, planting another kiss on your palm.
"If I squeeze my eyes as tightly as humanly possible, I think I might disappear."
He chuckled, and even with your eyes closed, you knew he was showing off the creases beside his eyes. "No, you can't disappear on me this time. Y'know how long I've been waitin' to hear that?"
Cracking open your eye, you peeked up at him. "Why'd you stop then?"
"'Cause now 'm so hard, 's painful," he confessed, a little breathy. "I would fuck you 'til the ache went away, but 'm not done playin' with you."
You shivered, completely turned on by this bold version of him. If you were wet before, now you were soaked from his dirty mouth alone.
"You gonna lemme keep goin'?" he asked.
Nodding, you silently gave him permission. His hand traveled back between your thighs, running his fingers up the front of your underwear. Your hips jerked as his began rubbing in slow, captivating circles again.
His metal fingers grazed the side of your neck, curling around the nape as he pulled you closer. Leaning forward, his lips brushed the corner of your mouth, then the other. He pulled back a hair, studying your face. "Can I kiss you, baby?"
"Please do," you said, as if it were the most obvious answer.
His mouth was on yours in a second, your bottom lip getting caught between his. You sighed against his mouth, your hand coming up to cup his jaw and draw him even closer. The kiss was a lazy analysis of one another's mouths at first. Each slow graze of his lips elicited sparks coursing through your veins, like tiny fireworks exploding beneath your skin.
The urgency to fully taste you prompted him to force your chin up, his tongue delving into your mouth. He moaned against your mouth, eyebrows twitching as he found your tongue. Tongues swirled, teeth clashed, and your hold tightened on him. You felt light-headed from the kiss, breathing hard into his mouth.
The fingers on your clit picked up the pace as his lips began to move hastily against yours, as if he already couldn't get enough. You whined, your other hand finding his shoulder as your nails dug in. He sucked your bottom lip into his mouth, then pulled back.
His mouth met your neck again as you struggled to catch your breath, lips dragging lower and lower. Tongue darting out, he licked along the top of your tank top. He tugged on the material, exposing more of your skin until your tit spilled free. His non-human hand reached up, cupping the underside of your breast.
Heated lips closed around your nipple, pulling a whimper from you. You wiggled under his attention. The dual pleasure was making your head spin and your heart pound. His tongue licked around the sensitive bud, then flicked it before sucking it into his mouth. Gazing up at you, he softly rolled your nipple between his teeth. You sucked air through your teeth, hissing. He switched back to trailing kisses across your skin in deep devotion, leaving no space untouched.
"Have you thought 'bout this as much as I have?" he rasped against your flesh.
"Yes," you mewled shamelessly.
Inclining back, he retracted his hand with a cocky grin. "Show me."
"What?"
"Show me what you did when you thought 'bout it."
Momentarily shocked, you stared dumbly at him. He lightly pinched your thigh, grabbing your attention. "Come on, princess. Wanna hear all those pretty noises you made when you were all alone," he pressed. Scooting to the edge of the couch, he dropped to his knees before you. "Lemme help you."
Spreading your legs further apart, his hands—one icy and the other warm—drifted up your thighs. His thumbs hooked in the band of your underwear, yanking them towards him. The blush pink panties slid down your legs without much resistance. Tossing them aside, his hands snaked under your thighs, sliding you down the couch. He lifted the hem of your skirt, resting it across your stomach, revealing your bare pussy to the chilled air.
"Fuck." Bucky's tongue grazed his lower lip, ravenous. "She's so pretty."
Bending down, he kissed the inner part of your knee. "Put on a show f'me," he urged gently.
Your hands trembled lightly at your sides, nerves curling at the edges of your mind. You’d never had anyone witness something so personal before. But with a deep breath, you steadied yourself, and for reasons you couldn’t explain, being with him felt strangely comforting.
Your fingers met the skin of your thigh, tracing patterns before they moved closer to the place he couldn't keep his eyes off of. Two fingers pushed between your slick folds, gathering wetness as they skimmed through. They found your clit, mirroring the same pressure and pace as he did.
"Just like that. Nice 'n slow," he instructed. "You're doin' so good f'me, baby."
Exhaling roughly, your mouth opened in a soft 'o' as your fingers swirled around the swollen bud. Your eyes stayed locked on him, and the way he was gazing up at you, his chin gently propped on your knee with a longing in his eyes, nearly made you come on the spot.
"Spread her f'me," he whispered gravelly.
Doing as you were told, you straightened your fingers, delicately spreading the lips of your cunt. With your fingers already damp with your arousal, they glistened right alongside your pussy in this lighting. His eyes darkened, his lip getting caught between his teeth as he diligently watched you.
Your fingers dipped, sliding down the length of your pussy, and toying with your entrance. Two fingers slipped right in from how soaked you were. The noise your cunt made in response had you and Bucky groaning in unison. Your fingers sped up, caressing and curling against your plushy walls. Your free hand lifted, covering your breast and massaging it.
"Do you like to watch, Bucky?" You don't know where your boldness came from. Maybe it was being in control of your own body, or the way he looked at you like you hung the stars. Either way, the question hung between you.
"Yeah, fuck," he murmured pathetically. "Yeah, I like to watch."
The obscene sounds of your fingers going in and out of your already weeping pussy filled the air, along with the moans you just couldn't hold back.
"Listen to her talk to me," he growled, his eyelids drooping as he followed the sight of your disappearing fingers. "She sounds so fuckin' good."
Eventually, his hand snatched your wrist, and he brought the saturated pair to his lips. They enveloped your fingers, sucking them clean. He hummed at the contact of your juices on his tongue, eyelashes fluttering. He released them with a soft smack of his lips.
"Tastes so fuckin' good," he said, licking the tips of his fingers, like he just consumed his favorite meal. "Think I need more."
His hands closed around the back of your knees, pulling you until only a portion of your ass remained on the sofa. Scooping your legs up, he settled them over his shoulders, immediately diving in. His tongue flattened, licking a long stripe up your center. You gasped, your fingers carding through his hair and holding firm.
Tongue flicking over your clit, he leaned down and tenderly kissed it. He pressed his face flush with your cunt, sucking the bud hard before descending upon your clenching hole. The tip of his tongue traced around your entrance until it plunged deep into your cunt.
He pushed his face further into you, practically submerging himself in you. As he devoured you, fucking you with his tongue, his nose steadily nudged your clit. Your grip on his dark strands tightened, your thighs squeezing tighter around his head. His eyes flicked up—a predator feasting on its prey.
"Yeah, fuckin' drown me, baby," he hummed against you, patting your thigh.
Then, that same hand vanished beneath you as his mouth returned to your clit. Two fingers pushed into your pussy without warning as he slurped on your swollen bud. You squirmed above him, your hips wiggling this way and that. Metal-plated fingers reached around your thigh, his palm flattening over your lower stomach.
"I know, I know. You're close, aren't ya? Just stay still, sweet girl," he ordered gently, tapping his fingers over your belly button.
His flesh fingers curled as his tongue spiraled, leaving you a whimpering mess. The tension in your gut coiled. Your free hand bent around the edge of the couch as your hips canted. Vision flaring white, the coil snapped. You came with a cry of his name, gasping as your cunt fluttered around his thick fingers. With trembling thighs and your eyes flashing open, you let the climax wash over you.
Prolonging your orgasm, he guided you through it. He softened his ministrations to a stop when you went limp above him. He planted a lingering kiss on your inner thigh, then removed your legs from his shoulders. They flopped against the floor, boneless.
"You don't realize how beautiful you are, do you?" he asked, awestruck. "Did you know your eyes get even brighter when you cum? I didn't know that was even possible."
Attempting to get you to meet his eyes again, he shook your leg. "You still with me, princess."
You kept your gaze to the ceiling, tracing the wood panels with your vision as you slowed your breathing. "I think I went to heaven," you panted, dazed.
Bucky chuckled, rising to his full height. Interrupting your view, he hovered over you, stabilizing himself against the back of the couch. His biceps bulged on either side of his head, muscles locking as he gazed down at your blissed-out expression.
"Yup, I bartered with the angels to bring you back," he teased.
A small grin tugged at your lips, eyes glinting. "And? What did it take to bring me back?"
"Everythin'," he whispered. "But it was so fuckin' worth it."
Your breath caught, butterflies erupting in your stomach that had nothing to do with the aftereffects of your climax. He leaned down lower, snaking his arm under the curve of your spine, and lifted you.
"You gonna lemme fuck you now, baby?" he questioned carefully, forcing your legs to wrap around his waist.
Resting your arms on his shoulders, your lips brushed his, voice coming out in a sultry purr. "Fuck me, Bucky. I need it."
Eager lips pressed against his, prompting him to let out an animalistic growl. He moved, blindly feeling around his living room. As your lips parted, your teeth sank into his bottom lip, lightly tugging on it. His knee bumped the corner of the couch, stumbling forward. Luckily, his instincts kicked in. Metal arm locking, he caught himself against the wall before it caused you any harm.
You giggled into his mouth, "Careful, pretty boy."
"Are you tryin' to kill me and get yourself killed in the process?" he scoffed, righting himself before continuing the short journey to his bedroom.
"What?" you said, feigning innocence. "You said you wanted me to bite you."
"You're lucky you're cute."
He tossed you onto the bed, the mattress squeaking subtly. The softness of the blankets briefly swallowed you before you propped yourself up on your elbows. Reaching behind his back, Bucky tugged at the collar of his shirt until it was off.
This time, when you looked at his muscles, you didn't feel any guilt. Openly, you traced the lines of his battle-worn body. Every scar that the years in the Air Force granted him, or the cuts that he received from long shifts at the shop, was thoroughly admired by you.
"You're perfect," you praised.
As if he'd never heard such a compliment, he tilted his head in fondness. Then, his thumbs hooked into his sweats, yanking them down. As he pulled the cuffs from his feet, you watched his cock bob gently against his stomach.
"Holy fuck," you breathed, eyes wide and mouth agape.
He was thick. Huge. Your little exploration in the hallway as he changed didn't do him justice. You followed the veins along his cock that led to his angry, red tip. A bead of precum dripped from the slit of his dick.
Crawling to you, he settled over you. You were still staring as he positioned himself between your legs. Gripping your chin between his thumb and forefinger, he forced your gaze up.
"My eyes are up here, princess," he mocked lightly, then his tone softened. "I'll go slow, I promise. You're safe with me."
You nodded, but your mouth still felt desert-dry. "I have a confession to make."
"But 's not even Sunday," he jokingly replied.
"I wasn't looking at your arm earlier."
He hummed, amusement etching into his expression. "I also have a confession." His head dipped, mouth hovering beside your ear. "I knew."
Fingers curving around his cock, he pressed the head to your entrance, teasing it. You grasped his metal bicep, firmly planted by your head. You couldn't slow your breathing, your heartbeat galloping like a racehorse from nerves.
"Shh…" Bucky soothed. "Breathe with me. In 'n out. Yeah, that's perfect," he rambled as you matched his breathing.
The tip pushed through your folds, the thick head invading your pussy. The stretch was intense, stealing the air from your lungs. Even through his grunts of pleasure, he continued to guide you, talking you through the dull sting of his dick spreading you open.
"That's my good girl. Take it all," he groaned.
You whined brokenly as he bottomed out inside you; you'd never felt so full. Leaning back, he brushed a few damp strands out of your eyes. He pressed tender kisses to your slightly bruised nose—you were honestly so distracted by his presence that you hadn't thought about it since the accident. But he hadn't forgotten.
The attention he was giving your nose distracted you enough that by the time you had remembered the pain of him stretching you out, it had already faded. He pressed his forehead to yours, sighing in contentment.
With your pussy well-adjusted, he began rocking steadily into you. His metal hand found purchase on your hip as his other hand drifted up your arm that held the back of his neck. Securing your wrist, he drew it away, flattening your arm against the mattress. His hand glided up until he was intertwining your fingers with his. The intimacy of the gesture made it suddenly hard to swallow.
"I gotcha," he promised, squeezing your hand.
His hips picked up their pace, snapping up to meet yours. Setting a rhythmic pace, he gripped your hip with a more solid hold. Rapid breaths mingled in the space between you as the sound of skin slapping echoed around you.
The world around you fell away, and all you could see was him. He was invading your senses, leaving you completely connected to him. The worries of your personal life, everything that caused you pain, all dimmed in that moment. Because you were no longer letting those thoughts and feelings run your life.
Slamming into you, he groaned, his chin tipping back. "Baby, you feel so good. You're just perfect, aren't ya? Made just f'me."
You let out a loud, throaty moan as he hit that sweet spot deep inside you. The head of his cock bullied into your G-spot over and over until you were breathless. You arched into him, spine bowing.
Then, his hands slipped under you, lifting you. Your legs twisted as he adjusted you over top of him, straddling his thighs. Knees digging into the mattress, he thrusted up into you. Arms lifting to his shoulders, you held him. You moved with him, riding him at the pace he set. Your hips rolled, grinding against that spot that had you reeling.
A protective arm wrapped around the small of your back, fingers sprawled over your warm skin. His flesh palm rested over the back of your head as you buried your face in his shoulder. The next time he bucked up into you, your pussy clamped down hard around him. Like the force of a rising tide, you felt your climax ascend.
"'m right there," Bucky grunted. "I can feel her squeezin' me. That mean your close too, sweet girl?"
You nodded against him. "Come with me, please. I need it."
Moving in unison, the room filled with your combined sounds of pleasure. The wave came crashing down, your cunt pulsating around him. Your teeth punctured the skin of his shoulder as your second orgasm rippled through you. Hissing, his thrusts turned sloppy. Warmth spread through you, his release coating your walls as he spilled into you.
Slumping forward, your head rolling to the side. Breathing in tandem, his chest rose as yours sank. He nuzzled into your hair, inhaling your scent, and kissing the crown of your head.
You caught the teeth marks in his flesh, a flicker of concern overwhelming you. The emotion softened upon realizing you liked the sight of it. With a finger, you traced over each ridge.
"I know I said I'm not a biter," you slurred, still high on the experience. "But I have to say, it looks really good."
Bucky let out a gentle puff of air against your hair. "Oh yeah? I could get used to being marked up by you. As long as I can give you a matching one."
Lying you back on the bed, he moved over you and pressed his lips to your collarbone before sinking his teeth into the skin above it.
And though you knew there was not a soul around, you could have sworn your laugh carried for miles.
The sun appeared brighter this morning when you woke. You were drifting through Bucky's house with a pep in your step. The coffee was brewed, Alpine was fed, and you did it all while Bucky snored in the next room over.
But now with the sun sitting just above the treeline, everything felt dimmer than before. Frowning, you placed your phone on the kitchen counter. The white fluff ball, nudging at your hand, noticed your attitude change, as if she could smell it amongst the boldness of the coffee.
Your fingers carded through her fur, grounding yourself.
Warm arms enveloped you from behind, squeezing your midsection gingerly. "Mornin', princess."
"Morning," you parroted, but quieter.
Bucky stiffened behind you. "Hey, is everythin' alright?"
"I just got off the phone with my father."
"Oh," he muttered, turning you around so he could see your expression. "Judgin' by your face, 'm guessin' that didn't go well."
"No," you confirmed. "He said he was glad that I'm okay, but…" You trailed off, glancing at something over his shoulder. "He's not paying for the damages. Not unless I work for him. His wish for me to inherit his stupid company is finally coming true. I don't know why I even tried to resist it. He always wins anyway."
His brows knitted together in confusion, or maybe agitation. "Don't worry 'bout it," he said, framing your face with his massive hands. "I'll pay for it."
You scoffed, shaking him off. "No, I can't ask you to do that."
"You're not askin', 'm offerin'."
"No," you repeated more firmly. "I appreciate it, but I don't want that."
"Don't let him win," he muttered, eyes flicking between yours, searching.
"I'm trying not to," you insisted. "I guess I'll figure it out. I'll get a job, hopefully one I like, and I'll pay it off."
Bucky's lip lifted at the corner, giving you a look that could only mean trouble. "I know a place that's hirin'."
"Really?" You tilted your head, then it dawned on you what he meant. "No. Absolutely not. You were right, I don't know anything about cars. I can't work for you."
"I'll teach you," he said simply. "You don't gotta know everythin' right away. We can start slow. You can work at the front. Take calls. Schedule appointments. Take people's money…" His tone dipped into something teasing. "I know you won't have a problem with that one."
"Asshole," you chirped, slapping his chest. Then, your expression shifted into something warm. "I'll think about it."
"That's a yes," he murmured, as if he already knew.
"No, I said I'll think about it."
"Yeah, but your eyes said yes."
"You're ridiculous," you shot back, but you were grinning like an idiot.
He backed you into the counter, caging you in. "And you love it." Before you could even react, his lips were on yours, warm and inviting.
Five Months Later
The neon sign stood proudly outside Bucky's shop. It was a bright crimson that could be seen for miles, snagging just about anyone's attention. You suggested it. Because, of course, you did. You knew what customers liked, and you were right. The shop had an influx of people coming and going.
Your original suggestion was rejected. You wanted pink. He wanted blue. After bickering for half an hour, you both settled on red.
Sometimes he just had to stand there, leaning against his truck, taking it all in. The sign. The shop. His life…with you.
Eventually, he found his way to the front. His eyes scanned the poster hanging on the glass door, where the 'now hiring' sign had once lived. It read, 'Wrong Turn'—a foundation you were investing in. It was an organization specializing in drunk-driving awareness. Proud didn't even cover how he felt about it. About you, finding something that you were so passionate about. That you had poured your heart into.
Opening the door, the bell rang above him, announcing his arrival. Bucky was hit with a gust of warm vanilla layered with grapefruit, which he could practically taste on his tongue. He immediately heard the familiar sound of you singing. It was a little off-key, but unapologetically you.
Following the sound, he slipped into the garage, leaning his shoulder against the door frame. He watched you silently, a warm smile gracing his lips. You were tightening a bolt on an engine with a pink—yes, pink—wrench. In fact, your entire toolbox and tools were pink.
You finally glanced up from your task, offering him a small wave with oil-slicked fingers. "Hi, handsome," you greeted. Grabbing the rag hanging from the vehicle, you wiped the grease from your fingers.
Closing the distance, his hands found your hips, pressing a kiss to your nose. "Hey, princess." He glanced down and frowned. "What're you wearin'?"
"A shirt."
"I see that. Why is it like that?" he asked, scanning the shirt that had his logo on the front of it…but in blush pink.
"They just came in today. Isn't it cute?"
"No. Nope. I didn't agree to this."
"Buck," you drawled, a lilt to your voice. "Sam is wearing one. I have one ready for Joaquin when he comes in for work tomorrow. I even have one set aside for Alpine."
"After the pink bow incident, 'm not lettin' you put anythin' on her."
"She loved it, and she looked adorable in it. Just admit it," you muttered, poking him in the ribs.
She really did look cute in it, but he wasn't about to tell you that.
Sam stepped in then, wearing his new pink shirt, and the moment his eyes fell on the two of you, he started backing up. "Wilson, get your ass back in 'ere," Bucky called. Sam froze mid-step, turning with a guilty look on his face.
"Were you in on this?" Bucky inquired, pointing at your shirt.
"Will you dock my pay if I say yes?" Sam asked tentatively.
Bucky rubbed his forehead, groaning. "'m gettin' run out of my own shop."
"You love it," you cooed, and he only glared in return. You tried for a different approach, offering him a full, toothy smile as your eyelashes fluttered. "You love me?"
"You're lucky I love you," he corrected. "Alright, the shirts can stay."
Sam’s jaw dropped. “Wait, that’s all it took? All she had to do was bat her lashes, and you're just fine? I’ve been trying to get you to approve new uniforms for years.”
Bucky shot him a look. “Don’t push it.”
You just beamed, triumphant. "Thanks, baby," you cheered, pushing up on your tiptoes to kiss his cheek, smearing some of your glittery lip gloss on his skin.
But he didn't mind. Because for the last five months, he was happy. Content. And it was all because he'd fallen for the rich girl, who strutted into his shop with pink heels and a smile. The one who turned his world upside down with one glimpse of those bright eyes. The one who caused him to prefer chaos to his normal quiet.
And he thanked the universe every day for dropping you into his lap.
me posting this because holy shit...this took a lot out of me:
