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:
Summary: the last request I got in January. Tony and you are married, and Tony really wants to get you pregnant.
Wordcount: 10.5k
Pairing: Tony Stark x Female Reader (no use of y/n)
Warnings: MDNI, p in v, breeding kink, sex during pregnacy, Tony Stark being insecure, twins (okay, that's a warning for me), healthy relationship, fluff, Tony (he's a warning)
A/N: Alright. This request was pretty hard for me to write because having twins was one of my biggest fears when I was pregnant, so I had a little trouble writing something happy about that. I hope I managed to write something you'll like anon, and I'm really sorry it took me so long.
Masterlist
The scent of ozone was gone from the lab, replaced by the comforting smell of old coffee and solder. You stood in the doorway of the workshop, watching him. Tony was a silhouette against the wall of holographic schematics, his back to you, shoulders hunched. The rhythmic hiss of a precision welder filled the silence, punctuated by the soft, frustrated sighs you knew better than your own name. You'd left a plate of sandwiches on the workbench hours ago. They remained untouched.
You didn't speak. You just walked over to the battered leather couch against the far wall, the one that had more duct tape than original upholstery in places, and sank into it. You pulled your feet up, tucking them beneath you, and simply watched. The blue-white light of the schematics painted the sharp planes of his face, caught in the glint of the arc reactor's soft glow through his thin t-shirt. He was muttering to himself, a stream of equations and curses that was music to your ears. This was his language, the hum of his brilliant, restless mind. This was the space between the storms of public life, the quiet core where he was most himself.
He didn't notice you, not really. Not until you reached for the blanket draped over the couch's arm – the one he insisted was ugly but secretly used when he finally crashed down here. The faint rustle of the heavy wool broke the spell. The welder silenced.
The holograms flickered out, plunging the room into a softer darkness, lit only by the reactor and the city lights bleeding through the massive windows. Tony turned, slow, rubbing the back of his neck. His eyes found yours, and the focused intensity in his expression softened, melting into something weary and infinitely fond.
“Hey,” he said, his voice raspy. “What time is it?”
“Time for you to eat something that isn't coffee,” you replied, patting the empty space beside you.
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “Is that an order, Mrs. Stark?”
“It's a strongly worded suggestion, Mr. Stark.” You watched him cross the space, his movements less fluid than usual, heavy with exhaustion. He dropped onto the couch beside you, the old springs groaning in protest, and let his head fall back against the cushion with a thud.
He didn't move for a long moment, just breathed. Then, blindly, his hand found yours on the cushion, fingers lacing through, a simple, grounding pressure. He didn't need to say anything. You felt the tension in his grip, the echo of whatever problem had been spinning through his mind for the last twelve hours. You squeezed back, a silent answer.
“Almost got it,” he murmured to the ceiling. “The energy lattice was unstable. Redistributing the charge through the secondary actuators... should work.” He broke off, a dry laugh escaping him. “God, listen to me. Sorry.”
“Don't be,” you said softly. “I like listening.”
He turned his head then, his eyes dark in the dim light, searching yours. The weight of the world, of a company, of a suit of armor, was still there in the lines around his eyes, but here, in this quiet space, it was lighter. He lifted your joined hands, pressing a kiss to your knuckles, his lips warm and calloused against your skin.
“Love you,” he breathed, the words a quiet offering in the vast workshop.
“I know,” you whispered back, leaning your head against his shoulder. “Now. Sandwiches. Don't make me get FRIDAY to stage an intervention.”
A real smile this time, crinkling the corners of his eyes. “You play dirty.”
“You taught me everything I know.”
A low chuckle rumbled in his chest, a vibration you felt more than heard. “The most important lesson, obviously. Applied negotiation and tactical sandwich deployment. My proudest academic achievement.”
He shifted, pushing himself up with a groan that was only half-feigned. The reactor cast a gentle, steady light as he crossed to the workbench. You watched him, the way he moved with a familiar economy of motion, even exhausted. He didn't just grab a plate; he inspected them with a critical eye, like they were a new alloy.
“Did you… put actual mustard on this?” He held up a half-eaten sandwich, peering at it with theatrical suspicion.
“I did,” you said, a smile playing on your lips. “Decided to live dangerously. To paraphrase, 'you either die a hero, or you live long enough to see yourself become someone who puts condiments on things'.”
“Blasphemy,” he declared, but he took a large bite anyway. He chewed thoughtfully, leaning back against the bench. “Okay. I'll allow it. This one gets a pass.”
He finished it in four more bites, a testament to an appetite he'd been ignoring. He didn't bother with the second one, instead walking back over to you. He didn't sit, just knelt on the floor in front of the couch, resting his arms on your knees. He looked up at you, his face framed by the city's distant glow.
“Better?” you asked, reaching out to smooth the hair back from his forehead.
He nodded, leaning into your touch. “Rebooted. System's at seventeen percent and climbing.” He closed his eyes for a second, just breathing. “Stay with me tonight?”
“I wasn't planning on going anywhere,” you replied softly.
“No,” he said, opening his eyes again, and there was a deeper earnestness there now. “I mean… down here. Just for a bit. We can sleep on the ridiculously overpriced, uncomfortable couch.”
“Tony, it's lumpy.”
“It's character. It's got history. It's seen things.” He paused, a mischievous glint returning to his gaze. “Besides, if we're on the couch, you can't hog all the blankets.”
You couldn't help but laugh. “I don't hog the blankets.”
“Last Tuesday, I woke up shivering because I was apparently in a fight with a sentient blanket monster and lost. Spectacularly, I might add.”
“That was you! You kicked them off the bed.”
“My subconscious is a passionate advocate for thermal neutrality.”
You shook your head, a warmth spreading through your chest that had nothing to do with the blanket. “Okay. But if I wake up with a crick in my neck, I'm blaming your subconscious's terrible interior design choices.”
“Deal,” he said, a slow, satisfied smile spreading across his face.
He pushed himself up, but instead of heading for the couch, he moved closer, crowding your space. He braced a hand on the back of the sofa, caging you in, the other still resting on your knee. The air shifted, the comfortable exhaustion morphing into something heavier, more charged. He smelled of coffee, solder, and something distinctly, intoxicatingly him. He dipped his head, his breath warm against your ear.
“Also,” he murmured, his voice dropping to that low, gravelly register that vibrated right through you. “I'm not done with you yet.”
Your breath hitched. His lips brushed the shell of your ear, a ghost of a touch that sent shivers down your spine. His thumb on your knee began to stroke slow, deliberate circles through the fabric of your pants.
“The workshop is a mess,” you managed, the words coming out a little breathless.
“Dum-E can clean it up,” he countered easily. “Or we can wait. Right now...” He leaned back just enough to look at you, and the raw, unfiltered want in his eyes stole the air from your lungs. “Right now, I'd rather make another kind of mess.”
He didn't wait for an answer. He kissed you, and it was anything but gentle. It was a claiming, a devouring. A kiss that said he'd been thinking about this, thinking about you, for hours. His tongue swept against yours, tasting of mustard and stubbornness and a hunger that was finally being acknowledged. You met him with equal fervor, your hands coming up to tangle in the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him impossibly closer. The reactor hummed against your palm, a steady, powerful thrum that matched the frantic beat of your own heart.
When he finally pulled back, you were both breathless. He rested his forehead against yours, his eyes dark and dilated.
“Tell me to stop,” he whispered, the words a fragile thread. “Tell me you're tired, and I'll stop. We'll just sleep. I swear.”
Your answer was to grab the hem of his t-shirt and yank it over his head. You needed to see him, to feel the warm, living skin over the arc reactor's casing. You traced its edges with your fingers, the metal cool against your lips as you leaned in to press a kiss there. He shuddered, a full-body reaction that was more potent than any words. His hands came to your hips, gripping you tight, lifting you as if you weighed nothing until you were straddling his lap on the couch. The old springs protested again, a rhythmic squeak under your combined weight.
“Never,” you breathed against his chest. “Don't you dare stop.”
A guttural sound rumbled in his chest, pure approval. He captured your lips again as his hands made quick work of your shirt, unbuttoning it with an engineer's deft precision. The cool workshop air kissed your skin, but it was nothing compared to the heat of his gaze as he looked at you. He didn't just look; he saw. He saw the goosebumps rising on your arms, the way your breath hitched, the rapid flutter of your pulse at the base of your throat.
“Perfect,” he murmured, his thumb brushing over your collarbone. “You're always so fucking perfect for me.”
His hands were everywhere, learning the map of your body as if for the first time. They slid down your back, tracing the curve of your spine, gripping your waist to hold you steady as he rolled his hips up against yours. The friction was a jolt, a spark that lit a fire low in your belly. You moaned into his mouth, a soft, helpless sound that seemed to spur him on.
“Tony,” you gasped, breaking the kiss to drag in air.
“That's it,” he growled, his lips trailing a hot path down your neck. “Say my name.” He nipped at the sensitive skin where your shoulder met your neck, not hard enough to really hurt, but enough to leave a mark, a brand. “Let everyone know who you belong to.”
He was shifting you, laying you back against the lumpy cushions, covering your body with his. The weight of him was a delicious pressure, a welcome anchor in the sea of sensation he was creating. He was all muscle and solid heat, and the cool metal of the reactor was an intoxicating counterpoint against your sternum. His knee slid between your thighs, nudging them apart, and you arched into him, a silent plea for more.
“Look at you,” he breathed, propping himself up on an elbow so he could see you properly. His dark eyes swept over you, hungry and possessive. “So beautiful. All for me.”
He lowered his head, taking the peak of your breast into his mouth through the lace of your bra. The wet heat of him, the rough drag of the lace, the clever flick of his tongue – it was a perfect, tormenting storm. He lingered there, one hand mapping the curve of your hip, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin just below your navel in a hypnotic rhythm.
“I was thinking about you,” he confessed, his voice a low, intimate murmur against your skin. “With the schematics and the power outputs... all I could see was you. Spread out on this couch. Waiting for me.”
He released your breast, moving to the other one, giving it the same devoted attention. His free hand slid lower, past the waistband of your pants, his fingers tracing the elastic of your underwear.
“Thinking about how you'd taste,” he continued, hooking a finger to pull the fabric aside. He paused, letting the anticipation build, his gaze holding yours. “How you'd feel when I touched you.”
His fingers finally brushed against your core, and you gasped, your hips bucking instinctively. He chuckled, a low, dark sound.
“So responsive. Always so ready for me, aren't you?” He began to explore, slow and deliberate, learning every slick fold. “Fucking perfect.”
He was pushing you higher, winding you tighter with every practiced touch. The tension coiled in your belly, a delicious, aching pull. You were so close, teetering on the edge, when he suddenly stopped. You cried out in protest, a wordless, needy sound.
“Tony, please.”
“Shhh,” he soothed, pulling back completely to kneel between your legs. He made quick work of the rest of your clothes, and then his, stripping away the last barriers until there was nothing left but skin and heat and the blue light of the reactor painting you both in its ethereal glow. He looked down at you, raw and unfiltered, and the sight stole the air from your lungs.
“Tell me what you want,” he demanded, his voice rough with desire.
“You,” you whispered. “I want you.”
He shifted, aligning himself with your entrance, the head of him nudging, promising. He leaned down, bracing his arms on either side of your head, his face so close to yours that every breath was shared. The world narrowed to the space between your bodies, to the dark, endless pools of his eyes.
“Good,” he breathed, and the word was a vow. “Because I want everything.”
He didn't enter you, not yet. He held himself there, a delicious, torturous tease. He was savoring the moment, the control.
“I want to see you like this every day,” he murmured, his gaze intense, almost feral. “Messy and breathless and mine. So beautiful when you're about to fall apart for me.”
He rocked his hips, a shallow, teasing motion that sent a jolt of pure electricity through your entire system.
“And I want to fill you up,” he continued, his voice dropping even lower, threading with a dark, primal need that made your heart stutter. “I want to fuck you so deep you'll feel me for days. I want to pump you so full of me it takes, I want to watch you swell with my kid, knowing I did that to you. That you're carrying a piece of me inside you.”
The words hit you like a physical blow, raw and visceral. It was a fantasy you'd only touched upon in the darkest corners of your shared intimacy, a possessive, primal urge that laid bare the most fundamental parts of him. It wasn't just sex anymore; it was a claim. A brand. A deep, biological imperative to create, to leave a legacy that was more than metal and circuits.
A thrill, dark and heady, shot through you. It was terrifying and it was the most intoxicating thing you'd ever heard. You met his gaze, your own eyes darkening with matching desire.
“Yes,” you breathed, the word a surrender. “Tony, yes.”
That was all the permission he needed. With a groan that was pure, unadulterated relief, he pushed forward, burying himself inside you in one deep, smooth thrust. The stretch was exquisite, a perfect, aching fullness that completed you. He stilled for a moment, letting you adjust, letting you feel every inch of him. He rested his forehead against yours, his breath coming in harsh pants.
“Fuck,” he gritted out. “You feel like you were made for me.”
He began to move then, a slow, deep rhythm that was designed to stoke the fire, not extinguish it. Each thrust was deliberate, powerful, a declaration of intent. He was marking you from the inside out.
“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice a low growl. You forced your heavy eyelids open, locking your gaze with his. “I want to see it in your eyes when I claim you. When I put a baby in you.”
The words were filthy and perfect, a litany chanted in the sacred space between you. He watched your face as he spoke, gauging your reaction, and what he saw there made his own control fray. Your lips parted, a silent moan caught in your throat. You met his next thrust, lifting your hips to take him deeper, a wordless plea for more.
“Greedy,” he praised, a smug, satisfied smirk touching his lips. “My greedy girl. You want it, don't you? Want me to knock you up right here on this ugly couch, so every time you sit on it you'll remember this.”
His words were a catalyst. The coil in your belly wound impossibly tight. He could feel you fluttering around him, your body clenching in anticipation.
“That's it,” he encouraged, his tempo increasing slightly, driving into you with more force. The couch groaned in protest. “Come for me. Show me you're ready to take what I'm giving you.”
He reached between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit, circling it with a pressure that was exactly what you needed. The additional stimulation was your undoing. The world fractured, your vision whiting out as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over you. You cried out his name, a hoarse, broken sound that was music to his ears.
“That's it,” he grunted again, driving into you relentlessly as you convulsed around him. “So fucking beautiful. Take it. All of it.”
The feeling of you pulsing around him, the sight of you completely undone by him, was his tipping point. With a final, powerful thrust, he buried himself as deep as he could go and came, a long, shuddering groan tearing from his chest. He poured himself into you, a hot, possessive flood that felt like a promise. The thought of it, of all that potential, of a life taking root from this single, perfect moment, sent another, smaller aftershock through you.
He collapsed against you, his full weight a welcome anchor. You were both slick with sweat, panting, your hearts hammering a frantic duet against your ribs. For a long time, the only sounds were your ragged breaths and the low, steady hum of the city outside. He didn't move to pull out. He stayed inside you, a tangible claim, a warm, living presence.
He buried his face in the crook of your neck, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses to your skin. His hands came up to frame your face, his thumbs stroking your cheekbones.
“Mine,” he whispered, the word a raw, reverent prayer against your ear. “You're going to be so beautiful, full of me. Swollen and glowing. Everyone will know you're mine. That I made you a mother.”
A strange, tender warmth bloomed in your chest, counterpoint to the lingering ache of pleasure. You wrapped your arms around his back, holding him close, feeling the steady beat of his heart against your palm, a rhythm that might one day beat in tandem with another, much smaller one.
“Yours,” you agreed, your own voice soft but sure. “Always.”
He finally shifted, rolling to the side but keeping you tucked securely in the curve of his body. He pulled the discarded blanket over both of you, a rough, woolly shield against the cool air. He propped himself up on an elbow, looking down at you, the possessive fire in his eyes banked to a soft, steady glow. He brushed a stray lock of hair from your forehead, his touch impossibly gentle.
“Are you okay?” he asked, a flicker of the usual Tony concern cutting through the post-coital haze.
You smiled, a genuine, languid smile that reached your eyes. “I'm more than okay.”
He watched you for a long moment, a complex array of emotions playing across his face. The raw hunger was still there, but it was joined by something else. Something softer. More profound.
“Good,” he murmured, leaning down to kiss you, a soft, lingering kiss that was worlds away from the devouring kisses from before. It was a sealing of the pact, a benediction. “Because we're not done. Not by a long shot.” He settled back beside you, pulling you closer. “Sleep now. We've got a lot of work to do tomorrow.”
And so it became a ritual. The workshop, the schematics, and the desperate, recharging connection on the lumpy couch. A private universe of desire and whispered promises, a world built for two that was soon, secretly, destined for three. The mornings after were for shared showers and sleepy, teasing banter about tactical sandwich deployment. The days were for watching you, for the way he'd get a distant, calculating look in his eye when you'd stretch, or rub a tired spot on your lower back.
The confirmation came on a Tuesday. You were sitting on the edge of the bathtub, watching the little blue line darken on the plastic stick with a speed that felt almost defiant. Tony was leaning against the doorframe, trying and failing to look casual, his hands shoved deep into his pockets.
“Well,” he said, when the line was as dark as it was going to get. “I guess FRIDAY is officially an aunt now.”
You looked up at him, and the raw, unadulterated joy on his face was enough to make your heart ache. He crossed the space in two strides, dropping to his knees in front of you and burying his face in your stomach, his arms wrapping around your waist. He was trembling.
“Hey,” you whispered, threading your fingers through his hair. “It's okay.”
“It's more than okay,” he mumbled against your shirt, his voice muffled and thick with emotion. “It's... it's everything.” He looked up, and his eyes were shining. “I knew it. I knew it would work. We made a person.”
“We made a person,” you repeated, a laugh bubbling up, half-joy, half-hysteria.
He surged to his feet, pulling you with him, spinning you in a circle in the small bathroom. “We have to tell everyone. We have to plan. There's a nursery to design, and I'm thinking a state-of-the-art, AI-powered crib with built-in white noise and a molecular formula analyser for the...”
“Tony,” you cut in, laughing. “Breathe.”
He stopped, setting you down but not letting go. “Right. Breathing. Important for... you know. The person.” He looked down at your flat stomach with a look of utter reverence. “My person. In there.”
The months that followed were a whirlwind of Tony's particular brand of nesting. It involved, among other things, blueprints for a self-rocking bassinet and a lengthy debate with himself about the ethical implications of pre-natal language lessons in Esperanto. You navigated the morning sickness and the strange, sudden cravings for pickle and peanut butter sandwiches, a combination Tony declared “an affront to culinary science” but had FRIDAY stock in the kitchen anyway.
Today was the day. The twenty-week anatomy scan. You were lying on the cool, paper-covered table in the sterile, quiet room, Tony sitting in a chair pulled up close beside you, his knuckles white where he gripped your hand. The ultrasound tech, a kind woman named Sarah with a calm, steady presence, moved the wand over your belly, a look of concentration on her face.
The screen was a mess of gray and white static, a secret code you couldn't decipher. You held your breath.
“Okay,” Sarah said, her voice light. “Let's get a good look at the heart... there we go. Strong, steady beat. Perfect.”
You let out a breath you didn't realize you'd been holding. Tony squeezed your hand, a silent question. You squeezed back.
“And... let's see the little arms and legs. Everything looks... hmm.” She paused, angling the wand, her brow furrowed slightly.
Your heart leaped into your throat. “What? What is it?”
“Oh, nothing's wrong,” she said quickly, smiling reassuringly. “It's just... sometimes the equipment gets a double image. Let me just adjust...”
She moved the wand again, pressing a little more firmly. And then she stopped. She looked from the screen to you, and then to Tony, a slow, wide smile spreading across her face.
“Well, Mr. and Mrs. Stark,” she said, her voice filled with a gentle, conspiratorial delight. “It seems the equipment isn't getting a double image.”
She pointed to a spot on the screen. “There. That's baby A. And right there,” she moved her finger a few inches, “is baby B.”
The world went quiet. The hum of the machine, the soft hiss of the air conditioner, all of it faded into a dull roar. You stared at the screen, trying to make sense of the two blurry shapes, the two distinct little heartbeats flickering like distant stars on a dark screen. Two. The word echoed in the sudden, cavernous space in your mind.
Tony's grip on your hand had gone lax. You looked at him. His jaw was slack, his eyes wide, fixed on the screen. He wasn't breathing. You could see the frantic, whirring cogs of his mind behind his eyes, trying to process, to compute, to scale up. One baby was a revolution. Two was... an arms race.
A choked sound escaped him, something between a gasp and a laugh. He turned to you, his eyes searching yours, wide with a shock so profound it was almost holy.
“Two,” he whispered, the word barely audible. “There are... two.”
And then he laughed. A real, full-throated, slightly hysterical laugh that bounced off the sterile walls. He leaned forward, pressing his forehead to yours, his shoulders shaking with it. “Of course there are,” he breathed, a note of sublime, chaotic surrender in his voice. “Nothing I ever do is ever on a small scale.” He looked back at the screen, a grin spreading across his face that was pure, unadulterated Stark-level hubris and pride. “Double the trouble. Double the genius. Of course.”
You couldn't help but laugh with him, a wave of dizzying, joyous disbelief washing over you. You placed your free hand over your stomach, a new, almost overwhelming sense of fullness settling in. It wasn't just a person in there anymore. It was a population. A starting lineup.
“I knew it,” he said, still grinning, a feverish light in his eyes. “This is why you were so tired. This is why you ate that entire jar of pickles and then looked at me like I was the one who was crazy.” He looked at the tech again, his mind already a dozen steps ahead. “Okay. Two. That means we need a new schematic. The original nursery plan is insufficient. We're going to need bunk beds. No, modular sleeping pods. With independent climate control and personalized holographic mobiles. And we're definitely going to need a bigger car. Do they make a mini-van that can withstand a direct hit from a tank?”
He was off, a torrent of excited, over-engineered planning that was the most comforting sound in the world. You just lay back, watching him, a permanent, ridiculously happy smile etched on your face. The image on the screen was still a confusing mess of static, but you saw it now. Two little miracles. Two little Starks, ready to turn the world on its head.
He finally ran out of steam, collapsing back into the chair, still breathless and grinning. He took your hand again, bringing it to his lips. He looked at you, and all the frantic energy in his eyes softened into something deep and tender.
“Well,” he said, his voice dropping to a soft murmur. “I guess I'm really not done with you yet.”
You squeezed his hand, your heart so full it felt like it might burst. “No,” you agreed, looking from your brilliant, chaotic husband to the two little lives pulsing on the screen. “I guess you're not.” The lumpy couch was about to get a lot more crowded.
From that day forward, Tony Stark didn't just walk; he hovered. He became a satellite locked in your gravitational pull, orbiting with a protective, slightly manic energy that was both endearing and, on occasion, suffocating.
In the morning, he was there before your alarm, a tray in his hands bearing what he'd scientifically determined to be the “Optimal Nutrient Profile for Gestating Genius.” This usually involved a perfectly ripe avocado, toast from a single, specific artisanal bakery in Brooklyn, and a green smoothie that looked like pond scum but tasted, against all odds, surprisingly like pineapple. He'd sit on the edge of the bed and watch you eat with the intensity of a hawk, ready to jot down notes on your energy levels or potential cravings for the “Post-Breakfast Tertiary Snack Analysis.”
The workshop was no longer his sanctuary; it was your annex. He had an armchair installed – plush, ridiculously ergonomic, and heated – that was permanently reserved for you. He'd work on a new stabilizer for the Iron Man suit, glancing over every five minutes to make sure your feet were elevated or that you had enough water. The scent of coffee and solder was replaced by the subtle, sweet aroma of lavender-infused oil he had diffusing in the corner, because “FRIDAY's cross-referenced studies indicate a 12% reduction in maternal stress levels.” You'd doze in that chair, lulled by the gentle hum of technology and the soft, rhythmic tap of Tony typing on a holographic keyboard, the blue light of the schematics painting the room in a calm, steady glow.
His hands became a permanent fixture on your body, but not always with the familiar, heated intent. They learned a new language of care. At night, when your back ached, they were there, strong and sure, working out the knots with a skill that surprised you. When you couldn't sleep, he'd be the one to get up, rubbing your swollen ankles with a cooling gel that smelled faintly of mint while he murmured theories about quantum entanglement to distract you from the discomfort.
He was obsessed with data. Your blood pressure was logged daily in a color-coded spreadsheet. Your weight gain was tracked against a bell curve he'd designed himself. He had a pregnancy app on his phone, but he found it “laughably imprecise” and built his own, complete with a 3D model of your uterus that updated with each new scan. You'd waddle into the kitchen to find him staring at a floating hologram of the two babies, rotating it and peering at it as if he were debugging code.
“Baby A's heart rate is two beats per minute faster than Baby B's,” he'd announce with academic gravity. “I'm hypothesizing a correlation with future cognitive processing speed, but the sample size is, admittedly, limited to two.”
You'd just pat your stomach and say, “I'm pretty sure Baby B is just plotting to take over the family business early.”
He'd look at you, a slow grin spreading across his face. “God, I hope so. That's my girl.”
He was a fortress. The second you started to show, the world saw a different Tony Stark. The witty, flirtatious playboy vanished. In interviews, if a reporter was so much as rude – asking a question with a slightly sharp tone, or pushing for a personal detail – he'd shut it down with a coldness that was frankly terrifying. He'd place a possessive hand on the small of your back, a simple gesture that spoke volumes. He wasn't just protecting you; he was protecting them. This new, fiercely paternal instinct was a powerful, awe-inspiring thing to witness.
One evening, you were trying to remove a pair of shoes. Bending down was an Olympic sport you were no longer qualified for. You huffed and wiggled, your fingers just brushing the straps.
“Let me.”
Tony was there, instantly, kneeling on the floor in front of you. He took the matter from your hands, his expression utterly serious, as if he were defusing a bomb. With the same careful precision he used to handle palladium cores, he guided your feet off the shoes after loosening the delicate buckles.
“All done,” he said, looking up at you from the floor. His hands lingered on your ankles, his thumbs brushing against your skin.
“Thank you,” you said softly, your heart swelling.
He didn't get up. He stayed there, kneeling, and rested his cheek against your swollen stomach. He closed his eyes, just breathing. You placed a hand on his hair, stroking the soft, dark strands.
“It's a lot,” he murmured, his voice muffled by your dress. “Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night and it just... hits me. All at once. Two of them. Two little parts of us. I'm going to build them everything. The safest, the smartest, the best... but what if that's not enough? What if I'm not... enough?”
You tightened your fingers in his hair. “Hey. Look at me.”
He lifted his head, and the raw fear in his eyes was a stark, familiar sight. It was the same look you'd seen the night he came back from Afghanistan. The same look he had when he thought he was dying. Vulnerable. And utterly, humanly terrified.
“You are enough, Tony,” you said, your voice steady and sure. “You were enough for me. You are enough for them. We're a team. We've always been a team.”
He searched your face, and whatever he saw there – the unshakeable belief, the fierce love – it seemed to steady him. The tension in his shoulders eased. He leaned in and pressed a kiss to your stomach, right over the spot where one of the babies was currently practicing what felt like a tap-dance routine against your ribs.
“Alright, team,” he whispered, and then he looked up at you, a slow, familiar heat creeping back into his gaze. “My beautiful, incredible team.”
He rose to his feet, pulling you up with him. His hands came to rest on your waist, holding you close. The gentle, paternal affection melted away, replaced by the deep, magnetic pull you knew so well. His eyes darkened, tracing the lines of your face, your neck, the swell of your breasts.
“You have no idea what you do to me,” he breathed, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin just above the waistband of your dress. “Carrying my children. You're like... a goddess. A fertility goddess who's also ridiculously good at crossword puzzles. It's a very specific niche, and you've perfected it.”
You laughed, a breathy sound that was half-amusement, half-arousal. “Is that your way of saying you're turned on?”
“It's my way of saying I am permanently, functionally, and enthusiastically turned on by you, Mrs. Stark. Especially now.” He dipped his head, his lips brushing against your ear. “You're glowing. You're so soft everywhere.” His hands slid down to cup your ass, pulling you flush against him. You could feel him, hard and ready, a testament to the truth of his words. “It's driving me insane.”
He didn't give you a chance to respond. He kissed you, and it was a slow, deep, deliberate claiming. This wasn't the frantic, desperate coupling of the workshop. This was something else. Something slower, more sure. A worship. He kissed you like he had all the time in the world, like he was memorizing the taste of you. His tongue swept against yours, a languid, sensual exploration.
When he finally pulled back, you were both breathing heavily. He rested his forehead against yours, his eyes dark with a desire that was both familiar and new. There was a possessiveness there, a primal satisfaction that was raw and intoxicating.
“The bedroom,” he murmured, the words a gentle command. “Now.”
He didn't wait for an answer. He swept you up into his arms, one arm behind your back, the other under your knees. You let out a surprised squeak, looping your arms around his neck.
“Tony! Put me down! I'm a whale, not a doll!”
“You're not a whale,” he corrected, a smug, confident grin on his face as he started toward the stairs. “You're a mothership. And I'm docking for some critical maintenance.” He carried you effortlessly, his strength a steady, reassuring presence. “Besides, my kids’ kickboxing practice has given you impressive upper-body strength. You could probably take me.”
You laughed, burying your face in the crook of his neck, inhaling the scent of him – coffee, expensive cologne, and the clean, warm scent of his skin. He carried you up the grand staircase and into your bedroom.
He didn't put you down on the bed. Instead, he stood you on your feet in the middle of the room, the soft carpet plush beneath your bare feet. He took a step back, just looking at you. The city lights bled through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting him in a silhouette of shadow and gold.
“Stay right there,” he said, his voice low and rough. “Don't move.”
He walked over to the stereo, a sleek, minimalist system that blended into the wall. With a few taps on a panel, soft, instrumental music began to play, a slow, sultry jazz number with a languid saxophone.
“The mood lighting is insufficient,” he declared to himself, and with a flick of his wrist, the main lights dimmed, leaving only the warm glow of the bedside lamps. He turned back to you, a conductor preparing his orchestra.
“Now,” he said, a slow, predatory smile spreading across his face. “Let's get you out of this dress.”
He moved toward you, not with the hurried desperation of before, but with a deliberate, unhurried grace. His hands went to the zipper on the side of your dress, sliding it down with agonizing slowness. The fabric whispered as it pooled at your feet, leaving you in only your bra and panties. He didn't touch you, not yet. He just looked, his gaze a physical touch that made your skin heat and your breath catch.
“Perfect,” he breathed, circling you slowly, like a shark admiring its prey. “Absolutely perfect.”
He stopped behind you, his hands coming to rest on your shoulders. He leaned in, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin of your neck.
“You're even more beautiful now,” he murmured, his hands sliding down your arms, his fingers tracing the curve of your sides. “So full. So ripe.”
He unhooked your bra, letting it fall away. His hands came around to cup your breasts, his thumbs brushing over your already-pebbled nipples. You leaned back against him, a soft sigh escaping your lips. His touch was a slow, steady fire, building inch by inch.
“Tony,” you whispered, your head falling back against his shoulder.
“Shhh,” he soothed, his lips trailing a path of fire down your neck. “Let me worship you.”
He turned you to face him, his eyes dark and intense. He lowered his head, taking one of your breasts into his mouth. His tongue was a velvet torture, swirling and teasing, his teeth scraping lightly against the sensitive skin. Your hands came up to tangle in his hair, holding him to you, a silent plea for more.
He lavished the same attention on your other breast, before dropping to his knees in front of you. He looked up at you, and the sight of him – Tony Stark, on his knees before you, his face a mask of raw adoration – was almost enough to send you over the edge.
He hooked his fingers into the waistband of your panties, slowly pulling them down. He didn't take his eyes off you as he did, watching your every reaction, every shiver, every gasp.
He pressed a kiss to your stomach, right over your navel. Then another, lower. And another, until he was kneeling before you, a supplicant at the altar of your body.
“You're so wet for me,” he murmured, his fingers tracing the slick folds of your core. “Always so ready.”
He leaned in, and you felt the hot, wet swipe of his tongue against your clit. You cried out, your knees buckling. He held you steady, his hands gripping your hips, his mouth working a magic that was both familiar and shockingly new. He was slow, deliberate, exploring every inch of you with an artist's attention to detail. He was mapping your body, learning its new, pregnancy-heightened responses, cataloging every gasp and shudder.
The tension coiled in your belly, tighter and tighter, a delicious, aching pull. The world narrowed to the slick, clever movements of his tongue, the steady grip of his hands, the soft, sultry music playing in the background. He was driving you higher, pushing you closer to the edge with every practiced stroke.
“That's it,” he murmured against you, the vibrations sending a fresh jolt of pleasure through you. “Come for me, beautiful. Let me taste you.”
His words were your undoing. The tension snapped, and you came with a cry, a wave of pleasure so intense it stole your breath. He held you through it, his tongue slowing, lapping gently as you convulsed around him, a aftershock of pleasure.
When you finally came back to yourself, he was rising to his feet, a smug, satisfied smirk on his face. He wiped his glistening chin with the back of his hand, a gesture that was both crude and incredibly hot.
“See?” he said, his voice a low, satisfied growl. “Told you I was good at critical maintenance.”
You could only nod, your body still trembling with the aftershocks. He swept you up again, this time carrying you the few feet to the bed and laying you down gently against the cool, crisp sheets. He quickly shed his own clothes, and then he was over you, covering your body with his. He didn't enter you, not yet. He just braced himself on his elbows, looking down at you.
“I love you,” he said, his voice soft, but filled with an intensity that made your heart ache. “I love you so much it hurts sometimes.”
“I love you too,” you whispered back, reaching up to cup his cheek.
He leaned into your touch, closing his eyes for a second. When he opened them, the raw adoration was still there, but it was joined by something else. A dark, primal need that made your breath catch.
“And I love what you're doing for me,” he continued, his voice dropping to a low, gravelly register. “Carrying my children. Making our family. You're so fucking beautiful like this. So full of me.”
He shifted, aligning himself with your entrance, the head of him nudging, promising. He was hard and hot, a living testament to his desire for you.
“I'm going to take you now,” he said, his gaze holding yours. “I'm going to fuck you slow and deep, and I'm going to fill you up again. And then I'm going to do it again tomorrow. And the day after that. Until you're so thoroughly, completely mine that there's no part of you that doesn't have my name written all over it.”
With a groan that was pure, unadulterated relief, he pushed forward, burying himself inside you in one deep, smooth thrust. The stretch was exquisite, a perfect, aching fullness that was more intense now, heightened by the new life within you. He stilled for a moment, letting you adjust, letting you feel every inch of him.
He began to move then, a slow, deep rhythm that was designed to stoke the fire, not extinguish it. Each thrust was deliberate, powerful, a declaration of intent. He was marking you from the inside out, a reminder of the claim he'd made in the workshop, a promise of the future you were building together.
“You're so tight,” he gritted out, his control already fraying. “So perfect. Made just for me.”
He leaned down, capturing your lips in a kiss that was both tender and possessive. He swallowed your moans, your cries, your desperate pleas for more. He was a man possessed, a god in his own temple, and you were his willing, eager devotee.
The tension began to build again, a slow, steady climb toward the peak. He could feel you fluttering around him, your body clenching in anticipation.
“Come on,” he encouraged, his tempo increasing slightly, driving into you with more force. “Come for me again. Show me you're ready for another one.”
He reached between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit, circling it with a pressure that was exactly what you needed. The additional stimulation was your undoing. The world fractured, your vision whiting out as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over you. You cried out his name, a hoarse, broken sound that was music to his ears.
“That's it,” he grunted, driving into you relentlessly as you convulsed around him. “So fucking beautiful. Take it. All of it.”
The feeling of you pulsing around him, the sight of you completely undone by him, was his tipping point. With a final, powerful thrust, he buried himself as deep as he could go and came, a long, shuddering groan tearing from his chest. He poured himself into you, a hot, possessive flood that felt like a promise. A promise of a future, of a family, of a love so profound it was terrifying.
He collapsed against you, his full weight a welcome anchor. You were both slick with sweat, panting, your hearts hammering a frantic duet against your ribs. He didn't move to pull out, he just stayed inside you, a tangible claim, a warm, living presence.
He buried his face in the crook of your neck, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses to your skin. His hands came up to frame your face, his thumbs stroking your cheekbones.
“Mine,” he whispered, the word a raw, reverent prayer against your ear. “You and them. All mine.”
“Yours,” you agreed, your own voice soft but sure. “Always.”
He finally shifted, rolling to the side but keeping you tucked securely in the curve of his body. He pulled the duvet over both of you, a soft, warm shield against the cool air. He propped himself up on an elbow, looking down at you, the possessive fire in his eyes banked to a soft, steady glow. He brushed a stray lock of hair from your forehead, his touch impossibly gentle.
“Get some sleep,” he murmured, leaning down to kiss you, a soft, lingering kiss that was worlds away from the devouring kisses from before. “You'll need your energy. I have a feeling the little ones are going to start planning their escape route soon.”
You smiled, a lazy, contented smile. “I'm counting on it.”
He settled down beside you, pulling you close. You could feel the steady beat of his heart against your back, a rhythm that was soon joined by two others, two tiny, flickering heartbeats, a promise of the chaos and the joy to come. The lumpy couch was a distant memory, a starting point for a journey that was just getting started. And as you drifted off to sleep, tangled in the arms of the man you loved, you knew, with a certainty that was as deep and as vast as the universe itself, that you were right where you were meant to be.
The morning began not with an alarm, but with a pop. A sharp, unmistakable internal pop, followed by a warm gush that soaked through your nightgown and the thousand-thread-count sheets. You gasped, your eyes flying open.
Tony, who had been lying awake beside you – because he hadn't slept through the night in months, always listening, always on guard – was upright before you could even process what had happened. His hand was on your stomach, his face a mask of fierce concentration.
“What was that? What happened? Are you okay? Is it them? FRIDAY, biometric scan!”
“I'm fine, Tony,” you managed, a laugh bubbling up through the shock. “My water just broke.”
The word “broke” seemed to short-circuit him for a second. He looked from you to the damp spot on the bed, and then back to you, and a slow, wide grin spread across his face. It wasn't a grin of panic. It was the grin of an engineer whose final prototype had just passed its most critical stress test.
“Okay,” he said, clapping his hands together once, a sharp, decisive sound. “Stage one initiated. Pack is on stand-by. Medical bag is in the closet. I have a pre-drafted flight plan to the hospital that avoids all known traffic patterns and potential electromagnetic interference. We are go for launch.”
You couldn't help but laugh. “You're ridiculous.”
“I am prepared,” he corrected, already out of bed and pulling on a pair of sweats. “There is a difference.”
The next few hours were a blur of controlled chaos. Tony was a whirlwind of efficiency, directing you with the calm precision of a mission commander. He had you changed, your bag packed, and was on the phone with the hospital before the first real contraction had even fully hit. As the pains began to build, a tightening band around your belly that stole your breath, Tony was there. He was your anchor, your coach, your entire support system rolled into one slightly manic, brilliant package.
He timed the contractions on a custom app he'd designed, the data points glowing in a soothing blue on a tablet screen. He coached you through your breathing, his voice a steady, low mantra in your ear. When a particularly strong contraction hit, making you dig your nails into his forearm, he didn't flinch. He just leaned in, pressing a kiss to your temple.
“Breathe through it,” he murmured. “You're doing great. You're stronger than any vibranium alloy I've ever seen. You're a force of nature.”
At the hospital, the controlled chaos gave way to the sterile, professional chaos of the delivery suite. The doctor, a calm, no-nonsense woman named Dr. Evans who had been thoroughly vetted by Tony, took one look at your chart and the positioning of Baby B, and made the call.
“Alright, team,” she said, her voice brisk. “We're going for a C-section. Mr. Stark, you can suit up. We're moving.”
Tony's face, for the first time, showed a flicker of something other than manic excitement. It was fear. A raw, primal fear. He looked at you, and you saw it there – the vulnerability he always tried so hard to hide.
“Hey,” you said, reaching for his hand as they prepped you, the anesthesiologist explaining the procedure. “It's okay. This is just Plan B. We're still launching.”
He squeezed your hand, a silent acknowledgment. He was quickly changed into a set of blue scrubs that looked alarmingly good on him, and then he was by your side, his presence a solid, comforting weight. The blue drape went up, blocking your view, but you could feel everything – the tugging, the pressure, the clinical efficiency of the team working on you.
Tony held your hand, his gaze fixed on your face, a shield against the sterile reality beyond the drape. He talked to you the whole time, a steady stream of nonsense and reassurance.
“So, I was thinking,” he said, as Dr. Evans announced she was about to deliver Baby A. “For the nursery, we could incorporate a photorealistic star chart of the Andromeda galaxy. Or maybe just a really good depiction of the Higgs boson. That's educational, right?”
You laughed, a little breathlessly. “Tony, focus.”
“I am focused,” he insisted. “I'm multitasking. It's a core competency.” He squeezed your hand as the pressure increased. “You're doing amazing. I love you.”
And then, a new sound filled the room. A thin, indignant wail that cut through the quiet hum of the machines.
“Here we are,” Dr. Evans announced, her voice filled with warmth. “Baby A. A little boy. And he's got a set of lungs on him.”
A boy. A son. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes. You looked at Tony, and saw him freeze. The constant, brilliant motion of his mind ground to a halt. He just stared, his lips slightly parted, as the nurses cleaned the baby behind the drape. He didn't even seem to be breathing. All of the planning, all of the schematics, all of the spreadsheets – all of it had been theoretical. This was real. This was a person. His son.
“Tony?” you prompted gently.
He shook his head, as if to clear it. He turned to you, and the look in his eyes was one of pure, unadulterated awe. “He's... he's angry,” Tony whispered, a disbelieving grin spreading across his face. “He sounds like he's already critiquing the acoustics in here. He's definitely mine.”
Dr. Evans' voice broke through again. “Alright, team. On to Baby B. He seems to be taking his sweet time.”
Tony's grip on your hand tightened almost to the point of pain. His mind was clearly rebooting, recalibrating for a reality he hadn't dared to fully imagine.
“Okay, here he comes,” Dr. Evans said moments later, her tone calm. “And... there. Baby B. Another little boy. And he seems a bit more philosophical about the whole situation.”
A second cry joined the first, slightly less indignant, more of a thoughtful complaint. Tony let out a sound that was half laugh, half sob. He let go of your hand, just for a second, to run it through his hair, a gesture of pure, overwhelmed wonder.
“Two,” he breathed, looking at you. “Two boys.” He leaned down, pressing a fervent kiss to your forehead. “You're a goddess. You've built me an empire.”
Then they were brought to you. Two tiny, swaddled bundles, placed on your chest. You looked down at them, your heart feeling so full it might physically burst. They were perfect. Perfect little strangers with dark, tufts of hair and tiny, scrunched-up faces. One was already quiet, looking up at you with wide, dark eyes that were unnervingly like Tony's. The other was still making small, disgruntled noises, his little fists balled up.
Tony sat on the edge of the bed, one hand hovering over each of them, as if afraid to touch, as if they might be a hologram that would vanish. He reached out with one finger, gently stroking the cheek of the quieter baby. The baby turned his head, rooting instinctively toward the touch.
A choked sound escaped Tony. He looked at you, his eyes shining, a tear finally breaking free and tracing a path down his cheek.
“What are we going to call them?” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion.
You looked down at your sons, the two little halves of your heart, and the names came to you, clear and simple.
“This one,” you said, softly stroking the head of the quieter, thoughtful one, “is Morgan.”
Tony's breath hitched. He looked from the baby to you, a slow, radiant smile dawning on his face. “Morgan,” he repeated, the name a benediction. He reached out, his hand covering yours on the baby's head. “Yeah. That's perfect.”
“And this one,” you said, looking at the feisty, noisy one who was already trying to punch his way out of the blanket, “is Eli.”
“Eli,” Tony tested the name, a grin spreading across his face. “Strong. Classic. I like it. I bet he's going to be the one who figures out how to reprogram my coffee maker by the time he's three.”
Morgan and Eli Stark. Two names. Two boys. Two whole new universes.
A nurse came to take them for their final checks, and Tony went with them, a protective, hovering presence. You were wheeled into a recovery room, the sterile scent of the hospital giving way to a softer, cleaner smell. The pain was a dull, distant ache, overshadowed by the profound, bone-deep joy.
Tony returned a few minutes later, a look of profound wonder on his face. He sank into the chair beside your bed, not saying anything, just looking at you. The manic energy was gone, replaced by a deep, quiet contentment.
“They're perfect,” he said finally, his voice soft. “Ten fingers, ten toes each. I checked. Twice. They've got your eyes, you know. The shape of them. But they've got my... well, they've got my stubbornness. I could already tell. Eli tried to short-circuit the warming lamp with a well-aimed kick.”
Years later, you understood exactly what he meant. The Stark genes were not a gentle suggestion; they were a tidal wave.
The house, once a sleek, minimalist marvel of glass and steel, had been slowly, methodically conquered. The living room, once a pristine expanse of white carpet, was now a landscape of Lego fortresses – architectural marvels of questionable structural integrity – and a half-disassembled Roomba that Morgan was convinced he could upgrade to achieve flight. The smell of solder was no longer confined to the workshop; it sometimes wafted from under the sofa, where a seven-year-old Eli had set up a small, unauthorized workbench to "improve" the remote control.
You'd come downstairs one morning to find Tony in the kitchen, not with his usual coffee, but with a fire extinguisher. A small, smoking crater blackened the granite countertop.
“I can explain,” he said, holding up his hands, the picture of innocence.
Before he could, Morgan shuffled in, wearing a pair of safety goggles that were far too big for his face. “My bad,” he said, with a casual shrug. “The polymer composite for the new rocket fins was unstable in the microwave. The data was inconclusive.”
You just sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Morgan. We've discussed this. The microwave is for defrosting waffles, not weapons testing.”
“But the waffles were my control group,” Morgan protested earnestly. “They didn't even melt.”
Tony was beaming, a look of unadulterated paternal pride on his face. He ruffled Morgan's hair. “See? The scientific method. I'm so proud.”
This was your life. A constant, low-level state of loving exasperation.
Eli was the quieter storm. Where Morgan was a constant stream of enthusiastic, if poorly contained, experimentation, Eli was a silent, focused force of nature. He didn't announce his plans; he simply executed them. You once spent an hour looking for your tablet, only to find it disassembled into over a hundred tiny pieces on Eli's bedroom floor. He was nine. He was trying to redesign the battery.
“I was optimizing for energy density,” he explained when you found him, not looking up from the microscopic screwdriver in his hand. “The original lithium-ion design is woefully inefficient.”
You didn't even bother to ground him. What was the point? His father would probably just smuggle in a superior set of tools and help him finish. You'd caught them at it once, huddled over a circuit board like two alchemists trying to turn lead into gold.
Tony never tried to stop them. He enabled them. He was their mentor, their supplier, their chief research and development officer. He'd buy them pallets of raw materials, set up child-sized (but fully functional) workshops in the basement, and debrief them at the dinner table about their failed experiments with the enthusiasm of a venture capitalist reviewing a hot new startup.
“And what did we learn from the toaster-hovercraft incident?” he'd ask, as if he were discussing a Harvard Business School case study.
“That horizontal lift is not achievable without a significant thermal updraft and a more resilient bread-cradle design,” Eli would reply, pushing his glasses up his nose.
“An excellent takeaway,” Tony would say, winking at you across the table.
You were the anchor. The one who made sure they ate vegetables, wore clean clothes, and understood that while it was impressive to recalibrate the home Wi-Fi to run at five times the standard speed, it was not okay to do it by rerouting power from the city's emergency grid. You were the one who held them when a brilliant idea resulted in a spectacular failure, who kissed scraped knees and wiped away frustrated tears. You were the soft landing in their world of hard physics and sharp metal.
One evening, you found the three of them in the workshop. Tony was on one stool, Morgan on another, and Eli perched on a workbench, all of them huddled around a complex-looking schematic. They were arguing, their voices a familiar, overlapping chorus of technical jargon.
“You can't just bypass the fail-safe! That's how we get singularity events!”
“It's not a fail-safe, it's an impediment to optimal functionality!”
“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” Tony said, holding up his hands. “Let's not forget the core principles of elegant engineering. Also, your mother will kill me if you open a black hole in the basement. Again.”
They all looked up and saw you standing in the doorway. Three pairs of dark, impossibly intelligent Stark eyes fixed on you, wearing identical expressions of guilty concentration.
“What are you three building now?” you asked, your tone weary but fond.
Eli pushed his glasses up. “A universal remote.”
“For what?” you asked, already fearing the answer.
“Everything,” Morgan said, with a grin that was 100% Tony.
Your husband beamed. “They're learning to consolidate. Efficiency. I'm a natural teacher.”
You didn't have the energy to argue. You just gestured toward the house. “Dinner's in ten. And Tony, if that thing can order a pizza, I'm taking away your credit cards.”
He had the decency to look chagrined. “No promises.”
You retreated to the kitchen, the sounds of their renewed debate fading behind you. You pulled a tray of lasagna from the oven, the rich scent of tomato and basil filling the air. The lumpy couch was long gone, replaced by a ridiculously expensive sectional that was, much to Tony's chagrin, stain-resistant. But sometimes, late at night, you could still feel the ghost of it, the memory of those desperate, hopeful nights.
You were setting the table when the lights flickered. And then they went out, plunging the entire house into darkness. A moment later, a single, holographic screen flickered to life in the center of the room. On it was a perfect, real-time image of the night sky, the stars brilliant and clear.
“Morgan, Eli,” Tony's voice echoed from the workshop. “Report.”
“The universal remote may have inadvertently accessed the main city grid,” Morgan's voice replied, sounding sheepish.
“Inadvertently,” Eli added. “The cross-protocol integration was more… seamless than anticipated.”
You sighed, leaning against the counter, a smile playing on your lips. The house was plunged into darkness, but in the center of your kitchen, a galaxy swirled, a beautiful, chaotic mistake born from three brilliant, reckless minds.
A few minutes later, the lights came back on. The holographic galaxy vanished. The three of them trouped into the kitchen, looking like a flock of guilty magpies.
“We fixed it,” Tony announced, wrapping an arm around your waist. “Power levels are back to nominal. I also took the liberty of rerouting 3% of the city's surplus energy to our hot water heater. We should have enough for a forty-five-minute shower.”
You looked at your sons, who were already arguing over who got the last piece of garlic bread. You looked at your husband, who was looking at you with an expression of pure, unadulterated love. The lumpy couch was gone, the pregnancy was a distant memory, the babies were now boys who built things that shouldn't exist. But some things never changed.
“You're ridiculous,” you said, but you were smiling as you said it.
“I love you too,” he replied, leaning in to kiss you.
Over his shoulder, you saw Eli surreptitiously reprogram the coffee maker with the universal remote hidden in his pocket. You just shook your head, a silent surrender. You had built an empire, all right. A beautiful, chaotic, brilliant empire.
And you wouldn't have it any other way.
GENERAL taglist: @mellowfurynight | @castielscaplan | @whatisanniedoin
TONY taglist: @dilfsbaby
Comment here if you want to be added to a taglist.
summary: you and bucky have always been close, close enough that everyone else noticed a spark long before you did. but after a shift leaves you both strung out, comfort blurs into something heavier, then when guilt tells him to pull away, you’re left fighting for the truth of what you did and what it meant.
warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut (first; not overly detailed, second; full on), fluff & angst, traumatic shift (not overly detailed), miscommunication, silent treatment, friends to something to lovers, arguments, confessions, mild dissociation (reader), bestfriend!bucky, emotionally repressed!bucky (wooow everyone act shocked), alcohol/bars, smoking, bucky smokes & it's implied reader does with him, switch!bucky, switch!reader, semi-public, making out, hair pulling (m&f!rec), dry humping, thigh humping, cumming in pants (f!rec), mean!bucky, whiny!bucky, uncut!bucky, tit worship, nipple sucking and pulling (james boobchanan barnes amirite), degradation (B wants reader to say mean things to him), the L word, lotus position, angry sex to sweet(?), missionary, clit stim, creampie, aftercare, showering together, sappy ending, no beta . . .
word count: 15.8k (i dont know either man...)
a/n: hey barbies !! it's babys first collab, and i can't be happier to be doing this with @stantastic-association !! thank you to the absolutely amazing @miraclediviner for creating this spectacular event, all the ideas, and graphics and keeping everything in check, thank you so so much mj :") and thank you to @metal-armed-muse for helping me with smart med stuff shdfsjsfh and @barnes-babydoll @phoenix-in-writing @buckytakethewheel for keeping me from going insane with this fic, although i think thats too late,, i love you all so so much, thank you for letting me be a part of this amazing and beautiful collab and group <33
just a little heads up, i'm from the uk and also not a paramedic or work in the medical field so i relied heavily on google and reddit when researching about paramedic shifts, clock ins, where ambulances sleep at night and whatnot,, if theres anything wrong i am so sorry i really tried :')
✴︎ i'm just an art degree having person, i dont know shit about this im gonna be honest, but i wanted to challenge myself, so i am so sorry to the smart people in the ER, and to paramedics themselves, for anything wrong :") i'll grovel istg.
✴︎ Nat is head nurse at the ER (and readers bestie), Sam is a nurse, and Steve is Nat's partner who's energy can be felt if you look hard enough :") paramedics are basically the new avengers (Ava, Yelena and John) (im so sorry Bob..)
✴︎ this is all from reader's POV except for one small tiny bit near the beginning, but from then on, the rest is all reader and i apologise in advance:')
The call came late in the shift. The kind that settled into your bones without asking permission.
Everything that came after moved too quickly and not fast enough at the same time, muscle memory carrying you both through while something essential lagged behind. By the time you were at the ER — voices loud and assertive, arms still carrying the sting and scrape of metal, plastic and sweat — the adrenaline burned at the edges, a hum on the edge of your skin, a live wire through your fingertips, and left a cavity where certainty used to lie.
The paperwork was finished. The rig was cleaned and the building smelt like sickly-sweet antiseptic and medical supplies. A sterile zing, one you had gotten used to after a few days now burns through your insides, as if to rid you of what occurred just minutes ago. And the city outside went on, undisturbed, breathing.
It was well past evening when you finished, the sun barely had time to say goodbye, as you walked out into the parking-lot with both hands cradling your midsection, head down, hoodie up and the warm presence of Bucky beside you.
His hair was a mess from his fingers combing through incessantly. Eyes dark, jaw set and clenched with words unsaid and memories replaying, but his hand set low on your back, a radiator almost, rubbing up and down each ridge as if he was trying to remind himself that despite everything, you're still here.
"I spoke to Natasha," he spoke low, voice crackled from the tightness and silence. "She said it's best I take you home."
You stayed silent, not thinking, your brain stayed silent ever since you passed your case along, watched them try and try and try, until it was too late and now you're both stuck with a ballpoint pen that keeps skipping and fingers that wont stop twitching. Your writing was borderline unintelligible, and the pads of your palms still burn from how hard you gripped the gurney bars.
"I feel like I should be stronger than this," you huff, a mimic of a laugh that comes out tired, impatient. "I feel pathetic."
"You're not pathetic. You don't need to be strong. Not here, not right now." he responds, never letting your words hit the ground and holds his hand out. "C'mon, gets go home."
By the way his words come, the warmth that curls around them, and you, how he spoke with sureness, quickly and strong, never giving your own doubts time to release fully before they were fought back with praise, comfort. Hope squeezed your lungs together like the tightest embrace, and never let go.
Red light streaked through the windshield, spilling on the tarmac in velvet tresses, covering your faces. Bucky's car stood still with only the whirring hum of the engine to soundtrack your awkward silences. It felt full, too thick.
You sat too still, knees knocked together, hands in your lap, picking at the skin around your nails. No radio tonight. Even with an empty car, the two of you couldn't stomach some shitty three minute commercialised industry plant. Your combined sighs and incessant picking of skin will have to do.
Bucky's right hand gripped the wheel at two, thumb impatiently drumming against the fabric, and his left hand held up his head, elbow on the door.
Scraping his palm over his salt and pepper beard, he sighs.
"You did good," he says. "Really good."
Though your chest burns with the need to speak, you don't reply. You just let the soft fire creep up your sternum and lungs.
"Everything you did today was on point, no mistakes, no mishaps," He shrugs with his hand, two fingers tap on the leather. "You were perfect. You should be proud of yourself, I know I am."
A breath hitches its way from your nose, harsh and quick, a sob that stuck and makes itself known vehemently, and you grimace at the way it sounded humoured. Bucky turns his head at the sound.
"I'm sorry." Rubbing your eyes of the sleep and dirt and stress that accumulated in the corners with a deep sigh. He places his hand on your shoulder in a reassuring gesture, peeling you back from your mind and into the passenger seat of his car.
He hums, "what for."
"Everything," you whisper. Letting the word lie, you expect him to find a way to reply, to reassure and find a solution to your desolate mood. But you find yourself sitting on in the silence you made. "I did everything right. But it didn't work."
This time the silence hangs clearer. Not man-made in an attempt at gaining soft words to pillow the fall, this time it stays still and works. Both of your brains sitting in on the rapt of earlier. Resolution wasn't what either of you needed, but it comes anyway. Only this time it's jumbled and frosted, and coming from the mouth of your best friend.
"As much as I hate to say shit like this, I'm gonna have to, so — I'm sorry if i cant find the right words," Bucky rasps, calloused palm scraping against his scruff, licking his lips, and he exhales. Deep and slow, letting it all out, and you cant help the tiny voice in the back of your head from murmuring 'ah, shit, not a speech'.
"Sometimes… things don't go the way we plan. We see a solution, we see the light at the end of the dark tunnel, but suddenly theres an obstacle we didn't see, a detour kinda…" he inhales, finding his footing, and it wheezes slightly in the back of his neck. "… and sometimes… sometimes that obstacle slows you down. Or sometimes, in this case, it wraps around your legs until you can't do anything but stay."
He winces slightly, appalled by his wording, how slow it comes, how his head tingles from trying to find synonyms and meanings. A grin points the edge of your lips. "What I'm trying to say is, the outcome is never what we expect it to be. Sometimes we have this image in our head of the perfect project, but along the line your tastes change, you hate a colour, so you choose a different one. Or sometimes, you scrap the project altogether. Your angry, sad, distraught, you should feel that way, you're human. But life has it's way of putting you through shit you didn't see comin'."
Staring out onto the street, you take in his words. Clumsy as they can be, over the years of your friendship with Bucky you've gotten used to his disorder and understand how to rearrange them into something slightly comprehensible.
"I liked the second one better." You hummed, eyes still glued to the watercolour of black, white and red against the dark street.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah," Nodding slowly, you turned to face him, smile still stuck to your lips. "And then you kinda referred to them as a 'project'. Very tasteful, Barnes."
He smirked lazily at your animated retort. Your words come humourless, sarcasm laced and sleepy, but they still had that sharpness you carried — that he loved. A scoffed chuckle fills the car and paints his face with smile lines and a colour, despite the red of the traffic light spilling overhead. It's contagious, and you cant fight the ache of your cheeks.
Once the light turns green, the attitude shifts. The laughter still ebbed around you both, but it felt like it was suddenly swatted away with a wave of remembrance, like you both had this need to stay composed and professional.
"I'll walk you in." He decides, shaking his head with the remnants of wit.
You run your palm over your cheek, feeling the warmth. Your eyes suddenly feel heavier, skin tighter yet so lose against your muscles you're not sure how to feel.
"You really don't have to." Slips out, lower than usual, you barely recognise your voice.
Everything feels… different. Yet the world keeps turning, his car keeps driving, streetlights still spilling against his arms, and the indicator keeps blinking with every turn.
"Please," he pleads firmly, edged with a wobble. A sound that tells you he needs this, maybe even more than you do. "Just… Please."
And you cant fight. Not him.
Not when a dull ache has been ruminating inside of your chest since the call, only to deepen and cultivate through the night.
He helps you inside. Takes your keys for you after he caught the tremor in your fingers, lets you rest against him when your knees felt too weak to hold — arm wrapped tight and securely around your shoulder, letting the hum of your buildings elevator ruminate as he presses a soft kiss against your head, whispering soft praises into your scalp, as if willing them to sink into your brain and keep.
Doing so well for me.
It's okay.
You're okay.
His hand squeezes the meat of your shoulder, a pattern of kneads against taut muscle and soft slides of his thumb against your hot collarbone. It makes you shiver in a way it never had before.
Your breath expels harshly, twitches of your lungs that quiver your ribs in his hold.
"Hey," you hear him say, hand clasping ever so slightly harder, "hey, look at me."
When you don't at first, he inhales your scent once more before he moves. Gently sliding his hand to your other shoulder, pushing you to look into his eyes as he tilts his head, his free hand finding your neck, your pulse, and caressing.
"Breathe in for me, sweetheart." He requests. You try, but the air gets trapped and sputters out. Your hands go up to push his own away, but instead they weakly circle around his wrists.
"C'mon, you got it, like this," Bucky inhales. The hand that rest on your neck finds its way to your jaw, then to your cheek, a mindless move to pull your sight from his shoes and into his eyes.
And you inhale. And exhale.
"There we go, just like that." The praise, though soft, hits you in every inch of your skin like tiny pin-pricks in each follicle. The warmth of his hand, his breath, his words, it all pulls over you like a wool blanket, like that one winter he made sure to use his break-time to check up on on you while you were sick, making sure you were warm, fed and relaxed, practically forcing a spoon into your face to get you hydrated and full of the proper nutrients, to get your eyes a little wider and joins less achy for tomorrows shift.
You both almost miss the ding when you get to your floor.
The walk to your apartment is quiet. Full. You can feel it all spill out at the edges once you shut the door and suddenly it all tips over. Contents gone, messy and everywhere.
Wires seem to get mixed up. Touches linger. Voices hush lower into murmurs and whispers.
Tension snaps like a taut rubber band, and comfort is the only thing the two of you need in that moment.
Years of friendship balling up into an combination of bodies — sweat, skin, tears, whispers and closeness you didn't realise could exist. Not with Bucky anyway.
Of course you had your fair share of quick crushes and epiphanies while he was by your side, but they all quietly dissipated with each new fling or relationship he brought into the mix. Nothing indicated reciprocation. So why stay at this bus stop when it had departed long, long ago.
Being needed felt so good.
You forgot to shut the curtains last night.
Bright morning sun filters through the panes, soaking your sleep ridden body in a glow that renders Bucky dumb. From the moment he woke up, warm from your body at his front, his arm tightly wrapped around your middle, face pressed into your hair that smelled like salt and sex, with the lingering scent of your vanilla shampoo.
Guilt hits like a sucker punch straight to the stomach, rattling up his chest, and blowing his knees, even while he was laying down. Getting up immediately, retracting himself as softly and quietly as possible, letting you bask unconsciously in whatever last night was. Whatever it became.
Putting his clothes back on his body, making sure to gather your own, throw them in your laundry basket and fold some fresher clothes for the new day at the end of your bed, he sat with a heavy feeling of remorse.
Last night was a mistake.
It shouldn't have happened. Not like that, anyway.
Too inebriated with adrenaline and 'too big' emotions; the both of you needed a vice to let it all out, and it just so happened to be each other — but Bucky can't, and won't, let himself believe that.
He insisted on walking you in.
He helped you with your keys.
He draped his arm over your shoulder, tucked you in close and whispered and pecked sweet nothings into your hair like it was just another day.
The coffee machine in your kitchen hummed as it filled your favourite mug. Bucky stared at the dark liquid as it filled the ceramic. Distant.
Silently praying the whirring wont wake you up, his brain replayed the way you looked underneath him. The way your lips felt, how you felt. Hands roaming with no destination, mapping new skin like this wasn't a fresh, quick adventure, but a finale, a place to call home, a place to familiarise.
His muscles tightened as they tingled with remembrance.
It was good. It all felt right, correct in a way nothing else he had ever felt before. But it had to have been because it was you.
Good old you, and your sullen, tired eyes that reddened around the edges with unshed tears. Back and shoulders arched into yourself, only to slowly uncover at his touch and voice. You, who always beamed each morning when your names were paired, as if it wasn't a regular, everyday occurrence, as if he didn't make sure to double — triple — check the sheet just in case he didn't read the name wrong. But how could he?
It's you.
Which is precisely why he gently makes your coffee exactly how you like it. Hands moving by their own accord, muscle memory working overtime while his brain tries to wrack around last night.
How you held onto him like you needed this, needed him. The soft whispers of his name mixed with sleepy praises breathed against his neck, shoulder and collarbone. Your hands roaming his body almost as if you knew it would end with detachment, like you wanted his skin pierced into your palms forever. How you asked him, so gently, voice laced with sleep and something so much deeper than he ever thought he'd hear from you, if he could stay, not move from his position on top of you, slowly twitching while you paced yourself back into reality with pulses that traced through his skin.
You wanted him to stay.
His warmth you craved, his weight atop of you, his skin, his presence, his body inside of you. You wanted it all.
And that's precisely why he places the mug on your bedside with a clink, careful enough not to wake you. Took one last, long look at your sleeping form. Unknowing of his internal dilemma.
And left.
The emptiness that comes after you wake up didn't deter you. You expected it, kind of.
Bucky has always been the type of person who gets into work bright and early, gets everything in check, memorise, recount, retain, as if he hasn't been doing this almost every morning for years. The routine helps him, and you know that.
The coffee was still warm, steam curling while your eyes adjusted to the creamy morning sun peeking through the window, and the first conscious thought of the morning is, 'i hope it didn't wake him'.
Friday busses are always busy, especially in the morning, but this time two of your usuals skidded past without a care of your hand waving out for them. Pure coincidence? Maybe they didn't see your hand, or maybe they're full and forgot to show it on the destination sigh.
Eventually, after your card failed once, twice, before finally going through with a huff from the driver. The road was bumpier, there were kids on their way to school way too energised this early in the day. And turns out you forgot to charge your headphones the night before.
Of course you did.
You clocked in mechanically, bones already awaiting the hours waiting to be endured. Flexing your head in a circle, ridding it of a readying strain, the building felt… off. It wasn't the kind that was spotted immediately, it was a feeling, an energy that laid itself on your shoulders like a perfectly content cat already cozying up while your back started to ache and it's claws poked.
At your locker, the hallway felt emptier, the room itself was only full with the incessant humming of the ventilation and pipes in the walls — a tune half unknown to you with the accustomed noise of yours and Bucky's lazy conversations, his body facing yours, leaning against the locker beside by his shoulder, arms and legs crossed, tired grin on his face while you ramble on about anything to keep your brain awake.
The thought crystallised. The routine, the meticulous rules he ran himself by all day, everyday, simply vanishing after twenty-four hours.
You didn't put it past him though. Last night was a lot. Mentally, physically.
As if to rid you of your doubts, you shook your head, taking a deep inhale of antiseptic and a floral zip of a Dollar Tree air freshener, masking the smell around with hopes and dreams.
The rest of the team greeted you like normal. Short waves, tight-lipped smiles, though this time, some had added a soft pat on the shoulder — a gesture you should find endearing, but it only just digs its fingers deeper into the wound.
Walker was the first to talk to you. Sat at the break table, legs up, fiddling with his watch. He looks up at the sound of your footsteps.
"Hey," He said, light like usual but it dipped like a question — interrogating — looking at you quizzically. "Aren't you supposed to be with Barnes?"
Stopping in your tracks, your boots squeaked against the linoleum. "Uh," you shake your head quickly in confusion, sputtering. "I don't know, am I?"
He scoffs amusedly, "I dunno, you two are like," he gestures, hands spread wide, interlocking his fingers once, then twice, before dropping them down onto his lap. "Y'know? So."
The sentence hangs, his voice echos quietly through the dead halls, bouncing off the walls while he waits for you to speak. But you don't. You just stand there, head tilting to the side as an open invite for more context.
So he adds in a mumble, staring back down at his watch. "Think he left already though."
"What?" The words slip out before you could try to catch them, and you flinch back minutely.
John catches on, tickled by your automatic obtrusion. He settles back with a sigh, bluffing, putting on a show of carelessness. "Left like a half hour ago—"
This time you don't even try to stop yourself from asking. "With who?"
Glancing back up, he grins, shrugging his hands up. "Check the sheet. You can even find your new partner."
Your stomach churned with the words — 'new partner'. Yet, still, anticipation flowed through your veins, and you couldn't keep moping like a puppy at the door.
"Huh."
Your head flinched back slightly, tilting to the side. Thumbing at your lip automatically, scraping across the skin in an attempt to rest yourself from picking at it.
He was on call. With Yelena.
"You okay?" a voice snapped you back. Eyes clenching shut for a moment before turning your head around to face Ava.
"Hm?" You squeak, "oh, right. No, yeah, I'm fine. Great."
Brows creasing, she crosses her arms lazily, leaning back on one foot, scanning you up and down.
You scowl. "Don't do that."
"Do what?" She asks, voice pitched innocently as a teasing smile cloaks her lips.
With a tut you turn back to the sheet, finger brushing against the paper. "That scanning thing you do with your eyes, like you can read my mind."
She pouts, hands over her heart. "So you do notice the little things, huh?"
Without looking away, you kick at her shin, chuckling softly.
She takes a peek at the sheet from beside your shoulder, humming in contemplation. "No Bucky today, huh?"
Your face pulls, "seems like it."
"Hey, it's okay," tapping your bicep with her knuckles, she tips her head back. "You're with me anyways."
Your chest eased at that. Ava was better than John. But then again, anyone is better than John. And Ava had this 'no nonsense' energy you absolutely adored and found intimidating in one giant cluster, and it sent your body tingling with readiness to get the day started.
But there was no familiarity. No comforting jabs, no inside jokes, no off-hand bets you'd always gasp at in disbelief (a smile always finding its way on your face), yet add a twenty to the pool.
"Come on," Ava clicks her tongue twice. "Better to get this started sooner than later. Let's shut that brain off, shall we?"
Shut your brain off it did. In the opposite way you had hoped.
The hours you had spent working alongside Ava, speeding down streets, rushing to a patients side, checking, working, calculating, pumping the heels of your hands against chests until your wrists ached. But along the line, once the coast was clear and the area seemed to let your body rest, you sat in the passenger seat silently, thinking.
It seemed to you like the majority of those back at the bay believed you were still shaken — rightfully so — and that little assumption had your chest scarcely easing.
You couldn't fault Bucky for leaving early, that was his routine, even during hangouts that turned into impromptu sleepovers, he'd wake up earlier than you to get ready for the day ahead, leaving you a text and a coffee in his wake.
That's what was missing. A text.
Heart picking up, thumping softly against your sternum, brows furrowed, you go for your phone and scroll through your notifications. Empty, apart from the occasional passive-aggressive instruction from the work group chat and a Facebook post from your mom (you'll get back to her later), it all seemed to be crickets from Bucky's side.
Sighing louder than you anticipated, you scroll to manually check your conversation itself.
You [7:16am]: See u at work B.
You [7:16am]: Bringing u some coffee btw. Deserveddd.
Yesterday morning seemed so far away. Reading back with a feeling of nostalgia that laid tainted and blackhole-like in your stomach, staring specifically at the little pink heart he had sent back as a reaction. The last sign of reciprocation through pixels before the day would inevitably wash you both up to shore, an island where only the two of you inhabit, and made nature take it's course.
Sure you weren't bright-eyed and bushy tailed, having seen the worst of the worst in your first few years, memories and shifts you buried in your brain so deep, you couldn't even remember them if you tried. But for some reason, yesterday stuck. The patient, the technique, the van ride, the whispered prayers of loved ones while you worked in the back, moving as steadily and quickly as you could with the rocking of the cab. The aftermath. The numbers that passed through your lips like a ghost itself, and the goddamn aftermath.
Cutting the thoughts off immediately with a jolt back, and you found yourself in the back of the van. Working on autopilot, hands moving with muscle memory, the tingles of used equipment still tingling on your palms.
You cursed under your breath, how long has it been? Did you dissociate that whole time? Flexing your fingers and patting down your hips, you realise your phone is still in your pocket, thanking the universe that the patient onboard the gurney was passed out, looked after well and seemingly looked like they were making a mends after you went and triple checked them over. The minor panic subsided and was immediately by the opening of the tailgate doors, listing off every bit of information and detail your unconscious mind miraculously retained, wheeling them down and out and into the anarchy that is the ER.
Instantaneously, as you moved about the bustle of bodies, Nat's eyes caught yours from the nurses' station. Standing up, she was leant forward, her weight on her palms that stuck to the desk, focused on lab results or a patient's medical history. It was as if her body was attuned to your whereabouts, finally waking up once you rushed through.
By the time the case was handed off, finding yourself strolling back through where you had entered, the scene ahead was practically unchanged. Only now, Ava seeped into the image. Cool as can be, her body slanted with her elbow to the desk that sheltered the computers while her free hand sat confidently on her hip, attention set on the redhead in front. She had a smile on her face, one that only came when gossip was shared, mouth slightly agape, eyes rocking up and down Nat's face.
Strolling past with a rigid exhale, a breath you hadn't realised you've been holding in for how long now, a hand curls it's way around your bicep. Voice, low and velvety, speaks before you could turn.
"You know, you could power an entire state with the amount of energy you're giving off."
With a playful tut and a smile, you tilt your head to the side and cross your arms. "Hello, good afternoon to you too, Natasha and Ava."
Returning your demeanour, she speaks with a classy intonation. "Hello and good afternoon, grumps," she smirked. "Now whats up with you."
You turn and nod to Ava, eyes squinting at her laid back manner. "What did you tell her."
"I had absolutely nothing to do with this," her eyes hold defence, nodding her head back in Nat's direction, "she can just read people. And to be honest you do have this energy."
"I do not."
"Yeah you do," Nat chimes back in, now holding you still with both hands on each bicep, scanning, analysing, brows taut, eyes wandering. "Was it the shift? You did look more shaken up than usual."
Without much of a pause, your lungs inhaling deep with frustration, eyes moving to the ceiling. Ready to deflect, to push away, build a wall higher than any skyscraper in Manhattan, complete with steel walls, bulletproof and all, but it all crumbles apart as Ava hums, tracing nonexistent patterns in the corian surface.
"Barnes did switch partners this morning."
As quick as her murmur came, Nat whipped her head to face her, only to start looking back and forth between the two of you, the hold of her hands becoming tighter and tighter. "Deliberately?"
"Ava—" You warn, praying the way you speak — tired and gritted — will help camouflage it into something softer than it actually is. Only it falls on deaf ears.
She hums again, a hint of amusement in her voice, song-like. "He's with your sister today."
As much as you want to let the topic go, let it lie and mend itself with the passage of time, the casualness of your two friends still pokes and jabs at your ribs like tiny pin pricks. Each easy slide of their tones, their quips, their treating your internal dilemma as nonchalant gossip, it's just another tough poke to the side that'll most likely bruise, and you'll have to endure the growing pain in fear of being a coward.
"Lena? Really?" As Nat's attitude morphs into something akin to scepticism, you try to push the pain aside. Her voice growing higher with curiousness, a scowl curling her lip even when she tries to hold it down.
Tiredness blankets you like a storm cloud, only just about half finished with your shift, and you realise now, with the new unauthorised information shared, this shift will last a lifetime. You can already feel it in your bones, and the way you barely try to debate. "We seriously don't have to talk about this."
And it was then, every ounce of you, you had left, completely left the building.
"Talk about what?" Sam's voice felt like a strike to the already blossoming purples and yellows from Nat and Ava. You love him, honestly, he's the first person you go to when you find some good, hot gossip that's burning on the tip of your tongue, begging to be free.
And that's exactly why, to the trio's hilarity, you groan obnoxiously loud, turning away, only to turn back to your spot.
"Bucky changed his partner this morning." Nat replied, low and conspiratorial, already plotting ways to talk to her sister off he clock with unsuspecting questions that Yelena will very much see through.
With a huff, Sam leans forward, palms braced on the counters edge, "And why would he do that?"
"Okay," Ava cut through, turning herself to you, closer, hands together, pointed. "Just walk us through yesterday evening."
A sigh wracked through your body, dragging a hand down your face. "He drive me home, like you told him to," glancing at Nat, who nodded attentively, silently asking for more, "he walked me in, and I didn't wanna be alone so he stayed the night."
"And that's it?"
"Yeah, basically," you suck in a breath, "he didn't text me this morning though."
"Huh…" Nat paced in her spot, "but did you text him at all?"
The silence was enough to answer.
"Sweetheart—"
"Listen I'll do it later," stepping back to address them all, you edge closer to Ava. "I'll update you or something, it's probably just because yesterday was a lot. I'll see you guys later, come on Ava."
The room moved without disturbance. Still breathed with frenzied bodies walking, jogging, hands moving without thought. Yet Nat and Sam just watch on next to each other as you and Ava scurry out through the doors.
"I bet twenty she and Barnes fucked."
Wheezing, Sam bowed his head, shaking it. "They just walked out the damn doors. You're cold, Romanoff."
"What can i say," she smiles and saunters backwards, "I like to play dirty."
"Hey, save that shit for Steve, he's not gonna be happy when you have to add another five to the jar." He called out to her as she turned, but she didn't look back. Red hair a beacon among the pack around them, her voice picks up.
"I'll make it up to him!"
After a couple days, you let it slide. Perhaps memories, emotions, muscle aches got the better of him and he needed some quiet. But his name seemed to find another, every single goddamn shift, while yours was stuck paired with Ava (not that you minded), and your days overlapped more-so than usual. Trying to find him around the station felt worse than trying to scout a glimpse of Bigfoot. His presence felt ghostlike, almost like a memory taunting you with the scuff of boots on linoleum, a hint of his aftershave in the locker room, all sharp and clean, sending your brain miles and miles away, back to your bedroom and the pillow that still carried his air like it was made for him. His voice sometimes echoes, only murmurs, nothing intelligible, your brain cannot process the words while they grasp onto his gruffness, right where it spilled onto your neck and the hinge of your jaw, just on the soft skin where it dips into your tendons.
You can still feel the warmth of it lingering. Especially after shifts that burned in your muscles and your head unfortunately laid too deep into your side, excreting his scent like the skin of an orange, reminding you that you did, in fact, text him after the shift. But his replies after felt vacant and unenthusiastic, so again, you chalked it up to him wanting to be alone.
But you tried not to let three words from forming after that thought. 'Away from you'.
He wanted to be alone, away from you.
Late nights seemed the most vacant over those silent hours. Your apartment, a place once full of joint laughter, a warmth that permeated even when his presence lacked amongst the soft pillows and handmade throws, and soft yellow lamps, it all seemed… empty. Your phone dared to buzz against your bedside table, even though you turned it onto 'do not disturb', too nervous to hear that ding of a notification. What if it's someone else? And it always is.
Natasha, ever the observer, caught wind of this sudden change between you and Bucky too quick for your liking, and understood how deep it truly was after the first day without him — something totally not lightly mentioned by Steve over takeout. Nat had a way of sniffing things out, too smart for her own good, and throughout the years (much to your chagrin) she's just gotten better at reading you. Even when it's through short two minute glances across the ER as you wheel in a patient, body running on stale gas-station coffee and burgeoning resentment. Try as you might to keep stats clear and hands steady, your eyebrows apparently have this minuscule taut the redhead can pull twenty different meanings from, just across the bay, and they're all correct.
And then there's Sam. Who wouldn't leave her alone until she spilled something. Even when he got most of the story beforehand, the man just didn't let up until someone broke, and even then you both knew he'd just take one glance at Bucky's tight jaw and immediately guess correctly, or corner Steve when he brings Nat her lunch and he'd spill. So there was really no winning. And in the ER, your business is everyone's business.
The mawkish scent of the bay hit's your gut even before you arrive.
"Incoming!" Speaking before your body could catch up, your entire nervous system, muscles, worked while you were put on standby, praying everything that came out of your mouth was eligible. "GCS 12 and dropping, heart rate 130, BP 90 over 60. twenty four year old male, MVA at 18:27, approximately twenty minutes ago. Blunt force trauma to the chest with a suspected flail segment… obvious compound fracture of the right femur. Diminished breath sounds on the left, and cool, clammy skin. Showing signs of compensated shock."
As if sensing your apprehension, Ava cut in, composed and ready. "Two large bore IVs started with a litre of saline running, and a needle decompression performed on the left side for tension pneumothorax." She nodded, eyes sharp on your own. You reciprocated, quick and tightlipped.
Once your presence was quickly filled by staff on hand — Ava moving to take a call outside — you found yourself leaning with your back against the brick wall at the side of the building. Head tipping back with a dull thunk, exhaling, you close your eyes at the feel of the early evening breeze. Light hues of yellows and oranged curtained the sky, and you let yourself bask in it for as many seconds as you possibly could.
Gravel crunched underfoot, pace quick, but not distressed, just determined. Tilting your head to the side, the bright flash of red coming closer to you settled a weight on you, yet you couldn't help the lazy smile that grew on your face.
She hummed before you could counteract, eyeing you like a cat, up and down, with a pleased smirk on her face, the kind that reads 'I know everything just by the way you're carrying yourself'.
"Still trouble in paradise?"
Taking one quick glance at her, you suck in a breath. The tiredness of the shifts, of the silence, of the week — even though it's only been a few days — hits you in a wave through your body. "I'm fine."
A singular, amused laugh claps back, "He still hasn't texted you back?"
"Who?"
"Don't 'who' me, you owl," she takes a small step forward, leaning beside you, voice lowering just enough to be heard through the hums and whirrs of traffic. "Steve mentioned earlier that Buck's been all weird and you look one second away from snapping your molars. And stop chewing the insides of your cheeks."
You swat her hand away with a groan as she tries to squish your cheeks.
"It's nothing," you sigh, hands folding over your chest, looking away from her gaze. "You know how he gets sometimes."
"Yeah, but he's never gets like this with you,"
Rolling your neck back, you shoot her an unimpressed, flat look to say 'that didn't help one bit'.
Sucking her teeth, she tapped your shoulder with the back of her hand, eyes rolling to the back of her head.
"Listen. Whatever happened — actually happened — big or small, I'm always here. So is Steve, and unfortunately by default, so's Sam," the soft attempt at humour works. Breathing out sharply through your nose, a tight, but real, smile stretches across your lips. Finally looking at Nat in the eyes, her own smile is warm. Cosy in the way that something familiar is, the way something tainted in autumnal orange and gentle grazes can be. "Just give it a little more time, yeah? He'll come around."
You sniffle, something you instantly regret with a shake of your head and murmur, but push through anyway. "Thanks Nat."
"Anytime," she replies, "Now back to work, you've got a long day ahead of you."
The next time you're back at the ER, Steve's there. A sight you rarely ever see during work hours, only if timed perfectly — which, when you're no longer next to his best friend, is scarce. His presence, though you saw him the week before, felt like a comet sighting. An eclipse in a way.
Only now, you weren't filled with delight at the sight of the blond. Not with him talking up close in hushed murmurs with Natasha and Sam.
Before you could walk up and greet the group, the redhead spotted you, and without a word, expression, or a goodbye to the guys, she was on you. Manicured hand pulling you by the bicep, down crowded hallways, weaving through bodies like it was an Olympic sport. Her face was stern, set in stone, and no matter your half-assed protests, and jokes of "it's nice to see you too!", she made no indicator of stopping, nor giving you any warmth back.
It was like third grade all over again. When your favourite teacher suddenly got stern with you one lesson, and all resolve would come tumbling down, and from then on til you left school, they were now just a teacher, and nothing else. But Nat is your friend. Albeit, terrifying sometimes, especially when you close off back into your shell and try to work shit out yourself, even when you both know that's not how you work. But she is still your friend.
Rounding a corner, your body flung slightly off circuit, boots squeaking the linoleum, scuffing the light blue with a dark grey smudge.
The closet clicked shut. Flicking the lock shut, more for theatrics than for any real purpose, Nat stared with taut brows and a confused glower. Hands snake their way to cross over her chest, she leaned back against the door with a cool ease you can, and will never get used to.
"I love you way too much and you know that. Sam is tired of you and Bucky's silences, and that's saying something. Steve won't stop talking about how tired he looks, and his default face is unimpressed and bothered. Keeps saying he's sighing like an old dog, snapping at people, hell, he's smoking more!"
Your chest does something torturous. Caves in on itself with a sound you never thought you could make. Your body sinks into the wall opposite her, spine curved, arms crossed, a mimic of Nat's powerful stance, only for it to fall weak and wet, as you turn your head to stare at the floor while your nose tingles.
Anger, frustration and anxiety start to creep up your spine. It wouldn't have gotten so bad if you both just… talked.
"I'm worried. You two were so inseparable, and now it feels like all of us are living with two ghosts who refuse to move onto the afterlife even though you both hate the house you haunt. Steve and Sam can't get a goddamn lick out'a him, and you're here," she motions you up and down with a lazy hand, "I don't even know what you're doing. 'I'm fine', 'don't worry'… Fuck, i know i said to give him time, but at this point Sam and I are so close to pushing you both into a closet, locking the door and making you sort it out."
Silence spreads in the closed off space. The only thing you could hear was your heartbeat in your ears. Guilt spread through your veins like poison, and your stomach rolled.
"I love you. So does Steve and Sam even though they never say so. But they, we, also love Buck. And we care so much about you both, and your friendship, and we don't want this to split anything up — especially if it's over some childish bullshit, you know?" She lets her words sit for a few seconds before continuing. "So please. Spill."
The throb up your nose worsened, ascending up to an ache in the inner corners of your eyes, darkening the skin around your cheeks.
"That Thursday… a week ago or something, you know," you mumble, voice croaky and whiny, your gut clenched with how embarrassed you felt. Childish. Barely able to take your eyes off the floor, and through the blur of unshed tears you see her nod for you to continue. "It was stressful. It—I, we—"
Hands cradled your shoulders, albeit cold through your shirt, but the temperature helped to mix with your warming cheeks and flushing body, as with her soft voice when it came.
"Breathe with me, hun," she exaggerates her inhales, eyes widening until you follow shakily. "In and out, that's it. Take your time, we can work this out together."
You tried. Staggering the first few breaths, breathing too quick and short, but Natasha stayed still and quiet, letting you gather yourself in your own time. After sputtering, covering your face with the back of your hand, trying to hide yourself behind tightly shut eyelids, you finally find your footing. Humming to find your voice, whispering the first utter of the situation you've been cruelly holding tight to your chest.
"Bucky gave me a ride home," you swallow, jaw clamping shut, you breathe a couple more times, feeling the next few words in your mouth before setting them free. "… and we had sex."
"Halle-fuckin-lujah."
The confession was still fresh. Warm in the confines of the tight four walls you both occupy, but the redheads bluntness swatted the squishy texture until it rid and became something hard and natural, and something… normal. You hated it.
"Nat."
The look on her face was an accumulation of happiness, irritation, and impatience. She scoffed, almost scorned by the casualness of this secret.
"What? We've been praying for this since you two were rookies, and Sam owes me twenty," She jabs, trying to fill the tiny supply closet with a lighthearted joke, but it falls a little stiff.
She sighs, "look, I know this may seem like the end of the world, but Bucky's just," she waves her hands trying to find the words, "stupid. He's doing this shit to process his feelings and this new dynamic you two created — also, this started, what? The call on Sixth?" Her voice lowers, tentative and almost motherly.
Nat's hands stay firmly on your shoulders, not in a vice grip, soft enough to say 'you can leave if you want' but tight enough to let you know this means business and you'll want to hear what she says. Her head dips, trying to hold eye contact.
"From everything the boy's have been huffing about, he most likely feels conflicted. That was… a night," she exhales harshly, "I saw the way he looked at you while you were handling paperwork. He cares. Maybe a little too much, but fuck, he really cares."
When you look up, all you see is comfort.
"I'm not saying the way he's handling this is correct or healthy, or even remotely okay, but… It's just what he does, and it's so aggravatingly him and it's dumb."
The edge of your lip points. "He is dumb"
"The dumbest," squeezing your shoulders, she shakes you softly. "Listen, Steve and I are going out after tomorrow's shift to that bar on First — shit, what's it called… the one with the karaoke?"
You chime in, voice still croaky, whispering unevenly, "The Plum Tree?"
"That's the one," her smile broadens. "Come with us. Sam'll be there, Lena and Ava too —"
"And Bucky?"
She chuckles lightly, fidgeting, but she stays collected, like this is just a tiny bump in the road and she has all the tools to fix it. "Steve's already on it. Placed a few mentions of the name here and there, said 'beer' one too many times—"
"Are you… using subliminal messaging?"
"Potato Potahto," she dismisses with a flick of her wrist, already edging backwards to the door. "In no time it's all gonna seem like it was his idea to go out."
"Wait but what will I —"
"My love, I'm begging, do not worry," flicking the latch, she opens the door and the flood of chatter and beeps is back to dull your senses. "Everything you need and want to ask will come. Don't dwell on it, even though i know you will, but Steve and I've got it. We're smart."
"Sure you are."
"Oh, was that a little sarcasm?"
"Shut up"
The bar is livelier than you expected, even though it was a Friday and it's just started to drizzle. You arrived alone and on foot, hoping to get at least a little bit of alcohol in your system just to pump yourself up and get your confidence boosting. You opted for comfort too, a casual long-sleeve and jeans combo, though the weather called for a jacket despite the nearing warmth of the sun whenever it peaked midday. The chill never ceases to bite once her company has gone. And you have an intimation something else might sink their teeth into you later.
Warmth evaded your senses, heat from bodies; familiarity in almost every corner of the place, groups of fours or more occupied booths, whereas couples stayed put by the bar. Amber lights basked on their skin, washing everything in a dark orange that felt more intimate than it needed to be, mellow and harmonious. It felt like a joke made at your own expense.
Slipping your way through, you locked onto Sam who sat at a booth. Wooden table stained with rings of condensation and carvings from years of use, half drunk glasses and cups sat atop, ice melting, dripping onto the surface and you have half the mind to collect a bundle of coasters. The acrylic sheets of maroon that coated the seats looked worn in, and well loved.
It wasn't until you neared closer to the man you saw that beside him was Ava, and in front sat Yelena.
"And here she is."
Sam's bright voice followed through the music overhead, tickled, his smile carried through. You grin despite yourself, and took the empty spot next to Yelena as she scooted to give you room.
Scanning the table with squinted eyes, you sigh. "So was this all a ruse to get Bucky and I locked in the same room?"
Hushed mutters and mumbles of 'maybe's and 'perchance's hum across the table, and Sam completely diminishes your smug with a push of an untouched bottle. "Just drink your drink."
You have no choice but to huff out a chuckle mixed with disbelief and something akin to feeling impressed.
Taking a well needed sip, letting the coldness, the fizz, the alcohol do it's work. "Where's Nat and Steve?"
Chiming in, speech slurred slightly — not from alcohol, but from drowsiness — Yelena grumped out a sound with an elbow to the table, closed fist against cheek. "Back alley with the perpetrator. Probably on his fourth pack of the day."
You wince ephemerally, catching the slight turn of your face, but the blonde is quick to catch it and try to backtrack.
"I'm sorry. He's just been so — God, shit, I don't even know —"
Ava watches on amused, and meanwhile Sam just sips this beer, looking out behind you, like it's a regular night.
"Lena here, thinks you hate her."
The sly lilt of Ava's teasing has you perking up in your seat. Tilting your head in question, eyes widening. Your hand mindlessly moving an inch closer to her as if to comfort. "Lena, please, I don't hate you."
"Good! Because really, I had no say in the matter," she mumbled into her cup, taking a gulp. "It was like babysitting an thirteen-year-old emo kid who had his first heartbreak. Sad. Made my arms hurt."
"Poor boys been sulking for a week."
You hum unamused at Ava, sarcasm dripping from your lips as you take another sip. "I wonder who's fault that might be."
"Oh, he knows." Sam quips, sarcasm filled the words he spoke, but the truth remained clear and deep. Glancing back and forth between you and the space over your shoulder, he straightens. Nodding to himself, to you, with a tight smile, trying to make light but you saw the hardness inside of it.
Taking another sip, a hand slides over your shoulder, making you lock up, only for a voice, ever so familiar and velvety, to murmur beside your ear like this was a stakeout. Clandestinely working with the grace of a spy. "He's outside. Talk to him."
You wince into your drink, groaning into the spout as you swallow. "Nat, come on—"
"Talk to him," she declares. Eyes widening, voice dropping with seriousness you only ever heard when she was on the clock, "or I swear I will drag you outside myself."
You scrunch your face with a huff, pushing yourself out of your seat with a squeak. "I hate you."
Without as much as a glance back, hearing the softness in your words despite the bite, she slips into your spot. "You so love me," she smiles. "And you'll love me more after this!"
The smoking area smells like old ash and rain. Bucky’s leaning against the farthest wall, covered by the smallest of awnings, watching the rain fall with his arms crossed, legs stretched out with a kind of composure that jabs you in the chest.
There's a warm light above him, a curved fixture that spotlights over him, making him like some kind of divine presence. The smoke he exhales trails off above him, dancing around his head and it makes you think of a halo.
You should hate him.
Your chests grows tighter as you just stand and watch him, all casual, all him with no audience. After not seeing him after a week, it felt torturous how your body immediately reacted. Emotions ended up manifesting to physical aches, tightening in your biceps and gut. Besides that, the worst part, it seems the little dog in your brain — the one that latches onto familiarity like a chew toy, holding it in your locked jaw, growling at anyone who dares to take — remembers that night like it was yesterday.
The tightening in your gut coincided with another feeling. It coiled and dragged, too sensitive and delicate, your breath hitched when you felt the first wave wash down and spill in your underwear.
A cigarette hangs from his lips barely halfway done before he sees you, silhouetted by the light of the frosted windows and outdoor lights, and holds it in his fingers.
“Nuh-uh, nope,” he mumbles the second he notices you. “I'm not doing this right now.”
A sigh slips out, small and steadying. You could already feel your eyelids drooping from tiredness.
From knowing how this will go. From being in his presence again. From the week you've had. You couldn't count all the possibilities on one hand, so you push it down and decide to make Nat and the group at least a little bit proud, and rip the bandage off.
"Too late," you draw out, inching closer slowly, testing the waters. The playful hint you always kept for him slipping out, but you catch it quickly before you could finish. "We have to, or all of them back there are handcuffing us together for the next week."
Silence.
You don't expect him to talk immediately, but there's something about this particular stillness that makes your gut tense more.
You let the rain, moved from a drizzle to a downpour, orchestrate the moment.
"Bucky, why didn't you just talk to me."
The quiet stays, though now you understand he wants to fill it. It pulls harder and hits thicker after you speak. And you can see his chest move inwards on a breath.
With a ruffle of his jacket as he shrugs briefly, a scratch of the back of his neck, an awkward, a smoke, and breathy chuckle he does when he doesn't quite know what to say. So you let him stew, like how he did to you before, only this time a minute of your withdrawal feels like years to him.
"I'm a coward."
"Not good enough."
You almost flinch at the harshness of your voice. Almost cower in on yourself and apologise, but you stand down. You stopped just in front of him, close enough that he can see the tiny movements of your face, the tightness of your jaw, and the stare of your eyes, how the honey coloured lamp above him colours your irises, but far enough that theres an obvious space between the two of you — there is now a distance, and he should notice and want to fix.
"Okay," he sighs, minutely amused, "but it's the truth."
"Okay, so, I'll reword," shuffling in your spot, your arms tighten over your chest like a physical barrier. An added wall to the stretch, and you can just about see his restraint start to fray. "Why did you shut me out for an entire week without a word?"
He chuckles again, breath and smoke swirling in front of him as he flicks the cigarette out into the rain.
"Sweetheart—"
“See, because from where I’m standing, you fucked me and then decided I was too fragile to deal with the aftermath.”
You don't shout, but the truth comes louder than expected and you're both glad no one else occupies the space with you.
"No," he straightens, jaw clicking, “I took advantage of you.”
This time you chuckle, “that's bullshit, and you know it.”
“You were shaking.” He replies, voice unshaken and fair.
“So were you!" You counteract louder and frustrated. As you lick your lips you check yourself, lowering your voice back to something that holds structure. But Bucky knows you, knows you completely and, as of recently, wholly. The watches the space between your brows crinkle and the way your right cheek hollows as you scrape your teeth against it. "We'd just worked a long shift, Bucky, and a really shitty one at that. That doesn’t make us incapable of… of consent. Of wanting something.”
“You weren’t thinking clearly.”
A groan almost slides up your throat. Tipping your head back with your eyes closed, drawing in a breath that tastes too much like warm rain and earth, and the fatally addictive scent of his aftershave and cigarettes that sunk into the fabric of his clothes and skin.
“You don’t get to say that,” you mutter, stepping closer. “You don’t get to strip me of my agency because it makes you feel better about bailing.”
"I didn't bail," His hands curl into fists at his sides, only for him to hold them up, palms out. Another barrier. “I’m trying to not be the kind of guy who—”
“Who what?” you interrupt. “Who fucks his coworker and, what? Regrets it?”
"Oh?" His eyes flash, widening a fraction and he just about stutters on his words. “Oh, 'coworker' now? Are you kidding me?”
“Don’t do that.”
“Don’t do what?” He steps closer, never minding the space, the makeshift restrictions you both created wordlessly, his eyes dark, voice low. “You’re the one who keeps saying it like that word didn’t mean something different two weeks ago.”
“That is not what I meant." You could laugh. Annunciating each word carefully, feet planted to your spot, tipping your head like it was the only part of you that wanted to be closer to him.
“Sure sounds like it.” His jaw tightens again, ready to bite. “Funny how it’s ‘coworker’ when you’re mad, but — oh, when you were pulling me in by the shirt—”
"You're fucking mean." You swallow, eyebrows furrowing deep as anger flares hotter.
“Yeah?” He asks, stepping closer, voice rising, rough around the edges. “Say it again. If that’s all I am to you, say it to my face.”
Your pulse thunders, anger buzzing so loud it makes your hands shake. “You’re such an asshole.”
His eyes flick to your mouth, dark and heated. “Then why are you standing right here?”
You scoff incredulously, still unwilling to move, standing ground like a stubborn horse.
"Get in my face."
Something in you snaps. Tiny, but it snaps nonetheless. You tip your head back, hand wiping down from your eyes to your neck, anger sparking hot, you almost shout. "Oh, Jesus Christ —"
"Just me, sweetheart, and I'm serious," he steps closer than ever, repeating the same line again like a mantra, a demand for something, a plea of sorts, but you don't want to dig too deep into it. "Get in my face."
So you do. One step forward, boots knocking on his own, chest to chest, air exhaled becomes his, and suddenly you feel warm and clammy.
Your eyebrows tighten as you look up to him. His perfect eyebrows, the harsh crinkle of crows feet beside his eyes, those azureous pools that maliciously make your stomach flip even know. They warmed in the golden lamplight, almost a sea foam green.
His pupils flickered then, and it all snapped.
His hand fists in your jacket and he hauls you in, mouth crashing against yours with zero finesse and all intent. It’s rough and hungry, all teeth and pressure and pent-up frustration finally given somewhere to go. His kiss tastes like tobacco and anger and it ached underneath.
You make a sound you don’t recognize and grab him back just as hard, fingers digging into his shoulders like you’re trying to anchor him there, merely to plant onto his neck. Bucky kisses you deeper, sloppier, like he’s furious at the distance he created that ever existed at all.
His teeth scrape your lip. You bite back, breathless and unyielding.
"You," you murmur against his lips breathlessly, "you are so mean."
But he doesn't stop. The hands that had crumpled into your clothes rummaged up to your face, cupping your cheeks with a soft reverence that spread molten through your entire body, forcing another noise from you that he swallowed entirely. They tangled into your hair, keeping you in, holding you steady.
"I know, I know," he whispered back, lips never letting up, hands cradling you gently, one back to your cheek while his other held you by the nape of your neck. "I'm the fuckin' worst."
Nodding in agreement, you hum, your own hands finding purchase back on his shoulders and down his front, smoothing down his chest.
His soft lips mapped with earnest obedience, slipping away without a notice or protest from you. Pecking the edge of your lips, to your cheeks and temple, before moving downwards, slow and steady, memorising the way you feel, sound and taste as he licks, nips and sucks at the skin of your jaw and neck.
"Awful… just," a broken, breathless sigh leaves your mouth as he grazes the soft spot just beneath the hinge of your jaw, making you ball your fists into his front. "God, the worst."
Bucky grunts, feeling a heat accumulate where you both begin to ache, and he finds himself already in too deep to care, and his lips find yours again, bruising.
The brick crumbles and catches against your back as you both writhe, hands with no destination cling onto any surface and inch of clothing, your fists clench around his shirt, creasing the fabric, trying to pull him closer into you as possible.
Without preamble, Bucky's knee knocks into your own, hastily pushing them apart with a grunt into your mouth to which you steal gratefully, the vibration lingers on your lips and tongue. This dance the two of you follow, a new creation of the nights lingering need and unabashed desire, all made up on the go, seems to fall together so perfectly, even the clumsy shoves and hums and touches hard enough to leave tiny yellowed bruises seem so purposeful.
His fingers trail down your body and through your belt loops, keeping you secure in his palms as he pushes you down, just a slight crook to your knees atop of his thigh with a groan. Splitting from your lips, his breath strokes your ear.
"C'mon, that's it," he praises as your hips grind, denim on denim, "take it out on me, right here."
Your fists ball tighter, and a whimper falls from your slacked jaw from a strong mix of arousal, annoyance, forgiveness and punishment.
It's not him. Well not fully. It's his thigh, his thigh that's covered by denim, against you, who's also covered. The barriers of thick cloth makes your head thunk back onto the wall, but your hips never stop their movements, nor can they stop with Bucky's strong grip guiding them to and fro. The warmth of them tightens your chest, and your hands fall to them, holding his forearms, his wrists — to keep you steady, grounded, or to just touch some semblance of his skin.
You watch his eyes through heavy lids, staring down at where you frot, how you arch into him instinctively, how your nails dig into his skin without remorse.
"You're such… an asshole." You pant shakily, and he finally looks up. When he does so his grip tightens, making you grind into him, hips to hips, harder, slower, than before, and you can feel the obvious hardness of his cock tented beneath his zipper against your hip.
"I know."
You scoff weakly, "I didn't even wanna be out here."
"Understandable."
"I hate you." You bite. It's sleepy under the haze of lingering nicotine and liquid courage, but the nip is there, nonetheless. And the worst thing is, he smiles. Something that makes your heart flip inside of your chest, cracking beneath your ribs, thumping so hard, you lick your lips and clench your jaw.
"That's good to know, sweetheart," he huffs, smirk wobbling for half a second before correcting itself. "Fuck, say it again."
"I fucking hate you," you repeat, harsher than before, cutting to his chest but it feels good all the same. His arms move faster, bucking his knee up as he whispers approval in the heady air around you and against your sticky skin.
You move your hips in time, missing the short but momentous touch of his clothed cock against your hip. The note of you doing something to him, making him turned on — this turned on — brings a whole new wave of wetness to pool in your panties and ache to your already stimulated clit.
"The worst person ever… leaving me like that." You're half-gone and just about ready to cum. Thighs trembling around his own, hands shaking against his shirt, and your teeth chatter from the excess adrenaline.
Completely forgetting where you were.
As his name whispered past your lips, escaped by a sharp exhale against his neck, your movements were suddenly halted. Bucky's hands had moved you up, just enough for you to miss the friction, to drive you to the edge, and have it tingle and linger.
"Buck," you started, a hiss between your teeth as your nails dug into his skin. "Bucky, what the fuck?"
He sighs, unmoving from your temple. "You deserve better,"
"Jesus Christ, Barnes."
"I'm serious," one hand moves from your belt loop, tangling itself within your hair, keeping you close — scared of you running, of watching him undo himself in front of you. You feel him exhale shakily. "Not… Not in your jeans in the middle of some alley. I want you to cum on my cock again."
With a wobbly, breathless chuckle, you shake your head. Disbelief washing through you. "Bucky."
"Please sweetheart," his tone lingers on whiny, pleading, a complete contrast of his earlier disposition. His hands held tighter, fingertips digging deep enough for your ribs to stutter. "Please, I wanna feel you again."
The trembling of his breath, his body softly reeling against yours with leftover adrenaline, you couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt against your chest. For what, you have no clue — it's stupid, really — so you shove it down, exactly like you have for the last few days.
His gentle pleas lodged deep inside of you, pinging a new ache in your abdomen, making you feel cruel and hot.
"With the week you've put me through, I deserve this shit," pushing your hips back down, you're so glad Bucky had the gall to move one of his hands away, giving you less strength to fight against, less weight to push, and you find yourself stationed back against the thick plain of his thigh. "You started it, right here, so you finish it, Bucky," a strangled choke breaks from his lips, the hand that stayed stationed to your hip readying.
"Make me cum in this alley, and you can finish where we left off last week," you whisper. Meanwhile, Bucky stays still like your words lodged him into place, sifting through his brain, so you give him a little nudge with your own knee against his tent. Just a split second of boiling bliss, before you moved it away. "Deal?"
He wheezes. An unfortunate sound, sweet yet sharp and it reminds you of all the cigarettes he smokes, and the ones you'd share on nights where shifts hung tight and heavy on your shoulders, where you would lose track of how many beers you drank and laugh a little too loud on the fire escape. And though it's only been about a week, you missed it ever so badly.
But in that moment, the pious hums were gone, and left was the Bucky Barnes you'd only ever imagined when he'd invite the latest girl he was seeing on a night out with you and your friends — the Bucky who liked to chase and challenge, the one who had the kind of hunger in his eye that would glint insurgently. Even when the attitude wasn't directed at you at those times, it still sparked a light up your spine. And it was wholeheartedly and perfectly worse now it was for you, and only you.
Smirking, he glanced away for a split second. Back to the door where anyone could walk in to see your position, and he shrugged. "Deal."
The drags, starting slow, almost teasing with how measured and deliberate they were, drawing out the pleasure in long stretches, quickly accumulated into short bursts of need and attention.
Pulls turned to grinds. Tiny jolts of your hips on his lap, moving yourself in his hold as much as you could as he pushed.
Slick puddled, wet and sloppy between your thighs and words felt like water in your hands. Slipping from the crevices that was your lips in quick, unintelligible mumbles and whispers. Your eyes glossed over, unfocused, rolling up to look at the sky as if you were ready to ascend straight to heaven.
Your hold tightens, nails leaving deep, dark red punctures in his arms while you work yourself over the edge. Gasping, grinding slower with the help of Bucky, his breath glues to your neck with praise so sweet it just about prolongs the feeling of ecstasy.
"That's it, good girl," he draws out, holding you down, letting your senses fire up as pleasure ebbs into overstimulation. "So beautiful. So good for me, God, you're beautiful."
He whispers against you, around you, letting the breeze of the night carry them against your flushed cheeks as you come to. Bottom lip pulled between your teeth, eyes slacked but they stared unto his face as he slowed down to a stop.
You looked wrecked.
You were wrecked.
"You…" catching your breath, your mouth opened, never wandering your gaze from his face that now looked down on you with wonder. "You brought your car… right?"
He nods. Lips parting, only to close, wet and red.
"Deals a deal," You tap on his wrist twice with a smile, one too sweet for the moment shines on your face and fills your cheeks, eyes glinting with leftover pleasure. "Let's go to my place. "
The drive home felt like déjà vu. Quiet and loaded all the same, now its filled with a different kind of adrenaline. It wasn't a mystery this time, the universe wasn't pulling cards with a hand over its eyes, now it was clearer.
Anticipation thrummed through the vibrations of the engine. Words seemed too much and not enough, both of you too worried about scaring off the other, even though you both knew that this was it. Permanently and irrevocably.
The elevator ride wasn't filled with soft spoken words and comfort, this time it felt telepathic. Leaning against the handrail on the further wall, watching the red light counting floors flicker by, while in the corner of your eye you could see him looking. Watching you feign casualness with a soft smile on his face. You wanted to slap it off him, and kiss it better all at once.
Once you got to your floor, to your door, all reserve fell through the cracks in the floor boards.
Lips finding yours in a breathless mess, moving you blindly until your back hit the wall, holding your head in his hands like something precious, because to him you are, and he's not making any mistakes ever again. Humming into the touch, he takes the opportunity to run his tongue across your lip, before deciding to jump the gun. One hand moved backwards, finding the same position from back in the alleyway. The hand that rest on your cheek stroked with a loving calmness that contrasted to the way his mouth had you, and how his other hand — now threaded through your hair — pulled, causing your mouth to open with a gasped moan. He dove in.
His hands move with a sharp purpose. Sliding through the opening of your jacket, it slipped and hit the ground with a clink of the zipper, his own following, and his palms smoothed over your face once more before grazing down. Curling lightly over your neck, squeezing at the sides just enough to have you feeling light and desperate.
You tugged him closer, moving back into your home while you both became a messy bundle of hands. Touching and groping with fervour.
Bucky didn't let you get so far, pushing you back by your hips and pulling your shirt up and over your head, leaving you in just your bra and jeans.
"I missed you." He muttered as he kissed up your cheek and down your jaw. A sentiment slipped out before he could stop and inspect it. As if to divert your attention, he cups your breasts, nipping and licking at your neck.
You arch your back at the feeling. His jaw scraping raw against you, the heat of his mouth, the marks you'll see in the morning. The way he squeezes your chest just right, pinching your nipples over the fabric, making you arch into his hold.
Coasting your hands down to his jeans, you cup his crotch, palming leisurely as you feel it twitch under the thick denim.
"Fuck, don't do that," Bucky groans loudly as his hips jerk into your touch. "Please, baby."
"But you look so pretty." You whisper back, dragging your palm over him once more before holding his hips.
"You're trouble."
His hands don't let up their grip, holding, massaging, until he sneaks a hand behind you and unclips your bra with precision you file into the back of your mind for later. You push his shirt up. He helps you, tugging it off, while you slip out of your bra and quickly unbutton your jeans.
"Oh, Jesus Christ." Bucky pauses for a moment, caught in a trance, watching you unzip your fly and slip out of your pants and underwear. Watching your breasts, the way your hair covers your face messily, all before snapping out of it when your arms extend outwards to unbutton his jeans.
You giggle softly under your breath at his exclamation, and how his fingers start to fumble over yours as you both try to get his pants off.
"You okay, Buck?" You tease, staring up at him, pushing his pants down his thighs. Its then you find yourself on your knees, helping him untangle his feet from the legs.
Lips parted in harsh breaths, ears tinted pink, chest wobbling as he tries to steady himself. Bucky is conflicted between two scenarios: Watching you take him in your mouth, have you choke so beautifully around his cock, see how you look with your eyes and nose all red while you swallow around him, taking all his load. Or take you to bed.
As much as he wants to, even when people find he's such a selfless man. Bucky often finds himself in moments of weakness, a reminder that he is a part of the male species. But this time, he chooses the latter. "Sweetheart, c'mere."
With hands finding your face again, he doesn't miss the gentle confusion that washes your features. Your hands stuck on each of his thighs as he tries to hold you up, shushing your protests quickly.
"I wanna fuck you, on your bed," he clarifies, stroking your face, "I would take you on the floor, right here, but I don't think you're neighbours would appreciate that. And I wanna do this proper." He chuckles lightly with a wonky smile, thumbs tracking over the apples of your cheeks again as you whine but comply.
Once you stand at full height, he runs his big hands down your body. Cupping your breasts once again, thumbs circling your nipples as your breathing picks up, watching them harden, before giving them a lazy pinch as he trails lower and lower, down your waist, circling to your back, and finally resting at your ass. He massaged playfully, pulling you closer to his chest.
You sigh theatrically, "You're such a mean man, Bucky."
"Am I?" Tilting his head, he pouts, "talk to me, sweetheart. How am I mean?"
"First of all, you — Oh!" With one last squeeze of your ass, his hands lowered, and gripped onto the backs of your legs to hoist you up. Without a word he moved down the hall, leaving your clothes to wrinkle on the hardwood floor beside your front door. "Bucky!"
"C'mon, tell me," with his hands still on your ass, he bounced you up, making you both fall into soft laughter and sighs with a minute relief as you both grazed each other. His voice dipped breathy and low, "I'm curious, baby, don't leave me like this."
His brows dipped dramatically, smiling wide as he glanced into your eyes, trying to find your room without looking (as if he doesn't know the floor plan like the back of his hand).
"For one," you start, fingers tugging on the fuzz at the nape of his neck, making his cheeks blush, teeth to bite into his bottom lip and dick stir against you. "Leaving me all by my lonesome, all goddamn week."
Turning you both around, he pushes the door open with his back, and kicks it to with his foot.
"Lonesome," he repeated, hiding his face in your neck and scraping his teeth, "you poor, poor thing."
Your room, a disastrous mess of you. Sleep clothes stay screwed up on the floor, bottles of perfume and makeup you wear on the rare occasion you get to go out, or on random nights when you want to try something new, laid haphazardly on your desk with colourful puffs of dust coating the surface like watercolour. Your bed, Bucky's destination, was cleaned ever so quickly with a tug of your duvet and quick turn and press of your pillows just to pretend and make yourself believe you have your shit together.
"I am a poor, poor thing, Bucky," you grin, carding through his hair and pulling him back with a moan, "so you better make it up to me."
"Oh, I think I will."
Kneeling against the edge of the mattress, his knee dips, settling you down against the pillows. He follows, blanketing your torso, licking kisses down to your collarbone, easing his body down until his tongue reaches the expanse of your sternum.
"Keep talkin', sweetheart, I'm not gonna stop until I don't understand a single word that come out'a your mouth," one of his hands holds your chin, making you stare into his eyes. The blue, once vast and freeing, were now swallowed by the darkness of his pupils, leaving a ring as dark as the ocean, deep and tenacious. "Got it?"
You nod quickly, adamantly, and before you could register, Bucky licked up the middle of your chest in a broad stripe. He moves, sucking kisses around the top of your left breast, nipping into the skin, leaving soft bruises and red marks, a trail running around until he finally circles your nipple with the wet tip of his tongue.
Whispering a curse, your legs open wider and hips buck up trying to find any way to release the tension throbbing against the gusset of your panties. As he suckles, he breathes out moans, sounds that release like sighs to your wet skin, making you shiver. His free hand moves to copy on your neglected nipple, pinching, rolling between his thumb and forefinger, tugging off, before repeating.
"Teasing me, an-and," your jaw slacks as he switches sides, slipping his thumb over your wet, bullied nipple while he sucks and grunts on your other, sending vibrations through your body. "Fuck, you — oh…"
With his body over yours, his hips met your own, still covered, now in ruined, wet cloth. He lurched his hips against yours, looking for some semblance of relief as he nipped your breasts.
Unlatching with a soft pop, he pushes the mounds together, squeezing them in his grip as his hips dragged at their own rhythm. Shaky, messy, twitching at every flick down and against your sopping core. "What was that?"
"Fuck you." You bite, hands coming up to push into your eyes.
"Soon, sweetheart," he hums, dragging his tongue out to lick from one tit to the other, dragging lazily while he squished them together, leaving a sloppy trail of spit. "Patience."
A singular laugh pierces out with a shake to your chest. Your hand runs up the front of Bucky's hair, and you pull his face up.
"Patience?" You probe, staring into his watery eyes like that one pull of his hair undid his mask in just one second. His lips spit stained, kissed red and full, a string of dribble still connected him to your slick breasts.
When he stayed silent, gulped heavily, and ground his hips into yours, pushing his luck, you let go of his head and pushed his body back by his shoulders.
He stayed sat upright on his haunches, trying to catch any crumb of power, but you kept pushing until his back hit the mattress, head whipping down making the frame creak, and he watched you straddle his lap with a light grin.
You moved quickly, as if at any moment a spell would break and you'd wake up in this exact bed, only for it to be empty and cold. Fingers curling over the waistband of his boxers, silently admiring the mess he made of the front and the silhouette of his thick cock straining. Tugging without preamble. Once they got to his thighs, down to his knees, Bucky launched.
"Fuck!" You squeaked at the surprise attack, barely enough time to fully appreciate the heavy smack he made against his abdomen, or the veins that trailed down his shaft to his balls, the aching red tip that peeked out under blushing skin, wet and sticky, so needy.
Because his hands worked faster. He was always better than you at work, even though whenever you'd tell him, he'd either wave his hand and grumble or put it over your mouth and tell you to 'shut up'. But his hands always worked faster. He memorised, took notes, and when in a new environment, he made sure to understand, appreciate and work.
Understand, appreciate and work was absolutely what he did.
Your underwear was gone with a rip of the waistband, surprised they even lasted this long, sticking to your slit from cum and arousal.
Warm on your waist, pulling you forward, Bucky began to direct your body. The other snakes to your back, right between your shoulder blades where he could hold you close. His eyes bore into yours while sliding from your torso, to the curve of your hip, until it fists and kneads down your ass again. The pulsing of his fingers pushes your hips forward and into the slick heat of his cock.
"Still mean, aren't I?" Pulling from your ass with a quick, stinging slap, he holds his weeping cock in his fist, sighing with relief as he slides his hands up and down the shaft, slicking it up with his own pre, right in front of your cunt. "Tell me I'm such an asshole. Tell me you hate me for fucking you so good."
Your walls clamp around nothing, aching uncomfortably with emptiness as you whine and shift your hips closer. Your head tips forward, holding your arms around his neck and hiding your face into his collar as he slowly, achingly makes love to his hand.
"Say that you hate me and I'll let you have him," he whispers so quietly, so softly it makes your bones feel like jelly. The saliva pooling in his mouth clicks around the words, something you've always hated on others but in this moment you cant help but feel the burning desire to lick it all from his tongue and swallow it for yourself.
He nudges your head up with his shoulder, making you look up at him with a tired gaze, sleepy with need so thick it hurts, eyes dark and settling into the skin underneath. God, he hasn't seen anything so beautiful in his life.
To wake you up further, he sets his hips so the tip grazes over your clit. The shock is immediate, burning, vicious, it almost feels delirious. How your entire body jolts in short shakes, how your hands tighten around his neck, how you coat him. The sounds you both create, syrupy and sweet, mixed with the ever light taps his tip makes as he drags himself through your mess. And your chorus of moans and sighs, all while he keeps composure — tries to.
"C'mon, baby, say it," he jerks up, slipping between your lips. Hardly hiding his neediness and desperation. "Tell me, God, please just fuckin' tell me."
You have half the mind to leave him like this. Wet, shaking, pleading at his knees for you like a man praying for forgiveness, like you hold a sword to his shoulders. He deserves to wait, to beg, and whimper — needing to hear your words, hear you reprimand and berate him for what he did.
But there's a quiet voice in your head that asks: what's a week next to years of friendship?
Your hips tip up, catching the head of his cock in your entrance, and the words on your lips feel odd and quiet.
You mean them.
"I love you,"
The burn reaches every corner of your body as you slip. Taking him all. All of him. Of Bucky. Your coworker, your partner, your best friend. Inside of you, held snug and tight in your walls, twitching against your cervix, as your body greets him again.
Your breaths mingle as you share gasps and skin.
"I love you so much, that I hate…" you strain, inhaling deep and hard, swallowing back the feeling of anxiety and his length all the way in the back of your throat. "I hate that you left me, and made me guess, and — and made everyone stress the fuck out."
You don't feel the tears until he starts wiping them away from your face, cooing gently, kissing away the salty tracks.
"I'm sorry."
You sniffle, causing your walls to clamp messily around his erection. He groans under his breath, holding your hip while moving your hair away from your eyes.
The feeling of his thickness and the attention on your face and emotions has your hips canting in his hold. Grinding down and against him, clit grazing the hair of his abdomen, making sure your body remembers him completely. "Never do it again."
"Never," he shakes his head, still wiping away the tiny trails welling in the corners of your eyes, kissing your lids, breathing in your scent. He holds onto your hips tighter, following your lead, your rhythm as you find it, and starts to shift his own to your beat.
"Not — never in a million years," his head cranes back on a grunt in his throat, and he lets go of your hip, moving his arm behind him, holding your sheets, and himself from behind. He lets you move. "Make me pay for it… for the rest of our lives, and I'd — fuck, baby — I'll thank you, forever."
As your hips grinded, Bucky's eyes never faltered off yours (as badly as he wanted to watch the way your pussy swallows his cock). His hand stayed on the side of your face, moving down, just enough to cup your jaw when he felt your gaze slipping away.
Grinding, the slick sounds of your exertion got louder, your walls aching around him, his breath coming out in tight, long pants, you slowly started easing into confidence. Tipping your hips up every time you eased forward, short inches at first, letting him know you're ready to take him, until you start to ride.
Hips rocking off his, bouncing on his lap, taking his length over and over again. You could feel him deep in your belly, making himself home. And through your frosty eyes, you saw him gaze on you like you were another being.
As you locked sights, his hips pushed up into yours at every touch down, chasing you. To retaliate, you moved your head to the side and took his thumb into your mouth, humming around the digit.
He scoffed, huffed a laugh out, and pressed it to your tongue.
"You feel so good baby," he breathed, pressing up into you, chasing a speed you cant get. "Takin' me so good. Missed this pussy so bad, sweetheart. She miss me, too?"
Of course she did. You wanted to scream at him, strangle him for asking such a dumb question. But the only thing you could do was nod, moan and suck around his finger.
"Is my girl getting tired?"
Despite your previous words, you do hate him. All these nicknames, now with a little addition. An ownership.
His.
You hate him in the way that he know exactly how to push your buttons and get you going in the same order, even after just one play, because your cunt traitorously clamps around him.
Moaning, his eyebrows dip, and his hips drive up again and again.
"Yeah? Sleepy thing, aren't you?" it's with that, he leans forward. Hand back on your ass, as you're being laid down onto your back.
You want to fight back, to push him back down and take and take until your body burn and tears flood your face. But you can barely hold on.
Legs dropping open around his hips, cock still sheathed inside. And he's still so goddamn attentive, even when he speaks with sarcasm.
"I hate you," you shake your head and grumble, "fuckin' asshole."
His cock stuttered inside you, and you could've sworn you felt his balls tighten. But all was lost once his hips started moving. Smacking against yours, wet trails of fluids dripping and splatting on skin, it was all too perfect.
His girth leaving and entering in quick succession, leaving your whole body tightening, right on the edge of hysteria — unable to breathe or know if you want to laugh, cry, or both.
"You wanna cum so bad, sweetheart, i can feel it," he clasped at your hips, digging into you while he held you down and close, keeping you still while he works. "Speak."
"Fuck, yes! Fuck," You wailed into the sheets below you. Your cunt clamping down so tight, it hurt. "Bucky, please."
He didn't let up.
"Please what?" He panted, fingers tight on your skin.
Your mouth falls open in a silent moan, coming out breathy. "Please touch me. Please, please."
There was no need for spit. With the amount of cum you had created, from the exact moment you saw him in the alley at the bar to now, spit wasn't needed at all. But the thought of more of him being close to your pretty pussy, the fact he didn't get to know what you tasted like tonight, couldn't see how his saliva mixed into you so pretty. He had to drop a fat string of spit from where he sat, still fucking into you deep and hard, and chase the dribble with his thumb.
Wiping circles over your neglected bundle with the accumulated stickiness, watching how it frothed and bubbled, how a ring of cream settled at the base of his cock as you brace.
Jaw slacking with pants and whines, body fastening as every second closer to finishing comes. Bucky notices how you seem to quiet down, how you start focusing on the pleasure at hand. The drilling of his cock, his thumb bullying your clit so perfectly, it only toppled over, finally, to the sweet release when his body folded over yours, breathing sweet nothings into the corners of your mouth, where he kissed and sighed and grunted, until you shook in his embrace.
Molten, white hot, and wet. He took you in his arms, easing off your clit, keeping his pelvis to yours to bring more relief to the nerves, while he wrapped himself around you and held you close as you both finished.
Your hands fell to his skin as he filled you up. Heavy breaths slippery on your jaw, cock and balls twitching with each burst inside of you. You gripped onto his ass with each twitch, keeping him in, holding on, wanting it all to last.
It took a while for your heavy breaths and jelly-like limbs to subside.
"Wow." You don't know who made the noise, but with Bucky's face still hidden in your neck, kissing soft pecks, rustling his beard, you're pretty sure it was all you.
"I'm sorry."
Laughing softly, accidentally squeezing his half-hard cock, you pull him up to look at him. You're both fucked out. Ugly in the most beautiful ways. And it's this time you both laugh.
"Thank you for apologising," you whisper, "but I don't think I can forgive you. Not yet anyway."
He nods, the smile that was on his face before, eases into something slightly more serious. Sadder, but understanding. "Of course."
Easing up, Bucky makes no mistake in taking care of you. Picking you up, carrying you down the hall like absolutely nothing, sitting you at the toilet, cleaning you with a warm rag and making you pee, despite your protests in him being there, watching.
"Sweetheart I've seen everything," he replies, standing in front of you, cupping your jaw. "I'm seein' everything now, too."
You don't really know how it slipped your mind that you were both still naked in that moment, but it felt… strange. In a good way.
Showering with him felt harmonious. As with his touch, cleaning you all over, reverent, not lustful. Careful. He looked and worked with determination, lips pouted and brows taut, making sure your hair was thoroughly washed out of the products before shutting off the water and plopping a towel over your head, only to then start to messily rub it around. Something he would do on beach days years ago.
Laughing comes easy, same with the teasing and groans of displeasure.
"Bucky! Come on, you'll tangle my hair!" You whine from under the sheet, flicking it up and slapping his hands away with a grin and squint. His smile is wide. Bigger than you remember it ever being, all as he watches you dry your hair in comfortable silence.
"I meant what I said by the way." You say after a while, watching him from the mirror.
He hums, snapping out of the trance you put him in by just being.
"When we… I said 'I love you'," you pause for any indication, "I meant it."
Coming up behind you, arms slinging tight around your waist, holding you close. He automatically kisses your temple as he rests his chin on your shoulder. "I know."
Looking at him through the glass with your brows furrowed. "You know?"
Bucky shrugs casually. "Sweetheart, we say it all the time."
You refrain from sighing loudly, so you turn in his hold. Naked chest to naked chest and his arms stay secured, lazily draped on your sides.
"Yeah but this time its…" you gesture broadly, "different."
He smiles, breathlessly staring into your eyes, like he needed to memorise the colour and swirls of your irises. "Different."
You didn't need to clarify if it was good or bad. Didn't need to tell him anything, because when Bucky looked at you, he understood every minuscule detail your body was trying to explain.
Different isn't so bad after all. And when it's something you get to enjoy with your best friend, it's actually a lovely feeling.
SUMMARY. Bucky Barnes doesn’t lose control. He doesn’t blur lines. But when his new sous chef looks at him differently, control doesn’t feel so important.
WORD COUNT. 17.8k (she’s biiiig, i’m sorry)
WARNINGS. workplace romance, age gap, power imbalance, lowk grump! bucky, switching povs, smut, lowkey love/lust at first sight, MDNI, 18+, male masturbation, oral (f receiving), soft dom! bucky, unprotected pnv, tit play, food play, public-ish sex, misogyny and sexism in workplace (not from Bucky or Steve), miscommunication, angst, no use of y/n.
Switching povs - Reader is always referred to in second person — you/your, Bucky is always referred to in third person — he/him.
Reader is able-bodied, has hair, has a scar on her right hand (needed for plot) from a kitchen accident. It’s mentioned a couple of times. Bucky doesn’t have a metal arm, there’s a scar instead.
Hierarchy in the kitchen goes like this — executive chef > head chef > sous chef >>> line cooks. ‘Pass’ is the area/counter where finished dishes are kept to be picked up.
NOTES. Baby’s first collab yayy. I am beyond excited to participate in the Bucky’s dream house collab with these amazingly talented authors of the @stantastic-association. Thank you @miraclediviner for organising this and making it a reality and a success. I’ll always adore you. Also thank you for the ‘scar on Bucky’s arm’ idea, I owe you baby. Ilysm ❤️
READ ON AO3
BUCKY’S DREAM HOUSE MASTERLIST
Brooklyn's Taste opened three years ago on a Sunday when it wouldn't stop raining.
Bucky remembers standing outside in the downpour at 4 in the morning, staring at the sign above the door thinking he was going to throw up. Steve had been next to him, soaked through his jacket, grinning like an idiot. "We did it," Steve had said.
Bucky hadn't been able to say anything back.
Now the restaurant has three Michelin stars and a six-month wait list, and Bucky still feels like throwing up most mornings. Different reasons, though. Now, it comes from wanting something so badly it hurts, from knowing he has it and being terrified he will fuck it up.
He's got plans. Big ones. A whole chain of them someday, Brooklyn's Taste locations in every major city, his name synonymous with the best food anyone would ever put in their mouth.
It keeps him up at night. The planning. The obsessing. The constant loop of what if and what next. That and the fact he can't turn his brain off, ever.
5.30 AM and Bucky's already awake, lying in bed watching shadows move across his ceiling. The apartment's quiet except for Alpine purring somewhere near his feet. She's a small white ball of fur he found five years ago outside his previous workplace. Back when Brooklyn's Taste was still a fantasy and he was working himself half to death at some other asshole's kitchen. She'd been a tiny rain-soaked bundle, hissing and scared. He'd scooped her right up and taken her home. Now she's the only thing in his life that doesn't stress him out.
His phone buzzes on the nightstand.
Steve: You up?
Bucky: Yeah
Steve: Coffee in 10
Steve's got a key to the apartment, has had one since Bucky moved in three years ago. The place is right above the restaurant. It stays sleek and minimal, Bucky's never home long enough to decorate. There's a couch, a bed, a kitchen he barely uses. Photos on one wall. Him and Steve through the years, the night they got their first, second and third stars, Alpine in a patch of sunlight.
Everything else is downstairs.
True to his word, Steve lets himself in ten minutes later with coffees and a bag of bagels. He looks annoyingly awake for this hour. "You look like shit," Steve says, setting everything on the counter.
"Thanks."
"When's the last time you slept more than five hours?"
Bucky doesn't dignify that with an answer. Taking his coffee, he drinks it black.
Alpine's already abandoned him for Steve. The traitor. She's perched between his legs and purring loud enough to echo in the quiet apartment.
"You need to hire someone for the sous position," Steve says, pulling out a bagel. "We're drowning."
"I know."
"Interviews are today, right?"
"Yeah." Bucky grimaces. He hates interviews. Hates the whole song and dance of it, sitting across from people who think they want to work in a Michelin kitchen but have no idea what they're signing up for. Half of them quit within a month. "Got three lined up."
"Try not to scare them off this time."
"I don't scare people off."
Steve gives him a look. The one that says 'you absolutely do and you know it.'
They eat in comfortable silence, comes from knowing someone since you were kids.
Steve's been there through everything. The shitty apartment in Brooklyn when they were teenagers, culinary school, the restaurants that fired Bucky for having a mouth on him, the ones that kept him because he was too good to let go. When Bucky said he wanted to open his own place, Steve had been the first one to say 'I'm in.'
Now Steve runs the kitchen when Bucky can't. Head chef. The person Bucky trusts more than anyone.
"You think about seeing anyone?" Steve asks suddenly.
Bucky nearly chokes on his coffee. It's too much talk for this early morning. "What?"
"You know. Dating. Relationships. Human connection, the sorts."
"Fuck off."
"I'm serious." Steve's leaning against the counter, doing his concerned best friend routine. "When's the last time you went on a date?"
Bucky thinks about it. There was that girl three years ago, the one who'd lasted maybe a week before she got tired of him canceling plans because of the restaurant. Then a few one-night things that hadn't gone anywhere because Bucky couldn't turn his brain off long enough to pretend he cared about anything other than work.
Now it's been... a while. Long enough that his right hand and some website with questionable production value have become his primary source of release.
"I don't have time for that shit," Bucky mutters.
"You mean you won't make time."
"Same thing."
"It's really —"
"Steve." Bucky sets his coffee down, runs a hand through his hair. It's getting long, past his neck now. He should cut it. "The restaurant is the priority. You know that."
"I know you're gonna burn out if you don't let yourself have something outside of this place."
"I have Alpine."
"Your cat doesn't count."
Alpine meows, like she's offended.
They drop it after that, but Bucky can feel Steve watching him as they head downstairs.
The kitchen's dark and cold, stainless steel gleaming when Bucky hits the lights. This is his favorite part of the day. Before anyone else shows up, when it's quiet and full of possibility.
The kitchen starts filling up around seven. Line cooks filter in one by one, tying aprons and prepping their stations. Bucky watches from his spot near the pass, drinking more coffee, mentally preparing for service. Lunch is in a few hours. Then the interviews. Then dinner service.
Then he'll go upstairs and do it all over again tomorrow.
"You ever think about what you'd be doing if you weren't here?" Bucky asks Steve, the question coming out of nowhere.
Steve glances up from where he's working. "No. Why?"
"I don't know. Sometimes I think about it. Like what if I'd done something else."
"You'd be miserable."
"Probably."
"Definitely." A grin works up into Steve's face. "You're not built for anything other than this, Buck. It's like — you know how some people are good at things? You were made for this. Big difference."
Bucky wants to argue, but he can't.
Steve's right.
The kitchen is the only place that's ever made sense to him. The only place he doesn't have to explain himself or apologize for being intense or obsessive. Everyone here gets it. They're all a little fucked up, all chasing the same high of a perfect plate, a perfect service, a perfect night.
Brooklyn's Taste is his baby. His dream. The thing he's wanted since he was a kid watching cooking shows and thinking 'I could do that better.'
And he has.
The three Michelin stars prove it.
The first two interviews are disasters.
One guy shows up in a wrinkled shirt, can't answer basic questions about technique, kept calling Bucky 'boss' like they're on a construction site.
The second one's a girl fresh out of culinary school who talks about her 'passion for the craft' but goes quiet when Bucky asks her to describe how she'd handle a dinner rush.
By the time the second one leaves, Bucky's temple is throbbing.
He's got one more. Some girl from New England Culinary Institute, resume says she's done time at Rolo's and Per Se. Probably another disaster waiting to happen. He's subconsciously drafting the text to Steve: we're fucked, none of them can do it.
There's a knock on the door. "Come in," Bucky calls, not looking up from where he's scribbling notes.
The door opens followed by footsteps, quieter than the last two. Someone settling into the chair across from his desk.
"Give me a second," he mutters.
"Sure."
Something about your voice makes him look up.
Oh.
Oh.
You're pretty. That's the first thing his brain registers, and it is completely unhelpful. The second thing is that you're sitting there with perfect posture, hands folded in your lap, looking directly at him without that nervous energy the other two had. There's a defiance about it, like you're daring him to find fault.
Your resume's in front of him. He glances down at it, then back up at you. "You worked at Per Se," he states.
"For a year."
"Why'd you leave?"
"Wanted something smaller, more control over what I was doing. Plus the exec chef there was kind of an asshole."
Bucky almost laughs. Almost. "And you think I'm not?"
"You probably are. But at least you're an asshole about things that matter."
That does make him laugh.
You've read about him. Obviously. There's this way you hold yourself, confident without being cocky. Like you know exactly what you're worth and aren't interested in pretending otherwise. "What are you looking for in this position?"
"Honestly? A place that gives a shit. I'm tired of working in kitchens where it's all about the image and none of the substance. I want to make food that matters."
Bucky's quiet for a moment. That's... exactly what he would've said. Word for word.
"You know what it's like here." It's not a question. "Three stars means three times the pressure. Every plate has to be perfect. Every service. There's no room for error."
"I know."
"Most people quit all the time because they can't handle it."
"I'm not most people."
Bucky should laugh at this, send you out. If anyone else would've said this, he would've laughed. But there's a challenge in the way you say it, he feels something. Interest, maybe. Curiosity. Something he hasn't felt in a while when it comes to potential hires. "Why do you want to work here specifically?" Bucky prodes.
"Because I've eaten here twice. Both times I left thinking about the food for weeks. That doesn't happen often… Also because I want to learn from someone who actually knows what they're doing."
Flattery. But you say it like you mean it.
Bucky's eyes drop to your resume again, scanning the details he'd already read three times. Rolo's, Per Se, a semester in Paris. All good signs. He should ask more questions, grill you on technique, on how you'd handle specific situations, on —
"What happened to your arm?"
That startles and amuses him in equal measure. You're looking at his left forearm, where the scar runs from wrist to elbow, impossible to miss. He did not expect that. "Kitchen accident. Culinary school. Vapour burn."
Everyone has looked at him with pity. Not you. You're looking at it with something closer to understanding. Like you've got your own scars hidden somewhere.
"Does it hurt?" you ask.
"Sometimes."
"When you're stressed?"
Bucky's eyes bore into yours. That's when it hurts. How the fuck did you —
"I've got one on my hand," you say, holding up your right hand. There's a broad scar across your palm. "Culinary school too. Partner spilled oil on my hand. Happens when I'm tired."
There's an intimacy in this, trading scars like secrets. Bucky doesn't talk about his arm, doesn't like when people ask. Where people have been looking at him like fragile and broken, you look at him like you get it.
"You start Monday," he hears himself say.
"What?"
"Monday. 7 AM. Don't be late."
A slow smile spreads across your face, Bucky notices it more than he should. "I won't be."
Standing abruptly, you extend your hand across the desk. Bucky takes it, your palm warm against his, the slight ridge of the thickened skin. When you pull away, he can still feel the ghost of your touch.
"Thank you, Chef." You walk away with footsteps as soft as they were when you entered.
Bucky sits there for a full minute after you're gone, staring at the door.
If there's a worst day to wake up late, it's Thursday. And Bucky wakes up late on a Thursday. Steve's day off, which means the kitchen is running without either of them there, chaos ensuing already.
He checks his phone — 8:47 AM, fuck — and rolls out of bed, ready to practically run down the stairs. Alpine meows as he rushes past without noticing her.
The kitchen would be a disaster. People scrambling, stations a mess, someone probably crying in the walk-in. Bucky is expecting the worst.
Instead, it's... fine?
Everyone's at their station, prepping quietly. There's music playing low in the background. Was that Jazz in his kitchen?
Standing near the pass, organizing tickets that haven't even come in yet, is you. Unfazed expression on your face when you greet him, "Morning, Chef."
"What —"
"Deliveries came in an hour ago. I checked everything, sent back the fish because the eyes were cloudy. Produce is good."
"It's your second day."
"Third, technically. But who's counting." Your mouth tips, just a little, Bucky notices, though he shouldn't.
"How did you —"
"I got here at six. Figured I'd get a head start."
Six in the morning. On your third day. When you could've slacked off, could've waited for someone to tell you what to do.
Bucky's eyes land on your lips, not knowing what to say.
"Coffee?" You bring him back to reality.
"What?"
"Do you want coffee? You look like you need it."
He does. Desperately. "Yeah. Thanks."
You pour him a cup from the pot near the pass, hand it to him. Your fingers brush his for half a second, Bucky loses sight of his thoughts, the touch electric enough to freeze his brain.
"Sugar?"
"Black's fine."
"Of course it is." You're smiling again. Bucky's starting to realize that your smile is dangerous. Makes him forget what he was thinking about. Again.
"Chef, can you taste this?" Bucky's elbow-deep in prep when you appear next to him with a spoon in front of his face, with some kind of herb sauce pooled in it. You're holding it at mouth level, like this is completely normal.
Bucky eyes go from you — your face —, to the spoon, and then back to you. "What are you doing?"
You look confused by the question, head tilting slightly, which will drive him insane if you keep doing it.
The distance between you is too close, close enough that he can smell your shampoo, that same scent that's been distracting him all week. The spoon is still hovering in front of his mouth, attached to you looking at him like he's the one being weird here.
"I can —" He gestures vaguely at the spoon.
"Oh." A shy but sheepish smile blooms on your face, he has to press his lips together so he doesn't mirror it right back. "Sorry, at my last place we always just —"
The explanation makes sense. He knows of places that do it like this. But nobody's ever done it here because Bucky's never allowed it. The thought of someone just… feeding him feels too intimate for a professional kitchen.
But there's no attempt on your part to give him the spoon. The expression in your eyes is soft, makes him confused and mad and wants to let you do whatever you want.
"Right. Yeah. Okay." Just as he leans forward, you lift the spoon to meet him, his mouth. The movement is simple, but Bucky's heart is erratic in his chest. Your fingers are right there, practically brushing his chin. He can see the small scar on your palm.
The sauce hits his tongue and he forgets to think for a second. It's good. Really fucking good. Makes him want another taste immediately.
Pulling the spoon back, you watch his face, like if you do it with intent, you might be able to figure out his thoughts. Bucky really hopes you can't because most of them involve how pretty you look when you're nervous.
"Well?"
"It's good… really good. What'd you put in it?"
You rattle out an endless number of herbs and spices, which does not reach Bucky's ears. He can only see that you're smiling now, pleased with yourself. Somehow, that's even worse for his concentration. "I wasn't sure if you'd like it."
Bucky's brain helpfully supplies that he'd probably like anything you made, which is a deeply unhelpful — not to mention inappropriate — thought to have about his new sous chef. "It's perfect. Use it for the chicken tonight."
"Really?"
"Really."
You're beaming at him now. Bucky needs you to stop doing that immediately. He's supposed to be professional and not think about how your whole face lights up when you smile.
"Thank you, Chef." You turn to walk away and Bucky's brain finally catches up with what just happened. You fed him. With a spoon. Like it was nothing. And he took it. Like he was your golden retriever.
"Wait," he calls before he can stop himself.
You turn to look at him.
"Don't —" How does he phrase this without sounding insane? "The spoon thing. You're not putting that back in the sauce, right?"
Amusement coats your face as you try to mask a laugh. "Of course not. That would be a health code violation."
"Right. J-Just checking." Did he just fucking stutter?
You're definitely laughing at him now, he can see it in your eyes even though you're still trying to hide it. "Don't worry, Chef. I know how kitchens work."
Bucky's left standing there like an idiot trying to remember what he was doing before you appeared with your spoon and your smile and your complete disregard for his sanity.
"You good, Buck?" Steve materializes at his elbow, with the knowing look on his face that Bucky doesn't appreciate.
"Fine."
"You've been staring at the same onion for like thirty seconds."
Bucky looks down. He has, in fact, been staring at an onion for thirty seconds. "I'm thinking."
"About onions?"
"About the menu."
"The menu. That's what you're thinking about." Steve's definitely smirking now.
"Fuck off."
"Just saying, she's good."
"I know she's good. I hired her."
"That's not what I —" Steve stops, that grin getting wider. "Yeah, okay. Sure. The food's good, alright."
Bucky finishes his notes, checks the walk-in one more time, makes sure everything's locked down for the night. The kitchen empties out slowly. He can hear voices from the changing room, people saying goodnight, the back door opening and closing as they filter out into the cold.
He's putting his jacket on when you emerge. The first thing he notices is that you've changed. Obviously. You're in jeans now and an extremely thin sweater, with your hair down instead of tied back. You look different like this. Softer. Without the chef's whites, without anything to hide yourself behind.
The second thing he notices — and fuck, he really wishes he hadn't — is that it's cold in the kitchen. The sweater you're wearing is thin, and your nipples are hard.
Bucky's eyes drop before he can stop them. The sweater's fitted enough that he can see the outline clearly, and his brain just... stops working. Everything narrows down to that one detail, that one absolutely inappropriate thing he should not be looking at. He coughs, tries to hide that he wasn't looking at your tits, and looks away.
You're slinging your bag over your shoulder, completely oblivious. "Goodnight, Chef. It was a great day."
"Yeah. Goodnight."
You walk past him toward the back door, that clean, light shampoo mixed with the lingering smell of the kitchen reaches his nose.
The door opens, letting in a blast of cold air, and then you're gone.
Bucky stands there in the empty kitchen, staring at nothing. His pants are getting tight. "Fuck."
This is bad. This is really fucking bad. He's got a hard-on for his sous chef, the woman he hired less than a week ago, the one who's been nothing but professional and competent. And the one who's completely unaware that she's driving him insane.
You're at least ten years younger than him. Probably more. Way too young for him to be standing here with his dick hard just because he saw the hard outline of your nipples through your sweater. He's too old for this shit, too old to be crushing on someone like a fucking teenager.
But no.
Bucky adjusts himself. He needs to go upstairs. Maybe take a cold shower to forget this ever happened. He has to get his shit together before he does something monumentally stupid. Locking up, he heads upstairs to his apartment, thankful Steve wasn't there to witness any of that.
Alpine's waiting for him on the couch, curled up in a little ball. "Don't look at me like that," Bucky mutters.
She doesn't look at him at all.
Bucky strips off his jacket and shirt, heads to the bathroom. The shower has to be ice cold, to kill whatever this is before it becomes a problem.
But he shoves his pants and boxers down in record speed, and his hand's already on his cock.
Fuck it.
He's has been half-hard since the kitchen, and it takes almost nothing to get fully there. When he closes his eyes, he sees you, in that sweater, the outline of your nipples, hard from the cold. He wonders what they'd look like without the sweater, without anything.
His hand moves faster on his dick. He imagines peeling that sweater off you. You'd be in just your jeans, bare from the waist up. Your nipples would be hard peaks, he thinks. Taut and hard, begging to be touched, to be sucked. "Fuck."
In his head, you're in his apartment, on his bed, looking at him with that same defiant confidence you had in the interview, daring him to touch you. He'd start with his hands, palms cupping your tits, thumbs brushing over your nipples until you gasped. And then he'd use his mouth, tongue flicking over each peak, sucking them until you were squirming beneath him.
Would you be loud? Or quiet? Would you arch into his touch or try to stay composed?
His grip tightens. He's leaking slick now, desperate to blow. He imagines you on your knees. That's what breaks him, the thought of you looking up at him with those eyes while you take him in your mouth, those perfect lips wrapped around his cock, tongue doing things that should be illegal.
Or maybe you'd be on your back, legs spread, letting him taste you. He'd make you come on his tongue first. Wouldn't even touch himself, just focus on you, on making you fall apart.
Then he'd fuck you. Slow at first, just to watch your face. Then harder when you ask for it. And you would ask for it, he's sure of that. You're not the type to stay quiet about what you want.
The image of you underneath him, your nipples hard against his chest, your breath coming in gasps —
Bucky comes with a groan, spilling over his hand and onto the floor. The orgasm hits hard enough that his knees almost buckle, that he has to brace himself against the wall. He just stands there, breathing hard, covered in his own cum.
Then reality crashes back in. He just jerked off thinking about his sous chef. The woman who works for him, who trusts him to be professional. "Fuck."
The water's cold. He stands under the spray and tries to figure out what the fuck he's going to do. This isn't going away. Whatever this is — this desperate want, this intense need — it's not going to disappear just because he got off once. If anything, it's worse now. Now that he knows what it feels like to imagine you, to picture you in his hands.
Bucky has been in a shit mood all day, snapping at people for things that wouldn't normally bother him. The fish is fine but he sends it back. When a line cook asks him a question, he bites their head off. Steve keeps giving him looks from across the kitchen, which says 'what crawled up your ass and died', but Bucky ignores him.
The problem is that he jerked off last night thinking about you. Now every time he looks at you, his brain goes straight back to that moment in the shower, and he hates himself for it.
You're his sous chef. His employee. Off limits in about a hundred different ways. Still doesn't stop his dick from getting interested every time you walk past him though.
Service goes fine. Better than fine, actually. You're good at your job. Great, even. And that somehow makes it worse. Now he can't even pretend you're incompetent to convince himself to not want you.
Post-service debrief happens in the kitchen like always. Everyone gathers around, tired and wired, waiting for Bucky to tell them what they fucked up and how exactly. He's halfway through talking about the timing on table two when he realizes you're not there. Bucky stops mid-sentence, scanning the group. "Where's my sous?"
Everyone looks around. Blank faces.
"She was here like two minutes ago," Steve offers.
"Well she's not here now. Nobody leaves before the debrief. That's the rule."
"Maybe she went to the bathroom?" one of the line cooks suggests.
"I don't care if she had to take a piss. She waits."
Steve gives him another look. Bucky ignores it and finishes the debrief quickly, distracted now, annoyed that you'd just disappear without saying anything. That's not like you. You've been nothing but professional since you started. "Alright, we're done. Good work tonight." He dismisses everyone and heads for the back door, needing air and also needing to figure out where the hell you went.
The cold hits him immediately when he steps out. And there you are standing with your back to him, still in your whites. Bucky's about to lose his shit.
You missed the debrief to stand outside?
"Are you fucking serious right now?" The words come out harder than he's ever used with you. "You just left?"
When you turn around, Bucky's brain stutters to a halt because Alpine's in your arms.
There's genuine panic on your face. "I'm sorry. She — She almost got into the kitchen and I didn't know what to do. I couldn't just let her walk in there."
Fuck, you weren't ditching the debrief. You were keeping his cat from causing about fifteen health code violations.
"I — Shit. I'm sorry. I didn't — I shouldn't have yelled at you." Bucky can see that Alpine's purring, completely content in your arms.
You're holding her carefully, one hand under her butt and the other supporting her back. "It's okay. I should've told someone, but she was about to go through the door and I just grabbed her."
"No, you did the right thing." Bucky's close enough now that he can see the way the cold has settled on your eyelashes. "I'm sorry I screamed at you."
"You didn't scream."
"I raised my voice."
"Barely." You smile a little, Alpine headbutts your chin. "Besides, I get it. The debrief's important."
"Not more important than —" Bucky gestures at Alpine. "You probably saved me from getting shut down."
A soft laugh leaves you. "I wouldn't let that happen to you, Chef." There's no hesitation in your voice, none at all. It catches him off guard, tight, right in his chest.
"She's really sweet." You're scratching under Alpine's chin. "I didn't know you had a cat."
"Yeah. Five years now."
"What's her name?"
"It's a he," Bucky doesn't know why he says that, only that he can't help himself, a smile slipping past.
"Wait, he?" You look down at Alpine, mortified now. "Oh my god, I'm so sorry. I saw the white fur and just assumed —"
"I'm kidding." Bucky's full-on grinning, a rarity. "It is a she. Her name's Alpine."
"Oh. You're terrible."
"Sorry."
"Nope. You're not."
Alpine meows, and you adjust your grip on her. She's not a small cat, Bucky's been feeding her too much. He can see the way you're starting to struggle with her weight. "You must be freezing," he says. He just wants you to get you in first, take Alpine off your hands. But his eyes drift lower. Can't help it. Your whites are barely thicker than that sweater from yesterday, but it's still cold enough here that he'd be able to tell if —
Nope. No. Fuck. Not doing this again.
"I'm okay," you say.
"You're in kitchen whites. Those aren't meant for standing outside in the cold."
"I've survived worse."
Bucky wants to ask what that means, wants to know everything about you actually, but Alpine chooses that moment to squirm in your arms. "I can take her… If she's getting heavy."
You pull back like you're offended, your acting mediocre at best. "Excuse me? Heavy? You take that back right now."
"What?"
"She's perfect. She's the perfect amount of chunky." There's a smile on your lips, and Alpine's looking between you both like she's enjoying this.
"I didn't —"
"No, the damage is done. Alpine and I are very offended."
"Are you two ganging up on me?" Bucky laughs. He can't help it. You're standing there in the freezing cold, holding his cat, giving him shit about calling her heavy, and he's laughing for the second time today. Both times because of you.
Alpine's staring at you with this dreamy expression, the same one she gives Bucky when she wants treats. Looks like he's not the only one developing a crush. "She likes you."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. She doesn't usually take to people this fast."
"Well I'm very likable." You say it with a straight face. Bucky has to bite back another smile.
The back door opens and Steve sticks his head out. "Oh good, you found her." When he sees Alpine, his eyebrows go up. "What's Alpine doing out here?"
"Almost went into the kitchen. She caught her," Bucky explains.
Steve looks between you and Bucky, sort of an understanding crossing his face. "Right. Well, I'm heading out. You two should too. It's late and we've got an early morning."
"Yeah, just — give me a sec."
Steve's smirking as he goes back inside. Bucky knows he's going to hear about this tomorrow. When the door closes, it's just you, Bucky and Alpine in the cold. "He's right though. You should get home. It's late."
"Yeah… here." You seem reluctant, but you step closer to hand Alpine over. The transfer is awkward. Your hands brush his as you manoeuvre the cat between you, and Alpine protests the movement with a loud meow. For a second you're both holding her, your fingers tangled with his in her fur, close enough that Bucky can smell your shampoo again. Then Alpine's in his arms and you're stepping back. "Goodnight, Chef."
Bucky just nods. Anything else feels like it'd come out wrong.
The door swings shut behind you, the sound lingering in the quiet, as you head back inside. He's still standing, Alpine heavy in his arms, her tail flicking lazily against his chest like nothing just happened. Bucky exhales, a soft sigh, shifts his grip on her without really thinking about it. He can still feel the warmth where your hands brushed his a second ago, like it didn't quite leave with you. "I'm so fucked," he mutters, more to the cold air than anything else.
Alpine just purrs, completely unbothered. "Yeah, real helpful," he adds, scratching under her chin anyway.
Rushing back to his apartment, he makes a beeline to the window. But you're already gone. The buzzing of his phone brings him back to the room.
Steve: You're in trouble
Bucky: Fuck off
Steve: She's pretty
Steve: And she saved alpine
Steve: And you looked at her like she hung the moon
Bucky: I said fuck off
Steve: Good luck buddy
He's not attracted to you. He's not. You're his sous chef and you're young and you're off-limits and he's not doing this. But…
You're working on your station, breaking down vegetables for the service, when you catch movement in your peripheral vision. Bucky's at the stove testing a new recipe — you think —, his sleeves are pushed to his elbows. Forearms are on full display, tanned and muscular with veins running up under the skin and disappearing into the fabric bunched at his arms. There's the scar, cutting across his left arm. When he stirs the pan, his forearm flexes, the tendons shifting under skin, distracting you from whatever the hell you were just doing.
You've seen arms before. You work in a kitchen. Everyone's got their sleeves rolled up and everyone's got arms.
But this is different. This is Bucky's arms, and you're staring like you've never seen a man cook before in your entire life. He reaches for something on the shelf above the stove, the muscle making its existence known again. You almost make a noise.
But Bucky glances over and your eyes meet.
Did you moan out loud in the kitchen? Fuck.
He caught you. He absolutely caught you staring at his arms like some kind of pervert, eyebrows doing that thing where it quirks up slightly. Turning the heat down, he starts walking towards you. Your heart's trying to break out of your ribcage.
"You good?" he stops right next to your station. Close. Too close.
"Yeah. Yep. Totally fine." The words make their way out faster than it needs to be.
"You sure? You look a little flustered."
"It's hot in here."
He's not even pretending he doesn't know. "Is it? Could've sworn we fixed the ventilation."
"Must be coming down with something."
"Right." Bucky leans against the counter, crossing his arms to the front. That just makes it worse because now the veins are even more pronounced. "You were staring."
"I wasn't —"
"You were definitely staring."
Your mouth opens and closes, brain scrambling for literally anything to say that won't make this worse. "You have veins."
Bucky's eyelashes do a slow dance as he blinks, like he didn't hear you right. "What?"
"Veins. On your arms. They're very — I've never noticed them before. The veins, I mean. I've noticed your arms obviously because you have arms, everyone has arms, but the veins specifically are —" You're spiraling. You know you're spiraling, can't stop though. "It's the lighting in here. Makes them more visible. Or maybe you're dehydrated? You should drink more water. Hydration is important —"
Bucky leans in, close enough that his breath ghosts across your ear, making your entire body go rigid. "You're just digging your grave deeper, sweetheart."
Like he didn't just stop your heart, he's gone. Walks back to the stove, leaving you standing there holding a knife and a half-cut carrot, unable to move.
Service is a blur. You go through the motions, with your brain stuck on the way Bucky's voice sounded in your ear. Sweetheart. He called you sweetheart.
That's not a chef thing. That's a thing thing.
By the time service ends and the kitchen's cleaned down, you're wound so tight you might snap. You change quickly, needing to get out of here before you do something fucking dumb.
Like jump your boss.
You're heading for the back door when you hear footsteps behind you.
"Hey."
When you turn, Bucky's there. Changed out of his whites, wearing jeans and a dark henley that you immediately want to take off. "Hey."
"You rushing off?"
"Just — long day."
"Yeah." He's got his hands in his pockets, there's a nervousness about the gesture, kind of insane because Bucky Barnes doesn't get nervous. "So — uh — Alpine misses you."
If there's a loading screen on your brain, you just wish it doesn't show up on your face. "What?"
"Alpine. She's been sitting by the door all week waiting for you to come back."
"That so?" You can't help but smile.
"Yeah. Won't stop meowing about it." He shifts his weight, you wonder ig he really is nervous. "Thought maybe you could come say hi? If you're not too tired."
This is a terrible idea. You know it's a terrible idea. Going to Bucky's apartment, alone, is possibly the worst decision you could make. But there's no hesitation when you answer, "sure."
Bucky's face breaks into an expression you've never seen on him. Relief? "Yeah?"
"Yeah. I mean, can't leave Alpine hanging."
"Right. For Alpine."
"For Alpine," you repeat.
There's a beat where you both just stand there.
"C'mon… She's upstairs."
You follow him through the kitchen and up the back stairs you've never been allowed to use before, the ones that lead to his apartment. Your heart's pounding so hard you're surprised he can't hear it.
Bucky unlocks the door and pushes it open, stepping aside to let you in first. The apartment is somehow exactly what you expected. Minimal with large windows overlooking the street, couch, a kitchen that looks barely used, and some photos on the wall. It doesn't help that it smells like him. "It's nice," you say.
"It's —"
Alpine comes tearing around the corner, meowing loudly, making a beeline straight for you.
"Oh my god, hi baby." You crouch down as she headbutts your hand. "Did you miss me? I missed you too."
Bucky's watching you with this expression you can't read, soft and a little awed. "She really did miss you."
"I can tell." Alpine flops onto her back, demanding belly rubs, you comply immediately. "She's perfect. Aren't you perfect? Yes you are."
"I'm starting to think she likes you more than me."
"Well, I am very likable."
"So you've mentioned."
"Bears repeating." You scratch under Alpine's chin as she stretches out longer, completely blissed out. "So, does she have a story?"
"Found her outside a restaurant."
"And she just — came home with you?"
"She didn't have much choice. Was soaking wet and scared." Bucky moves to the kitchen. There's the sound of cabinets opening. "She hissed at me for like three days straight. Eventually she warmed up. Now she's spoiled rotten."
"As she should be. You're living your best life, aren't you sweetie?"
When you glance up, Bucky's leaning against the kitchen counter with two glasses of water, watching you play with his cat, the usual look in his eyes replaced by softness.
"What?" you ask.
"Nothing." He crosses the room and hands you a glass. "You looked thirsty."
"Thanks." Your fingers brush when you take it, the electric feeling you've been feeling shoots up your arm.
Bucky sits on the floor next to you instead of on the couch, close enough that your shoulders are almost touching. "She never does this with anyone else."
"Does what?"
"The belly rub thing. She barely tolerates Steve."
"Maybe she has good taste."
"That she does."
Alpine rolls over to climb into your lap, circling twice before settling. The weight of her is warm and grounding.
"I think you've been claimed," Bucky smiles, it makes him look younger.
"I'm okay with that."
You're sitting on the floor of your boss' apartment with his cat in your lap, with him close enough to touch. An excuse to flee the scene should be on the tip of your tongue. The reality is anything but as you find yourself leaning into Alpine more.
"Can I ask you something?" Bucky's voice is careful.
"Mhmm."
"Earlier. In the kitchen… What were you looking at?"
"I —"
"Because you were definitely looking at something."
"I wasn't — okay, yes. I was looking." You can't bring yourself to meet his eyes. "Your arms. The veins. It's — you were cooking and your sleeves were up and I don't know, it was distracting."
"Distracting," he repeats, like he's pleased with your answer.
"Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Sound so smug about it."
"I'm not smug."
"You're absolutely smug right now."
Bucky laughs, and you risk a glance at him. He's closer than you thought. Close enough that you can feel warmth radiating off him, smell him, see those little flecks of grey in his blue eyes.
"For what it's worth, I think it's cute." His voice is barely a whisper.
"What is?"
"That you were staring. That you got all flustered, started rambling about hydration."
"I wasn't rambling."
"You were definitely rambling."
"I was making valid points about water intake —"
Alpine pads off toward her food bowl, offended she's not getting enough attention, leaving you and Bucky sitting on the floor with nothing between you. The space feels smaller suddenly, or maybe he feels closer. You're hyperaware of every detail, how he's looking at you, how his hand is resting on his knee just inches from yours, how you're alone with him in his space and your brain won't shut up about it.
When Bucky shifts, your eyes drop to his mouth without permission. You look back up to see he's staring at your lips too. "Can I —" He gulps, building courage. "Can I kiss you?"
"Yes." It comes out way too fast, borderline desperate, but you can't seem to care.
One second, you're a safe distance apart and the next, his hand is cupping your jaw and he's kissing you.
Oh god, he's kissing you.
His lips are soft, sure. It's everything you've been thinking about for weeks. You kiss him back, probably too eager, definitely too hungry, and he makes this low noise in his throat that goes straight between your legs. His other hand finds your waist, pulling you closer. You go willingly, let him tilt your head exactly how he wants it, let him kiss you deeper, let him take whatever he needs. When he pulls back, you're both breathing hard.
"Fuck. I've wanted to do that for weeks." He kisses you again, shorter this time. "Since the interview."
"You hired me and immediately wanted to kiss me?"
"Something like that."
"That's very unprofessional, Chef."
"Don't care." He's moving before you can answer, hauling you up and then higher, until your balance goes and you're grabbing onto him just to steady yourself.
"Bucky — I — "
"Bedroom," is all he says as he carries you down the hall.
He sets you down on the bed — his bed — and immediately his mouth is on yours again, kissing you like he'll die if he stops. His hands find the hem of your sweater, breaking the kiss just long enough to pull it over your head. "Lie down."
You obey. You'd probably do anything he asked right now.
Bucky follows you onto the bed, settling between your legs as he starts kissing down your neck, sucking little marks into your skin, dragging his mouth over your collarbones and the soft swell between your breasts. His hands work your jeans open, you lift your hips to help him slide them down.
"These too," his fingers hook into your underwear. A soft whimper slips out of you, making him smirk. He strips them off and tosses them somewhere behind him. He's pressing hot, open mouthed kisses up the inside of your thighs, stubble scraping your skin as he works higher toward your aching pussy.
Your brain finally catches up to what's about to happen. "Oh my god."
"Relax," Bucky murmurs against your skin. "Let me take care of you." His breath ghosts over where you're already wet for him, your hips bucking into his face involuntarily.
The first slow, filthy drag of his tongue through your slick folds makes you gasp, back bowing off the bed. He groans like you taste good, like this is doing something for him too, then he's devouring your cunt with single-minded hunger, tongue fucking deep before switching to tight circles on your clit.
Your hands fly to his hair, tangling in the strands. That doesn't faze him in anyway, he just keeps working you with his tongue, alternating between broad strokes and tight circles that make your thighs shake.
He pulls back just enough to speak. "Fuck, your pussy tastes so goddamn good, sweetheart." His mouth attaches to your clit this time, making you cry out. He's ruthless about it, sucking hard on your swollen clit while his tongue lashes it. When you try to close your legs at the overwhelming sensation, he keeps them spread with his hands on your thighs, holding you exactly where he wants you.
"I can't — Buck — It's too much —"
"You can take it. C'mon, baby. Let me feel you cum."
Two fingers slide inside your soaked cunt. It's immediate how your breath stutters to come to a halt, the tight coil in your belly snapping without warning, pleasure rolling through you in waves while Bucky works you through it with his mouth and fingers. It goes on forever, ebbing and flowing, until you're boneless.
When you can finally think again, Bucky's kissing his way back up your body, chin wet with your slick, looking at you like you're the best thing he's ever seen.
When he kisses you this time, you can taste yourself on his tongue, impossibly hot. Your hands find his shirt and start pulling at it. "Off. This needs to be off."
Bucky sits back and yanks it over his head in one smooth motion, and you get your first full look at his chest. Broad and muscled with a trail of dark hair leading down to what you most want now.
He's working his jeans open now, shoving them down his hips along with his boxers. His cock is rock hard, flushed, and leaking precum at the tip.
"Oh my god."
"What?" He's smirking.
"That's — you're —" Your brain's stopped working again.
Bucky wraps a hand around himself and gives a slow stroke, and you watch like you're hypnotized. The veins running along his length stand out, prominent and thick. Like he's read your mind, "how about the veins on my cock? Like 'em?"
If you could, you'd hide yourself. "Bucky!"
"What?" He's fully grinning, looking way too pleased with himself. "You seemed interested in veins earlier."
"I hate you."
"No you don't."
"I really — oh —"
He's positioned himself between your legs, the head of his cock dragging through your soaked folds, teasing your entrance by coming close enough, but not quite in. Whatever you were about to say dies in your throat.
"Still hate me?" he asks, this time bumping your clit with the fat tip.
"Y-yeah."
"I'm so glad you cook better than you lie, you're a terrible liar."
He taps his cock against your clit once more and you nearly come off the bed. It's too much and not enough and you need him inside you right fucking now. "Bucky, please —"
"Please what?"
"Fuck me. Please fuck me."
"Well — Since you asked so nicely."
He pushes in slowly, the stretch perfect. You're so wet that he slides in easy, inch by inch, until he's fully seated and you're both groaning.
"Fuck," Bucky breathes. "You feel — fuck."
You can only hold onto his shoulders and try to remember how breathing works while he starts to move.
The first thrust punches the air from your lungs. The second makes you see stars. By the third you're moaning openly, not even trying to be quiet. "That's it," Bucky snaps his hips to yours, his cock . "Let me hear you."
Bucky fucks you like it's the only thing on his mind. Deep and perfect, dragging his cock along your most sensitive spots. One hand is braced by your head, the other gripping your hip so tight you'll probably bruise. "You're so tight," he groans. "So fucking perfect." Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him deeper. "Fuck — Do that again."
Squeezing around him, you feel his hips stutter, so does yours.
"Fuck — you feel incredible, sweetheart."
Bucky shifts the angle and suddenly he's hitting something inside you that makes you cry out. "There?" he asks.
"There — fuck, right there —"
He just keeps hitting that spot over and over until you're climbing toward another orgasm embarrassingly fast. "Bucky, I'm —"
"I know. I can feel it." His thumb finds your clit to run frantic but perfect circles over it. "Cum for me, sweetheart. Cum on my cock."
The combination of his cock, his thumb and his voice is too much. You come apart, clenching around him, and he fucks you through it, just keeps going until you're almost sobbing from how good it feels.
"Where?" he grits out.
It takes you a second to understand what he's asking. "Inside. I'm on birth control — inside, please —"
Bucky groans and buries himself deep, pulsing until thick ropes of cum floods you, saying your name over and over again. Without pulling from you, he collapses next to you. "Holy shit."
You turn your head to look at him. He's looking at you, hair a mess, lips swollen, looking thoroughly fucked.
He reaches over to pull you close, your body finds his willingly, curl into his side like you belong there.
You wake up to Alpine sitting on your chest, staring directly into your soul. For a second you're disoriented, brain trying to catch up with where you are. Then, it does. The arm draped across your waist belongs to Bucky, who's still dead asleep next to you, face buried in the pillow.
Alpine chooses that minute to meow, loud enough that you're worried she'll wake him.
"Okay, okay," you whisper, carefully extracting yourself from Bucky's hold. He makes a small noise of protest in his sleep but doesn't wake. Instead, he reaches for the pillow you were using and pulls it close to his chest.
It's stupidly endearing.
Alpine leads you straight to her food bowl. Like she knows you'll give in. Which you will, because you're weak for both Barnes in this apartment.
The food's in the cabinet above the sink. You've stayed over enough times that you know where everything is.
It's been two weeks since that first night, and you still haven't talked about what this is and what you're doing. You just keep falling into bed together after service, wake up tangled in his sheets and pretend everything's normal while you're at work. It's easier that way. Safer. Putting a name to this thing between you, feels dangerous, like it'll make it real in a way you're not sure you're ready for.
Alpine crunches her food happily while you stand in Bucky's kitchen at six in the morning, barefoot and wearing his shirt from yesterday, trying not to think too hard about how domestic this feels.
"You're up early." Bucky's leaning against the bedroom doorframe, shirtless, wearing only the sweatpants he'd pulled on. His hair's a disaster, there's a crease on his cheek from the pillow. The most breathtaking thing about this is that he has a smile on his face.
"Your cat's very demanding," you say.
"Yeah, she gets that from me." He crosses the kitchen to wrap his arms around you from behind, chin hooking over your shoulder. The weight of him is familiar now, comforting, making you lean back without a second thought, without hesitation.
This is the part that scares you. How easy it is. How right it feels to stand here in his space while he holds you like this is something you do every day, like you belong here.
"You staying for breakfast?" His voice is still rough with sleep.
"I should go home. Need to change before work."
"You could keep clothes here."
The offer sounds casual, practical. But you know what he's really asking. If you'll stay. If this is more than just convenient.
"Mhmm, don't like seeing me in your clothes?" Deflection comes easy to you.
"I think I love it a little too much." His hands slide down to your hips, thumbs rubbing small circles through the fabric of his shirt.
"That so?"
He presses a kiss to your neck, right below your ear. You have to close your eyes against the rush of warmth that floods through you. "Looks good on you."
"Everything looks good on me."
"Can't argue with that."
You turn in his arms, his hands settling on your waist. "I'll think about it." The clothes thing. The staying thing. All of it.
The walk-in freezer is a blessed relief from the heat of the kitchen, even if you're hunting for duck at eight o'clock on a busy night. Your breath fogs in front of your face as you scan the shelves, fingers already going numb. There's a faraway sound of the door opening and clicking shut behind you.
"Can you tell the chef we were low on shallots —" you call over your shoulder, to whoever it may be.
A hand lands firm on your ass. "Found something way better than shallots." Bucky's voice is smug behind you. When you whip around, he's standing there, looking at you like you're what he wants to devour.
"Are you insane?" Heat floods through you despite the cold. "We're working."
His hand slides to your hip, over the kitchen whites. "Don't worry, sweetheart. I won't tell your boss."
There's a little smirk playing at his mouth, it makes you want to smack him and kiss him in equal measure. "You're the worst," it comes out breathy.
"Yeah?" His other hand joins the first, sliding down to cup your ass properly, squeezing hard enough to make you gasp. "Doesn't seem like you mind."
You think about pushing him back. There's staff right outside and this is wildly unprofessional even by your standards. It doesn't stick, though. Your hands bunch in his coat, pulling him closer.
Bucky grins, his hand draws back and cracks across your ass. The yelp that escapes you is mortifying. So is the way your pussy clenches at the sharp sting, the way you lean into him instead of away. He does it again, other cheek this time, and you bite down on your lip to keep from making another sound. "You've been thinking about this all day, haven't you? Everytime you looked at me during service."
"Shut up."
"Make me."
The audacity of this man. Leaning on your tiptoes, you kiss him. Hard and graceless, you taste the coffee he'd been drinking, he kisses you back, returning the same ferocity.
His hands knead your ass through your work pants, making you aware of how empty you feel, how badly you want his fingers, his cock, anything to fill the ache that's been building between your legs. Your hand drops down to palm him through his pants, already hard, thick and straining against the fabric. The groan he makes against your mouth goes straight to your heat.
"Fuck," Bucky breathes. His hips rock into your touch, shameless in its pursuit. His own hand slides between your thighs now, cupping you through the layers, but it's not nearly enough. You find yourself grinding against his palm like you've lost all self-respect, chasing the friction.
"Jesus, you're soaked already." His fingers press harder, rubbing over where your clit throbs. "Can almost feel it through your pants. You been walking around the kitchen like this all night? Drippin' wet for me?"
Ever since he brushed past you during prep, you've been aching for him. It's pathetic how easily he gets you like this.
"Answer me, sweetheart." He nips at your jaw. Your hand works him faster through his pants while he grinds the heel of his palm against you. "Tell me how wet that pussy is."
"So wet," you gasp out, head falling back against the shelf. "Bucky —"
"Want me to fuck you right here? Bend you over, make you scream where anyone could walk in and hear what a mess you are for me?"
Your fingers slip against his belt, not as steady as you want them to be. "Yes, please —"
Too engrossed, neither of you hear the door swinging open.
"Hey Buck, we need you on the — Oh my god." Steve stands frozen in the doorway. You watch in real time as his brain tries to process what he's seeing.
Bucky's hand is between your legs. Your hand is on Bucky's cock. Both of you look disheveled and panting. For half a second, it says that way.
Steve's face goes bright red. "I'm — fuck —I didn't—" He's backing away, hands up like he's been burned. "I'm leaving. Leaving right now. I didn't see anything. Bye."
The door slams hard enough to rattle the shelves, just stillness remaining. Bucky's pressed into you, forehead to your shoulder, shaking for a reason you don't yet know.
"Oh my god. Steve just — he saw us —" you gasp.
"Yep."
You owe Steve an apology. Probably several. Maybe a bottle of expensive whiskey. "Your bestfriend is gonna think I'm corrupting you."
"You are corrupting me."
"Shut up."
The difference in testing new recipes at Bucky's apartment is that his kitchen is a bit smaller than the one at the restaurant. Which means you're constantly in each other's space, brushing past each other to grab ingredients, hands colliding, his arm pressing against yours while you work side by side at the counter.
You're supposed to be perfecting a glaze for the spring menu. Something with honey that'll complement the duck without overpowering it. Bucky's doing the actual cooking part while you handle the sauce.
Everything's going fine until you try to pour honey from the jar into your saucepan. The jar, heavier than you thought, drips the golden stream of honey onto your hand, your skin, more than the saucepan. Like any sane person, you decide to clean yourself.
Angling your hand over the sink, you're trying to wash the honey off, when Bucky appears next to you. He grabs your wrist to bring it to his mouth, lips wrapping around your index finger, sucking the honey off, tongue swirling around your skin. Heat shoots straight between your legs.
His eyes are locked on yours the whole time. As he moves to your next finger, you forget how to breathe. He takes his time with each one. Licking. Sucking. Making sure he gets every drop of honey while you stand there trying to remember your own name. When he finally releases your hand, his voice comes out rough. "That tastes so much better than regular honey."
"It's — It's the same honey," you reply dumbly.
"No. It's not."
"Bucky —"
"I need more." The hunger, the possessiveness in his voice goes straight to your cunt. "Get on the counter."
There is a brief second where you wonder if reminding him would be better, that you're both working, that you have to get this sauce done before anything else. But your body has other plans, complying itself as he lifts you onto air and places you on the counter.
The granite's cold against your thighs. Bucky positions himself between your legs, and reaches for the honey jar with one hand, while the other stays rooted to your hip. Like you'd move if he moves. You won't. "What are you doing?" you ask, even though part of you already knows.
"Testing a theory." He dips two fingers into the honey and pulls them out, watching the way it drips. "About whether everything tastes better on you."
Honey coated fingers move across your throat, right over the dip of your collarbone, pulling a gasp out of you. Bucky leans in to lick a long stripe across your skin, following the honey trail with his tongue. "Fuck. I was right."
"Bucky — "
"What?" He has the audacity to look innocent. "This is an experiment." He's pulling your shirt over your head, tossing it over the barstool. Your bra follows seconds later. What's left is you half-naked in his kitchen while he looks at you like he wants to eat you.
"This is not an experiment."
"Sure it is." More honey on his fingers, he drizzles it just above your breasts. "Hypothesis: you make everything taste better."
Before you can respond, his mouth descends, tongue tracing the path of honey across your skin. He's meticulous about it, making sure he gets every drop. The combination of his tongue and the sticky sweetness has you squirming on the counter. "Bucky, please —"
"Please what?" He pulls back to look at you, pupils blown so wide his eyes look black. "Tell me what you want."
"More. I want —" The words die on your tongue when he drizzles honey between your breasts, watching it slide down your skin.
"Want this?" He leans down and licks up the valley.
"Yes —" you whimper.
"You taste so fucking good." He's lost to it now, completely focused on chasing every drop of honey on your skin. "Better than anything I've ever made." That's probably the highest compliment you'll ever receive.
"That's —" Your words cut off in a moan when he drizzles more directly onto your nipple. "Oh fuck —"
The honey sticks to the peak, driping down the curve of your breast. Bucky catches it with his mouth, tongue circling your nipple before taking it between his lips to suck.
"Bucky —" Your hands are in his hair now, holding him against you. "Please —"
Your back arches, pushing your chest more towards his mouth. He relishes in the invitation, tongue flicking over your nipple while he sucks, teeth grazing just enough to make you grind towards nothing in search of friction. "Oh my god —"
Bucky chases every drop with his tongue, until you're making sounds you've never made before. That doesn't seem to affect him, he casually moves to your other breast and does it all over again. More honey. More of his mouth. More of that devastating tongue. "You taste so fucking good," he says against your skin. "Could do this all day."
"We're supposed to be working —"
"We are working." He bites down gently on your nipple, making you cry out. "I'm working very hard right now."
Your laugh turns into a moan when his hand slides up your thigh. "These are in my way." He's working your shorts open. You lift your hips to help him shove them down along with your underwear. Completely naked on his kitchen counter, with him fully dressed and kneeling between your legs, Bucky speaks, "spread wider."
The way he looks at you, at how wet you already are, makes you clench around nothing. Bucky angles you so that your back is planted on the counter, and drizzles honey on your inner thigh, high enough that with the help of gravity, it drips down toward where you're aching for him.
Leaning in, he starts at your knee, working his way up with a patience that's going to kill you. His tongue is hot against your skin, chasing the trail once again. By the time he gets halfway up your thigh, you're ready to beg. "Bucky —"
"Mhmm?" He keeps licking, getting closer to where you need him but not close enough.
"Oh god —"
"Just me, baby." The smugness in his voice is a thing you'd like to hate, you would try if you weren't already too far gone.
"Please — Buck — touch me. P-please touch me."
"I am touching you." His breath ghosts over your cunt, sobs threaten to spill from you.
"You — You know what I mean —"
He reaches for the honey again, about to pour it on your other thigh — you think — but something in you snaps right before. Lifting up your body with purpose and determination, your hand shoots out to grab his collar. "If you don't fuck me right now —"
"But, I'm not done —"
"Barnes." You use your other hand now, pulling him up to your eye level. "Shut up and fuck me."
His mouth pulls into a grin that's all teeth, enjoying this a little too much. "Yes ma'am."
While he's working his belt open, you're pulling at his shirt, trying to get it off him. His cock finally springs free, a moan escaping you from just seeing it. "This what you want?" Bucky fists himself, giving a slow stroke that makes your mouth water.
"Yes. God, yes —"
"How bad?"
"So bad, I'm gonna die if you don't get inside me in the next ten seconds —"
Thankfully, he doesn't make you wait more, he lines himself up and pushes in, one hard thrust that punches the air from your lungs. The stretch is perfect and exactly what you needed.
Both of you groan at the same time, relief spilling past shamelessly. "Fuck — You feel — Jesus fucking Christ —"
He pulls out almost all the way and slams back in, hitting your cervix, making you scream. He's so deep like this, deep inside you, that your vision blurs.
"That's it," he groans against your neck. "Let me hear you." Bucky is fucking you in earnest, while you hold on to his shoulders and try not to fall apart. The lewd sounds of skin slapping against skin is mixed with your desperate noises and his low groans.
"Been thinking about this all mornin'," Bucky pants. "Watchin' you work, being all professional about the sauce — wanted to — fuck — wanted to bend you over the counter so fucking bad —"
You love his dirty talk. God knows you love it. But there's this intense need to be filled up, and his talking is currently slowing his dick. "Less talking," you gasp. "More fucking—"
Smirking, he shifts the angle, suddenly hitting that spot inside you that makes you see stars, makes you sob. "Right there?" he asks, but he knows, could tell from the way you're clenching around him.
"Don't stop — please —"
When his thumb finds your clit, you nearly come off the counter. Between that, his cock and the filthy sounds he's making, you're not going to last. "I'm close, Buck — I'm so close —"
"Yeah? You gonna cum on my cock? C'mon, sweetheart. Let me feel it."
His words and one more thrust sends you over the edge. You come hard, clenching around him. Bucky fucks you through it while cursing under his breath. Not long after, he buries himself deep. You can feel him pulsing inside you, filling you up.
There's something dripping down your thighs, you don't know if it's honey, cum or sweat. Probably all mixed together, but you can't bring yourself to care.
When Bucky pulls out, you both wince at the loss. He looks down at the mess you've made, there's honey smeared on your skin, cum dripping out of you onto his counter. He lets out a breathless laugh. "We're disgusting."
"Your fault."
"My fault? You're the one who told me to shut up and fuck you."
"You're the one who started the whole honey thing."
"You're the one who spilled it."
"Accidentally."
"Sure. Accidentally." He kisses you, slow, sweet. You kiss him back, tasting honey off his tongue.
You should probably be mortified of the scene Alpine might walk into, but all you can think about is how you want to do this again. "We really need to clean up," you try being the responsible adult despite what you're feeling.
"Probably." But he's kissing your neck again. "In a minute."
"Bucky —"
"Just one more taste."
"Alpine, no — that's not food." You're trying to rescue a hair tie from Alpine's paws while Bucky makes coffee in the kitchen.
It's early enough that the sun's barely up, that grey-blue light filtering through the windows of his apartment.
"She thinks everything's food," Bucky calls from the kitchen. "Found her trying to eat a receipt yesterday."
"She's going to make herself sick." Alpine bats at your hand, completely unrepentant. "You're a menace. You know that?"
She meows like she's arguing with you.
Bucky appears with two mugs, handing you one before sitting on the floor next to you. Alpine immediately abandons the hair tie to climb into his lap. "Traitor," you mutter.
The coffee's perfect. He's figured out how you take it. Same way you know he likes his black. "What time do we need to leave?" you ask.
"Hour. Maybe less if we want to prep early."
"We always prep early."
"Force of habit." He's scratching behind Alpine's ears, that absent-minded gesture he does when he's thinking. "You staying tonight too?"
The question should feel loaded but it doesn't. It's Bucky asking if you're staying, like he wants you to, like he's gotten used to you being here.
"If that's okay."
"It's okay. I like when you're here." His voice is soft.
You think about your apartment across town. How you haven't slept there in forever. How your fridge is empty and your bed feels too big and too quiet. How this feels more like home than anywhere you've lived in years.
"I like being here," you admit.
He pulls you closer with his free arm. You lean against his shoulder, coffee warming your hands, and let yourself have this.
"We should go soon," you say eventually. "Delivery comes at seven."
"Five more minutes."
"Bucky —"
"Five minutes. Please. Just want to sit here with you."
Alpine whips her head towards him, a 'did I hear that right?' look plastered on her face.
"And you too," Bucky admits, pulling you both closer.
"I'm just saying, the timing's convenient for her." The words make you freeze with your hand on the door. Jason's voice carries from somewhere near the dish station. It's so casual, the way guys get when they think they're being clever.
"What timing?" That's the new line cook. Miller? You can't remember his name and right now you don't care.
"Come on. Hired on spot? That's fast even for someone good."
"Maybe she is good."
Jason laughs like he doesn't care about what he's saying. "Oh, she's good. Question is what she's good at." The new guy laughs too, your stomach dropping straight through the floor.
"Oldest trick in the book," Jason continues. "Want a job in the best kitchen? Fuck the chef. Worked for her."
"Barnes seems smarter than that."
"Barnes is a guy. And you've seen her."
You probably should walk away. The opposite direction of all of this. You should not stand here and listen to them talk about you like you're not a person, like you're just a body that fucked its way into a position you spent years working toward.
But you can't move, can't breathe.
"Either way, smart play on her part. Get on your knees, get ahead."
They're still laughing when you finally force your legs to work, turning and walking in the opposite direction before they can see you, before they can know you heard every fucking word.
Your hands are shaking when you reach the prep station. Your chest feels tight, like someone's wrapped steel bands around your ribs and pulled them taut. Pressing your palms flat against the counter, you try to breathe normally.
Three weeks. That's all it took for people to start talking. To start assuming. To start reducing everything you've accomplished to who you're sleeping with.
And the worst part is if anyone finds out about you and Bucky, that's exactly what they'll think. Every single person in this kitchen will look at your position and assume you earned it on your back. They'll question Bucky's judgment, his professionalism, and whether he's running his restaurant based on merit or based on who's warming his bed.
You can't let that happen. You can't be the reason Brooklyn's Taste's reputation gets dragged through the mud, can't be the reason people stop trusting Bucky's decisions. Which means this thing between you — whatever it is, whatever it was becoming — has to stop.
Your throat burns but you swallow it down. You force yourself to get through the rest of prep, to plate during service like your world hasn't just shifted sideways. It almost kills you to smile and pretend everything's fine when Bucky catches your eye across the kitchen and mouths 'you okay?'
All you can do is nod. It's a lie. He probably knows it's a lie from the way his eyebrows pull together, but there's service and no time to get into this.
You tell yourself you'll deal with it later.
But when later comes, you're slipping out the back door before Bucky can corner you and ask what's wrong. You can't look him in the eye and pretend you didn't hear someone reduce your entire career to a transaction.
Bucky catches you by the lockers after service the next night. There's a doubt in his tone, like he already knows the answer. "You comin' up?"
"Can't tonight." You're pulling your jacket on, trying very hard not to look at him. "I'm not feeling great."
"What's wrong? Do you need —"
"Just tired. Long week."
It's Wednesday.
Bucky doesn't point that out but you can tell he wants to. You can see it in the way his jaw tightens, his hand comes up like he's going to touch you and then falls back to his side.
"Okay… feel better, okay?"
You leave before the guilt can stop you. You'll break down and tell him everything if you don't walk, the confusion in his eyes will kill you.
Your toothbrush is still in his bathroom. Your clothes are still in his closet. There's a drawer full of your shit in his dresser, your shampoo in his shower and probably a hair tie on his bedside table.
But you can't go back, can't step foot in that apartment again. If you do, you'll crack. You'll tell him what you heard and he'll say it doesn't matter and you'll believe him because you want to believe him so fucking badly it hurts.
But it does matter. It matters that people are already talking, that your relationship could damage his restaurant — his life. It matters that every time someone questions your abilities, they'll be questioning his judgment too.
So you go home to your empty apartment and try not to think about how Alpine's probably waiting by the door for you.
It gets easier after that. Or maybe it gets harder and you just get better at it. You start showing up to work right on time instead of early. You make excuses when he texts — headache, early morning, catching up on sleep. All technically true, all curated to create distance.
Bucky notices, of course. He's not stupid. "What's going on with you?"
You're in the office doing inventory counts, and he's standing in the doorway looking at you like you're a puzzle he can't solve. Maybe if he stares long enough, he'll figure out what broke.
"Nothing's going on."
"You haven't stayed over in a week."
"I've been tired."
"You're avoiding me."
"I'm not —"
"You are." He steps into the office and closes the door behind him. The small space suddenly feels smaller. "Did I do something? Because if I did, just tell me so I can fix it."
You did everything right, you want to say. He made space for you in his life. In his home, his bed, his routine. Now that space is a liability, ammunition for anyone who wants to question whether you earned your position or fucked your way into it.
He looks so worried, so confused. All you want to do is cross the room and kiss him, tell him it's not his fault, scream about Jason and the new guy and the sick feeling that's been living in your stomach for days.
But you can't. Telling him means admitting the relationship is a problem, and admitting it's a problem means either ending it or ignoring it. You can't do either.
"You didn't do anything. I just need space."
You watch Bucky's face change, as he tries to hide the hurt, nod even though you can tell he doesn't understand.
When he leaves, you sit there staring at inventory sheets you can't read anymore because your eyes are burning.
Bucky brings Alpine to you a week later. You hear her distinctive meow that makes your heart clench, before you can even see her. When you turn around, he's holding her like an offering. "She missed you."
Alpine's purring, looking at you with those big blue eyes. You want to take her and bury your face in her soft fur, breathe in that familiar smell and pretend everything's okay. "Bucky —"
His voice is soft, pleading. "Just for a minute… please."
You wipe your hands on your apron and take her before you can think better of it. She immediately curls into your chest, purring loud enough to vibrate your whole ribcage. Your hand runs down her back automatically, that familiar motion you've done a hundred times in Bucky's apartment. "Hey, baby," you murmur. "Hi, sweet girl."
When you look up, Bucky's watching you, eyes glassy. There's so much longing there, so much confusion and hurt, and you can see him trying to understand why you're doing this. Why you're pulling away, why you won't talk to him.
"I miss you… Alpine's not the only one."
"Buck —"
"Come over tonight. Please. Even just for five minutes, I don't care, I just — I hate that you're not there."
The apartment must feel so empty without you, frozen in time waiting for you to come back. Except you're not. You can't, not when being with him means people will assume the worst about both of you. "I can't."
"Why not?"
"I just can't."
"That's not an answer."
Alpine headbutts your chin, demanding attention. You focus on her instead of the way Bucky's looking at you.
"Something's wrong," he says.
"Nothing's wrong."
"Everything's wrong!" An octave rise in his tone, desperation bleeding through as frustration.
Alpine meows softly, like she can sense the tension. You hand her back to Bucky before you do something stupid like cry. "I need to get back to work."
"Wait —"
"Please don't make this harder than it already is." You walk away before he can respond. You cannot see the devastation on his face, you will completely fall apart in the middle of the kitchen.
Behind you, Alpine meows again, sad and confused, and you hear Bucky's quiet, broken, "I know, baby."
Bucky looks like shit. There are dark circles under his eyes, hair's a mess like he didn't bother combing it, and he's wearing the same shirt he wore yesterday, a small stain on the collar from the sauce he was testing last night.
He barely looks at you during prep, barely speaks except to call out orders. And when Steve asks him a question, Bucky just stares at him for a solid five seconds before answering like he forgot how words work.
You did this. You're the reason Bucky looks like he hasn't slept in a week. The reason he's moving through his own kitchen like a ghost.
You're in dry storage counting inventory when Steve finds you. "We need to talk."
You don't look up from your clipboard, you can't. You can't lie to one more person. "I'm working."
"So am I. And part of my job is making sure this kitchen runs smoothly, which it's not doing right now."
"Everything's fine."
"Really? Because Bucky's been a mess for three weeks and you look like you're about to cry every time you're in the same room as him. So either tell me what's going on or I'm going to assume the worst."
"There's nothing to tell."
"Bullshit."
"Steve —"
"Did he do something?" Steve's voice goes rough, restrained. "Because if he crossed a line or made you uncomfortable —"
"No." The denial comes out quick. Nothing of that sort should even be spoken into existence. "No, of course not. It's — it's nothing like that."
"Then what?"
"It's personal."
"Personal is affecting professional. So it's my business."
Looking at Steve is hard. Talking about this is hard. So you turn back to the shelves. "Can you just drop it?"
"No."
"Steve —"
"He's my best friend. I've known him since we were kids and I've never seen him like this. He won't eat, he barely sleeps, and yesterday I caught him just standing in his apartment staring at nothing. So no, I'm not going to drop it."
Words refuse to come out, but you force them. "He'll be fine."
"Will he? Because from where I'm standing, you're both miserable and too stubborn to do anything about it."
"You don't understand —"
"So, help me understand. Explain it to me."
"I can't."
"Why not?"
"Because it's complicated."
"Try me."
You slam the clipboard down on the shelf. "Because if people find out about us, they'll think I slept my way into this kitchen. Happy?"
Steve looks at you with confusion. "What?"
"You heard me."
"Who the hell would think that?"
"Everyone, Steve. Everyone will think that. Woman gets a competitive job? Must've fucked the boss." A laugh comes out, it's anything but humourous.
"That's — no one here would —"
"They already are."
Steve goes very still, like he cannot believe his own ears. "What?"
You shouldn't tell him. You should probably keep your mouth shut and let this go. But you're so tired of carrying this alone, so tired of pretending it doesn't hurt.
"I heard Jason and that new line cook talking. About how convenient the timing was. How I must be 'good at my job', if you know…" Your voice cracks, a hiccup in your words, you can't help it. "They laughed about it. About me." Tears well up in your eyes.
"Son of a bitch. When was this?" Steve's knuckles go white, even though he doesn't have anything in his hand. Purely from rage.
He should've been able to make out the timeline, but you know he's stressed. "Three weeks ago."
"And you didn't tell anyone?"
"Who was I supposed to tell? Bucky? So he could fire them and prove their point?"
"Their point is bullshit —"
"Is it? Because if people find out about me and Bucky, that's exactly what they'll think. Every single person in this kitchen will assume I fucked my way in. And worse, they'll think Bucky's judgment is compromised. That he's not professional, and running this place based on who he's with, instead of who's qualified."
Steve lets out a sigh, you know he's not seeing your point. "So your solution is to break up with him?"
"We weren't together."
"Bullshit."
"Fine. It doesn't matter what we were. It matters what it looks like."
"To who? Jason? Some asshole line cook who's probably jealous he's not good enough to make sous?"
"To everyone. To food critics and investors and other chefs, to everyone who's watching Brooklyn's Taste and waiting for Bucky to fuck up. I can't be the reason his reputation gets ruined."
"His reputation? What about yours? And what about happiness? Both of yours?"
You ignore the latter. "My reputation doesn't matter —"
"The hell it doesn't."
"Steve —"
"You think hiding this is going to make it better? You think people are going to stop talking just because you and Bucky aren't together?"
You don't have an answer for that.
His voice softens slightly. "Look, I get it. People are assholes. But you're not protecting him by shutting him out. You're just making him miserable."
"Better miserable than —"
"Than what? Happy? Than having something good for once in his life?" Steve runs a hand through his hair and lowers his voice again. "Do you know what he said to me when you started seeing each other? He said he finally understood what everyone meant about coming home to someone. That for the first time in years, he wasn't coming home to an empty apartment."
Blurry eyes make it hard for you to see him. "Steve —"
"He's in love with you. Even if he hasn't said it yet, it's obvious. And you're killing him."
"I'm trying to protect him."
"From what? From people talking? They're going to talk anyway. People always talk."
"Not if there's nothing to talk about."
"You really think that's going to work? You really think you can just walk away and everything goes back to normal?"
"I don't know. I — I don't know, okay? I'm just trying to do the right thing."
"The right thing is being honest with him."
"I can't."
"Why not?"
"Because if I tell him, he'll want to fix it. He'll either fire Jason or reprimand him or do something that'll just make everything worse." You swipe at your eyes fast. "Any way this goes, it makes him look bad. If he fires them, people will say he's protecting his girlfriend. If he ignores it, the rumors get worse. There's no winning here."
"So you're just going to keep avoiding him? Keep pretending nothing's wrong?"
"I don't know what else to do."
Steve's quiet for a long moment. "You could try trusting him."
"I do trust him —"
"No, you trust him to cook, to run his kitchen. But you don't trust him to handle this. He's stronger than you think. And he deserves to know what's going on."
"If I tell him —"
"He'll want to fight for you. Yeah. That's what people do when they care about someone."
You close your eyes and let the tears fall freely now.
Bucky's going through the motions of prep when Steve walks back into the kitchen looking like someone just punched him in the gut.
"What's wrong with you?" The question comes out automatically, that reflexive check-in he's been doing since they were kids.
"We need to talk. Office. C'mon."
"I'm working —"
"Now, Buck."
Steve never uses that tone unless something's seriously wrong. Wordless, Bucky puts down his knife and follows Steve into the office. The door closes behind them with a click that sounds too loud in the small space. "What happened? Someone quit?"
"No. But I just talked to her."
Bucky wants to speak, but words fail him. His jaw clenches so hard his teeth hurt.
"And I know why she's been avoiding you," Steve continues.
"Why?" Three weeks of emotions bundled into one single word.
Steve runs a hand through his hair, clearly debating how to say whatever he's about to say. "Jason and one of the new guys were talking shit, about her. Said she… slept her way into your kitchen."
The words don't register first. Bucky's brain refuses to process them, like if he doesn't acknowledge what Steve just said then it won't be real. "They said what?"
"She overheard them three weeks ago. That's why she's been pulling away. She thinks if people find out about you two, everyone will assume the same thing."
"That's —" The rage building in his chest is so intense he can barely form coherent thoughts, much less sentences. "That's — that's fucking insane. She earned that position before we ever — we weren't even —"
"I know."
"She's the best cook I've had here in years. She works harder than anyone. She —" His hands are trembling with the effort of not putting his fist through the wall. He shoves them in his pockets. "Who the fuck do they think they are?"
"Assholes. But that's not the point —"
"They're talking about her like she's — like she —" The sentence dies in his throat. Saying it out loud will make it real, will make him lose the last thread of control he's got. "I'm firing them. Both of them. Today."
"That's exactly what she said you'd do."
"Good. Then she knows me."
"Buck —"
"No. You don't talk about people like that. You don't —" Bucky's palm connects with the desk hard enough to rattle the papers on it. "Fuck. Does she really think I'd let anyone believe that? Does she think I give a shit what people say?"
"She's trying to protect your reputation."
"My reputation? What about hers?" The question comes out louder than he means it to, weeks of frustration packed into a question. "She's been dealing with this alone for three fucking weeks because she was worried about what — me?"
"Yeah."
"That's — Why didn't she tell me?" He starts pacing. Standing still feels impossible right now, all this energy with nowhere to go.
"Because she knew you'd react exactly like this."
"Like what? Like someone who gives a shit?"
"Like someone who's in love with her."
Steve is watching him with this knowing expression that makes Bucky want to punch him, mostly for being right. "Steve —"
"You're in love with her. Anyone with eyes can see it. The way you look at her, the way you —"
"I know. Fuck, I know, okay? I'm in love with her." Bucky finally, finally admits. But saying it out loud doesn't make it easier. If anything, it makes his chest ache worse, knowing you're out there thinking you have to protect him from gossip while he's in here realizing he'd burn this whole place down if it meant keeping you safe.
Steve's expression softens. "Yeah. I know."
"And she's been avoiding me because she thinks — what? That I care more about what some asshole line cook thinks than I care about her?"
"No. She thinks she's protecting you."
"From what? From being happy?" Bucky lets out a humourless laugh. "I finally — for the first time in years I actually wanted to come home. Wanted to wake up. And she thinks I'm going to choose this place over her?"
Bucky loves his restaurant. Built it from nothing, bled for it. But it’s never felt like this, like something pulling him forward instead of just giving him somewhere to stand. This is the first time in a long while he's felt more than just getting through the day.
"She thinks if people find out, it makes you look bad. Like you compromised your standards."
"My standards?" Bucky's voice goes sharp. "She exceeds every fucking standard I have. She's brilliant and she works her ass off and she —" He takes a breath to calm down. "I hired her because she's good. The best. Everything after that was just — it was just us."
"I know. She knows that too, I think. But she's scared of what everyone else will think."
"I don't give a fuck what everyone else thinks."
"She does. Or at least she cares about how it affects you."
Bucky sinks into his desk chair. "So what do I do?"
"Talk to her."
"I've tried. She won't — every time I try, she shuts down."
"Try harder."
"Steve —"
"You love her, right?"
"Yeah."
"Then fight for her. Make her understand that you don't care what people think. That you're not going anywhere."
Bucky looks up at his best friend. "And if she still won't listen?"
"Then you keep trying until she does. Because that's what you do when you love someone." Steve moves away towards the door. "But first you need to deal with Jason and whoever else was talking shit."
"I'm firing them."
"I figured." Steve pauses with his hand on the doorknob. "For what it's worth? She's miserable too. I've never seen someone look that sad while trying to do the right thing."
"The right thing would be talking to me."
"Yeah. But she's scared… and in love. Those people? They tend to do stupid things."
When Steve leaves, Bucky sits there in his office, trying to breathe through the mess of emotions churning in his gut.
Three weeks. Three weeks you've been carrying this alone because you were trying to protect him. Three weeks of him lying awake wondering what he did wrong, replaying every conversation, every touch, trying to figure out where he fucked up. And the whole time you were just scared, of people talking, of damaging his reputation, of being reduced to some cheap rumour.
He gets it. He does. The world's not kind to women in kitchens, not kind to women who get ahead. But what he doesn't get is why you thought you had to handle it alone, why you thought he wouldn't fight for you.
Because he would. He will.
He's in love with you. Has been for weeks, maybe longer. Since the interview, probably, when you looked at him like you could see right through all his bullshit. Since that first night when you fell asleep in his bed and he laid there watching you breathe, thinking this is what he'd been missing his whole life.
He's in love with you and you're out there thinking you have to protect him.
And some asshole has been running his mouth about you and still working in his fucking kitchen.
Bucky stands up. His hands are still shaking for a different reason now, pure, concentrated rage.
When he walks into the kitchen, everyone's in the middle of prep, focused on their stations, and the familiar sounds of chopping and sizzling fill the space.
Bucky's voice cuts through the noise. "Everyone stop what you're doing. Meeting. Now."
The sudden silence is almost jarring. People look up from their stations, confusion flickering across faces that quickly shift to wariness when they clock his expression. They start gathering near the pass, wiping their hands on their aprons.
You're standing near the back. When Bucky's eyes find you, his heart breaks clean in two. You look exhausted. Scared. Like you're bracing for whatever's about to happen.
He tears his gaze away from you and focuses on the rest of the kitchen. "Someone want to tell me," Bucky keeps his voice calm even though he wants to scream, "what gives anyone the right to talk about their coworkers like they're pieces of meat? In my kitchen?"
Silence. He watches a few people shift their weight, suddenly fascinated with the floor.
"No? No one? Let me be more specific then. Someone — multiple someones, apparently — have been running their mouths about my sous. Starting rumours in my kitchen."
More uncomfortable shifting.
"You know what the really fucked up part is? She earned this job. She's got more talent in her fucking pinkie than most of you have in your entire bodies. And instead of respecting that, instead of learning from someone who's better than you, you reduce her to a cheap rumour."
"Chef —" Jason starts.
"I'm not done. This kitchen runs on two things. Talent and respect. You need both to work here. Both. Not one or the other. I don't care if you're the best cook I've ever seen. If you can't treat your coworkers with basic fucking human decency, you don't belong here."
Bucky's eyes scan the group, making contact with each person individually. He wants them to understand this isn't just talk. "This is me telling you how this kitchen works. How it's always worked. This isn't negotiable. And if you have a problem with that, there's the door."
No one seems to move.
"I've spent years building this place. Years earning the stars, making sure every plate that leaves this kitchen is perfect. And I will not let anyone ruin that because they can't keep their mouths shut and their opinions to themselves."
He turns to look at Jason directly. "Especially when those opinions are rooted in misogynistic bullshit that has no place in my kitchen."
Jason's face goes from pale to flushed red in seconds, stain of embarrassment creeping up his neck. "I didn't —"
"You did. I know you did. And you know what really pisses me off?" Bucky takes a step closer and watches Jason try not to flinch. "You made her feel like she had to hide. Like being good at her job wasn't enough, like she had to prove herself over and over again because assholes like you can't accept that a woman earned something on her own merit."
"Chef, I —"
"Save it. You're fired. Clear out your station and get out of my kitchen."
Jason's mouth works like a fish out of water, opening and closing without any sound. "You can't —"
"I can. I just did. Out. Now."
"This is bullshit —"
"It's consequence. There's a difference. And whoever else was part of this conversation? You know who you are. You've got two minutes to come forward."
The new line cook — Miller, Bucky thinks his name is — raises his hand like he's in grade school. "I'll resign."
"Smart choice."
Jason's still rooted to the spot, eyes darting around the kitchen like he's waiting for someone to come to his defense. But there's only silence. Nobody meets his gaze.
"I said out," Bucky repeats.
Jason rips off his apron and throws it on the ground, storming toward the back door. The new guy follows him. When the door slams behind them, the kitchen stays silent.
"The rest of you, get back to work. We've got service in three hours and we're down two people. Figure it out."
The kitchen erupts back into motion immediately, everyone returning to their stations like they can't get away fast enough.
Bucky's eyes find you again. You're staring at him with an expression he can't quite read, makes his heart squeeze painfully in his chest. There's shock there, definitely. Disbelief. But underneath it all there's something that looks like it might be hope. It's breaking his heart and healing it at the same time.
He wants to go to you, pull you aside and tell you that you didn't have to protect him, that he would've done this two weeks ago if you'd just told him, and firing Jason is one of the easiest decisions he's made ever.
But the kitchen's watching. Bucky knows better than to push right now. He just holds your gaze, trying to pour everything he can't say into that single look. Then he turns and heads back toward his office before he does something dumb like forget where he is and kiss you in front of everyone.
Bucky's staring at his laptop screen without actually seeing anything, waiting for the kitchen to clear out, to come find you.
When the office door opens and you step in, he cannot believe his eyes. You close the door behind you and stand there frozen on spot.
You both are. Waiting for the other to make the first move. It's stupid, honestly, the two of you stuck on opposite sides of this tiny office like there's some invisible line neither of you knows how to cross first.
The human heart is a wonderful organ, capable of supplying the entire body without missing a beat. Bucky's heart, though, trips over itself right now, like it forgot how this is supposed to work.
Thankfully, you're crossing the small space in three strides and he's standing, reaching for you, every tense muscle in his body finally remembering how to relax, his heart knowing how to function properly again.
Your arms wrap around his waist, bury your face in his chest, hard enough he feels the shape of your nose, your forehead. You're shaking, just this fine tremor he can feel everywhere you're touching him. Like you're trying really hard not to fall apart and it's not quite working. His arms come around you immediately, one hand cradling the back of your head while the other presses flat against your spine. "I'm here," he murmurs into your hair. God, you smell the same. Like the shampoo he's still got in his shower, the one you left behind three weeks ago. "I'm here, baby. Please don't cry."
Crying like this is hardly strong. But his arms are around you and he smells like home, and the last thing you want to be is strong. You've missed him so much it physically hurts. The sob that escapes you is wet against his shirt, "I missed you. I missed you so much."
"Yeah? Whose fault is that?" There's a soft, familiar teasing in his tone, makes you pull back just enough to look at him. Your lips jut out before you can help it, the one that only comes out when it's just him, when you don't have to keep your guard up. Everyone else thinks you're tough and competent, and you are, but with Bucky you've never had to pretend you don't also want to be soft sometimes.
He wants to kiss that pout off your face. Wants to do a lot of things, actually, but first he needs to make sure you're okay. His thumb comes up to wipe under your eyes, catching tears.
"You're being mean." Your lips are still doing the thing he adores most.
"You're the one who disappeared on me for two weeks."
"I had a reason —"
"A stupid reason."
You want to argue but he's smiling at you. One of those real smiles that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners. You've missed that smile so much you ache with it. "It wasn't stupid. I was trying to protect you."
"I know." His expression goes serious but still soft. "I'm sorry for doing that without asking you first. The meeting, firing Jason — all of it. But I was so fucking mad, and I would never let anyone talk about you like that. Never."
The fierceness in his voice does something to your chest, makes it warm and painful at once. "I know. I just — I'm sorry I didn't tell you. I should've told you."
"Yeah, you should've." But his voice is gentle, at odds with the words, hands never leaving you, holding you like you're something precious even though you fucked this up. The tears start again, harder this time, and you hate it. You hate crying, feeling this vulnerable, that you can't just pull it together for two seconds.
"Sweetheart, no —" Panic flashes across his face, knows he's said the wrong thing and scrambling to make it right. "No, baby, I'm sorry. I'm stupid. I shouldn't have — I should've just read your mind or something —"
That startles a laugh out of you, wet and a little broken but still a laugh. "You're not a mind reader."
"Clearly. Would've saved us both a lot of trouble if I was."
"You would've been horrified by what I was thinking."
His eyebrows go up, that interested look he gets. "Oh yeah? What were you thinking?"
"That I was in love with you and terrified you'd figure it out." The words come out before you can stop them, honest and raw and so vulnerable it makes you want to grab the words back out of the air and shove them back in your throat. But you don't, you can't. Not when Bucky's looking at you like that.
"You're in love with me?"
You can feel your face heating up, but you nod. "Yeah. I am. Have been for — I don't know. A while."
"Mhmm, that's good. Because I'm in love with you too."
The relief that floods through you is so intense you actually sway a little, his hands tightening to keep you straight. "You are?"
"Yeah. I am. Have been for — I don't know. A while." He's using your words back at you, a soft smirk playing on his lips. You want to hit him and kiss him in equal measure.
"Don't make fun of me."
"I'm not. I'm —" How does he explain this? That he's been miserable without you? That his apartment felt wrong? That Alpine's been waiting by the door every night? "I've been going crazy without you. Alpine too. Keeps waiting for you."
Guilt speaks for you, "I'm sorry. I should've —"
"Stop apologizing." His hands frame your face, thumbs brushing your cheekbones. "We both fucked up. You should've told me what Jason said. I should've pressed more."
Standing in his cramped office with your faces inches apart, it feels like you can finally breathe again after weeks of suffocation. "I missed this."
"Yeah?" His thumb traces your bottom lip and your breath catches. "What specifically?"
"You being annoying. Me wanting to hit you. The usual."
A soft smile curves his lips as you study his face, taking in details you'd memorized weeks ago. The small scar on his chin you liked to trace, the way his hair falls across his forehead. But now there's darkness under his eyes, that you've caused. "You look tired."
"Haven't been sleeping."
You pull him closer, words failing, conveying what you want through touch alone. Bucky seems to understand, a soft kiss placed on your temple as he speaks, "we're really bad at this."
"At what?"
"Being apart." He says it like a confession, like admitting weakness, but his hands are still gentle on your face. "I don't want to do it again."
"I don't want to do it again either."
Bucky has to kiss you now. Can't not kiss you when you're looking at him like that, all soft and more importantly, his.
The apartment looks exactly the same as you remember. The book you were reading is still on the table. There's your coffee mug on the counter. From the faint ring outside, it looks like Bucky's been using it.
Alpine appears the second you step inside, meowing so loud it's almost accusatory. She's looking at you like you personally betrayed her. You sink down onto the floor right there in the living room, don't even make it to the couch, Alpine immediately climbing into your lap. She's purring, that rumbling engine sound that always makes you smile. "I'm sorry, baby," you murmur, scratching behind her ears. "I missed you too."
Bucky watches the way you curl around Alpine like you're trying to make yourself small enough to fit in her world. This is what he wanted. This. You in his space, in his world, with his cat, looking like you belong here. Without a second thought, he's drops down next to you, close enough that his thigh presses against yours, arms around both of you. One around your shoulders, pulling you into his side, and the other joining yours in Alpine's fur.
You let yourself lean into him, head finding that spot on his chest that feels like it was made specifically for you. Alpine's purring gets louder, pleased to have both her people back where they belong. "This is nice," you say.
His chin rests on top of your head. "Yeah. It is."
"I'm sorry I left."
"I'm sorry too. Can we stop apologising now?"
The laugh out of you, however soft, startles Alpine enough that she whips her head around to glare at you, but she recovers and nuzzles back into you, apparently deciding to forgive the disruption.
It's the most peace you've felt in weeks. Possibly longer. Alpine's warm weight in your lap, Bucky's arm solid around your shoulders.
"I was thinking," Bucky says eventually.
"Mhmm, dangerous."
He pinches your side gently, making you yelp and squirm in his grasp. "I was thinking you should move in."
"What?"
"Your stuff's already here. Work's downstairs. Commute's easier. Just makes sense."
"That's very romantic."
"I'm in love with you and I want you here all the time. Better?"
You're smiling so hard your cheeks hurt. "A little better."
"Is that a yes?"
You think about your empty apartment, waking up alone, not having this — Bucky and Alpine and home. "Yeah. That's a yes."
The kiss he presses to your temple is soft and lingering. "Thank God. Because I actually cleared out more drawer space — you know, before all this."
Alpine meows, annoyed at being squished between you, and you both laugh. But neither of you move. Neither of you want to.
"I love you," you say. Testing the words out loud now that you can, now that you know how to say it, and that he feels the same.
His arm tightens around you. "I love you too." He's smiling. You can feel it, the curve of his lips on the top of your head.
Alpine purrs louder, like she's agreeing, and you let yourself sink into this. Into Bucky and Alpine and the feeling of home.
COLLAB MASTERLIST ✧ MY MASTERLIST
EXTRAS. Thank you so much for reading! Please do support all the amazing authors who are participating in this collab!
Did I know anything about chefs? No. Did I one day watch a random ass movie and decide chefs are hot? You know.
Pairing: Mechanic!Bucky Barnes x Mechanic!Female Reader
Summary: Bucky Barnes doesn’t do favors. Everything has a price; that’s how he’s kept his garage and himself intact since the end of the world. Then there’s you, the rival mechanic down the road who refuses to take a single scrap of bread for a radiator flush. But when a freak storm destroys his workshop, Bucky's left with nowhere to go but your grease-stained bay and forced to face every choice he's never allowed himself to make.
Word count: 8.4k
Tags/warnings: apocalypse au; enemies to lovers; rivals to lovers; forced proximity; there was only one bed; sexual tension; end of the world setting; mentions of death (no graphic details); rough sex; unprotected p in v (it's the end of the world dudes, there's no condoms); dirty talk; pubic hair pulling; creampie; minor injuries; use of petname (Tinkerbell); no use of Y/N
Notes: here is my second entry for Bucky's Dreamhouse Collab at @stantastic-association 😊 i was so excited about getting to write a second fic and to work on something i absolutely love: apocalypse aus! this is definitely something i'd love to explore more in the future. again, a huge thank you to @miraclediviner for being the organizer of this amazing collab and keeping us all on our toes 🩵
Nobody knows who did it. What did it.
That’s the part that still keeps most people up at night, almost two decades later. Not the fallout itself, not the slow and methodical collapse of everything that had ever seemed permanent before. It’s just the not knowing. There was never a declaration of war or crackling broadcast announcing the end of the world, either caused from within or from outside. In the span of ninety-six hours, the sky turned the wrong color over six continents and then never turned blue again. A toxic event so massive that the world’s remaining scientists (the ones who survived the first winter, anyway) stopped using the word accident and started using the word deliberate in quiet voices, inside rooms with closed doors.
Scientists have stopped talking altogether, now. There aren’t enough of them left to argue about it.
What people know is this: it came both from the ground and the air. A toxicity that spread through the soil and the water and settled into pockets of the earth like it had always lived there. Now, twenty years in, the red zones are mapped. Loosely, in the only way you can really map things when you don’t have satellites anymore and most cartographers are self-taught. But this means people at least know where not to go, or where to go only for very small periods of time, before their skin starts falling off or blood begins coming out of every orifice.
Settlements share information between them through travelers, the typical chain of human whisper that quickly replaced the internet when the infrastructures went dark. That’s the thing about human resilience. Twenty years later, most people remember before, but they can still live in the now. People are alive, building things, trading things, hoarding things, loving, ruining things; just as they used to before, just with less electricity.
Out here on what used to be Route 9, the world has contracted to something you see as quite manageable. The settlement has maybe a hundred people on a good day; traders passing through inflate it, bad weeks with sickness or supply shortages shrink it. There’s a water system that works if two specific people maintain it. Also a rationing board that meets every Tuesday in what used to be a diner. Violence has no place anymore, most of the time, and that is held up only by the collective notion that you cannot afford to lose anyone else.
Funnily enough, for a small settlement, there are two garages right by the main road, sitting maybe a quarter mile apart.
On one of the edges sits your garage. The space itself is nothing pretty, just corrugated metal walls patched with whatever you could find; sheet aluminum, sections of fencing that used to keep someone’s dogs in and now keeps some of the wind out. Three hydraulic lifts, one fully functional, another one that works if you coax it, one that is mostly just parts used to repair the fully functional one. A workbench along the back wall so cluttered it’s developed its own ecosystem. A door that leads to a small room you would have called kitchen in another lifetime, and another one that reveals a small bed and some of your still-lasting clothes. The whole place smells of grease and metal.
But it’s yours. That’s enough.
You’re under a ‘94 Silverado, or what used to be one before someone had clearly taken a blowtorch to the undercarriage and called it a modification, when you hear boots on gravel. Unfortunately, you’ve come to recognize this exact sound all too quickly, because there’s only one person who will walk into your garage at nine in the morning as if everything about your existence is wrong.
Just so happens that his garage is a quarter mile up the road from yours.
Bucky Barnes.
His operation is bigger than yours, so is his space, and he’s been out here longer, which means he’s built up a stockpile of parts that most people would trade significant things to get their hands on. That is one of the big differences between the two of you even though, technically, you both provide the same services.
People go to him when they need something badly, and they go to you when they need something and don’t have much to give.
You’ve heard him call that a flaw. Heard him say it, actually, to your face, in that flat tone of assessment like it’s a weather report. You’re naive and weak, and running a charity shop in a world that’s gonna run you into the ground.
You roll out from under the truck and Bucky is standing just inside the entrance, thumbs hooked in the front pockets of his jeans. There’s a smear of grease along his right forearm, which means he came here straight from his own work. That lack of ceremony, the assumption that whatever brought him here was worth interrupting your afternoon for, makes you grind your teeth before he’s even opened his mouth.
But he does open his mouth. And it makes the grinding worse.
“You took in the Reyes truck,” he says.
You sit up, dragging a rag off your workbench to wipe your hands, but it doesn’t do much. “Evidently,” you reply, even though you know he isn’t asking, not when said truck is right there.
“That’s a fuel injector problem.” You really hate the way he says it like he’s explaining it to you. “You don’t have the parts for a fuel injector problem.”
“I’m aware of what I have and don’t have in my own garage, Barnes.”
The look he gives you is not exactly condescending, more like a look of someone taking a situation apart to find where the inefficiency lives. You’ve seen him look like that at engines, but it’s slightly more irritating when he aims it at you.
“So you’re going to take their truck apart, figure out you can’t fix it, and send them away anyway. What exactly does that accomplish?”
“It accomplishes me knowing what’s wrong so I can find the parts.” You finally stand up mostly because you’re tired of looking up at him. “I told them two weeks, I’ll have it done.”
“With what?”
“That’s my problem.”
“Right,” he says, a muscle twitching in his jaw. You know where this is going, and you hate that you know where this is going. “Because you’ll figure it out. You always figure it out, don’t you? What happens if you don’t?”
“Then I’ll tell them that and I won’t charge them for the time.” You fold your arms. “Which is more than you’d do.”
“I’d tell them upfront I couldn’t help them.” His voice doesn’t change, doesn’t sharpen. It’s the thing about Bucky Barnes that lives under your skin like a splinter you can’t find: he never raises his voice, never even wavers. “I wouldn’t let them drive an hour out here on bad fuel and leave with nothing. That’s not the generosity you think it is.”
You look at him for a long moment. At the set of his shoulders, at the lack of sentiment in his expression. You’ve thought, more than once and always against your will, that there might be something underneath all the cold architecture. Something that got buried so long ago he’s forgotten the shape of it. Equally against your will, you’ve imagined that maybe you’d like to find it. As it turns out, the apocalypse is incredibly lonely. People aren’t worried about relationships as much as they are worried about staying alive. The nights in your makeshift bedroom are cold. And Bucky is, despite his incredibly upset demeanor, very interesting to look at.
You try very hard not to think about that now.
“Is there something you actually need, or did you just come down here to audit my business model?”
Did the corner of his mouth just move?
“Heard you’ve got a plasma cutter.”
“I might have.”
“I’ll give you two gallons of diesel and a box of copper wire if I can borrow it. I’ll bring it back.”
The diesel alone is worth saying yes to, and you both know it. If Bucky was anyone else, you would borrow it without asking for anything in return. But he’s the only person currently alive who genuinely makes you want to pull hair out of your head.
“It’s in the back. Don’t move anything.”
And then you’re back on the ground, sliding under the Silverado, picking where you left off. The sound of him moving through your space, careful and irritatingly respectful of the warning you gave him, follows you under the truck. You stare up at the undercarriage and find a fault line in the exhaust coupling and think about absolutely nothing else.
This is how it goes. Has gone, for however long you’ve both shared this quarter mile of road. The settlement is small enough that avoiding each other would require effort neither of you are willing to put on, so instead, you collide and part ways.
People have noticed. Of course they would, when there isn’t much entertainment out here on the best of days. You ever gonna stop acting like cats in a bag? Old Ramona from the supply post asked you once, grinning her three-toothed grin at you across a pile of canned goods.
You paid for a can of tuna with half a liter of diesel and told her you didn’t know what she was talking about.
The truth, one that you hold at arm’s length, examine briefly, then put back down before it can take root, is that Bucky Barnes might be a selfish asshole, but at least he sees you. Sure, he acts like a spotlight when you’re trying to stand in shadow. His assessments of you are wrong, you maintain that, will maintain it until your last breath, but they’re specific. Like he knows where to aim to make you feel something.
And his eyes, the color of an ocean you don’t remember seeing anymore, have a habit of finding you in a crowd before you’ve found him. You’ve decided that’s just the instinct of a rival, knowing where the competition is. That’s all it is.
A week later, the sky gives warning, if you know how to read it.
Most people have learned to, the hard way. Animals go quiet first. There’s a weird shade of yellow-green that bleeds into the horizon, air pressure drops fast enough that your ears begin to pop. Then the wind picks up and changes direction twice in under a minute.
You closed the garage two hours before the first crack of thunder split the sky open. Bucky Barnes, on the other hand, did not close up early.
There’s a water pump coupling he’s been rebuilding for three days, and he’s at worst a few hours away from finishing when the storm makes its first real declaration. The sky simply opens a pressure valve it’s been holding shut for weeks and releases all the water at once, the kind of deluge that doesn’t fall as much as crash, hitting the corrugated roof of his garage like it holds a personal grudge.
But he keeps working, because he’s worked through worse.
What he hasn’t worked through is the sound that follows fifteen minutes later, a groan of metal pushed past its tolerance. He looks up from the coupling and has exactly enough time to register the shadow moving wrong across the ceiling before the eastern section of his room comes down.
Not all of it, but enough.
The support beam goes first, taking two sections of roofing with it, and the rain follows immediately. Half of his east wall buckles. The shelving unit that holds years of sorted, labeled, fought-for parts hits the floor in a single slide and the rain comes straight through the gap where his ceiling used to be, hitting the concrete hard enough to make it hard to think.
Bucky stands in the middle of it for a moment, lets the rain soak through his shirt, looking at the parts scattered and soaking, some of them already buried under debris. Years of work, of careful accumulation, trading and sourcing and never once letting himself be careless with any of it. All of it gone, or going.
Tonight, not much of it will be salvageable. Even less the following days. Bucky picks up the coupling, still on the bench, wraps it in the driest rag he can find and presses it into his jacket pocket. Then he stands at the threshold of what’s left of his east entrance and looks out at the road and thinks about his options.
The settlement’s main hall is farther. The road between here and there runs through a low section that will be flooding by now. Visibility is near zero. His truck could make it, probably, but probably is a word he’s learned not to bet his life on.
On the other hand, your garage is a quarter mile out. He’s noted the construction before, solid, better reinforced than it looks. You did something smart with the foundation drainage that he hadn’t thought to do and never mentioned to you, either. But he filed it away, because information is always useful.
This is why there’s a knock on your door a while later, almost inaudible under the storm. You’ve been in the back room lying on your cot, listening to the rain assault your roof and waiting to find out if the structural work from last spring was actually good enough. The ceiling is holding, for now.
You get out of your bed and take a lantern, pushing through to the garage floor. Through the small smeared window in the door you can see nothing but dark and rain, until lightining splits the sky sideways and you manage to see the outline of a person. Broad shoulders. Standing very straight as if not even killer weather could affect his posture.
You open the door.
The wind tries to take it out of your hand and you hold on. Bucky is standing in the rain looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. Completely soaked through, dark hair plastered flat. His eyes meet yours and something complicated moves through them for exactly one second before it’s gone.
He says nothing. Which tells you, more than any words he could have used, exactly how bad it is.
So you step back to let him in before closing the door again, leaving the storm outside where it belongs. He stands just inside, dripping, unmoving.
“East wall came down,” he says. Not to you exactly, kind of just to the room.
“How much?”
“Half of it. A part of the ceiling, too.”
You look at him for a moment. At the careful neutrality of his face, as if you’re attempting to see the length of the damage of the storm on him.
“Look, I don’t have much. But there's a bed in the back room," you hear yourself say, with the tone of someone being dragged toward a conclusion against their will. Which you are. “It’s not big, but it’s not the floor.”
“I’m fine on the floor.”
You’re still looking at him, dripping on your floor, jacket dark and heavy with water, that expression that gives absolutely nothing way. And you are… you’re practical. That’s the thing you keep coming back to. You are a practical person.
“The floor is concrete,” you say.
“I know what floors are made of.”
“It’s going to be forty degrees in here by morning.”
“I’m not taking your bed.”
You stare at him for a long moment, he stares back. In the dim light coming from your lantern you think, unfortunately not for the first time and with the usual accompanying irritation, that it is genuinely unfair to look the way he looks.
“I’m not offering you my bed,” you finally say with slight exhasperation. “I’m offering you half of it. You stay on your side and we don’t make it into anything, and in the morning you get up and we never discuss that this happened.”
“I’ll take the floor,” he repeats.
“Barnes.”
“It’s fine.”
“It’s forty degrees.”
“Then I’ll sleep in my jacket.”
You close your eyes briefly, pinching the bridge of your nose with two fingers. “You are the most unnecessarily difficult person I have ever encountered in two decades of a very difficult world.”
“Thank you.”
“Absolutely not a compliment.”
“I know.”
Five seconds. That’s about as long as you stand there before you turn and walk through the door to the bedroom because this is your garage, your space, and you don’t have to stand in the cold arguing with a man who has apparently decided that frostbite is preferable to sharing a mattress with you. You pull the blanket on your side, and you lie down and stare at the ceiling while the storm rages on.
Bucky follows a moment later only to lay down on the cold floor. You hear him shift positions, then again, then shuffle of clothes, and for a while, silence. You’d like to say that means he’s found a way to be comfortable, but you realize it means he’s just decided not to move out of sheer stubbornness when you hear him exhale sharply, biting the cold through his teeth.
So you sit up.
“Get in the bed, Barnes.”
First silence, then: “I’m fine.”
“You’re lying on the concrete in wet clothes.”
“I’ve taken them off.”
A different type of silence falls over the room, because you don’t know what to say to that. Then you can hear him getting up, the economy of motion with minimal noise, and his shadow fills the doorway. Whenever lightning strikes, the silhouette of him is clear. The clothes are indeed off. You see definition of muscle, biceps, stomach, and you do a genuinely impressive job at not acknowledging that you can very clearly see all of it.
“… Can I take the side of the bed?” He finally asks, and you can hear it in his tone that the words feel punched out of him, a crack on his wall that is making him share some weakness for once. He doesn’t like it.
“If you’re weird about it, I will make your life very hard.”
For a reason you don’t recognize, that makes him chuckle. “You already make my life very hard.”
“Harder, then.”
Bucky stares at the bed. At the expanse of empty space on the right side that you’ve left without meaning to make it obvious you’ve left it. Finally he crosses the remaining space and lies down on top of the covers, not under them, which is going to defeat the purpose of this somewhat. On his back, arms at his sides, staring at the ceiling just like you were before.
With a conformed sigh, you lie back down and look at your own section of the ceiling again.
“There’s a line. We don’t—”
“Yes, you’ve said.” Too quiet, too final, like he doesn’t want to entertain the discussion anymore. You’re unsure why that bothers you, but it does.
Outside, the storm hasn’t let up. It never does, these days, and you wonder in silence how long this one will take to subside. How much damage it has caused. If you’ve lost anyone. The all-consuming thoughts don’t linger for long as you close your eyes, letting sleep drift over you until—
“Tinkerbell,” he says.
Oh. Fuck off. You know that nickname. Of course you do, it’s been used against you for months now, since the first time he said it, knowing perfectly well it would drive you up the walls. Because, as usual, he knows exactly where to push, like a finger always pressing against an open wound. Tinkerbell. Because you thinker, and because you’ve got, his words, ‘this whole thing where you think everything’s going to work out if you’re just nice enough about it’.
Every single time he’s used that name, you’ve asked him to stop, and of course, he never did.
“Don’t.” You warn.
“Just checking you were still awake.”
“Go to sleep, Barnes.”
And of course after he goes quiet, his breathing evens out before yours does. Because apparently, even though his garage was the one destroyed, you’re now the one with your night upside down.
Still, unexpectedly, the night goes on without hassle. Bucky sleeps, so do you, even if less hours than he does, and he mostly keeps to his side of the bed. And you say mostly, because there is a time when you feel an arm snake around your waist for half a second, for which you freeze, and then he lets go and turns on his side. Likely dreaming, or just deep in sleep. You ignore it. It’s nothing, it’s always been nothing.
The morning after, on the other hand, doesn’t move as softly.
You’ve woken up before Bucky, and are now at the stove coaxing the grain coffee into something drinkable when he comes through the door rolling his left shoulder into place, metal arm glinting faintly. The storm still rages on; you’ve looked out the windows, tried to get some semblance of what’s going on outside, but the rain is so heavy and clouds so dark you can barely get a glimpse even though it is morning time.
When Bucky walks past you, you hand him a cup of coffee as courtesy even without being asked, because it’s cold and he’s now walking around in just his shoes and some old blankets he found in your bedroom which he has decided to wrap around his body for some notion of decency. He takes the cup with a nod, and whispers a hoarse ‘Thanks, Tinkerbell’.
You point at him. “I’m asking you, sincerely, to stop.”
“Mm.” He drinks the coffee as he hums, and that mm contains multitudes of meanings, none of them apologetic.
“It’s condescending.”
“… It’s a nickname.”
“It’s a condescending nickname that implies I’m… what, delusional? Some kind of —”
“Dreamer,” he interrupts quickly. “Convinced that believing in something hard enough makes it real.” Over the rim of the cup, his eyes look at you and something in them isn’t the mockery you had been expecting. “I didn’t say it was a bad thing.”
Right. “You implied it was a bad thing.”
“I implied it was naive.”
“Which you think is a bad thing.”
He considers those words with infuriating calm. “I think it’s a dangerous thing.”
You take your cup of coffee and go back to your workbench, which is the dignified response. The undignified response would be to keep arguing, which is what he wants and what you won’t give to him.
By noon the sky looks like bruised iron, and the rain hasn’t loosened its grip on anything. You stand at the small smeared window with your second cup of grain coffee and watch the road disappear under a film of moving water. Bucky joins you, whispers about how it’ll be two days before you can even go outside again. Because there’s no point in softening it, you tell him two days is the least they can expect.
And by late afternoon, you drag out the hand-crank radio that lives on the second shelf of your workbench, under a canvas tarp and three spare gaskets. It’s a good unit, salvaged and well-maintained, and you’ve kept it carefully because it was expected that a freak storm like this would happen any day now, and communications would be even harder than they already usually are.
You set it on the workbench and try the settlement’s usual frequency first. All you get back is static. Then the backup frequency. More static. You try the lower band, adjust the squelch, fine-tune the frequency and finally get back a faint carrier wave that sounds promising for approximately four seconds before it dissolves back into noise.
Defeatedly, you set the handset down.
“No idea whether the antenna’s broken or if it’s just the storm breaking the communication. Either way, it’s not working.”
You look at the radio, even though it doesn’t offer any solutions. The quarter mile road between your garage and Bucky’s lost one might as well be a hundred miles right now, and the only other person on this stretch is standing four feet away from you and making it his ongoing project to be as upsetting as possible.
From that moment, and until the dam breaks, two weeks pass by.
First few days are almost manageable. You establish a rhythm without discussing it, find him some clothes that somehow fit him so he doesn’t walk around your garage all day wrapped around on your blankets or dressed in still half-damp clothes. The radio gets checked every morning and every evening, and every time it gives you back the same answer.
Nothing.
But whatever silence you get from the rest of the settlement while the freak storm keeps going outside your metal walls is not worse than what comes from sharing a small space for longer than half a minute with Bucky Barnes: the fights.
Small ones, at first. Bucky reorganizes your tools without asking when he tries to work on the Reyes truck to distract himself. You leave the lantern burning longer than, in his opinion, is necessary, which he delivers as a flat observation about fuel consumption, and you receive it as criticism of your judgment.
By day five, you’ve officially graduated to the kind of fights that have real heat in them, that would have had either of you slamming the front door and leaving if the world wasn’t ending for the second time right outside. Bucky has a special quality to him, one that allows him to say one thing and mean about four others, which is something you can never quite get used to, because every fight feels like you’re fighting the whole war, not just the battle. Days go by like that, and eventually you learn that he goes quiet rather than loud when he’s genuinely angry, that if you catch it at the right angle it’s actually closer to grief than to indignation. You, on the other hand, argue the loudest when the pain hits harder; volume is your tell, the way you fold your arms like you’ve already started wondering if he’s right about something he says and won’t forgive yourself for it.
You were never meant to share this much time together. It becomes clearer than ever twelve days in, when food becomes the new problem.
Since the storm’s second day, you’ve been carefully rationing the food. Well, you’ve always kind of done it, anyway, especially in moments where access to new resources is difficult. It never even crossed your mind that you’d have to split rations with Bucky Barnes, but here you are now, on day twelve, measuring out the last of the dried lentils into two equal portions when he looks at what you’re doing and says, in the most matter-of-fact voice, that you should take a larger portion for yourself.
“I’m splitting it evenly,” you say.
“You’ve been burning more energy.” He responds, already turning away like this has been decided in his mind. “You’ve been more active. Maintaining the drainage just this morning, and I heard you still working on the truck last night after I went to bed. Take the larger portion.”
You don’t move the pot or the spoons already on the bowls. “We split evenly. That’s how I do things.”
“That’s how you do things when you’ve got enough to be generous with. This,” he nods at the pot, “is not enough to be generous with.”
“I’m not being generous, I’m being fair.”
“You’d rather both of us be equally hungry than admit that equal isn’t always the right answer.”
“And you’d rather calculate everything down to who deserves what instead of just treating people decently.”
“Decent doesn’t keep people alive.”
“I’m trying to keep us human, but clearly that’s a lost cause because you’ve stopped being that a long time ago.”
The silence that follows feels like it’s the wrong shape. You’ve said worse to each other in the last twelve days. You’re certain you’ve said worse things to each other ever since you met, in fact. Yet this one still lands differently, and you know it because you see the half second before his face closes off completely, giving up on the fight for the time being.
“Right.”
That’s it, two words, flat. Bucky picks up his bowl and takes it to the far end of the workbench, sits with his back to you and doesn’t say anything else while you stand there, with your bowl in your hands. The words you said are already curdling in the air. You’ve thought about versions of that sentence before, filed it under ‘things you’ve thought that probably aren’t true’ and kept it at a distance, where they couldn’t have a cruel effect. But you’ve said them out loud, now, and gave them meaning, even if you hadn’t intended to.
You both eat in silence, unseasoned lentils that are going thin, the kind of meal that keeps you alive without pretending to be anything more than that. And the words only come back to your garage after you and Bucky quickly wash your bowls and set them aside, guilt beginning to creep up under your skin. Which makes you angry, because you’re not the one who built walls around yourself and charged people full price to come near them.
“Barnes—”
“Leave it, Tinkerbell.”
You walk past the nickname as if it didn’t bother you anymore, even if it did. “I’m not leaving it, I said something—”"
“I said leave it.” He responds, not even looking at you as he walks back to the front and stands in front of the door window as if waiting for the storm to magically clear. “You’re not wrong.”
You exhale slowly. “I said it to hurt you. That’s different from saying it because it’s true.”
He turns around then, and you wish he hadn’t, because for the first time since you’ve met him you think you can see real vulnerability in his expression and it only makes the guilt eat at you even more. “Doesn’t matter why you said it. Doesn’t change how true it is.”
“It does matter.” Why are you pushing it? Maybe because you’re tired and hungry and you’ve had twelve days of this man in your space and you’re running out of ways to stay braced against him. “You’re not… what I said. That was me being angry.”
“You’re always angry.”
“You make me angry.”
Bucky walks toward you then, and you’re close enough that you’re not entirely sure how you got here. The garage is small, has always been small, but with a man the size of him walking in your direction in a space like this only makes it feel infinitely smaller.
“Stop looking at me like that,” you say, only to find yourself suddenly breathless.
“Like what, Tinkerbell?”
There’s an answer on the tip of your tongue, or near enough. “Like you’re trying to figure something out.”
“Maybe I am.”
You think, distantly, that you should step back, that stepping back is the most sensible thing to do. Except when you, you only find your waist hitting the workbench right behind you, while Bucky takes just as many steps forward in your direction. Neither of you will ever fully settle this, but one of you moves first, and the other doesn’t try to stop the motion; but his hand comes up and finds the side of your jaw with gentleness that is fully at odds with every interaction you’ve ever had with him. Like he’s been thinking about the exact placement for this, filing the thought away as useful information and he’s finally decided to use it.
What follows isn’t quite soft. You’d have been able to dismiss soft, reminding yourself that it was a moment of weakness. Instead, it feels like a relief. His other hand finds the edge of the workbench behind you, bracing, and finally he leans fully into you, lips meeting yours with a kind of anticipation you can barely figure out. You have one brief thought that you should probably think about this, that this is the kind of thing that changes everything happening around you permanently, but the thought goes somewhere else all too quickly.
It doesn’t feel the way first kisses usually are in old stories. Just months of friction finally catching fire, heat and teeth and a faint metallic taste you can’t even quite place. His hand stays at your jaw, thumb pressing just hard enough to tilt your head exactly where he wants it while the other braces against the workbench so hard it creaks. And in the middle of it you kiss him back just as hard, angry at how good it feels, angrier that your body has apparently been waiting for this without your conscious consent.
Your fingers first in the front of his shirt and yank him closer, and he makes a low sound in the back of his throat. Surrendering to you, or maybe steeling himself to take more, Bucky turns the kiss messy, open-mouthed, and cages you in as if trying to stop you from running, even though you didn’t actually want to. Every point of contact seems to be burning, the scrape of stubble against your skin, the press of his hips pinning you to the edge of the bench. His metal fingers slide into your hair and grip just tight enough to sting, but the pain at least helps with wasting away the guilt that had built up before.
You bite his lower lip and he retaliates by shoving a thick thigh between yours, forcing your legs apart, though forcing might not be the right word when you put up no fight at all. The pressure is all too filthy, exactly what you both need after months of circling each other like stray dogs.
“Still think I’m not human?” he mutters against your mouth.
"Shut up,” you snap, kissing him again to make sure he does.
Clothes come off in impatient jerks. His shirt hits the floor while you drag his belt open with one hand. Then he yanks your shirt up and over your head, barely being able to let go of your lips long enough to manage that. Teeth, tongue, biting down on your bottom lip and releasing only for you to chase after him again, and you don’t miss the way he smirks into the kiss like an idiot, because no matter what you said to him before, he’s winning this fight.
Without warning he spins you around, bending you forward over the workbench. Your palms slap against the scarred wood, tools rattling, but Bucky doesn’t flinch because he’s busy pressing a hand between your shoulder blades, holding you down exactly where he wants you, while the other yanks your pants and underwear down in one rough motion. He knew you wanted this from the way you kissed him. Yet nothing prepared him to the sight of your cunt dripping when it becomes fully exposed, the way he can see you glistening for him, warm and wet. A siren song calling out to him, and he’s only a man, weak. You hear the clink of his belt hitting the concrete a moment later, and then his hands, one flesh, one metal, settling on your hips, and the tip of his cock pressing against your entrance.
“You want this. Filthy, Tinkerbell,” he whispers into your ear, body covering yours. Then there’s the blunt head of his cock nudging against you, insistent, before he pushes in with one deep thrust. The stretch burns in the best way and you gasp, fingers scrabbling for purchase on the bench as he bottoms out, hips flush against your ass. For one heartbeat, he doesn’t move. You hear him exhale, as if he’s steeling himself, maybe trying to stay grounded so this isn’t over embarrassingly quickly. Which is exactly why you decide to be a brat and grind your hips back against his, feeling the thick hair at the base of him brushing against your ass. The kind of dense hair he hasn’t bothered trimming in a while because razors are a luxury and no one is bothered about something like that when sex doesn’t happen anymore. It drags against your skin with every roll of hips, and even that small feeling makes your stomach tighten.
Bucky’s reaction is to snap his hips forward harder, burying himself to the hilt again and fucking you like he’s trying to prove a point. Every thrust is hard, rattling the tools on the bench and forcing broken moans out of your troat. The sharp heat of him behind you, inside you, is soothed just a bit when he wraps his metal arm around your waist, fingers digging in just enough to bruise and holding you exactly where he wants while his flesh hand slides greedily between your legs to part your soaked folds. He finds your own soft hair there, too, damp with your arousal, and he gets revenge on your previous stunt by curling his fingers around a patch of hair and tugging, not too hard, but hard enough that a jolt burns down your spine.
“Is this what you wanted, Tinkerbell? For us to fight so I’d fuck the attitude out of you?”
You try to answer, but it comes out strangled when he angles his hips differently and hits a spot you had forgotten existed, one that makes your vision spark white and your mind fuzzy. Instead, you push back against him, meeting every thrust.
“So tight,” he rasps against the back of your neck, fingers tugging lightly on your hair again and then moving lower once more to rub against your clit. “Haven’t felt a pussy this good in years.” His hips keep moving, slide of his cock making you burn from the inside out. The contrast of everything is overwhelming, a reality of two people who haven’t touched anyone like this in too long. He leans heavier over you, chest to your back, and you feel the full weight of him. Every time he bottoms out, a sharp spark of pleasure-pain shoots up your spine, and you chase it greedily, craving the way it blots out the hunger, the endless gray world outside these walls.
In a world so dark, pleasure truly feels like a commodity most people don’t have the money to pay for. So when the tightness in your stomach finally unravels, when you let out a sharp cry and finally come with his name on your mouth, walls clenching around his cock, it’s not lost on you that despite the storm outside, the fact that neither of you know who’s left on the other side of these garage walls, you are both incredibly lucky to be with each other in a moment this intimate. Even if it comes out of hate.
Because it does come out of hate, right?
Not long after, Bucky follows you, burying himself deep with only final trust as he spills inside of you, groaning your name (not Tinkerbell this time, which is something you can’t afford to dig into for too long in danger of finding some feeling you can’t deal with right now).
For a long moment, there’s only the sound of your breathing, his. He braces himself on the workbench, lying over your back but not letting his weight crush you. Then, unexpected, lips pressed against the length of your spine, tracing the vertebrae as they show against skin. “You feel that? We’re both still alive. Still human, Tinkerbell.”
Those lips against your spine leave something behind, something you find no name for, but it settles on your bones either way.
And that something left behind makes a mark. That night, you wait until his breathing has slowed and evened before you go to bed. When you wake up, he’s already up, coffee made, tinkering at the workbench. The next night, same pattern but reversed, with you waking up at two in the morning and hearing him moving into the bedroom. You stay very still, eyes closed, pretending you don’t notice that neither of you go to bed anymore while the other is awake. Now, you’re two people taking turns occupying the living space you share, as if you both have extremely busy lives and just happen to have mismatched schedules. The already existing friction between the two of you has a new edge to it, a kind of tension that comes out as renewed arguments about the lantern or the radio checks.
But everything else remains the same. Expected.
Everything but the radio crackling to life on day sixteen.
You’re at the workbench when it happens, Bucky doing something to the Reyes truck. The burst of static is so sudden you both jump in surprise but just as quickly you’re snatching the headset to get the message.
—survivors pulled from the low section, on Route 9. Too many to move. Medical situation, need—hands if anyone can—
The voice is faint, breaking up badly, but real enough to cut through the silence and deliver the message. Or enough of it, at least. When you look at Bucky, he’s already setting down the wrench.
“I’m going,” you both say, at the exact same time.
“You’re not going,” Bucky says immediately after, way too quick for you to not be annoyed by it.
You’re ignoring him already, moving toward a bag you keep in a corner with a heavy coat and gear that you keep packed for situations exactly like this. Somewhere behind you, Bucky is already trying to find an argument that will actually work on you and coming up empty. You’re as movable as a concrete wall.
“We can’t both go,” you tell him, which is both not an answer to what he just said and also the practical truth. Someone has to stay with the garage, the water system that requires attention every thirty-six hours or the pressure coupling blows. “And we’re not going to waste time standing here and arguing about who it’s gonna be.”
Bucky, always the incredibly difficult person he is, doesn’t let you maintain this plan until you find a box of matches and do the only sensible thing: break two into different sizes and hold them out in your closed fist, eyes on his.
He takes the long one. And neither of you say anything else about it.
You're gone for three days.
Bucky promised to take care of your garage, so he does, patching a section of your east wall, finishing the Reyes truck, fuel injector rebuilt from parts he’d carried in his jacket pocket without mentioning it. Checks the radio every two hours for updates, even though he tells himself it’s just due diligence and nothing else. Continues sleeping in your bed, occupying both sides now, because there’s no one else to schedule around while you’re gone, and then wakes up too early in the morning just to listen to the rain.
On the morning of day three, with no word and the storm still deciding whether it’s finished with this part of the world, Bucky sits on the workbench in your garage with his coffee and just stares at the floor. He’s starting to think the grey isn’t actually grey, wondering why grey is a color at all, who named it that, why does grey sound like such a grey word, slowly, and very unexpectedly, realizing that anything that has been flooding his mind for the past seventy-two hours has been an attempt from his brain to shut out all the thoughts about you. He can’t go out there; he made a promise he’d take care of your garage, and so he will honor it, because a man in this world has nothing but his own word.
It’s already late afternoon when the storm takes a turn and grudgingly begins to let up. Not the kind of letting up that means the whole world is about to go back to what it was before, but the kind that means it has exhausted itself, finally, same way large and difficult things always do. Rain goes from crashing, to falling, to water drizzling.
And the storm leaving brings something back. You.
Bucky’s off the workbench and racing to the door the minute he hears commotion outside. You’re in the doorway, coat dark and heavy with water, hair plastered flat, a cut above your left eyebrow that has been deal with but not quite dealt with, another cut on your left hand wrapped in a dirty cloth. You have mud up to your knees and you're holding your empty kit in one hand, which means you used most of what you had.
"The road's passable. Low section’s still soft but you can get through if you don't stop,” you say finally. “Fourteen pulled out. Three we couldn't.”
You're standing upright. Both of you note this, he thinks, in the same moment. That you’re not falling to your knees despite the weight of everything on your shoulders.
“I thought I was going to lose you out there.” The words come out before he’s thought about letting them. That’s not his usual modus operandi, he never really says things before he has decided to say them, but apparently three days in your garage, staring at the grey floor, have done something to the mechanism that governs that.
You just blink at him. “Barnes, I’m fine.”
“I know you’re fine. You’re standing in front of me, I can see that you’re fine. But I’m telling you what the last seventy-two hours were.” He stops. And when he starts speaking again, this time, it’s a decision. “I love you, and I thought I was going to lose you.”
The garage goes very quiet.
“What?”
Bucky holds your gaze, and his expression does something that looks like he’s about to either break or let go. “I said I love you, and I thought—”
“I—” You close your mouth. Open it again. “… What?"
“Tinkerbell, if you make me say I love you one more time I’m going to lose it.”
“Stop calling me that.”
That’s what makes his face finally shift from a confessional state to the beginning of absolute disbelief.
“That’s your takeaway.” He says flatly, definitely not a question. “From what I just said, that’s the part you landed on.”
“Barnes, I’ve been asking you to stop calling me that for months.”
“I just told you I love you.”
“I know what you just told me—”
“Well, do you? Because you’re standing there talking about a fucking nickname.”
“Because the nickname is the thing I know how to deal with right now!”
That stops him, stops you both, actually, the admission louder than you’d meant it to be, bouncing off the corrugated walls. Three days. Fourteen people pulled out of the low section, three you couldn’t. A cut above your eyebrow that will definitely scar, every single mile of the road back here you spent not letting yourself think about what was waiting, or what you wanted to be waiting.
“Barnes,” you say, quieter now.
“Yeah.”
“I’m going to need you to…” A pause, because the words are scrambling in your brain and you’re struggling to keep up. “I’ve been out there for three days and I’m covered in mud and I’m so tired I can barely think, and you’re standing there saying things that are going to require me to think, so I need you to… just give me a second.”
Unexpectedly, Bucky doesn’t say anything, and gives you the second you ask for. Gives you more seconds, too. In that time, you look at his ocean-colored eyes, how they don’t move away even as you just stare at him, through him. Your mind reels, recognizes the things you kept locked away behind a little door, the ones you told yourself meant nothing.
“I’m exhausted,” you whisper, not quite sure if that’s a warning or a plea for kindness.
“I know.”
“So if I say something back to you right now, you have to understand it’s under very specific circumstances—”
“I’ll take it,” he says with no hesitation. “Whatever conditions you need to put on it, I’ll take it.”
The storm has stopped. Outside, for the first time in weeks, there is something approaching silence, just the drip of water falling from the roof edge. And you, finding it hard to fight your own thoughts when exhaustion has taken over you, cross the distance still keeping you apart. You stop close enough to see the work of the three days on him too, the dark circles under his eyes, and you put your hand, the one not wrapped in cloth, flat against the centre of his chest.
“Me too.”
Bucky looks down at your hand and then back up at your face. “You don’t have to say it out of obligation or something.”
“I’m not.” You press your hand a little flatter, feel his heartbeat steadier than yours. “This is the version I know how to say right now. I mean it, but it’s all I got.”
The feeling comes before anything else, before you process it, before you continue or he response: his hand over yours on his chest, metal cool against flesh.
“That’s more than enough, Tinkerbell.”
In a final demonstration of vulnerability, you lean your forehead against his shoulder because your body is finally registering three days of work and the road home, and he lets you, one hand over yours and the other coming up to the back of your head, very gently brushing over your hair.
“You’re gonna let me look at that eyebrow, and your hand,” he says, turning his face to press his lips to your temple. “And I’m gonna make shitty coffee that you’re gonna drink because you need to warm up.”
“I will,” you answer, no fight left in you.
Nothing in this garage needs to be solved tonight. You’re both still alive, here, on this quarter mile of road, opening a door that had been previously closed.
Turns out that's exactly enough to start something new with.
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader
Summary: Bucky Barnes follows his therapist's advice to play Call of Duty as exposure therapy only to find himself with a new online friend.
Word count: 999 words
Tags/warnings: online rivals to friends to....?; reader is master rage baiter and also way funnier than Bucky; Sam shows up to be a small nuissance; Bucky's therapist trying her best; no use of Y/N
Notes: so, as it turns out, I have been since January participating in the incredible event @writer-in-a-cryofreeze 😍 I was unfortunately put on cryofreeze last round...... but that means I can finally share with all of you which entries were written by me! Here's the first of 7. The prompt was: Write about Bucky Barnes’s new 21st century hobby/obsession. At some point, use some form of the line: “Oh my god, this is worse than the bananas.” Thank you for reading ❤️
It all started as it always does for him now; another one of Dr. Raynor’s weird suggestions. She said these exercises were designed to bridge the gap between his past and his present, but Bucky usually just got the feeling she was secretly mocking him.
The latest prescription? Gaming. Specifically, first-person shooters. Dr. Raynor’s logic was frustratingly… normal. She argued that, for a trauma survivor, experiencing high-arousal states in a controlled, fictional setting could teach his nervous system how to down-regulate once the "threat" was over. Basically, digital exposure therapy.
And this is how Bucky Barnes, Sergeant, veteran, former Winter Soldier, finds himself hunched over a glowing monitor in his dim Brooklyn apartment. He looks entirely out of place, his vibranium fingers hovering over the mechanical keyboard while his flesh hand grips the mouse. He wears a headset over his ears, the frame feeling flimsy compared to any gear he has ever worn, as the title screen for Call of Duty flickers on the screen.
Bucky thinks he plays with the tactical precision and patience of a man who has spent decades behind a scope in the Siberian wilderness. In reality, he plays like a jerk. He camps, spawn traps the enemies, yells insults into the microphone until someone accuses him of ragebaiting.
The first time he gets put in his spot while playing is during a Deathmatch. That’s when he encounters you at first, too, and you are way too fast for him to keep up with; sliding around corners, hitting shots that seem to defy the laws of physics these games live by. When you take him out three times in a row, that’s when Bucky leans into his mic, barely contained anger as he complains.
“You know, in a real combat scenario, that ‘slide-cancel’ bullshit would just end with your knees shattered and your head blown off,” he says, tone dripping with very unimpressed disdain.
He expected a teenage kid to insult him back. Instead, what he gets is a feminine voice, clearly not childish, laughing before answering with amusement.
“Good thing this is a living room in 2026 and not a trench in World War II, boomer,” you shoot back, while your character is dancing over his digital corpse. “If you spent more time checking your six instead of lecturing strangers on ‘real life tactics,’ you wouldn’t be spectating right now. Sit down.”
Bucky’s jaw drops for a second.
Not because he’s been killed three times by the same person—he’s been killed plenty of times tonight, mostly deservedly—but because of the voice coming from his assassin. The way it sounded so warm and lovely even while it was edged with a particular brand of sarcasm that hits like a backhand you never see coming.
He stares at the kill-cam replaying your headshot. Your little character is dancing over his ragdoll corpse with the kind of obnoxious enthusiasm usually reserved for TikTok teenagers. Bucky hates that he kind of respects it.
Before he can think too much of it, he hovers his mouse over your gamertag.
LUNARWOLF13
Stupid name. Cute stupid name. And now Bucky’s sending a friend request before he can talk himself out of it.
A message pops up seconds later.
LUNARWOLF13: didnt think the grumpy grandpa routine came with follow-up stalking privileges
Bucky snorts despite himself. His fingers hesitate over the keys; he used to be good at banter back in the 40s, but his seven decades of time with Hydra didn’t really train him for shit-talking in Call of Duty lobbies.
SGTxWINTER: Not stalking. Recon.
LUNARWOLF13: recon on a 2kd player in a casual lobby? ambitious
SGTxWINTER: You’re annoyingly good at this game.
LUNARWOLF13: u say that like it’s an insult. i feel it’s more foreplay
He almost chokes on his own spit. No one has ever managed to throw him off balance with nothing but text. Dr. Raynor would love to hear about this experience, he’s sure.
SGTxWINTER: Insane thing to say.
LUNARWOLF13: awww grandpa is a prude too, damn
LUNARWOLF13: next match? or are u gonna ragequit and go yell at youths on ur lawn or smth?
The matchmaking screen is already popping up. Bucky sees your name slotted into the same team as him this time. He cracks his neck, rolls his shoulders like he’s stepping into a real op instead of a virtual one, and mutters under his breath, “Alright. Let’s see what else you got.”
A week later, Sam Wilson lets himself into Bucky’s apartment, expecting to find him brooding over his notebook as he usually did. Instead, he finds the lights off, the room smelling of cold coffee and cheese chips. Bucky is leaning two inches from the screen, his vibranium thumb hammering the spacebar so hard the desk vibrates. He looks more alive, and, honestly, more stressed than Sam has seen him in months.
“Oh my god,” Sam sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose in exhaustion. “This is worse than the bananas.”
Bucky doesn’t even look up. “No. No! Don’t bring up the bananas situation, I was not obsessed—”
“Yeah, so you’re also not obsessed right now?” Sam shoots immediately.
Your voice rings on Bucky’s ears a second later. “Focus, Grandpa, or you’re getting us killed.”
“Sorry,” Bucky answers into the mic. “Sam’s being a pain.”
“Tell Sam to stick it up his—” your voice cuts in, merciless, “—and focus. We’re down three.”
Bucky’s mouth twitches and he glances at Sam, who’s now grinning like he’s won the lottery.
“Oh, wow, you’ve got yourself a murder-wife,” Sam says, loud enough for the mic to catch.
“She’s not my—” Bucky starts, then stops when your laugh crackles through the headset.
“If you revive me, you can buy me virtual dinner later.”
An exhale. Bucky aims and drops two enemies in one clip, and you clap happily on the other end.
“Hell yeah, murder-husband,” you yell. For once, the tension in Bucky’s shoulders loosens significantly. Maybe Dr. Raynor was right all along.
