ˢᵗᵉᵛᶦᵉ✪

i need james buchanan barnes 💋

[steviebuchanan]

𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒗𝒊𝒆/𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒑𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒊𝒂 || 𝟐𝟐 || 𝑩𝒖𝒄𝒌𝒚 𝑩𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒆𝒔 𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒉𝒖𝒔𝒊𝒂𝒔𝒕 || <𝟑 𝒄𝒂𝒕𝒔

𝒓𝒆𝒄𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒌𝒔:

→ ˢᵒˡᵈᵃᵗ

→ ᴰᵃᵈ ᵃⁿˣᶦᵉᵗᶦᵉˢ

→ ᴸᵉᵃᵛᶦⁿᵍ ᶠᵒʳ ʷᵃʳ

𝑫𝒊𝒗𝒊𝒅𝒆𝒓𝒔 𝒖𝒔𝒆𝒅 𝒃𝒚 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒂𝒎𝒂𝒛𝒊𝒏𝒈: @saradika-graphics <𝟑

𝑫𝒐𝒏'𝒕 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒆𝒏𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉 𝒕𝒐 𝒎𝒂𝒌𝒆 𝒂 𝒎𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕 ↓

ᴹᵃˢᵗᵉʳˡᶦˢᵗ ᶦⁿ ᵖʳᵒᵍʳᵉˢˢ...

[steviebuchanan]

This right here is so amazing for him to say and he goes on to explain how children need strong leaders who are just quiet and patient, etc. From the things I've heard watching him talk about himself and the emotions people have and just the fact humans are so different and make mistakes makes me think this guy is going to be the best dad in the entire world.

Like Sebastian is the gentlest, wisest man when it comes to emotions and just advice for mental health and how to deal with the shit you're going through and what he does to have self discipline. I think he's going to be the best dad in the entire universe.

Especially him, who is coming from Romania and seeing all of those things when he was a child and how his step father and mother raised him right and how his mother brought him to New York to have such a better life and to make something of himself. I think this kid is going to be the most humble, in tune with his emotions, the kindest kid if Sebastian is the guy who's raising him.

I'm genuinely so happy for him and Annabelle <3

This is about to be the most majestic baby with the most prettiest parents omg.

(sorry I've been inactive life is so busy)

[starlordsgamora]

forever mourning stucky

[steviebuchanan]

"I'm with you till the end of the line" or whatever

[steviebuchanan]

holy shit why is ACTUAL young Tommy Lee so majestic?? nd his voice too oml 😋

[steviebuchanan]

My daughter

(TW ⚠️)

•••

I don't want my daughter to feel as though she is not worthy. To resort to self pleasure in hopes to feel something that resembles love. To look at pictures of couples and wonder, "what am I doing wrong?" To attempt to change her own personality, her smile, her clothing... in hopes it will draw in someone to love. Only to come to realize the man wanted the body. Not the flowers, or the soft smiles. Or the yearning for feelings that weren't truly there in the first place.

I don't want my daughter to bottle up her feelings. To pour wax over the cork and hide it in a locked box under her bed. To resort to notebooks she keeps hidden. The ones with tear stains and pencil smudges. For her to feel scared to open her mouth and let the words crawl out. In fear that there will be laughter. Mockery. Judgement. Or, "what? i wasn't listening."

I don't want my daughter to write in those notebooks until her fingers cramp and the tears turn into an empty void. I don't want those scribbled words of vulnerability to complain about her father. To write about how many cuts of the eyebrow blade it took for her to calm down this time. To write the little things that nobody seems to remember.

I don't want my daughter to face the mirror sideways and smooth down the little stomach she has in disgust. I don't want her to act surprised when the doctor told her she lost twenty five pounds, when in her mind she's smiling, telling herself to keep up the skipped meals and the, "I'm not hungry," I don't want her to feel fat when she finally finishes a meal. The first one in a week.

I don't want my daughter to curl up at night and listen to the cars driving by out her window. I don't want her to debate if it would be worth it to leave and jump in front of one of those cars. Or take the eyebrow razor a little deeper than she had been. Or read the label on the ibuprofen bottle to see how many she'd need to take to overdose.

I want my daughter to feel loved. To eat when she's hungry. To look at herself in love. To love herself before she lets a man manipulate her into sending photos she didn't want to in the first place.

I want my daughter to be happy.

Not like me.

[itzzkaylaaa]

GAME TIME!!

If you could live the rest of your life with one version of him, which one would you choose annnnd why? You can’t choose both this time uh uh! ☝️☝️

honestly don’t know… I’d probably have to write a whole paragraph about both versions of him, because I can’t really choose. I adore him in general.

If I had to sum it up, though: with the TFATWS version, you’d be there during some of his darkest moments—helping him through recovery, supporting him, and reminding him that he’s loved while he’s still trying to find his footing again.

On the other hand, by the time of Thunderbolts, he seems more open, calmer, and more collected. He’s freer in his own mind and finally has control over his life.

imma tag my friends who’s also a fan of his cause I wanna see their answers:

@sebastinastan @agentinlove @bonniejoee @belong-in-the-wilds @bubbarnes @cherryblossom-barnes @heldbybarnes @sassandscribbles @steelandvibranium @sheriff-bodecker @winter-soldier-vibes @buckysdecaflove @ilovemesomebucky @quantumbarnes @reckless007 @daisydaisies23 @metal-armed-muse @herejustforbuckybarnes @buckywouldbeproud @quantumbarnes @steviebuchanan @thenameswinter99 @starfly-nicole @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @vibraniumqueen @yexbarnes @bucky-bbarnes @bucky-is-my-favourite

[steviebuchanan]

honestly it's so hard to choose because I love all versions for different reasons...but if I had to choose it would probably be either civil war or tfatws

civil war...because poor guy is confused and trying to remember who he was and who he IS... and just be with him through the process of proving himself innocent for killing king t'chaka/ bombing the UN. and of course the aftermath in Wakanda cause who doesn't want to go to Wakanda?? (and Jesus Bucky)

for tfatws... he's so sassy like I would find myself cackling at his attitude toward everyone and supporting him through his attempts to follow dr. raynor's three rules during amends...and HATING on John Walker together.

[steviebuchanan]

unpopular opinion but I kinda hate when people sexualize this scene. bucky is getting tortured, he's putting in a mouth guard to protect his teeth from shattering because he bites down so hard from the pain. like yeah, sebastian is hot as fuck shirtless but let's hold off on the "i haven't been this turned on in my life" when it's a man getting tortured

i love buck for the looks, sure, but his character is so much more than looks. like tell me you don't get sad when you imagine how scared and confused my boy was when he remembered someone from a life he saw flash behind his eyes that he didn't fully remember.

"but I knew him" oh god

if marvel kills him off in doomsday i'm going with him

[steviebuchanan]

no love until a man looks at me like this.

[steviebuchanan]

the concept of having a million ideas but not finding a way to start

the concept of picking prompts off of pinterest to use in your writing only to go into a flow state and end up saving 20 Sebastian Stan pins and having no prompt picked out

the concept of staying up till two in the morning writing only to delete it once you wake up

the concept of Sebastian Stan aging backward

[piouscoffeelover]

i miss you 2012 avengers. i miss you the avengers tower. i miss you irondad and spiderson. i miss you loki lingering in the tower for no other reason than that he's the main love interest. i miss you poptart-eating thor. i miss you grumpy bucky barnes. i miss you old man, chronically offline steve rogers. i miss you clint in the vents. i miss you girls night with wanda and natasha. i miss you the rare bruce banner feature. i miss you sassy sam wilson. i miss you christmas avengers blurbs in the middle of the fanfiction written by an autistic 14 year old. i miss you 😔😔😔

[steviebuchanan]

it was the best piece of literature I've ever read when there was an authors note stating that English wasn't their first language 💔

[steviebuchanan]

how's my weekend going so far? oh great, just thinking about how this Bucky was in hydra and had the metal arm too.

like wym this happy go lucky man excited to go off to war and was probably such a player bc of the girls he pulled at the stark expo...so happy and young. then the same Bucky was tortured and had a metal arm???

brb sobbing

like the same bucky who defended his skinny best friend and reprimanded him for lying on his enlistment form was the same bucky who was shoved cyrofreeze chamber and tortured till he broke??

how scared he mustve been laying there on the cold snow? how he could have been calling for Steve, or his sister, or his friends? or how he probably saw a glimpse of hope seeing the hydra soldiers approach him, thinking they were his saviors. thinking that...maybe he'd be able to live?

[steviebuchanan]

𝑺𝒐𝒍𝒅𝒂𝒕

Warnings: mentions of blood, torture, pain. all that fun stuff.

Stevie's input: This one's a short one. I had to write something to combat my WORSENING writers block. So this is what the seasonal depression came up with mid bed rot <3

this was actually inspired by the cannon that Bucky literally tried to CLAW his own arm off since in the beginning, it didn't have the stretched like tears in his skin, then as the years passed it looked like he tried to claw the arm clean out of the socket 💔

The night was cold.

Colder than most.

The little barred window up in the top corner of his cell let in little light from the bright, full moon. The cool white light shone down, creating a small square on the concrete floor. The streams of light were speckled with dust, barely lighting the room enough to see.

It was a silent night.

Quieter than most.

The Soldier could hear ringing in his ears, that's how quiet it was. He could hear his own breathing, the small puffs he allowed out of his nose. If he breathed from his mouth, he could see the heat from it in the coolness of the air.

He was sitting, shirtless. On the floor, back flat up against the concrete wall. It was cold when he'd first done it, but now it was warmed from his body heat. It wasn't too uncomfortable anymore. His butt had numbed from how long he'd been sitting there.

Silent.

Aching.

The Soldier's nails were crusted with blood. Only his right, since the other was metal. A cold, aching metal. The type that whirred when he moved it. His nails, cracked and short. Blood, still fresh was sitting on the pads of his fingers, caked under his nails. It wasn't someone else's.

Not this time.

Maybe tomorrow, but not today.

Today it was his.

Blood soaked the entire left shoulder of his body. Deep indents, scratched and torn in his once soft skin. Every harsh stroke of his nails left a jagged scratch in its wake. Every painful tear of his skin. In hopes...maybe...that the metal arm would detach. In hopes that it would just fall from the socket, free him from the phantom pain as if...maybe...his left arm was really there.

The whole left shoulder, to where the metal embedded into his skin, to the left peck, was torn. Bloodied. The Soldier had gotten down to his collarbone, the white speck of bone visible through torn skin, and given up. His muscles ached. His chest throbbed from how panicked his breathing was. Just...a half an hour prior.

Maybe he'd gone crazy, in this little concrete cell. Where the moonlight couldn't hit the darkest of corners. Where his screams reverberated off of the walls, piercing his own ears as if it was someone else's pained shouts. Where the soldiers beyond the heavy steel door that confined him to the room just breezed past, as if it was another...normal day.

It was.

It was normal.

The Soldier accepted that a decade ago.

The Soldier didn't... remember anything but.

Complying. Fighting. Killing. Screaming. Agony.

There wasn't any coddling. No wounds being patched up, no warnings. No gentle voice of his mother resonated in his empty skull anymore. No laughing voice of a young girl. No distant memory of a skinny blonde boy who wore newspapers in his shoes.

The Soldier sat. Here. Against the cold concrete wall, his back aching with the force of everything that's been put on him. His hair greasy and in his face, hanging in strands, getting blown upward with each harsh breath he let out. His left arm aching with the dull ache of an arm that wasn't there. His shoulder now throbbed, torn and soaked with his own blood.

Normally it was someone else's blood soaking his skin, drying till it cracked and turned a mud brown.

Now it was his.

The Soldier sat. Here. His mind that was once his, now not. His eyes, once a bright, playful blue...now a cold, empty gray. Thoughts occasionally drifted in and it was hard to tell what was his...and what was not. But mostly...it was nothing.

The ringing in his ears from the silence. The occasional quiver of his muscles from the cold, or the pain. The throbbing ache of his shoulder. Of the socket he tried to claw open. Of the fact that he was seeing and feeling from a body that wasn't his. Calculating from a mind he didn't own.

Sitting in the silence that felt uncomfortable.

Waiting, for that steel door to open. For someone to enter, for someone to give him a purpose for a fleeting night, to make him scream in agony as they violently tore the memories of what once was away from him, then toss him in the concrete cage for the cycle to start over again. For him not to remember why he was here. To tear his identity from him.

Because weapons weren't anything to be named. They were to be used.

The Soldier wanted the door to open. Wanted that voice to say,

"Soldat."

The Soldier wanted to be dragged down the hall. Thrown in that seat colder than the cell he was sitting in. Wanted to feel the electricity, wanted to feel the pain. Wanted to be used like he was intended. Not kept in a cell tearing his body to shreds.

The Soldier would rather refuse to hurt anyone but himself. He'd rather feel his eyes roll back as he drifted in and out of consciousness from the white hot pain. He'd rather feel his own blood coat his skin than someone else's. He'd rather claw off his own arm then use it around someone's throat ever again.

Because, pain was better than feeling nothing at all. Pain was better than seeing the life gradually disappearing from someone's eyes.

The Soldier sat. Here. Wishing with a mind that wasn't his. Hurting with a body he didn't know.

Sitting. In a cell. In the night.

A silent night.

Quieter than most.

In the cold night.

Colder than most.

writers block is kicking my ass...also sorry 'bout this idk what came over me

-stevie <3

[sebssoulmate]

Just gonna…drop this here

[steviebuchanan]

LAWWEWD HAVE MERCY

[steviebuchanan]

𝑫𝒂𝒅 𝑨𝒏𝒙𝒊𝒆𝒕𝒊𝒆𝒔

warnings: just the usual angst and fluff— y'all know 😼 mentions of pregnancy if that's a warning??

summary: bucky becomes quite the worrier once the new family member settles into your new home. the baby waking up in the middle of the night gives Bucky a bit of a revelation

pairing: husband!bucky (I wish, you wish, we all wish) x wife!you

Stevie's note: For some reason I literally see Bucky as SUCH a girl dad. Like he would sit there while his daughter would braid his hair or stick magnets to his arm like it was his refrigerator. He would totally attend tea parties and make a fool of himself just to treat his daughter like a princess. OR he'd sit there while his daughter messily put on fake makeup omg aaaa

Not to mention in the comics Bucky has an adopted daughter named Kobik which I think is so fucking cute— we stan comic bucky

(unedited as always)

Bucky was a naturally anxious person. He checked the lock three times before he could sleep, and even when he did sleep it wasn't peaceful. He picked his nails, chewed on the inside of his cheeks. He had a gun under his pillow. And in the flower pot beside the front door. And under the mattress. And in a broken cabinet in the kitchen. He was always...ready. Always on edge for the possibilities of Hydra finding him again, or someone breaking in and harming who he loved.

It only intensified when you came waltzing unexpectedly into his life. He checked the locks four times instead of three. Had a hand under his pillow, finger beside the trigger of his gun whilst the other arm was tight around you.

You were a...light person. Uncaring, distracted, you carried yourself without a single worry, which...worried him. You walked too close to the street when you balanced on the curb like you were walking a tightrope. You left the doors unlocked and forgot to shut them when you walked into his apartment. You found the gun in the flower pot— God forbid he protect you— and reprimanded him. Everything you did seemed to make him pull his hair. He wanted to strap you up in a straight jacket and tuck you under his arm every time he wanted to go somewhere with you.

Then, the baby came along. A tiny little bundle of joy—Becca, named after his sister Rebecca— that made his heart race every single time she coughed or sneezed. Bucky's mind always went to the immediate, she was dying. You laughed at first, then when he'd do that thing, chewing on the inside of his cheek and tracing the plates of the metal on his left palm repeatedly, you gently reassured him it would be okay.

That he needed to let loose. That Becca would cough and sneeze, getting used to the world around her. It wasn't an immediate, 'she was dying right before his eyes on a random Tuesday because she sneezed.'

Becca would cry. Because that's what babies do. To communicate, to share their emotions. To hear their own voice. Bucky didn't seem to understand that part. He'd burn down the entire house just to get to her if she cried, knocking over lamps, immediately checking her over to see if she hurt herself when in reality it she was just hungry.

It worried you, how much he worried. How much he was constantly on edge, constantly thinking about what could possibly happen, even if the chances were low. How much he'd linger when Becca was doing tummy time.

You were afraid he'd give himself a heart attack. He wouldn't die from a gunshot to his chest, but a damn heart attack from Becca sneezing.

»»——⍟——««

It was a quiet night. The moon was full, the stars twinkling. You were sleeping soundly, lying on your stomach, arms tucked under your pillow. You hadn't been able to sleep on your stomach for the entire pregnancy and now you'd been doing it every single night, loving it. You were snoring softly, the blankets pooled at your waist, hair messy. In a deep, comfortable sleep.

Bucky was beside you. He was wide awake, lying on his back, staring at the ceiling. Usually the sound of your snoring would pull him into dreamland but not tonight. Tonight he couldn't seem to settle. He had a hand on his stomach, the metal one. The other was extended, lazily resting on your back, feeling the soft breaths you took, reassuring him you were alive.

He tended to do that to fall asleep. Have his hand always where your lungs were, either on your chest or on your back while you slept. Or when you were awake, just to ground himself, touching you in some capacity.

The baby monitor was on his side table, the volume dial turned to maximum. The sound beside your soft snoring was the sound of Becca's breathing and the soft shuffle of sheets when she moved, which was often for her. She slept like you, always moving around and snoring like a bear. Which was adorable, the both of you, but sometimes frustrating when Bucky would attempt to cuddle you, only to get accidentally kicked in the groin from all of your shuffling.

Bucky sighed softly into the comfortable sounds of his girls, his eyes glued to the ceiling, his palm flat to the soft felt of your pajama shirt. He was measuring the feel of your breathing using it to count instead of counting sheep.

Inhale. 204.

Exhale. 205.

Inhale. 206.

Exhale. 207.

It was comforting.

Y'know. While it lasted.

The sudden sound of Becca's breathing quickened slightly, then the sharp shuffle of her sheets. Bucky furrowed his brows slightly, listening. Then it came, the soft cry that was the first of many louder ones if Bucky didn't get up soon enough.

Which wasn't a problem because as soon as that first cry flowed through the baby monitor, Bucky shot up from his spot on the bed like he was waiting for it to happen. His hand left your back and you audibly sighed in your sleep like it was the worst thing that had happened to you.

Bucky didn't spare you a glance as he nearly stumbled over his own feet as he rushed across the room. He opened the bedroom door without hesitation, then rushed down the hall. He entered Becca's room, his concerned eyes immediately taking in the scene.

Becca was on her stomach in her crib, her little head raised as she cried softly, her little face— that looked identical to yours— scrunched up.

A wave of utter panic flowed through Bucky as he walked further into the room, standing beside Becca's crib to look over the bars. There wasn't a reason she was crying. Her diaper looked empty, her favorite stuffed animal was beside her, the nightlight was dimmed and plugged into the wall.

Becca let her tiny head flop back down into her mattress, her face smooshing against her sheets, muffling the sound of her cries for a moment until she lifted her head again to look up at him. Bucky wasted not a second to gently slide his heads beneath her lifting her up into his arms.

Bucky cradled her in his right arm, his smooth skin warm against hers. She fit so perfectly against his muscle, her head in the crook of his arm, her feet across his forearm. Becca's face was still scrunched up as she whimpered, her little blue eyes trying to focus up on her father's face.

"What's wrong, love?" Bucky asked as soft as he possibly could, his voice just a deep, tired rumble. His eyes were locked on her sad little frown and the unshed tears in her eyes. "Hm? What's got you all upset?"

Becca couldn't do much but let out another small whimper, her eyes tired, but very clearly needing something. It always worried Bucky when he didn't know what she needed. It always frustrated him. He couldn't help but wonder if she was hurting somewhere, or sometimes itched and she couldn't control her hands enough to scratch it. Or if she was hungry or thirsty or she had a headache, if babies even had headaches. Bucky always assumed it was something worse than it was.

Becca whimpered again, her tiny face scrunching yet another time as she squirmed slightly in his arm. Bucky clenched his jaw, his heart racing in his chest. What if she was in pain? He lifted his metal hand, running his knuckle against her cheek, the metal a cool contrast to her warm skin. He wiped away the damp streaks of tears on her rosy skin, his knuckles gentle against her soft skin. The baby blinked, her tiny hand rising to grab ahold of one of his metal fingers. She was always mesmerized by the way it shone in the light.

Bucky obliged, letting Becca wrap her tiny fingers around his pointer finger. She stopped crying for a moment to look down at it, her brows pinched as she watched the metal glint from the night light reflecting on it. Bucky couldn't help but smile slightly as Becca seemed to examine the cold metal in her hand. She was still frowning, tears still filled up in her eyes as she slowly blinked, a clear sign she was tired.

Bucky found himself swaying on his feet, his arm still cradling her tiny body, his finger still in her grip. She— like Bucky had noticed Becca began to do with everything she got ahold of— stuck it in her mouth. Her little toothless gums ground down on the cool metal, sucking on his finger like it was a pacifier. Becca's body relaxed in his arms, her eyes beginning to droop again.

Bucky's chest ached with how adorable she was. Becca looked just like you. Same nose, same facial structure. But she had his eyes. The piercing blue. She had his dark hair tufted and thin on her scalp. It was like a perfect combination of them both.

Bucky would have never imagined this a few years ago. Together with you, the love of his life. You were so kind, always keeping him on his toes, so loving. He would have never imagined himself to be in the position he was in. The man who once used his left arm to murder, to cause harm, was now in his baby girl's hold, gentle and being used as a pacifier.

Bucky never thought he deserved it. He didn't when you'd come into his life. At first he pushed you away and was cold. You, being as stubborn as you were, stayed. When Becca was born he didn't use his metal arm to hold her or touch her, afraid he'd accidentally hurt her or corrupt her in some way. Now his metal finger was being sucked on and held in her tiny hands like it wasn't once used as a weapon.

The baby's eyes fluttered, her body relaxing further in the crook of Bucky's right arm. Bucky smiled softly, a genuine one that was only reserved for you and Becca. Every single one of his worries seemed to fade as Becca drifted back off to sleep in his arms, her expression going peaceful.

She was okay.

She's okay.

Babies cry, it's what they do, Buck. That's how they communicate. She's fine. Look, she's okay. She'll be okay.

Your words echoed in his head as his swaying body slowed to a stop, his finger prying from the baby's iron grip. He worried too much. You and Becca were his world. He couldn't lose you like he once lost himself. He couldn't. He wiped Becca's drool on his finger on his sweatpants without a second thought of it before shuffling closer to the crib, gently laying her back down on the soft sheets.

Becca shifted with a soft whine, disliking the cool sheets in contrast to his warm arms just a second ago. But as always, the baby shifted again, then her expression evened out.

Bucky watched her for a moment, watching that rise and fall of her chest as she breathed. He made sure she was breathing steadily before his eyes scanned the room. Locked window, curtains drawn. Stuffed animal in the crib, nightlight still on, baby monitor beside the crib. She was gonna be okay. Seems like the reason for this late night cry was the need for snuggles against his chest. Her diaper was still empty, the crying slowed and stopped once she was in his arms.

Once Bucky nearly nodded off standing up from how long he stood there beside her crib, he finally, slowly, exited the room. His footsteps were shuffled, not shutting the door fully. Just in case.

He lingered in the hallway for a moment, just making sure before wandering back to the bedroom. You had shifted, as always when you slept. You were now on your side somehow lying on an angle now, half on his side, half on yours.

Bucky smiled, letting out a low laugh. He walked beside the bed, his hand brushing back a strand of your hair, tucking it behind your ear. You were such a deep sleeper. Even that worried Bucky sometimes. He wondered, seriously, if you were dead some nights. The frequent shifting and rolling around was the only thing that kept him from calling the mortuary.

Bucky shoved your shoulder softly, which elicited a small, annoyed groan from you. He smiled again shaking your shoulder harder. "Hey...sweetheart move over a bit."

You opened your eyes slightly, still clearly half asleep, your mind still in dream land. You shifted, your head scooting back to your pillow, but just the edge so she was still invading his space. Bucky couldn't help the smile spreading across his face as he climbed back into bed beside you.

His eyes went to the usual. Window, locked. His hand drifted under his pillow. Gun, there. Safety, on. Baby monitor, volume on max. Becca's breathing coming from the speakers made him calm slightly. Bucky's eyes fell back to you. You, safe. His hand reached out, going flat palmed to your back like always, feeling your breaths.

You were okay.

Becca was okay.

His girls would be okay.

lowkey debated posting this idk whatttttt idea this was...this has been sitting in my drafts finished for like a week sooo here you go 💔

[steviebuchanan]

𝑳𝒆𝒂𝒗𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒘𝒂𝒓

Warnings: angst, fluff, mentions of war, sadness. sorry it's been a week 😔 ✊

Summary: Bucky gets drafted and doesn't seem to have a choice to stay at home with you, six months pregnant. He assures you he'd come back. He knows he'd come back to you.

Pairing: wife!you x husband!Bucky

(Not edited sorry if it sucks <3)

No, I didn't specifically research 40's songs just for this chapter why would you think that guys...seriously...anyway here's a song I found on Google when I searched up "40's music" and this is what I imagine will be playing

It wasn't supposed to go this way. It wasn't supposed to be this way.

Bucky wasn't supposed to leave you alone with a pregnant belly and hopes that were likely to be crushed under the weight of his possible death. You were scared. You were so scared you were about to birth his baby three months early.

Bucky was a soldier. That was a fact. You weren't going to keep him from doing the thing he loved. Fighting for his country. Holding a gun just to look manly. Wearing that stupid sergeant's uniform everywhere to boost his enormous ego. You'd told him he looked stupid, when in reality you thought he looked so handsome in army green.

That said, Bucky being a sergeant—specifically in the 107th infantry regiment— meant whenever there was a war, it was almost like he had to be drafted as soon as possible to lead his team of idiots to an impending death. Or, so, that's what you thought it out to be.

When Bucky came home with those damned drafting papers one afternoon, you'd nearly died on the spot, begging him not to go. Begging him to stay with you, to create the world you'd dreamed of since you'd met him. For the unborn child in your stomach. For you. But you knew, deep down, he had to. Bucky had to. He needed to. The war was progressing and he wasn't allowed to simply quit the army now. Not when it was most important.

Because that's not the man James Buchanan Barnes was. He stayed.

»»——⍟——««

It was a late night. The last night you'd see Bucky before he departed in the morning for England. He'd had an argument with Steve earlier in the afternoon— reprimanding him for getting into another fight in an alley behind the movie theater. Bucky caught him at the right time, booting the man away before Steve got worse than a black eye. Then, Steve just had to tell Buck about another enlistment paper he'd lied on. The fifth, actually. And he was from New Jersey this time. At least, that's what Bucky told you when he'd gotten home ranting about how Steve was almost like the prequel to your unborn child.

You'd suggested going to the newest 'World Exposition of Tomorrow' hosted by Howard Stark to spend time with Steve before he left. Bucky loved going to that fair with you— calling Howard the smartest man in Brooklyn besides himself, which always made you giggle. You felt too pregnant to do much but sit down, so you'd just told Bucky to go with Steve, wanting him to hang out with his best friend alone for a little while before coming home to you.

Bucky, with lots of reassurance, finally left, leaving you alone. You stayed put right where you were. On your ass on the couch, hands on your swollen stomach, eyes shut, listening to Frank Sinatra on the record player beside the television Bucky saved his earnings to buy you. The record player was old, the needle dull and needed changing. Occasionally the record would skip or the sound would static a bit, but you didn't mind. You just listened, trying to calm the negative emotions swirling in your chest.

Once you'd finally seem like you got the last worry to simmer, a knock sounded on the door, before it slowly creaked open. The hinges needed oil— something Bucky said he'd do then got sidetracked before he could really do it. You slowly opened an eye, watching Bucky walk in, shutting the door behind him with an equally loud creak.

"Sweetheart?" His voice, so soft and soothing, called out for you. It always makes you want to cuddle up in his arms...or ravish him. It really depended on the mood.

"What are you doing?" You spoke up from the couch, making his pretty blue eyes immediately flit toward you, that boyish smile spreading across his face. "You're supposed to be at the Expo with Steve..."

"You really think..." Bucky began to say, taking off his hat, setting it on the hook beside the door, his other hand loosening his tie from his neck, tugging at the first button on his shirt. "You really think I'd leave my best girl all alone the night before I leave?"

A shy smile spread across your face as you stood, still getting used to the weight of a human being in your stomach as you walked over to where he stood beside the couch. Your hand rose, smoothing over one of the buttons on his collar.

"What'd you do with Steve?" You asked absentmindedly, your hand now running down his chest, tracing the buttons keeping his uniform jacket in place.

Bucky looked down at you, a soft smile playing on his lips. His hand trailed up to cup your jaw, tilting your head up so you'd meet his eyes. "Told him to stay with the lady. Took a few steps...looked behind my shoulder and he was gone. Probably off to convince some branch of the military to take him in...again."

You breathed a soft laugh, your eyes searching his as he watched you intently, his brows curved inward like he was concentrating. His eyes flitted over your features he loved the most, committing them to memory.

"He...he doesn't know when to give up, does he?" You breathed, your voice barely a whisper as his thumb traced your bottom lip, tugging it down slightly.

"No...he has a good heart." Bucky whispered back, his hand tilting your head up more, leaning down slightly, but not enough to where your lips met.

There was a moment of silence when he just stared down at you, his thumb tracing your lips, the curve of your top, then the plump bottom. The pad of his finger was rough. Your eyes stayed on his, fingers still fiddling with one of his buttons.

"You should stay...with me." You whispered suddenly after a moment. You'd probably told him that twenty times already. You'd probably told him more than twenty times. There was a dull ache beginning to settle in your chest and he wasn't even gone yet. "You could...maybe call in sick."

"Baby, that's not how it works." Bucky chuckled, though that dull ache was settling in his chest too, one that tugged at his heart, wishing it truly worked that way.

You sighed, shifting on your swollen feet. The record in the background ran out, static replacing the sound of soothing music. Bucky leaned in, placing a soft peck to your lips before pulling away and walking toward the record player.

He gently removed the needle, picking up the worn vinyl. Bucky pushed it back into it's case before carding through the collection you had, finding another Frank Sinatra, this one being a slow, "The Way You Look Tonight." Bucky set the vinyl on the player, gently placing the needle back to the groved plastic, waiting for a moment before the sound a soft trumpet began.

Bucky made a show of slowly turning on his heel, still wearing the sickly shiny black dress shoes that went along with his uniform. He slowly walked toward you as you bit back a smile.

Bucky stopped just shy of where you were standing, holding out a hand toward you. You couldn't help the small giggle bubbling from your chest as he smirked at you.

"Care for a dance, pretty girl?" Bucky grinned, his voice low and playful as Sinatra's voice filled your living room.

You giggled again as you took his hand. He immediately pulled you in, his other hand finding its place on your lower back as he began to waltz, his steps calculated and at ease. You looked up at him with a giant smile, your steps more clumsy than his were, yet his hand on your lower back was gently guiding you as you swayed and stepped along with him.

"Do...do you know when you'll come back? From...London?" You suddenly asked, the ache in your chest feeling more and more like a dull void as you stared at him, realizing how badly you'd miss him.

"I—" Bucky sighed, his fingers tightening on your lower back, curling into the soft material of your dress. "I don't know, Sweetheart."

"But...you'll come back right? In one piece, no arms missing?"

Bucky couldn't help but shake his head slightly, hand on your back trailing forward to rest on your swollen stomach, his waltz slowing as the record began to end. "I'm comin' back. I'm not missing watching this little guy grow up... though if I lose an arm, it better be the left. I'm right handed."

You smiled, satisfied by his answer until your brow furrowed. That was the first time he'd ever put a gender to the baby in your stomach. "Little guy? You think it's a boy?"

"I know it's a boy." Bucky said cockily, a smirk spreading across his face as his fingers widened on your stomach, his thumb tracing circles on the soft material of your dress. "I can feel it. I've got a little boy in there."

"What if it's a girl?"

"Then I'll love her all the same." *Bucky responded softly, his eyes meeting yours again in that soft way you loved.

You smiled again. He seemed so confident about coming back. About coming back in one piece. A little worn torn, but safe and in one piece. He was confident that's how it was going to be. So... naturally, instinctively, you believed him.

Like always.

Bucky smiled back, his free hand falling on your jaw again, tilting your head up. He leaned in again, his lips pressing against yours without hesitation. Your hands trailed up his uniform, twisting in the rough material, pulling him as close as your pregnant belly would allow. His other hand remained on your stomach, hand splayed protectively over it.

Bucky groaned softly, a sound you'd never get bored of. You smirked against him, your lips parting, an invitation for his tongue to slide into her mouth. Until you gasped. Loud and sudden, tearing your lips from his. Bucky immediately panicked, thinking something was wrong until he felt it.

The tiniest kick against his palm.

The baby kicked him. Kicked you.

Bucky's eyes widened, a disbelieving smile spreading across his face. He'd been praying for the moment when the kicks would come, wanting to at least feel one before he'd left for war.

"What a parting gift." You breathed, your hand falling to rest on top of his, guiding his hand to press firmer. The baby kicked in retaliation, hard against his palm, making him let out a small sound of disbelief.

"Fuck, sweetheart. This is what I'm doin' this for." Bucky stated suddenly, his eyes meeting yours again. "This. Right here. This baby. You. I'm going to war so you can live this life. If I don't come back, I died so you can live. So...he can live."

"Don't say that." You mumbled, frowning slightly at his words. "You'll come back."

"I'm serious. If I don't come back to you, know I did this for you and the little one."

You frowned again, but nodded. The baby kicked again, firmly against his palm. His thumb rubbed circles again, his eyes on yours seriously.

"I'll come back. I promise you. We'll have the world once this shit is over. I'll buy you a nice house, the little guy can get his own nursery... we'll make more kids, raise 'em up. We can have a cat, an Alpine-Lynx. I had one when I was a kid. We'll have a nice backyard and a big kitchen." Bucky began to list, his voice hardened and serious like he knew he was coming back to her. You nodded along, smiling as you imagined it. Growing old with Bucky.

You believed him.

You always believed Bucky.

What he said was always true, every single word.

"I love you, Bucky."

"I love you too, Sweetheart."

"We should get to bed. You have a train to catch tomorrow morning."

»»——⍟——««

The train came early in the morning. You'd walked him to the station, kissed him long and hard before he got on. You waved goodbye, standing with the rest of the wives and children waving to their husbands and dads, the question misting the air.

Would they all come back, or only a fraction?

You were confident in a few months you'd be standing on the station deck again, holding a baby in your arms, welcoming home a war torn Bucky.

Turns out...Bucky wasn't telling the truth after all.

You weren't on the train deck when you found out. You were at home, exhausted with a newborn sleeping on your chest. It was a boy. Bucky predicted that. He looked exactly like him, same nose, same complexion. His eyes were blue, his hair dark. You'd named him James, wanting to surprise Bucky once he stepped off the train.

You'd gotten a letter from England. You'd ripped it open excitedly, thinking it was a letter from Bucky.

Boy...you were wrong.

It was a death certificate.

A condolence letter.

Your world fell apart. The bubble, the perfect world you'd created crumbled in a few words and a 'sorry for your loss' printed at the bottom.

What happened to the Alpine-Lynx? To the big kitchen and the backyard? The nice house? The kids you'd yet to have? What happened to watching the baby grow up?

What happened to coming back?

#icriedalittle

[superbassbuck]

two tickets to iron maiden

pairing: teenage dirtbag!bucky barnes x popular girl!reader

warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, college setting, banter, enemies w/ benefits, pining but semi unrequited, yearning, angst, miscommunication is heavy in this one, fluff, p in v sex, jealousy, mean soft dom!bucky, aftercare, praise, degradation, dirty talking, pet names: "pretty princess" "angel" "loser"

word count: 14.5k this is pt 2. find pt 1 on my series masterlist

a/n: thank you so much for all the love for pt 1. i love this concept sm so i decided to write a pt2. dt to @blowingbarnes for geeking out over emo music w/ me and saying "this is so dirtbag barnes core" the song that bucky and his band were playing in the garage was "hit or miss" by new found glory.

synopsis: Once your situationship with “dirtbag Barnes” becomes more public, everyone around you only seems to widen the gap—filling both your heads with the wrong ideas until communication completely falls apart. And if things weren’t messy before… well, sugar, you’re both going down swinging.

Bucky could only stare in awe as he watched you standing there in the middle of the crowd, glowing in the pink band tee he made just for you.

He had never played the drums this hard, this passionately in his life. Was this how Ringo Starr felt when he saw his wife in the crowd at their shows? He started to let his imagination run wild—maybe in the future, if Civil War ever got big, he could bring you—as his partner—along on their tours.

Maybe even make you a backup-lead singer, just like Bruce Springsteen and his wife Patti Scialfa.

He let his imagination run wild as he rocked out hard on the drum set. Every word that Steve sang out, every word that Bucky had written in his song journal, was a word that was written for you.

When he looked up from his sticks, his eyes only found you. His eyes traced the way you danced and smiled—your pretty Mac lipstick spread wide just for him. It reminded him of the night when he first saw you like this, and just that sight alone was enough for him to fall in love all over again.

Performing was his favorite thing to do, but he wanted nothing more than to pull you backstage and fuck you right behind the curtains—to rip the shirt that he designed off your body and press sloppy kisses all over you.

Their set finally came to an end, and the crowd was cheering wildly. Steve yanked the mic off the stand, the sharp feedback only seemed to rile the crowd up even more. These weird kids loved loud noise.

“Alright, alright!” Steve beamed into the mic. “Thanks for stickin’ around and listening to our...” he turned, motioning to the rest of the band, “very mediocre playing.” The crowd laughed. “We’re Civil War, which sounded way cooler when we came up with it at two a.m.! Thanks, and goodnight!”

The crowd erupted into the loudest cheer Bucky had ever heard. He was pretty much stumbling over the drum kit as he made his escape. Steve usually insisted on a band debrief post-concert with a side of beer and cigarettes, but Bucky couldn’t wait for any of that.

He had to get to you.

“Buck, where are you going?” Sam called from the stage, lifting the strap of his guitar over his shoulder.

Bucky paid him no mind. He jogged down the backstage steps and pushed the side door open, intent on getting to you. But the moment he stepped out, he collided with a group of girls camped right outside, and they all reeked of stale beer.

“It’s Bucky!” one girl gasped, and the rest swiveled toward him like a school of fish suddenly spotting a regular piece of white bread.

“Oh, fuck,” Bucky muttered, his hand flying back to the doorknob, twisting it urgently to escape.

Locked.

“Bucky, you were amazing out there!”

“I could see your muscles through your shirt. You were banging on the drums really hard—”

“Bucky! I’ve got something else you can bang on—”

“Jesus Christ,” he groaned.

This wasn’t the first time Bucky had been swarmed by girls trying to get laid by a band member. He used to be fond of the popularity and attention that came with being in a rock band. But ever since he met you, the only attention he craved was from the girl who gave him nasty side-eyes and snarky comments all while clutching a pink handbag.

He spun around, pounding on the door with his fist and rattling the knob. “Sam! Let me in!” he shouted. But his prayers were left unanswered. Seriously—that guy was shouting his name just a few seconds ago, and now he’s up and vanished?

Bucky stiffened when he felt a surprisingly strong hand clamp down on his shoulder, spinning him back around to face the girls. They stepped closer, pressing him against the door as the girl’s hand lingered on his bicep, giving it a firm squeeze through his shirt.

“He really is strong!” she said gleefully.

“Get your hands off of me,” he gritted, his hand immediately wrapping around her wrist and prying it away from his arm.

“You don’t have a girlfriend, do you, Bucky?” she frowned. “I did my research. All of the members in Civil War are single.”

One of the girls behind her gasped. “Is that true?”

He swallowed hard. Maybe if he gave this girl an answer—any answer—they would finally leave him alone.

“Not necessarily—” the word barely left his lips before his eyes caught on something at the end of the dim, packed hallway.

You.

You were standing right there, square in the middle, blocking people’s paths with your arms crossed tight. Your hip was slightly jutted out, your mini-skirt rising and falling as you tapped your heeled toe impatiently against the floor. Your manicured fingers were gripping your arms tight as you glared directly at him. Your pretty face was twisted up into the sourest expression he’d ever seen, your lips pursed in utter disgust.

Normally, that look of yours would give him a raging hard-on. But right now? He was absolutely fucking terrified.

The overheard light flickered once, and he swore that if he looked away for even just a second, you would slit his throat with your fingernail.

“—shit,” Bucky muttered under his breath. He straightened up quickly, forcing a nervous grin. “Hey, I was just—uh, on my way to find you—”

“Oh, I’m sure you were,” you interrupted, your eyes narrowed into a searing glare aimed at the girls. “You don’t want to sleep with him, girls. Trust me. I’ve also done my research. Heard he has the smallest dick size in the band and can last about thirty seconds max. Try Rogers instead.”

Silence fell as all the girls just blinked. Before Bucky, or any of them, could utter a word, you spun on your heel and stomped out of the hall. Your hips swayed and your hair swooshed like a stuck-up princess making a grand exit. The girls all took a step back as your words processed in their minds.

Fuck, you were mean.

You got the girls off his back at the expense of his pride, but Bucky didn’t care about that. He knew you were pissed. He knew you were possessive of anything that belonged to you. And although you would never say it out loud, you were most particularly possessive of him—because he belonged to you too.

“Hold on—” Bucky pushed his way through the crowd of girls, calling out for you. “Hey, baby—wait!” He caught up to you in quick strides, grabbing your arm and stopping you.

“Don’t ‘baby’ me,” you snapped, spinning around angrily in the middle of the bar and jabbing a finger square into his chest.

He furrowed his brows. “Don’t tell me you’re actually upset—”

“Upset? Why would I be?” you scoffed, clearly upset. “How do I know I’m not the only one you call ‘baby’?”

Bucky sighed, running a hand through his shaggy hair. He should have expected this. Steve was right when he said girls came throwing themselves at him after every show. Since this was your first time watching him play, he should have warned you. But to be fair, he hadn’t expected you to even show up at all.

“Come on, baby,” he flashed the smile he knew you loved. He grabbed your hand, pulling you close until you nearly collided with his chest. “Can’t you just tell me how good I played? I’m so happy you showed up, really. I mean—I played extra hard for you,” his hand slinked around your waist, pulling you closer. “And I know how much you love it when I play hard. If you know what I mean—”

You pushed him away and let out a frustrated groan. You crossed your arms again, glaring at him. Bucky had to bite his lip to keep from smiling, because... how could he not? Especially when you were standing there, dripping in designer pieces, yet wearing a cheap cotton T-shirt that read, “CIVIL WAR” in bold lettering.

“That shirt looks so damn cute on you.”

“Yeah? Why don’t you go make your little groupie a couple of matching shirts, then?” you sneered.

Bucky blinked. This was the first time he had witnessed you like this. You had been protective over your designer bags and shoes, but never over him. You were feisty, crude, yet for some reason, he was drawn to it. He felt an overwhelming sense of pride knowing that he could make you—a girl with her head so steady on her shoulders—jealous.

“I can’t believe the pretty princess is actually jealous,” he took a step closer, immediately closing the pitiful distance you created.

“It’s not like we’re... really in a relationship, are we?” He questioned, and immediately regretted his words once he saw your face twist.

Although the question sounded more like he was the one who needed reassurance, it seemed you took it the wrong way—like a taunt. He realized now just how terrible he was with words. Writing songs came naturally, but saying things out loud was another thing entirely.

He tried to backtrack before it was too late. “Okay, hold on. I didn’t mean—”

You barked out a harsh, humorless laugh. “No,” you shook your head. “You’re right. We’re not in a relationship. So really, I don’t know why I’m here in the first place.”

Your face was starting to flush, and Bucky was smiling before he could stop himself. He knew he wasn’t helping the situation, but he genuinely couldn’t hold back when you were standing there looking like Tinkerbell with a scrunched-up, angry red face. He didn’t know what possessed him to say the next words—maybe it was the adrenaline from playing just moments ago, or the insistent pressure of his cock against his zipper at seeing you riled up.

“Wait, princess—don’t you want to at least give me a kiss for playing so good?”

Your eyebrow twitched with annoyance. “I can’t believe you,” you spat, rolling your eyes and spinning on your heel, leaving him standing in the middle of the room alone with all eyes now turned on him.

Bucky continued to call after you, but you refused to listen. You were here, in his space—the odd one out—and he was taunting you rather than defending you. You knew Bucky was bad with words, but you weren’t going to stand here and let yourself get humiliated for any longer.

As you left, Steve, Sam, and Natasha were standing by the bar in silence, a drink in each hand, their faces stunned.

Natasha scrunched her face up, looking utterly confused, while Steve’s jaw hung open. “I can’t believe Bucky is—”

Sam cut in with the same realization. “—they’re screwing each other?”

“I can’t believe you’re actually playing around with her,” Sam huffed, his arm resting lazily on the couch. “I mean—when did this happen? How did this happen?”

It was the next day, and Bucky could not hear the end of it. After your little jealous outburst at the bar, the band had discovered his relation-not-so-ship with you, and since then, he had been subjected to their unrelenting teasing.

“Barnes is not unattractive,” Natasha said, her fingers idly plucking at the strings of her bass. “I’m not surprised he was able to snag one of the popular girls dressed in pink.”

“Thanks, Nat,” Bucky said, his chest rising and falling after he downed a water bottle. “I don’t know why Sam is acting like I haven’t touched a woman in my life—”

“Though I bet she tops him.” Natasha included.

“What the fuck, Nat.”

Steve snorted, letting himself fall into the open space next to Sam. “So, all the times you’ve ditched practice in the middle of the night, was for her?”

Bucky tried to hide his flushed grin, feeling sheepish. “Yeah,” he admitted bashfully, smiling behind his drum set like an idiot.

“Unbelievable,” Sam groaned, tossing a throw pillow at him, hitting the cymbal on the way. “Our boy Barnes is out here ditchin’ practice to get laid—”

“Shut the hell up, Sam,” Bucky hissed, cheeks burning as he threw the pillow right back even harder.

“She’s like the last person I expected you to be with,” Steve chuckled, grabbing an opened beer bottle on the floor and taking a swig. “How long have you two been seeing each other?”

Bucky rested his hands in his lap, fiddling his fingers like a child. “For a few weeks now. I saw her at one of the backyard gigs,” he shook his head as he recalled the fond memory. “She looked so beautiful that night.”

Sam had to hold back a laugh while Steve gave him a smack on the back, shutting him up. Steve nodded his head, urging him to continue. “Jesus, Buck. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this head over heels over a girl since, like—” he tapped his chin, “the third grade.”

“You must really like this girl, don’t you?” Sam questioned.

“Shut up, guys,” Bucky mumbled, though the red shading on his ears and the smile he wore were clear signs he didn’t mind the teasing—because to him, it meant he got to talk about you more.

Natasha finally looked up from her instrument. “So, you two have been screwing around for a few weeks—nearing a month... and you two are... what?”

“What do you mean?”

Natasha just shrugged. “Like talking, or just hooking up?”

Bucky finally lifted his head, and his fingers stilled. “Uh—I don’t know.”

Steve and Sam exchanged a look before looking back at Bucky.

“We heard you at the bar—I mean, everyone heard you at the bar. You said you two weren’t ‘really in a relationship,’” Sam said, using air quotation marks. “But then she got jealous when you were surrounded by chicks. What’s up with that?”

Bucky shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck. “I mean… she has every right to be jealous,” he said casually, as if it were obvious. “Even if she isn’t officially mine or I’m not… hers.”

There was a brief pause, where the three of them just exchanged glances, already all thinking the same thing.

“Hold on,” Sam shook his head, trying to wrap his head around it. “You’re telling me that she gets the right to be jealous even though you two aren’t official? Is that what I’m hearing right now?”

“We don’t need a title to feel things.”

Steve exhaled slowly, fingertips idly tapping against the glass bottle. “Okay, but do you two even talk about what you are? Or are you just hoping she’ll eventually call you her boyfriend?”

Bucky’s jaw tightened, his smile slowly fading. “It’s not that simple, Steve.”

Natasha turned to him, one hand resting on the neck of her bass and the other on her hip. “Then explain this, Barnes,” she tilted her head. “If she gets to be jealous, you get to be jealous too, right?”

“Look,” Bucky sighed, resting his hands on his legs and leaning forward as he eyed each and every one of them. “If this is about Walker—she already told me they aren’t dating.”

Natasha pressed her lips together, like there was more she wanted to say but the right words wouldn’t come out—so instead, Steve spoke up first. “It’s just… every time we see her walking around campus, she’s always with Walker,” he started, eyeing Bucky’s reaction carefully.

Bucky stayed quiet, keeping his jaw tight as he picked up his drumsticks. “We should just rehearse—”

Natasha scrunched her face, oblivious to Bucky’s growing unease. “He’s practically glued to her hip. Like—every hallway, every table in the dining hall—he’s always right there. He’s like some emotional support frat boy.”

“Guys,” Bucky cut in with an awkward laugh, “we should—”

“And,” Sam added, “he keeps bragging about having her at his side. Didn’t he say something like—what was it? ‘She’s practically mine, she just doesn’t know it yet’?”

Natasha nodded. “Yeah. That.”

Bucky let out a low and agitated exhale. “Walker is full of shit. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.” He scratched his temple, his foot tapping impatiently against the floor as he kept his gaze steady on the drum set. “Look—can we just fucking practice already? We’re wasting time here.”

Steve leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, and adopted a softer, gentler tone. “Buck, we’re not trying to piss you off. We’re just worried about you, you know? You ditch our practices to go to her every time she calls you—and apparently, you two have been screwing around for weeks, and we didn’t know about it until—” he looked at the rest of the group, “now.”

Sam nodded. “And she won’t put a label on you, but she’ll happily be seen with Walker?”

Bucky kept his head down, pretending to be occupied with the marks on his snare drumhead. “It’s more complicated than that,” he muttered. “You guys wouldn’t get it.”

Sam opened his mouth, likely to push further, but Steve clamped a hand on his shoulder—a silent warning to stay quiet. “Alright,” with a groan, Steve sat up and took another swig of his beer. “We’ll drop it.”

With one last swig, he set the glass down on a crooked side table and picked up his Fender. “Let’s practice.”

Steve adjusted his strap, rolling his shoulders back. Natasha stood up straight, her hands already over the strings of her bass. Sam sat up and grabbed his pick off the table. Bucky’s grip tightened on his sticks—his palms slick and clammy. He leaned forward, trying to settle in as Steve counted them in.

“One…”

Bucky shut his eyes, his leg already bouncing up and down as he tried to keep his hands tight around the sticks.

As much as he hated to admit it, everything his friends said was true. The entire time you two had gotten close, he was your dirty little secret. You didn’t want to be seen with a guy like him. You claimed you didn’t want a title—yet you were prancing around with John fucking Walker?

“Two…”

You told him you and John were nothing—just like all the guys before—and he believed you. He wanted to believe you. Hell, he thought he could see it in your eyes every time you hung around those frat boys. Bucky knew he was special to you—otherwise you wouldn’t have shown up to his gig, wearing the shirt he made you… right?

But then your reaction to the girls after the show had thrown him off. You wanted to keep whatever you two were a secret, yet you were openly jealous—and then you hadn’t spoken to him since.

Neither of you had.

“Three…”

All the words the band told him were racing in his mind, his heart already beating faster than the tempo of the song they were about to play. His palms grew sweatier despite not having hit anything. He imagined you—hanging out with God knows who—someone who wasn’t him.

Maybe after seeing how many girls were interested in him, you grew uninterested.

Maybe he should have tried reassuring you that there was no one else but you. Maybe he shouldn’t have mocked your anger as a joke.

But why would you have the right to be jealous when you couldn’t even call him your boyfriend?

“Four!”

The song started off with Sam’s strumming—a tight rhythm, quick downstrokes. Then Bucky smacked the snare and hit his cymbals, kicking off the beat. Natasha’s bass followed right behind, and then Steve leaned into the mic as his lead guitar part came in.

Then, Bucky’s drums came in hard.

The drums were supposed to match the upbeat, punchy tempo that everyone else was following—those crisp snare hits and rapid-fire pop-punk bursts that kept the momentum alive. But Bucky slammed into the kit like he was trying to blow through the song rather than play it.

Sam tried to maintain his rhythm, but Bucky was already pushing the tempo.

Natasha held the groove, but Bucky kept speeding up.

Steve tried to sing in time, but Bucky’s snare cracks nearly swallowed his voice.

“The needle on my record player has been wearin’ thin…”

Another hit—too sharp, and too damn loud.

“This record has been playing since the day you’ve been with him—”

Bucky’s jaw clenched, his face scrunched up into an ugly sneer as he kept banging on the drums. He hit the crash cymbal hard enough that the whole kit rattled. Steve glanced at him over his shoulder, giving him a look that clearly signaled he was offbeat, but he kept singing.

But Bucky was no longer just playing the beat.

He was attacking it.

His hi-hat hits were sharper than they needed to be; it was more like he was trying to dent the cymbals. The snare cracks turned into heavy, punishing smacks that echoed through the entire garage. His fills came in too early, too strong, slamming across the toms instead of sliding cleanly through them.

Every time the chorus hit, instead of tightening the groove like the original track, he opened the crash cymbal with an explosive force, the ringing so loud Steve actually winced mid-strum.

It wasn’t a song anymore.

It was Bucky’s heartbeat—rushed, uneven, and utterly pissed off. Pissed off over the fact that still, to this day, after everything you two have been through, you still weren’t his.

The audacity to get upset seeing him with other girls—when you had a new frat boy on your hip every week. His kick drum hammered the floor like he was trying to kick his foot right through it. His shoulders were locked, his arms were flexed, and his knuckles were white from gripping the sticks too hard.

Steve’s voice was muffled by the ringing in Bucky’s ears—his face warming up with anger.

“Have I waited too long?”

“Have I found that someone?”

“Have I waited too long, to see you?”

Bucky raised his arm up and hit the snare—once, twice, and then another way too hard.

Then his sticks snapped.

The wood split clean in his grip.

“Fuck!” he shouted, the sound ripping straight out of his chest and echoing through the garage. He hurled the broken sticks; they clattered across the concrete. Steve’s guitar cut off mid-chord. Natasha’s hands froze over her strings. Sam stopped entirely.

All three turned toward him with cautious, wide-eyed glances. Then it went silent. A heavy, stunned, and tense silence. The only sounds were Bucky’s breathing, his chest heaving as he ran a hand through his hair in frustration. His leg was still pacing up and down—but he was desperately trying to keep his breathing in check.

“Buck?” Steve said softly.

Bucky didn’t look up. He just swallowed hard, made a face, then spoke through clenched teeth.

“Take five.”

Before any of them could get a word out, he quickly scrambled out of his kit, heading to the door and swinging it wide. He left a puff of angry, tension-filled air in his wake as he exited the garage and retreated back into the house.

They all looked at each other—and they didn’t even need to speak to know what to do.

With a quiet exhale, Steve slipped off his guitar, set it gently against the amp, and followed him inside.

Bucky was already pacing back and forth in the living room, his thumbs shaking as they hovered over the keyboard on his phone.

He knew he was being selfish. Irrational. Messy. But how the hell was he supposed to walk back into that garage and pretend he wasn’t falling apart? His hands could bleed from splintered sticks, he could break a dozen more, but none of it compared to the ache clawing through his chest at the thought of you—so close, yet so far from him in every possible way.

“Buck—” Steve’s voice came in rough, cutting through the static in his head.

“I have to text her, Steve.” Bucky’s voice came out hoarse and desperate. He didn’t even look up, scrolling through his contacts until your information sat there, staring back at him. “I can’t just let her walk away. I can’t let her go. Not to John fucking Walker—”

“Bucky. Hey—” Steve stepped closer, placing a solid and grounding hand on his shoulder. “Calm down.” He squeezed gently, forcing Bucky to meet his eyes.

“I hear you, man, I really do—we all do,” Steve sighed, choosing his words carefully. “You’re head over heels for this girl—I can see that. But Buck, our band is finally getting some traction. We’ve got gigs lined up, real offers coming, people finally paying attention to us. This is what we’ve been working our asses off for.”

Bucky swallowed hard, his eyes landing back down on his phone.

“And we can’t afford to lose you to this,” Steve continued gently, “to a girl who—look, I’m not saying she’s a bad person. But she’s caught up in... all that.” He waved his hand around vaguely, making a displeased face. “Handbags, social circles, cliques, who’s-who on campus. That stuff matters to her.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched. “You don’t know her like I do.”

“I know you’re hurting,” Steve said softly, leaning in closer. “And I know you’d probably burn the whole campus down for her if she asked... but Buck, she’s not giving you the same thing back. She doesn’t need you right now, man. We do. The band needs you.”

Bucky stayed silent, chewing the inside of his cheek. There was so much that Bucky wanted to say. He wanted to fight for you, to defend you, because only he knew who you truly were. But how could he? When all his friends had seen was you only giving him half your heart?

“We need you here,” Steve continued. “Not half here. I mean, we can’t even get through the first song without you—”

“I get it, okay?” Bucky finally said, the words strangled in his throat—tight, shaky, like there was a lump trying to claw its way out.

His fingers curled around his phone one last time before he let out a slow, and defeated breath. The screen dimmed and went black, and he shoved it deep into the pocket of his jeans.

Steve frowned, taking a step back and giving him some space. “I’m sorry, Buck.”

Bucky let out a dry and humorless laugh—one that didn’t reach his eyes. “Don’t be.” He forced himself to look at Steve, holding his gaze even though every part of him felt like it was splintering apart. “You’re right. You are. We should just… get back to practice.”

And before Steve could say anything—to offer comfort, an apology, anything—Bucky brushed past him. Shoulders tense, jaw clenched, and his heartbeat loud in his ears as he forced himself to pick up his feet and move back to the garage.

You didn’t know why Bucky’s sudden popularity bothered you so much. The entire time you’d known him, he was always surrounded by the same three people; Steve Rogers, Sam Wilson, and Natasha Romanoff. It was always those same people with the same hole-ridden T-shirts, ripped jeans, and dirty shoes. That’s how it had always been. That’s how it always should be.

So, to see him surrounded by those girls—girls dressed like him, girls who loved his music, girls who seemed like they would be a better fit for him than you—it absolutely pissed you off. You didn’t like it when people touched things that were rightfully yours.

Being in that bar, surrounded by Bucky’s crowd, you felt like the dirtbag in his world this time around—and you weren’t sure you were a fan of that, either. You were used to people flocking to you, looking up to you for attention. You were never the odd one out.

You hadn’t talked to Bucky in what felt like months, even though it had only been a week. A painfully long week.

And it wasn’t like you didn’t try. You did text him—once. Your pride was already shattering from sending the first message, so you drafted a short, simple message that sounded like you didn’t care as much as you truly did.

👑: hey, we should talk.

He saw it.

You knew he did, but he never replied. That was the part that shocked you the most, because Bucky always answered you—instantly, annoyingly, and reliably. It was like he was always waiting for your name to pop up on his phone.

Maybe you had overreacted when you saw him drowning in attention from those other girls. Or maybe your stupid pride made you say the wrong thing, walk away too fast, and slam a door a little harder than necessary. But ignoring you? That wasn’t like him at all.

Your mind was so occupied with these thoughts that America’s Asshole had to snap his fingers to bring your attention back to him.

“What, John?” you muttered, poking at your lunch.

“You weren’t at the party last Friday night,” he pointed out. “We missed you after the game. What happened?”

“I had better things to do,” you replied flatly. “I was at a show.”

“A show?” John’s face scrunched up, almost in disgust. “What kind of show? What show could’ve possibly been better than my party?”

John’s voice drowned out just as face as it came as you caught a familiar, grungy, and broody figure in the corner of your eye. Your head turned instinctively in the direction, and you caught sight of the same man who never failed to send butterflies through you since the day you’d met him.

“Bucky,” you muttered under your breath, nearly inaudible.

“Sorry, what was that?” John asked, leaning in closer to hear you.

Without further explanation, you quickly got out of your seat, abandoning your lunch and John Walker entirely as you made your way toward him. Déjà vu hit you hard as John shouted your name—which you made it a habit of ignoring.

“Bucky, wait—” you called out, your heels clicking sharply against the dining hall’s floor and catching the attention of other students. “Bucky. Hold on—”

His shoulders tensed up at the sound of your voice, and he paused for a second. But instead of turning around to face you, he continued walking.

As if you didn’t exist.

You furrowed your brows, frustration bubbling as you picked up your pace until he was finally within reach. You clamped a hand on his shoulder, his body stiffening immediately.

“Bucky, Jesus—” you huffed. “I told you to wait—”

Slowly, he turned to finally face you. He didn’t have that usual sparkle in his eyes that he usually had when you two locked gazes from across campus. He didn’t have that obnoxious and teasing grin or sheepish smile when he’d see how beautiful you are.

No words, no greeting, no warmth.

Just a look.

A look so sharp and unrecognizable that it actually knocked the breath from your lungs. Bucky had never looked at you like that—not even on the day you insulted his entire outfit to his face.

His jaw was clamped tight, his eyes flat and unreadable, a tension in his expression that felt almost... guarded. Like he’d put up a wall between you while you weren’t looking.

A part of you wanted to step back and leave him be, but pride straightened your spine before anything else could.

Plus, you missed him.

“Why didn’t you answer my text?” you asked, crisp and direct—like you hadn’t spent the last week losing your mind over it.

Bucky’s eyes flicked past you, over your shoulder, and toward the table you’d just abandoned. With John. His jaw ticked slightly, then his eyes fell back on you.

“Been busy with the band,” he said flatly.

You crossed your arms. You knew it was bullshit. Every time you texted him—even for one simple text—he was always there for you. And standing here, underneath his cold gaze, you’re realizing just how much you’d taken all that—taken him—for granted.

“Busy,” you repeated, nodding once sarcastically. “Right.”

He didn’t respond. His shoulders slouched slightly, and his hands were shoved deep into the pockets of his denim jeans. His entire body language screamed that he didn’t want to be here—and that hurt.

“Look, I’m trying here,” you said, forcing your voice to steady. “I texted you. I tried to talk to you. I know things got... weird after your gig, okay? But you don’t usually just ignore me like this.”

Still no response.

“Bucky,” you tried again, firmer. “I’m talking to you—”

“What?” he interrupted you coldly, his voice coming out louder than expected. “You expect me to always be there, answering your every call or text like some kind of lap dog?”

You blinked at the unexpected tone.

“W-what?”

Bucky pressed his lips together, looking around warily, making sure no one was close enough to hear—because that’s what you cared so much about, right? People hearing about you two, discovering you two.

He took a step closer, leaning in slightly. You thought he was going to apologize, press a kiss to your head right here in the middle of campus, and grovel at your feet. And you’d laugh, call him an idiot, and tell him to get up.

But he doesn’t. He doesn’t apologize. He doesn’t do anything of that.

“The band and I have been talking,” he started, his voice so quiet you could barely hear. “We’re actually picking up momentum. We’re starting to get recognized. And I can’t afford to—” he hesitated slightly. He swallowed hard before continuing. “I just can’t afford to waste my time with you.”

“Waste your time with me?” you repeated, as if giving him the opportunity to take his words back.

He kept his head down at your shoes, his thumb rubbing anxiously along the seam of his pocket as he exhaled hard through his nose.

“Bucky,” you leaned in closer, lifting your hand to reach for his cheek, but he leaned back slightly—just enough for you to get the hint.

“They’re right,” his voice was strained, “You and me—it’s not a good idea.”

You stared at him, stunned. Every sentence felt like a slap to the face—humiliating and unexpected. Your lips parted to speak, but his voice pushed on through.

“I just can’t understand it,” he continued. “We won’t talk for days, and then you’ll come crawling back to me when you need me. You get jealous, but you won’t put a title on us?” He shook his head like he was trying to clear it. “I can’t keep up with it anymore.”

Your throat tightened so sharply you had to swallow around the burn. “Bucky, that’s not—”

“And let’s be real,” he cut in, lifting his eyes to meet yours for half a second before they darted away again. “This would be easier for you too.”

“Bucky—”

“You can hang out with any guy you want without me holding you back. No arguing, no hiding, no getting mad at each other because some asshole looks at you or someone at my show says hi to me.”

Your face scrunched up, your bottom lip trembling slightly.

“Bucky… I never—I don’t—‘holding me back’? That’s not—”

“You were literally sitting with John Walker not even ten minutes ago,” he snapped quietly, but still loud enough to catch the attention of some people nearby. “So don’t stand here and act like I’m saying something you don’t already know.”

His eyes finally lifted to meet yours—tired, hurt, and cold. It was a look you’d never seen from him, a look you never wanted to see ever again, and a look you were already beginning to hate.

“I’m just… trying to make this easier,” he muttered. “For the both of us.”

But it didn’t feel easy.

It felt like he had clawed his way into your chest, dug deep, and pulled your heart right out.

You felt the blood drain from your face, the sting of tears suddenly sharp behind your eyes. You searched his cold gaze, refusing to accept the words you had just heard.

“You don’t actually think that way, do you?” you whispered, your voice sounding weak and brittle. “You know our relationship is more complicated than that, Bucky. They don’t know—”

“A relationship?” Bucky scoffed. “Can you even call it that?” He took one step back—just one small step, yet it felt like miles.

“I can’t do this right now,” he said, shaking his head. He didn’t sound angry anymore—he sounded tired, defeated. “I’m done making excuses for you. For myself.” He swallowed. “Just let it go.”

You wanted to reach out to him, to apologize for everything you’d done wrong, to yell at him for not fighting for you because of a few words from his friends who didn’t understand the whole situation, to hug him and never let go.

But he didn’t wait around for an answer. He turned slowly, then he walked off. No more lingering over-the-shoulder looks, no second thoughts, and no chance for you to grab his hand before it slipped away.

Just the sound of his boots thudding against the floor as he left you standing there in the campus’ dinging hall—where everyone, including John Walker, stood and sat staring at you.

Since that day, the tension between you and Bucky was palpable. You both hadn't spoken to each other—not even a single text. But whenever you two saw each other in passing, you would steal glances.

You would catch him staring at you right before he forced himself to look away, and every time he did, he swallowed hard, his face shifting into a grumpy expression—the look he’d always give to people he didn’t like. He never gave those looks to you before, and now he is.

You hated this. You hated how he was always within reach—just barely close enough to graze, yet too far to hold onto.

Was this how he felt when you kept backing away from turning the relationship into something more serious?

At first, you were heartbroken when he essentially broke off your non-official relationship. But after days of subtle glances and side-eyes from across the campus—always watching, always curious—you couldn’t take it anymore. Especially when he sat and laughed with his friends, the very ones who filled his head with doubts about you without giving you the chance to even explain yourself.

He continued playing with his band at gigs, and every time you weren't present, your mind traced back to the night he was surrounded by girls. But one thing really set you off.

Seeing Bucky laughing with some girl outside the music building.

And then jealousy filled you. Hot, white, burning jealousy filled you from your toes to the very top of your head.

Like a mental switch flipped inside your head, you started telling yourself, “If he doesn’t want me, then fine.” You were going to do what you did best, and that was pissing him off from a distance. If Bucky wanted to act cold, then you’d act unbothered.

You started dressing even hotter than usual—short skirts, and the heels you knew would always catch Bucky’s attention—he told you himself. You always made sure to walk near him, because the clacking sound of your heels against the floors always seemed to “turn him on.”

“Those heels make your legs look so fucking hot,” he’d said to you. “Wanna see them hiked over my shoulders, heels dangling in the air while I fuck you stupid.”

“Stop being a pervert, Barnes.”

You drowned yourself in the perfume that you knew he loved—the scent was another weapon. Every time he held you in his arms, his nose would find the crook of your neck and inhale deeply, his hands coming up to cup your cheeks, tilting your head to the side as he kissed and suckled on your sensitive column.

“So good, pretty princess,” he’d groan. “Always smellin’ so sweet—lookin’ so pretty. Can’t ever get enough.”

And you would always giggle. “Bucky, stop. You’re tickling me.”

Those methods partially worked. You would catch his eyes taking you in up and down from a distance—tracing your legs and calf muscles accentuated by the heels. He’d inhale deeply, his chest rising as you walked past him, your sweet perfume lingering in the air.

Just when you thought his patience would finally snap, he’d reel himself back in, going back to hanging around with his friends as if nothing ever happened.

But you knew one thing would really get him riled up. And that was wearing his shirt. The shirt he made for you.

Next to John Walker.

You were standing near the door of the union, wearing the soft pink cotton shirt with “CIVIL WAR” spread across your chest, loud and proud. John glanced down at it, raised a brow, and looked back up at you.

“Uh,” he started. “What’s with the shirt?”

In the corner of your eye, you saw Bucky, sitting with his friends as per usual. Except this time, instead of sneaking glances, he was glaring daggers at you. Sharp, cold daggers. And instead of doubling down, you took a step closer to John, batting your lashes at him.

“Well,” you twirled your hair, smiling. “Do you like it?”

Flustered, John only smiled back. “Yeah—I mean, I guess it’s cute. But what’s Civil War?” he asked, acting as if he had totally forgotten the time he was face-to-face with Bucky and his band posters.

Your eyes flickered back to Bucky’s at a distance, and this time, he didn’t look away when you caught his gaze. Your smile grew wider, and you looked back at John, raising your voice loud enough so Bucky could at least make out a few words.

“Oh, Civil War? Maybe some one-hit wonder band that disbanded? I don’t know—this shirt was passed down to me.”

Bucky still had his chin resting against his fist, glaring down at you two from across the union, his other finger tapping against the table and his leg bouncing impatiently.

Sam was talking—probably about their performance for the football game’s halftime. He should’ve been stoked for it, playing in front of the whole damn school, yet no words registered in his ears.

He had tried to get over you these past few days, but how could he when you were tempting him with those damn high heels, the sweet scent of you, and now the so-called one-hit wonder band tee shirt he made for you?

Bucky knew you were purposefully taunting him, and he didn’t know if he could take it anymore.

“—so since we’re only able to play two songs, I think we should choose—”

“I’m writing a song,” Bucky cut back into the conversation.

The rest of the band just blinked at each other. Sam chuckled awkwardly. “Uh. What?”

Bucky’s leg stilled, letting out a low exhale as his jaw remained clenched. He faced Sam slowly, almost intimidatingly. “I’m going to write a song.”

“Why?” Natasha furrowed her brows. “When we already have our own songs—”

“Trust me,” he grunted, grabbing his notebook and backpack and slinging it over his shoulder. He glanced back at you, his glare still cold as stone. “It’ll be good.”

Later that day, the band was back in the garage, practicing for the football game. Bucky had been working on a song all day, a song he had written with pent-up emotions that developed after failing to get over you. A song written out of pure, unadulterated pettiness.

And a song that would likely make the athletic director never want to bring them out to perform again.

But he didn’t care. He knew you were going to be there. And it was a song for you.

Bucky pulled out his battered notebook, tore a page out, and handed it to Steve.

“Read it,” Bucky said, crossing his arms.

Natasha exchanged a look with Sam, both leaning in as Steve lifted the paper. There were scribbles everywhere, crossed-out lines, and arrows pointing to rewritten lyrics, but it was fucking good.

“Jesus,” Sam breathed. “This has got to be a diss track or something.”

“Yeah,” Natasha huffed. “No shit.”

Steve shook his head in disbelief. “This is... we could get attacked for this, Buck. I don’t know if we—”

“But it’s good, right?” Bucky interrupted, leaning against the wall and grinning. “Even if they won’t let us perform again, people will dig it, and they’ll start coming to our gigs outside of school.”

Steve shrugged. “I suppose you’re right. Okay. Let’s practice—”

“But,” Bucky pushed himself off the wall. “I want to sing it.”

Natasha raised a brow. “But you’re our drummer. You really think you can sing this without getting winded? You can barely scream backup without losing the beat.”

Bucky shrugged. “So? Don Henley sang ‘Hotel California’ while drumming.”

Sam snorted. “Does that make your girl Stevie Nicks in this little fantasy of yours?”

“That’s not the point,” Bucky glared. “I’m singing it.”

Steve stepped forward, raising the page and scanning the lyrics again. “Buck… ‘Hotel California’ is a seventy-four BPM song. This song—” he flicked the page, “—is eighty-seven. That’s a big difference. And you’ve never sung while playing before. Are you sure you can even keep up?”

He knew it was petty. He knew it was a risk. But man, did he want to perform that song. He wanted to see your pretty little face, eyes wide when you heard the lyrics.

And he couldn’t wait to see your boy-toy all pissed off and riled up after hearing it, too.

“Alright,” Steve said, picking up his guitar. “Take one of Bucky’s song.” He squinted at the title written messily at the top.

“’Johnny Doesn’t Know.’”

You had spent the rest of the week feeling like your insides were scraped hollow.

You kept waiting, and hoping, that Bucky would crack. You hoped he’d text you at two in the morning like he used to, sending some stupid meme or asking what color your nails were that day. But not a single text went through, and every hour that passed without him felt like a painful reminder of every time you pushed him away.

You hated how close he felt just days ago, how easy everything had been—how warm he looked when he smiled at you. And now he was gone, because you pushed him. Because you didn’t want to put a label on it. Because you let your ego talk louder than your heart, and because you let his friends fill his brain with things that weren’t true.

You missed him so bad, it hurt.

The night before the football game, you sat at your desk with a pink stationery card, something you typically received, not wrote on. For the first time in your life, you were writing someone a heartfelt letter.

The pen shook as the words came out. Messy apologies, confessions, secrets about yourself that even he didn’t know. Little things you remembered about him—his smile, the way he fiddled with his drumsticks and bounced his legs when he was nervous, his dark and torn-up clothes and dirty Converse. You wrote that you were wrong, that you missed him, that you wanted him, even if the thought of being in a relationship terrified you.

You folded the letter carefully, slid it into the pink envelope, and sealed it with a cute heart sticker before you could chicken out and tear it up.

Then you added the real surprise.

Two tickets to Iron Maiden.

You’d hunted them down the second you heard they were selling locally—Bucky’s favorite band. The same one he’d rambled about for an hour while lying beside you, tracing patterns over your stomach and promising he’d drag you to a show “one day.”

Today was the day of the football game, and you’re standing in the bleachers next to a group of girls you could hardly call your friends. You clutched your purse tighter against your body—the purse carrying your sacred letter. You knew his band was going to perform today. You knew he was going to be there, and you’d stand there, holding that pink envelope, and tell him everything you should have told him weeks ago.

You were going to tell the biggest dirtbag Bucky Barnes that you were sorry, that you wanted him back, that you wanted to become something more—even if it scared you, even if he walked away again. Because for the first time, the idea of losing Bucky completely terrified you more than putting a label on whatever the hell you two were.

At first, the crowd hesitated—because everyone knew Civil War’s reputation. The misfit band that wouldn’t play anything “family friendly.” The band that made the athletic department nervous every single year. Civil War wrapped up their first song, and the crowd was now cheering loudly, fully won over. Steve stepped away from the mic, grabbing his water bottle. Sam adjusted his strap. And Natasha re-tuned her bass.

But Bucky was doing something different.

He was pulling the mic stand toward his drum kit. Your brows furrowed. You had never seen him touch a mic onstage—ever. He told you once he hated singing on stage, and that you only ever heard his voice along to the radio when he drove you home at night. He was adjusting the height, angling it perfectly toward him, his breath steady and focused, his eyes flicking up toward the bleachers—

Toward you.

Your stomach dropped. A slow, warm flush crept up your neck. You didn’t think he had noticed you at all, but now he was staring right at you. Steve mouthed a count, and instead of the usual instrument buildup they did, the song started with Bucky yelling into the mic and Steve’s heavy guitar riff—immediately hyping the crowd up once more.

And the words that Bucky started singing made your jaw drop to the bleachers.

“Johnny doesn’t know.”

“She tells him she’s out shopping.”

“But she’s under me and I’m not stopping.”

“Johnny doesn’t know.”

“I can’t believe he’s so trusting, while I’m right behind you thrusting.”

“She’s got John on the phone, and she’s trying not to moan.”

“It’s a three-way call and he knows nothing.”

“Johnny doesn’t know. Don’t tell Johnny.”

Heat exploded across your cheeks so fast you genuinely thought you might faint. Those lyrics weren’t suggestive, it wasn’t subtle, and it wasn’t a hint. They were filthy, scandalous, and a direct message to Walker—messages explicit enough to make half the student body choke on their popcorn. Your jaw hung open, your eyes wide, your pulse pounding against your throat. Because Bucky Barnes—the quiet, broody, never-sings-in-public dirtbag Bucky—was onstage in front of hundreds of people, singing about being inside you behind Walker’s back.

You probably should have felt embarrassed or shameful, but your entire body went warm because that meant he’d been thinking about you. Thinking about you like that these past few days. Angry, jealous, petty, needy, and he wasn’t hiding it anymore.

If people didn’t know you two were a thing, then they most certainly do now.

A chorus of gasps shot through the bleachers. One girl next to you gave you a side-eye, whispering to the friend beside her, “Is this… about—” “Yeah, I think it is. That’s so gross.” Meanwhile, the students behind you cheered on, simply enjoying the music.

Down on the field, John Walker’s entire face scrunched—first confusion, then dawning horror, and finally, an angry, red explosion of humiliation. He threw his helmet to the ground and took a furious step forward, like he wanted to rip the entire drum set apart with his bare hands, but his teammates grabbed him by the shoulder and stopped him. Meanwhile, the faculty area was in shambles. The athletic director’s headset nearly fell off as he sputtered into his mic, and the cheer coach looked like she was two seconds away from fainting.

Once the song ended, the crowd, if they weren’t already standing, erupted into a loud cheer—a cheer so loud it made your ears hurt. Steve delivered his outro, the band started to wrap things up, and the football teams were getting ready to play again while the cheerleaders resumed their routine.

You didn’t want to waste another second. Your mission, the messily crafted letter, the fear of losing him—all of it came rushing back, amplified by the public display of his hurt.

You raced down the metal steps, eyes scanning the area behind the makeshift stage. You moved toward the exit ramp where the bands typically packed up, and you spotted him, packing up his kit.

“Bucky!” you called out, but his friends turned to face you first. “Bucky. I need to talk to you—”

“We’re busy,” Sam cut you off, but you ignored him.

You weren’t going to let anyone or anything block your way.

“Bucky, please,” you pleaded, catching your breath. “I just want to talk.”

Bucky paused, looking up from the wires he was looping around. He gave a brief glance at the rest of the band and nodded. “You guys go ahead. I’ll catch up with you later.”

You watched as the group left; all of them threw hesitant glances at you over their shoulders. Once they completely disappeared, Bucky turned his body to face you, giving you his attention. You started digging in your purse for the letter.

“I know we’ve gone through a lot together, and I—”

“What’s the deal with you and Walker?”

You paused, furrowing your brows. “I’ve told you this a million times over. There’s nothing going on between Walker and I—”

“So then why the hell is he still attached to your hip?” he interrupted coldly again, taking a step closer with crossed arms. “And why the hell are you walking around with these damn high heels, flaunting your legs to half the fucking school?”

He took another step closer, and you took another one back.

“And that perfume, that sweet fucking perfume that you only ever wear around me,” he took another step, closing the distance until you were pushed up against a column. “I could smell you from across the campus—taunting me, teasing me.”

His eyes lingered down to your shirt. “And this shirt,” he muttered. “This shirt that got passed down to you—was that what you said?” He taunted. His rough fingers trailed down to the hem of the soft cotton, pinching the fabric.

You felt the roughness of his knuckles graze against your lower belly, making you shudder.

“Wearing the shirt I made you around Walker just to piss me off,” he scoffed. “You knew I couldn’t get over you, huh?”

His fingers tightened in the fabric of your shirt, just enough to make you gasp, tugging you closer.

“Answer me,” he demanded quietly. His voice was low, rough, a rasp of jealousy and frustration that made your knees weaken. “You knew exactly what you were doing, didn’t you?”

His forehead nearly brushed yours, his breath warm against your lips. When you were planning on confronting Bucky, you expected him to push you away or not even hear you out. You hadn’t expected this—him standing toe-to-toe, your nose brushing against his as his fingers played at the hem of your shirt.

Your body couldn’t help but naturally react to him—to his possessive touch and his words—even your body knew you missed him.

And yet, even found in a compromising position, you also couldn’t help but taunt him yet again.

“Aw,” you tilted your head, smiling. “Jealous, are you?”

A low snarl escaped his lips as he leaned in, his lips grazing yours, but not exactly kissing. “Fuck,” he growled, his hands sliding beneath your shirt and up your stomach. You wanted to break the distance right then and there and slam your lips right on his—right where they belonged, but you held back.

If Bucky was going to make a song about fucking you and perform it in front of the whole school, then he had to make the first move.

“And here you are, after everything, still trying to bait me in.” His words came out cold and crude, like he didn’t want you. Yet his eyes looked like he could eat you right up.

“I missed you, Bucky,” you teased again, your hands coming up to the back of his hair and giving it a tug. “Didn’t you miss me?”

Something flickered across his face—annoyance, or maybe pride, or that stubborn self-control he always tried to hide behind. His jaw clenched, and he tried to take a step back, to break the tension between you two for good and leave this all behind.

But you still had your fingers tangled in his hair.

And he still had his hands under your shirt.

He fucking missed you, and you were standing there, batting your eyelashes at him.

“Goddammit,” he mumbled, before he leaned in and slammed his lips against yours.

You had kissed Bucky plenty of times in the short period you’d known him, but this kiss didn’t feel like any other. It was a kiss that conveyed his anger, his frustration, and his hatred for you. But it was also a kiss fueled by pent-up hunger, longing, and love.

His mouth moved against yours wildly, his fingers digging into your waist and dragging you closer until there wasn’t an inch of space left. He held you tight, like he never wanted to let you go again, but his mouth moved like he was punishing you for making him want you this badly. You tried to breathe, tried to keep up, but you were no match against his desperation.

A soft sound slipped out of you, and the second he heard it, you felt his lips curve up into a smirk, because that little, helpless sound confirmed that you’d been needing him just as much. His other hand circled to splay shamelessly across your lower back, his touch hot against your soft skin.

Bucky’s lips broke away from yours just slightly, and you let out a soft whine at the loss of contact, already leaning in for more of his touch. His thumb dragged a slow, burning line along your waist, fingertips slipping under the band of your skirt.

“Christ,” he murmured, resting his forehead against yours, “...are you sure you didn’t miss me?”

Your breath hitched, and the smugness in his eyes sharpened instantly. He angled his head just enough to brush his nose against your cheek, lips grazing the corner of your mouth without giving you a real kiss.

“Because you’re shaking,” he whispered, dragging his hand up and down your spine, your back instinctively arching. “And that cute little sound you made tells me how much you need me.”

“Bucky…”

He leaned in closer. “Should I fuck you right here, right behind the stage, where anyone could walk by and see?” His hand trailed down to the short hem of your skirt. “Lift this tiny skirt up and have you crying my name? How about it, princess? Want this pathetic loser’s cock deep inside you again?”

Your face flushed in hot embarrassment. He wasn’t the same man who was too shy to kiss you when you were sitting in his passenger seat. He wasn’t the same man who stood there helplessly while your “friends” tore him to shreds when he gifted you the band shirt he made for you.

No. Bucky knew what he wanted from the very beginning, and that was you—the gentle, pink light in his dark days. Your soft, feminine laugh that contradicted the loud and gritty music he listened to. You were the luxury brand to his torn-up shoes with frayed laces.

You were everything he needed. And he was yours.

Your dirtbag.

Your mouth parted, ready to tease him again, but the sounds of footsteps shuffling against grass filled your ears. Sounds that were too loud, and way too close. Bucky’s hand immediately flew to cover your mouth, pressing you back hard against the column. His eyes narrowed, warning you not to make a sound. His breath on your cheek did nothing to soothe the building ache between your legs.

Bucky leaned in, lips brushing your ear. “Quiet,” he whispered, low and raspy.

You nodded against his hand, your heart pounding, and he smiled down at you.

“My dirty little secret.”

And that only made your stomach flutter even more.

He waited until the voices faded, tilted his head to make sure the coast was clear, then grabbed your hand. “Come on.”

Before you could ask, he tugged you away from behind the stage. Your heels clicked frantically behind him as you could only stare at him from behind in awe. Him dragging you out away from everyone else just to keep you to himself—it felt like it was straight out of a corny romance movie scene. And when he looked over his shoulder to make sure you were keeping up and flashed you a warm smile, you knew you were done for.

He didn’t stop tugging you along until he found the first unlocked door he could get his hands on. A small, tucked-away storage shed that was mostly used by staff and the athletics team. He pushed it open, pulled you inside with him, and kicked it shut behind you.

The lock clicked, and for a moment, the two of you just stood there—breathless, with hearts pounding in sync. Then you laughed, an exuberant, bubbling laugh that had your hand flying to your mouth as you tried to quiet yourself, which only made him laugh in return.

Bucky’s hair was slightly messy from your fingers, his lips flushed and stained with your lip gloss, his chest rising fast. He was smiling, that cute boyish smile he had when he would watch your reaction after teasing you.

You felt like a girl falling for him all over again.

And before you could think the better of it, the words slipped from your mouth as if you had said it a million times before.

“I love you.”

Then Bucky stopped laughing. His smile lingered for a second, but his eyes... they burned into yours, wide and stunned, as if all the warmth and tension you’d been feeling with him just now was nothing but a silly figment of your imagination.

“I—” you started, suddenly aware of what you had just said.

But he didn’t give you the chance to backtrack.

In one sudden, hungry movement—even hungrier than before—Bucky grabbed your waist and hauled you against him, his lips crashing into yours with a force that knocked a gasp right out of your lungs. The storage shed suddenly felt so tight; the only space that was left was completely occupied by Bucky. His mouth moved against yours—urgent, desperate, like he had been waiting longer than he knew you just to hear those three words fall from your lips.

“Say it again,” he whispered, his voice shaking, almost feral. “Please.”

“I love you,” you repeated, breathless. “I love you so much, Bucky.”

“Fuck—I knew it,” he groaned, his calloused hands coming up to gently caress your face. “I knew you’d come back to me. You were always meant to be my girl—my angel.”

He leaned back in, closing the distance as his mouth found yours again. His lips devoured yours—messy, sloppy, and wet, your favorite type of kiss from him, because it showed how much he needed you. His hands wandered your body greedily, your handbag long forgotten somewhere in this dusty shed as he pushed you up against the wall, the whole shed shaking.

“I love you too,” he moaned against your lips. “I love you so much—you have no fucking idea.”

Bucky had touched you and fucked you in ways that made your mind dizzy—but hearing those three little words come out of his mouth only made your legs tremble and your heart flutter rapidly.

“Bucky,” you clung to his shirt, pulling him impossibly closer. You hooked one leg around his waist, trapping him against you as you pleaded. “I need you.”

“Yeah?” he nuzzled his nose against yours, his voice raspy. “What do you need, baby? Tell me.”

“I need you so bad,” you whined, leaning in closer to try and kiss him again, but he pulled away just slightly, his hand tight on your thigh that was wrapped around his waist.

You groaned, your face twisting. “Stop taunting me, Barnes—”

“Oh, you’re being a spoiled little princess,” he taunted, giving your leg a squeeze. “I always give you what you want, don’t I?” He leaned in, pressing a chaste kiss to your cheek, just barely grazing the corners of your lips. “You’re always making demands and you can’t even say ‘please.’”

You swallowed hard, heat spiraling low in your stomach and pooling between your legs as Bucky held you firmly against the wall. Your thigh was still hooked around his waist, keeping him close—so close you could feel every breath he took—yet he still refused to give you what you were begging for.

“Please,” you whispered, your pride crumbling at his feet. “Bucky… I need you. Please.”

His eyes darkened, a slow, cocky smile tugging at his lips. “There she is,” he murmured. “My sweet girl. My little angel.”

His hand slid up your thigh, pushing your skirt higher until his fingers found the waistband of your panties. He hooked them, pulled once hard, and the thin fabric gave way with an audible rip, falling to your knees.

Your breath hitched, your cheeks burning. “Jesus, Barnes,” you huffed. “You owe me a shopping spree with how many pairs of panties you’ve destroyed.”

He unhooked your leg around his hip, setting it down gently as his hands started to fumble and work at the buckle of his belt and the zipper of his pants. “I’ll buy you new ones—turn around,” he gritted through clenched teeth. “Turn around. Hands against the wall.”

When you hesitated for just a second, his hands found your waist again, turning your body around roughly, making your hands scramble against the wall to keep your balance. His grip on your hips tightened as he pulled your bottom out, forcing you to arch your back and present your bare slit to him that was barely covered by your skirt.

“That’s it,” he encouraged, his hands going back to tug his belt and pants down—the sound of it making your legs tremble. “Look at you, already archin’ for me. You’re so pretty, baby."

You couldn’t take it anymore. You rocked your hips back, seeking any form of friction, and once your bare ass rubbed against his cock—hard and warm—you couldn’t help the pitiful whimper that escaped your lips. It wasn’t nearly enough, so you started to rub your ass up and down against his cock that was barely peeking out of his jeans.

“Jesus,” he groaned, his hands tight on your hips. He tried to hold you still, but the minute your wet and puffy slit ground against his pulsing shaft just right, he couldn’t help but tip his head back into a moan. “Fuck—you desperate little slut.”

He started to palm your ass, giving it a firm squeeze that made you yelp. He wrapped a hand around his cock, freeing himself completely from his pants—giving himself a couple of steady pumps that made his breath go heavy as he positioned the tip against your slit, coating himself in your slick arousal.

Your knees nearly gave out as he probed and teased the entrance, pushing just enough to make you gasp and flutter around him—your walls already ready to accommodate his size, but he doesn’t give you the satisfaction.

“Bucky—” you breathed, your fingers trembled against the wall. Your hips pushed back, desperate for more than just the teasing slide of his tip.

“That’s right,” he rasped, his breath hot against your neck as he leaned over you. “Beg for it. Beg for me for once.”

You whimpered, your forehead pressing against the cool wall. “Please—please, Bucky, I need you—”

He dragged the head of his cock slowly through your folds again, gathering the slick that was dripping down your thighs. His free hand came up to your shoulder, gripping you firmly, keeping you perfectly in place as he pushed forward just an inch.

“You didn’t fuck anyone else while I was gone, did you?”

You shook your head.

“No?” he gave you a shallow and short thrust, his tip going past your entrance and making you gasp. “Not even Walker?”

You squeezed your eyes shut. “N-no…” You tried to rut your hips back, but he held you firmly in place, unmoving.

“Are you sure about that?”

You made a frustrated sound, a whine and a sob that made him chuckle darkly, savoring your sweet torture. His hand slid from your shoulder to your throat, wrapping around it gently, tilting your head just enough to force your back to arch even deeper. “You didn’t fuck anyone else—and you will not fuck anyone else. Not while I’m here. Got it?”

“Bucky—please,” you begged, your voice cracking. “Please—for the love of God.”

His hips moved forward, pushing excruciatingly slow, your walls stretching around his length. You hadn’t given yourself the courtesy of pleasing yourself while you and Bucky were on a 'break,' because you knew nothing could replace the real thing—the real feeling of him splitting you open on his cock.

“Christ,” he groaned, leaning forward until his whole body blanketed yours, his nose buried in your hair as he breathed you in. Your scent made his breath stutter, his voice roughening. “Still…” he pushed deeper, inch by devastating inch, “…still so goddamn tight for me.”

It had only been a few weeks since he was last inside you, yet it felt like years.

“Give me all of it, Bucky—please, I need it—”

He let out a dark, low laugh that vibrated against your back, the condescending sound making your walls flutter around him. “So fucking spoiled. You’re such a spoiled little princess.” He pushed forward until he was almost fully sheathed—one sharp thrust away from filling you completely—but he didn’t give it to you.

“I keep calling you a princess, but you always seem to be—” his hand cracked against your ass, the sharp smack echoing in the tiny shed and forcing you to gasp, hands scrambling against the wall. “—getting fucked in the dirtiest places.”

He pulled back just enough to make you whimper—then slammed in, burying himself to the hilt. You choked on a cry as he grabbed your hips and began ramming into you, hard and hungry.

“Getting fucked in the bathroom… in my car…” his rhythm turned punishing. “And now in some—fuck—some dusty little shed...”

His voice dropped lower, smug and vicious. “If it were any other frat boy, you’d want him to take you all soft and sweet on a bed like the princess you pretend to be.” His fingers dug into your hips. “But with me? You’d let me fuck you anywhere. Isn’t that right?”

Your body answered for you; squeezing, fluttering, dripping around him with every brutal thrust.

He groaned, hips snapping forward, your pussy clutching him as though trying to pull him even deeper, welcoming him back exactly where he belonged. Your body went soft and trembling under him, your breath coming out in broken, needy gasps. And Bucky heard every single one—fed off them and drank them in.

“My little fucking princess,” he rasped against your ear, his hips slamming hard. “All dressed up, walking around campus like you’re too fucking good for me.”

His hand slid up your back, fingers tracing your spine before curling around the back of your neck. “—but you always come running back to me. You always do.”

You whimpered, pushing back helplessly against him, chasing every hard thrust. “Bu—Buck…”

“Aw,” he chuckled darkly. “You’re whining. My pretty little princess is whining for it.”

You whimpered again even louder, and he groaned like it was the sweetest song he’d ever heard.

“God, you’re such a fucking mess,” he breathed. “All that attitude, all that sass—but the second I get inside you, you melt. Don’t you?”

You nodded frantically, your hands sliding down the wall as your legs trembled.

“Nuh-uh.” He tightened his grip on your neck, tilting your head up. “Use your words.”

“I—I melt,” you stammered pathetically. “I always melt for you—only for you…”

“Fuck,” he moaned, his hips losing their rhythm at the sound of your helpless and sweet voice. “Cute… that’s real cute, angel.”

Your knees buckled, and the rasp of his voice alone was enough to make your eyes roll back, your cunt clenching helplessly around him as he fucked you just right. “Fuck—Bucky, I’m—”

He smirked against your ear, his stubble scraping your skin deliciously as his hand slid down your stomach and found your clit. His fingers circled it in tight, fast patterns that made your whole body jolt. And if that wasn’t enough, the way his other hand groped your breasts through your shirt—shameless and filthy—sent a shiver up your spine.

“Oh, now you’re close?” he teased, voice condescending. “My sweet girl wants to cum already?”

You nodded so fast it made you dizzy. “Please,” you gasped. “Please, Bucky— I’m gonna—”

“No, you’re not.”

Then both his hands disappeared.

Your legs shook violently, a sob ripping from your throat. You looked back at him over your shoulder—mascara streaking down your cheeks, lip gloss smudged over your chin. “Wha— Bucky, please—!”

He grabbed your hips, holding you perfectly still as he pulled halfway out—only halfway, because he knew if he pulled out all the way, you’d throw a tantrum like a brat. And as mean as he was being, he still wanted to stay buried in your warmth.

“You think you get to cum before I say so?” he murmured, voice soft but every word sharp. “Just ’cause you’re my princess doesn’t mean you get special privileges, baby. You earn them.”

You nearly collapsed, a desperate little cry shaking out of your chest. “Bucky—I can’t— I need—”

“Oh, you need.” He laughed, breath hot at your ear. “You sound so pathetic.”

He snapped his hips forward, burying himself to the hilt again. Your cry echoed off the metal walls.

“Look at you,” he mocked, tangling his fingers in your hair and yanking your head back. “Shaking. Dripping. You want it so fucking bad you’re about to cry.”

“I am,” you choked. “B-Bucky, please—”

“Beg better.”

His fingers returned to your clit—barely brushing, and frustratingly light.

“Please—please, let me cum,” you sobbed. “I’ll do anything—Bucky, please, I’m your princess, I’m your angel, I’m— I’m yours—”

He inhaled sharply, his grip on your hips turning bruising.

“Say it again.”

“I’m yours,” you cried, breaking apart. “I’m yours, Bucky—please let me—please, I love you. Fuck, I love you, and I need you so bad.”

A small, almost broken groan croaked from his throat at the sound of your words. He was buried so deep inside you, the tip of his head pressing against your cervix. His fingers dug deep into your waist, pulling you impossibly closer against him.

“Fuck,” he cursed. “You can’t just say that to me when I’m inside you—” he thrust hard, losing control. “You can’t tell me you love me and expect me to stay gentle.”

Your breath shattered as he dragged out of you, then slammed right back in—deep, hard, and possessive.

“Say it again.”

“I—I love you,” you cried.

“That’s it,” he rasped. “My girl. My fucking girl.” His fingers dropped to your clit again. No teasing this time—tight circles enveloped you, fast and desperate, making your whole body jerk in his grasp.

“God! Bucky—”

“You want to cum?”

“Please,” you nodded hard, crying. “Please—please, let me—”

He thrust hard, pinning you to the wall, his pace brutal and relentless. “Good girl. Cum for me, baby.”

“Fuck, Bucky!”

Then your vision went white. You tossed your head back, your back arching even deeper against his thrust as you fluttered and came undone. You spasmed around him, clenching hard, wet and messy.

“Good girl—fuck, that’s it,” he groaned. “Squeeze me—just like that…”

You trembled uncontrollably, your orgasm rolling through you in sharp, shaking waves, making your release drag him with you. He tried to hold on, tried to make this last longer than it should, but that broken little “Bucky” that left your lips, and the way you’re squeezing him so tight, it was impossible for him to hold back—especially when him and his body missed you so much.

“Fuck—sweetheart—” his hands clamped down on your hips, pulling you back into him. His forehead dropped to your shoulder, his whole body shuddering through each deep, hard pulse of pleasure. “God—” he rasped, his voice shaking, “you feel… you feel too good. I can’t—”

You squealed again, and it made him want to fill you with nothing but filth.

“Shit, shit,” he groaned. “I’m gonna cum inside—fuck, baby. Take it, princess.” He grabbed your hips hard, making you whimper as he held you still, his cock jerking and pulsing inside you as he let himself go—his cum, hot and thick, filling you to the brim as he stuffed you with his love.

Your eyes rolled back, your lips parting in a sharp gasp as he filled you completely. He stayed sheathed inside you, breathing hard as his hands roamed your body lazily, grasping for you as if making sure you were still there with him. Your clothes were a mess, Bucky was sweating above you, and you felt his release trickling down your thigh.

“Jesus,” he moaned, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder. “Mine. All fucking mine.”

You tried to turn around, to pull him out of you so you could face him, but he held you still, completely inside you. “Don’t…” he mumbled, his voice breaking slightly in short pants. “Don’t move... just stay with me. Okay?”

And for a long moment, neither of you moved. The only sounds were your breathing and the occasional shuffle of feet and student voices just outside the shed.

Bucky’s chest rose and fell against your back, his breath warm as he pressed one last lingering kiss to the side of your neck. His hands smoothed up your sides, his touches gentle and kind now.

“You okay?” he murmured, his voice scratchy.

You nodded, leaning back into him, letting his weight, his warmth, his presence fill your senses. “Yeah,” you whispered. “More than okay.”

He let out a quiet, relieved sound like a laugh, and wrapped both arms around your waist from behind, hugging you tightly. His nose brushed your cheek as he held you close.

“I missed you,” he confessed, barely audible. “So fucking much.”

He didn’t let go until your breathing evened out and your heart beat at a steady, slowing pace. Only then did he ease back, turning you gently to face him. His thumbs brushed your cheeks tenderly, wiping away smudged mascara like it was something precious. Then he pressed a soft kiss to your forehead—so achingly gentle after everything that your chest tightened. He adjusted your skirt, putting it back into place.

“No panties,” he smoothed your hair down, giving you a soft smile. “But you’re still so beautiful.”

When he finally stepped back, he zipped himself back up. His eyes swept the room—and landed on your handbag discarded on the floor.

He huffed a frustrated laugh and bent down to grab it. “This thing is way too expensive to be sitting on the ground of a dusty-ass shed.” He lifted it by the straps, dusting it off. “You treat this bag worse than you treat me.” He joked.

“I treat you great, actually,” you crossed your arms with a grin.

He didn’t deny it. He grinned as he adjusted the bag, about to hand it over to you, but his hands paused in the air as he caught sight of something pink—a small envelope sticking out of the open zipper. The neat handwriting on the front read: To: Bucky.

He looked up at you slowly, his blue eyes wide. “...You wrote me something?” he asked quietly.

And before you could reply, he pulled the note out, eagerly tearing the envelope open and pulling the letter out. Suddenly, all the confidence you had in delivering him the letter before this backfired. You stood there, face flushed and embarrassed as you watched his eyes trace over each word carefully.

His face shifted into a disbelieving smile, even chuckling at your ridiculous string of words.

“Wow,” he let out a low whistle. “Did you make one of your friends write this?” He teased, though the smile and red flush on his ears said otherwise. He looked up at you, trying to hide the grin that he was failing to compose. “This doesn’t sound like you at all.”

His teasing smirk only widened when he saw how red your face got. You stepped forward to snatch the letter back, but he lifted it easily out of reach.

“Give it,” you hissed.

“Uh-uh.” He wagged the paper, backing up a step. “Not after you wrote—what was it?” His voice pitched up dramatically as he read a line from memory. “‘Your music makes me feel safe.’” He pressed a hand to his chest, pretending to swoon. “You trying to make me fall in love with you even more, sweetheart?”

You groaned, mortified. “Bucky—”

“And this?” he tapped another part. “‘I miss you even when I’m mad at you.’” He held the paper to his heart. “That’s so fucking adorable. You really wrote this for me? Little ol’ me?”

You crossed your arms, your face scrunched up into that bratty look. You nodded, unable to meet his eyes. That cute little gesture only made him want to tease you more—but he held back. He stepped closer, nudging your chin up with one knuckle. “Thank you,” he whispered. “I’m gonna keep it forever.”

You swallowed hard, and he gave your cheek a soft kiss—warm, reassuring—before finally grabbing your bag and holding it out to you.

But when he tilted it slightly to get a better grip, the envelope slid in his hands—

And two glossy tickets fluttered out, landing at his feet.

He blinked.

Then slowly, very slowly, he crouched and picked them up.

“...Iron Maiden?” he breathed.

You shrugged, trying for casual but failing miserably as you still had that embarrassing flush on your face. “They’re, um... really good seats,” you mumbled. “The Book of Souls Tour—or whatever it said online.”

He stared at the tickets. Then at you. Then back at the tickets.

“Baby,” he held up both of them. “Do you... do you know how hard these are to get?”

You shrugged again, starting to be fond of the way he was beginning to swoon over you. “I have connections.”

“You do not have connections,” he said, stepping closer, pointing an accusing finger at you. “You fought Ticketmaster to the death. You went to war for this.”

“I did not—”

“You absolutely did.” His grin stretched ear to ear, so wide it looked like he couldn’t contain it. “Holy shit. You got us Iron Maiden tickets.”

Bucky didn’t even try to keep the grin off his face anymore. He just stepped into your space and wrapped his arms around you so suddenly, so tightly, that your bag slipped from his hand and thudded onto the floor. You froze for half a second, caught between wanting to shove him away for being so dramatic... and wanting to melt right into him like you always did. He didn’t give you much time to think anyway.

Because Bucky Barnes—outcast drummer, campus dirtbag—was kissing you everywhere.

Your cheeks. Your jaw. Your forehead. Your nose. Your lips, soft and quick and warm.

You felt his smile against your skin, felt the barely controlled tremble in his hands as if he still couldn’t believe you were here—choosing him for good.

“Bucky—stop,” you muttered, trying to shove him with zero effort behind it. “It’s not that serious—”

“Oh, shut up,” he laughed. “It is serious. You care so much. You love me. It’s adorable.”

You rolled your eyes, but your fingers curled into his shirt anyway. “I do not—”

“You do,” he cut in smugly, brushing a kiss to your collarbone. “And I love you back, princess.”

Another kiss to your cheek. Another to your hairline. Another to the corner of your lips that had you biting back a helpless smile.

You huffed, trying to salvage your dignity. “You’re so obsessed with me, Barnes.”

“You bought Iron Maiden tickets,” he countered, lifting you slightly off the ground as he hugged you again. “You’re the one who’s obsessed.”

You smacked his shoulder, your cheeks burning. “Put me down!”

He finally loosened his arms—only for your eyes to land on your handbag abandoned on the filthy shed floor.

“Bucky,” you said flatly. “What happened to ‘this thing is too expensive to be on a dusty-ass floor’?”

He paused, an eyebrow raising in confusion as his eyes followed yours to the ground. There, lying forgotten on the dusty concrete, was your expensive handbag.

“Oh shit,” he scrambled immediately, dropping into a crouch like a loyal, panicked puppy. “Baby, I swear I didn’t mean—this was a moment—I got distracted—don’t look at me—”

You couldn’t help the grin as you watched him scoop up your bag like it was a wounded animal. He dusted the straps as he stood up, handing it back to you with both hands. “There,” he said earnestly. “Pristine. Untouched. Immaculate. Better than me, honestly.”

You laughed, shaking your head as you grabbed your bag, putting the strap over your shoulder.

“You’re so lame.”

“You know I’d do anything for you,” he grinned.

“Oh. Actually—there is one thing.”

His brows lifted, head tilting slightly as curiosity flashed across his face. “Yeah? What’s that?”

You made a face—scrunched nose, dramatic disgust—like the memory alone annoyed you. “You need to make a shirt that says ‘I love my girlfriend’ or something.”

He blinked. “…Girlfriend?”

You tapped your chin thoughtfully, ignoring him. “Or maybe I’ll print my face on it. Huge. Right across your chest. So every girl knows you’re taken.”

Realization hit him in real time—then he couldn’t help the slow, boyish smile that spread across his face. “Okay,” he nodded. “Yeah. Fine by me.”

“Just something that tells them the drummer is not up for grabs.”

He snorted. “Of course.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Are you making fun of me?”

He shook his head quickly, a soft laugh escaping. “What? No. I’d let you stamp your kisses with lipstick all over my face before I get on stage if you wanted.”

Your cheeks warmed instantly, and you rolled your eyes like you weren’t the one who started this.

“You’re such a loser.”

Bucky smiled, wrapping a tight arm around your shoulder. “And you’re dating me.”

guys.... i finally did it... i finally finished pt 2...... this chapter definitely had more musical influences so if you care to take a gander...

ticket two: hit or miss - new found glory mr. brightside - the killers sugar, we're going down - fall out boy scotty doesn't know - lustra

thank you for reading and indulging in my rodrick x regina hyperfixation. i hope you enjoyed it <3 masterlist

[steviebuchanan]

SCOTTY DOESNT KNOWWWWOWOWOWOOWOW

THIS CURED MY WITHDRAWLS THANK YOU SO MUCH 😛✊

[steviebuchanan]

𝑵𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒆

warnings: angst and some fluff ofc 😛

summary:when Bucky doesn't trust himself after a bad nightmare and you be the savior who pulls him from his own self-hatred and fear.

pairing: boyfriend!Bucky x girlfriend!you

this song ↓

It's been stuck in my head recently

The night was calm. The type of calm that soothed even in the darkest moments. The type of calm that slowed heartbeats and made sleep come easy.

The sun was completely down, the moon shining brightly in the sky, surrounded by tiny little stars flashing gently. Bats swooped through the air, their wings silent. Rabbits pounced, the sound of late night cars in the city distance now just a small hum of normalcy.

Though it was quiet, though it was dark and calm, inside of the tiny apartment in Brooklyn, Bucky Barnes was wide awake. He'd woken up a few minutes ago, the calm night doing nothing to soothe his racing heart. Sweat beaded his forehead, his muscular chest heaving through the breaths he fought to get out. Bucky's eyes were cinched shut, his jaw clenched tight, trying to will the sinking feeling of panic crawling up his throat.

Bucky did sleep that night. And that was the problem. He slept. Which meant a nightmare overcame him, attacking his mind, plaguing his thoughts. Usually the nightmares he'd get were of what he had done once in his life. The things he'd done that he could never forget, even if it wasn't truly him who did it, you'd say. Though, it wasn't guilt that gnawed at his chest tonight.

It was fear. Panic. Self-hatred that wouldn't seem to fade, even with the deep breaths he was trying to suck in. The nightmare was different tonight. It was about you. Bucky snapped in his dream and he used the damned left metal arm he absolutely despised against you. The metal fingers wrapped around your throat, squeezing tight until your eyes glazed, lips blue.

Bucky had killed you.

Now he couldn't help but imagine that was the very thing that could come true. All it could take was something to go wrong. Something you'd say that would annoy him. And he'd snap. Right back to the monster he once was. To the monster he could become again.

It scared the living shit out of him. That nightmare was just a reminder of what he was.

Bucky was standing in the kitchen of your shared apartment. He'd already mentally packed up all his clothes and left you, just to save you. But he was trying to keep away that panic threatening to take over his mind. His eyes cinched shut, his hands gripping the stainless steel of the sink. He was hunched, his head bowed, hair in his face. There was a glass of water on the counter beside him, discarded. He'd nearly spilled it from how violently his hands shook when he first woke.

I'm a monster.

I'm a monster.

I'm a—

That damned sound. The sound he once would smile at, the sound of your footsteps coming down the apartment hallway. The shuffle of sock covered feet on carpet. Panic surged in Bucky's chest again, his breath coming out shaky and in short pants.

"Buck?" Fuck, that sound. Your voice was tired, exhaustion lacing concern.

You knew Bucky had nightmares. But usually...usually he'd already turned toward you by now. Usually he'd already be holding his arms open to hug you tight, to listen to your heartbeat and calm his guilt, to listen to your reassuring words. Now he wouldn't turn. His bare back tight, body hunched over the sink.

"Bucky?" You called softly again, taking a step into the kitchen, passing the doorway.

"No." Bucky nearly growled out. He sounded like an animal. A wounded, untrusting animal that was scared, but needed help. "Don't."

You paused, the tone of his voice catching you off guard. It sounded wrecked. Not like anything you've ever heard before. You immediately thought he was hurt, like he'd fallen or gotten into something. But he let out a small shuttering breath, then the gears turned. He wasn't hurt. He was...scared?

"Was—" You swallowed a wad of spit, your eyes locked on the tense muscles of his bare back. "Was it a nightmare again?"

It was silent for a long stretch. Just the sound of Bucky's increasingly heavy breathing. His fingers tightened on the sink, metal and flesh, cold and warm. Then, he spoke. It sounded like the singular word tore from his throat. "Yes."

You let out a soft breath, wrapping your arms around yourself as you watched him. It was slightly chilly in the apartment—you were wearing a hoodie and long pajama pants— yet he looked like he'd just come inside from a blazing summer afternoon.

"Do you want to talk about it?" You asked softly, picking your words carefully, not wanting to make...whatever he was going through worse.

Bucky let out a ragged breath, the sound loud in the quiet kitchen. "No."

Bucky felt like he was holding back from something terrifying. He couldn't indulge in the panic threatening to take over every sense he had. He felt like the metal arm attached to the left socket was foreign at the moment. He felt like he wanted to claw at the area again where metal met skin, wanting to tear it off and throw it in the garbage.

The sound of your soft breathing behind him held him back. The very feel of your presence behind him keeping him from fully submitting to the panic attack threatening to overcome him. He didn't want you to see that.

Your voice filled the silence again. The voice that grounded him even when he didn't notice. "Do you want me to stay with you?"

"Yes." It was the fastest response yet, followed by a loud shutter of breath afterward. "Stay."

You nodded, though he couldn't see you with his back to you. You stayed put for a moment, just listening to the hum of the fridge and his heavy breathing. Then you took a step, a cautious one, closer. He didn't react, so you took another, then another, until you were standing behind him, just a few feet away. You wanted to touch him, to put your cool hand on his warm back, to ground him without words. But you refrained— not wanting to do the wrong thing. So, you offered your presence instead. Standing close, breathing soft and steady.

Then it happened, Bucky's voice was raw, wrecked. The sound rasped and choked up. "It was...fuck, it was bad. It—" He cut himself off with a choked up breath, a sharp exhale as he shook his head slightly, like he didn't want to think about it. "It was about you."

Bucky couldn't think straight. Every single thought was that image—you, held at an arms length with his vibranium arm, fingers tightly held around your throat. He was slowly watching you claw at him, gasping, lips turning a sickly blue, legs swinging, trying to kick him away, then slowly stopped as life drained from her face.

It was so...real.

Like he couldn't believe you were standing behind him.

You could practically guess what he meant by 'you' in the dream. You could guess what the dreamlike version of Bucky did to her.

"It was about...me." You echoed softly, still not touching, still offering just your presence.

"You. I..." Bucky paused, suddenly feeling sick. His stomach churned.

He had to see. He had to see if you were real, or if you were a simple figment of his imagination and his dream wasn't a dream, but as real as it felt.

Bucky slowly turned around, his red rimmed eyes immediately finding yours. He wanted to touch you, to confirm you weren't just a ghost. "I...I killed you."

Your heart broke into a million pieces when he turned around, his beautiful blue eyes meeting yours. They were so broken. So afraid. His face crumpled, like he couldn't keep the mask up if he tried, his cheeks rosy like he had been crying— or stopping himself from doing so.

"It was a dream, sweetheart. It wasn't real." You said softly, your eyes never leaving his. His pink lips were parted as he breathed heavily, the hands once gripping the sink now curled up into tight fists.

"It— it felt real. You died. You died in my— in this hand. I killed you. With this hand." Bucky choked out, a stray tear running down his rosy cheek as he raised his metal hand, his voice rising with it. You didn't flinch. His raised voice was for him. Not for you.

"It wasn't real." You repeated, voice firmer than before. Solid. Knowing, like his words could never convince you otherwise. Because they couldn't. "Do you know why? Because the Bucky I know would never hurt me. The only thing that hand had ever done to me was to love me."

Bucky frowned, her words piercing his very soul. Her words were like daggers she threw, each one breaking a piece of his self-hatred off of him. Breaking down the walls he'd built fearfully. He stood there, another tear slipping free down his cheek, hands still curled into fists, staring at her with too much pain in his gaze.

You understood him. That's what hurt. You didn't laugh in his face, telling him his fears were stupid. That his fears were invalid. You understood that this nightmare drew out the worst fears he buried and brought them to light.

Bucky's next words were whispered. "I don't want to hurt you."

You shook her head slightly. Then, gingerly, slowly, your hand reached out. You slowly reached for his metal hand, the one he hated this very moment. You took it, causing Bucky to immediately freeze, every muscle in his body locking. He wanted to pull away, to yell and scream that he would hurt you. But he didn't. His gaze landed on your hand, soft and warm that held his hand in hers, his palm face up, fingers slack.

"You won't hurt me. You never will." You said firmly again, yet gently. Caring. Soft.

Your other hand rose, finger gently tracing the plates of metal on his palm, the curve of his fingers. Bucky stayed frozen, breathing shallow, like he was afraid he'd breathe too fast and scare you off.

"I could." Bucky whispered again, his eyes rising to meet yours, tear filled and beautiful.

You slowly intertwine your fingers with his, nodding, trying something different. "You're right. You could. But the thing is...is that you won't. I have the capability of hurting you too. But I won't. Because I love you, and you love me, meaning you won't hurt me."

Then your hand slid from his, cupping his jaw and tilting his head down, forcing his eyes to meet yours fully.

Bucky let out a breath, the first even breath of the night, her touch slowly uncoiling the worries in his bones, her muscles relaxing. You smiled at him, real and true.

"I love you." He whispered before he could even think about saying them. His hand, metal, slid up to rest on yours cupping his jaw. You were right. He was able to hurt you. But he wouldn't. It was a dream. Something made from his worst fears. It wasn't real.

"I love you too." You whispered back, rising to your tip-toes to gently press your lips to his, sealing the words right there. "Why don't we go back to bed. And if you have any more nightmares, I'll be right there.

Bucky sighed against her soft lips, then nodded. Because he trusted her true to her words.

Always.

GUYS DID I COOK

(unedited)