oh nah nah nah

they/them 24 stud in training <3 18+

[swaggamuffin]

hayyy u can call me Nah!!! i’m 24, use they/them pronouns and in this universe i’m a lesbian

I mainly post about marvel (majority bucky) and being lesbian but along with that I will using this as a diary so feel free to say hey <33333

[danysdaughter]

Girl, so confusing

꒰ pairing ꒱ fratboy!bucky x fem!reader

꒰ wc ꒱ 20k words ꒰ summary꒱ bucky barnes can handle almost anything except the way you make him feel chosen one moment and disposable the next. loving you would be simple, if you weren’t so fucking confusing.

.ᐟ contents | 18+ (MDNI), college au, situationship, bucky pov, avoidant!reader, lovesick!bucky, mutual pining, asshole!bucky miscommunication, commitment issues, yearning!bucky, toxic relationship, reader is emotionally avoidant, alcohol and weed use, unprotected piv sex, drunk sex, oral sex (f receiving), multiple orgasms, creampie, rough sex, dirty talk, jealousy, bucky goes through ittt, .ᐟ lizzy’s note | it has been such an honour being apart of this collab. i love it so much. thank you so much to @iamthatonefangirl and @barnesonly for hosting this beautiful cutesy collab, and putting all this effort and thought in, love you bwabies. on another note this fic has also been the bane of my existence. literally created this fic for one scene in mind, only to not add it because i didnt have time, im actually devastated. anyway enjoy my loves <3

BWAT MASTERLIST — MASTERLIST

divider by my bby @barnesonly

The night was going perfectly until you walked in.

Bucky had a sweating bottle of beer hooked between two fingers, the label curling pink under his damp thumb.

Sam was pressed against his side, yelling something loudly idiotic directly into his ear; something about a bet, or a dare, or a girl whose name Bucky would forget by morning. He caught none of it.

The kitchen was chanting his name. The sound bounced off the sticky counters and the sweat-slick walls, a drunk, gleeful roar for a drinking game he didn’t remember starting, let alone winning.

He bared his teeth in a grin, let the noise wash over him like a wave of approval he was too buzzed to question.

Some girl he couldn’t name had dragged her glitter-dusted fingers across his cheekbone an hour ago, leaving a streak of lime-green that caught the strobe light like a neon sign against his skin.

Steve had been pretending not to laugh about it for the last twenty minutes, mouth tight, eyes bright with amusement every time he caught Bucky working the room with a fresh smear of sparkle on his face.

The whole house smelled like it was sweating out its own wild heart; weed smoke curling thick through the pulsing lights, cheap perfume wrestling with spilled beer and tequila, the sour-sweet musk of bodies pressed too close for too long.

It smelled like a night everyone would be pretending not to regret by the time the sun burned through the blinds.

A girl from Tony’s econ class—Eden… or Edith, he couldn’t remember—had her fingers locked around his wrist, tugging him toward the hallway where the bass bled into something slower, heavier.

The lights back there flickered green, pulsing like a heartbeat under the floorboards. She was pulling him toward the dark, and her lips were parted, and she was saying something he didn’t need to hear to understand.

Bucky let himself be pulled.

One step. Part of a grin. His thumb dragging across her knuckles in a promise he had made to a hundred girls before her. He was already opening his mouth, ready to offer something charming and perfectly hollow.

Then the front door opened.

He didn’t hear it. Not over the bass that was rattling the drywall. Not over Sam’s drunken cackle. Not over the sharp crash of glass shattering somewhere behind him, Thor probably, baptising another piece of the house with whatever expensive bottle he’d smuggled in from Norway. The kitchen cheered.

But Bucky’s head turned anyway.

Like gravity had taken the decision out of his hands.

You stepped in behind Natasha, Gamora a quiet shadow at your shoulder, and you were already laughing, hand pressed to Natasha’s forearm, mouth shaped around a sound the party swallowed whole.

You hadn’t seen him yet.

That, he thought, was always the worst part. Those few seconds where he got to want you without having to hide it. Where he could let the grin slide off his face and just look at you.

Let himself want, openly, stupidly, while the party roared on around him and his hand was still wrapped around some other girl’s wrist.

He must have gone still. Must have stopped grinning, because Sam followed the line of his stare like a bloodhound catching scent.

Sam groaned, and slapped a heavy hand against Bucky’s shoulder.

“Oh, here we fucking go.”

He felt like an impatient puppy, and he hated it, hated the way his pulse had picked up, the way his palm had gone clammy around the bottle, the way he couldn’t stop tracking the curve of your ass as you drifted through the crowd.

Eden/Edith was still talking. Her fingers were sliding up his forearm, nails scraping lightly, trying to reclaim the heat she’d had a lock on before the front door opened.

She didn’t know it yet, but she had absolutely no chance.

Bucky let her touch linger for a beat longer than polite, just long enough to make her think she was still in the running, then he let his gaze drift past her face like she’d already become background noise.

She was still talking, something about a quieter room, a better view from the upstairs balcony, but her words were just shapes in the air, meaningless vibrations against the bass.

He waited. Watched you, Natasha and Gamora carve out a corner of the living room, claiming a sagging couch and a half-empty bottle of something pink. You settled into the cushions like you owned them, one leg tucked under you, head tilted toward Gamora as she said something that made you smile.

And then Scott Lang appeared, as if summoned by the scent of a female audience, already gesturing wildly with both hands, launching into a story that was probably 80% fabrication.

The girl from econ was still talking. Bucky shrugged her hand off his arm and walked away mid-sentence.

He crossed the room with the lazy, unhurried confidence of someone who knew exactly where he was going and knew he’d be welcome when he got there. Scott was still going, his voice rising in pitch as he reached the climax of whatever tall tale he was spinning now.

“—and I swear to God, Hope looked me dead in the eye and said, ‘If you can’t fit it through the door, it’s not coming home with us.’ And I said, ‘Watch me.’”

“That did not happen, Lang,” Natasha cut in, shaking her head, but the smirk tugging at her lips betrayed her.

“On Hope’s life it did,” Scott insisted, pressing a hand to his chest. “Would I lie to you girls?”

The three of you exchanged a look. It was skeptical, humoured, a shared hum that was more mocking than affirming. Scott opened his mouth to continue, but Bucky was already moving into the gap.

“Ladies,” he said, drawling the word like it was a gift he was bestowing. He smiled, a little lopsided, the lime-green glitter catching the light as he shouldered his way into the space between you and Gamora on the couch.

“For fuck’s sake, Barnes,” Gamora muttered, but she shifted, grudgingly making room. Bucky’s focus was already locked on you, his body angled toward yours like a compass needle finding north.

He settled in, his thigh pressing against yours, the heat of him bleeding through the thin fabric of your jeans. He slung an arm across the back of the couch, his fingers dangling just behind your shoulder, claiming the space around you like it was his by right.

“Party started at nine,” he said, his voice already slurred with alcohol and the kind of confidence that came from knowing he was the best thing in the room. He was grinning, his pupils blown wide in the dim light. “It’s almost twelve. What’s your excuse?”

You laughed, and the sound of it hit him somewhere low in his chest. “You’ve never heard of fashionably late, Buck?”

He rolled his eyes, the gesture exaggerated and fond. “Whatever, doll.”

The word hung between you, before your hand moved almost on instinct. Your thumb came up to his cheek, pressing gently against the glitter clinging to his skin. The green flecks caught the dim light, and your touch was featherlight, curious, your brow arching as you rubbed at the shimmer.

“And where is this from?” you asked, your voice carrying that edge of playful interrogation he knew too well.

Bucky’s brain short-circuited. The warmth of your palm against his cheek, the way your fingers lingered just a second too long ,it was enough to make him forget his own name, let alone the girl whose hands had been all over him an hour ago. He blinked, swallowed, and the lie came easy.

“Barton.” He said it flatly, like it was obvious. “Got bored. Started throwing glitter at people. You know how he gets.”

He held your gaze, hoping the alcohol flush hid the flicker of guilt. He didn’t want to say some girl blonde chick whose face he’d already forgotten. Didn’t want to see that hint of something—jealousy? disappointment?—cross your features. Even if he wasn’t sure it would.

Before you could press further, his hand shot out, wrapping around your wrist. His fingers were warm, slightly sticky from condensation and beer, and he tugged gently, an insistent pull that was more plea than demand.

“Come with me.”

You didn’t move. Your grin was still in place, but your body stayed rooted, and you tilted your head, giving him your best scolding look, the one that made his stomach twist because it meant you were about to say no.

“I just got here, Buck. Don’t be rude.”

He huffed, the sound escaping him like an impatient child denied a treat. His jaw tightened, and he turned his head, addressing the two women lounging beside you with exaggerated politeness that was almost ridiculous given his disheveled state.

“May I steal your friend for a few moments? Please?” He even tacked on a smile, though it came out a little strained.

Gamora didn’t bother hiding her irritation. She shot him a look that could curdle milk, muttering something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like dumbass.

It was Natasha who answered, her eyes flickering between the two of you with an amusement that made Bucky feel like a specimen under a microscope.

“Just bring her back in one piece,” Natasha said, raising her glass in a lazy toast. “Preferably still clothed.”

Bucky’s mouth opened, but no words came out. He didn’t have time to form a response, because you were already opening your mouth to protest, and he wasn’t about to give you the chance.

He tugged. Harder this time. You stumbled forward, a surprised laugh escaping your lips as he pulled you off the couch and into the crowd. His hand stayed wrapped around your wrist, a warm anchor as he weaved through bodies and noise, dragging you behind him like a prize he’d won.

“Where are you taking me, Bucky?” you called over the music, your voice half-laughing, half-breathless.

“You’ll see,” he shouted back, not bothering to turn around. His eyes scanned ahead, spotting the staircase, the path clear for now. He felt your wrist shift against his grip, and without thinking, he slid his hand down, interlacing your fingers with his.

Behind him, across the room, Edith/Eden was still watching. Her glare burned against the back of his neck, but he didn’t feel it. He didn’t feel anything except the warmth of your palm pressed against his, the sound of your laughter cutting through the bass, and the need to get you alone.

By the time the door slammed shut behind them, the bass from downstairs was just a dull throb through the walls, a welcome relief from the chaos of the party.

Bucky’s room was a disaster; clothes spilling out of an open drawer, the sour tang of old beer cans mingling with the familiar musk of his cologne, a single lamp casting a weak amber glow over the wreckage.

He didn’t spare it a second glance, making a beeline for his dresser like a man on a mission.

You lingered by the door, arms crossed, taking in the scene with a slow, deliberate sweep of your eyes. “Jesus Christ, Bucky,” you said, your voice flat and deeply amused. “You’re a pig.”

Bucky snorted, a low, warm sound that vibrated through his chest. He didn’t bother turning around. His fingers dug through the wreckage of his top drawer, pushing aside a crumpled pack of cigarettes and a stray condom wrapper that had seen better days.

“Crash here tonight,” he tossed over his shoulder, the words slurring just a little around the edges, “and you can be my maid of honour. Organise my sock drawer. Judge my questionable life choices.”

His fingers finally closed around the small metal tin hidden at the very back. He pulled it out like a trophy, turning just in time to catch the affronted scoff that escaped your lips.

“You wish, Barnes.”

Your voice was sharp, dismissive, but there was a smile tugging at the corner of your mouth.

Bucky held your gaze for a beat too long, something hot and unguarded flickering in his chest. His mouth moved before his brain caught up. “Yeah,” he murmured, turning to his desk to hide the sudden heat creeping up his neck. “Sweetheart, I wish every damn night.”

He busied himself with the familiar ritual of rolling; paper, weed, a careful distribution; refusing to look back, refusing to see if your expression shifted.

A beat of silence. Then your voice came again, softer now, laced with amusement. “You know, you’re cute when your brain-to-mouth filter is busted.”

He snorted, ducking his head to hide the grin spreading across his face. “Shut up.”

He was methodical despite the drink swimming in his veins, surprisingly steady. He sprinkled the weed, spread it even, and rolled it between his thumb and forefinger with a practiced ease that came from plenty of late nights just like this one.

His tongue darted out to wet the edge of the paper, sealing it shut with a final, satisfied press.

When he turned around, holding the blunt up between his fingers like a prize, his grin was crooked. “Look what I got.”

You had perched yourself on the edge of his bed, hands planted behind you, legs crossed. The springs creaked under your weight. That same infuriating, amused smile was painted across your face, like he was a puppet and you were the one pulling the strings.

Like his entire purpose in the universe was to make you laugh, to make you roll your eyes, to make you look at him with that perfect mix of exasperation and warmth.

And God help him, he’d take it. He’d take every scrap of attention you threw his way.

“On a scale of one to ‘I’m about to make a terrible decision’,” you asked, tilting your head, “where exactly are you right now, Bucky?”

He crossed the room in a few long strides, closing the distance until he was standing right in front of you. The blunt hung loose between his fingers.

“Enough that I know exactly how bad of an idea this is, sweetheart.” His hand shot out, wrapping around your wrist, fingers warm and calloused. He pulled you to your feet before you could brace yourself.

You stumbled into him, palms flat against his chest, the blunt pressed gently between your bodies for a fleeting second. “And I’m doing it anyway.”

He didn’t let go. Instead, he slid his hand down, threading his fingers through yours, and tugged you toward the window, the one that led to the fire escape.

“C’mon. Let’s get high.”

Fifteen minutes dissolved into a warm, syrupy haze where time stopped mattering and the only gravity left in the universe was the curve of your body against his.

Bucky was laughing; a low, breathless, almost giddy sound; right against your open mouth. The space between you had surrendered completely, chest to chest, your thighs brushing his, the bitter-sweet taste of the blunt lacing every shared exhale.

He’d stopped passing the joint a while ago. Now it was just a prop, a thin ember burning slowly between his fingers while he held it up to your lips like he was feeding you something sacred. You took a drag without him asking, lips parting automatically, eyes never leaving his.

“That was my last,” you murmured as you pulled back, the smoke curling from your lips in a lazy ribbon.

You didn’t bother aiming it away from him. He wished you’d blow it directly into his mouth so he could taste you.

“No such thing as ‘last’ with me, sweetheart.” His words were slow, syrup-thick, drunk on you more than the alchol in his system. “You started this. Gotta finish what you started.”

He brought the blunt back to your lips before you could argue, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth. You took another hit, holding his gaze like a challenge.

“You’re such a bad influence on me, Barnes.”

Bucky huffed a laugh, shaking his head, the dopey grin on his face mirroring yours. “I’m the bad influence?”

He leaned closer, his nose brushing the shell of your ear, voice dropping to a rough, amused murmur. “Baby, I’m just following your lead. You walked into that party looking like a full-course meal. You climbed out my window. You’re the one keeping me out here, freezing my ass off, just to watch you smoke my weed and smile at me like I’m your favourite toy.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, pupils blown wide, lips parted.

“If anyone’s the devil here, sweetheart… it’s definitely you.”

Your dopey smile stretched wider, pushing up your cheeks, eyes crinkling at the corners. He almost groaned at the sight. The way you looked at him; like he was a puzzle you were enjoying taking apart, piece by piece.

“Shut up,” you said, your voice soft, fond, dismissive.

The words were barely a whisper before his came, immediate and rough.

“Make me.”

The air between you snapped taut. Your smile faded into something heavier, something that made his pulse skip and slam double-time. He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. He just stared you down, waiting, daring you, his arm tightening around your waist like he was ready to hold you there forever if that’s what it took.

Your eyes dropped to his lips.

Yes. Yes. Close the distance. Kiss me. Let me feel those lips against mine.

He watched you watch him. Watched the hesitation flicker behind your hooded eyes. Watched the want and the caution war inside you. He wanted to beg. Wanted to grab your jaw and bridge the gap himself.

But he held still, letting you make the call, letting you feel the weight of the choice hanging between you.

Instead, you broke the spell with a grin, that same infuriating, playful grin, and shoved him square in the chest.

“As fun as this is, watching you turn into a lovesick mess, Nat’s gonna send a search party if I’m gone much longer.”

You didn’t wait for an answer. You twisted out of his grip, the hem of your shirt riding up just enough to flash the smooth skin of your lower back as you climbed back through the window.

Bucky bit back a groan so sharp it almost hurt. He dragged a hand down his face, letting out a frustrated breath that fogged in the cool air. His entire body was humming, wired, aching.

He didn’t give himself time to think. He followed you on your heels, dropping through the window and landing in the mess of his room just as your feet hit the floor. His hand shot out, catching your wrist, spinning you gently but firmly back to face him.

“You’re gonna pay for that, you know.”

Your eyebrows lifted, amused. “Pay for what?”

“Leaving a man hanging.” His voice was lower now, rougher, stripped of the playful buzz. “Making me follow you around like some puppy. Dangling yourself in front of me and then slipping away.”

You tilted your head, that infuriating smile still playing at your lips. “Poor Bucky. Must be so hard, wanting something you can’t just charm your way into.”

His jaw tightened. There was no malice in your voice; just teasing, still wrapped in that same playful edge that had been driving him up the wall all night.

But something in him snagged on it anyway.

Maybe it was the weed, loosening the screws in his head. Maybe it was the beer, sticky and warm in his bloodstream.

Maybe it was the simple, agonising fact that you were standing in his room with your mouth still soft and swollen from smiling at him, your wrist warm and alive under his thumb, acting like he was insane for wanting the very thing you kept placing just out of reach.

Bucky’s thumb pressed into the delicate skin over your pulse. He felt it skip. Felt the flutter of it beneath his touch, like a bird trapped in a cage of bone and breath.

“Maybe I’m not trying to charm my way into it.”

Your smile didn’t fall all at once. That would’ve been merciful.

It faded slowly, like a candle snuffed from across the room, a gradual dimming that left shadows in its wake. Your brows pulled together, the teasing tilt of your head softening into something careful. As if you were reading the fine print of a contract you hadn’t agreed to.

Bucky should’ve stopped there.

He knew he should’ve. He could feel the edge of it under his feet, that familiar precipice where the air changed and you started looking for the nearest exit without ever moving toward the door. Your eyes flickered, just once. Toward escape.

But he was drunk. He was high. And he was so goddamn tired of wanting you like a dog waiting under a dinner table for scraps, hungry and patient, and always left with nothing.

So he kept going.

“Maybe I’m just trying to figure out what the hell you want from me.”

Your eyes searched his face, hunting for the joke, the punchline, the easy way out.

For one second, you looked almost wounded. Like he had reached past the game and touched something raw without asking first. Your lips parted, and something flickered behind your eyes.

Then you blinked, and it was gone. Wiped clean like a slate.

“Bucky.”

He hated the way you said his name then. Soft. Gentle. Like a warning whispered to a child on the verge of a tantrum. Like you were trying to calm something down before it made a mess.

“What?” he asked, though his voice had already lost its bite, gone flat and hollow.

“You’re drunk.”

He laughed once, short and humourless, the sound scraping out of his throat. “Yeah, you said that already.”

“And high.”

“And still not stupid.” His voice cracked on the last word, betraying him.

Your lips pressed together into a thin, unreadable line.

There it was. The wall. Not slammed up, not obvious enough for anyone else to notice, but Bucky felt it like a physical shift in the air. Your wrist went still in his hand, no longer warm, no longer responsive. Your shoulders drew back half an inch, a subtle retreat.

Your gaze flicked past him, toward the door, toward the party, toward anything that was not this room and the thing he had just dragged into the light.

His stomach dropped before you even spoke.

“I should go back downstairs.”

Of course.

Bucky let go of your wrist like it had burned him. His hand fell to his side, fingers curling into a loose fist, the ghost of your pulse still tingling against his palm.

“Right.”

Your expression shifted. Something tight and wounded flickered across your features before you smoothed it over.

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“That.” You gestured vaguely at his face, at the flatness in his eyes, the bitter set of his jaw. “Act like I did something.”

He stared at you.

You stared back.

Downstairs, someone screamed with laughter, swallowed by the bass that kicked harder for a few seconds, rattling an empty beer can on his desk. The sound skittered across the wood like a nervous heartbeat.

Bucky dragged his tongue across his teeth, tasting smoke and bitterness. He nodded once, like he had just figured something out. Like the pieces had finally clicked into place, and the picture wasn’t pretty.

“You didn’t,” he said, and his voice came out rougher than he intended. “That’s kind of the whole point, isn’t it?”

Something flashed across your face.

Hurt, maybe. Guilt. A flicker of recognition at the truth buried under his words.

Or maybe he was making things up again because he wanted so badly for there to be something underneath all that pretty nothing you kept giving him. Wanted it like a bruise he couldn’t stop pressing.

Your voice was quieter when you said, “I was just joking with you.”

“Yeah,” he said, forcing a smile that felt wrong on his mouth. “You’re good at that.”

The air stalled between you.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. You stood there in the weak amber light of his disaster of a room, the glow spilling from the desk lamp casting long shadows across the cluttered floor.

Close enough that he could still smell smoke on your breath, mixed with something sweet, your lip gloss, maybe, or the conditioner you used. Far enough that he knew if he reached for you again, you would probably let him.

That was the worst part.

You would let him.

You would let him touch your waist, pull you into him by the hand. You would sigh against his mouth like you had been waiting for it. You would make him feel like he had finally cracked through every wall you built.

And then tomorrow, in front of everyone, you would smile at him like none of it had happened. Like he was just another face in the crowd.

Bucky swallowed. His throat clicked dryly.

“Go on, then,” he said, nodding toward the door. “Nat’s waiting, right?”

Your eyes lifted to his.

He could tell you didn’t like that. Could tell by the tiny pinch between your brows, the way your mouth parted around a response you didn’t seem to have ready. He had pushed too hard, and now you were scrambling for solid ground.

But you still went.

You brushed past him, shoulder grazing his chest, and he hated himself for noticing the contact, the warmth of you through the thin fabric of your top. Hated himself more for wanting to turn his head and follow the line of your back as you moved away.

At the door, your hand closed around the knob. The metal turned with a soft click.

Then you paused.

“Buck?”

He looked at you because he always looked when you said his name like that.

You seemed to regret calling for him the second he did. Your face softened, and for one stupid, awful second, he thought you might come back. He thought you might say sorry. He thought you might say anything real enough for him to hold onto.

Instead, you gave him a small smile.

“Don’t sulk too much.”

Then you slipped out, leaving the door half-open behind you. The hallway light bled across the floor, carrying muffled voices and the thrum of music.

Bucky stood there for a few seconds, heart punching slow and heavy against his ribs, listening to the party swallow you back whole.

Then he laughed under his breath,low and mean and mostly at himself. The sound scraped out of his chest and died in the empty air.

“Yeah,” he muttered to the cluttered room. “Sure.”

Bucky hated spring festivals.

That was a lie.

Usually, he loved this shit. Loved the noise, the way the quad swarmed with bodies in a heat that felt almost reckless for April, the sun bleaching the grass and pavement into something too bright, too clean.

Loved the cheap beer poured into plastic cups and hidden inside soda cans, the shameless excuse to get drunk in broad daylight and call it school spirit.

Usually, he would have walked in like he owned the whole fucking place.

Today, he trailed Sam and Steve through the crowd with his hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets and a mood that sat heavy in his chest; sour, curdled, thick enough to spoil the entire afternoon.

Sam was talking. Steve was answering. The two of them had been at it for at least five minutes about something Bucky couldn’t muster the energy to care about.

Something about whether Clint could legally enter the pie-eating contest twice if he changed his shirt between rounds.

“He wore a wig, man,” Sam was saying, his voice threaded with genuine affront. “Like that was supposed to make people forget he’s still Clint fucking Barton.”

Steve exhaled a short, tired laugh. “The volunteer was a freshman. She panicked.”

“She panicked because he called himself Clara Barta.”

Bucky stared past them at a girl in a neon-green cowboy hat trying to scale someone’s shoulders and nearly eating shit in the grass.

He wasn’t hearing any of it properly.

His eyes kept drifting before he could stop them. Over the food trucks. Across the knot of bodies near the makeshift stage. Past the sorority booth selling overpriced lime slushies.

Toward every flash of gold jewelry, every laugh that pitched too close to yours, every figure moving beside a redhead or a girl with a glare sharp enough to cut glass.

He was not looking for you.

He wasn’t.

He had told himself that before they even left the house. Had stood in front of the bathroom mirror, dragging his toothbrush across his teeth with too much force, and decided it with a mouthful of mint and stubbornness.

He did not care if you were there. He did not care if you saw him.

He cared, specifically and deeply, about not caring if you didn’t.

If you came up to him, he would be normal. Worse than normal. He would be casual. Cold, even. Polite in a way designed to make you feel stupid for once.

He would not give you that pathetic, eager opening you always seemed to find in him, the one you could press your fingers into until he forgot every reason he had to be angry.

No.

This time, if you wanted his attention, you could fucking work for it.

“You good?” Steve asked.

Bucky blinked.

The question cut through the static in his head like a blade he hadn’t realised was already buried there. Sam and Steve had both stopped walking.

They were looking at him now. Sam with one brow arched high enough to belong on its own zip code, Steve wearing that careful, irritating brand of concern that made Bucky want to throw something soft and harmless directly at his face.

The sun was hot on the back of his neck. The breeze carried the scent of grilled meat and spilled soda, and somewhere a group of girls screamed with laughter over the loudspeaker.

“What?”

Sam’s mouth twisted into a grin that was half amusement, half disbelief. “He lives.”

“I’m good,” Bucky said, the words flat and dismissive.

“You sure?” Steve pressed, his voice quieter now.

“Christ, Rogers, I said I’m good.”

Sam lifted both hands in surrender, palms out. “Nobody said you weren’t. You just looked like you were trying to blow up a lemonade stand with your mind.”

Bucky looked over.

Sure enough, he had been glaring in the vague direction of a table draped in yellow streamers, a handwritten sign propped crooked against a stack of plastic cups reading FRESH LEMONADE $3.

The freshman behind the table, a blonde in a floral sundress, met his stare for half a second before quickly dropping her gaze to the pitcher, her shoulders hitching like she’d been caught stealing.

Great. Perfect.

Now he was terrorising citrus vendors because some girl with pretty eyes and a talent for emotional warfare had ruined his entire fucking week.

“I’m getting a drink,” he muttered.

“From the lemonade stand?” Sam asked.

“Fuck off.”

Steve sighed, a long, tired exhale that Bucky knew too well, but by then he was already walking.

The festival sprawled across the quad in every direction, bright and loud and obnoxiously alive.

Someone had draped green streamers from the trees, their edges curling in the afternoon breeze. The grass was littered with crushed cups and abandoned flyers and bodies lounging in the sun.

A group of guys from the rowing team were shouting around the dunk tank, already shirtless, already sunburnt to a shade of pink that had to hurt. Music pulsed from the stage where some sophomore with a guitar was butchering a song Bucky vaguely recognised.

Normally, it would have been easy.

Smile. Drink. Flirt. Win something stupid from one of the booths while the crowd cheered like it mattered.

Let a girl press herself against his side, her fingers trailing his arm, while Sam heckled him from the sidelines and Steve pretended he wasn’t entertained by the whole spectacle.

That was what pissed him off most.

Everything used to be so fucking easy before you.

Bucky grabbed a red plastic cup from one of the coolers near the fraternity table, the ice water sloshing over his fingers, and took a long drink without bothering to ask what was in it.

Too sweet. Sharp underneath, a chemical bite that tried to singe the back of his throat. Probably spiked by Thor, judging by the way it burned all the way down.

Good.

He drank again, letting the cold settle in his chest like armor.

“Bucky!”

He turned, half out of reflex.

A girl from his psych lecture waved at him from beside the ring toss booth, her hair catching the sun, her smile too eager.

She was wearing a tiny green top that probably would have interested him three months ago, or three weeks ago, or any other version of himself that had not become clinically insane over a girl who called him needy like she knew exactly where to press and exactly how much pressure it would take to make him explode.

Her name was Mia.

Maybe. Maya? No. Mia.

Bucky smiled anyway.

There. Easy. He could do easy. He’d been doing easy his whole damn life.

“Hey,” he said, walking over with the lazy confidence that still fit him when he remembered how to wear it, “You runnin’ this scam?”

She laughed immediately, like he had given her something better than the joke deserved. Her eyes roamed his chest, his arms, the casual way he held his cup. “It’s not a scam. You’re just bad at aiming.”

“That’s hurtful. I’m great at aiming.”

“Prove it, then.”

Bucky leaned one hip against the edge of the booth, letting his grin widen. Behind him, he could practically feel Sam and Steve watching from somewhere near the food trucks, probably exchanging some kind of wordless commentary with their eyebrows.

Mia handed him three plastic rings, her fingers brushing his palm. She let them linger a second longer than necessary, her smile softening into something intentional.

Bucky noticed.

He also noticed that he felt nothing.

Not nothing exactly. He felt the dull satisfaction of being wanted. The little ego-stroke of someone looking at him and deciding he was worth the chase.

He felt the shape of his old self settle over him for a second, familiar as a jacket he had left hanging in his closet, still fitting, still comfortable.

But underneath it, his attention kept pulling elsewhere.

He threw the first ring.

The plastic sailed wide, skimming the neck of a glass bottle before spinning uselessly into the trampled grass.

Mia laughed, bright and sharp. “Great at aiming, huh?”

“Wind interference,” he said, already reaching for the next one.

“There is no wind.” She laughed again, softer this time, her fingers finding the bare skin of his forearm.

“Spiritual wind, then.”

Bucky made himself look at her. Really look. He cataloged the curve of her mouth, the warm spread of her smile, the little glitter sticker pressed beneath one eye.

She was pretty. Genuinely pretty. Warm and open and offering him something he didn’t have to work for.

He should have wanted that.

He wanted to want that. He wanted to feel the familiar heat of being chosen, the lazy satisfaction of a girl deciding he was worth her time.

But the wanting felt hollow. A reflex without the fire behind it. His body was here. His mind was already somewhere else, straining toward a frequency he couldn’t stop chasing.

Then, somewhere behind him, a laugh cut through the noise.

Nat’s laugh, recognisable even in the middle of a crowd.

It wasn’t yours. He knew the difference better than he wanted to. Yours was quieter, wryer, often aimed at him rather than with him. But Natasha was the anchor of your little constellation, and where she was…

Bucky’s whole body went tight.

The casual slouch of his shoulders hardened into something rigid. The easy smile on his mouth faltered at the edges, cracking just barely before he caught it.

He hated himself before he even turned his head. Hated how transparent he was.

Slowly he glanced over his shoulder.

And there you were.

By the slushie booth, standing in the loose triangle you always formed with Natasha and Gamora. Sunlight was threading through your hair, setting the edges of you on fire. A lime-green cup was balanced in your hand, the crushed ice inside melting into a watery gradient against the plastic.

You were listening to something Natasha was saying, your head tilted at that familiar angle, your mouth curved into the shape of a smile that didn’t quite touch your eyes.

You looked beautiful. You looked miles away. You looked exactly the way you always looked when you were present but not entirely there.

Bucky went still. Like a fucking idiot.

After that, Mia became background noise.

Pretty background noise, sure. The kind that came with a sugar-sweet laugh and a glitter sticker catching the late-afternoon sun beneath one eye. Smiling background noise with soft fingers that kept finding excuses to graze his wrist every time she handed him another plastic ring, letting her touch linger a beat longer than necessary.

But background noise all the same.

Bucky tried. He really fucking tried.

He let his weight shift onto one hip, leaning against the edge of the ring-toss booth with practiced ease. He laughed when she laughed, let his eyes drop to her mouth once because that was the sort of thing he used to do without thinking, a reflex he’d honed over years of easy conquests.

He even let her fix the collar of his jacket when she reached for it. Her knuckles grazed the side of his throat, a brief pressure against the warm skin just above his collarbone.

It should have sparked something smug and familiar in him, a pleasant shiver of being wanted.

Nothing.

Worse than nothing.

Because the whole time she was talking all he could think was that her laugh was too bright. Too clean. Too eager to please. It didn’t catch him under the ribs the way yours did, didn’t hook into something raw and leave him breathless.

Her teasing landed too soft. Too safe. Not sharp enough to make him want to chase it, to earn it, to prove himself.

She touched him like she knew he wanted to be touched, generous and open and unquestioning.

And he hated that too, because you never gave him anything that simply.

You made him work for scraps and then looked surprised when he started starving.

Mia said something. He missed it entirely.

“Right,” Bucky said, because it sounded safe enough.

Her brows lifted, “You have no idea what I just said.”

He smiled, charming and empty, a reflex that had never failed him. “I was distracted by your beauty.”

She laughed, pleased despite herself, and shoved lightly at his arm. Easy. So fucking easy.

His gaze still slid over her shoulder.

You were still by the slushie booth, one elbow propped on the counter, the heel of your palm digging into the wood. Your head was tilted toward Natasha, who was gesturing emphatically about something.

Gamora stood half a step behind you with her arms crossed, like campus security hired by hell itself. You had a lime-green straw between your fingers, the plastic bent near the top from where you kept worrying it with your thumb.

You were not looking at him.

Good. Fine.

Bucky turned back to Mia and threw another ring. It sailed in a shallow arc, bounced uselessly off the neck of a bottle, and dropped onto the trampled grass at the base of the booth.

Mia made a sympathetic noise, her lips pursing. “Spiritual wind again?”

“Violent spiritual wind.” He grabbed another ring, testing its weight in his palm.

“You’re terrible at this.” Her hand landed on his bicep when she laughed, staying there a little too long.

Bucky let it.

He let it because maybe you would look over and see it. Maybe you would see her hand on his arm, see her leaning into his space, see him not pulling away. Maybe you would realise he had options. Lots of them.

Girls who laughed easily and touched without hesitation and made him feel like he was winning instead of losing.

He did not need you.

He didn’t.

He had never needed any girl to want him. That was the whole point. Girls liked him. Girls came easy. Girls wanted to be chosen by him, and he had always been good at choosing, at taking what was offered, at moving on before anyone could get too attached.

So maybe you should see that.

Maybe you should watch someone else touch him, watch someone else laugh at his jokes, watch someone else look at him like he was something worth having.

Maybe you should feel even half as stupid as he had felt standing in his room after you left, the silence still ringing in his ears.

Your eyes moved.

Just once.

A quick glance over Natasha’s shoulder, brief enough that anyone else would have missed it. A flicker of movement, a shift in focus. You looked at him and then away again.

Bucky should have felt triumphant.

He should have felt vindicated. Relieved, maybe. Like he had finally managed to press one finger into the soft place beneath all your careful indifference and prove there was something there.

Instead, his stomach twisted into a knot that sat heavy and cold.

Because you did not look angry.

You looked away too fast for him to understand anything at all.

And that was worse.

Mia was still smiling up at him when he turned back, her head tilted just enough to catch the tail end of the afternoon light across her cheekbone.

Her mouth was parted, ready to laugh at whatever he said next.

“You want to try again?”

No.

The word cut through him clean and fast.

He wanted to walk across the quad. He wanted to cross the trampled grass and the careful, deliberate distance you had carved between you like a border he wasn’t allowed to cross.

He wanted to stand in front of you and ask why you had looked at him like that—like he was the one doing something wrong just by existing, just by letting someone else’s hand rest on his arm.

He wanted to grab your stupid green cup out of your hand and press his mouth to the plastic rim, taste whatever sugar-sour thing you had been nursing all afternoon, because, for a reason that made him feel deeply, disgustingly pathetic, he wanted his lips to touch where yours had been.

He wanted to ask why the fuck you got to look wounded when he was the one bleeding out all over the place.

He set the last plastic ring down on the counter.

“You know what?” His voice came out easier than he felt, smooth and practiced. “I’m gonna quit while I still have some dignity.”

Mia laughed, “You had dignity?”

“Once. Briefly.” He dragged a hand through his hair, let his mouth curve into something rueful and self-deprecating. “Freshman year, I think. It was a Tuesday. I peaked early.”

She shifted closer, the toe of her sneaker brushing against his. Her fingers grazed his wrist again. He could feel the opening there, easy, the way girls always were.

All he had to do was lean into it. Let the conversation carry. Let his hand find her waist. Let himself get lost in something simple for once.

Instead, he stepped back.

“See you around, Mia.”

Her face flickered. The smile didn’t drop, but something behind it cooled. A subtle tightening around her eyes, a slight press of her lips.

“Maya,” she corrected.

Fuck.

Bucky blinked.

He smiled anyway, because what else was he supposed to do?

“Right. Maya.” He let the apology bleed into his voice. “Sorry.”

Her smile thinned.

Bucky deserved that too.

He turned and walked away before he could make it worse.

For the next two hours, Bucky made a point of being seen and not approaching.

He let Sam drag him toward the food trucks, let himself be pulled through the thick crowd of students and families and drunk upperclassmen.

He let Steve talk him into watching Clint get disqualified from the pie-eating contest. Thor had stood up from the judges’ table, pointed a finger the size of a hot dog, and loudly accused Clint of being “the same small blond criminal in a wig.”

The crowd erupted. Clint flipped him off with a mouthful of whipped cream. Steve laughed so hard he had to brace himself on Bucky’s shoulder.

Bucky laughed too. He did. It came out at the right time, in the right pitch, convincing enough.

He stood by the dunk tank while Rhodey heckled Tony into climbing onto the seat. Tony was wearing a linen shirt that probably cost more than Bucky’s entire closet, and he looked profoundly uncomfortable with the idea of getting wet.

He kept his distance. But never so much distance that he could not see you.

That was the pathetic part.

His body moved on its own, tracking you like a compass needle finding north. He always arranged himself somewhere with a clear line of sight. Near the stage when you drifted toward the booths.

By the food trucks when you wandered toward the grass, your silhouette cutting through the golden haze.

Close to Steve when Steve decided to talk to Natasha, because then Bucky had an excuse to stand twenty feet from you and pretend it wasn’t intentional, pretend he was just hanging with his friend while he watched your every move.

But every time your face turned away, his mood soured. Every time you smiled at someone else, he wondered what they had said, what they had done to earn that warmth that he couldn’t seem to coax from you.

He was exhausting.

But he couldn’t stop.

By late afternoon, the sun had started to dip behind the science building, turning the quad warm and gold at the edges. The light slanted long across the grass, casting everything in a honeyed haze.

The air smelled like fried dough, cut grass, spilled beer, and the sharp chemical sweetness of the slushie machine that had been running too hard all day, its motor grinding low and tired.

Bucky had finally lost sight of you.

At first, he told himself it was a relief.

Good.

Great.

Maybe you had left. Maybe you had gone back to your dorm. Maybe the festival could go back to being a festival instead of a slow, public study in how little self-respect James Buchanan Barnes apparently had left.

He lasted thirty seconds.

Then his eyes were moving again, dragging across the quad like a searchlight. Toward the drink stands. Over the line at the food trucks, scanning faces. Past the stage, where the band was packing up their equipment.

Back toward the slushie booth, where Natasha was now talking to Wanda, their heads bent together in quiet conversation.

You were not beside her.

Gamora was there, though, standing with her arms crossed in that way she had. Her eyes cut toward him like she had known exactly where he would be looking.

Bucky looked away immediately.

His pulse hammered in his throat.

Fuck.

He shoved both hands into his jacket pockets and turned in the opposite direction, jaw tight, pulse irritated beneath his skin. He was not looking for you. He was not going to walk around this whole fucking festival like a lost dog because you had vanished for five minutes.

“Hey.”

Bucky turned too fast.

And there you were.

Standing behind him. Sunlight soft around your shoulders, spilling through the gaps in the trees behind you, catching the faint sheen of condensation on the clear plastic cups in your hands. Two iced coffees.

For one stupid second, he forgot to be angry.

The feeling arrived in his chest before he could stop it. A loosening. A warmth. The same stupid, gravitational pull he had been fighting all day, undoing him with a single glance.

Then you smiled at him.

Not the teasing, knowing curl of your mouth that made him want to grab you by the waist and pull you into somewhere quiet. This one was smaller. Softer. Almost shy. The corners of your lips lifted slowly, like you were testing whether it was safe to show him that part of yourself.

He did not trust himself to name it.

“They messed up my order,” you said, lifting one of the cups a little. The ice shifted inside, a soft, crystalline sound against the plastic. “Gave me hazelnut instead of caramel.”

Bucky stared at you. He could smell the coffee now, faintly bitter, cut with something sweet.

You held the cup out toward him.

“I remembered hazelnut’s your favourite.”

That was all.

One sentence.

One stupid fucking coffee.

And Bucky felt every cruel, petty thing he had been rehearsing all day loosen in his hands. They slid through his fingers like water, leaving nothing but the raw, embarrassing truth beneath.

He was supposed to be cold. He had planned it. If you came over he was going to look at you the way you looked at him in dayligh; casual, polite, with nothing owed. He was going to make you work for his attention. Make you feel the distance.

Instead, he took the coffee.

His fingers brushed yours around the damp cup. Your skin was cool and wet from the condensation, and the contact was brief but electric. He felt it in his fingertips, up his wrist, settling somewhere low in his chest.

“Thanks,” he said.

The word came out awful. Pathetic. Barely even mean. It was soft when he had wanted it hard. Grateful when he had wanted indifferent.

Your eyes searched his face, careful and quiet. There was something watchful in the way you looked at him, like you were reading a line of text you had read before but were trying to understand differently this time.

“You haven’t talked to me all day.”

Bucky gave a shrug. The motion was stiff, defensive. He brought the straw to his mouth and wrapped his lips around it, buying himself a second.

“Been busy.”

“I saw.”

The straw stopped against his lips.

There it was. Not an accusation exactly. Not jealousy either. Just two words, soft enough to slide under his skin. They found the tender places, the ones he had been trying to protect, and settled there.

He took a sip to give himself something to do.

Hazelnut. Sweet. A little bitter underneath. Warm on his tongue despite the ice.

Of course you remembered.

He lowered the cup. The plastic was slick in his grip.

“Did you?”

Your mouth tightened slightly. A small, almost imperceptible press of your lips that told him the words had landed where he meant them to.

“Bucky.”

He hated that too. The softness. The warning.

“What?” he asked, and even to his own ears it came out harder than he intended.

“You’re being weird.”

He let out a short laugh. It was hollow, barely more than a breath. “I’m being weird?”

Your eyes dropped to the coffee in your hand. The condensation had started to pool between your fingers, and you shifted your grip, watching the water trail down the plastic.

That should have helped him. That should have given him something solid to stay angry with. He wanted you to roll your eyes. He wanted you to smirk, to toss some sharp little joke at his feet and dare him to pick it up. He wanted you to give him a reason.

But you did not.

You just stood there, looking smaller somehow in the middle of all that noise. The festival kept spinning around you and you were still. Quiet. Waiting.

Then you said, “Are you mad at me?”

He was finished.

He hated that he was finished before he even opened his mouth. Hated that the question undid him so completely, that it found the lock and turned it without effort. Hated that you could stand there with a small, uncertain crack in your voice, and he would fold every single time.

Bucky looked away. He dragged his tongue along the inside of his cheek, tasting coffee and bitterness and something that felt too much like surrender.

He brought the coffee to his lips again. Just to have something to do with his hands. Just to keep from saying something he could not take back.

“Why would I be mad?” he asked, because apparently he had decided to be a dick anyway.

You did not answer immediately.

The silence stretched between you like a thread pulled taut, and Bucky watched the shape of your mouth as it hovered around words you weren’t ready to say.

When he looked back at you, your face had gone still in that careful way he was beginning to recognise. The muscles around your eyes had softened, your lips parted just slightly, and there was a patience in your expression that felt heavier than any accusation.

“I don’t know,” you said, and your voice was thinner now. “I thought maybe the other night…”

You trailed off.

The sentence hung in the air, unfinished, fragile. The kind of opening that could be filled with anything; with hope, with blame, with the truth neither of you had been brave enough to say aloud.

Bucky’s grip tightened around the coffee cup. The other night. So you did remember. You weren’t pretending it hadn’t happened, weren’t going to let it dissolve into the haze of party noise and cheap beer.

“You thought maybe what?”

Your lashes lifted. Your eyes met his, and there was no deflection in them now. No clever sidestep.

“I didn’t mean to make you feel stupid.”

The words went straight through him.

Clean through the ribs, past the armour he had spent the last three days layering over his chest, settling somewhere deep and tender. It was meaner than anything cruel would have been.

Because that was it. That was the thing he had been carrying around and dressing up as anger, because anger looked better on him than humiliation. You had made him feel stupid. Stupid for wanting you.

And now you were standing in front of him with hazelnut coffee and remorse in your eyes, saying the one thing he had not known he needed to hear.

His anger lost its shape.

It did not vanish. He could still feel it, somewhere under his breastbone, hot and sore, a bruise that had not finished healing. But it had nothing to hold onto now.

Bucky swallowed. The motion was dry, his throat tight.

“You didn’t,” he lied.

Your brows pinched. The disbelief was immediate, a small furrow forming between your eyes that told him you had seen right through the denial.

He sighed, hating himself, hating you a little, hating the way his body was already angling toward yours like it had forgiven you without consulting him.

“Fine,” he muttered, the word scraping past his teeth. “Maybe a little.”

Your mouth softened. The corners of your lips turned down in a way that was not quite a frown, more like a quiet admission of guilt.

“I’m sorry.”

There it was again. Another scrap. Barely enough. Two words that should not have been enough to undo the knot in his chest, but somehow they were.

Bucky looked down at the coffee in his hand. The ice had melted more now, the water pooling at the bottom of the clear plastic. Then he looked back at you, and the corner of his mouth lifted despite himself.

“You always apologise with beverages?”

“Only when I’m feeling generous.”

“Dangerous habit.” He tilted his head, letting the smirk settle into something more real. “I’m very bribable.”

Your smile came back slowly. It started in your eyes first, a flicker of warmth that spread to your lips, and God, there he went. There he fucking went.

All that resolve, all that careful, bitter distance, folding inside him like wet paper because you looked at him with warmth again.

“You’re cheap,” you said.

“Not cheap.” He shook his head, the coffee cup swinging in his grip. “Accessible.”

“That’s worse.”

“You say that like you’re not standing here trying to buy my forgiveness with six dollars of iced coffee.”

“Seven fifty,” you corrected, and there was a spark of humour in your voice now. “Campus pricing is criminal.”

He laughed before he could stop himself. The sound came out rough and surprised. But there it was, and it loosened something between you, closed the last of the distance.

Your smile widened at the sound, and something in his chest went soft and stupid and loyal.

Across the quad, Sam caught his eye from beside the food trucks. He was standing with a paper tray of fries halfway to his mouth, staring at Bucky over the top of them with an expression flat with disbelief.

His eyebrows were raised, his head tilted in a slow, accusatory shake.

Bucky ignored him.

He looked back at you, and the festival noise swelled around you again, but it felt distant now. Muffled. He nodded toward the far end of the festival where the temporary rides had been set up near the parking lot.

A cheap spinning thing with hanging seats was creaking in slow circles, its lights flickering green and white even though the sun had not fully gone down yet.

Nearby, a smaller ferris wheel groaned every time it moved, looking only slightly safer than a lawsuit.

“You wanna go on a ride?”

You glanced over, your gaze following his nod. Your brows lifted, a flicker of amusement crossing your face.

“With you?”

“Don’t sound so horrified.”

“I’m not horrified.” You turned back to him, and there was a glint in your eye now. “I’m considering the risk.”

Bucky tilted his head, trying for careless and landing somewhere much softer. The words came out before he could stop them, “C’mon, sweetheart. Let me be a bad influence.”

You looked at him for a second too long.

Then you stepped closer, just enough that your shoulder brushed his arm as you moved past him.

“Fine,” you said, the word carrying a reluctant smile. “But if I die, I’m haunting you.”

Bucky followed immediately, coffee in hand, heart gone embarrassingly light.

“Good,” he said, “Then at least you’d be consistent.”

For the last three years at NYU, Tony Stark had treated the end of spring semester like a religious holiday.

A very expensive, deeply obnoxious holiday that involved a beach house weekend at his parents’ sprawling Malibu mansion, that forced you to acknowledge how much money some people had just by existing in its shadow.

First-class flights for anyone he deemed entertaining enough to invite, which was a broad and chaotic metric.

Enough alcohol to poison a small country, and a guest list he described as “intimate” in the same way someone might call a riot “spirited,” given that it usually hovered somewhere around fifty people.

Closest and dearest friends, Tony called it.

Which, for Tony, meant anyone he had laughed with more than twice, anyone who looked good in bikinis, anyone who owed him money, anyone he owed money, and at least three people he claimed were “essential to the ecosystem” despite no one else being entirely sure who they were.

Bucky had always loved it.

How could he not?

It was a weekend designed for him to love. Sun-warm skin and salt-crusted hair, the sharp iodine scent of the Pacific mixing with expensive cologne. Music vibrating through the glass walls deep into the night, until the floors hummed under his feet.

Top-shelf liquor sloshing into cheap red cups because Tony loved the visual dissonance of it, the clash of refinement and raucous excess. People half-dressed and fully drunk before the sun had even properly set.

Bodies, careless and comfortable, everywhere, draped over pool chairs, melting into leather couches, disappearing into guest rooms with sheets that cost more than his tuition.

And this year was supposed to be the best one.

Senior year.

The final spring before reality politely asked everyone to grow up. Before the forced enthusiasm about internships, leases, and entry-level jobs that paid barely enough to justify the commute.

Before the slow, quiet humiliation of being twenty-two and realizing the world had never promised to stay exactly how it was.

The last Malibu trip had a gravity to it, even if no one wanted to say that out loud. Everyone could feel it pressing down on their shoulders.

Steve said it once on the plane, because of course he did.

Mid-flight, with the Pacific stretching blue and endless beneath them, he said something earnest and quietly devastating about how strange it was that they would probably never have this much time together again.

Sam threw a pretzel at his forehead with surgical precision. ”Stop making the trip sad, Rogers. You’re gonna manifest a bad vibe.”

Bucky had laughed along with everyone else.

He was good at that. Keeping things light. Acting like the future was just some vague concept waiting politely far away from him, instead of a door already clicking shut in slow motion while they weren’t looking.

Besides, he had more pressing things to occupy his head.

Like the fact that you were coming.

Not that he was thinking about that. Not obsessively. He hadn’t checked the group chat four times to see if Natasha had confirmed the flight details. He hadn’t hovered near the baggage claim exit a little too long, pretending to stretch his shoulders out, stomach tightening every time the automatic doors slid open.

He hadn’t carefully packed the black shirt, the one you had touched once, months ago, fingers smoothing the collar, your smile going slow and private in a way that he had replayed more times than he’d ever admit.

He was just excited for the trip.

That was all.

The house came into view just as the car turned up the long private drive, a ridiculous sprawl of glass and white stone sitting above the water like it had been dropped there by God specifically to make poor people feel unwelcome.

The Pacific flashed blue beyond it, bright enough to hurt, the sun catching the surface in a million tiny explosions of light. Palm trees leaned over the road, their fronds swaying lazily in the salt-warm breeze.

The afternoon sun poured itself across everything, turning the windows gold and the pool a hard, glittering turquoise, the kind of color that looked fake in photographs but was somehow real here.

Tony stood out front in linen trousers and sunglasses, arms spread wide like a cult leader welcoming his congregation home.

“My children,” he called as soon as the car doors opened. “You made it.”

Sam stepped out first, stretching his arms over his head, his spine cracking in a way that made Steve wince sympathetically. “You say that like we survived war and not a six-hour flight where you slept through turbulence.”

“I survived being seated beside Barton,” Tony said, pulling his sunglasses down his nose just enough to make eye contact. “Which is worse.”

Clint, emerging from the next car with his hair flattened on one side. “I heard that, Stark.”

“You were meant to.”

Bucky climbed out after Steve, sunglasses pushed up into his hair, the warm Malibu air hitting him all at once. The air was different here. Thicker. Slower. It made you want to breathe deeper.

Somewhere inside the house, music was already playing, a low, thrumming bassline that vibrated through the glass walls. Someone had arrived before them and started early, because of course they had. Tony’s parties never waited for the host.

Bucky looked toward the road before he could stop himself, his gaze dragging along the curve of the driveway.

No other car yet.

He looked away immediately, his jaw tightening.

Sam, because he was a terrible person and a worse friend, noticed.

“Subtle,” he said, the word drawn out.

Bucky frowned. “What?”

“Nothing.” Sam’s grin widened, but he didn’t push further. He knew better than to push Bucky when he was already coiled tight.

Steve had the decency to say nothing, but his mouth did that thing where it pressed flat at the corners, the kind of silent judgment that was almost worse than Sam’s teasing.

Bucky shoved past both of them, his duffel bag thumping against his hip, and grabbed his bag from the trunk before anyone else could offer to help.

“I’m getting a room before all the good ones are gone.”

Tony scoffed. “Please. Your rooms are assigned. I’m not running a hostel.”

Sam paused mid-step, his duffel slung over one shoulder. “You assigned rooms?”

“Obviously.” Tony turned on his heel, leading the way inside. “I’m not having a repeat of the Cabo incident. Some people don’t know how to handle free choice sleeping arrangements.”

Clint, trailing behind, muttered, “That was one time.”

“It was twice,” Tony shot back, not looking back.

The inside of the mansion was already half-chaos. Suitcases abandoned in the entryway, a pair of heels kicked off and left under a marble console table, a half-empty bottle of champagne sweating on the counter of the kitchen island.

A bowl of limes sat on the kitchen island, untouched and decorative for now, though Bucky gave it six hours before Thor tried to bite into one whole.

Bucky followed Tony upstairs with Sam and Steve, his bag slung over one shoulder, his footsteps padding on the wide wooden staircase. He tried very hard not to wonder where you would sleep.

Tried and failed.

Which room would you get? Would you be on the same floor as him? Across the hall? At the other end of the house, where he’d have to walk past a dozen doors just to catch a glimpse of you?

Tony stopped at the end of the hall and pointed at a door like a bored hotel concierge, his hand a lazy gesture. “Rogers, Wilson, Barnes. Try not to destroy anything structural.”

Sam pushed open the door and whistled low, the sound echoing in the high-ceilinged room. “Damn.”

Steve stepped into it after him, his gaze sweeping across the king-sized bed, the floor-to-ceiling windows, the balcony that jutted out over the lawn. “This is excessive.”

“That’s the family motto,” Tony said, already turning away, his phone buzzing in his pocket. “There’s food in the kitchen. Drinks on the terrace. Don’t break the bed, I’ll know.”

Bucky went in last. Ocean-facing, because Tony was an asshole who pretended not to be thoughtful.

The room was huge, the bed draped in white sheets that looked impossibly soft, the glass doors slid open to let the breeze in. The water was visible beyond the slant of the lawn, a deep, endless blue that seemed to go on forever.

He dropped his bag on the floor by the bed and walked to the balcony, his hands gripping the railing.

The ocean stretched out before him, vast and indifferent, and he let himself breathe for a moment, let the salt air fill his lungs and loosen the knot in his chest.

He dropped his bag on the floor by the bed and walked straight to the balcony doors, sliding them open.

The warm Malibu air hit him again, thicker now. The sound of the party drifted up to meet him, carried on the breeze; the low thrum of music from inside the house, the clatter of ice in glass.

Down below, the patio had already started filling.

Someone was carrying crates of alcohol toward the outdoor bar, bottles clinking with every step. Rhodey was arguing with Tony about speaker placement, his hands moving in broad, frustrated arcs while Tony gestured at the pool like he was explaining architecture to a child.

A few girls Bucky vaguely recognised from campus were stretched near the pool on lounge chairs, their sunglasses pushed up into their hair, laughing too loudly at something Thor said while he stood at the edge of the water, gesturing broadly.

Still no you.

He let his gaze sweep the patio once, just once, the way you might check a clock you already knew the answer to.

Fine.

He had time.

He could get settled. He could take a shower, let the hot water loosen the knot wedged between his shoulder blades.

Behind him, Sam appeared in the open doorway of the balcony, his silhouette filling the frame.

“Don’t start,” Bucky said, not turning around.

Sam leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest. “I just came to tell you Tony’s making drinks downstairs.”

“Great.”

“And to remind you that this is supposed to be a fun weekend.” Sam’s voice was light, conversational, but the words had edges.

Bucky turned from the balcony then, the ocean falling away behind him. The breeze caught his hair, pushing it across his forehead. “I know how to have fun, Sam.”

“Historically, yes.”

Before Bucky could respond, Steve appeared behind Sam in the doorway, his shoulder brushing the frame as he stepped up.

He looked between them with that resigned expression, the one that said he had walked into the middle of something and would now be forced to participate, like it or not. “What are we talking about?”

“Nothing,” Bucky said.

“His disease,” Sam said at the same time.

Bucky stared at him. “My what?”

Sam held up a hand, ticking off fingers. “Symptoms include staring at doors. Emotional constipation. And abandoning perfectly nice girls mid-conversation when a certain someone walks into a room.”

Steve sighed. “Sam.”

“What? He needs medical attention.”

Bucky grabbed one of the pillows from the bed behind him and threw it at Sam’s head. Sam caught it easily, looking infuriatingly pleased with himself.

“See? Irritability. Another symptom.”

Bucky rolled his eyes, but heat crawled up the back of his neck anyway. “I’m not doing this all weekend.”

“Good.” Sam’s voice dropped then, the grin fading around the edges, “Don’t.”

It was said lightly, but not entirely.

Bucky looked at him. For a second, the room shifted into something less like sparring and more like concern.

Sam’s shoulders loosened, the humor bleeding out of his face just enough to show the worry underneath, the part of him that had watched Bucky turn himself inside out over you for months and did not find all of it funny anymore.

Steve stepped forward, his voice gentler now. “Just... don’t spend the whole trip waiting for her to decide your mood.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened. The muscle in his temple jumped.

He wanted to tell them they were wrong. He wanted to say you did not decide anything. That he was fine.

But the words sat heavy in his mouth, and he couldn’t force them out.

So he said nothing.

From downstairs, Tony’s voice carried up through the open doors, bouncing off the glass and the stone. “First round is ready, you ungrateful peasants!”

Sam clapped his hands once. “Saved by alcoholism.”

Steve gave Bucky one last look then turned and disappeared toward the hall.

Bucky followed, because staying behind would look pathetic, and he had already met his quota for the day.

Downstairs, the house had grown louder. More people had arrived while he was up there. Bags piled by the stairs, sandals kicked off near the sliding doors, laughter spilling in from the patio in overlapping waves.

Tony was behind the outdoor bar in sunglasses, pouring something violently green into a row of cups while Pepper stood beside him looking like she had already accepted God’s plan for her evening.

Bucky took a cup the second Tony handed him one.

It tasted like lime, expensive vodka, and exactly what he needed. The alcohol burned a clean path down his throat and settled warm in his chest.

Perfect.

He tipped his head back and drank half of it.

By eleven, Bucky was absolutely, spectacularly shitfaced.

The whole mansion seemed to tilt and breathe around him, swaying on its foundations in slow waves of green pool light, salt-scrubbed air, and the sweet, cloying scent of expensive liquor bleeding from every glass.

Someone had thrown all the glass doors to the patio wide open, letting the party spill out of the house and down toward the pool, toward the dark strip of beach below, toward the ocean rolling black and endless under a crescent moon.

Bucky was having the time of his fucking life.

He had spent the last hour ricocheting between Sam’s shoulder and Steve’s long-suffering presence, laughing so hard his ribs ached and his vision blurred.

Tony had climbed onto the kitchen island at some point to deliver a toast no one had asked for, sloshing amber liquid onto the pristine marble. Bruce had lost a sandal. Rhodey had found it in the freezer, holding it up like a trophy.

Thor had challenged half the house to a drinking competition and laid them out, one by one, a trail of empty glasses and ruined egos stretching behind him like a battlefield.

Bucky, because he was an idiot and because the liquor had convinced him he was invincible, had tried to take him on.

Thor drank like he had been weaned on kerosene and raised by wolves. Bucky had made it three rounds before Sam materialised at his elbow and physically removed the cup from his hand.

“Too pretty to die on Tony Stark’s imported marble,” Sam had said.

Bucky had laughed in his face.

Then his heel caught on nothing and he nearly pitched headfirst into a decorative fern the size of a small car, catching himself on the wall at the last second.

And you had seen it.

You had seen him almost eat shit beside a fern, and instead of looking unimpressed, instead of giving him that careful, distant smile he had grown to hate, you had laughed.

Your head tipped back, the long column of your throat exposed, one hand pressed to your mouth as your shoulders shook. Natasha leaned in to whisper something in your ear, and you laughed harder, nodding.

It was the best sound he had heard all night. The best thing he had seen all month.

You weren’t ignoring him tonight. Not even a little. He had been braced for it, waiting for the familiar wall to go up, but it never came. Since the moment you arrived, you had been sweet. Warm. Present in a way that made his chest feel too tight and his hands itch to reach for you.

Honey, he kept thinking, the word a stupid, syrupy refrain in the back of his mind.

You were warm like honey tonight, golden and thick and spilling over everything. He was a fly caught in it, too far gone to care.

And fuck, you looked good.

That was the other problem, the one pressing insistently against the front of his jeans with every glance you threw his way.

You were trying to kill him. There was no other explanation for the top you had chosen. Thin and tight, clinging to the curve of your torso like it had been made specifically to undo him.

The fabric shifted with every breath, catching the light, and the neckline dipped just low enough to make his mouth go dry. Every time you lifted your arms, your boobs shifted and threatened to spill out entirely.

A possessive, animal part of him wanted to cup them in his palms, slide his thumbs over the soft swell, tuck them back in himself and never let them go.

Your shorts were no better. Sitting high on your thighs, hugging the flare of your hips, leaving acres of bare skin on display. He kept wondering how you had managed to squeeze into them and whether he was going to survive watching you walk away in them one more time.

He was not proud of himself. He wanted to pounce on you right there, in front of everyone, sink his teeth into the curve of your shoulder, taste the salt and sugar on your skin.

He wanted to haul you against him and find out if you felt as soft as you looked.

You wandered back to him sometime after Tony’s third terrible toast, barefoot now, your sandals abandoned somewhere by the pool. In your hands, you held two little glass shot glasses, the liquid inside them a violent, fluorescent pink that glowed under the patio lights like a dare.

Bucky looked at the shots, then at you.

“No.”

You blinked at him, a pout already forming on your lips. “No?”

“I challenged Thor,” he said, as if that explained everything. “I’m cut off. Sam declared a moratorium on my alcohol intake for the sake of my liver and the integrity of the marble flooring.”

“That was stupid,” you said, but your eyes were warm, amused.

“Thank you, sweetheart. I’m acutely aware.”

Your smile widened. God, there it was. That specific, dangerous curve of your mouth that made the bottom drop out of his stomach every single time.

You stepped closer, close enough that the cold plastic rim of one shot glass pressed lightly against his chest, just over his heart. “Come on, Buck,” you said, your voice soft and honeyed beneath the thrum of the bass. “One more. Just for me.”

He should have said no. He had every intention of saying no.

Then your fingers curled into the front of his shirt. Just the tips of them, hooking into the fabric, not enough to pull him toward you, just enough to hold him there.

“Fine,” he heard himself say, the word a complete and total surrender. He was weak and you were evil and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

The two of you clinked the plastic cups together and threw them back.

The liquid hit his tongue. Sugar first, cloying and thick. Then vodka, sharp and medicinal. And something aggressively sour that made his jaw clench and his eyes water.

You made a face immediately, your nose scrunching up, your eyes squeezed shut, a soft sound of disgust escaping your throat.

Bucky laughed so hard he had to brace one hand against the edge of the counter behind him. “Awful, right?”

“Awful,” you croaked, coughing once into your fist.

“You brought it to me,” he pointed out, still grinning.

“I wanted you to suffer with me,” you murmured, your voice hoarse from the liquor.

“Romantic. You really know how to make a guy feel special.”

“Don’t get excited.”

“Too late.” The words came out rougher than he meant them.

He was already excited. Had been excited since you walked through the door in that top, looking like everything he had ever wanted and had no right to touch.

You leaned your shoulder into his side, just for a second. Maybe for balance. Maybe because you wanted to. The weight of you pressing into him, fitting too perfectly into the curve of his body.

Bucky looked down at you. Your mouth was wet from the shot, shining under the dim glow of the patio lights. Your eyes were heavy-lidded, warm, fixed on his mouth.

He didn’t think about it. His hand found your waist, fingers spreading over the bare skin exposed by the crop of your top. You were soft and warm and solid under his palm, and the contact sent a shiver of heat up his arm.

“You’re drunk,” you murmured, your breath brushing his collarbone.

“So are you,” he countered, his thumb tracing a slow, idle circle on the dip of your hip.

“Mm. Maybe.” You didn’t pull away.

“Definitely.”

“You always this handsy when you’re drunk, Barnes?” The question was velvet over steel, a challenge wrapped in silk. But you leaned into him instead.

Bucky’s thumb shifted against your waist, sliding higher, tracing the edge of your ribcage through the thin fabric of your top.

He felt the soft intake of your breath, the way your stomach tightened under his touch. “No,” he said, the word dropping an octave, sliding under the bass of the music, rougher than before. “Just when you’re dressed like that.”

You sighed against him, warm and tipsy, your cheek brushing his shoulder as if you had every right to be there.

“I think I need to call it a night.”

Bucky’s head snapped down so fast the room tilted with him.

“No.” The word came out instantly, offended and pathetic. Then again, worse. “No, no, no.”

You laughed, and he felt it more than heard it, the soft shake of your body against his side. He had one arm locked around your waist, fingers splayed over the exposed strip of skin where your tank had ridden up.

“It’s only eleven,” he protested, tightening his grip like you might dissolve into the party if he let you breathe too freely. “Party’s gonna go on for another couple of hours.”

“That sounds like a threat.”

“Don’t leave me alone.”

Your smile curved against his neck. “There’s like forty other people here, Buck. I’m sure you won’t be that lonely.”

He made a wounded noise into the crown of your head. “None of them are you.”

The words came out before he could dress them up as a joke, before he could hide them behind a grin or a roll of his eyes.

You went quiet for half a second.

Then you tilted your face up to him, eyes glassy-bright from alcohol and the green spill of party lights. “I wanna explore Malibu tomorrow. I’m not wasting the whole day hungover because you need attention.”

“You’re so boring,” he groaned, dropping his forehead briefly to your temple.

“And yet.”

“And yet,” he repeated, the words heavy, loaded, full of everything he couldn’t say.

“I’ll let you take me to my room, then.”

Bucky pretended to consider it. Really sold it too, eyes narrowed, mouth pursed like this was a difficult sacrifice and not the only thing he wanted in the world. “If that’s the only way to keep you with me.”

“It is.”

“Well.” He pulled you closer, his hand sliding more securely around your waist, his fingers pressing into the warm skin of your hip. “Who am I to deny a lady?”

“Oh God.”

You laughed again, the sound soft and breathless, and Bucky started walking before you could change your mind.

Or tried to.

The first few steps were a test of faith. The floor seemed to tilt and roll beneath him like the deck of a ship, and the hallway stretched and contracted in confusing rhythms.

You pressed tighter against his side, your arm sliding around his waist to steady both of you, and every time your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, Bucky had to remind himself that he was escorting you to bed, not dragging you into his mouth.

The mansion blurred around him. He passed a painting of a sailboat. Then another painting of a sailboat. He definitely took a wrong turn past a large, ugly vase.

Behind him, Sam called out something that got swallowed by the bass. Someone else whistled, low and knowing.

Bucky ignored all of it.

All he cared about was the feel of you tucked under his arm, the soft drag of your breath on his neck, the way your hip bumped against his thigh with every stumbling step. The air through the open windows smelled like jasmine and salt and the faint, clean scent of your perfume mixing with the liquor in his veins.

“Is this even the right way?” you asked as he led you past a framed painting of something expensive and ugly.

“Yes.”

“You’re lost.”

“I’m exploring Malibu.”

“That is not what that means.”

He shushed you, then immediately turned down the wrong hallway.

By the time he found the staircase, both of you were laughing too hard to move quietly. You clung to his shirt as he guided you up the stairs, your body shaking against his, and every time your fingers curled against his chest, Bucky’s pulse kicked harder.

He opened the door with the confidence of a man who had absolutely no idea what he was doing.

The room was dark except for the moonlight spilling through the balcony doors, silver and heavy, painting everything in soft shadows.

The bed was massive, white sheets tangled from where he had thrown his duffel earlier. His shirt hung off the back of a chair. His shoes kicked carelessly near the dresser. The balcony doors were open a crack, letting in the sound of the waves and the cool night air.

You stepped in beside him, looked around for one long second, then burst into laughter.

“This is not my room, Buck.”

Bucky blinked.

Looked at the bed. Looked at his duffel on the floor. Looked at you.

“Oh.”

He turned back to you, trying very hard to arrange his face into something less guilty.

“Oops.”

You laughed harder, your head tipping back, your hand pressing to your stomach like this was the funniest thing that had happened all night. And maybe it was. The sound was bright and unguarded, and Bucky wanted to bottle it.

“I cannot believe you,” you said.

“Honest mistake. Tragic, really. Very confusing architecture in this house.”

“Sure.”

You should have turned around.

You should have made him find the right room. Should have rolled your eyes and dragged him back into the hallway before he could get any more ideas, before Bucky remembered exactly how little space there was between want and stupidity.

Instead, you walked farther in.

Then you collapsed backward onto his bed.

You fell into the mattress with a soft, breathless sound, the white sheets whispering beneath you. Your hair spilled loose across his pillow. The tank top had ridden up from the fall, baring the soft curve of your belly, the delicate jut of your hipbone just above the line of your shorts.

The moonlight sliced silver across your thighs, caught the damp shine of your lips, traced the lines of your body and turned your skin to shadow and glow.

You looked obscene.

You looked perfect.

Like you had been poured into his bed by some cruel, generous god.

Bucky stayed frozen at the foot of the bed. His hand was still on the doorknob, a solid point in his grip, the only thing keeping him upright. His blood was too loud in his ears. He was wrecked.

Thrown off.

Completely, catastrophically fucked.

“You’re in my bed,” he said, the words scraping out of him rough and disbelieving, a rasp that barely carried over the sound of his own pounding heart.

You stretched one arm over your head, a slow motion that arched your spine against the sheets and made the fabric of your top strain across your chest. Your ribs lifted. Your shorts shifted. You looked soft, drunk, a problem he wanted to have forever.

“So I am.”

Bucky swallowed, his throat clicking audibly in the quiet hush of the room.

The alcohol was a warm, syrupy fog settled deep in his skull, blurring his edges and dulling his sense, but some sliver of awareness remained, sharp enough to recognise the disaster unfolding in front of him.

He tried to keep the mood light, to sound like the version of himself that could laugh this off and walk away.

He let out a breathy, unconvincing laugh.

“C’mon, get up. Let me take you to your room.”

“Mhm-mhm,” you hummed, a sound so lazy and content it made his stomach clench.

You closed your eyes and arched your neck, baring the long vulnerable line of your throat to the mercury glow of the moon. Your pulse beat visibly just beneath your skin, a delicate, rhythmic flutter that made his mouth water. 

Fuck, he wanted to sink his teeth into that skin. To taste your heartbeat on his tongue. To mark you. “But I’m so comfortable here, Buck.”

His mouth was sandpaper. He tried to swallow again and failed, the motion scraping against his dry throat.

“You gonna get me in trouble, honey.” The words came out rough, a warning wrapped in something that sounded almost like a plea. Please don’t make me do this. Please don’t let me do this.

You lifted your head from the pillow, your hair spilling across his sheets and gave him a slow smile. It was the smile of someone who knew exactly what she was doing.

“Yeah?” you murmured, your voice turning syrupy. “How?”

You weren’t just looking at him. You were fucking him with your eyes, taking him apart piece by piece without lifting a finger.

“For fuck’s sake,” he heard himself mutter.

He felt the last thread of his self-control snap. The sensible part of his brain went entirely offline, leaving nothing behind but pure, aching, consuming want.

He pounced on you, covering your body with his, the mattress groaning under his sudden weight. You met him halfway, surging up to meet him, your hands fisting in the front of his shirt and yanking him down into your mouth.

The first taste of you was sweet, fucking relief.

Expensive vodka, the lingering sugar of your lip gloss, the faint salt of your skin, and something purely you. It flooded every empty space inside him, drowning out every doubt, every hesitation.

He groaned loudly into your mouth, a raw, animal sound that vibrated through his chest and into yours.

He couldn’t get enough. He forced your mouth open wider with his tongue, sliding inside, tasting. Shit, he couldn’t stop. He didn’t want to stop.

Every rational thought dissolved into static, overwhelmed by the wet heat of your mouth, the soft give of your body beneath him, the way you kissed him back like you wanted to devour him too.

He wrenched his mouth away, just far enough to pant against your lips, his forehead pressing to yours. His breath came in ragged, desperate heaves.

“We’re drunk,” he breathed, the words scraping out of him like a confession he didn’t want to make. “We... we shouldn’t do this.”

And then he felt it.

One of your legs slid up, the smooth, warm skin of your thigh brushing his hip before your calf hooked around his waist, locking him firmly against you. There was no escape now. You had him trapped.

Your hand came up, your palm cupping his jaw, your fingers threading into the hair at the nape of his neck. You pulled his mouth back to yours, your lips brushing his as you spoke.

“But I want to,” you murmured against his lips. “Don’t you?”

Bucky never claimed to have any strength. He had never pretended to have a strong will. Not when it came to you.

He dove back into your mouth like a man starving, like a man drowning who had finally found oxygen. His hands were everywhere now, making up for every moment he had held back.

They roamed down your sides, feeling the heat and softness of your body beneath. Down to your waist, gripping the bare skin where the fabric had ridden up. Lower still, over the flare of your hip, the silky expanse of your thighs.

And then your ass. Fuck. Perfect and full, fitting into his palms like it was made for them. He grabbed handfuls of it, squeezing, kneading, pulling you harder against him as he ground his hips into yours.

The moan you let out was muffled against his mouth, a broken, breathy sound that vibrated through his entire body and went straight to his cock.

His hips rolled forward in a rough, involuntary thrust, grinding his aching hardness against the heat of your cunt, the friction electric even through the thin layers of fabric separating you.

A guttural groan tore from deep in his chest, swallowed by your mouth as he kept moving against you.

Your moans were muffled against his mouth, your fingers twisted in his hair, holding him to you like you were afraid he’d disappear. The world had narrowed to the slide of his tongue against yours, the damp heat of your breath mingling with his.

But he couldn’t get enough. Every taste made him hungrier. Every sound you made drove him further past the edge of reason.

He broke the kiss with a ragged gasp, pushing himself upright, his chest heaving. Your hands followed him immediately, desperate fingers catching at his shirt, trying to pull him back down, trying to keep his mouth on yours.

“Sit tight, honey,” he breathed.

His hands were already moving, clumsy and urgent, fumbling at the button of your denim shorts. The thin metal slipped through his fingers once, twice, before he got it free.

His eyes met yours, dark and serious despite the haze of alcohol.

“Tell me to stop, baby.” The words came out low, a last gasp of something that might have been conscience. “Tell me to fucking stop.”

You shook your head hard, the motion fierce and immediate. Your hips lifted off the mattress as you shoved at the waistband of your shorts, helping him drag them down your legs along with your panties.

“Please don’t stop, Bucky.” Your voice cracked, “Please. I’ll die.”

The raw desperation in your voice hit him like a punch to the sternum. His cock throbbed painfully in his jeans, and he had to bite back a groan, had to clench his jaw to keep from spilling right there like a fucking teenager. Christ.

But first, he needed to see you.

He settled back on his heels, his hands braced on your thighs, and let his gaze travel down the length of your body. His eyes traced the curve of your hips, the soft swell of your belly, and finally, finally, to the place he had been dreaming about for months.

He stared.

It felt like the air left the room. His mouth went dry, then flooded with saliva.

She was beautiful. Perfect. Pretty and glistening, the soft folds glistening with your arousal, the little hooded pearl peeking out like she was waiting for him. He felt like he was going to drool.

A sharp shove hit his shoulder, rocking him back.

“Bucky.” Your voice was a whine, “Stop staring. You’re making me shy.”

He let out a laugh, shaking his head slowly. Shy. After everything, you were shy.

He lowered himself, pressing his mouth to the inside of your thigh. Then higher. Another kiss, closer. His lips dragged along your skin, following the sensitive line of your inner thigh.

“M’sorry, sweetheart.” His voice was a murmur against your flesh, “She’s just so pretty. Been dreaming about her.”

You sighed above him, the sound dreamy and soft. “Really?”

He didn’t answer with words. He pressed his mouth to your clit, a single, gentle kiss. You gasped, your hips twitching.

Then he went for the kill.

He dragged his tongue up in a long, slow stripe, from your entrance to your clit, savouring the taste of you; salty and sweet and everything. And then he closed his lips around that little pearl and sucked. Hard.

Your moan was loud, broken, spilling out of you like you couldn’t hold it back. It hit him straight in the gut, a jolt of electricity that traveled down to his cock, making him grind helplessly against the mattress, seeking any friction he could find.

He didn’t stop. He couldn’t. He buried his face in your cunt like a man starved, his tongue sliding through your folds, dipping inside you, then back up to circle your clit. He ate you out with messy, desperate strokes, his moans vibrating against your sensitive flesh.

He fucked you with his tongue, pushing inside you, tasting your heat, your want, your need.

Your hands fisted in his hair, pulling him harder against you, and he went willingly, eagerly, lost completely in the taste and the sound and the feel of you falling apart under his mouth.

You moaned at the intrusion, a broken, breathless sound that vibrated around his knuckles as he sank his middle finger deep into your slick heat.

You didn’t need the encouragement, your hips were already rolling, riding his hand with a desperate, frantic rhythm that made the mattress creak beneath you.

He could feel it building in the way your walls fluttered and clamped around him, chasing that peak with a single-minded hunger that made his mouth water.

“Want another one, sweetheart?” His voice was honey and gravel, the pad of his thumb dragging a lazy, torturous circle over your clit.

You glared down at him from above, your frown sharp and impatient. “Stop fucking with me, Bucky.”

He grinned, and pushed a second finger into you without breaking eye contact. The stretch pulled a sharp gasp from your parted lips, and he started thrusting harder, deeper, the wet, obscene sound of it filling the quiet room. “Don’t wanna fuck with you, baby. I wanna fuck you.”

He felt you clench around his fingers immediately, a violent, fluttering grip that sent a tremor up his arm. A loud, broken moan tore out of you as you came, your body shuddering against his hand, your slick coating his palm and dripping down his wrist. 

Fuck. He stared down at the way you pulsed around him, and his brain short-circuited. If this was how you came on his fingers, his cock was going to be absolutely fucking suffocated inside you.

He didn’t give you a second to recover.

He pulled his fingers out and brought them to his mouth, stuffing them past his lips, tasting you. He sucked them clean, groaning around the flavour of you, before he was crawling up your body, dragging his chest over your damp, trembling skin.

He thrust his tongue into your mouth without warning, sharing the taste of yourself with you. You opened for him eagerly, moaning into the kiss, your hands tangling in his hair and pulling him deeper.

Your fingers found his belt, the buckle clicking open under your quick, determined hands. He heard the rough rasp of his zipper, felt your palms push his jeans down over his ass, and you paused just long enough to squeeze, an appreciative grip that made him groan against your lips.

Holy shit. Holy fucking shit. He was about to fuck you. Actually, really, truly, about to fuck you.

He had to contain his excitement, had to focus on his breathing, or he was going to spill like a goddamn virgin before he even got close to being inside you.

And then your hands were flat on his shoulders, shoving.

He pulled back, frowning, ready to ask what was wrong, but the look on your face stopped him cold. You were grinning up at him, wicked and beautiful.

“Let me suck your cock.”

You didn’t give him a chance to respond. You shoved him sideways, trying to climb on top of him, trying to get your mouth on him, and the thought of your lips closing around him almost made his vision go white.

“No, no, no, no.” He caught your hips, tried to wrestle you back down onto your back. “No, sweetheart, just—stay—let me—”

You were laughing, light and playful, but he was deadly serious.

“If you even breathe on my cock, I’ll cum on the spot. I promise.” His eyes met yours, desperate and honest. “Please. Not tonight. Just let me have you. I’ve been waiting for this—waiting for you.”

You paused on his lap, considering. The laughter faded from your face, replaced by something softer, something thoughtful that made his chest ache.

He had to close his eyes. He had to focus on his breath.

Because your cunt was right there. Right on top of his dick. The heat of you seeping through his skin, the dampness of you threatening to coat his aching length.

He could feel every inch of your weight pressing down over him, and if he looked, if he moved, if he so much as twitched his hips, he was going to lose his entire fucking mind.

And then you began to slowly rock up and down his dick, the friction of your slick heat dragging against him like a live wire. You looked down at him with that small, knowing smile, the one that made his chest ache and his cock throb.

“You’re really that desperate for me?”

Bucky nodded, his jaw tight, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. Painfully. Desperately. A confession without words.

You leaned down, your lips brushing his in a kiss so quick and soft it was almost cruel. “Okay, baby.”

He let out a shuddering sigh of relief, of gratitude… and then his eyes flew wide.

Because you were rising. Rising off his lap. Reaching down between your bodies. Taking hold of his dick in your warm hand, and positioning it exactly where you wanted it.

He was hypnotised. Transfixed. The sight of his own flushed tip nudging against your soaking, glistening entrance made his brain short-circuit.

He felt a drop of saliva escape the corner of his mouth, rolling down his chin, and he couldn’t even muster the shame to wipe it away.

Jesus fucking Christ.

You were so tight. The first inch of him sliding into you felt like being wrapped in molten silk, searing and perfect. His eyes flicked up to your face, and he found yours squeezed shut, your lips parted, your breath catching in broken little gasps as you fed yourself his cock inch by agonising inch.

It felt like an eternity before your hips met his, before he was buried to the hilt inside you, and the sight of his cock disappearing completely into your body made his vision haze.

Your thighs settled flat against his, skin to skin, and he gripped your waist so hard he knew he’d leave bruises.

“Don’t move,” he rasped, his voice ragged. “Stay still for me. Just… keep still.”

You clenched around him involuntarily, a soft, reflexive squeeze that made him groan deep in his chest.

“Don’t do that. Don’t do that.”

You pouted, your bottom lip jutting out, eyes still hazy with pleasure. “I can’t help it, Bucky.”

And then you clenched again. Accidentally. Deliberately. He couldn’t tell. It didn’t matter.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He tried to think of other things. Disgusting things. Anything to keep from spilling inside you like a goddamn teenager.

Cut toenails. Moldy fruit. Steve’s ass. None of it was working. Not when your heat was wrapped around him, not when you were sitting there looking so soft and sweet and patient, waiting for his permission.

He gave a strained nod, his voice barely a whisper. “Okay. Go ahead, baby.”

You smiled and then you rose. Rose until only the tip of him remained inside you. And then you dropped.

Violently. All the way down, slamming into his hips, the force of it knocking the air from his lungs and making him grit his teeth so hard his jaw ached. And then you were bouncing, riding him like he was a fairy pony, your pace frantic and relentless, your walls gripping him with every upward stroke.

All he could do was try to keep up. He dug his fingers into your hips, his hands guiding your rhythm, and began to fuck up into you matching your wild tempo, chasing the heat pooling at the base of his spine.

Bucky was pretty sure if his heart gave out right now; if he dropped dead beneath you, buried to the hilt, watching you fall apart on his cock, he’d die the happiest man alive.

This was heaven. You were heaven. The way you moved on top of him, taking everything he had, stealing his breath, his sanity, every coherent thought he’d ever had.

And then he realised.

You were still wearing that top.

The thin fabric clung to your skin, damp with sweat, hiding the one thing he needed to see more than his next breath.

Concealing the soft bounce of your tits with every roll of your hips. He reached up with both hands, fisting the hem, and you didn’t even notice, too busy fucking yourself on him, too lost in the rhythm to pay attention to anything else.

Until the violent shrrrip of cotton splitting in two cracked through the air like a gunshot.

Your eyes flew open, head jerking back. “Bucky!”

“’M sorry.”

The apology came out wrecked, and completely insincere. There was zero remorse in his voice, none in the greedy way his hands immediately found your bare chest, cupping the soft, heavy weight of your tits, his thumbs dragging over the stiff peaks of your nipples.

The moan that slipped past your lips was immediate.

“Needed to see them,” he rasped, watching the way they filled his palms, the way your back arched into his touch. “Needed to feel them.”

A breathless laugh escaped you, a soft shake of your head as you planted your hands flat on his chest and steadied yourself. And then you were bouncing harder, riding him like he was made for this, like you were trying to wring every last drop of sanity from his bones.

But he needed more.

The angle wasn’t deep enough. He couldn’t get close enough. Couldn’t be buried deep enough inside you.

Gathering every ounce of strength he had left, his hands locked onto your waist.

In one fluid, powerful motion, he used his hips to wrench you off balance and flipped you onto your back, twisting your bodies until he was hovering over you, and never once did he slip out of the slick, perfect heat of your body.

A delighted, breathless cry tore from your throat at the sudden shift in power. Your legs wrapped instinctively around his waist, pulling him deeper.

He reached up, one hand curling around the wooden slats of the headboard. The frame groaned under his grip as he pulled back and snapped his hips forward. Harder. Deeper. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room mixing with your ragged breaths and the desperate groans rumbling in his chest.

Bending down, he pressed his mouth to the sweat-slicked curve of your neck, biting down just hard enough to make you gasp, to feel your pulse flutter against his lips. “I need you to cum,” he grunted against your skin. “Please, baby. Need it.”

“Huh?” The word came out dazed, strangled. You hadn’t heard him. Your eyes were half-lidded, your lips parted, completely lost in the relentless rhythm of him pounding into you, too far gone to process anything beyond the next wave of pleasure building in your core.

“Cum now,” he grunted, the words ripped from somewhere deep in his chest. “Shit… now.”

He drove into you harder, each thrust a desperate, punishing demand. The headboard groaned against the wall, the frame shuddering with every brutal snap of his hips.

Your nails raked down his back, sharp, frantic lines of fire that he felt all the way down to his bones. And then he heard it; a choked sob that broke past your lips. Not pain. Release.

There. He’d found it.

“Right there, Bucky—right there—”

The cry was wrecked, broken, a plea that sexed through him like a current. He zeroed in on that spot, that deep, swollen place inside you that made your voice crack and your back arch off the mattress.

He bullied it with his cock, over and over, relentless, until your moans dissolved into something shattered and raw.

Then you broke.

He felt it in the way you clenched around him first; a sudden, violent flutter that turned into a pulsing grip, suffocating his cock, milking him with wave after wave of your release.

Your nails dug into the meat of his shoulders, your thighs locking around his waist, and the sound you made, a broken, keening gasp, was the most beautiful thing he’d ever heard.

It was enough to push him over.

Bucky let go.

His balls drew up tight, a hot rush of pressure building at the base of his spine, and then he was coming… violently, uncontrollably, his hips stuttering as he emptied himself into you with a guttural groan that sounded more animal than human.

He stayed buried deep, pumping into you through the aftershocks, his body trembling above yours, every nerve electric and raw.

For a long, suspended moment, there was nothing but the sound of ragged breathing and the slick, wet press of skin against skin.

Then his body went lax.

He collapsed onto his elbows, forehead dropping to your shoulder, his weight pinning you into the mattress as he tried to remember how to breathe. The high was liquid and warm, a blanket of bliss settling over his bones.

And then—

“You’re not gonna be weird about this, are you?”

The words came soft. Disarmingly soft. That was the cruelest part of it.

You pressed them into his skin, your cheek turned against his hair, your voice a low, sleepy murmur. One hand rested loose at the nape of his neck, thumb tracing an idle, almost tender path across the damp skin there.

Like you hadn’t just carved something out of him.

Bucky went still.

He forced his lungs to keep moving. Forced the tension in his shoulders to dissolve before you could feel it. His face was still buried in the curve of your shoulder, his mouth hot and wet against your collarbone, his body a weighted, useless thing draped over yours.

The room smelled of them. Sweat and salt and the crushed-flower sweetness of your perfume, tangled with the raw musk of sex that clung to the sheets.

Below, the house was still alive. The bass was a distant heartbeat through the floor, the drone of voices rising and falling like surf against stone.

Ten seconds ago, he had been floating in it.

Ten seconds ago, he had felt stupidly, dangerously complete.

The whole night had collapsed into this single moment; this bed, this room, the slick, fluttering grip of your body around his, your fingers knotted in his hair, holding him at the center of something that felt, for one perfect, delusional instant, like it mattered.

He had let himself think—

No.

He didn’t get to finish that thought.

Bucky exhaled slowly through his nose. Then he laughed, a short, easy sound that he shaped into exactly the right shape.

“Weird?” He lifted his head just enough to meet your eyes. “Me?”

Your mouth curved, “Yeah. You.”

He gave you the grin. The practiced one. The one that had saved him from worse than this.

“Sweetheart, I’m the most normal guy you know.”

A beat. “That is deeply untrue.”

You laughed then, and the sound hooked into his ribs. He let himself feel it, just for a second. There. It’s fine. Keep it light.

He could do this. He could keep the room warm if he didn’t push. He could lie here, tangled in you, and pretend the words hadn’t hit him like a fist.

Slowly he shifted his weight and pulled out of you. The sound was wet, obscene in the quiet, and it twisted something low in his gut. The heat he had been drowning in vanished the second he was empty.

The chill that replaced it crept up his spine and settled cold in his chest.

Still, he didn’t move away.

His arm stayed heavy across your waist, palm spread flat against the curve of your hip. His thumb began a slow, lazy stroke against your skin, a betrayal of every intention he had to act unaffected.

Bucky swallowed the bitterness climbing his throat and ducked his head, pressing his mouth to the warm skin just under your jaw. Not quite a kiss. Soft enough to deny.

“Relax,” he murmured against you, the words a low vibration. “I’m not gonna propose before breakfast.”

Your fingers paused against his cheek. For one terrible second, he thought he had said the wrong thing.

Then you huffed a laugh, thinner than before. “Good.”

Good.

Bucky smiled anyway, pressing it into your skin.

“Would’ve been a nice proposal, though.” He said it like a joke, because apparently he couldn’t stop picking at the bruise. “Real romantic. Me, you, Tony’s guest room, half the house tanked downstairs.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Yeah,” he said softly, lifting his head to look at you properly. “Probably.”

Your smile flickered.

There it was. That tiny break in you, so fast he would have missed it if he hadn’t spent months training himself to read your face. Your eyes searched his, and for a breath, he thought you might take it back.

Thought you might pull him down and kiss him until the hollow ache in his chest stopped screaming.

Instead, your gaze dropped first.

“I just don’t want things to get complicated.”

Bucky stared at you.

Complicated.

You were in his bed. Your body was still warm and pliant beneath his hand. You were still wet with him. The scratches from your nails were still raised and stinging on his back. His heart was beating so hard it felt exposed, shameful.

And you were talking about complicated like it was something waiting outside the door, not something you had already dragged in by the throat.

He nodded once. “Right.”

Your eyes flicked back to him. “Buck—”

“No, I get it.”

He didn’t get it, yet he got it perfectly.

Both were true. It was becoming a theme with you.

He pulled the blanket up over your hip because some stupid, aching part of him noticed you shiver. Then he settled back beside you, close enough for your shoulder to press against his chest, close enough to pretend nothing had shifted if he tried hard enough.

And he did try. God, he tried.

He let his lips graze your temple. Let his hand find yours under the sheet. Let himself feel the way your fingers curled, briefly, around his before loosening again.

Downstairs, someone screamed with laughter, a bright, drunken shriek that cut through the bass like glass.

The music kicked louder, the walls shuddering with it, the whole house groaning under the weight of bodies and noise.

You closed your eyes.

Bucky stayed awake, watching the ceiling blur above him.

Your warmth was pressed all along his side, your thigh hooked loosely over his, the damp glide of your skin against his making it impossible to forget where they had been ten minutes ago.

And your words were still lodged cold beneath his ribs, sharp as swallowed glass.

Not weird. Not complicated. Not a thing.

He turned his head and looked at you anyway, because he was weak, because he was stupid, because he had apparently decided that dignity was optional where you were concerned.

Your face had softened into sleep. Lashes dark against your cheeks, lips parted just enough to let the slow rhythm of your breath slip through.

You looked younger like this. Softer. Less like the girl who could walk into a crowded room and tilt his whole goddamn world sideways without breaking stride.

He hated you a little then.

The thought came sudden and ugly, rising from his chest like bile.

He hated you.

Hated the way you could lie here, still slick with him, your body still marked from his hands, and ask him not to make it mean anything.

Hated the way you took his wanting like it was expected, like it was easy, like he hadn’t spent months carving pieces of himself off and pressing them into your palm while you barely noticed.

Selfish, he thought.

And yet his arm tightened around you anyway.

Selfish fucking brat.

You take and you take and then you get scared it might mean something, so you push it away before it can push back.

The words burned through him. He imagined saying them. Imagined the way your mouth would part, the little furrow between your brows, the wounded look you would try to hide.

Good, some cruel part of him whispered. Let it hurt. Let you feel stupid for once. Let you feel even half of what I feel right now.

He wanted that. For one vicious, starving second, he wanted to hurt you exactly where you had hurt him.

Then you shifted in your sleep. Barely a breath of movement, a sigh, the slow curl of your fingers against his chest, your palm pressing flat over his heartbeat.

And Bucky melted.

He looked down at your hand resting over his heart and felt the anger lose its teeth.

Not disappear,it stayed there, sore and simmering beneath his ribs, but it had nowhere to go when you were tucked against him like this, soft and warm and trusting him with your sleeping body even while you refused to trust him with your heart.

His throat tightened.

“You’re so fucking confusing,” he whispered, the words barely a vibration against your hair.

He turned carefully onto his side, gathering you closer despite every reasonable part of him screaming to pull away.

His arm slid around your waist, his palm spread wide against the dip of your back, and you came easily, your forehead finding the hollow beneath his jaw as if your body knew where to belong.

The party roared on beneath them. Drunk and careless and alive. The whole house shaking with it.

And Bucky lay there, holding you, feeling like someone had cracked his chest open and left it that way.

He should have moved away. Should have rolled onto his back and let the cold settle between them, let it harden into the shape you had asked for.

Should have protected himself before morning came and you slipped back into whatever version of yourself could smile at him over breakfast like he hadn’t been inside you, like you hadn’t held his face in your hands and asked him not to love you.

Instead, he held you tighter.

Because this was still more than he had before.

Because despite everything, you had become the shape of his world.

His want began and ended with you. His mood rose and fell on the sound of your laugh, the lift of your eyes, the careless brush of your fingers against his.

You made him desperate and angry and embarrassingly alive. You made him feel chosen. You made him feel disposable. You made him feel completely insane.

And he would take it. Every scrap. Every confusing, contradictory piece.

He would take it because he didn’t know how to stop.

Bucky closed his eyes, his jaw tight enough to ache, his arms locked around you like holding on hard enough could keep the morning from coming.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he murmured into your hair, almost mean with the tenderness bleeding through it. “I won’t be weird.”

a/n | my initial plan was after the smut reader avoids, and then bucky freaks out and screams at her during another party and lays out all his frustrations that steve and sam have to physically remove him. three months pass without contact until you two see each other again and we finally get a look at what’s going through reader’s mind and ends with hurt/comfort and hopeful ending

oh well…

[superbassbuck]

frat boy bucky oh i know his frat flick goes crazy

[n0turg1rlfr1end]

don’t invite me to the cinema and act all surprised when i start pulling m&ms out my pants

[tw1sters]

Rewind

Two names just landed on your hit list: your father, who dragged you back to the tiny town you swore you'd never see again, and Bucky Barnes, the infuriating farmhand whose smart mouth and sexy smiles threaten to ruin your career and your heart.

▸ PAIRING: Farmhand!Bucky Barnes x Pop Star!Reader ▸ WARNINGS: NSFW 18+, public sex, no condom (don't try this at home), fingering, penetration, creampie, bucky is bossy in bed, brat diva!reader, sex tape leak mentions, hurt/comfort?, bucky calls her princess in a loving and lowk nasty way ▸ WORD COUNT: 23.8K ▸ A/N: i wanted to write a hannah montana: the movie au so i wrote a hannah montana: the movie au. partially inspired by the movie but with my own liberties!! im almost sorry for the length, idk why i cant shut up. thank you again to @iamthatonefangirl and @barnesonly for organizing this collab, excited to share my second contribution!!! check out my first one here <3

↤ main masterlist | bwat summer masterlist

Just when you think your father can’t find any new ways to torment you, he stoops to an all-time low. He’s done plenty of insane things throughout your life and your career, risks that you still question to this day whether they were worth taking, but this one takes the fucking cake.

“Turn this plane around right now,” you snap, arms crossed with a scowl stitched into your brows. Your pink heels tap impatiently before him, a new purchase as a reward for finishing one song for the new album.

He doesn’t even look up at you, simply turning another page of his copy of an entertainment magazine. He’s treating you like an insolent brat throwing a tantrum and, suddenly, you’re fifteen again, begging your dad to pack your entire life to move to the city of angels for the sake of your dream. It took months of convincing before he relented — and look where you are today.

However, he knows what he’s doing, thumbing another page and leaning back into the private plane’s cushy leather seat, raising the magazine a fraction higher to match your line of sight. The front page is one you cannot miss, considering it features you and your latest… incident.

Your lips twist. It’s not fair; this one wasn’t even your fault.

The last few headlines before that are a different story: a high-definition photograph of your underwear when you accidentally flashed some sleazy pap who snuck into a very private party while you were blackout drunk, a tell-all from a PA who had gotten a pissed-off tirade after he fucked up your coffee order — after he spilled the first one all over, not one, but two of your photoshoot outfits, and your ongoing feud with international supermodel Natasha Romanoff who had won a part in a Spielberg blockbuster despite zero acting experience and only because she’s good pals with the main sponsor, Tony Stark.

You’re not entirely, solely to blame for these clickbait stories. Your life and actions have been under a microscope twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. You’d be lucky if you could take a piss without someone hiding inside your toilet. Paparazzi are constantly camped outside of your apartment building, so much so that management has had to bump maintenance fees for more extensive security measures. Some days, you think you should just move to the peace and quiet of a Hollywood gated community.

But that’s never been you — there’s a reason why you moved away from your hometown, why you wanted to chase bigger and brighter dreams. What’s the point if you end up isolating yourself again from the rest of the world?

Unfortunately, this life under scrutiny — combined with the fact that the deadline for your next album is coming up quick — is not one for the weak of heart. You think you’ve trained yourself enough to survive the criticism of strangers, but your patience and limited kindness have worn particularly thin as of late. Your record label, your stylist, and your manager are all hounding you for updates, wondering if they could start preparing for your single. Your little (big) flare-ups are no excuse, but you were hoping that your dad, of all people, as your parent and your manager, would understand.

Now he’s committed the biggest betrayal of all.

You should be on your way to New York. A monthlong schedule filled with fall Fashion Week preparations, meetings with casting directors for movies with guaranteed Oscar nominations, and lots and lots of aperol spritzes to distract you from your thoughts. Anything but write another mindless album of pop hits that the general masses enjoy.

Instead of fun-in-the-sun in the big apple, you hear the pilot announce after you’re in the air that you’re on the way to bumfuck Tennessee.

The stewardess looks anxiously between the two of you, lips quivering and hands flying like she can do anything to ease your rising temper.

“I paid for this private charter,” you growl, “I can turn it back around if I want to.”

“Booking’s under my name, darling.”

“Paid for with money that I earned. I have people I have to meet, things I have to do. You can’t just drag me away for a trip down memory lane. These are insane opportunities that won’t come twice. What kind of manager are you?”

“The kind that is your dad first,” he gives you a pointed look. 

“Is this because of what happened? You know that one isn’t my fault!”

He doesn’t say anything. 

“You know it isn’t.” 

“Regardless of what happened, this break should do you some good. A little bit of grass, a lot more fresh air—”

You deadpan, “It smells like literal horse shit everyday.”

“Let’s not get into the technicality of things. The point is you could use a break.”

“You don’t get to decide that for me.”

“I’m your manager, so I get to decide it for your career. You keep going down this path and who knows where you end up? Trust me, honey, rock bottom is a long, hard fall.”

“You would know,” you mutter under your breath.

The moment those words leave your lips, remorse floods your system. Your eyes flick up to meet his. It’s not hurt, it’s not disappointment. It’s sympathy. You’ve just insulted your own father and he’s pitying you.

Perhaps rock bottom isn’t a long way down after all.

“I’m sorry,” you quickly sigh, “I didn’t mean that.”

“I know you didn’t.” He gets to his feet, pulls you close to press a reassuring kiss on your forehead. “But this is how I know you need this. Trust me on this one, the weeks will fly by.”

You jerk back. “Weeks?!”

Your childhood bedroom feels like a breeding ground for anxiety.

With your bags with New York-esque clothes tucked away into a corner, you stand there with the door closed as your eyes travel around the space. Posters of pop icons that you’ve now befriended and adopted as mentors, aging floral wallpaper that’s peeling in some corners from the years of humidity, a vanity that looks like it belongs in an antique shop from the seventeenth century.

Music filters muffled through the gap underneath your door, a sound that you haven’t heard in quite some time but still echoes like a distant memory. It’s one of your grandma’s favorites, and she’s no doubt leading the charge with the rest of the family and friends who live nearby. They tried to keep your welcome party small, trusted confidantes who wouldn’t breathe a word to the press.

The only thing that’s drowning out the noise downstairs is your publicist and best friend, Yelena, who has somehow worked through every expletive in the Russian dictionary until she came up with more creative and colorful ones of her own.

“You better tell your dad to drive your ass back to New York right now. I don’t care if you have to use a beat-up pick-up truck from the barn next door but we have people waiting for you. We need to get some damage control done before it all goes to shit.”

You sigh. Yelena gives a little uh-oh. “That’s not going to happen. You know my dad; when he’s got his mind made up like this, nothing’s going to change it. He thinks I need a break.”

She says something else in her mother tongue, one that you’ve learned over time translates to something along the lines of I’ll break something else of theirs. “Do you need me to book you a new flight right now? We can literally land in the cornfields in like two hours and bring you to New York. I promise you I’ll make it happen.”

Do you want to be disowned and be shown your father’s look of utter disappointment that will stick in your people-pleasing brain for the rest of your life? No. 

Sighing, you glance out the window again. Endless stretches of open fields, green on green on green. You haven’t seen this much green since you face planted during rehearsal for a summer show in Central Park. 

“No, I’ll be fine. If I behave and play along, then maybe he’ll let me come back earlier. Two weeks is a long—”

“Two weeks?! Do you know how long it took me to get on Nolan’s calendar? That man is booked and busy, more so than the mayor of New York.”

Wincing, you bite down on another upset noise. “I know. I’m trying to get out of here earlier, but we’ll see how it goes.”

“I can come visit you, you know. Try and talk to him.”

It’s tempting. Yelena has a way of convincing people to do her bidding, even if it means doing a bit of arm-twisting. Literally. You’ll spare your dad from that today. She’s loyal to a fault and the last thing you want is a broken arm on his body.

“No, don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”

Silence settles on the other end. A brief pause before you can practically hear Yelena’s voice melt, the rough curl of her tongue unfurling into concern. “Will you?”

You can’t say for certain. You haven’t been back here since you packed up your entire life and moved. This place feels familiar, but it’s no longer your home. Nothing here feels like you anymore; it’s like being in the mind of a stranger. A stranger who knows exactly what bone to pick with you.

You hate to admit it but being back here feels as if you’re back in square one. The place where it all started. You can still hear the ghost of your songs, scribbled messy into a songbook that you haven’t touched in years, because that isn’t what the world wants. Your fingertips tingle with the memory of learning how to play the guitar for the first time, testing out your dad’s old songs on his very first guitar that he gifted you for your tenth birthday.

Then you started making some of your own, the kind of music you’ve always loved and ones that touched the heart. Call it bias but your family always thought you had the talent to make it out there. It’s the whole reason you had the confidence to make the move.

But the world has a way of chewing you up and spitting you out. You learned how to toughen your shell, block out all the negative so that you can keep pushing through. Because when you’re at the bottom, the only way to go is up.

Now that you’re at the top, you don’t want to find out if you’ve reached the ceiling.

This is a part of your life you don’t like to dwell on, anxiety attached to the fear of failure painted onto the decor every time you look at these four walls.

“I will be,” you murmur.

“Maybe your dad is right. This is a good chance for you to get away from all the drama. The cameras. Unplug for a little bit.”

“Alert the media, I think Yelena Belova might have lost her darn marbles.”

“Darn marbles? The countryside has changed you, little one.”

A giggle slips past your lips. “Alright, diva.”

“Let me get your schedule sorted and I’ll check back in with you. In the meantime, try to have fun?”

Fun and this bumfuck town are complete opposites. You know from firsthand experience.

“You’re cute when you’re being funny,” you drawl.

“Love you.”

“Love you more.”

Then you’re left in the silence once more.

There are very few things in life that can faze you nowadays. Being raised in a tough, soul-sucking industry will do that to you. Your days have been one thing after another, a schedule packed to the brim that insomnia has become a welcome friend.

You’ve gotten used to drowning and choking on the sea that you can’t taste the difference between clean air and saltwater anymore. You adapt. You learned what it means to come up for air when you need to and swallow that intense, briny ocean when your head is being dunked into it.

Still, things have always happened within your control.

This situation right here is out of your control.

It’s fazing you.

You’re not talking about your dad being progressive and caring more about his baby girl’s mental health, placing it above her career that’s paid off the mortgage on this Tennessee home plus a few others scattered throughout the world.

No, you’re talking about these damn chickens.

You really should’ve just kept your mouth shut and stayed in your room for the next two weeks. If you could convince your dad that you’re sane enough to survive that, he’ll surely let you go free. But you got impatient, you figured that if you could make friends with nature once more, he would release you into the wilderness again.

Here you are now having a staredown with five chickens who have been eyeing you like feed. They know an easy target when they see one and a pop star who hasn’t touched a pail in decades, nor has seen a real-life chicken outside of television segments recently, is definitely one.

They’ve squawked. They’ve pecked. They’ve chased you around this coop, turning you into a headless chicken.

There’s about to be more than one headless chicken if these little shits don’t let you get their eggs.

You now learn that there are only three things that can stand up to you — your dad, Yelena, and these damn chickens. They let out another battle cry before rampaging towards you again, yanking a yelp from your lips as the bucket clangs in your hands.

Fifteen minutes later and you’re flat on your ass for the second time that morning, straw entwined into your hair and probably chicken shit stuck to your sequined denim shorts. Still no eggs. It isn’t the most ideal farming outfit, but you packed for a city, not for a tiny town.

It’s only when you’re this close to giving up that you hear the deep rumble from the door.

“Need some help?”

A snarky “you think?” sits on the tip of your tongue as you whirl around from your spot in the ground. That response dies fast when your eyes land on the six-foot man before you.

Your mouth dries when you first notice the cowboy hat. God, you’ve always been a sucker for a good cowboy. It’s the country girl in you that never left. Regardless of how many polished and shiny men you’ve met in Hollywood, nothing beats a rugged cowboy with dirty hands and broad shoulders and–

He tips his hat back slightly to get a better look at you. Blue eyes. Bluer than the late morning sun outside. Bluer than the sapphires you have in your safebox back in your penthouse. His pink lips are curled into an amused smile as he appraises the state of you on the floor.

Fuck, he’s hot.

He looks like your biggest mistake waiting to happen. He looks like he belongs on the front page of Vogue rather than on a farm. He’s got a coil of rope hanging from his shoulders and the filthy image that invades your mind should put you in the asylum.

High risk, high reward, your brain and the heat between your legs whisper traitorously. 

But then you remember the “incident” and you remember how many times you’ve had people approach you for their fifteen seconds of fame, and an irritated glare descends on your face. He doesn’t look affected by the quick change of emotions; in fact, he looks even more delighted that he’s put that look on your face.

“If you could murder some chickens for me, that would be great.”

“We try not to eat our friends here, we usually get ours from old man Jenkins down the road.”

God, even his stupid voice is hot. This is not going to go well for your undomesticated libido. Clearly, you haven’t learned your lesson with sex and men.

“Alright, then a few eggs should do the trick. Enough for breakfast for three.”

“Four.”

You cock an eyebrow.

“I’m joinin’ for breakfast so it’ll be breakfast for four. Why don’t you go on back up to the house? I can handle things here.”

I’d like you to try and handle me. Preferably naked in five different positions in bed.

What you need is a vibrator, the mental image of this man, and ten minutes alone in your room. That should do the trick.

(You’re lying to yourself because you know that wouldn’t be enough but it may be sufficient to sate some of your curiosity and this hungry little thing between your legs.)

“And who are you again?”

The corners of his lips tip up higher. “Don’t remember me?”

“I’ve met a lot of people. I don’t remember everyone.”

“I’d think you would remember the boy you tortured more than the chickens are doing to you now.”

Your brows pinch in a confused frown. “Who?”

“You pick on all boys, princess? Or am I special?”

Fuck. Warmth creeps up your cheeks at the insulting pet name, and his stupid flirty tone, and you find yourself glaring at him again. “Only the ones that clearly deserve it.”

“I can’t say I’m not disappointed that I’m not the only one then.”

If there’s anything worse than a man, it’s a man who knows exactly what to say to have you twirling your hair in your fingers like a schoolgirl.

“Well, he-who-must-not-be-named, I don’t really want to hear an I-told-you-so from my dad so how about you get me a few eggs and we can go our separate ways?”

The man smiles. It’s not a smile you trust. “Anyone ever teach you to say please and thank you or did the city take all your southern manners?”

“Please,” you grit out, caving far too quickly — but you prefer not to have your dad come out to check on you and realize you really have lost your roots.

His eyes twinkle with the kind of mischief that makes your stomach flip. He looks like he’s about to say something else, lips parting in preparation but then he shakes his head with a low chuckle before he easily navigates towards the nesting boxes. The chickens flock around him eagerly, none of them attacking him the same way they’ve been coming at you. 

With ease, he nabs a few fresh eggs. He places them into a basket, one that he then hands over to you. 

“Thanks,” you mutter.

Your fingers brush over his as you take the basket from his hand, a spark crackling between your fingertips that zings straight through your core. It’s unexpected and you jump back slightly at the feeling. His eyes flick up to meet yours — there’s something unnerving about them. Too blue, too earnest. Too knowing. Like he knows something you don’t. 

You ignore that feeling, kicking it to the curb before it can take root inside your vulnerable mind. 

He makes a gesture towards the door. “Shall we?”

The man doesn’t try to make any more conversation as the two of you venture back towards your house — no, your grandma’s house. In fact, he seems deep in thought; mouth pressed into a firm line and brows slightly furrowed. He’s even taken off his hat, holding it to his chest as his fingers rake through his thick brunette hair. 

Seriously, frustratingly hot.

You force your eyes away from him for the remainder of the walk. When you come through the kitchen doors, your dad and grandma are right where you left them. They look mildly surprised to see you, probably in one piece. “Farm-fresh eggs ready for breakfast! How would you like ‘em? Scrambled? Sunny side up?”

The two look at each other then at the man hovering close behind you. 

“Oh, I see you’ve met Bucky!”

Only Buc-ee you know is down Route 40. Who the hell is Bucky?

“Ma’am. Sir. Morning.”

“What a lovely day of reunions,” she chirps.

Reunions? You don’t get a chance to ask when your father holds up the perfectly-intact eggs. “You didn’t have any trouble with the chickens, darlin’? They can be nasty. Been a while since you’ve done it.”

You can hear Bucky’s cocky grin. You ignore it and opt for a bright smile at your family. “Of course not. Who do you think you’re talking to?”

As they turn away to begin cooking, you feel a tickle in your ear. 

“They teach you to lie in those acting classes, princess?” Bucky’s voice is close — too close. He’s ducked his head behind you, lips grazing the shell of your ear with his whisper. 

You swiftly leap away from him with a glare. “Yeah, same place they teach me to stay the fuck away from condescending, attractive men.”

His lips twitch. “Attractive, huh?”

“Don’t act surprised. You know what you are. I know what you are and I know what not to trust.”

“You don’t know me, princess.”

Your expression goes ice cold, a hiss slipping between your teeth. “I’m not a princess.”

“Five-time Grammy winner, America’s pop princess,” he recites and you nearly get whiplash.

That was your introduction for a recent awards show you attended as a presenter. The fact that he knows it— you didn’t trust him before, you trust him even less now.

“Stalker much?”

“Your grandma was watching it, I was helping her fix the kitchen faucet.”

You didn’t even know your grandma kept up with your activities, last you heard she was struggling to even work the new television upgrade you got her. It was a gift of part love and part apology for not making it home for Christmas. She always sends quick texts whenever you release a new song or win an award. The last few months have been turbulent. You haven’t had the time to respond to her texts, let alone check in over a phone call, when you’re prioritizing work opportunity emails.

Even when you do get the chance, video calls mask most of the fine lines on her face. Only now do you see how much she’s aged.

A piece of your heart breaks with guilt. You’ve been so focused on your own life and your own work that you haven’t had the chance to pause and look back at everyone else who’s supported you. Your grandma has been your biggest cheerleader from day one, arguing against your dad to support your dreams. 

After all, she’s constantly calling you her favorite granddaughter (her only one, mind you). 

Bucky must sense your mood because he then tries to remedy the situation, “She’s doing fine. She misses you a lot, takes every chance she gets to talk about everything you’re doing. God forbid anyone try to badmouth you in this town; with her influence, that person is shunned within seconds.”

A laugh bubbles up your throat at the thought. She’s always been a firecracker, it’s where you inherited your temper and energy from. 

“It’s been a busy few months,” is all your manage to say. Your throat tightens and you blink away the tears. The last thing you want to do is cry in front of this man who looks like he feeds on girls’ tears. 

“I didn’t say anything.”

Your lips pinch as you turn to him with an annoyed look. “You didn’t have to.”

“This is gonna be a fun two weeks, princess.” He throws you one last smile over his shoulder before he joins your family.

The next few days don’t get any better. Your grandma’s been so busy with an issue in town that you’re been mostly left to your own devices.

By that, you mean you’ve been left at the beck and call of one Bucky Barnes.

Bucky Barnes who you learn is the farmhand who’s been tasked to keep all of the animals alive, including your horse that you haven’t seen in some time. She’s one of the only good things left in this place, one of the things you regret leaving behind. Winter is a little antsy when you first approach her. 

“She doesn’t do well with strangers.”

Your lovely homecoming is quashed when you hear that familiar voice interject. “I know that. She’s mine.”

“I know,” Bucky echoes with a small smile. “Wanna ride her?”

For a second, you’re embarrassed that you feel a spark of fear. It’s been a while since you’ve been on a horse, trading for a different kind of horsepower that’s much safer and faster. You would hate for Bucky — your new arch nemesis — to see you fail. 

“Maybe later.”

He looks at you like he knows, that ghost of a smile dancing on his lips.

You learned that the two of you were raised together, despite having no recollection of it. Apparently you had gone through all of grade school together but you’ve met enough people that you can’t seem to remember the children you spent time with — no matter how many times they try to slide into your DM’s with “Oh my god, we went to school together! Can I get some tickets?” 

Somehow, you doubt Bucky is the type to slide into anyone’s messages. He probably doesn’t even have social media; the man acts like a dinosaur sometimes when you mention your popularity on certain apps as reason why you shouldn’t be getting your hands dirty and he simply blinks and congratulates you. Then he hands you a shovel to help him with the horses. 

That history seems to matter as much to you as it does to him. He still calls you princess with that patronizing tone; sometimes you think there’s a soft tinge to his voice but that thought evaporates the moment he rolls his eyes when you can’t seem to do anything to help around the house.

He also seems to have a problem with the way you dress.

“Really? You’re going to town in that?”

You look down at your silk lace top complemented by the cutest denim skirt tailored to your shape, a pair of low black heels on your feet. “What’s wrong with this?”

Bucky’s gaze traces the length of you. When blue sweeps over you, warmth sinks into your bones again. He looks at you like you’re a piece of meat — and you apparently seem to like it.

“I packed for New York, this is as casual as it gets.”

He stares are you for a brief second again before he shrugs off his flannel, draping it over your shoulders. You’re too stunned to move. He takes this moment to wrangle your arms through the sleeves. 

“I’m not wearing this,” you deadpan, raising your arms to find that the sleeves droop lower than your fingertips.

“It looks nice.”

It certainly does, but it smells like him and that scent — masculine, earthy, and a touch of cocky — seems to rouse that inappropriate beast inside of you from its slumber. The one that growls possessively whenever someone comes too close to Bucky or one that salivates over the sight of his exposed arms whenever he’s lifting bales of hay. 

Instead of acknowledging his compliment, you roll your eyes. “Whatever.”

“I think this would help with your whole effort of going incognito in town.”

“I have some glasses and a hat to go undercover. It usually works. I’m this generation’s Clark Kent. But, hey, if I get recognized, I want to make sure I look good.”

Bucky blinks at you. “You always look good.”

And you’re not sure what to say to that. 

But when you do get spotted by two teenage girls later that day and they fawn over how good you look, you can’t help but shoot him a smug smile. 

The two of you disagree on most things; you can probably count on one hand how many things you do agree on, including the fact that you disagree on a lot of things. That and how your grandma is the most awesome person in this city, but that’s not news. 

She worries about the two of you being at each other’s throats, biting remarks flung across the room until she has to tell the two of you to shut up and sit down for dinner — which is a whole other question because why is he always here?

While Bucky pokes fun at you all the time for your incompetence, you also take your shots at him. Harmless ones. 

One time you found him asleep on the couch downstairs after you finish doing your nails, so you decided to do his. He ends up with neon pink on his toes and blood red on his fingers. You snicker to yourself thinking you’ve just done something to get on his nerves.

Except, it doesn’t. Instead, he walks around proudly. Nails gleaming in the sun whenever he’s doing work and he doesn’t break a sweat. He even gets compliments on them. 

It sours your mood — partly because your ruse didn’t work, but mainly because that confidence is stupidly hot. You don’t need another reason to find him attractive when you’ve already got a list longer than the Nile. 

When your grandma tells you to be nicer to him, you’re extra prickly because— “Why do I have to be nicer to him when he’s the one being annoying with me? Aren’t I supposed to be resting? Manual labor is not part of that agenda.”

“You did all this when you were younger, sweetheart. It’s like riding a bike.”

“Riding a bike didn’t have me breaking my fresh manicure,” you say pointedly. “And I didn’t have anyone bossing me around. Being told what to do by someone my age versus by my dad are two completely different things.”

Your grandma only laughs, stroking your cheek like she finds this little tantrum endearing. You lean into her touch, her fingers softened by the years. “He’s just a kid pulling on his crush’s pigtails.”

His crush. You would find it cute (you do find it cute) if you weren’t so miffed after you chipped your index finger trying to lift a bag of feed for the horses. When you told Bucky, he only quirked his eyebrow at you before returning to his own duties.

So no, he doesn’t have a crush on you. In fact, you’re convinced that he hates you. In his mind, you’re probably this diva who lost her roots and whines about every single thing in her life — which isn’t incorrect per se, but he has no right to dislike you for that. He doesn’t even know you. He doesn’t know the shit you’ve been through to make it in the industry, how many times you’ve had to grit out a smile at shitty producers, even shittier paparazzi, and everyone in between.

If he really does have a crush on you, he sure as hell has a crap way of showing it.

“Well, we’re not kids anymore,” you huff, “and I don’t like bullies.”

Your grandma gives you a look as she leafs through her farm ledger. The numbers look alright from where you’re sitting, nothing in the red, which is a good sign. Part of the reason why you’re so adamant about being and staying successful is for her; you never want her to want for anything.

“You do know you were the one who had him crying growing up. Poor boy put up a lot with you forcing bugs onto him and teasing him for falling off a horse lord knows how many times.”

Oh. Your cheeks warm at the thought. Maybe you do have some vague memory of a gangly kid who wouldn’t stop weeping no matter how many times you tried to coo him to quiet down, lest you risk the wrath of your father. Again.

“Maybe he shouldn’t have been such a crybaby then,” you shrug instead with a huff.

Your grandma’s grin stretches a little wider. “I think you even made him play house once. We thought it was adorable. You had him stay at home with the baby while you went off to work. Singing your silly heart out to the rest of us before coming back to him.”

Oh god. You’ll never live this down. So maybe Bucky does have some right to abusing his power for the sake of tormenting you. From what your grandma’s shared, it sounds like you’ve put him through the wringer.

Then again, Bucky has grown — and he’s grown a lot. His shoulders have filled out, hair darker than his horse’s mane, thighs thicker than a tree trunk—

You put the brakes on those thoughts. You really need to get yourself a fix. Or get yourself fixed at this rate.

What you need is one really good dick. A good fuck to wipe all of these thoughts from your mind. The only problem with being so famous is the need to keep your private life private. You don’t need any more scandals on the front page and you certainly don’t know Bucky well enough to trust him — no matter how good his dick looks in the imprint of his jeans.

“He’s a good one, you know,” your grandma smiles softly. “Been with the family for years. Always around to help whenever needed.”

You hate to point out the obvious but— “That’s his job, grandma.”

“He’s also one of your biggest supporters,” she says with a look. “Has all of your albums in his house. Sits right here next to me in front of the TV whenever you’re on it.”

Your jaw practically drops to the ground. “That’s ridiculous,” you sputter, “there’s no way.” 

“Yes, you should ask to see his place sometime. He’s quite proud of the collection, even said that he’s going to ask you to sign them one day.” 

You have a feeling he’s burned down his collection after meeting you again and realizing what a raging bitch you are. Plus, the thought of asking to come over to Bucky’s place feels a touch too desperate for your personality, even if there is nothing you want more. Imagine yourself getting bent over backwards on his kitchen island with your album covers staring right back at you. 

“All I’m saying is, give him a chance. He’s not a bad fella.”

You try. You really do, but Bucky somehow always finds a way to push your buttons. Like today, he decides to reward your hard work with lunch in town at Sal’s Diner. It’s the best diner here — arguably the only diner here. 

“No, I’ve been coming here since I was a baby. Pretty sure my dad fed me the French toast here to help me teeth,” you argue, cutting a fat slice of your dish. 

You caved into ordering this meal that would give your nutritionist a stroke. Deep fried, juicy toast dripping with maple syrup and topped off with a dollop of house whipped cream and slices of fresh strawberries and blueberries. You’ll allow yourself this cheat meal if it means proving Bucky wrong.

That and you’ve been on a strict diet of certain vegetables and proteins for your Fashion Week fittings, so this is a welcome change. Think of it as a form of protest against your father bringing you here unwillingly. 

“You’re out of your mind,” Bucky chuckles. “Everyone knows that Sal’s crown jewel is his waffles.”

Said waffles sit before him. A stack of perfectly crispy, doughy goodness. The perfect burn on the outside complemented by the soft chew on the insides. Topped off with the same maple syrup and cream and fruits, the only difference rests in the vessel for the brunch dessert.

You can’t tell what you want to eat more — your toast, his waffles, or him. 

He looks even more delectable today with his hair disheveled from the sun and sweat. His beard has grown out a little more to frame those pink, kissable lips that Hollywood wishes they could naturally have. 

“Alright, try yours then try mine. We’ll decide here and now.”

You’ve never once backed down from a challenge so you eat yours first. Delicious, the flavor is nostalgic and the toast is tender and sweet. You recall all the times your dad brought you here, you with snot in your nose after a kid picked on you. You vaguely remember another boy next to you, blue-eyed and a dark ring around his eye, fists with red scrapes clenched next to his stack of waffles. 

Based on your grandmother’s stories, said boy must be Bucky. He doesn’t seem like a troublemaker but you wouldn’t be surprised if he was the type to pick fights with other people. That’s what he’s been doing with you all this time. 

“Now mine,” he says and swaps your plates, smirking a little too wide as he watches you grudgingly slice into his waffle. You lift it into your mouth, your teeth sink in, and— fuck.

It’s perfect. It’s absolutely perfect. The texture, the flavor, the balance. The combination of the crunch and the soft give of the waffle against your teeth. The square gaps filled with the perfect amount of cream and syrup, serving as a ship to carry the sweetness onto your tongue. The french toast soaks it in a little too much and the texture is all around too soft now that you’ve had a taste of this. 

The waffles are Sal’s masterpiece. 

Your eyes flick up to Bucky, he catches your gaze immediately. His lips tug up a little higher.

You quickly school your expression. 

You’d never admit this. You’d never admit that Bucky’s right. Over your dead body.

“It’s fine,” you shrug nonchalantly.

“Bullshit,” he laughs, leaning back against the booth chair with arms crossed. His biceps flex and your teeth tingle with the urge to sink into them. “You like it better.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you respond, reaching over to switch your plates around again. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to finish my lunch now.”

When you take another bite of your dish, it no longer tastes the same. The magic has faded and now you can’t stop comparing how mushy it is compared to Bucky’s mindblowingly scrumptious pick. You bite back a cringe when your teeth clack together, overestimating how much effort it would take to break through the food. 

“You don’t have to pretend with me, princess,” he grins, “I can see right through you. If you ask nicely, I’ll take your toast and you can have my waffles.”

“I’m fine,” you grit out again. 

“You sure? Do you really want to die on this hill?” 

“This is the best dish here and you can take your opinion and shove it up your—” the waitress gives you a look from behind the counter and you quickly shut your mouth. 

Bucky tilts forward this time with a glint in his eye, arms propped up on the table. You don’t like where this is going. “I think I know what the problem is.” You cock an eyebrow. “Maybe you just don’t know what good food is anymore. All those fancy, tiny, overpriced tasting menus have altered your tastebuds.”

A scoff falls from your lips. “They have not! Those are incredibly refined and curated dishes that the chefs dedicate their entire lives to. It’s definitely different from a diner that serves greasy food that only you can enjoy.”

His lips twist, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek. “Yeah, well then maybe you’ve just forgotten your roots, princess. All those years in the city and suddenly you think you’re too good for everyone else here, including your family.”

The words knock the breath right out of your lungs. It grips your heart and rips it from your chest. As if your own guilt isn’t enough, having Bucky of all people dogpile on what a terrible granddaughter you’ve been isn’t exactly ideal. Between losing quality time with your grandma and the sound you’ve nurtured here that brought you your success, one feeling crawls over your skin.

Fear. 

Fear that you no longer know who you are anymore, a cog in the machine so desperate to keep turning. Fear that you’ve become what you hate: fake, pretentious, disgustingly greedy for wealth that you don’t even need. Fear that, if you lose all you have now, when you’ve already lost everything you had, what would be left for you?

Because that’s the thing they don’t tell you about making it to the top — to get there, you have to make plenty of sacrifices. One you convince yourself are worth taking, until you’re looking down at what you’ve left behind and you realize that nothing will ever be enough to make up for it. 

Perhaps your dad is right. The fall to rock bottom is a long and arduous journey, a path where you’re forced to reckon with everything you’ve lost and everything you have to lose. 

A warm hand covers yours on the table, dragging you out of your reverie. Bucky’s no longer looking at you with disdain or arrogance. Worry is now carved into the furrow of his brows as he squeezes your hand. “Hey, sorry. I didn’t mean that.”

You jerk your hand away from him, lips pressed into a thin line as you swallow the lump in your throat. You know how to stop yourself from crying, you know how to not show your weakness. You’ve done it countless times before to survive; you can do it again with him. 

“I’m sorry,” he repeats.

“It’s whatever,” you mutter.

“No, it’s not whatever. I crossed a line.”

You don’t appreciate the look on his face. It’s an expression akin to pity. You’ve gotten enough of those looks your entire life, you don’t need it from him. It makes you sick to your stomach. You’re a strong, successful woman who’s achieved everything you’ve ever wanted; there is no reason to pity you. 

In lieu of responding, you grab a few bills from your purse and toss it onto the table. “I’m full. I’m going to head out first.” 

Ignoring Bucky’s shit, wait, hold on, you’re slipping out of the booth and stomping out into the streets. The breeze outside is helpful against the heat flaming your cheeks as you bite back tears. 

Deep down, you know that it isn’t Bucky you’re upset with; nothing he said was untrue. In fact, you hate that it hits a little too close to home. 

You start walking — somewhere, anywhere — just away from there. You need space, you need room to breathe and digest what this means for you. It’s one thing to think about how much you’ve lost, circling the issue without calling it out directly, it’s another for someone to point it out so blatantly to you. 

“Wait,” Bucky’s voice reaches you before you feel the hand around yours. “Don’t go.”

“Let me go, Bucky.”

“How are you going to head home?”

“I’ll hitchhike if I have to,” you snap.

Bucky looks conflicted again, baby blues darker than usual. “Don’t do that, that’s not safe,” he murmurs, “please. You can be mad at me, I deserve it, but let me take you back. I’ll drive you home.”

“I don’t need your help.”

He licks his lips. “I know you don’t need it. You’re perfectly fine on your own. I get it. But I want to help, so please just take the offer.”

You yank your wrist away from him. “I’m good. Seriously. You don’t need to worry about me.”

“I don’t need to do anything. I can’t do anything but worry when it comes to you,” he practically spits out, “I wish I could stop worrying, but I can’t. Not when you look like you’ve lost everything good in your life. Not when you don’t smile the way you used to.”

That stops you, your movements halting. 

“It’s not just your grandma who’s concerned about you. Do you think I don’t notice how distant you sound in interviews? Or all that shit in the papers?”

“Go fuck off your high horse, Barnes.”

“I’m not on my goddamn high horse,” he defends, “I’m just saying it all sounds like a cry for help, okay.”

“Oh, so you think you know me now?”

“I know you. I’ve always known you. I was there defending you from those stupid kids growing up. I was there for you to pick on whenever you wanted to destress. I was there to support you and your dreams because I believed in you.”

Your breath hitches in your throat. There’s a lump lodged there that has your lungs constricting. The next words that come out of your mouth are a feeble attempt to hold your ground. “I’m not a kid anymore. I’m not the person you knew.” 

“Jesus, you think I don’t know that?” He whispers, “I know you’re perfectly capable of taking care of yourself. I’m saying that you don’t have to do it all alone. You have so many people who love you — your grandmother, your dad, m—” He stops himself, seeming to bite his tongue. “All I’m saying is that you’re not alone. You don’t have to be.”

“I—” you find yourself at a loss for words for the first time in a very long time. 

Before you can find the right response, you hear your name followed by a blinding flash in your eyes. It takes you a second to register that there is a camera in your face and the grating noise in your ears is this man bombarding you with questions.

“Is this your new man? Have you moved on already? Tell us who you are, man!” More flashes. More questions.

Your blood runs cold.

You should’ve known that trouble would follow you here. You’re quick to turn around, ready to remove yourself from the situation and avoid giving him the content he wants.

The man lets out a low whistle, smirking. “Oh come on, sweetheart, give me a smile. Your fans miss you back home. Everyone thinks you got kidnapped.”

Don’t give in. Don’t respond to this fucking moron. 

“Aw, you’re always so sweet in front of the press. Now that it’s just me, you won’t even give me one smile? What kind of celebrity are you? You want everyone to think you’re a fucking bitch?”

Gritting your teeth, you continue brushing past people, Bucky close on your tail, and the guy still hot on your heels. He’s still lobbing words at you, ridiculous comments like just one smile, baby and don’t be a stuckup bitch. 

You don’t respond. You’ve been taught better. If you give them the time of day, they’ll keep coming back for more. Ignore them long enough and they’ll label you a cunt and move on with their lives. 

However, it’s only when he brings Bucky into it that you stop dead in your tracks. “This your new man? I can give him that publicity he wants right now. How’s she in bed? Did you make a video too? Come on, give me a quote and I’ll even put your face on the paper.”

“Will you piss the fuck off?” You snap. 

His lips curl into a smirk far too proud for a man of his occupation. “Pop princess has claws. You wanna curse for the camera too? Bet your kiddie fans will love that.”

“I am here on vacation. Leave us alone.”

“It comes with the territory, honey. Now that I have you, why don’t you tell me about this stud, huh? What’s your name, man? You give me a tell-all on how good she looks in bed and I’ll pay you. Triple if you’ve got a video like the last one.”

Bucky steps forward, clearly ready to be your knight in shining armor, but you move faster to put a hand on his chest. As much as you dislike Bucky, you don’t want him to be subjected to the bullshit that these tabloids publish. He doesn’t need his face splashed on the front page just because he’s doing a good thing and taking you out to lunch. 

Shaking your head, you signal him to back down. He doesn’t seem to like that idea, frowning until you pin him with a glare that has him pursing his lips. 

“Just ignore him. He’s not worth it.”

“Whatever she’s offering you, I’ll give you more! Name your price.”

His jaw clenches, blue eyes sparking with the kind of rage you’ve never seen with him. “Leave it alone, Buck.”

His eyes melt, if only a fraction. 

You don’t try to decipher that look. Instead, you turn around and point your finger at this man. “You leave me alone or I’ll sick the cops on your ass.”

“Public space, sweetheart. I can do whatever I want.”

“And when I get you barred from every press event I attend? I’m about to file a restraining order if you keep harassing me like this — with plenty of witnesses at that. Think about what you’re doing before you keep running your mouth like that.”

With that, you shove Bucky forward and back into his truck. The two of you peel off before the man can chase you back down again. 

It is only in the quiet of the vehicle that you finally hear the thundering in your chest. Your heart hammering in your veins like it’s about to jump out of your chest. With a hand over your heart, you try to take in what shaky breaths you manage. You pull your phone out of your pocket to text your dad, but your fingers are trembling too much for you to type properly.

Cursing under your breath, you type, backspace, type, backspace, until you’re frustrated and flinging the device onto the dashboard with a loud clatter. 

“Shit, sorry,” you wince. 

“Hey, you’re good. You’re safe,” Bucky whispers next to you, his voice calm as it slips between the crevices of your palpitating heart. 

His hand reaches out to close around yours on your thigh. He squeezes, thumb brushing over the back of it in circular motions. You’re momentarily distracted by the act, eyes following the repetitive movement until your heartbeat matches its rhythm. The ringing in your ears quiets, fading into a light buzz before it eventually ceases to let you focus on the rumble of the truck over dirt roads instead. 

Bucky pulls to a stop outside the house. Your house. Your grandma’s house. 

His hand is still on yours. 

You pull it away quickly. Habit. You’re always alert, never sure if there are any more cameras waiting to catch you slipping. 

“You’re fine. He didn’t follow us. I did a few reroutes to make sure,” he murmurs. 

“Thank you,” you exhale slowly. “I’m sorry. Shit, this whole thing is so stupid.”

Bucky tilts his head. “Why are you sorry?” 

You open your mouth, only to realize that you don’t have an easy answer. “Um, well, he wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for me.”

“His own actions are his responsibility. You do not need to apologize on his behalf.” 

He’s not wrong. It’s annoying. All this guilt that you shouldn’t even be feeling. 

“I guess,” you mutter.

“Are you okay?” Bucky asks, an eyebrow raised. “I hope you know that none of this is your fault — him showing up, the crap in the papers, all the bullshit around you.”

With a grunt, you press your lips together. “I know that. It’s just… unfortunate circumstances.”

“That’s one way to put it,” he smiles, “though, I should also apologize again. I am sorry. I crossed a line, it won’t happen again.”

You can’t even find it in you to come up with a snappy retort. Instead, you shift your gaze away. He seems to understand, letting out a low chuckle. Your lips thin. “I’m not a fan of the word princess.”

That seems to surprise him, a twinkle in his widened eyes. “That so? You used to make me call you that all the time.” 

“What were you then? The prince?” You drawl sarcastically.

“Actually, you designated me court jester.”

A laugh bubbles up your throat — probably the first sincere one since you got here, maybe in years. The thought of you acting all high and mighty, making Bucky perform for your entertainment is comical, especially when you consider how massive he is now. 

“Find it funny, do you?”

“A little bit.”

“I should send you the bill for my decades of mental anguish.”

Your lips curl into a smile of part amusement, part foul delight. “You could sell all of those childhood stories for a pretty penny.” 

“I think your grandma has a few pictures of you in the bathtub.” A gasp falls from your lips. “I was helping her clean the attic. She’s got quite the collection.”

Your cheeks warm. “Haven’t you heard? If you wanted to see me naked, all you have to do is go online.”

You’re not entirely sure why you prompted the idea of you being naked to Bucky, it hardly seems appropriate but Bucky then appraises you with those eyes. Blue drowned out by his blown pupils. You see the indent on his cheek where he’s pushing his tongue against the walls, likely biting back an equally inappropriate comment to respond to yours. 

“I’d prefer to experience the real thing for myself.” 

All of a sudden, your throat feels like sandpaper and Bucky’s looking you up and down in a way that has your entire body tingling with need. 

This can’t be happening. Not right now. Not when you’re supposed to have a clean slate. 

Not with Bucky of all people. 

However, your grandma’s in your ears, whispering, He’s not a bad fella, is he? He’s not. He’s a good one — perhaps the only one left — but he’s still a man at the end of the day and can you really bring yourself to trust another? 

“Too much too soon?” He asks gently. 

“No,” you choke out. “Not at all.”

Bucky’s tongue darts out to wet his lips and you’re momentarily distracted by the way his bottom lip glistens. His voice drops a pitch— “Don’t tempt me, princess.”

Your heart stutters between your ribs. Heat snakes between your thighs and you’re forced to bite your tongue before you can let out a sound that would embarrass the both of you. 

“I’ll check in on you later, yeah?” Bucky tips his hat with a charming smile before wandering towards the barn. 

Leaving you and the timber of his voice echoing in your ears. 

Something shifts between the two of you after that. It’s nothing monumental but you no longer dread the hours you have to spend with him out with Bucky. Laughter comes a little easier when you’re not viewing him as the enemy. He still teases you but you match that energy right back, with significantly less animosity. 

The first time you jump back on Winter, you nearly fall flat on your face. You half-expect Bucky to make another jab about how you’ve lost your skills. However, you’re pleasantly surprised when all he says is “easy there” before he’s encouraging you back on the saddle. 

The two of you start taking rides into the mountains. With the wind in your ear and the scent of wild grass, you can’t help but feel like you’re finally home. 

However, even when the two of you are sharing picnic lunches that he packs at the top of your hike and he’s tugged off his t-shirt after he gets drenched under a waterfall, Bucky doesn’t do anything more or less. 

He keeps a comfortable distance — close enough that you find yourself leaning in, far enough that he finds the excuse to pull away. 

As someone who’s always, always gotten whoever you wanted whenever you wanted, you almost want to grab him by the collar and kiss him senseless just to make it a done deal. But as someone with a little bit of pride left, you want him to make the first move. 

Unfortunately for you, none of your usual tricks have worked. You’ve spritzed on a little bit more perfume. You’ve worn your lowest cut tops without your tits spilling out. You’ve even given him enough sultry looks that you’re starting to get a twitch in your eye. 

Your final tactic, which has never failed you, requires a third participant. A third participant that you didn’t have until today. 

You and Bucky are helping your grandma at the farmer’s market. Bucky as the pack mule, hoisting crates of jam onto the vegetable stall that she runs with all of her prized produce. You’re cutting up samples of watermelon and, of course, your presence draws a big enough crowd that your grandma sells out quickly.

“If business can be this good with you around, maybe you should move home,” she beams. 

“Good to know that I’m only useful for marketing,” you drawl with a teasing lilt.

“Oh, honey, what can I say? You’re not much help around the farm.”

You feign a gasp and turn to Bucky who’s chuckling to himself on the sidelines. “You’re not gonna defend my honor? After all I did for you this week?”

“Was that before or after you broke the new stepladder we got?” Bucky prompts.

With a roll of your eyes, you wave the two of them off and continue to slice up the fruits. “Two traitors, that’s what the two of you are.”

Before either could respond, a man comes up to your booth. He’s tall. He’s blonde. He’s rather handsome, if you liked the all-American sort of thing. He’s got blue eyes like Bucky but not even half as bright or kind. “That looks like a good one, sweetheart. How about cutting me up a slice?”

The sweetheart is like ice rolling down your spine. You force out a trained smile. “‘Course. I can even give you a bigger one if you promise to buy a whole watermelon from us.”

He strokes his chin thoughtfully. “You drive a hard bargain but you have yourself a deal.”

You flash your prettiest grin at him; you know exactly what men like him need. A little stroke of his ego and you’ve got a hook, line, and sinker. As you’re pushing the knife into the fruit, you feel a sudden warmth next to you.

Bucky. His shoulders are squared, eyes partially narrowed. “John.”

“Bucky,” the man — John — smiles easily in response to Bucky’s tight lip curl. “It’s been a while, man. How’s the farm?”

“Good.”

Curt. Terse. Very unlike Bucky who you’ve grown to understand is very talkative. “Good to hear,” John responds, voice light, “I see you’ve got yourself a pretty new helper. A famous one at that. Bet you’re the reason the stall’s doing extra well today, sweetheart.”

You open your mouth to respond but Bucky beats you to it. “She’s great. Why don’t you run along now? I’m sure there are other people you can pester today.”

“Pester? Now, am I being a bother to you, sweetheart?”

Yes, but you’re not going to give Bucky that satisfaction. Something about this man irks Bucky. Not a lot of things can get under his skin, which only piques your interest further. So you slap on a saccharine-sweet smile. “No, definitely not. He’s a customer, Bucky. Play nice. He’s buying a whole watermelon and two squashes today.”

“Am I?” A flicker of surprise crosses his eyes, fading into a humored sparkle.

“You are, sir.”

“Well, if the lady says so, then it must be true.”

You let out a giggle, one that you know will grate on Bucky’s nerves. The two of you continue to make light conversation as you offer John a sample and John seems to take his time nibbling on the slice while he looks you up and down. You don’t like his look, but you do like the color on Bucky’s face right now. The perfect shade of green that you’ve been waiting for.

Because of that, you can’t help yourself. You up the ante a little bit — giggling a little more, flicking your hair over your shoulder, batting your eyelashes at him. Throughout your entire conversation, you can practically hear Bucky’s blood rushing in his veins. Jealousy is a good look on him.

Still, he doesn’t say a thing — at least, not until John finally, finally walks away. You didn’t know how much longer you could’ve pretended to find him entertaining; stale jokes were never your foreplay of choice.

“He’s bad news, you know,” Bucky utters next to you.

You’re busy cutting up the last of the samples as you reply with a light, “Sometimes I like bad news.”

He frowns. “You can’t be serious. Him of all people?”

“If not him, then who?” You deadpan, turning to look at him.

Bucky’s mouth opens then promptly slams shut. He once again appears to want to say something but he’s holding back, biting his tongue. Coward.

“Hey, kids, I’m just going to check on Mr. Oliver over there. He’s been getting harassed by that developer I told you about, James. Start cleaning up, we should be good to head back soon.” Your grandma ducks out of the stall and disappears.

You raise an eyebrow at Bucky. “James?”

“My first name,” Bucky shrugs.

“James,” you repeat — then it clicks, “James the Jester! I remember now. Oh, you were such a crybaby.”

At that, a deep scarlet blush sprawls across his face, up to the tips of his ears. “I was not. You were just evil. Instead of princess, I used to call you the wicked witch of the west.”

You bark out a laugh. “Yeah, I bet you did. Grandma told me you’d let me do whatever I wanted.”

“You were a spoiled princess after all.”

Ignoring that comment, you choose to ask, “What’s going on with Mr. Oliver?”

“Developers have been coming around these parts to try and turn it into something more modern. They’ve been offering hefty amounts to buy out property owners in the area. Talks about luxury apartments and a shopping mall.”

“Who in the world would pay for luxury apartments around here?” You crinkle your nose.

Bucky shrugs, his hat tipping forward. “Who knows? Guess they found a market for it.”

“That kind of sucks.”

“Yeah, the town’s been trying to fundraise to help support a lot of these small businesses to make sure they can stay afloat. Otherwise, they’ll get priced out and before you know it, everyone’s going to be gone.”

While the idea of a shopping mall does appeal to you, you hate the thought of losing this place. Neighbors who know each other by name. People who come from near and far, spanning generations and building relationships for years to come. All the lush greenery, soft sunlight filtering through the leaves, the crisp fresh air. The idea of all of that replaced by a concrete jungle is a nightmare.

“How much have y’all raised so far?”

Bucky rubs the back of his neck. “Not a lot. It’s tough to get funds out here when folks barely make anything for themselves. We need some outside help but it’s not easy, not many care about a small place like this.”

But you do. You care. This is your home. No matter how many times you’ve avoided coming back, or how much you try to deny the past, this is where you came from. If you lose this place, who would you be?

“Why don’t we throw a fundraiser? I could do something. I don’t need to be the main attraction but I could help bring people out. We could sell tickets, do a little open mic night.”

“You’d do that?” His eyebrows practically jump to his hairline.

You give him a look. “You think that lowly of me?”

“No, not that I don’t think you’d do it,” Bucky quickly clarifies, “It’s just— it’s obviously a lot to ask when you’re trying to stay incognito here.”

“I just have to convince my dad.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Dad!” You say at the same time your grandma scolds her eldest son with his full government name.

“I didn’t come here so you could be the center of attention,” he brushes off, “again.”

“This is different.”

“This is going to attract unwanted press.”

“This is the kind of press we want.”

The two of you are locked in a stare-down with your grandma and Bucky standing on the sidelines, waiting for one of you to be the first to break.

“In all fairness, she is doing it for a good cause,” your grandma chimes in the hopes of alleviating your father’s wrath.

“Sounds to me like she’s trying to get back in the spotlight. What if the press says this is all pretense to clean up her act? What if it brings unneeded scrutiny to our small town?”

You let a heavy exhale escape. Your eyes fly to the ceiling only for the briefest of seconds before you redirect your gaze to your dad. “Honestly, they can say what they want. At this point, they’ll pick on anything I do. It doesn’t matter if I have good intentions — or even if I don’t do anything at all, they’re going to find something to be upset about. They’ll twist everything I do to fit their narrative because that’s what they do. It shouldn’t stop me from living my life — or supporting things that I care about.”

Three pairs of eyes land on you. You try not to squirm but the weight of their attention is enough to make you shift. You look at Bucky first — his eyes are soft, understanding almost. He saw firsthand what it’s like to be in the spotlight, chased after in the middle of the most menial activities. Friendship twisted into a scandal.

These people are vultures and, while there’s nothing you can ultimately do to stop them, you have control in the way you respond and behave. In this case, perhaps the only correct response is to stop caring.

Your life is yours and you need to stop listening to these assholes who think that they know you, who think that they can shape your reputation to the image of you they have in their heads.

Your father looks thoughtful, almost surprised by your words. He’s silent, mulling over it for a moment before he looks at you. He’s searching your eyes — for any doubt or uncertainty — but he finds none of it. Because you haven’t been this sure of anything in a long time.

“Alright, fine. We’ll make it a community event. We won’t use your name because we don’t need a frenzy; this may be a small town but you’re not a small name, darling. I don’t need to hire security for a fundraiser. However, we can sell tickets to a live stream that will ultimately go to supporting this town. Hopefully that helps alleviate the traffic.”

You’re throwing your arms around him before he even finishes his sentence. “Thank you! Thank you!”

He chuckles, “You’ve got a lot of work ahead of you. I’m expecting you to do a lot of the planning.”

“Wait, what?” You balk, jerking back.

“You proposed this so you need to see it through.”

A pout forms on your lips. “But—”

“I’ll help,” Bucky cuts in, mouth stretched into a proud grin. “You’re doing enough already. Just get yourself ready. I can help organize the live feed.”

“You can set up a livestream?” You ask, doubt creeping into your voice.

He smirks, “Such little faith. I know my way around technology. Trust me on this, princess.”

You’re not one to argue with him so you can only nod. “Okay then, let’s do this.”

Things come together relatively quickly in the next couple of days. You spend most of your time figuring out how to make your extremely pop songs acoustic with minimal support from a local band. True to his word, Bucky does eventually set up the live stream and even does a little test to make sure it works.

“Smile.”

You force out a grin before it’s quickly wiped away from your face. “Are we good?”

“You’ve got something on your face. I think it’s the whipped cream from the waffles earlier.”

Your hand immediately flies to the corner of your mouth. Clearly it doesn’t work because then Bucky’s coming up to you. His hand reaches up, thumb brushing gently over the corner of your lips, swiping along the bottom. As if possessed, he sticks his thumb in his mouth and sucks it clean.

His eyes don’t leave you once.

Your heart slams against your ribs, core squeezing. You don’t get a chance to question him before he’s clearing his throat and pulling away with a quiet “got it.”

With all the marketing up, the event comes together fast. In a blink of an eye, you’re in this large backyard space with fairy lights strung across trees, tables for the buffet that your grandma has cooked up, and a makeshift stage where the band has set up. It’s beautiful and cozy. Perfect.

Instead of wearing one of your usual concert getups, the bedazzled bodysuits with matching rhinestoned boots, you opt for something more casual. A find from a thrift store and Bucky’s flannel layered over you; the latter isn’t by choice, he took one look at how much skin you were revealing and insisted you would be too chilly.

With your guitar propped up on your well-worn sneaker, you take a deep breath.

“Ready?” Your dad asks, bumping his shoulder against yours.

“Yeah. Of course. I do this all the time.”

The corner of his lips quirk up. “It’s alright to be nervous, you know.”

You worry your bottom lip, turning to look at him. “I’ve done this a billion times before. Why am I so worried?”

“Because it matters this time, because you care, and that’s a good thing,” he soothes, placing a hand on your shoulder. “I’ll be right there with you.”

“What if nobody else wants to perform? I’m only singing at the end. What if nobody participates?”

“Darling, you know your grandmother. She’d get up there and start the macarena if she has to get the party going.” A giggle rises from your chest. “You’ve got good people here and everyone’s here for a good cause.”

“If it’s dead silent, maybe I can get Bucky to get up there,” you snort softly, “he apparently had been my court jester in the past.”

Your dad lets out a tiny grunt. It’s one that most people won’t blink twice at, but you know him better than that. 

“What’s with that sound?”

“Nothing.”

“It’s not nothing. That’s the sound you make when the spare ribs don’t fall off the bone. So what gives?”

“I don’t like that boy.”

You shoot him a look. “You don’t like any boy.”

“That’s also true.”

“Grandma says he’s one of the good ones.”

It’s your dad’s turn to give you a look. “He’s a boy. There are no good ones.”

Your lips curl into a smirk. “I haven’t seen you go all protective in a while.”

“Well, none of them were serious before. This one — this one looks like the type who can break your heart.”

Both your glances wander over to Bucky who’s helping your grandma set up the food table. It’s still early enough that nobody’s filtered in but you expect a good showing. Tickets are basically close to selling out, the space will hopefully be at capacity. You’ve raised a good amount of money already and that doesn’t even include the massive success of the live stream sales.

But Bucky — heaven-sent Bucky. He really is a good one. In your world, that usually means that he is too good to be true. Someone always wants something. Whether it’s fame or fortune — or both, you’re merely a gateway to it. You’ve lost most of your trust in humanity since you started succeeding; your industry mentors tell you that’s how you know you’ve made it.

However, you’re not in your world right now. Not fully at least. So maybe you’re allowed to hold onto that tiny piece of hope that things may just work out with him.

“I know,” you murmur. “Let’s hope he doesn’t.”

Your dad wraps an arm around you, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “I’m going to check on your grandma. Break a leg out there. You did good, kid. I’m proud of you.”

“Thanks, Dad,” you smile softly up at him. “For trusting me this and… for bringing me back here.”

“Anytime, darling.”

Just as your dad said, the party comes into full swing in the next thiry minutes. There’s no shortage of people wanting to perform — anything from singing to dancing and even standup comedy (though this last one is a little bit questionable when you hear the awkward filtering of laughter through the crowd).

People hop onto the makeshift dance floor for the next performer. An upbeat number that has everyone twirling and shimmying all over. You glance at Bucky only to find that he’s already looking right back at you.

Ask me to dance, you idiot. You raise an eyebrow and Bucky only coughs and shifts his eyes away.

You roll your eyes. If he doesn’t do something soon, you may end up taking matters into your own hands.

“Now, what’s a pretty lady like you doing all alone here?” The familiar voice interrupts your irritation. John. He’s got that boyish smile on his face again. “Would you care to join me for a dance?”

You look to Bucky again, finding him already looking at the both of you with stone-cold eyes. Well, if he’s not going to do anything about this, then you might as well find another form of entertainment.

Sliding your hand over John’s outstretched one, you nod. “I’d be delighted.”

John’s a decent dancer. He spins you around, matches your rhythm, and still manages to make conversation throughout. He asks you about life in California, if you have anything exciting coming up soon. You give him noncommital answers about how you’re working on your next album.

“I sure hope you’d save me a backstage pass for your next tour.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” you force out a smile.

On top of that, he’s too handsy for your taste. His grip starts safe on your hips before they drift a little too low like he’s trying to reach for your ass. You have to carefully navigate away from him every time he does that.

“Anything going on between you and Barnes?” John asks.

You look at Bucky again. His gaze has been burning a hole through your skull and probably John’s. As much as the two of you try to ignore it, it’s near impossible to not feel the weight of his impressively intense stare.

“No, nothing,” you answer honestly.

“He looks like he wants to cut off my head,” he chuckles.

“That’s just his normal face,” you brush off brusquely.

“If you say so.”

However, when this song ends, you feel another pair of hands on your waist that quickly manhandles you to land with an oof against a firm chest. You look up to find Bucky who’s now holding your hand and your waist for a spin around the floor. When you glance back at John, he looks none too pleased and stomps off in another direction.

“You don’t like to share your toys, do you?” You smirk.

“I don’t share, period,” he mutters.

“Then you should’ve claimed your prize from the start.”

Bucky’s brows meet in the middle. “You’re not… a prize,” he begins, “you’re more than that. I didn’t— I didn’t know how to even begin to approach you.”

“You had no problem berating the shit out of me when I fucked up the horse and chicken feed.”

His shoulders shake with laughter. “That’s different. That’s my area of expertise.”

“And this isn’t?”

His lips thin. “I’m not… experienced with all this.” He clears his throat, “Romance. Women.”

“You’re kidding,” you blurt out before you can stop it. He shakes his head. “You look like this and you’re telling me you don’t have experience with people?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I mean you’re hot, Barnes.” Bucky jolts back in surprise. “Come on, that is not news to you. I’ve seen at least five girls come up to you in the time John and I danced.”

His fingers tighten on your waist. “They wanted me to introduce them to you.”

“That’s an excuse to approach you. They probably wanted a dance.”

“That’s not true.”

“Yeah, it is.”

Bucky huffs, “How would you know?”

“Because that’s what I would do. You’re a catch, Bucky.”

“High compliment coming from you.”

You swat his chest playfully. “Playing humility when you are anything but isn’t a good look, Mr. Barnes.”

“I’ve only got eyes for one. Always have,” Bucky mumbles, hand squeezing yours.

“Yeah? How long has that been? Since we were kids?” You tease lightly, fully expecting him to scoff and call you ludicrious.

However, the sheepish look that settles on his face has you gaping.

Before you can question it further, your dad is announcing your performance next. Bucky nudges you towards the front with a small smile. “Go get ‘em, princess.”

It’s a bit of a blur of you getting up there and preparing yourself for your first performance in a while. It’s one thing to be on a stage with hundreds of thousands silhouettes watching you, it’s another to be able to see every single face in the crowd waiting for you with bated breath.

Your fingers circle the neck of your guitar, fingertips pressed firm against the strings. The steel bites into your skin but your focus is really only on the people before you.

“Hi, everyone. I just wanted to say a very big thank you again for coming out tonight. I hope everyone’s havin’ a good time!” The crowd explodes in cheers and applause. “We’re all here because we love this town and I’m happy that I have the opportunity to contribute to saving it. There’s no other place like home. A big shoutout to all the viewers watching from the comfort of their houses as well, we couldn’t have done it without you. Without further ado, I hope you all enjoy this last segment of the evening.”

The rapid beating inside your chest is a drum against your ribs. Your eyes trawl over the crowd, over strangers’ faces and familiar ones. Your dad who shoots you a proud grin, your grandma who’s waving her fist in encouragement, and Bucky — Bucky who smiles soft and nods at you.

The rest of the evening passes in a blur of motions. Once you finish your set, you’re greeted by a round of congratulations when you step off stage. Your hand hasn’t cramped from signing autographs in a bit but you relish in the attention. Whenever you look up, you catch Bucky watching from the sidelines.

I’ve only got eyes for one. Always have.

The echo of his words have your ears burning.

By the time you finally make it back to him, the crowd has thinned, with only a smattering of close friends and family still chattering over food.

“Sometimes I forget how good you are live,” Bucky says, a tinge of awe in his voice.

“Please, when was the last time you heard me live?”

His teeth catches his bottom lip for a second before he clears his throat. “Your Nashville show last year.”

You can hear your jaw land on the floor. “You went?” He shrugs. “Why didn’t you tell me? I invited grandma but she couldn’t make it out.”

“You didn’t know me, princess,” Bucky chuckles.

Well, he’s not entirely strong. But still. “Grandma could’ve told me. You shouldn’t have to pay.”

“Why not? I’m supporting a good cause, aren’t I?”

You exhale a laugh. “So I’m a charity case now?”

“I can neither confirm nor deny—” Your punch on his arm gets you a laugh, it probably felt like a tingle. “I didn’t want to be one of those people who pulled that card. We haven’t spoken in years and I would’ve gone anyway even without the free ticket.”

Bucky needs to stop giving your heart reasons to shift towards him. You haven’t been in love in a very long time, and you’re not sure you’re ready for it yet — especially not with a man as good as him, one you cannot bring into your world.

“Plus, I was talking Madeline. Her mom’s our foreman.”

“Playing chaperone, cute,” you murmur. “Next time, just shoot me a text. You have my number. My dad or someone else can arrange something.”

“Noted, appreciated.”

You wring your fingers behind your back, hiding evidence of your nerves. “So, I sound good? I’m not sure how the music would play out without the usual production, acoustic felt more fitting here—”

“It was great, seriously. I was reading the comments from the stream and everybody loved it. A lot of them seemed to have been fans for a while and they were happy to see you perform like this again.”

It reminds you of the smaller gigs you used to play — coffee shops and dive bars before you were promoted to opening for bigger artists and then going into your own sold-out world tour. Part of what you were missing in your work is that connection with the fans, doing more intimate engagement for your more loyal listeners.

“Yeah, I think it would be fun to do something like this once in a while,” you smile.

“Well, if you need a tech guy, you know where to find me.”

You roll your eyes but your lips twitch into an amused smile. “Come on, let’s go help my grandma clean up.”

“Hey,” Bucky catches your hand just as you turn, drawing your attention back to him. You cock an eyebrow in question. He scratches his cheek, looking almost… nervous? “Are you doing anything tomorrow? I thought we could go for a ride. A picnic maybe.”

“We’ve done that before,” you say slowly, puzzled, “but I’m down.”

“Okay, yeah, sounds good.”

That’s when it hits you. “Bucky Barnes, are you trying to ask me out on a date?” The laugh that slips past your lips has Bucky tinting red as he swallows and pulls away from you. You realize then that he may think you’re poking fun at him. “Wait, no, don’t do that. I wasn’t— I wasn’t teasing you, promise. I think it’s cute.”

Bucky’s mouth twists a little. If you didn’t know him so well, you wouldn’t have known that he was sulking. It’s such a tiny reaction that you could miss it if you blinked.

“Bucky, come on. I didn’t mean it that way.”

“Yeah, I know.” Does he? “I know I’m probably not as… I don’t know, cool as all the guys you’ve dated before but—”

You take his hand in yours and squeeze. “No, that’s not it at all. I’ve just— I’ve been waiting for a bit for you to make your move. Even now, you’re still beating around the bush. Just ask me out, Buck.”

He chuckles, ears still red. “Alright, will you go on a date with me?”

“Yes, yes, I will,” you grin, “now, was that so hard?”

“Might be harder than getting back on a horse after a decade.”

You gasp, “That’s uncalled for.” He beams sweetly right back at you, turning your hands so that he’s holding yours now. It’s your turn to warm to the tips of your toes. “Okay, let’s go help grandma, casanova.”

The ride shouldn’t be any different. You’ve done this route a million times before. You’ve done this ride and this picnic thing with Bucky before. You shouldn’t feel like your heart is about to burst out of your chest any second now. Maybe it’s time to summon your on-call doctor to make sure it’s not a seizure.

“You’re fine, you’re just nervous,” Yelena says from your laptop. “I think you should go for the lace top, it makes your tits look great.”

You pick up the flimsy piece of fabric. “I’m not nervous. I don’t get nervous for dates. I definitely do not get nervous for a man.”

As you tug the shirt over your head, Yelena laughs, “Nobody knows that I’m getting a strip tease from a five-time Grammy winner.”

Tossing a withering look over your shoulder, you shrug on the top. “I’m serious, Yelena. This isn’t cool. I’m not being cool.”

“No, you’re being a girl with a crush.”

“I’m this nation’s favorite pop performer. I don’t get crushes.”

“Sweetheart, you’ve been there a little over a week and I’ve never seen you smile this much.” That explains why your cheeks are aching. “Face it, you’re head over heels for this man.”

You rub your face furiously. “God, this is so uncool. What if he’s making me uncool?”

“Then you guys can be uncool together.”

“That’s not an option,” you grumble, “what do you think?” You do a few turns in front of the floor-length mirror.

“Perfect. They grow up so fast,” Yelena mocks a tear.

“You’re a terrible friend.”

“I’m the bestest friend. Seriously though, you deserve to have a bit of fun. I think he’s good for you.”

“You’ve never met him.”

She gives you a look, one that is both chiding and soft. “But I know you and you haven’t been like this in a long time.”

Instead of acknowleding her words and potentially the gravity of your feelings, you instead choose to tease her. “Since when are you such a lovergirl?”

“Since I realized it makes you less of an asshole.”

“Rude.”

“You love me.”

“I do,” you grin.

“Have fun, kiddo.”

You’ve heard Bucky hustling and bustling outside since this morning. You, on the other hand, take your sweet time getting ready. Makeup light and pristine, nothing that would smudge even if you dunked your head underwater. Not a hair out of place. You’ve tested a few perfumes and there’s one that Bucky always leans towards so you spray a little on your neck and your wrists.

By the time you come downstairs ten minutes before the time he promised, you find him in the kitchen cooking with your grandma. Your dad is giving him dirty looks from the dining table.

“Morning, sunshine,” your grandma smiles, “don’t you look lovely today?”

“You’re saying I don’t look lovely everyday?”

“You have your days,” she jests with a pat on your cheek.

Bucky slides up next to you next, an appropriate amount of distance in front of your family. “Morning,” he murmurs, “you look beautiful.”

“I know,” you try to play it off but your heart feels just about ready to combust. “You ready?”

“Packed and ready to roll.”

You roll your eyes but can’t bite down on your smile in time. “You’re so lame.”

He only chuckles.

“I don’t need to give you the talk, do I?” Your dad chimes in next, glare darting between the two of you, before landing solidly on Bucky. “No funny business. I expect you to be on your best behavior. Curfew is at—”

“Oh my god, Dad!” You snap with your own scowl at him. “We’re not kids. We’ll be back whenever we’re back.”

“Still living under my roof, darling.”

“Technically my roof,” your grandma chirps and gives her son a scalding look. She turns to the two of you with a gentle smile. “Take your time. Have fun. Be safe.”

“But—”

Your dad’s full government name rolls off her tongue again and he immediately clamps his mouth shut. You’re pushing Bucky out of there before he can interrupt again.

“I’m so sorry,” you grouse, “he’s so overprotective sometimes.”

“He means well. I can see why he would be,” Bucky says as he leads you towards your horses.

“He’s overbearing is what he is,” you mutter as you hop on your horse. He makes sure that you’re settled safely before he climbs on his own horse.

The both of you set out on your usual route, your horses galloping deep into the woods as far as they can go. You take it all in — the fresh hair, the abundance of nature, the untouched beauty. It’s hard to imagine that you’ve been privileged enough to experience this life for the past week, let alone remember how this had been your life growing up. It’s even harder to imagine losing all of this. The nature in your gated apartment complex doesn’t feel natural. It feels necessary. 

Out here, it just… exists.

Sometimes, you miss that — simply existing. If anything, this trip has become a reminder for you to come home more often and visit your grandma — and now, Bucky.

“You seem deep in thought.” Speak of the devil, he’s unpacking the lunch he’s tucked into his backpack. A selection of sandwiches in ziploc bags, fruits perfectly sliced and peeled, and pastries to top it all off. The food is simple but delicious and you can tell a lot of care has been placed into the prep — crusts off the bread, lightly toasted, fruits fresh and ripe, and pastries sweet.

Your stylist is going to tear you a new one when she realizes you no longer fit into your usual sizing. However, right here, right now, you can’t bring yourself to care.

“Thinking about how nice it is out here,” you sigh, gaze wandering to the world around you.

The two of you are perched on a rock at the base of a waterfall after a casual stride on your horses and a quick hike down to the stream. The symphony of water pouring down from the cliff mixed in with the sounds of birds singing in the distance and the rush of a coursing river — all of this brings you some semblance of peace. It reminds you of the quiet, the isolation. Things you could never have in the big, urban city you now call home.

Bucky laughs. “It’s always going to be here, you know. You just need to come back more often.”

“My schedule is crazy enough as is,” you stomp down on the urge to whinge like a child, “I’d love to pre-book my vacations but when opportunities come up, I have to prioritize that. I have to stay relevant. Things change so much in this day and age. In a blink of an eye and I could be rendered a has-been.”

“Have faith in your most loyal fans, you have plenty of those.”

Your eyes track the movement of the clouds above as they trail across the bright blue sky. “Maybe,” you sigh, “I’m just tired.”

Bucky tucks in close next to you, bumping your shoulder with his as he plucks a grape from the vine for you. You take it gratefully and pop it into your mouth, the sweetness bursting on your tongue.

“Maybe, what you need is to cool off.” You frown at him. He nods his head towards the waterfall. “There’s an old rope some kids put up a while back.” He points in the direction of the trees. “The water’s deep enough to break the fall.”

Aghast, you make your dismay very, very clear. “You want me to jump in there? Wearing this?”

“Unless you prefer to strip down, which I think only one of us would mind.”

Your fist lands a punch on his bicep. “Perv,” you mutter.

“Live a little,” he encourages as he jumps to his feet. He begins the short trek up the stairs, towards a small landing where a thick chord of rope hangs from a tree. His fingers curl around it tight, then he’s launching himself off and crashing straight into the water.

Your heart jerks in your chest as you peer over the rock into the water, waiting for him to surface. Bucky comes up for air with a huge splash, grinning as he slicks his hair back with his hand.

“The water’s fantastic.”

“You’re insane,” you deadpan. “I’m absolutely not doing that.”

“Man, here I thought you were finally free of the stick up your ass—” you gasp, he laughs, “—but I guess I was wrong.”

“I do not have a stick up my ass. Sue me for not wanting to get soaking wet in a Prada top.”

Bucky leans back, hands reaching up to wipe the water from his face again. It’s then you notice his t-shirt clinging onto his arms — like second skin that does nothing to mask the thick muscles that could probably lift you with a finger. “You can always buy more Prada. You can’t buy another day like today.”

“Think I’ll take my chances.”

“Alright, princess. I didn’t know you forgot how to have fun. You used to be the one who took me out here, would be the first one to jump in too before you dragged me in with you.”

That ticks you off. Your jaw clenches and you finally rise to your feet. Screw him for thinking you’d ruin your perfectly nice outfit for this. Your fingers catch the hem of your shirt before you’re tugging it over your head, then you shimmy out of your shorts.

“Wait, you’re really—”

“What? Never seen a girl in her underwear before?” You smirk, climbing up to where he stood only moments ago. Bucky looks even redder in contrast against the pool of blue.

You look at the rope and take a deep breath. You’ve done this before. You can do this. It’s just a swing and a jump. After that, you black out and by the time you come to, you’re already soaked from head to toe, coming up for air with a gasp as the water laps cool against your skin. You still hear the echo of your scream before you crashed into the pool.

“Shit, it’s freezing. You didn’t warn me.”

Bucky chuckles as he swims closer towards you. “Doesn’t it feel nice?”

“Feels like I’m about to catch a cold.”

The two of you splash around for a little while, Bucky even coming out only to jump back in and drench you in another wave. Your screech echoes in the quiet of the forest, muffled only by the waterfall behind you.

He looks at you when he comes up, grinning as he approaches you. His hand reaches up to drag the wet strands of your hair away from your face, fingertips brushing your cheek. His touch is cool but your entire body feels like it’s been set on fire.

You’re well aware of how little you’re wearing, even more so when the thin fabric sticks to your wet skin. Your nipples are stiff in the chill, pushing against the material, and you can feel your panties squeezing between your cheeks.

Your arms wrap around yourself, partly because of the cold, but mostly because Bucky’s watching you a little too closely. His eyes travel down your neck where strands of your hair are clinging to your skin, to your collarbones, down to the valley of your breasts that peek up from above the water.

You see his throat move as he swallows. Blue finds you. The color a shade or two darker as he assesses you, drinks the sight of you in. Instead of addressing it, he begins to move towards the surface where he manages to stand, water kissing his calves. You follow after him slowly.

He turns around then, looking at you when you come close enough. There’s a depth to his gaze that you can’t read, but you’re almost too scared to ask.

“What?” You try to play off.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs. Gentle. Honest.

“You’re just saying that because I’m practically naked,” you taunt, fully aware of how much you’re showing now that you’re out of the water.

“I’m saying that because you look incredibly tempting right now and I think I’ll have a hard time keeping my hands off you. For both our sakes, I recommend that you put on some clothes right now.”

Your breath catches, snagging in your lungs. The words that depart your lips are one born from days of frustration and longing. An honest, desperate question. “What makes you think you have to?”

Bucky inhales sharp, deep. “Do you know what you’re saying right now, princess?”

“I am,” you respond calmly, though your voice wavers.

He takes a step closer and suddenly you’re backing up against a large boulder, the cold surface kissing the swell of your ass.

His hand stretches out. His touch ghosts over your skin, hand trailing lightly over your hip where the hem of your panties rests, traveling up to your waist, right beneath the wiring of your bra, fingertips brushing over your exposed torso. Your breath hitches in your throat, chest rising as your lungs expand. Bucky’s blue eyes, warm where they’re focused on how his large palm moves over your stomach, flicks up to meet yours.

“This okay?” He whispers.

You only manage a nod.

“You’re gorgeous, princess.”

The pet name crawls up your spine and grips your lungs. You’re too busy looking at how Bucky’s lips look, the way they part, and his eyes, pupils blowing up to swallow the blue, to notice how his hand is slowly creeping up your bare stomach. His hand leaves a trail of fire where it crawls up to your chest, burning through your skin when he cups you gently.

He lets out a garbled sound. “Fuck, you’re so soft.”

“Generally how tits are, Barnes,” you try to tease.

A flush sprawls across his neck. “You’re such a brat. I should really shut you up.”

“Why don’t you try?”

Bucky doesn’t hesitate before he seals his lips over yours, drinking in the surprised little gasp you let out. He gulps down your whimper as you arch your back into his touch. His touch grows bolder, stronger, as he squeezes your breast over the fabric. His hand wanders to the space between the rock and your back, fingers deft as they quickly work to unbutton your bra.

“I don’t like how you did that so quickly,” you mumble against his lips. “Have you been practicing with other girls?”

“Just good with my fingers,” he chuckles.

“Good answer,” you grin.

He slides the material off your body, leaving you open for the taking. A low growl rises up his throat as he gropes your breasts harder, fingers finding your nipples, and relishes in the small moans you make. He takes his time with it, kneading your tits to the shape of his hand, kissing you warm and slow — all the while heat accumulates between your legs and you’re reduced into a quivering puddle in his hands.

But he doesn’t let you slip; he presses you back against the stone, his touch cool and warm, a chemical reaction against your skin. He distracts you from the chill, moving his mouth languidly against yours. God, kissing him feels like the first touch of summer after a long winter. He tastes like the icing on the cake he brought, sweetness that melts on your tongue. His hand — a working man’s hands — are rough where his palms are calloused, creating delicious friction with the way it rubs up against your delicate skin.

“Bucky, come on,” you whine.

“Patience,” he only says as his lips trail to the corner of your lips to imprint kisses that leave you wanting more. Much, much more.

“Move it along, Barnes, or I’m gonna have to find someone to do the job for you.”

Bucky pulls back abruptly, your stomach sinks. His eyes are dark as they look at you, lips set into a firm, irritated line. “You’ve really got such a mouth on you,” he snarls, “been wantin’ to put you in your place, princess. You keep running your mouth, just waiting for someone to tell you to behave.”

Oh. Oh, you shouldn’t like that this much. But you do. And Bucky knows you do.

His lips curl into a smirk. “Is that it? You need someone to teach you some manners again?” Bucky’s nose brushes over the pulse in your neck, feeling it stutter beneath him. “I can do that for you — all you have to do is listen.”

An expletive slips past your lips and Bucky brushes his lips over yours again, teeth nipping on your bottom lip.

“Language, princess.”

A whimper climbs out your throat. “I want you.”

“I know you do,” he says, voice gliding over your skin like silk, “but you need to be patient. Can you be a good girl for me? Can you listen to me?”

You nod, your entire vocabulary flaking into ashes as he smooths his palm back down your body. You don’t register when he slides it over your hip, you barely register his hand cupping the warmth of your pussy, your ass raising to give him access. It’s only when his index finger traces the line on your panties where the fabric sinks into you does your gasp wake you from your stupor.

“I can tell you’re so wet already,” he whispers, disbelief clinging to his syllables, “is this all for me?” Your breathing stammers an uneven staccato in your chest. “Tell me it’s for me.”

“‘S for you,” you choke out.

“Good girl,” he breathes out, “shit, you’re so wet. I can feel you through this lace.”

Your hands instinctively fly to cover yourself up as much as you can, cheeks flaming and it’s not from the heat.

“Gettin’ shy on me?”

“What if someone sees?” You hiss, but the sound melts into a whimper when Bucky starts to trail his finger up and down your slit over the mesh that barely hides you.

“Nobody comes out this way. Just you and me, princess.”

Your protest dies when Bucky tugs your panties to the side, sliding his finger along your slick folds, brushing over your clit until your voice splits into a long groan. He peppers your face with kisses, enough to sear a mark onto your skin that you’ll feel for weeks. All the while, his fingers tease you open slowly, coaxing moans from your lips as he dips his fingers in only to leave you in the cold. He repeats the movement over and over until you’re squirming, your fingers catching his wrist to keep him going.

“Come on, Buck.”

“What is it?” He feigns confusion.

“Touch me.”

“I am touching you.”

Through gritted teeth, you manage to say, “Properly. Touch me like a man, you fucking coward.”

“I need to teach this mouth of yours some manners. Need you to ask me one more time.” Your lips stubbornly sew shut. “Come on, you can do it,” he coos.

It’s patronizing. It’s demeaning. You shouldn’t let him speak to you this way. You are a five-time Grammy winner, the nation’s favorite pop star, you don’t need a man to—

“I’ll finger you open properly if you ask me nicely. I’ll make sure you’re good and ready for my cock. I promise.”

Fuck. Your mouth moves before your brain can catch up. “Please.” The plea escapes you. “Please finger me, Bucky.”

“That’s a good girl,” he beams, “that’s my girl.”

Your insides positively melt. My girl. It shouldn’t be so easy to get to you. You’ve had your fair share of men who know what sweet nothings to whisper in your ear, so you shouldn’t be fazed by such a simple phrase.

But it’s different — because this is Bucky and the thing about Bucky is that he always means it.

When he calls you his girl, that means you’re his, and that’s that.

Your thighs fall apart as his finger finally pushes in, thick and intrusive to spark the fire in your core. He curls it inside of you, brushing up against your walls and you’re curling into him. He kisses you again, taking in the gasp that bubbles up your throat.

“My pretty girl,” he murmurs sweetly, “look at you. So easy for me when you’ve got something in this pussy of yours.”

The fuck you stops cold on your tongue when Bucky adds another finger in, stretching you out with a delicious burn that has you spilling needy little noises into his mouth.

“Such a good girl when you’re filled up. Who knew I could stop you from acting like such a brat just by stretching this gorgeous cunt open? I should’ve done this that first day. Should’ve made you spread your legs for me if you wanted my help.”

His name forms on your tongue, like his fingers are forcing you to say it out loud. To beg him.

“I can’t wait to have you wrapped around my cock. Bet you’d feel so tight, fit around me like a glove. I know you’ve had others before me, but I promise you none of them can make you feel as good as me. None of them will worship you the same way I will.”

“God, Bucky, please.”

“I know, I know,” he utters tenderly, “I’m here, princess. I’ll take good care of you. Tell me what you want.” His fingers spread inside of you, urging you to open up real good for him. “I need you to use your words for me.”

“You know what I want,” you whine, fingers clawing at his chest.

“I know, but we talked about this. I need you to be good for me and ask me nicely.”

Your eyes burn with embarrassment, chest blazing with the warmth of a thousand suns. “Bucky, please. I need you.”

He cocks an eyebrow as he fingers you open again, pumping his fingers in and out of you as he teases you with a third. His thumb finds your clit, finds the surprised, wanton-filled sound from your chest. He rubs you slowly, gentle as he once again asks you to pose your request.

“I want your cock. Please. Please,” you whine, “I want you to fuck me open.”

Bucky lets out a guttural moan as he covers your lips with his again, kissing you senseless, stealing every single breath from your lungs until you’re gasping for air as he finger-fucks you open. You’re soaking him, you can feel yourself leaking all over. You’d be more ashamed if you weren’t so caught up in the delirium of pleasure.

“Attagirl,” Bucky chuckles, kissing the top of your head. He moves fast — fingers ripping off your panties so you’re exposed to him. You don’t get the chance to complain about losing a very nice pair of underwear, not when he takes a second here, admiring the way your pussy glistens in the sunlight. You’re suddenly shy, hands moving to shield yourself again, but he moves faster, gripping them and pinning them down above your head. “Don’t hide from me. You look sweet like this. So vulnerable.”

He uses one hand to pin both of yours above your head, all the while he’s nudging your legs to open up further with his knee. Bucky looks bigger from your vantage point, height towering over you, blocking the sun until your line of sight is completely consumed by him. You hear hiz zipper being undone, but your focus is entirely on him.

“I’ve got a condom,” Bucky exhales, tugging at the seams of your consciousness and rational thought. “In the bag.”

“You brought a condom? Were you expecting this to happen?”

“Expect, no. Hope? Always,” he offers a wry smile.

“Fuck a lot of girls in the woods, Barnes?”

Bucky stifles a laugh. “No, just the one,” he smiles, “just you.” For a second, the two of you simply stand with each other, stewing in the tension that hangs heavy in the air between you. “I should go get it first,” he says, making his move to pull away.

You aren’t sure what possesses you but then you find yourself grabbing him by the soaked collar of his shirt. He halts, eyes wide. “I’m clean,” you mumble, “I don’t want to wait.”

“Princess,” Bucky says slowly.

“Please, Buck.”

“Are you sure about this?”

“I’m clean, I promise you, I got tested after—”

“That’s not my concern,” he interrupts cautiously, “I’m asking if you’re sure about this. With me.”

You give a small nod. “I trust you.”

“Shit,” he hisses, “can’t say things like that and expect me not to fuck you stupid, princess.”

“Again, what makes you think you can’t?”

Bucky lets out a low roar that fuels the heat coiling tight inside your belly. Your eyes finally drift down to his cock in his hand and, like you’ve been unknowingly trained, you begin to salivate. Your mouth waters at the sight of the thick length, tip red and leaking. It twitches with need, moving towards you like it’s drawn.

He’s big. Bigger than anyone you’ve had before.

“I—” you start only for the words to choke out. Bucky raises a questioning brow.

“Did you change your mind? We can stop right now. Say the word.”

“No, that’s not it— I’m just—” you look at it for a heartbeat then two. “You’re really big,” you blurt out. “I don’t know if I can fit you.”

His lips twitch up into a smile, a mix of cocky confidence and amusement. “I’ll ease into you, princess. Promise it won’t hurt,” he says then pauses, “it might hurt a bit but you let me know if it gets too much, yeah?”

Your own giggle fizzles out when Bucky props up one of your legs, closing in on you with your folded thigh against his chest, and notches the head in your entrance. It’s a bit of a stretch, you can feel a slight sting, but your greedy pussy has other ideas. It opens up to him with the second nudge in, caving under the pressure much too quickly. You hate to admit how good he feels.

For a man who claims to have limited experience, Bucky seems to know exactly what to do. A vein on his forehead pulses as he slowly inches himself inside you, sweat beading his skin. His neck strains as he slowly sinks himself inside you, fucking up to bury himself deep inside your aching pussy.

A desperate whimper climbs out your throat. His name on your lips.

Bucky throws his head back, breathing in harshly through his nose. “You keep saying my name like that and I’m going to cum right now,” he rasps.

And because you can’t help yourslef, you do. You say his name again in a needy little cry that has him lifting you up with a growl, your legs wrapping around his torso as he shoves himself all the way inside you.

You’ve never felt so full before, inner thighs burning with his cock inflating inside you. His length stretches you open as he presses you back against the rock, leaning you back so he can properly fuck into you with deep, intentional thrusts.

“Look at this pretty pussy spread open for me,” Bucky groans, “you’re fuckin’ perfect. I’m gonna feed her my cock, gonna make sure she’s full.” His fingers bury in the flesh of your thighs as he drives himself deep inside you.

His other hand wanders to your neck, squeezing around the outside just enough to have your mind dizzy. His eyes search yours, vision glazed over as the pleasure slips through every crevice of your brain. Once he confirms that you’re okay, he tightens his grip enough to limit the airflow into your lungs, your breath hitching in your chest as he does so.

Bucky’s name leaves your lips in a hoarse whisper and he groans when he feels your core tighten around him. “My perfect girl, squeezing my cock like you’re tryin’ to milk me. You feel like you haven’t been touched in so long, princess. Was this all you needed to stop acting like a brat? If only people knew that the only way to get you to behave was to put a cock inside this pretty little cunt.” 

He reaches down between your legs and circles your clit until your moans pierce through the waterfall raining down behind you. You say his name over and over again, like a prayer. Like a plea. Your entire body shakes every time he thrusts deep inside you. Your heart stutters in your chest when you hear an unknown sound, your eyes flying to see if anyone’s witnessing the debauchery occurring out in the open. 

“Shit, princess, look at you,” he hisses when he looks down where the two of you are joined, “you’re creamin’ all over my cock. Soakin’ my cock so easy.”

“Bucky, please,” you manage to rasp, chest tight as the burning between your legs intensifies. 

You can feel it. It’s been a while, but it also has never been like this. A mind-numbing concoction of breathtaking pain and pleasure. Bucky’s cock opens you up, your folds swallowing him in like you’re desperate for more, like you need to fit as much of him in as possible.

The tip brushes up against the deepest parts of you and yet somehow it’s not nearly enough. Bucky mutters about how tight your pussy feels, how there’s no way anyone has been in here before.

“Not with how your cunt is choking me, princess,” he groans, fingers sinking deeper into your hip now. “She’s so sweet for me, practically sucking me in. I can’t wait to cum inside you.”

That has your panic flaring again, only for a second because then your stomach twists with the desire for exactly that — to be filled to the brim with him. 

“I’ve never—” you gasp, “I’ve never let anyone cum inside me.”

Bucky chuckles softly, leaning forward to kiss you again. It’s hypnotic how easily he has you putty in his hands. “Won’t you let me be the first?”

Your heart beats a little faster. You’ve never been good at saying no to him. Especially not when you want him as much as he does you.

“Yes,” you whimper, “please, cum inside me.”

Another deep groan resonates from his belly. “You’re going to be the death of me, princess. Spoilin’ me rotten like this, you’re gonna get me used to cummin’ inside this gorgeous cunt. I’m gonna have to be inside you everyday, never be able to sate myself unless my cock’s buried in this pussy.”

“Fuck, Bucky, I can’t—” oxygen is punched out of your lungs with every thrust, “I can’t hold it— I’m going to cum.”

“Cum for me, princess. Cum around my cock, need to feel you pulse around me,” Bucky groans.

Like the obedient girl that you are, you do. The orgasm wracks through your entire being, zapping through every nerve in your body. Your back lifts off the stone as you gasp, straight into Bucky’s touch. He buries his face into your neck as his body shudders, spilling liquid heat into you. 

The stickiness clings to your skin but the waterfall is cooling on your skin as you come down from your high. Bucky slumps on top of you, wet t-shirt between the two of you. You giggle breathlessly against his skin and feel him shake with laughter against you too, all the while his cock is still buried deep inside you. Twitching. 

“You’re a bad influence,” you mutter, smiling. 

“You’re one to talk, practically jumped me first chance you got,” Bucky chuckles and you hit him with a solid smack to his arm. “Let’s get out of here before you catch a cold.”

He pulls out of you slowly and you can feel his cum trickling down your leg. It stirs warmth inside of you again and, before you could think about quashing how good it feels, you watch as he moves towards the rocks to push himself up and out.

It certainly doesn’t help your still overeager libido to see how his back muscles move, traps flexing, as he lifts himself out before he turns to extend a hand to you. You take it and he looks away as you climb out of the water. He hands you his dry button-up, once again without looking back at you.

“Figured this would be warmer,” he clarifies.

“Thanks,” you mumble and slip your goosebump-riddled arms through the sleeves. The fabric is quick to absorb the water and your fingers make quick work to scrunch up and squeeze out water from your hair. Your hard work, down the drain.

Well, down to the bottom of the pool at least.

“Are you okay? Was I too—”

“Stop,” you wave a hand to halt him, “I’m fine. I’m not made of glass.” 

He murmurs an okay but still looks at you with that look in his face. For a moment, you think it’s some form of sympathy, but you quickly realize that it’s awe. He’s looking at you with the kind of adoration that has your heart doing somersaults in your chest. 

As fast as that feeling came, the one that follows is from your years of experience: fear. Trust is a fickle mistress in this industry. The last time you slept with someone, you ended up on the front pages of every entertainment site on the planet. Who’s to say this isn’t the same? It’s a quick money grab. Who doesn’t want another scandal with one of the most famous celebrities on the planet? Though, the payout is probably less now that you’ve already had one of these—

“Hey, what’re you thinking about?” Bucky’s hand is warm as it takes yours. His hair is still dripping, droplets landing on the blanket and your thigh as he leans closer. You open your mouth to deny his question, but he’s already shaking his head. “I can tell something’s goin’ on, princess. Tell me so I can fix it.”

You can’t help the laugh that escapes. It’s a sweet thought. “It’s a personal thing, don’t worry,” you insist, but he’s not letting you go. His hand squeezing. Your teeth catch your bottom lip before you relent. “Trust. It’s not an easy thing when you’re in the spotlight. I’m tired of constantly second guessing people’s intentions, why they do what they do with me. I’m scared of being the subject of another public issue — mostly because it creates a massive headache for my team, including my dad. I just— I hate that I’m putting those around me in an uncomfortable position of having to defend my actions, even if I’m fully aware some of them are completely defensible, but the general public always has to have a witch on the stands right? It’s just the way the world works. Regardless of whether you’re a real villain or not, you’re put at the stake and subjected to the constant judgment.”

Bucky stiffens, lips tightening. He holds your hands closer to him. “You are not responsible for these shitty people and their behavior. None of this is your fault. You’re living your life, you’re defending yourself. You should never apologize for any of that,” he adds sternly. His hand trembles and his jaw stiffens. The fury rolls off him in waves and your heart liquifies at the sight. “Need you to know that you got a lot of people here — and out there — who love you and will protect you. We don’t give a shit what they say because we know you, yeah?” 

“Yeah,” you whisper.

“So as long as you have us around, we won’t let anything happen to you. It’s not because we have to, but because we want to.” Your throat closes and the salt in your tears prick your eyes. Bucky throws an arm around you, pulling you close to kiss the top of your head. “We got you, princess.”

You would think that your unmeasurable need and curiosity would be satisfied from that one time with Bucky Barnes. You’ve never been more wrong. If anything, your desire for him has only grown — you can’t help how distracted you are by his hands, remembering how they feel on your hips, or his eyes that are icy when he’s irritated but thaw when they turn to you, or his cock—

“Are you okay?” Bucky asks, drawing you out of your own thoughts. 

It is then you realize that you’ve been staring at his lap for far too long to be subtle. His question isn’t innocent. It’s a prompt. An invitation. Safe to say, when you find yourself with your back pressed against the barn walls and Bucky bullying his cock into you as he muffles his moans into your neck, fingers sinking into your ass firm enough to bruise, you accepted that invitation. 

Then you stare at his fingers a little too long when the two of you are at the bar for a night out with a few of his friends (who knew that this man even had friends?) and he takes you out the back door and presses his fingers inside you until you’re gasping for air, legs clenching together as he curls them in and whispers how you’re so fuckin’ wet out here in the open where anyone can walk out and see America’s favorite princess getting finger-fucked in an alleyway. 

And then again in your childhood bedroom with your creaky bed when your grandma and dad were out. And one more time by the waterfall, this time with your tits pressed against the rocks. And finally in his truck when the two of you don’t quite make it to the drive-in theater he promised. 

For once, you’re not thinking too far into the future. Bucky keeps you grounded in the moment. Between the times he spends kissing you, you manage to also get some writing done. Affection bleeding into your melody and lyrics as you pluck the strings to your guitar. Once, Bucky hears you playing a new one in the morning and tells you that that one’s going to be his new favorite song. He tells you that it sounds honest, more… you.

He doesn’t know that it’s inspired by him. 

In your last few days, you refuse to worry too much about what this all means once you leave. For all you know, this is an easy, temporary thing for Bucky. You’re a blip, a shooting star that’ll fizzle out the moment you leave. 

The thought hurts more than you expect. 

However, you at least wake up feeling rejuvenated. Maybe the world hasn’t completely destroyed every piece of you, maybe you can still find her somewhere inside of you. Your phone blares with a shrill noise and you are roused in irritation for the first time in a while.

“What?”

“Lovely way to greet your friend slash fierce protector,” Yelena snaps. You grumble about how early it is and how on earth are you awake right now. She hesitates briefly, which has you peeking an eye open from where your face is mushed against your pillow. “Have you checked your notifications?”

That’s never a good sign. 

You push yourself up and lean against your headboard, thumb immediately scrolling through the barrage of messages and news alerts on your screen. Your blood runs cold. The last time this happened—

“I’m sure it’s different,” Yelena chimes in first but your eyes are scanning through every word.

Your name. Bucky’s. Evidence. Sources close to the pair. Another sex scandal. Pictures and pictures and more pictures. Every single news outlet has published grainy pictures of the two of you, photos that look like they’ve been taken from behind bushes and trees. An absolute obliteration of your privacy.

Shame settles firmly in your gut. This is exactly why your dad brought you here — and yet here you are again. Fuck.

“I need to—” your breath catches in your throat. What do you need to do? What can you even do? The damage is done. It’s more red on your ledger and you’re running out of ways to wipe your slate clean. 

“Listen,” she interrupts softly, “I don’t want to add more to your plate but I talked to one of the reporters. They were apologetic but they had to report it. It seems like it came from someone who knows what you’ve been up to very well.”

“It’s a small town. Everyone knows what I’ve been doing,” you hiss, “better yet, who I’ve been doing. I just didn’t think anyone would sell me out after the shit I did.”

“You don’t think there’s a chance it could be— no, it couldn’t possibly.” She’s quiet, waiting for you to deny it, but the thickness in your throat doesn’t allow you to. “Right?”

“I don’t know,” you whisper. “I’ve known him two weeks, Yelena. Maybe more if you count the memories I can barely remember but—”

What if this was his plan all along? All those years of tormenting him. All the shitty things you’ve said to him. You acting up— 

Been wantin’ to put you in your place, princess.

You shake your head. There’s absolutely no way. He said it in the moment, a comment meant to stir heat between your legs. 

But the voice inside your head, the one that insists that you doubt, is louder. It questions everything. Every interaction you’ve had with Bucky. Every touch, every kiss. It burns uncertainty into your skin until you see the creeping skepticism on the back of your hands. Because, at the end of the day, you don’t really know Bucky Barnes. Regardless of how much time you’ve spent with him the last couple of weeks, you’ve learned the hard way that anyone could put on an act, even — no, especially — ones as charming as him.

“You should talk to him first. I doubt he’s the one who spilled.”

You also doubt that you can say for certain that he isn’t. Swallowing thickly, you try to ignore how your heart feels like it’s been ripped out of your chest, beating bloody in the palm of his hand. His smile, one you always picture to be soft and sincere, twists into something ugly, something sinister. 

You spend the morning scrolling through the articles. Countless pictures of the two of you, all of them similar so you at least know they were captured by one invasive individual. However, the articles are where the meat sits — criticisms of your promiscuity, accusations of being a terrible role model, and even comments on Bucky’s worth as your partner. 

It doesn’t sit right with you. Why would Bucky bad mouth himself to the press if he wants to get his fame? To throw the scent of him. Even so, it paints him in a negative light. Any press is good press. Why would he even need the press? Maybe, just like you, he’s trying to make it out of here.

Both the angel and devil on your shoulder are working overtime, stitching doubt and questions into what you thought was a healthy relationship with Bucky. Now the dark clouds are sewn into every memory you’ve had with him.

Coming down for breakfast, you’re sufficiently pissed off. All that hurt has simmered into a rage that you’re ready to channel towards the one person you think deserves it. Luckily for you, he’s standing in the kitchen. Cooking breakfast.

He smiles wide when he sees you, “Hey, I’m making some french— what’s wrong?” The joy wipes off his face to make room for confusion. 

“You’re fucking kidding me right,” you snap, arms crossed over your chest. You don’t bother cleaning yourself up, hair in a tangled mess and pajamas rumpled from your deep sleep. You don’t bother paying attention to the way Bucky’s eyes had softened when he saw you in this state.

“Gonna have to give me more than that, princess. I’m not followin’.”

You turn your phone to face him with the article with the headline: America’s Favorite Pop Princess Caught Rolling in the Hay with Local Farmhand. It’s a disgusting piece but all the details are there — censored pictures, firsthand accounts from the source, and the scandalization of it all. 

“Maybe I should’ve made you sign an NDA like everyone else. I’m an idiot.”

It takes him a second before he’s whipping his gaze up to you, disbelief scratched into his irises. “What? You think I did this? That I would tell the press about us? That I would do this to you?” 

“I don’t know what to think! It doesn’t matter what I think or what I do. This is the shit that I have to deal with and—” and I would never want to put you through this. You swallow that bitter realization. No matter what you do, even if it wasn’t him, it would be someone else. God knows what else the press will do to him. “And it doesn’t matter,” you say, defeated. “It doesn’t matter. I can’t do this.”

Bucky says your name and the sound knicks your heart. 

“I should’ve known better,” you mutter, “this shit just isn’t worth dealing with. I should be focused on my next album, focused on writing those songs and getting them to chart. What’s the point of putting myself out there when all I do is end up in the news?”

“Because it’s worth it,” he insists, hands catching your arms. “Please. You gotta believe me, princess. I didn’t do this. I would never do this to you.”

You offer him a wry smile. “That’s what the last guy said too.” Tugging yourself away from him, you rub the places where his touch has burned. “I can’t do this, Buck. I’m leaving in a couple of days anyway and I can’t risk anymore of my career. Every time this shit happens, I cause trouble for the rest of my team, my family.”

“That’s not on you—”

“I know that!” You snap, pinching the bridge of your nose. “I’m well aware that these are circumstances outside my control. I’m aware that I cannot control people whose entire livelihood depends on me losing mine. It doesn’t change the facts. Even if we keep whatever this thing is going, you and I are going to be dragged through the mud and neither of us will recover.”

Bucky’s jaw clenches, tongue digging into his cheek. “So, what? You’re just going to give up every shot you have at happiness? Life beyond whatever the fuck they’re putting you through? You’re going to let them win?”

“No, I’m playing their game. I don’t have to like it but what choice do I have?”

“Stand up for yourself. Don’t let this shit derail you from what you can do. You have the world at your fingertips, millions who love you — including the very people in this house.” 

It’s easier said than done. It’s too tempting to fall into this myth of falling in love, of being allowed to fall in love. Your life isn’t one that permits it. You’ve seen the making and breaking of one too many relationships to believe that it’s possible for someone in your life. The rare few that succeed are lucky — lucky to have found someone in the right time, the right place. 

“Appreciate the vote of confidence, but this won’t work, Bucky.” 

He looks like he’s about to interrupt again and, for a second, you wish that he does. However, he keeps his lips sealed — and that’s the end of it. 

On your last evening, the dinner table is quiet. It’s just you, your dad, and your grandma. A small family affair. When your grandma asks if you’ve invited Bucky, you tell that that you’d rather keep it to a small, intimate dinner. She gives you a suspicious look but doesn’t press further. 

As you’re doing the dishes after, your grandma makes sure that your dad is out of earshot when she finally questions you. That is when you tell her everything — the scandal, the media, the pictures. She doesn’t shame you for engaging in extramarital affairs, god knows that’s the least of your problems. 

“He wouldn’t do that,” she whispers as you tuck herself into her side. 

“I know,” you murmur, “I know you believe in him. I want to believe in him. It’s just hard to draw lines between those you can trust and those you can’t, and I’d rather… not trust anyone at all if those are the two choices I have.”

She flicks your forehead gently. “That’s not the way to live, honey. As hard as it may be, taking those risks are a part of life and — yes, you’ve gotten hurt, but you always bounce back. Always. The people that love you know who you are, they know who’s in the wrong, and it is not you.”

“Thanks, grandma,” you smile, “but it wouldn’t have worked anyway. We live different lives now. He probably wants nothing to do with a girl like me. This life isn’t for everyone — your every move scrutinized and published for everyone to see. It’s a lot to ask of someone.”

Her laugh tinkles through the air. “You’d be surprised.”

Then you’re heading home. The plane rumbles as you climb the stairs up. You take one last look at the land before you, at your grandma who stands at the base of the plane waving. You take a deep breath and then you take your seat. 

Los Angeles is the same as you left it. The only difference now is that the paparazzi has been made aware of your arrival at this airport, your flight manifest leaked somehow. You arrive to blinding flashes and questions about your latest tryst, one too many of them asking where this guy is. You grit your teeth and let your dad push through the crowd into the car. 

Life is the same. Busier than ever. Now that you’re working on your album full time, it’s hard to find time for anything else — which is ideal because, if you were left alone with your thoughts, you tend to wander to that small town and a certain not-so-small man. The last guy who you had been with already milked his fame and you worry that the media is now hounding Bucky for more details. Guilt carves itself into your bones. These are the days you’re tempted to reach for your phone, to call him and ask him how he’s doing, but you stomp down on that urge. 

It’s better this way.

The paparazzi hasn’t let up. They’re at your door, they’re outside the studio, they’re camping out the restaurant that you’re at with Yelena. She gives them the stinkeye and a proper middle finger as the two of you enter. 

“So, that’s it then?” She asks when you give her the full rundown of what’s transpired. “You have hot sex with a cowboy and then you go home? You’re really living the Hollywood life.” You give her a look as you take a sip of your third glass of wine. It’s that kind of night. “Your dad seems to like him, which is surprising because he doesn’t like anyone.”

That has you stopping. “What? How do you know that?”

“He told me,” she shrugs, “we were catching up on your schedule for the next couple of months and he mentioned that, despite him wishing you would stay single for the rest of your life, if he had to choose one man for you, that one isn’t a bad choice. I saw the pictures, I’m sure he’s more than enough.” Her wiggling eyebrows has you flinging a fry her way.

“I didn’t know he said that,” you mumble. “Bucky is a good guy. He just… deserves better. He doesn’t want this life.” You gesture to the flashing lights and the men still lingering around the entrance, waiting for your exit. “And I am tired of figuring out who to trust. I don’t want to play this game of roulette and being made a fool. Again.”

“Better a fool that got played once than be wise enough to never fall in love.” 

You bark out a laugh. “Just made that up?” She states that it’s a Yelena original. “It’s a nice thought in theory. I don’t know. He hasn’t reached out again since our last conversation. Maybe he’s realized that I’m also not worth all this. It’s a fair assessment, I wouldn’t wish this life on anyone.”

“One day, you’ll realize that you’re worth it all, sweetheart. If anyone knew what it meant to have you love them, they would do anything for you.”

The one thing you did take away from your time in Tennessee is that you do need to stop taking everything they do on the chin. You stand up for yourself when the paparazzi become too demanding and entitled, snapping at them to be more polite at red carpets and telling them off whenever they’re absolutely crossing the line on invading your privacy. While you received backlash for the incident, you also received an outpouring of love. Fans who defend your stance, industry peers who echo your sentiment. It’s one weight off your chest. 

But you go home at the end of the evening to your penthouse and the place is much too quiet. Sometimes you can hear Bucky whispering reassurances in your ear and that hallucination is the only thing that keeps you tethered to this life. 

When you hear him say your name, a little too clearly this time, you think you may be losing it. 

When you see him standing in the middle of your living room, you think your imagination has gone too far. 

The second emotion that lands is panic. You’re immediately reaching for your phone. Your grandma can say that he’s a good guy all she wants but when you find this man standing in the middle of your apartment looking every bit as delicious as ever, you should be calling security. 

It’s even worse when he takes the phone from your hand before you can ring up your ex-military doorman downstairs. He catches the flash of fear in your eyes and immediately backs up, even seeming a little hurt by that minute reaction. 

“Not here to hurt you, princess. Promise. Your dad let me in.”

“My dad? Since when do you talk to my dad?”

“I figured you wouldn’t take my calls so I reached out to him,” Bucky clears his throat. “Hope that’s okay.”

“Sure, that’s what most people do anyway. It doesn’t matter what I want, they always figure out a workaround,” you snip a little too bitterly. A flicker of regret crosses his eyes and that claws at your chest. You take a deep breath. “Sorry, that wasn’t fair. It’s fine. He’s met you,” you relent, “what’re you doing here?”

“To set the record straight.” He tells you about how he spent the last few days asking around, investigating on who would be sharing such intimate details about your life with the press. “Everyone there loves you, especially after what you did with the fundraiser. I knew it had to be someone who had an issue with you. That led me to John.”

John… isn’t he the—

“Yeah, that guy,” Bucky drawls out in annoyance. “Apparently he felt jilted that you flirted with him when he caught us one night. He reached out to a tabloid and realized he could get paid, so he started telling every single one of them.”

“Fucker,” you spit out venomously. 

“Tell me about it.”

“You could’ve told me all this over the phone.”

He cocks an eyebrow, “Would you really have picked up?”

“An email would’ve sufficed too.”

“I wanted to make sure you couldn’t avoid me.”

Blue washes over you and you can’t help but give into the pull of the water. “I’m sorry for thinking it was you,” you murmur, “I knew — I knew that deep down it wasn’t.”

“You couldn’t have known for certain,” he shakes his head, “you’ve been burned before and you had the right to doubt me. I get that.” His teeth catches his bottom lip, his attempt to hide his sheepish smile. “Plus, if I’m being honest, I’m out here because I missed you.”

Your jaw practically drops to the floor. You manage to rasp, “What?”

He chances a step towards you, cautious. When you don’t move, he takes another. He reaches for your hand, thumb brushing over the back of it. “Didn’t realize how much I missed you until I saw you walk through those doors. How much I wanted you.”

“Wanted?” You squeak, pain bleeding into your voice.

“Want,” he emphasizes, “Present. Always.”

“You think I’m a bitch,” you choke out.

“No, I think you’ve put up walls around your heart and this picture-perfect image of yours because you know what you have to do to protect your dream,” he smiles softly, “I think you’re smart, funny, incredible. You know exactly how to push my buttons and I don’t want to imagine you doing that with anyone else.” 

Your heart soars, climbing to cloud nine and — for a moment, it levitates. For a moment, you have hope. But the realization of where you are, who you are quickly sinks in. “Bucky… this could never work.”

“Why not?”

“First of all, we live in different places.”

“Planes exist.”

“For how long? I’m never— I’m never gonna leave this place and you have your house there and the animals and the town.”

The corners of his lips quirk up. “There are farms everywhere. But you do also realize I can do a lot of things. I’m a certified mechanic and a city like this could always use another one.” His name leaves your lips, but he cuts you off. “I’m laying it all out on the table. I’m ready to make this work because I want you. I want you. The question is do you?”

A whimper crawls out your throat. “It’s going to be a pain to deal with me. Everyone follows me everywhere.”

“I’m one of them. Next question.”

“Paparazzi will be hounding you.”

“I know ten different ways to say fuck off.” You’re scrambling to find more excuses, but all of them die on the tip of your tongue. You don’t want him to leave. You don’t want to scare him away. This is it. “What do you say, princess? Want to take a chance with me?”

He holds out his palm out, fingers stretched out. You look at his hand, one that you’re used to having wrapped around yours. You look at him, those honest blue eyes that never seem to stray far away from you. “Yes,” you whisper. 

“Good girl,” he grins as he brushes his lips against yours. “Now, let me take my time showing you what you’ve been missing out on.”

“Better make it worth my time, Barnes,” you laugh breathlessly. 

“Always will, princess.”

+ sam: thank you for reading if you've made it this far!!! longest bucky fic to date but holy heck, glad i finally finished a wip ha. shoutout to @singulartoast for being my farm x city lover too with her fic!!!

bucky is kissing (taglist): @superbassbuck @earthsmightiestbenders @houseofhyde @its-in-the-woods @flockoff-featherface @winterdecember18 @chateaubarnes @54nboo @phoenix-in-writing @tofuonfaiya @avengersfan25 @miraclediviner @averyhotchner @hailmary-yramliah @catclaw1 @heldbybarnes @blowingbarnes @stanmarvelous @pinksplace @lunexiax @54nboo @it-is-rebel-owl-ma-dudes @esunarint @captain-shannon-becker @lunaryoongie @sergeantsebastian @alli0-0 @amoremarveloustime @natskisses @sarah1barnes @parker-barnes-af @sarah1barnes @onecojg @/iamthatonefangirl @stegosaurussims @angelryex @evelynstanmarvel @lokisgirlie @mathcat345 @flippedccc @lynnidc @winnichu173 @/singulartoast @zhaixiaowen @c3liaaaaa @buckysdecaflove @epiphanyrogers @itsmadamehydra @cutttteeee @macbaetwo @blobfishlol @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @erina00 @idkbeautiful @goobers-mcgee @globetrotter28 @rach2602 @star-yawnznn @my-drvidess @deeninadream @fruitypebsworld @ella-rowen @smorgasbrods @ruptureedspleen @awkwardgiraffe726 @a-very-fictional-girl @misswhiddless @femmewithmommyissues2001 @onyx8514 @pandasslol @eiaf4uwn @wickedfun9 @nbhrhn @w1nchesterfiles @ae1szn @umm-ok-fine @its-pomegranite @67-angelofthelordme-67 @dontputyourfckingdrinkonmytable @wowitsafemale @shoutingcardinal @theyluvreynira27 @sunnliqht @victoriuhmm @obsidianwidow @micnicmabel

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[godmadeaterribleerror]

Ohhhhh yes💛💛💛

[buckysdecaflove]

Behind closed doors.

All my stories are R18. I write smut, and I may touch sensitive topics or topics that are not intended to be read by minors.

YOU ARE RESPONSIBLE FOR YOUR OWN CONTENT CONSUMPTIONS.

Masterlist

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x F!Reader

Warning/Tags: Modern AU, PURE PURE SMUT, BARELY ANY PLOT, BASICALLY PORN, Soft Dom Bucky Barnes, Edging, Spanking, Kind of BDSM but make it inaccurate, Reader is sexually frustrated, Faux Kidnapping, Reader is tied up, DDDNE. I might be missing a tag, read at your own risk.

Word count: ~4.7k

Summary: After months of failed dates, Wanda decides to introduce you to Bucky Barnes, with whom you end up having more in common than you think.

Author's Note: This has been waiting on my drafts for MONTHS. literal months. This is something I owed my baby @kileyking so this is going to be a surprise for her. I wanna issue an apology to my tag list for tagging you in this... im very self aware right now... And mostly!!! thank you to @w1nter-fairy for betareading!!!

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” You tried to comb your hair one more time before surrendering.

“He’s a great guy; Sam told me he’s been single for a while.”

“I wonder why,” you mumbled before finishing to apply your lipstick.

“I promise he’s not a psycho. Sam told me he’s just rough around the edges.”

You rolled your eyes and sighed at the mirror. This was your third first date in two months. It was not like you were desperate, but guys nowadays were not fitting your needs—and you were not the one to settle for anything just because you were in need of some dick.

When you arrived at the restaurant, the hostess made you aware he was already there waiting for you—as soon as he saw you, 6’0’’ of the most handsome man you’ve ever seen in your entire life.

He greeted you, confirming your name.

“In the flesh. James… no. Bucky, right?”

“You can call me whatever you want—Bucky is a very old nickname my friends called me by when I was in college, and I couldn’t get rid of…”

He helped you to sit on your chair and went back to his, sitting in front of you.

The waitress poured wine into your glass before you could even ask for something else.

“Hope you don’t mind. I just ordered wine to the table to skip some steps—but if you need or want something else, don’t feel forced to drink it at all.”

“I—It’s fine. I like wine.”

“So, how do you know Wanda?” He finally asked.

“Oh, we’ve been friends since we were children, but I was out of town for some years. I came back to rest for a while. And, how do you know Sam? Wanda is head over heels for him.”

“Yeah. We served together… and I kinda took some time too to recover from that.”

“Oh…” You wanted to say something. Whatever. But your mind didn’t find the right words.

“No need. I’m much better now. I’m glad I did it. I’m glad that I came back almost in one piece.”

You furrowed and tried to laugh off that comment until your hand finally fell to his left hand.

A metal hand. He swirled his tongue over his lip.

“If you want to leave, I… I’d get it.”

“Why… Why would I want to leave?”

“Most woman think it’s not their thing…”

You chuckled, “I wouldn’t even care if you told me all your limbs are prosthetics.”

He laughed, full belly.

“I think I surpass the first flirt in my dating pool so far.”

“Let’s see how far we can get,” You mumbled before sipping on your wine.

The dinner continued with bottles of wine coming around faster than you would on any other first date, and for the first time, you felt comfortable with it. On other dates, you’d be careful not to drink too much alcohol, but that night with Bucky, everything seemed fine.

The dim light of the restaurant helped you feel less inhibited, and Bucky had already discarded his jacket, letting you see his metal arm full on display. Black and golden. Something you had never seen before.

“Shoot it.” He said as soon as he noticed you were staring at it.

“I’m so sorry, I've never seen something like this before.”

“Yeah. New technology. Pretty expensive, but I was promised I wouldn’t even notice it was not my arm.”

“And how have you felt with it?”

“By now, great. Thanks for asking.” He smirked.

You were really questioning if you were the weird one, because so far, you couldn’t even understand why he was failing in his dates. He was charming, never even mentioned the price of anything, and didn’t even bat an eye when you ordered a normal amount of food for a girl your age. He was handsome, a gentleman.

“Bucky… I need to ask something.”

He furrowed his brow, and after sipping on his glass, he nodded.

“Why are you still single?”

The smirk on his face was something brought from heaven. It looked angelic, but you could see something was hidden behind it.

“I think I haven’t clicked with my other dates.” You tried to play dumb, but you knew he was not being as honest as you wanted.

“But, being honest. I need more than that, Bucky.”

The expression on his face changed immediately.

“It’s just that. Not really something I can control. We were never a match.”

His voice was harsh—and that was it. You had always been short-tempered, but somehow, something ignited in you that you weren’t yet capable of understanding.

“What is it?” You pushed again.

When he didn’t answer, you nodded. Knowing well you weren’t going to receive a clear answer, you stood up, gathered your things, and before you could even mumble your farewells, his stern eyes stopped you on the spot.

“Sit.” He ordered.

You knew that tone of voice. You knew exactly where that kind of voice came from. That kind of imperative voice that could have you, literally, on your knees.

And as if something had been turned on within you. You sat.

“I knew I saw it in you.” He smirked. “I think I don’t need to say why I don’t click with most of my dates, and now I can see why you didn’t like the men before me… Too weak? Too vanilla?”

He mumbled, leaning over the table, his hands crossed in his chest, eyes locked on yours.

“Too weak.” You accepted, finally.

“Does Wanda know?” You shook your head.

“Does Sam know?” It was your time to ask; he motioned with his head, repeating your answer.

“I—I don’t like for people to know how I deal with my bedroom life.” You murmured.

“And more when you’re the one who receives the orders and is on her knees most of the time, am I right?”

You bit your lip.

“You’re a big girl; you can use your words.” He mumbled. His tone of voice was now low-pitched.

“Yes…”

“I’m not gonna discuss our personal life here. I am also not going to ask you to leave for a second location. So, what about we continue with our nice dinner, and then we can text later tonight to… get to know each other a little bit more?” He sipped on his wine. “Only if you’re okay with that.”

“Yes… Yes… I’m fine with that.”

He was charming. He knew it. But he was also the most respectful man you had ever encountered in this lifestyle.

Later that night, he took you home. Kissed your cheek and faded away as soon as you shut your door.

Not even an hour later, he texted you, letting you know he was home.

Two weeks went by, and you texted till late at night. Messing with your sleep schedule, sending photographs in the middle of the day, trying to tease him enough to make him beg for more, you wanted to see him again; you needed to be proven you were not too much to handle, as previous partners had told you—but he didn’t want to leave anything outside.

From safewords, kinks, hard and soft boundaries, whatever you both needed to know about each other. You even told him you could meet up to have a warm-up, but based on what you both were into. He wanted the full experience, and you did too. Those weeks were full of you trying to be sure he was interested. His early ‘Good morning’ messages were always on time. His sneak and peek photos of his dark dick under his jeans or sweatpants got you drooling.

“How was your date with Bucky? It seems like an eternity since the last time I saw you.”

“Oh, nice… We kinda hit it off, but we’re just like… getting to know each other.” You stirred your cup of coffee.

“That’s the first time I've heard you say something like that and not a fake ‘It was nice’ response.” She looked genuinely surprised.

“Well! I can’t lie. I liked him.” Wanda cheered.

“Sam told me months ago that he was sure you two would hit it off immediately, and I didn’t believe it… Maybe he has a better eye to choose a partner for you than I.”

“Might be.” You bit your lip.

“So, second date? When?”

“We are just—” Setting boundaries, you thought, “planning something cute for the second date.”

“Well, you already found each other. Don’t waste too much time!” She winked at you.

You loved Wanda; you really did. And you knew she would never judge whatever thing you did; she saw you in your sluttiest years, when you almost got married; she had seen you in your best and worst; you knew she would never bat an eye at the fact that you liked it a bit different. But you were not sure if you could look her in the eye and tell her you liked to be controlled in the bedroom, to be spanked, humiliated… You were not sure if you could tell anyone that.

Later that day, you were sitting on your couch watching a movie. Bucky had been busy at work, so he was not so active, but he had given you a heads-up about it.

Then your phone rang.

20:00 “How was your brunch with Wanda?”

20:03 “Funny how she asked the same about you.”

20:05 “Oh, you talked about me on your girl’s date?”

You chuckled.

20:06 “Just because you kept me interested.”

20:08 “I could do much more if you gave me the chance.”

And that’s how you ended up in a secluded parking lot.

The deal was easy.

He was a man stalking you and taking you from the parking lot after weeks of harassment.

22:00 “Hey? Are you near? It’s getting late.”

22:05 “Really, Bucky? So classy of you. Leaving a woman stranded in this situation.”

22:15 “Fuck you, man.”

But your texts went unanswered, and Wanda was not even answering your calls.

You were hating yourself for trusting a man again.

When you were about to leave, you felt a hand on your mouth.

The problem? It was not a cold metal hand, as he had told you he was not going to do to make sure you knew it was him.

“You look so pretty to be this alone.” His hoarse voice fell on your ear. You tried to fight back, kicking and trying to push the man away.

He scoffed a laugh, and the hand that held your mouth gripped harder while he pinned you against your car. His hands were covered with black leather gloves, and before you could scream for help, duct tape muffled your howls.

“Be a fucking good girl and take it.”

He scolded, his rough lips kissing your ear. His hands traveled on your jeans till they found your car keys. He opened it and tossed you on the backseat, kneeling on your butt. Your cold sweat was running down your forehead, while you damned Bucky once and twice. This was all his fucking fault.

How reckless of him to be late for something this dangerous?

Your tears were about to start when you felt something familiar—a rope on your wrists.

“That idiot didn’t even know how to block his phone.” He mumbled, and finally, his metal arm caressed your back when your shirt rode up while he was tying you up.

Your heart finally eased its pace. You finally realized it was Bucky.

‘Oh, he’s full on it.’ You thought.

When you were completely tied up, you realized you were facing a professional. Your wrists hurt enough for you to enjoy it, but not enough to hurt or leave a mark. Then, he tossed over you a blanket you had prepared to cover yourself—if things got hotter in the parking lot. Little did you know, it would fulfill another purpose.

“Were you telling earlier? How classy of me to let you all alone in a parking lot? So low of you. Thinking that I’d stood you up after days of talking.”

You tried to bark back, but your mouth was still muffled with the duct tape.

Another spank landed on your ass cheek.

He stood up, shut the door, and walked to the front.

You couldn’t see, but the ride was long. Long enough for you not to even know where you were heading. You knew you were safe; Wanda and Sam knew you were together. You trusted Bucky and everyone around him.

When the car finally parked somewhere. He opened the door and pulled you out by your ankle, tossing you over his shoulder, spanking hard your ass—it was getting a habit to him.

You finally noticed you were heading to his house. His garage was completely dark, and you could see your car parked inside.

He walked with you on his shoulder until you saw his bedframe. He tossed you and stripped the duct tape violently.

“Color?”

“Fuck you! Green!” You shouted, “That was not part of the deal!”

He gripped your chin and lifted your head to make you look at him. “What? Did you expect something soft, cute, and gentle? If you wanted gentle, you should’ve stayed with your weak-ass men.”

Your cunt clenched at his words—you knew he was right. This was what you wanted, what you had asked for many times. You knew he was not going to go easier on you unless you really meant it.

The grip on your chin loosened, but before you could say anything, he pushed you to the bed, unzipped your jeans, and pulled them down along with your panties.

“Look at this! All that bark to be this wet.” He chuckled and then stripped a line with his tongue, licking from your arse to your clit, sucking on it.

You were squirming on the bed while you tried to push him away. He held your thighs strongly before detaching himself from your clit with a ‘plop’.

“Stay still if you don’t want me to make you ask for it.”

You froze at his words. He nodded and went back to his ministrations. Tongue delving again in your entrance, while his nose kept nudging on your clit, and almost immediately, his finger slid in without any warning. Your back arched, and he smiled.

“Look at you. How long has it been since a man fucked you correctly?” He towered over you while his finger kept sliding in and out. “How long?”

“Months,” you mumbled, trying to keep your eyes open.

“Poor baby. That’s why Wanda was so desperate for you to find someone? Months without a proper dick?”

A second finger slide, and you were almost numb just from his fingers. The whole situation got you all worked up. It was the first man ever to find the guts to make you feel like you were helpless.

Your hands started to feel numb, like they were running out of blood.

“Bucky! My hands!”

He sighed, fed up, and with the same lack of mercy, he yanked his fingers out of your cunt.

He turned you around, your cheek pressed against his mattress.

He finally loosened the rope around your wrists, and you didn’t notice, but he caressed them slowly to confirm you weren’t really hurt by it.

“Hands above.” He ordered, and you did as you were told. “Did you bring what you were asked?”

“More clothes and my self-care products.” You repeated.

“Good girl.” He then proceeded to rip your blouse and break your bra from behind.

“Fuck you!” You barked. “That was new.”

Leaning on your back, his lips found your ear. “I can pay for three of those if you shut your fucking mouth.”

His fingers found your cunt again, hooking his fingers on your entrance, curling them, finding your most sensitive spot. His hand grasped your hip to hold you steady; his eyes were fixed on the arch of your back, the way it went deeper every time he curled up his fingers.

When your mind was getting foggy, and you could feel your orgasm was almost rocketing, he stopped his movements.

“Bucky!” You cried out, and he chuckled.

“Oh, poor baby. You were so ready to come on my fingers, but it’s too early for it.”

You now regretted everything you told him you were okay with.

Overstimulation, edging, spanking, praising—some slight degradation.

He made you confirm everything you were into, and made sure to use it against you.

Leaning over your body, he pressed his forehead against yours, locking eyes with you. His breathing was heavy, his tongue licked his lower lip, and his hands still held your body by the hips.

“You look much better now than pretending you’re having fun on a fuckin’ vanilla date.”

“Well, after thinking I was going to be kidnapped by a psychopath, everything seems better.” You squirmed on the bed.

“Did you really think I was going to stand you up? You were teasing me all week, sending me those pornographic photographs, those audios that made me be on my knees… just for what? For me to be late—” You noticed how his hand traveled to his zipper.

“You didn’t answer my texts!” You cried out.

He scoffed a laugh, and his belt clacked on the floor. “You wanted realism. That’s what I gave you.” He was undressing himself, and you finally saw his bare body, first you noticed his dog tags dangling on his chest—they seemed so great there somehow, then you noticed the spot where his shoulder connected to the metal limb had deep scars—you didn’t really ask about it previously, but now that you were in front of it, all your attention was dragged into it.

You noticed how he immediately became self-conscious. You regretted it right away. You lifted your legs, straddling his waist—making him closer.

“James… I need you.” You mumbled, almost begging.

You noticed how he was really trying to come back to his mood. “Oh, do you?”

You nodded, trying to touch him. He slapped your hand, preventing you from touching him.

A thud sound made you look at him; his jeans were gone, and he was jerking himself, your hands clutched in the bedding. His metal hand kept you open by one of your shoulders as he still stroked his cock. His eyes were soft, half-lidded, lips red from his previous ministrations.

“Come here,” he mumbled. You fixed your posture and knelt on the mattress—you were looking up at him; his metal arm now gripped the back of your neck, pulling you closer to his tip.

You opened your mouth, and your tongue found his tip, delving your tongue over it; a dry grunt came from his throat. You could feel his hand gripping harder—you finally enveloped his cock with your mouth; a wet, sloppy feeling engulfed him as he helped you to bob your head.

“Keep going,” He ordered, and you could notice how he blissed out. He kept heaving his hips as you tried not to gag on his cock.

When you felt his cock twitching on your mouth, he yanked you by your hair, pulling out from your mouth. You panted immediately and you noticed the way his chest heaved trying to calm down.

Before you could complain, he made you turn around, ass up in the air, head smeared on his mattress. His flesh hand held you steady by your lower back; you turned around slightly and noticed he was wrapping himself up.

“What? Did you expect me to forget?” He scoffed a laugh.

Slowly, he sank to tower over you; his hand landed on your ass cheek—it was not even to spank—you learned through the weeks he was not a sadist; he just liked it a little bit rougher.

“Ready?” He whispered in your ear; he smeared the lube on the condom on your ass. You nodded eagerly. “Sweetheart…”

“Yes, James… Please…”

“Please… what?”

You grunted; you had literally said you loved explicit consent—now you had to own your words. “Please fuck me…”

A dry laugh made you dizzy, and he pushed his cock into you. He was big; your hands found his duvet, clenching it. When he noticed it, he took your hands and cuffed them in your back with his metal hand. Now your head was fully drowned in the place. He was frantically popping in the hilt. His tip was slamming on your cervix, making you roll your eyes—the warmth that came from his body was making you sweat, drowning you in all the feelings.

Your hips were rocking only by his pounding; you were basically grounded to the bed. He kept panting; some praises to you came broken from his throat. Some sweet glistened on his forehead, and his cheeks were completely flushed.

He leaned and dropped a kiss on your shoulder when he noticed you were squirming; your body was already on cloud nine.

“Color, sweetheart?” His lips were still on your shoulder.

“Green,” you keened.

“Good girl.”

You knew you were not going to cum only by his dick—you had never been able. You had told him, and you were expecting him to help you with his finger or at least let you do it on your own as he fucked you.

When he noticed the way you were dozing off, he gripped your chin from your back, “You’re here with me, don’t forget it.”

“James… Remember…” You cried out. He turned your head to look at him. “I can’t…”

He scoffed and pecked your cheek. “Oh, you think you’re not gonna cum only with my cock, right… right…”

Pulling out, he made you come down from your peak.

“Why—” You were about to complain, and he pushed his hands over your face, metal hand spreading you open and sinking once again.

Eyes rolling, mouth panting on his hand, his cock splitting you open. It was there when he noticed a pattern—every time you were reaching a peak, your cunt started to clench and then unclenching, almost like if you were trying to push him out, and trying to cross that bridge, he pulled out. If you were not letting yourself come, he was not going to do it either. Then, he put you on top of him, hands still cuffed on your back, as he pounded on you.

He was basically treating you like a fleshlight… and then, once again. The unconscious clenching and unclenching, your eyes pinched close, mouth pursing, hand clenching under his metal grip.

Then, he stood up and pulled himself out from you once again.

You knew it was on purpose. There was no way he was doing it by accident. He put you down and made you kneel; he took out the condom and looked directly at you.

“Suck.” His hand wrapped your hair in a messy bun; you furrowed but complied, sucking his dick immediately, hollowing your cheeks, delving your tongue. You tried to grin on your thighs, trying to make you feel something, and he pulled from your hair.

“Don’t.” He scolded and pushed you to his cock once again.

After some minutes, he pulled you up from your hair and made you lie down in the bed. He positioned himself between your legs and carefully took a second condom from his jeans, putting on the condom before sliding it without even letting you adjust to his size.

Your head tilted to the back as you bit your lip; you were tired—overstimulated, and you hadn’t even come… You were about to tell him to just let you masturbate to make you finish, and you could just suck him off to make him come too. You were feeling the same you always felt, that heat pooling on your lower abdomen, a warmth going through your veins—and then, nothing. It was always the same. You were feeling the contraction on your cunt and, once again, he pulled out. You grew frustrated.

“James!” You finally whined. “What the fuck are you doing?!”

He finally smiled. “Color?”

“Yellow, red… I don’t fuckin’ know what you're doing?!” Your voice was full of anger.

He chuckled, “I’m not doing anything; you’re the one who’s not letting yourself cum…”

Your mouth fell to the ground.

“I can feel you, sweetheart. You are not letting yourself come… and I’m not gonna just finger you or rub your clit when I know… I can feel it… I can feel the way you clench around my cock…”

You sighed and looked at him.

“I have never been able to do it…”

“Let me help you, let me take you there…” His voice was sincere. It was not even a matter of ego. He really wanted to help you.

“Fine…”

He gripped his cock and teased your slit again, “I’m gonna put it in… okay?” You nodded.

“You’re gonna tell me what you feel… every sensation…” He split your slit carefully, his tip kissing your core, sliding in slowly. “How do you feel?”

“I feel warm in my cunt…” You said, closing your eyes.

“Great… is it good?” You nodded, “Good… Now, how do you make you come?” You furrowed your brow at the question. “Do you do it slow or fast?”

His cock was still halfway through. You tried to open your eyes, and he was focused solely on the way you moved.

“Slow… I rub slowly, and if I have a toy, I slide it the same way.”

He nodded, gripping the base of his cock and slowly thrusted—his hips rolled in a painfully delicious pace. You felt it again, pooling on your lower stomach; you were clenching, and Bucky was nodding—this was more a mission than a sexual scene. “There it is… Feel it… Don’t think too much… Follow my voice; is it helping?”

“Yes…”

“Want me to keep going?” You nodded. “You’re doing great, sweetheart… It was not your fault… These weak men didn’t know what to do with a girl like you…”

“James…” You cried out.

“Doing great, honey. Doing great.” The orgasm finally washed over you—shockwaves bursting through your whole body; you were sure you were about to faint from the feeling. “Fuck… that’s it… damp my cock.”

The pace was slow—but you could feel his cock throbbing inside; his grip on your hips felt harder, and with a final thrust you felt warm inside. His body trembled over you, his eyes fixed on your face—droplets of sweat in his chest.

He fell over your body. You were almost crying and panting as your climax went down.

“Fuck…” You mumbled. “What the hell did you do?”

“Listening to your body, sweetheart.” He whispered in the crook of your neck. “Listening what you needed.”

“Never stop doing so…” Your voice came strangled.

“Oh, you want more times, huh?” His cocky tone made you chuckle.

“Only if you want…”

“I would never get tired of this…”

He nibbled your neck and stood up—you thought he was next to you, but when you turned around to hug him, he was not there. A knot in your throat… Was he that kind of man?

Before spiralling, you saw him crossing the threshold, he brought a damp towel, a cup of water, and some pills.

“Painkillers and water, sweetheart.” He handed them to you. “If you don’t trust, you don’t have to take them… I just… I know it was too much.”

You smiled. “I just let you basically kidnap me, take me to a second location, fuck me and edge me for hours, and you’re worried I don’t trust you to take some pills?"

You swallowed and drank the water. He made you lie down again and started to clean you up; the cold towel made you shiver.

He threw the towel to the side, sank to your side, and tucked you in his arms.

“Sam asked me if we were going to have a second date.” He hushed a laugh.

“Oh, Wanda asked me the same.” You mumbled.

“We tell them we went to a nice dinner and we finished in my apartment?” He looked down at you, and you smiled.

“But we didn’t do that.” You laughed.

“We can do it tomorrow morning.” He smiled and closed his eyes.

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[godmadeaterribleerror]

good 4 u

✦Bucky Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Read on aO3!✦

✦summary: you've got a no good boyfreind. lucky bucky's here, to show you what you deserve✦

✦warnings/tags: bucky barnes x female!reader, enemies to lovers, emotional angst, everyone's bad at feelings, cheating (not by bucky, it's deserved) fluff, big porn level smut (stripping, finger sucking, dirty talk, possessive sex, praise kink, teasing, fingering, light brat taming, softdom!bucky, pussy spanking, dumbification, making out, sensitive reader, manhandling, bucky gets nasty, blowjobs, body worship, oral f!reciving overstimulation, mean!bucky, degradation kink, big dick bucky, creampie, he fucks like a machine), no use of y/n, no descrption of reader✦

✦wc: 8.6k✦

✦Author's Note: request! oh to be yearned after by bucky barnes in a kinda toxic but really hot way✦

“What the fuck is his problem?”

You don’t have to look, to figure out who your boyfriend is talking about. You can feel his glare from across the room, burning over your skin like a brand, making your leg bounce and your fingers pick restlessly at the label on your drink.

Bucky Barnes.

He always stares at you. It doesn’t matter if you’re hanging out at Steve’s place—technically Bucky’s place as well, but you refuse to give him any sort of credit about that—or getting coffee, or at the movies, or here, in another bar on a Friday night, trying to wash the week down with a drink, Bucky stares at you like he’s trying to kill you. It’s the kind of stare you’d find creepy from anyone else. A knit brow and heavy breathing, like just the sight of you makes him want to rip his head off. You glare back when you can, but tonight, you’re determined to ignore it. Ignore him.

Bucky can be as pretty and charming as he wants, he’s not getting a rise out of you. Not one that he can see, at least. When you got to the bar, he drawled your name and teased you about your drink, but you just grabbed your boyfriend’s hand and dragged him across the room without a look over your shoulder.

Maybe one look.

One look that Brock didn’t have to see, because he’s always accusing you and Bucky of having something. You’ve tried to explain to him that whatever something he thinks exists between you and Barnes is just the negative space of pure fucking loathing, but he doesn’t listen. He never listens.

“Barnes wants to fuck you,” he’d muttered last week, after you got home, and you’d rolled your eyes.

“Bucky does not want to fuck me, he can barely stand to be in the same room as me-“

“Because he wants to fuck you,” Brock has snapped. “I don’t want you hanging around him alone.”

You’d scoffed. “That’s- We’re friends-“

“Thought he hated you-“

“He does. But- It’s complicated.”

And it was. Bucky was Steve’s best friend, and Steve was your work husband, and Natasha was your best friend, and Steve’s actual girlfriend, and Bucky’s work wife, and Sam was Bucky’s other best friend and work husband, and your best friend—you’d even lived together, in college, which Brock never seemed to understand the concept of—and Steve’s business partner, which made him your boss, but you Nat’s and Bucky’s  boss, and it was a tangled mess of relationships and years of history that became impossible to unweave. You and Bucky were friends because if you weren’t, you were enemies, and that always hurt right under your ribs in a way you never wanted to acknowledge.

Bucky wasn’t a bad guy. He was a stubborn ass sometimes, and he stared a lot, and got kind of judgey about stupid things, but so did you. The first time you met, you’d just stared at each other for—according to Natasha—five straight minutes. Once you’d been at some stupid charity gala, and you’d spent the whole time gossiping in the corner about the old, rich assholes who needed a party to give their endless money to a good cause. You’d thought that you were friends. Really friends. Friends that could’ve been something more, if he’d asked you to be.

But he hadn’t. He never had. And you’d started to butt heads more, and he didn’t ask if you were good like he used to. He avoided you at the stupid parties and didn’t ask your opinion about small things. He didn’t wait for you to go to lunch, or sit with you when you had to stay late, and suddenly the friendship had slipped through your fingers, because it had been so fast you hadn’t been given time to realize you were supposed to hold on.

Some days you wonder what you did, and you want to strangle the answer out of his pretty, thick head. You thought you’d been good. You’d really thought you’d been good, and then he’d just gone and decided that you weren’t. That there was something about you he just couldn’t stand, and you never get to know what it was.

So if he wanted to play the hating game, you’d play it, and you’d win. You ignored him almost every day, only sneering back when you had a comment that you knew would land like a headshot.

“You look comfortable,” he’d muttered last week at Nat’s, and you’d shot him a glare.

Bucky’s mouth had twitched, as you’d just stared at him. He always seemed to enjoy making you want to kill him. You hope he also enjoyed it, when you actually killed him.

“No boyfriend tonight, huh?” He’d smirked, and you swallowed on your venom. “What, he off fucking strippers again?”

Your lip had curled. You’d just kept glaring, and Bucky had laughed.

“Don’t give me that look, doll. It’s not your fault you can’t keep him satisfied-“

“I keep him satisfied,” you’d snapped, your patience finally fraying.

And Bucky had given you a strange, tired look. It was sharp around the edges, but dull everywhere else. Almost cold. Almost exhausted.

“I bet you do,” he’d muttered, and you’d snapped.

“At least I have someone to satisfy, Barnes,” you’d hissed. “No one can even put up with you for a one night stand.”

Bucky had flinched, and the knot in your gut had been immediate. You told yourself you liked the second his armor shattered slightly. You liked the win. You told yourself over and over, that it was fine, because he struck first.

But your body hadn’t learned the lesson. And it felt wrong to be in your skin, whenever Bucky made that broken, vulnerable face. Like he’d almost forgotten how cruel you could be. Like he’d cared at all, that you’d struck back.

He didn’t. You reminded yourself that he didn’t. It was complicated, because it needed to be, for the sake of explaining to Brock. But to you, it was really, painfully simple.

You’d been in a small, blooming love with Bucky. He’d recoiled and poured hatred on you like pesticide, and your loved had curled and shriveled, but never fully died. You think there might be something wrong with you, that you can harbor feelings for a man who brings you nothing but storms. You gave up on trying to understand it a long time ago. Maybe, one day, you’ll tell your therapist. You’re really hoping the love just dies first. It’s humiliating enough to feel it, let alone say it aloud.

Brock demanded he come with you tonight. To keep an eye on Barnes. You didn’t fight him, because fights with Brock aren’t something you win. He was a relationship you started before Bucky, that had been on and off and on and off for years. In the sacred months where Bucky had liked you, Brock had been off on some work trip in Germany. He’d gotten back right when Bucky had decided to hate you, and you’d been a raw, vulnerable creature, just crawling on the beach for a new shell to call home. Brock had been there. He’d been a tight fight, and the love you’d felt for him had soured from the joy of Bucky, but you’d just needed something. And Brock had been asking you to be exclusive for years. So you’d finally just… given in.

It’s not a dream relationship. Sometimes you worry you’re going to marry him and have his babies, and he’d make such ugly babies. You don’t want them. You don’t really see another way.

You wouldn’t mind having Bucky’s babies. That’s not a very productive thought to have.

“He always stare this much?” Brock asks, and you shrug.

“Yeah. Maybe.”

“Yeah?” Brock snaps. “Or maybe. Can’t be both, sweetheart.”

“Yeah and maybe,” you mutter. “I don’t know.”

“Either he stares or he doesn’t-“

“He stares, I just don’t know what’s this much-“

“Then you should start paying fucking attention.”

You sigh, and give Brock a tight smile. His lip curls, and his eyes narrow, and you fight the urge to flinch away.

Bucky hates you. Your boyfriend doesn’t seem to like you all that much either. He won’t let Nat sit with you, and he certainly won’t let Sam sit with you, so now you’re just fucking here. At the crowded bar, all but alone, even with half a dozen worried or hateful eyes on you. You only give yourself eyes for your drink.

At least you have your drink.

You’re smiling. Laughing. Lighting up the whole bar from your little corner, and Bucky’s stuck over here in the dark.

He wants to drink until he can’t anything but your face and a whole blur of colors, but he got stuck being one of the drivers. He wants to go over and sock your stupid boyfriend in the face, but that would lead to a bigger conversation he knows you don’t want to have. This is a grave he dug for himself, but it didn’t even work right. He was supposed to bury himself alive and forget about you, high above him, brighter than the sun and prettier than the sky.

Instead he’s just lying in the dirt, six feet down, only able to watch you orbit around him like an angel. It’s hell. It’s torture. It’s exactly what he fucking deserves.

“You’re sulking again,” Steve says casually, and Bucky grunts.

“So?”

“It’s bringing everyone down, Buck-“

“They’re fine.”

Steve sighs. He does that a lot, when it comes to you and Bucky. He sighed when Bucky told him that he’d fallen in love with you. He sighed when Bucky decided you deserved better and started to push you away. He sighed when Bucky would lock himself on the fire escape for hours after parties, smoking and staring out at the city skyline until the wind was threatening to bite his skin off, and he had to be dragged inside.

Bucky knows Steve thinks he’s an idiot. Hell, most days Bucky thinks he’s an idiot. There isn’t a moment that passes where he doesn’t want to go back and suck up the fear, take the gamble, and just tell you he’d fallen for you. Hard enough to break the sound barrier, hard enough to snap him in half before he even hit the bottom, hard enough that he was never going to be able to climb his way back up. But he’s a veteran with a missing arm and a pile of baggage he can’t even shoulder some days. You’d looked at him like he was something good. You’d looked at him like you thought it could’ve been easy, to fall right back.

And Bucky couldn’t have that.

The only thing worse than never having you would’ve been having you, and breaking you. Letting you down. Letting you love him, then letting you realize how wrong you were, to bother to try. So he’d pushed you away.

Steve said that didn’t give him the right to sulk about it all the time. Steve was probably right, but Bucky sulked anyway. It was all he had, now.

That, and hating your stupid fucking boyfriend.

Brock. Dumb name. Sounded like rock. Bucky had a better name. He’d even let you call him James, like you used to. You’re the only person that ever made Bucky sound like an insult instead of a marker of affection. He wants to go back to being James, just for you. But he can’t. Because of Brock.

“What does she even see in him,” he mutters, and Steve sighs. Again.

“I don’t know, but-“

“He’s not that good looking,” Bucky narrows his eyes at Brock. Leaning over the table. Grabbing your arm. Bucky should be the one touching you. “His dick is probably small.”

“I- Uh- Yeah, sure-“

“She deserves better-“

“Better like you?”

That makes Bucky’s head snap to the side. Steve doesn’t even blink, his brows raised in almost mocking gentleness. It pisses Bucky off sometimes, how he’s not allowed to be pissed at Steve.

“You know she’s with him because he asked her, right?” Steve says, and Bucky scowls.

“That’s not- I- He doesn’t treat her right-“

“And you do?”

Bucky tastes bile. Steve still doesn’t back down, just giving Bucky that sympathetic puppy look, and Bucky wonders if he digs himself another foot down, Steve will do him a favor and bury him alive.

“You could just- Talk to her,” Steve murmurs, and Bucky snorts.

“She doesn’t care what I gotta say, Stevie-“

“Because you made her think you don’t care at all.”

“I don’t care,” Bucky snaps, louder than he means to, and Steve gives him an unimpressed look. Bucky scowls and turns back to his drink. “Shut up.”

“I didn’t say a thing-“

“You’re thinkin’. I can hear it.”

Steve sighs. Bucky’s going to shove a fist into his mouth, to get him to stop. “I’m just saying, Buck,” Steve murmurs. “Nat thought she was finally going to get over Brock. Before you decided to be an ass to her all the time.”

Bucky scoffs, then pauses. He didn’t actually understand what that meant. It sounded like it meant something important, something he was really supposed to understand, but for the life of him, he can’t work out why. He turns back to Steve with a frown, ready to ask what the hell that meant, but the words are drowned in aloud smash from across the bar.

Bucky’s attention snaps to the side in a second, his body realizing what’s happening before his brain. He’s on his feet when Brock shouts at you, and walking when you shove Brock. He almost breaks into a sprint, when he sees Brock’s hand curl into a fist. It only gets slammed on the table, but Bucky’s heart still threatens to burst through his throat. The bar is crowded. Too crowded. It’s taking him too long to get to you, and Brock shouts something, and you scream something back, and some lady tries to grab Bucky to flirt, but he shoulders her off.

He almost loses you in the chaos. A door slams, and he’s not sure if it’s you or Brock. He looks around for Nat—wherever you went, she’ll be there too—but can’t find her. He stumbles to the table, and his mouth goes dry.

You’re not hurt, but you’re crying. You’re crouching against the wall, Nat petting your head and trying to calm you down. Brock is nowhere to be found. Smart move, Bucky thinks. He was seconds from getting his face knocked in.

“What the hell happened?” He grunts to Nat, kneeling in front of you.

She shakes her head, lips in a thin line. “I’m not sure. They started fighting, Brock smashed a glass, then just- Fucked off, I guess.”

“What’d they fight about-“

“She won’t tell me,” Nat sighs, and you glare at her under gorgeous, wet lashes.

“I’m right here,” you snap, and Nat gives you an apologetic smile.

“I know, but- You won’t tell me.”

You sniff, glancing over to Bucky, then down to the floor. “I don’t want to talk about it,” you mutter, and Nat murmurs your name.

“Was it-“

“Yeah.”

Nat scowls, and Bucky feels like he’s being left out of something.

“Nat, I-“ You grab her wrist, voice small and pleading. “I just want to go home.”

Natasha’s throat bobs, but she nods. Bucky frowns. Nat’s been drinking. Everyone’s been drinking except you and him, and he doesn’t think you should be driving when you can’t even get off the floor.

“I’ll take her,” he mutters, and you shoot him a poisoned glare.

“No.”

“Listen, kid, I’m offering to help-“

“I don’t want your help,” you sneer, and Bucky sighs. He deserves that. He knows he does. Doesn’t make it any easier or sweeter to swallow.

Natasha mutters your name, watching Bucky from the corner of her eye. “It’s either him, or an uber-“

“Uber,” you say immediately, and Nat gives you a flat look.

“That wasn’t a real option. You’re going with Bucky.”

You pout, inching away from him, and Bucky’s face burns. He stares at his hands, trying to pretend he can’t hear your whispers. Trying to pretend they don’t cut into a sensitive, raw, needy part of his heart that no amount of self-inflicted burns has ever been able to steel.

“I don’t want to go with Bucky,” you hiss at Nat, and Nat just shrugs.

“I don’t want you to be alone right now-“

“Then you get in the Uber with me.” Your voice is small. Almost pleading. It breaks Bucky’s heart.

Nat shakes her head, voice gentle, as if you’re a wounded animal. “Bucky will drop you at my place, alright? I just have to take care of something first.”

Your nose wrinkles, but you agree. Bucky doesn’t think you’re happy about it. He can almost feel the disdain emitting from your body like radiation, as Nat helps you to Bucky’s car. He decides not to tell you that Nat’s thing is probably hunting down Brock and killing him. Bucky would join her, if he didn’t have to deal with you. He doesn’t think there’s anything more noble. His worry is devotion. It’s a shame you’re blinder than a real god, to see it.

The drive is dead quiet. Bucky glances at the radio every few minutes, but loses the debate with him over and over to turn it on. He doesn’t want you to hate his taste in music.

You curl up against the window, as far away from him as you can get without jumping onto the freeway. Bucky drums his fingers on the wheel to fill the silence. Your breathing has steadied from short, shallow gasps, but he can still hear you sniffle every few seconds. It makes his vision line with red, and he knows he’s the worst kind of hypocrite, but knowing never helped anyone. He doesn’t understand, how Brock could treat you so horribly. He doesn’t understand how you—beautiful, smart, sweet but unwavering and sharp—could tolerate it.

Bucky parks the car outside of Nat’s. You don’t move, and he wishes he could build the anger to make you. But you smell like vanilla and something summery, and you look like an angel in the streetlights, and all he can feel is bubbling red and green. It spills out of his mouth like vomit, before he can garner the will and kindness to shove it down.

“What do you see in him,” Bucky mutters, and you look over with a frown.

You stare at him. Bucky stares back. He loves it when you do that. It’s a little off-putting, but he thinks he can tell you the truth with his eyes. He’s not sure, though, if you ever see it.

“He’s good to me,” you mutter finally, and Bucky snorts. “He is, don’t- Don’t fucking make that face-“

“I’m not makin’ a face-“

“You are,” you point at him, eyes narrowed, voice cold. “He is good to me, Bucky.”

Bucky raises his brows. It only seems to work you up more.

“Fuck you,” you spit. “Brock loves me, he- He’s- You just don’t see the side of him that I do-“

“I don’t think he’s got enough sides to hide anything, doll,” Bucky drawls, and you scowl.

“You’re just jealous.”

Bucky recoils, fingers tightening on the wheel. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” he grunts, and you roll your eyes.

“Fuck off, it’s so obvious-“

Bucky mutters your name in warning, but you just keep going.

“You’re jealous that someone like me could have a partner that loves them, when you’re alone. But guess what, Bucky,” you lean forward, words spitting over Bucky’s slack face. “You’re going to die alone, and I’m not, so fuck you.”

You push the door open, and storm out onto the street. Bucky’s frozen in the drivers seat for a second, a faint ringing in his ears. You’re right. You’re right, and it’s his fault. Not about Brock—that piece of shit isn’t capable of love, even for someone as perfect as you—but- But-

He’s moving before he can think about why. Shoving his way out of the car and shouting your name, chasing you up the sidewalk like a madman. You ignore him. Of course you do. It’s what he’s fucking earned.

“Just- Wait-“ He catches your wrist. You yank it away.

“Leave me alone, Bucky-“

“No, I got somethin’ I wanna say-“

“Well I don’t want to hear it-“

“I know, I know, just-“

“No!” You scream, round on him with a pointed finger, and Bucky feels something split right down his chest at the tears in your eyes. “No, I don’t want to fucking- I- You don’t get to tell me anything about- About anything. This is your fault, your-“

You cut yourself off, and Bucky blinks, leaning back. “My fault?” He laughs in disbelief, when you nod, not meeting his eyes. “How the hell is it my fault?”

You wrap your arms over your stomach, gaze fixed firmly on your shoes. “Brock thinks you want to fuck me,” you mumble, and Bucky’s heart falters in his chest. “That’s what the- The stupid fight way about, alright? And he thinks I shouldn’t be around you anymore, because of it.”

Bucky gapes at you. He’s trying to think of a way to ask that isn’t selfish. He can’t come up with it. “But you’re not going to listen to him, right?”

You shrug. “It’s not like you like being around me,” you mumble, and Bucky’s hands fists.

“That’s not the fuckin’ point, doll-“

“Isn’t it?” You give him a tired look. “Don’t you want me to just- Just go away? Aren’t you fucking happy, that you’re never going to have to deal with me again?”

Bucky’s throat his too tight to speak. This is a walking nightmare, but he can’t seem to wake up. You’re right. This is the part he’s supposed to want, where you bury him and he never has to see you’re beauty and wonder what if. But he’s selfish. He’s too fucking selfish, and he doesn’t want the sun to go away. He can’t lose you. Not like this, not when you seem to have halfway lost yourself.

You give him a prompting glare, tipping up your chin when he’s been silent too long. He swallows. His fingers flex, and he works his jaw until he can speak.

“Don’t,” he rasps, watching you under hooded eyes. “Don’t go away.”

You laugh, but it doesn’t sound read. “Don’t do that, Bucky, don’t act like you care-“

“I do care-“

“No.” You point at him, face tight. “No, you don’t- You don’t-“

Bucky catches your hand, and you immediately go quiet. He takes a small step forward. You don’t take a step back.

“I care,” he croaks, squeezing your hand once. “I care, doll. I- I’ve always cared, I-“

He moves to his knees. You stare down at him, like you’re not sure what you’re supposed to do. Bucky doesn’t need you to do anything. He only prays at the only alter he knows—your feet—that you’ll listen.

“I love you,” he whispers, and your mouth falls open.

“Bucky…”

“I know I’ve been a dick,” he rasps. “I know, and I- I don’t expect you to forgive me, or say anything back. If you wanna slap me, I’ll let you. I’ll let you do anything, doll, just- Please don’t listen to him.” Bucky swallows, daring to wrap a hand around the back of your thighs, silently begging you to stay. “If he’s told you no one else is gonna love you, he’s dead wrong. If you’re letting him tell you what to do ‘cause you think it’s the only way to make him stay, let him fucking leave. You deserve better. You’ve always deserved better. Than-“ His words catch, painful in his throat. “Than me. But also than him. You deserve better.”

He digs his fingers into your soft skin, and you swallow, blinking down at him with soft, glossy eyes.

“I love you,” Bucky echoes like a prayer. “I swear I love you, doll. And I really don’t expect nothing, but- Please.”

You straighten up, and Bucky tries not to flinch when you cup his cheek. Your hand is so warm, so soft. He doesn’t deserve the touch.

“Bucky,” you murmur. “Stand up.”

He blinks at you, then scrambles to his feet. Your mouth twitches. He thinks that’s a good sign.

You stand barely an inch apart, staring into each others eyes. Bucky lets every bit of himself crumble away, until the only thing left for you to see is his love. You let out a sharp breath, and glance to his parted lips.

“You mean it?” You whisper, and he nods in a heartbeat.

“With everything I got.”

You laugh, soft and nervous, and meet his gaze again. “But- You were such an asshole- I thought you hated me.”

“Never,” he whispers. “I- I mean- I was an asshole, but I never hated you doll, ever. I just- I kinda loved you too much, and I’m an idiot-“

Bucky’s voice dies easily, when you push up and press a small kiss to his lips. His hands twitch to catch you, but he holds them back. Not daring to move. Not daring to let this fall apart. Your lips are so soft, and you taste like that sugary drink you’d been nursing, and he thinks he might have just taken a hit of a drug he’s never going to kick.

He’s panting, when you pull away. You smile at him, shy and gorgeous, brows raised in challenge, and he laughs like a ruined man. He dives back down, grabbing your face between his hands and kissing you hard. Kissing you the way he dreamed, your lips molding together and body arching up to his touch, your tongue darting over his lip before he squeezes your jaw, and you open for him with a moan.  He chuckles and spits into your mouth, wrapping an arm around your waist. You scratch his neck and press back with twice the force, dragging a low groan from his chest.

Bucky yanks himself back, and you stare at each other, flushed and panting. You find it in you to speak first. Bucky’s not surprised.

“You love me?” You demand, and he nods.

“All the time.”

You nod, and he thinks he’s got the kind of luck they talk about in kings.

“Good,” you mutter, straightening the collar of his shirt before fixing him with that enchanting, dangerous stare. “Prove it.”

Bucky smiles, and presses a harsh but loving kiss to your lips. You really have no fucking idea.

Proving it is going to be the easy part.

You’ve had dreams about this. So many dreams that living through it takes a lot of convincing, for you to believe it’s reality. You think, through the power of Bucky’s hands and lips, you’re going to get there.

You kissed and stumbled into Nat’s house with your hands roaming and feet tripping over everything but each other. Bucky had ripped your shirt over your head and kicked the door behind him, letting his searing mouth wander over your jaw, your cheeks, your nose and back to your lips. You’d pulled the buckle of his jeans while he made quick work of your bra, using the straps to pull you right back against his chest before tossing it the same way as your shirt.

“Look at you,” he’d muttered, palming your breast with an air of awe to his every word. “Prettiest thing I’ve ever fuckin’ seen.”

You’d flushed and kissed him before he could say any more nice things. They were already making your heart soft and prone to forgiveness. The kind you were trying to make him earn, even if he was probably about to get it for free.

Bucky slid his hand around the back of your neck and kissed you like it was a movie. You’d melted into him, clinging to the hooks of his jeans and letting him angle your face further back. You’d tugged him closer and he’d grunted, wrapping his full bicep around your neck and sliding his hand on your breast down your side. He’d cupped your ass and squeezed it before dipping his fingers under your waistband, pulling it back and forth as he dragged his tongue over your lower lip.

“Wanna take care of you,” he’d muttered, like he was speaking to himself. “You gonna let me take care of you?

“Ye- Yeah,” you breathe, nails digging into his wrist. You’re trying to stay steady. You’re not sure it’s working, with how the room is spinning and your skin is getting heated. “Yes, please.”

Bucky chuckles, dragging his thumb over your lower lip. Your mouth falls open with a tiny gasp, and his brows furrow tight. He slides the pad of his finger between your lips, and you flick your tongue against it. Your eyes droop, and your head tips back as you start to suck on him. Bucky groans, his fingers digging into your hips.

“Jesus,” he rasps. “Always knew you’d be the death of me, doll.”

You coo, and Bucky’s nostrils flare. His hand drifts further down your back, hooking on your bottoms and pulling them with him. You make another soft, humming sound, smiling at him around his thumb, and his throat bobs.

“That’s it,” he rasps. “Just like that, nice and easy.”

Your bottoms fall to the floor, leaving you in only your panties. Bucky glances down, his tongue darting over his lips, and then looks right back to you. He pulls his thumb away, cups the back of your head, and pulls your face back for him to kiss. You moan against his mouth and he groans, pressing over you until there’s no space for anything else left. It’s all just Bucky, everywhere around you and so warm you start to get dizzy. You almost don’t know what to do with yourself, yanking at his shirt and trying to meet every kiss, but it’s hard. Bucky’s demanding, and you’ve wanted this for too long. Just his hands on your bare skin are better than anyone else being inside of you. It’s really unfair.

Bucky cups your pussy when your back hits the wall, and you mewl. He leans back to watch your hips roll against his hand, his eyes going fully dark and a low, rumbling grunt falling from his lips.

“Fuck, baby,” he rubs his hand back and forth, a sweet, lewd sound filling the room. “This wet, just for me?”

You nod a little shamefully, watching him under fluttering lashes. He pulls on the fabric of your panties and snaps it against your cunt, making you buck up with a squeak. Bucky chuckles and rubs over the hurt, leaning down until your lips are brushing together.

“You want me to play nice?” He whispers. “Or fuck you like I’ve been dreamin’ about.”

You blink at him, mouth hanging open and face burning. It’s hard to think, with the drag of his rough, gentle hand against your cunt. For a little while you just stare at him helplessly, and Bucky takes a small mercy, snapping your panties back against your pussy, shocking your heartbeat enough to make you think.

Like he’s been dreaming. You’ve been dreaming too. Holding fantasies about Bucky giving it to you just how you want, walking that thin line you never trusted Brock to balance on. But you trust Bucky. Your Bucky, before the whole mess. The Bucky you can see so clearly now, features shining with affection as he watches you already start to come apart.

“That,” you say, small but certain. “Do- Do it like that.”

Bucky pauses. “Like-“

“How you want,” you whisper, and he goes still.

Bucky scans over your face for an ounce of hesitation. You don’t have any, so you hold his gaze.

He lets out a rough, broken breath. “You sure-“

You press up and kiss him hard. He gets the idea.

Bucky rips your panties off like they’re made of paper, drops one arm under your thighs, and picks you up with barely a grunt. You squeal and try to push away on instinct, but he’s strong. Stronger than you thought, and you’ve spent an embarrassing amount of time ogling his muscles. He slams his mouth over yours for a brief, hungry kiss, spits down your throat, and tosses you right over his shoulder.

“Bucky-“

“Shh,” he slaps your ass and you squeak again, dropping your face right into his shoulder. He squeezes over the pleasurable sting then starts to walk, keeping you steady over him.

“Where- Where are we going?” You try to push up to see over his shoulder. Bucky lands another spank on your ass, and you fall right back down with a whine. “James- Shit-“

He’s dragging his fingers over your sopping wet cunt, smearing the mess everywhere he can, humming while he walks. Your thighs clench, but that only seems to give him easier access, and you whine.

“Bu- Bucky-“

“Ah,” Bucky slaps your pussy, and you muffle your moan against his body. “That’s not what I want to hear, doll.”

You swallow and shake your head, bunching his shirt between your trembling fingers. Bucky spanks your pussy again and it clenches around nothing. His thumb drifts, teasing over your clit in tiny brushes, back and forth and back and forth. You whimper, but he just hums, dragging two fingers through the mess between your thighs, before returning to your swollen little button.

“Come on,” he coos, encouraging and mocking all at once. “Use your words for me.”

You can’t. You muffle another moan in Bucky’s shoulder, writhing best you can in his iron grip. Bucky hums like this is casual, like he’s not already taking you apart with the lightest of touches. A door creaks open, and you barely have time to recognize the carpet of Nat’s guest room before you’re being tossed down onto the bed.

You bounce slightly, and Bucky catches your ankles, dragging you right to the edge of the mattress. You stare at him, mouth hanging open, completely unsure what to do with yourself. His lips twitch and he lowers down, pressing a gently, loving kiss to your lips. You arch up and he rubs your thighs, easing you down into his touch. You slump forward, running your fingers through his hair, and he makes a low, satisfied sound from the back of his throat.

Bucky traces his hand a little higher up your thigh, and you try not to buck into his touch. It’s not very successful, and he smiles against your lips, pinching your upper thigh. You whimper and turn your head, trying to save useless face. Bucky chuckles, sucking a small mark under your throat, then flicking his tongue against the sensitive skin.

“James…” You moan, and he goes still. You turn nervously, worried you somehow, already, ruined it. “Bucky?”

His throat bobs. He grabs your chins between two fingers, eyes boring through you, like he can see all your hazy, love-colored thoughts.

“Buck-“

“James,” he mutters, dragging his thumb over your swollen lip. “Keep callin’ me James, doll.”

You nod, a faint flush burning your cheeks. It’s not even from the way he’s touching you. Not right now. James isn’t a name Bucky lets anyone use. You used to, but then he started pushing you, and you didn’t want to lose that last sacred closeness, of being allowed to use his nickname. But if James is what he wants. He’ll get it. You’ll give him almost anything, right now.

“James,” you breathe, and Bucky’s throat bobs. He leans down for another, slower kiss. You close your eyes and let him control the depth, the unmeasured but drizzle passion like honey. When he pulls away you’re breathless, and he’s on his knees.

Naked and on his knees.

You make a tiny sound, gaping shamelessly at his cock. It’s thick and heavy looking, leaking with pre-cum and probably more than you can take. But you want to try. You want to drool around it in every possible way, looking up and Bucky and getting that faint, affectionate smile.

“You seein’ something you like?” Bucky teases, and you give him a hopeless, embarrassed look. He chuckles and grabs himself, stroking slowly and holding your gaze. “You want it bad, huh,” he mutters, smearing some drool over your cheek. “He ain’t been fuckin’ your right, either. Left you so needy for so long, you get all quiet just seeing a real cock?”

Your face is on fire, but your core is throbbing and aching. You drop your brow against Bucky’s, fixated on his fist, pumping that massive dick.

“Spit on it,” Bucky grunts, and you obey thoughtless, letting some of your need fall from your lips to Bucky’s shining cock. He groans and smashes his lips over yours, his hand pumping faster until he’s groaning your name against your lips.

Then he pulls back, lets go of himself, and just stares at your slack, desperate expression. You swallow, and his lips curve into a faint, starved smile.

“You need to be treated like a whore, huh,” he mutters. “Fucked like a toy ‘till you remember how nice it is, to have my attention.”

Oh, God. Your thighs try to press together. Bucky shoves them apart, using his thumb to part your puffy, swollen pussy lips.

“Pretty little thing,” he mutters, pressing over your clit before dragging his thumb back down. “Don’t worry, baby, I’ll fuck you right. Gonna open you up,” he presses his thumb hard against your entrance, smirking at your tiny sound. “Then give you exactly what you need. That sound good?”

“Ye- Yeah,” you manage to babble, remembering his thing about words. “Yes, please.”

Bucky smiles, and presses a quick kiss to your lips. “Good girl.”

You whine, and Bucky doesn’t waste time. He sinks fully down, kissing over your tummy as he shoves your legs fully apart. You watch him, breathing ragged, and weave your fingers through his hair for balance. He kisses the inside of one thigh, then the other. Nips at the sensitive skin, then flicks his tongue over the hurt before kissing it again. He takes his time, kissing all around your cunt, but never letting his mouth go where you really fucking need.

“James,” you whine, tugging on his hair. “Don’t- Don’t tease.”

He chuckles, his lips brushing right against your clit. You squirm, but he holds your thighs down and gives you a stern look.

“I’ll tease you all I fuckin’ want, babydoll,” he mutters, giving the quickest, lightest kiss to your clit. “You’re too pretty and reactive not to play with.”

You whimper, unable to come up with a response that isn’t a fuck you. As fun as it would be to push his buttons and find out just what punishment under Bucky’s attention is—being dragged over his lap, forced to sit on his cock until you’re drooling, brought right up to the edge over and over but never being allowed to fall—you’re too desperate right now. You might cum just from looking at him, it’s been so long, and he seems to know it.

“Needy pussy,” he mutters, tracing his thumb in circles around your clit. “Gonna take real good care of you, pretty girl.”

You mewl because god help you, you really believe him. Bucky pulls back the hood of your clit, blows on it in a way that makes your whole body seize up, then presses a long, slow kiss to the bundle of nerves.

“Fuck- James- James-“

“I know,” he coos, tongue flicking against your pulsing cunt. “Such a greedy fuckin’ girl, can’t even wait for me.” He kisses your clit again, making out with it until you’re panting and struggling to sit up. “Lucky I’m feelin’ generous,” he mutters, and whatever restraint he’d been pretending to have was gone.

Bucky shoves his face into your pussy, his beard scraping your thighs and his tongue licking a long, rough stripe up your core until it hits your clit, swirls, and  dives back down. Plunging in and out of your dripping hole before repeating the lick, playing with your clit more and more every time. Thick hands keep your legs spread when you start to get restless, but he lets you buck freely up into his mouth. He seems to enjoy it, how you pull on his hair and cry his name. If anything, his mouth just works harder against you, tongue flicking against your clit in rapid, tiny strokes that send you into a frenzy.

You fall back with a sob, grinding up and craning your neck to try and keep watching him. It’s a beautiful sight, Bucky drowning himself between your thighs. He winks at you, pressing his tongue flat over your entrance, and you fall back with a moan. You’re getting there fast. It would be embarrassing, with anyone but Bucky. He just kisses your thigh and bumps his nose against your clit, muttering you’re close against your skin before diving right back in.

“Bu- Bucky-“ You grab at the sheets, your pussy throbbing like a ticking bomb before an explosion. “Bucky- I- I’m gonna-“

His teeth graze your clit, and he wraps his lips tight around the nub, sucking on it hard. You scream as your vision goes white, your hips flying off the bed, but Bucky doesn’t stop. He lets wraps his arms around each thigh, shoves your legs close around his head, and keeps sucking on your clit, it starts to get all tingly and numb in the best way. It’s almost like he’s tickling it with his tongue, the pressure of his mouth perfect and unbearable, your eyes rolling back in your head as you writhe.

“Oh- Oh my god-“ You sob, pushing at his head. “Bucky- I- I can’t, please-“

He kisses your clit a little more gently, spanks your pussy, and gives you a stern look. “Yes, you can.”

It doesn’t seem to be something that’s up for argument. 

Bucky keeps you pinned to his face, sucking and sucking and sucking, no real care for what else you do. You cry and pull at the sheets, trying and climb away with no avail, and end up rolling onto your stomach, your face pressed into the sheets. Bucky still stays locked against your pussy, the feeling only intensifying when he’s beneath you. You’re all but sitting on his face, grinding you cunt down onto his jaw, sobbing into the sheets as your body becomes taut and wired and ready to snap.

A second orgasm rolls over you like a thunderstorm. Wet and loud and hot. You gush against Bucky’s face, tears starting to stream down your face from the overstimulation. You haven’t even had one proper orgasm in… longer than you want to admit. Brock never really gave you anything more than a shiver, and your patience in your own body was limited to a vibrator and ten minutes before a dull, anti-climatic orgasm that didn’t feel like much, but still made you too sensitive to keep going. Bucky just pulled two out of you, with his mouth alone.

He pulls back when you’re trembling, leaving a last, gentle kiss over your clit.

“Best fuckin’ pussy I’ve ever tasted,” he mutters, giving it one more spank before he starts to crawl over your body. “Coulda died there, doll, I swear.”

He laughs to himself, and you whimper against the sheets. Bucky pauses, caging you against the mattress with massive arms, and slowly rolls you over onto your back. You stare up at him, starry-eyed and spent, and his mouth twitches down.

“You alright?” He murmurs, brushing the hair from your face. You nod, and he doesn’t look convinced. “Are you-“

“Bucky,” you whisper, and his throat bobs. “If you don’t fuck me, I’m leaving.”

He laughs, throaty and dry, and ducks back down to give you another, slower kiss. One hand slides down your body, palming at your breast, rolling a nipple between his fingers between pinching gently. Bucky smiles, at the tiny whine it pulls out of you.

“Could spend forever here,” he mutters. “Givin’ every single part of you the attention it deserves. Sucking on these tits while you ride my thigh. Bending you over and opening up that cunt with just my hands, just playing with your ass until you’re drippin’ on my lap.” He groans, his cock twitching against your thigh. “You’re so fuckin’ beautiful, babydoll. You got no idea.”

You hum, the tears on your cheeks shiner than before. He means it. Whatever doubts you’d had before fade, because you’re sure. Bucky means it.

He settles himself fully between your legs, the more aggressive, dominant mask seeming to fracture, like light splitting through the clouds. Always there, even when he pretends. Coming out when you most  need to see it.

“Gonna go right in,” he mutters, mostly to himself. “Opened you up real good. Shouldn’t even hurt.”

You hum, pressing your face against his neck. Bucky rubs his cock against your cunt slowly, covering himself in your arousal before tapping his head against your clit—almost ceremoniously, like paying homage—and notching himself against your entrance.

The stretch isn’t as bad as you thought it would be. Bucky’s still big, so big you can feel it in your throat, so big you don’t think you’ve ever been this full, but he’d prepped you so well, it’s just a faint burn before it molds into pleasure. Bucky’s warm breath fans over the top of your neck as he watches your pussy mold around his cock. He moans something like your name against your skin, and you wrap your arms tight around his head.

“Feels so good,” you moan as he pushes further in. “So- So good.”

Bucky grunts, and you whimper as he bottoms out, balls pressed tight to your ass.

For a few moments, neither of you move. Bucky looks up at you with a wrecked expression you can feel in your chest, and you give him a faint, nervous smile.

“You know I love you too, right?” You say, because it’s the only thing you can think.

Bucky’s throat bobs. He doesn’t seem to have any words, and gives you a slow, romantic kiss. He rolls his hips experimentally, and you gasp against his lips. He’s curved in a way that presses right up against your g-spot, and it’s almost like a massage. You clench down, and Bucky grunts, but he repeats the motion anyway.

“James- Ooooh-“ Your eyes roll back, and Bucky sucks and kisses over your jaw, grinding his cock right against that soft, gooey spot. “Fuck- James-“

Bucky makes a deep, almost feral sound, and starts to move faster. Shallow, brutal thrusts that split you right open. You grab his bicep for dear life, and he watchers your every reaction with a sharp attention. You mewl when he does a swivel move, almost flying off the bed, and he pins you down with a hand splayed over your stomach.

“Feel that?” He grunts, pulling all the way out before slamming back in. “You fuckin’ feel that, babydoll? How good we feel together? Greedy little pussy, swallowin’ my cock up like the whore you are- Fuck-“

Bucky falls back over you, kissing you with spit and teeth and brutal force. You wrap your arms around your neck, moaning loud and shameless as he picks up his pace. Small, measured thrusts turn into the bed creaking, Bucky’s cock drilling into your pussy like he’s trying to knock every thought from your head. It’s working. You’re a drooling, wound up mess below him, and he grins against your lips.

“That’s my girl,” he mocks. “Smart head so fuckin’ empty, when I got you on my cock. No one else makes you feel like this, do they?”

You don’t answer—you can’t—and Bucky smacks your clit.

“Do they?”

You shake your head, babbling out a pathetic half-answer. “N- No-“

“Who fucks you right?” Bucky demands, words harsh but touch gentle when he grabs your jaw.

“You.” Tears start to fall down your cheeks again. “You, Bucky- Please-“

You moan as he hits that spot again, and Bucky groans, dropping down to kiss the tears away, then mold his lips back over yours.

“Damn right, me,” he grunts, skin slapping against skin, the wet, sinful sound of him bullying into your cunt almost drowning out the words. “My fuckin’ girl.”

Bucky leans up, and you almost cry for him before you realize what he’s doing. Bucky grabs your knees with one arm and presses them up to your chest, leaning down to kiss you as he fucks you deeper into the mattress. The angle is deeper like this. You can feel it everywhere, from your toes to your lips. You make a strangled, undignified sound when Bucky’s thumb returns to your clit, rubbing in slow, tight circles.

“Cum with me, babydoll,” he grunts, kissing your calf and rutting into your drooling, pulsing cunt. “Come one, wanna fill you up, pump this pussy up ‘till everyone knows, just-“ He groans. “Gimme just one more.”

You don’t know where it comes from. You didn’t think you had it in you, but Bucky manages to pull it out. A third orgasm, slower and longer than the last too. Hotter, as well. Pooling in your gut before flooding out of your cunt. Down your thighs and over Bucky’s cock as you flutter and he doubles over with a roar.

You’re not sure what’s Bucky’s cum and what’s yours. There’s just wet stickiness, filling you up everywhere until your eyes are unfocused and your body is twitching. Bucky kisses you through the orgasms, fucking shallowly into your pussy like he can’t help himself. When you both ease down, you’re blinking at the ceiling with heavy eyes and a warm feeling blooming back into your chest. Free and light and easy, in a way you never expected yourself to have.

This is going to be a mess in the morning. Right now, you don’t really care.

“I guess Brock was right,” you muse. “You did want to sleep with me.”

Bucky sits up with a glare. “Don’t say that when I’m still inside of you.”

You giggle, reaching up to brush some hair from his brow. His gaze softens and he catches your hand, pressing a gentle kiss to your knuckles.

“Do you believe me?” He mutters, and it’s small and worried. As if, after that, you’d somehow ever let him get away again.

“Yeah,” you smile, and his shoulders slump in relief.

“Thank god-“

“But,” you squeeze his hand. “I think you should keep proving it.”

Bucky chuckles, giving you an amused look before dropping his face right back into your boobs. You beam at the ceiling and pet the top of his head, neither of you in a rush to clean up. You probably should. You really should. Bucky seems to realize why at the same moment you do.

“Nat’s gonna kill us,” he groans, and you snort.

“Yeah. You.”

Bucky props his chin on your chest. “You too-“

“No,” you shake your head. “I’m her favorite.”

“That’s-“ Bucky sighs, and drops his face back down. “Yeah.”

You laugh, and he grins against your boob.

“Worth it,” he mutters, and you smile like a fool.

Because yeah. It was.   

✦End note: sometimes... cheating is okay!✦

✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦

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✦Taglist (Fill out this form to be added!)✦

[swaggamuffin]

good lord girl take the hint 😭

[goldiwrites]

crushcrushcrush

pairing: roommate!bucky barnes x female!reader

summary: it was unrequited love at first sight when you met bucky barnes. having a crush on him—your roommate—is hard enough, but hearing him fuck through your shared wall? that almost kills you.

warnings: 18+ MDNI, modern au, lots of plot, fluff, angst, sloooow burn, anxious!reader, kinda insecure!reader, reader works at a bar, cap’s quartet roommates (romanogers !!), swearing, drinking, weed mentions, idiots in love they just don't know it, oblivious!reader (i love her your honour), yearningggg, jealousy, reader crashes tf outttt, miscommunication, one (1) argument, love confessions, pet names (sweetheart, angel, doll, pretty girl), detailed explicit smut, slight dom!bucky, dirty talk, teasingggg, grinding, munch!bucky, oral (f!receiving), fingering, dacryphilia, pussy pronouns, small inspection kink, praise kink, unprotected pnv (don’t do this, friends), missionary, mating press, multiple orgasms, brief sub space, mention of f & m masturbation, happy ending, no use of y/n, reader wears a dress, no physical descriptions of reader, reader's pov, kinda dramatic, briefly proofread, this is not your typical roommate!bucky fic !!

word count: 20.6k (apparently i have this condition where i can't write a short fic)

authors note: i am actually the leader of the 'having debilitating crushes on your roommate' club so... thank you to my gorgeous, stunning, one of a kind beta reader @phoenix-in-writing 🫶 yes, i did use some off campus characters as reader's coworkers - there's no subplot with them, they just suited the vibe 😎 likes, reblogs, and comments are very much appreciated (and feed my validation kink)

you are responsible for your own media consumption. don’t like? don’t read

song inspo: crushcrushcrush - paramore & boyfriend - best coast

divider credits: line dividers by @/omi-resources, heart divider by @/strangergraphics

masterlist

Nothing compares to a quiet evening alone Just the one, two, I was just counting on That never happens, I guess I'm dreaming again Let's be more than, more than this

You knew from the moment you stepped into the Brooklyn brownstone that you were royally fucked. 

Ruffled, sleep mussed, dark brown hair. Slightly squinted, soft, deep blue eyes. A white sleep shirt that loosely clung to the hard ridges of a muscled body. Grey sweatpants that hung dangerously low and showed the shape of him if you stared longer than was appropriate.

And, god, the low, husky voice that you could feel rumble through your body from metres away. The slender, strong, veiny hands that didn't hesitate to grab the box slipping from yours. The pink lips that stretched into an easy smile, pearly white teeth dazzling and rendering you speechless for a minute.

The heat that crawled up your back was instant—your body reacting to your new roommate before you even knew his name.

Attractive men existed, you knew that. The bar you worked at had handfuls of them come in every night, some that even flashed you a flirty smile with interest in their eyes. But you didn't live with any of them—you didn't see them when they were half-awake, their rough edges softened by sleep and early morning light.

He introduced himself as James Barnes, but he requested you call him Bucky—"only my ma calls me James"—, and mentioned he worked as a physiotherapist at the VA.

He was quick to put the box in your new room, running out to the curb to grab the rest of your belongings from the rental van. You stood near the entrance, frozen in shock. Words failed you, your brain failed you—the only thing you could think about was the shift of his back muscles beneath his shirt as he hauled boxes through the door. It was an intoxicating sight, one you didn't even know would affect you.

You quickly came to learn that the problem was Bucky—everything he did had an intoxicating effect on you.

The smile he flashed you as he handed you your morning coffee, the wink he tossed your way when he took your side in your weekly movie night debate with Sam, his laughs that you could hear through your shared wall when he gamed with his friends.

His laughter was one of the most intoxicating things about him. There were the low, deep huffs when he was tired. The louder, harsher ones when he was caught by surprise. Then your favourite—the long, slightly breathless giggles that crinkled the corner of his eyes and had his nose scrunching. Every time you were blessed with them, you could only think about how cute he looked. It made him even more attractive, and you even more infatuated.

When your friend and roommate said that she was going to move into her partner's apartment once your lease was up, the first thing you felt was dread. You didn't know anyone who was looking for a room, nor did you know anyone who was looking for a roommate. The last thing you wanted was to move in with a stranger—having already lived with complete strangers in the past you could not say it was a pleasant experience. Your friend—an absolute angel—was quick to tell you that a coworker at her law firm was looking for a roommate, and she assured you that Nat would not break into your room and steal your jewellery like your first ever roommate did.

While you weren't exactly ecstatic to move in with four best friends, Nat had quickly won you over when you met for coffee. You sat down feeling like a complete contrast to her—sporting an old sweatshirt over your sweaty work uniform while she was in a creaseless emerald pantsuit. But she made you feel completely at ease—offering up embarrassing college stories about her and the guys, asking you about yourself and actually seeming interested, talking about the brownstone with so much adoration in her voice you couldn't help but love it already.

You felt awkward living with the close knit friends at first—shuffling on your feet as the four of them lounged on the couches, pulling at the loose threads on your sweater as you sat and listened to them bicker.

Fortunately, it didn't take long for you to find your place in the group. Sam played a big part—his teasing and infectious personality making you feel at home within a week. He didn't let you retreat into yourself; he pestered you with a mix of random and personal questions—"what extinct animal do you most identify with" followed by "what was your first heartbreak"—, teased you about your cooking (to which he always stole a mouthful), and was just warm—and yeah, slightly chaotic.

Nat and Steve quickly became one of your favourite couples. They weren't heavy on the PDA—unless red wine was involved—and they balanced each other out perfectly. She was loud, he was quiet. After a few too many on a night out she was ready to start a fight with any asshole who dared to look her way, and he was there to gently steer her away by the shoulders and remind her it wasn't worth ruining her fresh manicure.

Despite having some opposite traits, they were both incredibly kind and comforting people—truly living up to their titles of being the household's mom and dad. Nat was there for you after your gruelling shifts, holding either a glass of wine or mug of hot chocolate. Steve was the one knocking on your door with a bowl of soup and bag of medicine when you had the flu.

And then there was Bucky. He was just as kind, a good middle between Sam's chaotic nature and Steve's quiet one, and he made you feel seen.

Uncomfortably so.

He was the one next to you during social gatherings, gently nudging his shoulder against yours in a silent check in. He was the one suggesting fresh air when your breathing picked up incrementally. He was the one staring at you like he was captivated, sitting forward as you rambled about your niche interests.

Bucky noticed you, paid attention to you, like no one else had in your life.

He remembered what mugs you liked, making sure to use one of them when he made you both coffee—he remembered that too, the way you liked your coffee made. He bought you more body wash when you complained about running out but not having time to go to the shop before your shift. He sat next to you as you rewatched your comfort shows for the fifth time, asking questions like he was genuinely interested—a welcome contrast to Sam's mocking comments.

Each day he was in your life, looking at you like you were worth knowing, was just another day you fell deeper.

And then there were the moments. There weren't many, only a handful, but they were burned into your memory.

The first was when you came back after brunch with old friends, wearing a white sundress that made you feel pretty.

Bucky was in the kitchen, leaning against the counter while eating an apple. You smiled in greeting as you walked in, grabbing a glass to fill with water. You sneaked a side glance at him like you always do when he's in the same room as you, catching his eyes already on you—drifting from the bottom of your dress up to your chest. You watched his adam's apple bob in his throat as he swallowed.

"That's a nice dress, sweetheart."

Goosebumps erupted across your skin at his low drawl, a warmth spreading in your core from the pet name. He had never called you that before.

He pushed off the counter and walked out of the kitchen, acting like those five words hadn't changed your whole day—your whole life.

Where once you thought the dress was pretty, you now saw it as a lifeline—tethering you to the hope that Bucky might just like you back. You found reasons to wear it more often; making an effort to hang out in the common spaces when you came back home wearing it, delaying changing into your comfortable clothes because Bucky wasn't home yet and you wanted him to see it. To see you.

The second moment was when the five of you were at a birthday party for one of Sam's army buddies.

Nat and Steve had left after only being there for half an hour—Nat giggling to you on their way out, telling you and the boys to hold off on coming back home for a couple of hours. Sam was in the lounge with a large crowd hanging on to his every word as he retold his war hero stories— to which Bucky was quick to throw you a look, raising his hands to mimic being strangled, making you laugh and receive dagger eyes from Sam.

The two of you made your way outside towards the game of beer pong being set up. Bucky was quick to accept their offer to join in and that's how you found yourself standing opposite him, a sticky fold out table between you—the ping pong ball in your hand shaking, your breath catching as his lips tilted into a smirk. His eyes were as dark as the sky, the moonlight making them twinkle with their own constellations—staring straight into yours with a silent challenge, daring you to miss your next shot. His tongue sweeping over his bottom lip stole your attention and your hand faltered, the ball almost dropping out of your grip.

"You got this, sweetheart."

Time slowed down as the ball left your hand, your eyes watching it sail through the crisp night air while Bucky watched you. It dropped to the table with a pathetic, dull tock—inches away from any of the red solo cups. Bucky's smile grew even more lopsided, his eyes gleaming with mirth.

"Better luck next time, angel."

What the fuck was with him calling you these stupid, heart stuttering, knee trembling pet names?

Your beer pong partner was quick to brush off your missed shot, chuckling at your flustered expression and offering to help you with your stance. The game continued with you almost missing every shot, your partner guiding you with hands on your hips in the hopes of you sinking a cup. His arms wrapped around your waist when you made your first successful shot, but it wasn't his attention that had your mind clouding—you couldn't even say it was the alcohol flowing through your veins. No, it was the look of pride on Bucky's face that had you freezing, everything else around you fading away until all that remained was shining midnight eyes and curved pink lips.

God, how you wished the arms around your waist were his.

The guys you were playing with retreated inside after the game ended, with your partner telling you to find him before you left, throwing you an easy smile over his shoulder.

Bucky and you lingered in the fresh air, slowly walking towards the backdoor, your bare arm brushing against his denim jacket with every step. Music and laughter trickled out of the open windows, the noise softening in the cool breeze before it reached you. Despite the calm, you felt your body vibrate with a persistent buzz—Bucky's close proximity and the beer you downed making it hard to find the line between your feelings and reality.

"You do realise he was flirting with you, right?" Bucky's voice broke the silence. You turned your head to find him already gazing at you—soft eyes a contradiction to his clenched jaw.

You scoffed, looking at him like he'd grown another head. "What, no he wasn't."

"Uh yeah, he definitely was. The 'let me fix your stance' play is the oldest trick in the book and has a pretty decent success rate." He chuckled softly, shaking his head with an uptick of a smile. "Not with you, though." He paused, giving you a teasing wink. "I'll keep that in mind."

The wink had your body flushing with heat, the words I'll keep that in mind burrowing into your lovesick heart and amplifying the buzzing. Your words stumbled on their way out."Th-there's no way he was flirting with me—he's way out of my league."

Bucky stopped in his tracks, turning to face you fully with a deep crease between his eyebrows. The gentle breeze swept a strand of hair over his face, your hand twitching with the need to brush it behind his ear.

His voice dropped low, the teasing tone subduing. "What are you on about? Tell me you know that's not true, doll."

You crossed your arms over your chest, feeling exposed and vulnerable under the intimacy of the dark sky. You shivered, not just from the cooling wind caressing your bare arms. You gave a small shrug in response.

Bucky started to take his jacket off, exposing the black t-shirt that hugged his biceps a little too tight for your sanity. "While I don't believe in the whole people being in different leagues thing, I can confidently say you are so far out of his league you're on a whole nother planet."

"…Are you saying I'm an alien?"

"If the shoe fits," Bucky responded, a fraction of his seriousness easing into a cheeky smile. He draped his jacket over your shoulders, his thumbs brushing the sides of your neck as he fixed the collar—another shiver running down your spine from his faint touch. The warm, rich scent of his cologne and him wrapped around you and dragged you under—the scent that you now associated with home.

Bucky's eyes met yours, the starlit blue swirling with something you couldn't quite decipher. His hands moved from the collar of his jacket to the hem, fingers toying with the rough fabric. "No, what I'm trying to say is that you're—" he licked his lips, trying to find the right words. "Any guy would be lucky to have you, but I don't think anyone is deserving of you."

Your brain short-circuited, the haze of rose coloured glasses starting to fall over your eyes—threatening to distort the Bucky in front of you with the one you stayed up late daydreaming about.

You found a smaller version of your voice. "I…I'm not that special, Buck."

He tugged on the hem, the force pulling the jacket tighter around your shoulders. "No? Then why are you the only person—other than Steve—that I let call me Buck?"

You stared at him, unblinking. You didn't realise other people didn't call him Buck—the nickname just slipped from your lips so naturally after the first month of living with him.

"One of these days, I'm going to make you see yourself how I do."

He leaned in, brushing the faintest of kisses on your forehead—the mere ghost of his lips burning your skin, eliciting a cascade of sparks to run down your body. He stepped back, stuffing his hands in his pockets and tilted his head towards the door.

"Let's get back inside before Sam tells everyone about the time he had to save you from a raccoon."

"He had very sinister looking eyes!" You cried indignantly. "And I was really stoned—remind me to never have one of Nat's brownies ever again."

The third moment happened during your bar's weekly quiz night.

The four of them were in their usual booth for the night—the one Sam demanded you reserve for them ever since you mentioned your work had a quiz night on Tuesdays. Nat and Steve were sitting on one side, each nursing a pint of craft beer, with Sam and Bucky sitting opposite them—the latter half hanging out of the booth with his hand raised in a beckoning gesture, shooting you one of those irresistible half smiles that made the butterflies in your stomach flutter.

You rolled your eyes at him, knowing exactly what he wanted—but you couldn't stay away from that smile, even if it was starting to get you in trouble at work.

You walked over to them, pocketing your pen and notepad before stopping next to Bucky, your eyebrows raised and arms folded.

"What do you want now?"

"Can I please place an order for the answer to question five?" Bucky held the quiz sheet up to you, pointing at the blank space next to number five like it was a menu. "Oh, and question eight." His smile evolved into a endearing grin, your heart aching traitorously at the sight.

"No."

The smile dropped a fraction, not expecting you to say no to his charm. "C'mon, you're the one here who knows niche pop culture the best—even Sam is stumped. I know you know the answers."

You nodded, looking at the sheet in his hand before his puppy dog eyes made you crumble. "You're right, I do. I'm not giving them to you, though."

"I thought I was your favourite." His voice dropped like he was genuinely upset, but his twitching cheeks gave away the smile he was suppressing. Sam scoffed next to him, Nat and Steve exchanged a knowing look. You ignored them.

Bucky put the sheet on the table, patting it softly like he was about to make a deal. "How 'bout this—I'll make you dinner for a week." He carefully watched your face, trying to find a crack in your resistance. "Two weeks."

You sighed, dropping your arms to your sides. "Bucky, the prize is only a fifty dollar bar tab."

Bucky shook his head. "It's not about the prize, it's about the glory of winning four weeks in a row." He squinted his eyes, tilting his head in the way you knew meant he was thinking—probably something stupid, too. "Wait—is there another prize for that?"

You scoffed, tempted to hit him with your notepad. "Yeah, you get put on the no entry list."

Nat and Steve snickered at Bucky's clearly offended face, and you bit your lip to hold back your smile—he looked too cute, it was tugging at your heart strings.

"Besides," you continued, "you only won them because you cheated."

He raised his hands in mock defence. "Hey, not my fault the pretty waitress was more than willing."

Sam choked on his beer, spluttering a mouthful onto the table. Your eyebrows skyrocketed, heat rushing to your cheeks and ears at his choice of words.

Bucky's cheeks lit up red and he ran a hand through his hair. "No—wait, I didn't—that wasn't what I meant." He nervously chuckled. "What I meant was that you're more than willing to help—help us…" He trailed off, turning and shooting Steve a look.

Some of the tension left your shoulders, along with some of the hope you always carried that Bucky liked you more than a friend. You cleared your throat, your heart rate struggling to slow down after 'pretty waitress'.

"Maybe I've grown a conscience." You looked slightly to your left, your eyes flicking to your manager standing at the end of the bar, narrowing her eyes at you.

Bucky chuckled softly, his confidence back even with his cheeks still glowing. He crossed his arms on the table, leaning towards you. "Are we gettin' you in trouble, sweetheart?"

"There's no we in this, Barnes. It's all you." Nat interjected, pointing a perfectly manicured finger at him. He gave her a dismissive wave, his eyes still looking at you expectantly.

"She said if you win one more time then she's going to put me on the bar for quiz nights—something about testing a theory…" You admitted quietly. You watched his blue eyes soften, his previous amusement dissipating.

"Well, we can't have that happening." He said, serious. "I would stop coming to quiz night."

"Yeah, right." Sam muttered into his beer.

"You'd be on the no entry list anyways, Buck." You said to Bucky, your tone lilting jokingly.

He tilted his head, the right side of his mouth twitching, his eyes looking like a sky full of secrets.

"You wouldn't do that to me, doll. You like me too much."

Your stomach dropped at his low voice, his words piercing right into the chamber of your heart he had unknowingly etched his name on. A breath got stuck in your throat, your usual witty banter getting lost in the sea of thoughts that only screamed his name.

Like an angel pulling you from a seizing riptide, your managers voice called out your name—saving you from saying something stupid, something that exposed how you had gone past the boundary of like six months ago, stepping into a dangerous territory that could tear you apart.

"Duty calls," you laughed out breathlessly, pointing a thumb over your shoulder. You turned on your heels and walked away like you were on fire.

Sam's low mutter made its way to you through the hum of soft pop music and chatter. "Get a room already, for fuck's sake."

Your shoe scuffed on the hardwood floor, your feet almost tripping over each other. You caught your balance—narrowly avoiding falling and making a fool of yourself in front of the guy you're hopelessly in love with.

You reached your manager waiting at the end of the bar, overcome with the desire to kiss her in gratitude.

"I need you to cover the bar while Dean has a smoke. He'll be ten minutes, tops."

You nodded your okay, used to covering the bar for your coworkers breaks. "Unless a pretty girl walks past, then he'll be at least thirty."

Your manager hummed in agreement. "Remind me to dock his pay for pulling that shit on Saturday. Boy gets enough tips from his flirting to make up for it."

You exchanged a small laugh, walking around her to go behind the bar. She touched your forearm as you passed, stopping you with a gentle touch.

"Word of advice?" She started, voice a little quieter. "Don't screw the crew."

You stared at her with furrowed brows, confused. "What? I would never sleep with Dean, that's just—ew, who knows how many untreated diseases he has." You visibly shuddered your disgust at the idea of hooking up with your coworker who was always chasing tail.

She nodded her head in the direction you came from. "They're your roommates, right?" You nodded slowly. "Hon, you look at him like you can't decide whether you want to run in the opposite direction or get on your knees."

Heat rose beneath your skin, your body freezing in mortification. You gaped at her, your mouth opening and closing until you pushed out a forced laugh.

"What—you're—that's ridiculous. You should get your eyes checked because that's, like," you laughed nervously, panic starting to burn through your rib cage, "he's like…a brother to me?" You phrased it like a question, your voice rising uncharacteristically high at the end.

She gave you a deadpan look, not buying a lick of your bullshit. Your shoulders dropped in defeat, your teeth starting to tear at your inner cheek.

"Is it…am I really that obvious?"

She sighed, her hand on your arm giving a reassuring squeeze. "I've worked with you long enough to know when someone is making you uncomfortable, when you're seconds away from exploding at a condescending customer, or when you want to jump over the bar and climb a guy like a tree." She paused for a second, pursuing her lips in thought. "Funnily enough, they all looked like him."

She let go of your arm, nodding towards the bar. "Now, stop thinking about fucking your roommate and get to work. I'm pretty sure table seven just ordered six espresso martini's." She gave your ass a friendly swat, pushing you behind the bar and making you throw your head back with a startled laugh.

You grabbed the docket from the POS printer, seeing an order for five espresso martini's and one spicy mango margarita. You walked down to the cocktail section, hands moving on autopilot as you prepared the margarita first.

Your eyes flicked up out of habit, your attention drawing towards the booth your roommates had practically scratched their names into—finding a pair of piercing blue eyes already gazing at you. The tequila bottle in your hand shook.

Don't screw the crew.

The last moment occurred during a typical movie night, where yours and Sam's raised voices warranted a domestic disturbance call from your neighbours.

"Oh my god, we are not watching Top Gun for the third time this month!" You exclaimed exasperatedly, throwing your head back against the couch with a groan.

Sam scoffed from his spot sprawled on his stupidly large beanbag—the one you're fairly certain is a dog bed for a Great Dane. "Oh, like your suggestions are any better? You made us sit through a fucking Twilight marathon a couple weeks ago! That's precious time I'll never get back."

You glared at him. "That's bullshit, Wilson—I didn't make you do anything. You chose to sit in that exact same spot and watch all five movies." A mocking smile twitched your lips. "And, if I remember correctly, you were the one asking me to pause the movie while you went to get more snacks."

Sam shook his head adamantly. "No, what's bullshit is your taste in movies—I only sat through it so you wouldn't feel bad!"

Nat and Steve were cuddled up on the couch perpendicular to you, their eyes darting back and forth between you and Sam like they were watching a tennis match. Bucky was sitting on the other end of the couch you were on, legs spread wide with a soda in one hand—his eyes shooting daggers at Sam.

You let out a harsh laugh. "Oh, really? So you crying when you thought Carlisle was dead was just you not wanting me to feel bad?"

"Yes!" Sam yelled, throwing his hands up in the air. Then he paused, processing what you just said. "Wait, no—there was no crying! I just acted sad for your benefit."

You opened your mouth to refute his statement when a deep, husky voice rumbled out from next to you.

"Sam," Bucky started, tone low and final, "stop lying, I saw you wiping your eyes." He continued glaring at Sam, his shoulders more tense than they were a minute ago. "Apologise to her so we can move on."

Sam looked at him like he had lost his mind. "Apologise? What the fuck do I have to apologise for?"

Bucky nodded towards you, darkened blue eyes still narrowed at Sam menacingly. "You said her taste in movies was bullshit. Apologise."

You were suddenly speechless—not sure how your usual movie night bickering with Sam led to Bucky being so…commanding. Protective.

You looked over to the other couch, catching Nat's eye—her mouth overtaken by a knowing smile. Your eyes darted to Steve next to her, his cheeks tinted pink and eyes squinted as he looked at his best friend—a sly smile partially hidden by the can he brought to his lips.

Sam shook his head with a disbelieving laugh, grabbing the TV remote off the coffee table.

Bucky reached out a long leg, giving Sam's beanbag a firm kick. "Now."

"Jesus," Sam dragged out, "chill out, man." He turned to you with a sigh, brown eyes glinting as he gave you his best puppy dog expression. "I am truly sorry for calling your movie taste bullshit. I will gladly sit through ten Twilight marathons if that's what you want."

He turned to Bucky with a smug grin. "There, I apologised to your girl. You happy now?"

A breath hitched in your throat, your brain freezing and going offline.

Your girl.

Said so easily, so naturally. Like it was a fact and not a mocking taunt.

Goosebumps prickled across your skin, a pleased shiver running through you at the thought of being Bucky's girl.

Bucky glared at Sam, the apples of his cheeks dusting pink. "Very." He said before leaning forward and snatching the remote out of Sam's hand. He turned to you, cheeks still flushed but eyes considerably softer. "What do you want to watch, doll?"

"…Shrek 2."

Groans erupted from three of your roommates, the fourth keeping his eyes on you while he shook his head with a fond laugh—the one that showed his pearlescent teeth and crinkled his eyes. The one that was your damnation, sentencing you to a life of yearning and false hope.

"It's the soundtrack, right?"

You nodded eagerly, a bright smile making your cheeks ache. "I knew you would get me, Buck."

You faintly heard a fake gagging sound come from the nuisance being swallowed by a beanbag, but you couldn't care less. Not when Bucky was looking at you like you were an astronomical phenomenon.

Condensation beaded glasses stained the wooden tabletop, chewed paper straws slowly disintegrating in melted ice. A half eaten bowl of fries grew stale in the middle of the table—your manager's attempt to get some food in her staff while they abused the (prepaid) leftover function alcohol, yourself included. The disco ball was still spinning, sending a thousand shards of light dancing throughout the empty bar, while an ABBA track murmured softly beneath laughter and gossip.

"I'm telling you," Dean said, spreading his arms over the back of the booth, "the ladies can't get enough of me."

The booth packed full of your coworkers vibrated with long groans, someone to your left loudly booing and your manager threatening to throw her gin and tonic in his face. You shoved his arm off the seat behind you, earning yourself a pinch to your cheek as his arm retreated.

"I'm serious!" Dean continued, pulling his phone out of his jean's pocket. "One of them even left a review about me last week—hold up, I'll get it." He squinted against the glowing light from his screen, bringing up the bar's google page to show everyone.

"Here it is—last Saturday: bartender was cute, would drink here again. Five stars." He leaned back in the booth with a smug smile, barely reacting when your manager ripped his phone out of his hand.

"Did you see who left the review, dingus?" She asked him, her mocking smirk overpowering his. "I don't know about you, but I don't know any ladies who go by the name James." She waved the phone in his face before going back to reading the review.

Dean recovered quickly, holding his hands up with a shrug. "I'm not opposed to having male admirers—they're some of my biggest tips."

You snorted a laugh. "Oh, I bet they are."

The table dissolved into laughter around you, the liquor and line cook's joint lowering everyone's inhibitions.

Your manager looked up from the phone at you, her eyes lighting up. "Weren't you also working on the bar last Saturday?"

You took a sip of your drink, lifting a shoulder in a half-shrug. "I think so? Was that the night we had two bachelorette parties come in?"

"Yeah, we ran out of cold brew because of them." Dean said. "I set a new record for how many numbers I could get in one night."

You rolled your eyes, choosing to ignore him like everyone else at the table. "Yeah, I was definitely on the bar—my arms are still aching from shaking espresso martini's all night."

Your manager leaned forward, her glassy eyes glinting at you teasingly. "I think this review is about you," she said in a sing-song tone.

You couldn't help but feel a little giddy at someone leaving you a review calling you cute, even if they were most likely stumbling drunk.

Allie—your fellow waitress who was sitting on the other side of Dean—grabbed the phone and read the review herself, scrolling on the screen with her eyes growing wider until a delighted gasp left her.

She looked at you with a beaming smile. "This James guy has been leaving reviews about you for months."

"What?"

She nodded eagerly, a small squeal leaving her. "This is so good, nothing this exciting ever happens here!" She was almost bouncing in her seat as she looked back at the phone, her excitement shaking the booth. "Okay, this one is from Valentines Day: waitress's frown is cute, I still should've bought her flowers." She fell back against the booth seat, clutching the phone to her chest with a dreamy sigh.

Your heart stuttered, the tipsy fog in your head clouding further. "That's—it doesn't say my name…" you trailed off with a nervous laugh. "It could be about any of the waitresses."

Your manager snorted. "We called you sourpuss the whole shift, you wouldn't stop frowning."

Before you could start your rant about how Valentine's Day is just another highly commercialised holiday and people shouldn't need a specific day of the year to celebrate love, Allie started reading out another review.

"This one is from four months ago: come to this bar if you want to see a real-life angel."

Dean groaned, "that's so fucking cheesy." He turned to look at you, "I hope you're not falling for this shit."

"We don't even know if it's about me!"

"I think it's cute," the new waitress piped in from the other end of the booth. "You've got a secret admirer."

"More like a stalker." One of the line cooks mumbled.

"Oh," Allie gasped, "this man has it bad. These are borderline love confessions." She reached past Dean, handing you his phone with the review page still open.

You hesitantly grabbed the phone from her, your heart beating rapidly in your chest. There's no way some guy was leaving these reviews about you…right? That just seems insane, like something out of a romcom. Or something that will end with a restraining order and you moving states away.

The phone faintly trembled in your unsteady hands, your eyes narrowing against the screen's bright glare.

James B.

★★★★★ a month ago

Wars were started over smiles less beautiful than hers.

Oh.

That's maybe the most romantic thing anyone has ever said about you.

You don't know if it's about you.

You exhaled shakily, shrugging nonchalantly as you handed the phone back to Dean. "He could be talking about any of the waitresses." You repeated your earlier statement. And then for good measure—"It's hardly a compliment—wars are started over literally anything."

Allie looked at you with wide eyes, bringing her hands up and shaking them in a strangling motion.

"Do you know anyone called James?" Your manager probed, clearly invested.

"No." You answered, ignoring the dull, tingling sensation at the back of your head. "No one significant."

"Well, even if he does turn out to be a stalker, at least he boosted our ratings."

Over the next few weeks, your coworkers had made it their personal mission to find out the identity of James B. Your manager had the brilliant idea to set up a weekly bar tab giveaway—for people to be in the draw they just needed to put their business card in a jar on the bar. What your customers didn't know was that every Friday after close, Allie and Dean were emptying the jar not to find a lucky winner but to look for any cards with the name James B.

It turned out there were a few more James B.'s than they were expecting, and there were no other parameters to narrow down their search. And much to their chagrin, you didn't recognise any of their names.

"Wait!" Dean exclaimed, holding a finger in the air. "Why don't we just reply to one of his reviews?"

"Oh," Allie said, leaning forward in her chair, "that's actually kind of smart. Maybe we could say we have a thank you gift for our number one fan?"

"Or we could just ask who he is."

Something about that made you uneasy.

After the night you all first discovered the reviews, Allie had drawn up a timeline of them which revealed this James guy had been leaving reviews for a year. And while they never mentioned your name, everyone knew they were about you—but you didn't want to believe that; it felt absolutely insane.

Majority of the reviews were brief and mundane, similar to the first one Dean saw. But a few of them…they read like poetry, like the pages out of someone's journal. They mentioned your smile, how your laugh could cure any ailment, that being in your presence was like witnessing a supernova.

It was beautiful and terrifying.

And every day it was looking more like a stalker than someone you knew—you didn't want to give him attention in fear that it could evolve from something harmless to dangerous.

"Already tried that," your manager sighed next to you. "He didn't reply."

Something in the atmosphere felt off when you shouldered the brownstone's front door open with a heavy sigh. It was well past midnight on a Saturday, and the soft murmuring you would usually hear coming from the lounge—Sam had a habit of passing out in front of the TV on Saturday night's—was nonexistent. You didn't think much of it, your mind single-focused on needing a scolding hot shower to wash away the ten hour bar shift.

Your work uniform was drenched and sticking to you uncomfortably, a crust of sugary cocktails and beer lining your skin. It had been one disaster after another—the beer keg soaking you as you tried to tap it, the cocktail shaker exploding in your hands, the new waitress who failed to call out "behind" and you ended up covered in a customers chili cheese fries.

You welcomed the boiling water, scrubbing your skin until it was red and raw. Visible steam swirled from your body even after you retreated into your room, and only then did some of the tension ease from your shoulders. Your fatigue ran bone deep—it felt like you were dragging your feet through mud as you slowly started your nighttime routine.

A noise cut through the eerily silent night, soft and faint, but an unmistakable echo from the room next to yours. It made you pause, your eyebrows drawing together. Then more noise followed, three breathy high pitched moans that the wall separating your rooms failed to drown out. A hot realisation curdled your stomach, rising through your body until it settled in your chest and throat—a tight, unrelenting fist clenching and making it harder to breathe.

Bucky had company.

Your ears zeroed in on the noises against your wishes. The last thing you wanted was to hear the guy you had a debilitating crush on fuck someone else. And yet, you stood frozen—your towel still wrapped around you, water dripping onto the floor, heart trying to beat out of your chest. Your nervous system had entered fight or flight mode, triggered by the sounds of another woman's pleasure.

Sweat started to line your back, your hands trembling where they were clutching the towel, chest stuttering as your breaths turned sharp and quick.

The moans grew in volume and soft thuds reverberated against the wall—then, a faint low murmuring graced your ears. A deep voice you would recognise anywhere, that you had heard through the wall plenty of times during your one year living there.

You snapped out of your shock, ripping open your work bag to find your headphones. Your phone shook in your hands as you searched for 'calming' playlists, your thumb jabbing violently at the first result. You turned the volume up loud enough to vibrate your eardrums, but the damage was already done.

You paced the length of your room, clenching and unclenching your fists in an effort to calm down—to will your racing heartbeat to slow, to tamp down the spiralling thoughts that made you feel like you were drowning.

You got ready for bed in a blur, trying to stay as quiet as possible with your heart beating wildly in your throat. The exhaustion that had your bones aching after your shift was lingering, but had been overwhelmed by the adrenaline surging through your veins. You laid in your bed, trying to concentrate on your breathing.

Inhale. One, two, three, four.

Hold. One, two—

It didn't sound like she was faking it.

The breath rushed out of you quickly.

You squeezed your eyes shut tight, clenching your fists and trying to focus on the sensation.

Inhale. One, two, three—

Bucky's bed is pressed up against your shared wall.

You grabbed the pillow next to you and pressed it against your face, something between a pained whimper and frustrated groan leaving your throat.

Did he like to talk? Was he whispering dirty things in her ear, telling her how good she felt, how much he wanted her? Did she get to hear him moan and whimper?

The music in your ears had become irritating, overstimulating you even more. But there was no way in hell you were taking your headphones off—your heart was already broken enough.

Did he call her sweetheart, too?

You slept for two hours, maybe three if you were being generous. The exhaustion won out against the anxiety around two am, only for you to jerk awake two hours later when the same noises echoed through the wall. At some point in the night your headphones had slipped off and you were defenceless against the noises your body had already filed as a threat.

Your nervous system reacted as if you were being hunted down by a lion, not overhearing your roommate-slash-crush have sex. It was a horrible way to wake up—your body pumping full of adrenaline and cortisol before you even took a deep breath.

The headphones went back on a second too late—leaving a scratched record of giggles looping through your head that the music couldn't drown out. One giggle that you knew well, that had you beaming with pride whenever you coaxed it out of him.

A silent tear slid down towards your ear, disappearing into your hairline as you stared at the ceiling.

Hours passed before it felt safe for you take the headphones off, and even then anxiety gripped your chest whenever you thought about leaving your room. Everything that had once felt safe, had once felt like your solace, now felt like a prison.

You knew you were being dramatic, knew that your jealousy and hurt was unreasonable. Bucky wasn't yours, he would never be yours—you knew that, you'd always known that. But that's the thing with crushes—they are irrational, uncontrollable beasts that mistake kindness for attraction, that disguise inevitable heartbreak as fluttering butterflies.

Opening your bedroom door slowly, you saw the flash of a towel dart into Bucky's room—two faint sets of giggles sounding behind the closed door, slicing into your aching heart. Heat burst behind your eyes and you willed the tears to stay at bay—at least until the shower could drown out your sobs.

You sat on the floor of the shower, staring at the wall while hot water rained down on you, each drop feeling like a knife piercing your skin. You sat there, unblinking, as your vision blurred—the water washing away your endless tears. You sat there as the shower stream changed from a burning fire to an icy bite, your body shivering but unmoving.

Nat's banging on the door about rising water prices snapped you out of your dissociative daze.

"Bucky! Oh, fuck—don't stop, please—"

"Yeah? You like that?"

"Yes—god, so much!"

"You feel so good, baby."

Thump, thump, thump.

You had taken your headphones off for half a minute while getting changed. All it took was thirty seconds for tears to swell in your eyes and a silent scream to claw at your throat.

It had been four weeks since you first heard them. Four weeks of knowing your crush was fucking someone else less than three metres from your bed. Four weeks of debilitating anxiety and heartache consuming you until there was nothing left to take.

You knew their routine; she came over every Wednesday and Saturday, always after ten pm. Depending on your roster for the week, sometimes you were home when she came over—subjected to hearing Bucky's low baritone greet her at the door, their footsteps padding down the hall past your room, the soft click of his door closing and the giggles that followed.

You fucking hated giggles.

By the end of the second week, you had put in a request to work the closing shift every Wednesday and Saturday. The tightness in your chest and churning in your stomach never faded, but you took some comfort in knowing you would only be in the same house as her for a few hours. You hadn't met her—you didn't even know her name—but you were envious of a faceless woman, a voice you heard in the dark, because she had the one thing you wanted but could never have.

No one brought her up—there were no casual chats between the boys, no probing questions from Nat. Apart from the first time, she was out of the house by six am—narrowly avoiding Sam and Steve leaving for their morning run. You weren't even sure they knew she existed—not until Nat gave you a sympathetic smile over a glass of wine, confirming that they did in fact know without uttering a word.

The usual nights the five of you spent together continued as normal. Or, at least as normal as you could manage. The space between you and Bucky grew—he stopped trying to charm quiz answers out of you, and you hugged the arm of the couch like it was a life preserver during movie night. The soft conversations over morning coffee ceased to exist, the nights of you two reading together in the lounge just a hazy memory.

The distance made your heart yearn for him while his proximity made your nervous system overload. It was a push and pull that sucked the life out of you, exhausting you until you were a shell of who you used to be.

When Sam asked you what your first heartbreak was you instantly thought of Liam Turner from the sixth grade. He was the classic class clown that both charmed and annoyed all the girls in your grade. He sat next to you during History and English, always pestering you for help and trying to make you his partner in crime. You did what any smitten eleven year old girl would do—you handed him a note. It was simple, you didn't even write your name—just "do you like me" with tick boxes for yes and no. You handed it to him before recess and watched with bated breath as he ran to his group of friends, watched as all of them turned to you and fell into hysterics. You crashed into your mom's arms once you got home from school, sobs wracking your body as you felt like you were going to die from the crushing sensation in your chest.

What you felt that day wasn't even a drop in the agony that consumed you when you walked into the lounge for movie night.

"You're late!" Nat yelled, her voice travelling down the hall as you rushed through the front door.

"I know, I know," you yelled back, heading for your room and changing out of your work clothes in record time. You made your way towards the lounge once in comfy clothes. "The health inspector would not stop asking me questions, no matter how many times I told him I'm not the—"

Your feet and words came to a halt once you reached the doorway to the lounge, your heart dropping to the floor and shattering into a million pieces.

Because there she was—sitting in your usual spot with her feet resting on Bucky's lap, one of his hands engulfing her ankles.

She was beautiful. And the complete opposite to you in every way possible. From the texture and colour of her hair to the shape of her body. From the clothing and jewellery she wore to the colour of her eyes.

The two of you weren't even comparable—you were from completely different planets, different universes.

It hit like a sucker punch. You weren't his type, not even close.

You're a fucking fool.

She smiled brightly at you, the white of her teeth glaring. You faintly heard her great you through the ringing in your ears, offering you her name. You managed a meek hi in response, dragging your wide eyes away from her over to the other couch.

Big mistake.

Nat and Steve were already looking at you with pity in their eyes, a silent "are you okay?" written all over their faces. Nat scooted closer to Steve, tilting her head towards the small open spot next to her on the couch. You knew the second you sat next to them that her comforting presence would wrap around you and tear away the last of your fraying composure. So, you did something you had never done before.

"Move it, bird brain." You muttered to Sam, squatting down next to his beanbag and shoving his shoulder to make room for you.

"You ever tried not being bossy?" He grumbled in reply, shuffling to the right so you could collapse down next to him.

Normally you would respond with something just as snarky. But that required mental energy that you did not possess—energy that was being drained with each passing second she sat behind you.

You settled into the beanbag, the rustling of polystyrene beads filling the quiet room. You tried to take calming breaths as subtly as possible, the blood from your broken heart clogging your throat and lungs.

"We're watching Interstellar tonight," Nat spoke softly. "Steve's pick."

You hummed, keeping your eyes glued to the TV screen as Steve navigated through the streaming app.

Sam stiffened next to you, turning to you with a peculiar look on his face. "What? You got nothing to say to that?"

You sighed. "Every white guy's number one film on letterboxd. Try being less predictable next time, Rogers." You said in a flat monotone.

A deep, breathy chuckle sounded behind you, and it took all of your diminishing willpower to not turn and get a glimpse of the soft smile that haunted your dreams.

You tried your best to focus on the movie, you really did. You tried to focus on the press of Sam's shoulder against yours, something tangible to keep you grounded. But nothing could distract you from the soft murmuring behind you, the sound of her giggles as Bucky provided commentary throughout the movie. It was something that you normally didn't mind, something you indulged in, even. Not tonight. Thirty minutes into the movie, your eye had developed a constant twitch from suppressing the urge to turn around and tell them to shut the fuck up.

At one point Sam's hand had fallen over both of yours, stopping you from picking at your bleeding hangnails. You didn't even notice the sting from the exposed wounds—too preoccupied with gnawing on the inside of your cheeks.

You walked into your shift the next day with another request.

You clocked into your shift on Tuesday afternoon with a sinking pit in your stomach. A feeling that you had become accustomed to over the last couple months, a feeling that had you walking the scenic route home at night, delaying your arrival. It was the feeling that you had started associating with home, along with the ache in your chest.

You loved quiz night—you loved seeing what stupid team names people came up with, loved judging them when they got such an obvious answer wrong. Once upon a time, you had loved seeing Bucky's handsome face sitting in your section, waving you over with an up to no good smile stretching his lips. Now, it all felt like a taunt.

Nothing was out of the ordinary—the opening shift said it had been quiet as usual, there had been a couple bookings from newcomers for quiz night, and the tabby cat that wandered the block came in to say hi.

And then, she walked in. Strolling in behind Nat and Steve, her arm looped through one of Bucky's, flashing you a kind smile as they made their way to their usual booth. In your section.

You wanted to scream. Cry. Jump into the East River.

The bar had become your safe place—which honestly sounded crazy, you hated half of the customers. But your home hadn't felt like your home since she walked through the door. And now she was in the one place that hadn't been tarnished.

She was nice, you knew she was. But she was a constant reminder that your heart belonged to a man who never looked at you twice.

You rushed over to Allie who was standing at the bar waiting for Dean to finish garnishing cocktails.

"I need you to swap sections with me—please." You said in a frantic breath.

She turned to you, her face already telling you her answer. "Hell no! I've got two tables of big tipper's—I am not giving that away."

Dean leaned his elbows on the bar. "I'll swap with you."

Your head whipped to him at a comical speed, your wide eyes meeting his unbothered grin. "…But you hate working the floor."

He nodded towards one of your tables—one of the newcomer bookings, a booth full of girls in their early twenties. A few of them were already looking over at your trio—more specifically, looking at Dean. You turned back in time to see him flash them a wink.

Your chest deflated with a relieved breath. "This is the only time I am ever going to be grateful for you being such a dog."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"It wasn't." You and Allie said at the same time, matching deadpan expressions on your faces.

Allie turned to you, squinting suspiciously. "Why do you want to swap?"

You shrugged, looking at her forehead to avoid eye contact. "Just felt like a change."

"You said please—pretty desperately, too. It was kinda hot." Dean piped in.

You glared at him, choosing not to acknowledge his comment. You turned back to Allie looking at you expectantly. "Variety is the spice of life?"

She hummed disbelievingly. "Mhm, sure. We'll talk later."

Working the bar brought you no reprieve; every time you walked to the cocktail station, they were in your direct eyeline. Every time you poured a cosmo, shook a lemon drop, garnished a mojito, you could hear them laughing. You watched how she fit in like the missing puzzle piece, her body slotting perfectly under Bucky's arm—like that's where she belonged. You watched your roommates welcome her in with open arms and crying laughter, the realisation hitting you that she replaced the temporary hole your absence had opened.

Your knees were shaking while you closed up the bar, your hands scrubbing the beer grates with an urgency that was cause for concern.

"Hey, hey, woah that's—" Dean came up next to you, his hands gently clasping your wrists. "That's enough," he said, uncharacteristically gentle, "your hands are bleeding." He brought your hands up, your unfocused eyes seeing spots of red raised on your knuckles.

"Oh."

"Yeah, oh. What's up with you today?"

Dean led you away from the bar, grabbing a first aid kit on your way over to where your manager and Allie were sitting, working through the next week's orders. He pushed you into a chair, stepping back with an awkward pat to your head.

"I'm sensing that this is a girl talk so I'm just gonna finish closing the bar."

The two women turned to you with concern painting their faces. Allie glanced down at your hands and opened the first aid kit, pulling out supplies to treat the cuts. Neither of them spoke while she tended to your hands, watching your face closely.

"These aren't too bad, just scrapes." She said softly, packing the kit back up and sitting it out of the way. She clasped your hands lightly, her thumbs rubbing soothing circles on the back of your hands. "What's going on, sweetie?"

You looked up from where you had been staring at the table, seeing her eyes and your manager's shining with worry. A silent tear slipped from your eye, leaving a damp path in it's wake.

"Whose kneecaps are we busting?" Your manager demanded.

That broke you.

Your shoulders started shaking, your throat closing in on itself in the form of a sob. Your heart escaped from your chest cavity, rising up like bile. Your vision was completely blurred, hot tears taking your eyes hostage. You caved in on yourself, wrapping your arms around your body as your frame trembled like a leaf.

You couldn't even feel embarrassed about bawling like a baby in front of your coworkers, the pain you had been sheltering for months overruling any other emotion. Allie wrapped her arms around you, pulling you into her warmth and making you cry harder. Your manager placed a gentle hand on your shoulder, her thumb rubbing calming patterns as they both whispered words of comfort to you.

You gasped for breath, trying to get some air past the ball in your throat. "I-It's so—" your words broke with a hiccup, "it's so fucking stupid." You rushed out. "We were never—ugh!" You wiped at your cheeks furiously, willing the tears to stop. You gulped down a deep breath, trying to focus on the comforting touches and not the agony vibrating every cell in your body.

"We were never anything. God, I'm sobbing over a guy that—he was only being nice, and I made it into something it wasn't." You garbled out, the brine of tears lining your lips.

You opened up to them, telling them about how deeply you fell for Bucky in between sobs. How you felt like a goddamn fool, your lovesick heart reading into things and mistaking your strictly platonic relationship as something else entirely. You told them how you hate going home most nights, finding it harder to breathe the closer you got to the brownstone. You admitted to them that it's not just jealousy over him with another girl, it's something deeper—the fear that you've been replaced, that he doesn't need you anymore.

"…my sleep is fucked, I'm on high alert every second I'm home—I don't feel safe in my own home. Which—I know, it sounds so fucking dramatic. But it's like she's seeped into every crack, changing the foundations I built over a year ago. Now she's turning up here—on fucking quiz night, my night—and I just can't escape." You finished with a deep breath, feeling drained from your emotional monologue.

Allie, who had kept her arms wrapped around you throughout your rambling, lifted her head and looked at you with a mix of understanding and sympathy. "That's why you wanted to swap sections, because she was here." You nodded meekly.

She sighed and sat back in her chair. "Give me a couple days to clear out my spare room. You need it more than I need a second closet."

Before you could start sobbing over her offer a muscular arm reached in front of you, depositing a vodka cranberry onto the table.

Dean's voice rumbled behind you. "If it makes you feel any better, I've wanted to sleep with you since my first shift."

"Dean," both women next to you hissed. You turned to look at him, catching that easy-going smile of his and you started laughing—the first genuine one in weeks.

Thursday 6:18pm

Nat: Hey, you working late tonight? The boys are getting restless, Sam is threatening to watch Top Gun if you're not home in 10…

You: shit i forgot to tell you i'm working thursday nights now! sam can watch whatever mediocre garbage he wants :-)

Nat: We can change movie night to another night! Maybe Sunday? Whatever works for you x

You: don't worry about it, thursdays work for everyone else!

Nat: Is everything ok? I feel like I hardly see you anymore :(

You: aw i'm sorry natty :-( just been picking more shifts up at work - boss has me training the newbies! promise we'll have a wine night soon xx

"I'm moving out."

It was the Sunday after that fateful quiz night, the sun beating down on your four roommates as they laid out in the backyard. Sam was going on about some barbeque he had been invited to—telling the other three that if they behaved he would let them join him. Nat's head was resting on Steve's chest, half asleep while he massaged her scalp. Bucky was lying with a hand behind his head, shirtless, and reading his well-loved copy of The Fellowship of the Ring.

Allie had sent you a photo of her spare room an hour before, a bottle of Tito's sitting on the floor the only thing in the empty room. You couldn't put off telling your roommates any longer, knowing that once you moved out you would start feeling like a human again. You stood in the doorway, arms tight across your body—fearing for their reactions.

Sam stopped talking abruptly, Nat jolted awake and sat up from Steve's chest, Bucky slowly lowered his book to his chest. Nat was the first to speak.

"What?" She asked softly.

You started to shuffle your feet, looking around the backyard—at the fairy lights that flickered like dying stars, the small veggie patch Steve cared for like it was his child—avoiding eye contact with them. "You remember Allie from the bar? We've gotten really close these past few months and she was looking for a roommate—kinda felt like a no-brainer, y'know?"

You finally looked at them, your heart beat rattling your jaw. Sam looked speechless, his face frozen in confusion. Nat was looking at you with that assessing gaze, her eyes squinting like she knew something else was going on. Steve nodded his head solemnly, his features pulled into a frown that looked out of place on him. Bucky had abandoned his book completely, sitting upright with his pretty lips downturned, his sunglasses hiding whatever emotions swam in his cerulean depths.

"I can sort out getting the room filled—can probably pay double rent if necessary—"

"I'll handle it." Bucky cut you off, his tone gruff and curt.

You wrung your hands together, hating being under the spotlight of your roommate's attention. "Are you sure? It's a bit late notice so it might be hard to—"

That same curtness cut you off again,"I said I'll handle it, didn't I?"

He probably wanted his girlfriend to move in.

Your three other roommates momentarily directed their bewildered stares to him, just as surprised as you at his bluntness. Just like Steve frowning, this was out of character for him. You could feel his eyes glaring holes into you through his sunglasses.

Nat shook her head at his attitude, turning her attention back to you. "I didn't know you wanted to move out."

Okay, time for the lies—just like you practiced in the mirror.

"It's not about wanting to move out," you started softly, "it's just something that naturally unfolded. Her landlord upped her rent last month and she can't afford it on her own anymore." Steve and Sam nodded along, while Nat was looking at you with that unwavering stare. You didn't even want to glance at Bucky. "She jokingly asked me over drinks a couple weeks ago if I was looking and after thinking on it, I think it's the best choice for me. It's closer to work, cheaper than what I currently pay and, as I said, we've become really good friends."

Nat continued squinting her eyes at you, watching as you fidgeted with your fingers—your tell that you would rather be anywhere else.

"Okay," she acquiesced. "When are you moving? We'll throw a little goodbye party."

"Great idea," Sam mumbled.

"Sometime in the next week." Everyone's eyebrows shot up at that. "And that's not necessary—I'd prefer it if you didn't do anything; it's not like I'm leaving the city, I'll only be a few blocks away."

Steve recovered from the brief shock at how soon you were leaving them. "Let us know what day and time, we'll help you move your stuff."

"I appreciate the help, really I do, but my coworkers have already offered—we have Dean to do all the heavy lifting."

That made Bucky stir, standing up with a scoff and arms folded across his chest. "Did you think about us at all? Sounds like you can't wait to get away from here."

You froze, the ice running through your veins equal to the frost in his tone. "That's not—I didn't want to bother you—"

"How can you think you bother us after all this time?" He asked, the frost melting into water—revealing something that trembled close to desperation.

"Bucky," Nat warned.

"I just don't understand," He snapped, shaking his head and walking towards where you were stuck in the doorway. He paused in front of you, his sun slicked chest making your heart gallop. You kept your eyes on his chin—locking on the clef still visible through heavy stubble, resisting the desire to glance at his naked chest, or worse, look into his eyes. "Mind letting me through?" He muttered lowly, his frame now blocking you from the sun. You ducked your head, pressing your back to the doorframe to give him space.

"Buck—"

"Not now, Steve." He bit out, your body absorbing the heat radiating from him as he brushed past you. You stood still, head tilted to the floor until you heard his door slam closed.

"Well, that was…" Steve started, his uneasy chuckle filling the heavy atmosphere.

The shock of his attitude left you dazed. You expected some blow back from Nat—she could read you like her favourite book, knowing the emotions you held within yourself better than you did. You expected—hoped, really—that they might be a little down about your departure, but Bucky acting like this wasn't even in your realm of possibility.

"What was that about?" You muttered to yourself.

Sam stood up with a huff, grabbing a beer from the cooler near the table. "Fucking idiots, the pair of you."

You timed the move for the following Wednesday, not wanting to risk another night of hearing what you had labelled your own personal torture. You had been working nights since Sunday, avoiding any interactions with your roommates. The vibe in the brownstone felt off, the air tasting stale even when you were the only one home. Nat had been texting you for updates, apologising for Bucky's strange behaviour, and assuring you your friendship with her wouldn't slip away after you were gone. Sam continued to send you memes—he had an affinity for the gradient instagram reels—and Steve saved you the best strawberries from his garden, hiding them in the fridge for you.

Bucky was radio silent.

Tuesday 5:36pm

Nat: Just spoke to Allie - apparently you're not working quiz night anymore?? What's going on?

You: we thought the new waitress should work it for a bit! good experience :-)

Nat: You should come join us then! We would be unstoppable with you on our team xx

You: maybe another time? don't want the other teams to think you have an unfair advantage lol

Nat: Fuck what they think. We miss you! Movie night was not the same without you last week :(

A month passed before you saw Bucky again.

You had been texting Nat on and off, feeling an awful reluctance to seeing her. It had nothing to do with Nat and everything to do with you continuing to avoid the problem—your feelings. Because you still thought about him, religiously so. You hated yourself for it—hated your brain conjuring up scenarios of him and her, replaying the happiness that glowed on his face the couple of times you saw them together.

Your sleep had improved, at least. There was no anxiety constricting your chest when you walked home, no fear for what you might hear through the walls. Allie encouraged you to cry it out on the bathroom floor, over tubs of ice cream on the couch. While it was horrible to address and to actually feel the heartbreak instead of intellectualising it, you had to admit you did feel lighter. It was a weight off your chest for someone else to know your secret, to let you speak about the pain and not forcing you to move on.

Your manager was quick to approve your request to work the day shifts—asking if you wanted to get your managers license, to be her dependable day shift manager. You were elated to have something else to focus on, and the pay rise wasn't bad either. Working the days also meant you weren't there in case your old roommate's called in for a drink on their way home from work.

But you knew your luck was going to run out some day soon.

It was on a quintessential late summer evening—the kind where the sun was low enough to shine through the tree canopy, casting the ground in a scene of dancing light and shadows. Gravel crunched beneath your shoes as you ambled through Prospect Park, listening to the harmony of kids laughter, dogs barking, and a busker playing guitar. Walking through the park lengthened your journey home by twenty minutes, but on a day like this it was hard to resist.

You heard him before you saw him, too lost in appreciating the world around you to notice him strolling towards you on his trek home. He called out your name softly, hesitantly. And you would recognise that husky baritone even if you were locked in a soundproof pool drowning underwater.

Your gaze ripped away from watching a pair of swans glide along the shimmering lake, your heart jumping into your throat as you saw Bucky a few metres in front of you. He was wearing his gym clothes, the black compression top clinging to his chest with light patches of sweat. His hair was tied back in a small bun, a few strands stuck to his dewy forehead and your fingers twitched to brush them back. Soft sapphire eyes roamed the valleys of your face, his shoulders dropping with an almost relieved sigh.

You hated how your body heated under his watchful gaze in an instant—hated that he still had control over you and he didn't even know it.

"Hey," he said quietly, a small smile tugging his lips. He hesitated for a moment, doubt flickering across his face before he shook his head and stepped closer, lifting an arm and placing his hand between your shoulder blades to pull you into his embrace.

A startled gasp escaped you at the contact, blood pulsing in your ears as his warmth enveloped you. His other arm wrapped around your waist, his hand resting on the small of your back to pull you in closer. Your traitorous body relaxed in his hold, the heady scent of sandalwood, spice, and his sweat clouding your mind.

Fuck him for always smelling so irresistible.

"Hi." You murmured, muffled by his shirt. You kept your arms at your sides, knowing that if you felt his body beneath your hands you would backtrack all the progress you had made over the past month. You could already feel yourself slipping—comparing being in his arms again to lying in front of the fireplace while rain pelted the windows and thunder clapped outside. The feeling of being warm and safe despite a raging storm.

He rested his chin on your head, his chest expanding underneath your cheek as he inhaled deeply. The hand between your shoulders flexed, pushing you further into him. His chest rumbled below you and you felt his words more than heard them. "Missed you."

You stepped back quickly, stumbling out of his embrace. His brows pinched together and his lips turned down with a frown. He took a small step back and cleared his throat, a muscle flexing in his jaw as he stuffed his hands in his pockets.

"I—uh—how, how have you been?"

You folded your arms across you chest, focusing on the light freckle on his neck. "I've been okay."

"That's good, great. I—we've missed you." His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard and his voice dropped lower, softer . "Place isn't the same without you."

You had to leave before you did something foolish—before you dropped to your knees and pleaded for an ounce of his affection.

You cleared your throat, trying to rid the sudden emotion clogging it. "How have you been? How's the new roommate?"

Bucky's eyes flicked away from you, a hand leaving his pocket to rub the back of his neck. "Fine—they're fine." Splotches of red coloured his cheeks. "They don't compare to you, though."

What the fuck did that mean?

"Um—okay, well, that's good? I should—"

"Listen," Bucky interrupted you before you could flee from the increasingly awkward encounter. He stepped closer, his eyes locked on the gravel lining the earth. "I—I want to apologise for my behaviour, when you told us you were leaving." He looked up at you, remorse and distress bleeding from him so viscerally you could almost grab it. "I was in shock, I think—it doesn't really matter, I'm not trying to excuse it. I just wanted you to know that I really am sorry and you didn't deserve that." He closed the distance between you more, hands raising towards you before they dropped to his sides. "I—um, I would hate for that to be the reason you haven't come 'round—if you felt uncomfortable because of me."

It was resting on the tip of your tongue, the truth. It was begging to spill out, to tell Bucky that you were uncomfortable because of him but not for the reason he believed. You could handle a little attitude—what you couldn't handle was hearing the guy you're in love with treat another woman the way you had fantasised about since the day you met him.

Grateful for the fact you had been getting enough sleep to keep a grasp on your filter, you accepted his olive branch instead of starting a confessional. "Thank you, Bucky." You looked into his eyes, trying to express your sincereness. "I appreciate it, really."

Hope flared bright across his face. "So, wanna join us next Thursday? Your pick—I'll tell Sam to keep his comments to himself."

Guilt curdled your gut. "Thank you for the offer, but I can't make it, sorry. I already have plans."

If sitting in front of the TV watching New Girl and doomscrolling on your phone constituted as plans.

And just like that, the flame was extinguished. "Oh."

You interrupted before he could say more. "It was good seeing you, Bucky, but I have to get going." You stepped around him to continue home, giving him a small wave goodbye before focusing forward—walking brisker than the tranquil evening called for, your shoulders too tense for the serene landscape.

"Bye," he murmured, the sound drifting towards you with the light breeze.

You kept your head straight forward the rest of the walk home.

You expected the text from Nat the next day, knowing that Bucky would've told your former roommates that he ran into you. She demanded you meet for brunch at your earliest convenience, and given that it was Saturday and you had no plans you couldn't deny her any longer.

You were sitting on the couch putting on your shoes when Allie burst through the front door, her hands full of bags from the morning market and mouth stuffed with cake from the pâtisserie around the corner.

"Oh my god," you heard her mumble around frosting and sponge. "Guess what I just found out."

"Apparently not what decent manners are. Swallow before you talk."

A mop of floppy blonde hair appeared in your doorway. "That's what he said."

You rolled your eyes as Dean sauntered in with a wolfish grin, closing the door behind him. "What the hell are you doing here?" You shot wide eyes at Allie, wordlessly demanding an explanation.

She took your advice and swallowed before speaking again. "I ran into him at the market—he has an update on James B!"

A mix of anticipation and dread made your morning coffee stir. "I thought he stopped leaving reviews?"

Dean collapsed next to you, eyeing the dress you were wearing with approval. "You dress up for me, angel?"

You shoved his shoulder. "Not in a million years. What's the update, dumbass?"

He pulled his phone out with a sigh. "He left a review last night—don't look at me like that, I set up notifications for this very reason." He tapped on his phone before handing it to you, the screen displaying the latest review.

James B.

★★★★★ 13 hours ago

Quiz night isn't the same without her. Nothing is.

Your heart rate picked up, sweat gathering at the back of your knees.

What the fuck?

"But last night wasn't quiz night?" Was the only thing your dumbfounded mind could vocalise.

"I mean, yeah, but you're missing the point!" Allie interjected, standing behind the couch and leaning her head down to read the review. "Now we know he's a quiz night regular! That narrows the search pool down so much."

"Ooo, what if it's one of the old dockmen?" Dean giddily queried.

"They do normally sit in your section—or, well, what used to be your section." Allie supplied, wandering back to your kitchen to put away whatever trendy new chutney she bought from the market.

Your eyes followed her, catching sight of the clock hanging on the wall. "Shit—I'm going to be late." You jumped off the couch, frantically grabbing your phone and shoulder bag. "We can theorise more later, Nat is going to murder me for being late."

"Bye, honey!" Dean yelled as you ran out the door—stopping for a second to throw him the middle finger.

Nat was sitting at a table towards the back of the cafe, her crimson hair a stark contrast to the soft pastel interior. The atmosphere was buzzing and lively—every table occupied, with laughter and heavenly aromas wafting out the open door. It was the go to brunch spot for Brooklyn natives, it's covered outdoor courtyard an enticing location on a warm summer's morning—you were surprised Nat even managed to score a table.

Her face lit up once she saw you, standing to welcome you with a hug. "One more minute and I would've thought you were ghosting me."

You hugged her just as tight, the smell of her perfume relaxing your shoulders and making your heart clench—you shouldn't have gone this long without seeing her. "God, I know, I'm sorry. Allie came home with gossip before I could make my escape."

You both pulled away and sat down, reading the menu like you hadn't looked at it online on your walk over.

"Gossip? Anything interesting?" Nat asked, wiggling her eyebrows.

You let out a deep sigh. "It's a long story. One that's better told over a bottle of wine."

"Okay, now I am beyond intrigued—you better not leave me hanging for another month." She shot you a small glare, the smile on her face lessening it's sharpness.

The waitress came over and took your orders before the two of you fell into easy conversation. She updated you on what trouble the boys—Sam—had gotten into, and you told her about the time you and Allie were locked out in your pyjamas and tried to scale the fire escape. Neither of you broached the subject of why you moved out, but it was lingering in the air—in the soft way Nat said Bucky's name. Throughout the hour you spent chatting you noticed she didn't mention their new roommate once, and the curiosity was making you restless.

"So, how's the new roommate, really? Bucky didn't say much about them."

An out of place nervous hesitation tightened Nat's face, her eyes darting between yours as she bit her lip. After a tense few seconds her shoulders dropped with a sigh.

"Honey, there is no new roommate."

You reared back, your eyebrows furrowing in confusion. "What? But Bucky said yesterday—he said they were fine."

"Of course he did," she muttered under her breath, pinching the bridge of her nose. She looked at you with a huff. "The room is empty. Bucky…he's been paying for it."

"What?" You nearly exclaimed, your body temperature rising.

"Look, I don't know why he didn't tell you the truth—I honestly don't know what goes on in his mind, he has made some terrible choices the last few months." She placed a gentle hand on top of yours, her tone softening. "Choices that had you leaving us."

"I don't understand." You muttered quietly.

"I probably shouldn't be the one to tell you this, but—Steve and him were drinking after work last week and he admitted he's paying for the room—saving it in case you want to come back."

Shock rendered you speechless—frustration climbing up from your gut, opening the partially healed scars seared into your heart. Confusion, irritation, and heartache swirled together until they formed one emotion—anger.

Your hands balled into fists, your clenched teeth making your jaw ache. "I'm sorry, what?" You bit out.

You barely noticed the smirk twitching her lips, red starting to blur your vision. "Sam and Steve are out fishing today—he's home alone if you want to go bite his head off."

You didn't need to be told twice, the red-hot fury bringing you to your feet quickly. You grabbed your stuff with urgency, your hands already starting to shake.

"Brunch is my shout—go knock some sense into him."

It took you less than ten minutes to reach the brownstone, outrage powering your legs with a speed you didn't know you were capable of. The fresh air did nothing to calm you down—you were too consumed by the memories from the past year, the heartache you endured, your utter confusion at Nat's revelation.

Your fist pounded on the wooden door, not stopping until it swung open to reveal a puzzled Bucky.

His eyes widened at the sight of you, pink lips stretching into a knee trembling smile. Your dress caught his attention, his smile freezing as blue eyes trailed down and back up your body.

He cleared his throat before speaking. "What are you doin' here, doll?"

"Don't fucking call me that," you seethed, pushing him out of your way to storm inside. You barged down the familiar path to your old room, ignoring Bucky as he called out your name behind you.

You opened the door to find the room exactly how you left it—empty. You whipped around to see Bucky standing a few feet behind you, looking down at the ground with a hand rubbing his neck and a fire overtaking his cheeks.

"Why the fuck are you paying for an empty room? No, better yet, why did you lie to me about it?" You loudly demanded, just shy of shouting.

He stumbled over his words, looking up to see you with your eyebrows raised, arms folded across your chest, hip jutted out—the perfect picture of barely contained rage.

"Well, I—you see, it's—" he dragged a hand through his hair, blowing out a breath. "It's complicated?"

"Yeah, no shit. You were so pissy about me moving—it makes no sense! Just tell me the truth for once, Bucky!" Your voice raised higher, your hands flying around as the confusion and aggravation took hold of you.

Bucky's own frustration started to seep through, the volume of his voice a notch below yours. "I was upset because you were leaving—and you didn't seem to care about us, just running straight to Dean for help!"

He was upset? He had no fucking right to be upset.

Hot, frustrated tears flooded your eyes without your permission. "I left because of you, Bucky! No one else, just you." You stepped toward him, pushing a finger into his ridiculously sturdy chest. "And I didn't run to Dean! He offered to help after he watched me have a fucking breakdown over you."

His glistening eyes stared into yours, his eyebrows drawn upwards in distress. "…What?"

A crack had fractured the dam keeping you contained, your pent up thoughts and feelings crashing through and destroying the concrete barrier.

"Every fucking day I came home feeling like my world—my heart—was being torn apart—" your voice cracked and you turned around, starting to pace the length of your old room. "And I know, I fucking know, it's not your fault—that my delusional mind and hopeless romantic heart are to blame for reading into things that weren't there, for creating a fantasy of you—of us."

You wiped away your flowing tears, sniffling as you tried to catch your breath. "But now, you expect me to, what—feel bad for leaving? I was barely human." You let out a wet, humourless laugh.

"What are you talking about?!" He demanded desperately, his face shining with frustration and something akin to hope.

"I'm talking about the goddamn walls, Bucky! I don't know if you know but they're pretty fucking thin! And every Wednesday and Saturday night I heard you and her—I heard the guy I was obsessed with fucking somebody else and it killed me."

"I only started seeing her to get you out of my head!" Both his hands found their way to his hair, tugging the dark strands in frustration. "And maybe I wanted to make you jealous—which I know is a terrible—"

You closed the distance between you in two quick strides, reaching out to shove his chest. "Jealous? You wanted to make me jealous?!" You seethed out, your fists hitting his chest as your vision blurred. "Are you blind?! Everyone could see how infatuated I was with you." Your hits lost their strength, your cheeks growing even more wet.

"Hey," Bucky whispered softly, his hands gently encircling your wrists and his thumbs rubbing tender patterns on your radial pulse. "Breathe for me."

"No," you stubbornly whispered back, despite your panting breaths slowing to match his. You drew in staggering breaths, finally noticing how hard your heart was beating—your body shaking with every thump. Your fists unfurled, your palms resting flat on his broad chest—the fast pounding of his heart a near match to yours.

He let go of your wrists, his hands cupping your face delicately. He wiped your tears away with such care it made your heart ache. Your vision cleared enough to focus on his face, seeing his eyes shining with their own tears.

"I think we're both a bit blind, sweetheart. Everyone can see how smitten I am with you." He rested his forehead against yours, the space around you two growing charged in the aftermath of your anger. "Sam gives me shit about it every day." His breathy laugh ghosted your lips, leaving tingles in it's wake. His voice dropped low, "I'm so fucking in love with you I was leaving reviews about you like some—like a hopeless sap, hoping you would realise it was me."

His confession of love flew over your head, incredulity controlling your mind. "That was you?!" You gasped, pushing his chest lightly. "I thought I had a stalker, you idiot."

The memory of the night you and Allie read all the reviews ran through your head, remembering the disturbingly romantic details written; remembering the reviews you secretly reread like a guilty pleasure, going to sleep with a giddy smile and fluttering butterflies because someone was noticing you.

"That's all you took from that?" He shook his head minutely, one of his hands brushing down your back to cradle your waist. "I'm trying to tell you I'm in love with you here."

You stepped out of his embrace, your mind still picking through all the small details. "But—the first review was, like—" you started to pace again, your hands resting atop your head. "It was well over a year ago!" Your voice raised again, recalling how horrible you felt only a month ago—the heartbreak you could've avoided. "Why did you never say anything?!"

"Because I was scared!" His voice raised to meet yours. "I didn't want to ruin things and lose you forever!"

"Yeah, well look at how that turned out!" You gestured wildly to the empty room.

"Why are we shouting again?" Bucky walked towards you, reaching for your hands. You were both breathing heavily, the sound of your pants echoing in the emptiness as your chests heaved up and down.

"Because I'm mad at you." You finally met his eyes, the blue bleeding with regret and sorrow. Your voice dropped lower, timidness starting to creep in. "You…you broke my heart, Buck."

He gripped your hands tighter, raising one to rest on his chest—right above his heart. "I am going to spend every day until I die trying to make it up to you." His remorse polluted the air around you, tears welling in your eyes once again—this time from the pain clouding his. "If you'll let me."

"That's a bit dramatic," you mumbled, sniffling lightly. "Until you're fifty is fine."

He laughed, wet and husky. He let go of your hands to cup your face again, smoothing his thumbs along your cheekbones. Your breath hitched at the touch, the pain in your system being diluted by the drug that is Bucky.

He leaned in closer, his eyes darting between yours and your lips. "I'm gonna kiss you now, okay?"

You managed a small nod before his lips were on yours—desperate and aching, stealing the breath from your lungs. One of his hands shifted to the back of your neck, tilting your head to kiss you deeper. Your hands found his chest again, fisting his shirt and causing a groan to sound in the back of his throat. He took control of the kiss with no complaint from you—happily letting him suck your bottom lip before nipping it, opening for him when his tongue grazed your lips.

The first touch of his tongue against yours had fire scorching down your body, the intensity of his kisses settling in your gut and awakening the need you've had for him for over a year.

The annoying human need for air had you pulling away from his lips, gasping as you tried to catch your breath. His stubble scratched your skin as he trailed kisses along your jaw, tilting your head to reach the sensitive spot below your ear. He gave it a soft experimental kiss, his tongue darting out and drawing a small whine from you.

His chest rumbled beneath your hands. "You talk about the walls being thin—trust me, I know." He stepped forward, his fingers dancing down your sides to grasp your hips, backing you into the wall. "I know you like to beg, what pretty sounds you make when you're about to come." He trailed his nose back along your jaw and down the other side of your neck, nestling into the crook and sniffing deeply with a small moan.

"Wh-what? I haven't—I never brought anyone home." You stuttered out, head starting to feel heavy from the lust fogging it.

"No, but you still have needs, don't you?" He let out a small chuckle, trailing feather-light kisses along your collarbone. "You thought you were alone, thought it didn't matter how loud you let yourself be." He pulled back, bringing a hand up to brush his fingers along your cheek, making their way down your neck. Onyx eyes met yours—a shiver racing down your spine at the barely contained hunger in them. "I came home with a migraine and you were so wrapped up in pleasure you didn't even hear me—but I heard you. And shit, doll, the noises you made cured my migraine faster than any pain meds ever have." He dropped his forehead to yours, his breath fanning your lips. "I had to fuck my fist three times that night. I replayed every little whimper, moan, every gasp of please until it drove me insane."

A gasp escaped you at his admission, heat rolling through your body—a mix of embarrassment and hunger swirling in your core.

"And then, like it was the universe's sole purpose to bring me to my knees, you walked in the next day wearing this dress." His fingers drifted to the neckline of your dress, toying with it as your breasts moved rapidly beneath. "Looking like a fucking angel sent here to torture me. Like sin wrapped in white lace. I had to leave before I dropped to my knees and begged for a taste—to let me worship you."

Your heart was trying to beat out of your chest, the throbbing in your core escalating with every word he murmured into your lips.

"You kept on wearing it, and I had to pretend like I wasn't replaying those sounds every time I saw you—like my dick wasn't rock hard at just a glimpse of this fucking dress." The hand on your neckline travelled down to the line of lace below your breasts—his thumb stroking along it making your breath stutter and nipples harden. "I had to do something, I felt like I was going insane. I started seeing her to get you out of my head—didn't fucking work now, did it?"

The mention of her cut through the Bucky induced haze, and you hesitated—needing clarification before you could let him consume you.

"Are you still seeing her?" You whispered.

"Fuck no, we were strictly casual. I broke it off the day you left."

Your head reared back an inch, hitting the wall lightly. "You know that doesn't make me feel better, right? That you only wanted to sleep with her because I was in the next room."

Both his hands gripped your waist, squeezing gently. "Okay, that—that wasn't what I was trying to get at." He lifted his head to stare into your eyes. "What I meant was that you leaving really showed how much of an idiot I'd been, wasting my time with her when you were right next door."

"Why didn't you reach out, then?"

He shrugged, his eyes darting away nervously. "I didn't think I had a right to. I wasn't exactly proud of how I acted the last time we spoke."

You saw Bucky almost every day for over a year—you knew he didn't get outwardly nervous often, and you knew when he was being vulnerable and honest. The Bucky in front of you wasn't lying—you could tell he was genuinely worried he'd messed everything up.

You relented with a sigh, lacing your hands around his neck. "I think it's time you start making it up to me."

"Gladly," he said before pulling you into him and kissing you deeply. He pressed his hips against yours, pushing you harder into the wall. You gasped at the feeling of his bulge against your stomach, your core trembling and aching in anticipation.

The pace of the kiss picked up, Bucky's tongue licking into your mouth with a deep moan. His grip on your hips tightened and he spun you around, walking you backwards towards his room without removing his mouth from yours.

He kicked the door shut behind him, leading you towards his bed with his hands drifting down to squeeze your ass. You broke away with a moan, your lips swollen and chin tender from his stubble.

"Sit down for me, sweetheart." Bucky rasped out. You quickly obliged—your need for him making you ready to do anything he said.

He kneeled on the floor in front of you, slowly taking your shoes off. His hands trailed up your bare legs, stopping when they reached the hem of your dress.

He pressed a soft kiss to your knee. "You gonna let me make you feel good?" He mumbled into your skin.

You nodded rapidly, your hands clenching his sheets in desperation.

He clicked his tongue. "I need words, angel."

"Yes, Bucky—please. Please touch me," you gasped out, the sight of him on his knees robbing your intelligence.

His mouth tilted into a smirk, his eyes gleaming. "There you go with that begging again."

He clasped your knees, spreading your legs open. His breath tickled the sensitive skin on your inner thighs, goosebumps erupting and surging up to your core. He pressed light kisses along one thigh, stopping when he got to your dress and switching to the other.

You could feel slick leaking out of your cunt, your clit pulsing from the lack of attention.

"Buck, stop teasing, please." You whined softly, lifting a hand to push the hair away from his eyes. He nuzzled into your hand, turning to press a kiss into your palm. Your hand vibrated as he hummed low.

He grasped the hem of your dress, lifting it slowly up to your hips. "Lean back f'me."

You leaned back on your elbows, your body trembling with need as his hands scorched paths up your thighs.

He let out a low groan once your dress was up past your hips—revealing your soaked panties to him. His eyes locked onto them, his pupils dilating until only a sliver of blue remained.

"All this from a little kissing?" He brushed a thumb along the wet patch, grazing your clit. Your head fell back with a loud gasp, your hips twitching towards his touch.

"Sensitive," he mumbled. His hand moved, tracing the edge of your panties—you were sure he could feel the heartbeat pulsing in your core. "How long has it been?"

You lifted your head up, looking into his dark eyes—the desire in them reflecting your own. "Since before I—"

You cut yourself off with a soft moan, your body jerking as Bucky pressed his thumb to your clit through your underwear—circling it with a steady pressure.

"What was that?" He asked smugly.

Your chest heaved as you tried to wade through the sensations buzzing through you. "Since before I moved in," you rushed out quickly, another moan escaping you at the feeling of his touch directly on your pussy—his hand slipping underneath the wet fabric.

"Fuck," he breathed out through clenched teeth. He grabbed the waistband of your panties and pulled them down your legs quickly. He groaned out looking at your exposed cunt, and you tried to close your legs on instinct.

He gripped your thighs to stop them from closing. "None of that," he growled out lowly. "Let me look at her."

His hands trailed up your thighs until they reached your bare hips, yanking you closer to the edge of the bed. You fell onto your back softly, your breath shaking from the impact.

He pulled your lips apart and moaned loudly. "She's fucking dripping, sweetheart."

You clenched at his words, his teasing leaving you aching and squirming. He chuckled and pressed a soft kiss millimetres away from where you needed him most. He breathed you in deeply making your hips buck up with a needy whine.

"Bucky, please."

He dragged a single finger from entrance to clit, pulling it back with a string of your arousal connecting the two of you. You sighed at the small touch, opening your eyes to see Bucky suck the tip of his finger.

He groaned at your taste, hands grabbing the back of your thighs to push your legs back and spread you wider.

"Gonna make her feel so good, pretty girl." He slurred out, his lips trailing a path of fire up to your core. "Be a good girl and make those noises for me again."

He dove in, licking the same path as his finger. His groan vibrated through you and your hands flew to his hair, gripping the strands as you gasped.

"Taste so fucking good," he mumbled before latching onto your clit. He sucked gently, circling the nub with his tongue. You rewarded him with a tug to his hair and a shaky moan.

He picked up the pace, moaning as he went from tasting you to devouring. He thrusted his tongue into you, lapping up everything he could. The room filled with the lewd sounds of your slick and his saliva coating your pussy—with your unabashed moans and gasps bouncing off the walls.

He pulled away from you, his chin and beard glistening. "That's it, pretty. Being such a good girl." You whined at the praise, using your hold on his hair to push his face back into you.

Your hips rocked against his face, the flame in your core growing fast. He moved an arm to your hips, holding them down to keep you still. He sucked your clit harshly, your back arching at the pleasure he was unleashing on you. You gasped out his name as your orgasm built rapidly.

"Fuck, Bucky—right there! Please, I'm gonna—" you cut off with a loud moan, your body jolting from him lightly biting your clit. Stars started to dot your vision as he continued to feast on you like a starved man—like you were his first sip of water after wandering the desert.

The knot in your core clenched tight before it unravelled, Bucky's groans vibrating through you pushing you over the edge. You came with a cry, your hands yanking his hair hard. A blissful fire spread throughout you, making your toes curl and head float.

Bucky drank up your release, prolonging your high until you were shaking and trying to push his head away. He relented, moving back to kiss and nip your inner thighs. Your heavy panting filled the room, your pussy twitching as you came down.

You propped yourself up on weak elbows, your droopy eyes meeting his glazed, pussy drunk ones.

"You're so fucking beautiful," he whispered reverently. He moved back in closer, his breath fanning your cunt making you clench around nothing. "Another one."

He slowly licked at your hole, leaving your overstimulated clit throbbing painfully. Your arms gave out, a whimper crawling up your throat. You brought a hand up to your chest, squeezing a breast over your dress—trying to relieve the ache in them.

"Fuck, look at you," Bucky cooed, pulling away from you to stand up. "As much as I love this dress, I think you'll look even more beautiful without it."

You nodded, sitting up slightly so he could pull it over your head. Your eyes were level with his crotch, seeing the large bulge tenting his pants—your mouth salivating already. Once your dress was off you reached a hand out, palming his hard dick over his pants. You gasped at the heavy feel of him, your walls clenching at the thought of him stretching you open.

His head rolled back with a moan, a hand catching your wrist to stop your movements. "Not right now." You let out a displeased whine and his mouth twitched with a smirk. "Later, promise. Lay back down so I can worship you."

He grasped the back of his shirt and pulled it over his head, leaving you to gape at his insane torso. You had seen it before but you always adverted your eyes quickly, scared of getting caught staring. Now, you could stare and touch all you wanted.

You leaned up to run a hand over his bare chest, his body scorching beneath your skin. You trailed a finger down the hard ridges lining his body, a thrill running through you as his muscles rippled and breath stuttered. Your mouth found his pecks, lathering them in wet kisses while your hand teased the waistband of his pants. He grasped your chin, jerking your head up to look at him. His jaw was tense and eyebrows furrowed, a slight darkness shadowing his face.

He leaned down and placed a gentle kiss on your lips. "What did I just say, sweetheart?" He mumbled, his tone laced with warning.

Before you could reply, his hands grasped your waist and pushed you up the bed until your head met his pillow. He crawled on top of you, kissing your neck.

"Thought you were gonna be a good girl." He mumbled, biting the spot below your ear and making you gasp. He pulled on one of your bra straps, letting it snap back onto your skin. You gasped louder at the small stinging sensation, the slight pain dousing your core in gasoline.

"Please, I am—I will be. M'sorry." You whimpered out, tilting your head back as he continued his assault on your neck.

He hummed in response, sucking on your pulse point before trailing lower—his stubble scraping the top of your breasts. He reached a hand behind your back, unclasping your bra with ease before pulling the straps down your arms slowly.

Your nipples hardened more once exposed to the cool air, begging for Bucky's attention. He lavished your breasts in kisses, covering every inch of skin with his spit. One of your hands clutched onto his bicep while the other wound into his hair again. He continued to avoid your nipples and you squirmed underneath him, trying to move his head to where you wanted him.

He relented, licking a nipple before sucking it into his mouth. You moaned from the relief and the zaps of pleasure racing down your torso. He pinched your abandoned nipple, rolling it between his thumb and finger as he bit down on the other one. You arched off the bed with a loud whine, the pain and pleasure morphing into one. He switched nipples, dolling out the same sweet torture with moans lodged in his throat.

Once both your nipples were raw and aching he kissed down your abdomen, hands clutching your hips as his mouth worshipped your stomach. You giggled at his beard tickling your sensitive skin and he lifted his head, his blown out eyes meeting yours with a soft—almost unbelieving—smile.

"You're breathtaking," he whispered. "And you're all mine, yeah?"

"Yes, Buck. Only yours."

He hummed in approval, pressing a light kiss to your hip. "Good. 'Cause I'm yours, angel. I'm sorry it took so long for me to say."

He moved back down to where you were dripping onto his sheets, your body wound tight from your first orgasm and his teasing. He licked into you without hesitation, drawing out loud noises from you as he sucked your sensitive clit.

"You're so wet—wanna live between these thighs, doll."

A hand left your hip to poke at your entrance, one finger sliding in easily before your walls squeezed at the intrusion. He pumped it in and out slowly until you were begging for more. A second slipped in, both of them curling upwards and grazing the spot that had you arching off the bed with a sound you'd never made before.

He lifted his head up, praising you for how good you were being—telling you how pretty you sounded. His mouth descended on your clit again and his fingers picked up their pace.

Your head rolled around on his pillow, the dual stimulation to your pussy making a heat rush through you like you'd never experienced with anyone else. You could feel how he was paying attention to you, altering his movements to gauge what sounds he could pull out of you—getting to know what you liked.

The ball tightened faster than the first time, your body edging on being overstimulated. Both your hands were fisting the sheets, your hips grinding against Bucky's face and fucking his fingers—the obscene squelch of your pussy soaking his hand mixing with your moans and gasps.

"Let me come—please. Been s'good for you, Buck—"

You know you didn't need his permission to come, but begging and submitting to him felt so good. Your own words pulled the coil in your core tighter—his resounding moan shaking through you telling you how much they affected him too.

A third finger joined in and you clenched down hard, the stretch almost throwing you off the cliff. They curled into your spot over and over, his other hand moving to push down on your lower stomach—causing something between a moan and squeal to leave you.

"Course you can come for me, sweetheart. I want nothing more than this sweet pussy drenching me."

With one last curl of his fingers and suck to your clit, your body started to shake, the ball bursting and sending waves crashing through you. Your eyes rolled back and your ears started ringing, deaf to the borderline animalistic noises you were letting out. You clamped down on his fingers hard, your juices gushing out and coating his hand—dripping and staining his sheets.

Your head was up in the clouds, cotton filling the space your brain used to be. You briefly registered his mouth leaving your overstimulated and raw nub, his fingers still moving slowly as you floated through your high. Small, gentle kisses across your cheeks, nose, and eyelids had you giggling breathlessly. Your body felt heavy, your eyelids struggling to open.

"You doin' okay?" Bucky whispered into your temple, peppering more light kisses to your forehead. You hummed softly.

"Need'a minute," you slurred out.

His fingers slowed and then left you, a whine slipping past your lips at the emptiness. You felt a hand rubbing soothing circles onto your scalp, your body turning towards his warmth. You slowly opened your eyes to find him staring at you, electric blue lazily roaming around your face.

"Hi," you whispered, lifting a heavy hand to push hair behind his ear. He grabbed your hand and covered it in soft kisses, his eyes never leaving yours.

"Hi. How you feeling?"

You leaned in, nuzzling your nose against his. "Good—really good," you muttered before kissing him softly. Your hand weaved into his hair, pulling him in as your kiss grew more passionate.

One of his hands cradled your jaw and the other spanned the small of your back, pushing you into his bulge. You bit his lip teasingly, revelling in his body shuddering and drinking down the moan he let free.

You grinded your hips against his—gasping and whimpering at the rough fabric of his pants dragging against your oversensitive pussy. He responded in kind, rutting his bulge into you with a groan.

"Want you inside of me," you mumbled into his lips, throwing a leg over his to roll your hips harder.

"Fuck—okay," he breathed out. He pulled away to reach for his bedside drawer but your hand on his chest stopped him.

"Are you clean?"

His eyes widened and he nodded dumbly. "I got tested the other week—wait, I'll show you." He reached for his phone but you stopped him with a giggle.

"I believe you. I'm clean—obviously. And on birth control."

His eyes almost bulged out of their sockets, pupils dilating until they physically couldn't anymore.

"Are you sure?" He gripped your face in his hands, eyes darting between yours. "I only used condoms with her so I understand—"

That fact pleased you absurdly, your hand trailing down his chest to his groin—squeezing his heavy bulge. "I'm sure. Wanna feel you, all of you."

He pulled you into a searing kiss, rolling you onto your back and hovering over you. Your mouth moved against his eagerly, both your hands on his waistband to unbotton and unzip his pants. You reached a hand into his boxers, a gasp leaping out as you wrapped your hand around him—his cock throbbing and big. You briefly worried about the limp you'll have later.

He panted above you, his eyes closing as you stroked him slowly. You could feel his boxers damp with pre-cum, beads of it dripping from his tip. You brushed your thumb over it and he moaned gutturally, eyes opening as you pulled your hand out. You kept eye contact with him as you brought your thumb up to your lips, licking his pre-cum before sucking it into your mouth with a satisfied moan.

He pulled your thumb out, tracing his own along your lip before you sucked on it—twirling your tongue around it.

"You're gonna be the fucking death of me, angel." He groaned out.

He pushed away to pull his pants and boxers off, throwing them behind him carelessly. Your eyes zeroed in on his cock standing proud—your mouth somehow simultaneously drying up and drooling at the sight. He was the biggest you'd ever seen—long and thick, the tip flushed red with his need. Your knees fell apart on instinct, the fire building up just looking at him.

"Wanna take a picture?" He teased.

"Another time," you whispered, surging up to grab his shoulders and pull him back on top of you.

He chuckled into your mouth before it dissolved into a moan, your hips bucking up and smearing his cock with your slick.

He grabbed your hips, pulling them up slightly as he settled between your legs. You both broke off from the kiss with matching gasps, the feel of him sliding along your slit making you both dizzy. His tip bumped into your clit with each glide, whimpers echoing from your chest as you twitched from the stimulation.

"You're so fucking pretty," he mumbled, dropping his head to kiss and nip along your neck.

"Please," you whined, your hips rocking without thought.

He pulled back and looked down between you, groaning at his dick already glistening with you. He wrapped a hand around himself, tapping his head against your clit a few times. You squealed, starting to feel dizzy with desire. He shushed you gently, dragging a thumb along your cheekbone before positioning himself at your entrance.

His eyes met yours as he pushed in slowly, the intensity in them making you choke up. It had never felt like this before—never felt so passionate, adoring. It made everything feel elevated—your nerve endings singing with pleasure wherever he touched you.

You clenched down on him instinctively, your walls stretching around just the tip. Your chest heaved as you tried to relax—you weren't in pain, it just felt so fucking good.

"Be a good girl and let me in," he whispered, leaning forward to kiss you.

Your legs opened wider for him, your core relaxing to let him push in further. Moans and gasps filled the air around you as he thrust slowly, sinking until he reached the hilt.

The breath knocked out of you, the feeling of him filling you completely making your head rush. He moved slowly at first, small thrusts to get you accommodated before pulling back until just the tip was inside. He sank home with deep moans, his cock pushing against your spot with every thrust.

You wrapped your legs around his waist making him reach deeper inside you. He picked up his pace, his hips meeting yours with soft slaps.

"You feel so good—oh, fuck!" He exclaimed as you clenched down on him.

"Harder, please." You moaned out, scratching your nails down his chest.

"Yeah? My pretty girl—my little angel—likes it rough?"

You nodded deliriously, the tension in your core sizzling with every thrust.

He sat up, bringing your hips with him. He held them up and delivered harsh thrusts—each one expelling a gasp out of you. Your legs tightened around him, his strength pushing you up the bed.

The headboard knocked against the wall, adding to the symphony of moans, whimpers, skin slapping that was already deafening the room. Each sound had you soaring higher, each thrust kissing your cervix sending a shock through you.

Bucky removed your legs from his waist, clutching your thighs to push them towards your chest. Your wide eyes met his with a gasp, the change in position igniting a roaring fire everywhere. He dropped forward slowly, pushing into you so far you swear you could feel him in your throat.

He groaned into your ear. "This is—god, you're made for me."

His thrusts resumed their previous pace, your mouth falling open in a silent scream. Sweat beaded along his hairline from the exertion, his hair sticking to his temples—and he looked so beautiful, your eyes started to well with tears.

Everything rushed through you in an overwhelming burst—the heartache you suffered, the months of yearning and uncertainty, how much you loved him. How much he loved you.

Tears fell from your eyes as the sensations built higher and you grasped his face, pulling his forehead to yours. Your gentle kiss to his lips was a stark contrast to his cock drilling into you.

"I love you," you whispered, your words breaking on a sob of pleasure.

His hips stuttered, his eyes squeezing tightly. "You can't say that again or I'll blow my load." You laughed at his clear struggle to hold back, making him groan as you squeezed him tighter.

He continued his thrusts, wiping a thumb under your eye to catch your tears. "This is the only time I'm gonna make you cry from now on, yeah? Only gonna make you sob cause I'm fucking you so good."

You nodded, letting out little "uh-huh"'s as you climbed higher and higher.

"Play with your clit, sweetheart." Bucky rasped out.

Your hand snuck between your bodies to press circles around your clit—your back arching with a whine. Tears continued to track down your temples, wetting the pillow below you.

"Fill me up, please," you managed to get out between whimpers and sobs. Bucky's grip on your thighs tightened, surely leaving marks for you to admire over the next few days.

"Come with me," Bucky moaned, pressing a scorching kiss to your lips as his thrusts grew sloppy. You tensed below him, your body locking up before pure ecstasy barrelled through you. You came with a scream of his name, clenching down on his cock to keep him trapped. Your vision faded to white, your body trembling and pulsing.

Bucky groaned out your name as his orgasm rushed through him, his cock throbbing and pulsing inside you as he filled you completely with cum.

He collapsed on top of you, his sweaty chest heaving against yours. He slowly lowered your legs then wrapped his arms around your waist, nuzzling into your neck.

You laid there for a few minutes, the both of you gradually coming back down to earth. He pulled out of you slowly, the both of you groaning at the feeling. A mix of your releases dripped out of you, coating your ass and staining the sheets.

"Stay right here," Bucky said before giving you a chaste kiss, pulling his boxers on to run to the bathroom. He came back with a wet towel, sitting on the bed next to you to clean you up with gentle, reverent touches.

He climbed behind you, pulling you into his strong chest—a satisfied rumble vibrating your back. He kissed the back of your head, trailing towards your ear and giving your lobe a gentle bite.

"I love you too."

"When can we move your stuff back in?"

Bucky and you were still lying on his bed, basking in the warmth of each other as the afternoon sun trickled through his half closed curtains.

You turned in his arms, slinging a leg over his and booping his nose. "I think we should go on a couple dates before I move in with you."

His nose and eyes scrunched with that laugh you first fell in love with. "Oh, is that right?"

"Living together before you've even bought me flowers? Sounds a bit rash to me."

"I'll buy you a whole flower shop," he mumbled, his fingers tracing patterns on your bare hip. "Well, maybe not right away—I am paying for two rooms, y'know. Would be nice to be able to buy groceries next month."

You laughed softly, poking his bare chest. "Yeah, and whose fault is that again?"

He grumbled something unintelligible, hiding his face in your neck to lavish you in more kisses.

Wars were started over smiles less beautiful than hers.

The reminder of his reviews about you flourished in your mind, prompting you to pull his head away from your neck.

"So, you're James B? This whole time?"

His face bloomed red, a huff leaving him before he nervously licked his lips. "Yeah…"

"Why? Why start leaving them in the first place, why didn't you tell me?"

He shrugged slightly, lifting a hand to trace the lines of your face. "We were at the bar drinking, and some guy nearby pointed to you and said ratings must be higher with you working there. And—I don't know, I guess I was drunk enough to agree and then…it just happened?"

You furrowed your brows at him. "Why not just write in a journal?"

"Trust me, I was already doing that." He laughed softly, his eyes glowing. "I guess, in a weird way, I was telling you how I felt without actually telling you. Stupid, I know."

Warmth started to spread from your chest. "It took us ages to even notice the reviews—we only realised they were there because Dean assumed one was about him."

Bucky tensed under your hands. "Fucking Dean," he muttered.

"…Are you jealous?"

The blush on his cheeks grew, his eyes avoiding yours. "He was always staring at you, and you laughed with him like—like you did with me. I thought there was something goin' on."

Is it bad that him being jealous is turning you on?

"You have nothing to worry about, Dean is a gross womaniser who I only see as an annoying brother." You pushed at Bucky's chest, making him lie on his back as you straddled his hips. You pressed kisses along his chest, your hips slowly rocking against his. "He did tell me he wanted to sleep with me, though."

Bucky's hands grasped your hips harder, his face turning stormy. "I don't wanna hear you talkin' about another guy when you're on top of me, doll." He muttered low.

You leaned in to kiss him, your hips moving faster and drawing gasps out of the both of you—his dick already half hard under you. "You're so hot when you're jealous."

The sound of the front door opening had you both freezing—your former roommate's laughter drifting down the hall.

"Get dressed, lovebirds!" Sam's voice rang out. "We've got fish to fry!"

a/n: thank you to this pic on pinterest that inspired half the plot (i couldn't get the ho to fit into a moodboard 😔) yes, team, reader should’ve made bucky grovel HOWEVER high emotion tension filled make up sex is hot 🫦 bro is buying her flowers and taking her on dates every day for the rest of their lives 😌

[sergeantbarnessdoll]

Oooo can I please request a Bucky fem!reader where Y/n is Zemo’s daughter (Zemo would probably have to be aged up a bit though for her age, 20s, to make sense) and only the two of them survived Ultron’s attack on Sokovia, but she doesn’t harbor the same rage that he does towards the Avengers. After the loss of their family, the two of them live together for a little while but she doesn’t agree with how angry and resentful her father is becoming, and is honestly becoming scared of him. She’s horrified when he brings her along with him to that hydra agents house when he pretended to accidentally hit his car and then drowned him to get the red book with the trigger words. She’s even more horrified when her father bombs the Sokovia Accords conference (when he blames Bucky for it)🥺 He kicks her out after this because she disagrees with the horrific violence and anger he has. She sees that they’re blaming Bucky and knows she has to find the Avengers to tell them so Bucky’s name can be cleared 🥺 Her and Bucky get to know each other and fall in love🥺 Then flash forward to TFAWS, her and Bucky are married and she’s with Sam when Bucky reveals that he broke out Zemo and Y/n is so upset with Bucky and wants nothing to do with her father 🥺 The whole time they’re with Zemo she has a really hard time, but Bucky and Sam are there for her and she eventually forgives Bucky 🥺

Nothing Like Him -> Bucky Barnes/Winter Soldier

Pairings-> Bucky Barnes x Zemo’s Daughter!Reader, Dad!Helmut Zemo x Daughter!Reader

Summary-> You are nothing like your dad -Zemo- when he’s harboring rage towards the Avengers for what happened to Sokovia.

Warnings-> Angst, Fluff, language, mentions of deaths of family members, HYDRA/Winter Soldier, violence, gun, crying, kissing, pet names

A/N-> @kpopgirlbtssvt thank you for the beautiful request🩵

Written on my phone. My apologies for any mistakes

Header made by my friend / divider made by me

GIF IS NOT MINE! Gif credit goes to the creator

Ever since what happened with Sokovia and the loss of yours and your dad’s family, your dad has been harboring rage towards the Avengers and plans on getting revenge. You, on the other hand, are the complete opposite. You don’t harbor any rage or want revenge. You think what your dad is planning is dangerous and needs to be stopped, but he isn’t listening to a word that you have to say. He doesn’t care how dangerous it is. All he wants is revenge and that’s what he’s going to get.

“Dad, you don’t have to do this.” You say, trying to talk your dad out of his dangerous revenge plan.

“I know what I’m doing.” Zemo says.

Before you could try to attempt to get him to stop, he fake crashes his car into a HYDRA agent’s car. Your eyes go wide. The HYDRA agent peaks between the blinds to look outside.

“Dad, are you crazy?!” You exclaimed.

“Just stay in the car.” He says.

You watched as Zemo got out of the car and approached the HYDRA agent’s house.

“Is this your car? I’m sorry. I wasn’t paying attention.” Zemo makes up.

The HYDRA agent cautiously opened the door. As soon as he did, Zemo knocked him out. You watched everything go down. You waited a moment before getting out of the car and going inside of the HYDRA agent’s house and down to the basement where your dad has the HYDRA agent tied up above a sink.

“Dad, what are you doing?!” You exclaimed.

“I told you to stay in the car.” Zemo says.

“Dad, think about what you’re doing.” You say, gesturing toward the HYDRA agent.

“I told you a million times I know what I’m doing. Now, go back to the car. I’ll be out there in a few minutes.” He says.

You looked from your dad to the HYDRA agent and back to your dad. You huffed loudly before going back to the car. Zemo came back to the car a few minutes later like he said. He tossed the red notebook with the star on it on the dashboard as he got in the car. You grabbed it and opened it, flipping through the pages. You didn’t understand anything that was written in it.

“Dad, what is this?” You asked cautiously.

“Part of my revenge plan.” Zemo says, snatching the notebook from you.

You did everything you could possibly do to get your dad to think about what he’s doing, but it still didn’t work. Now, the two of you are in a hotel room in Germany. Zemo is about to execute the next part of his revenge plan.

“What are you doing now?” You asked.

“You’ll find out in a little bit. Stay here and don’t open the door for anyone.” Zemo says.

You stayed in the hotel room, flipping through the channels on the hotel’s TV. As you did so, you came across a news channel talking about a bombing of the Sokovia Accords conference. You listened to everything the news reporter was saying. Then your dad came back to the hotel room. Zemo looks at the tv, grinning evilly, happy that his plan is working. You turned to your dad to say something. That’s when you spotted something. The mask he had in his hand looks exactly like the man who just bombed the Sokovia Accords conference. You gasped and your eyes widened in horror.

“Dad, please tell me that you didn’t just bomb the Sokovia Accords conference.” You say.

“I did what I had to do.” Zemo says.

“You didn’t need to do this! You do realize that you killed and injured innocent people and framed an innocent man for a crime you committed, right?!” You say.

“You realize that they’re responsible for what happened to our family, right?! I did this for them!” He says.

“Do you hear yourself, dad?! Your rage towards the Avengers and your plan to get revenge on them is dangerous and horrific! You’re framing an innocent man for something he didn’t even do and you don’t even care! You’re so far gone that I don’t even recognize you anymore! I will not stand for this any longer!” You say.

Zemo stares at you silently for a few seconds. It’s the kind of silence that you can hear how dangerous it is.

“Get out.” Zemo says.

“What?” You asked.

“You heard me. Get the hell out!” He yells.

Your eyes teared up and you left the hotel room. That’s when you knew you had to do something to stop your dad from going further into his plan. You needed to go to the Avengers, which is what you’re exactly going to do right now. You found the facility they’re at and quietly snuck into the building without getting caught. You cautiously and quietly snuck further into the building, looking for the Avengers before your dad’s plan went any further. You didn’t know where you were in the building. You were lost in the building. Then the power went out. You didn’t know why, but you still continued to walk through the building. You found the room your dad and Bucky are in. You cautiously poked your head out from behind the wall, watching as your dad impersonated the doctor who was supposed to talk to Bucky. That’s when you saw the red notebook with the star on it again. You heard your dad saying words in Russian, which are the words to activate the Winter Soldier, but you didn’t know that.

“Stop.” Bucky begs.

Your dad didn’t stop. He kept reading the trigger words that activate the Winter Soldier. Your eyes went wide when Bucky broke out of the metal pod. You didn’t see what happened after that. You were too scared to know. You ran the direction you came in, looking for the Avengers or at least one of them. As you were looking for the Avengers, that’s when part of your dad’s plan went a bit further. You were so focused on looking for the Avengers or at least one of them, you ran into someone and fell to the floor, making an “oof” sound when you fall down. You looked up and saw Steve and Sam. They’re Avengers. You can tell them your dad’s revenge plan.

“Ma’am, are you ok?” Steve asks as he helped you up.

“I’m fine, but I need to tell you guys something.” You say in one breath.

“Whatever it is, it has to wait a while.” Sam says.

“No, it can’t wait! I know why all of this is happening!” You say frantically.

Steve and Sam exchanged looks for a second before looking back at you.

“Tell us in a little bit. For now, just stay with us.” Steve says.

You nodded and followed them through the building in the same direction you were running in the opposite direction of. When you got to the room you saw your dad and Bucky in, Bucky wasn’t in there, but your dad was. Steve walked over to him and picked him up from the floor by grabbing his shirt and shoved him against the wall.

“Who are you?” Steve asks in a demanding voice.

“He’s my dad.” You say.

You about to tell Steve and Sam your dad’s revenge plan, but then Bucky who’s in Winter Soldier mode comes into the room and starts fighting Steve and Sam. You watched with wide eyes as everything unfolded in front of you. You looked at your dad who had a pleased look on his face.

“Is this what you wanted, dad?!” You exclaimed.

Zemo didn’t have to say anything. The evil grin on his face says it all. You just scoffed and followed Steve and Sam as they followed Bucky. The three of you went to a seating area and saw Bucky fighting a few more people.

“Ma’am, you’re going to go with Sam and he’s going to take you somewhere safe. Ok?” Steve says.

“Ok.” You say.

You went with Sam to somewhere safe. You guys found what looks like an abandoned warehouse to hide out in. When Steve got Bucky there, you, Steve, and Sam stood in silence while the three of you waited for Bucky to regain consciousness. When he did, the three of you went back into the room he’s in.

“Steve.” Bucky says.

“Which Bucky am I talking to?” Steve asks.

“Your mom’s name is Sarah and you used to wear newspaper in your shoes.” Bucky says.

“Can’t read that in a museum.” Steve says.

“And like that, we’re supposed to be cool?” Sam says.

“What did I do?” Bucky asks.

“Enough.” Steve says.

Bucky looks over at you, frowning in confusion.

“Who is she?” Bucky asks.

“I’m Y/N and I have information that I thought you guys would like to know.” You say.

“What is it?” Steve asks.

“My dad wants to get revenge on the Avengers for what happened to our family. I tried to stop him and talk to him. I really did, but there’s no way of getting through to him. He has a dangerous and horrific plan and if we don’t stop him, he might succeed.” You tell them. “My dad is also the man who impersonated the doctor who talked to you.” You added, looking at Bucky. “Since he won’t listen to me, I can’t do anything to stop him, but you guys can.” You continued to ramble on.

Bucky pries his metal arm out of the machine it was pinned in and gets up and walks over to you. You stopped talking when he gently cupped your cheeks. You looked up at him, gazing deeply in his blue eyes. You and Bucky felt an instant connection the second you two gazed into each other’s eyes.

“We’ll do everything we can to stop your dad.” Bucky says softly.

You felt relieved to hear that. Since you can’t do anything to stop your dad, you’re more than positive that Bucky, Steve, and Sam would know what to do. When it came down to the airport fight, you were inside of the airport with Bucky, Steve, and Sam.

“So, what do we do now?” You curiously asked.

“You wait here while I go down there and tell Tony everything you told us.” Steve says.

“Do you think he’ll believe you?” You asked.

“I don’t know, but I’m going to do the best I can.” He says.

You gave him a nod and a soft smile. That didn’t go well. Now, you’re on the helicarrier with Bucky and Steve. It was quiet for most of the ride before Bucky spoke up.

“I don’t think I’m worth all of this, you guys.” Bucky says.

“What you did all those years wasn’t your fault, Buck.” Steve says.

“I know, but I did it.” Bucky says.

You reached over and grabbed Bucky’s hand, giving it a soft and comforting squeeze.

“I can’t imagine what you went through all those years, but I can see that you’re a good person.” You say softly.

“I know you’re trying to be nice, but I don’t think I’m a good person for what I did all those years.” Bucky says.

“None of that was your fault. You can still be that good person.” You say.

“She’s right, Buck.” Steve says.

Bucky smiles at you and your sweet words.

“You’re so sweet.” Bucky says softly.

You smiled at him. When the quinjet landed at the HYDRA base, Bucky got a weapon and Steve got his shield. Then the three of you stood in the entrance of the quinjet.

“I just want you guys to know that I’m nothing like my dad. I wouldn’t do anything horrific like he would.” You says.

“You’re too sweet to do anything he has done.” Bucky says softly.

You gave him a smile. A moment goes by when the three of you cautiously headed towards the HYDRA base. The door was cracked open. That was enough to tell you that your dad is somewhere inside or he has been there.

“I’m pretty sure my dad is here.” You say softly as the three of you entered the base.

You stayed close to Bucky as the three of you walked through the base. Then a door opening revealed Tony. Bucky protectively stood in front of you just in case anything happened. You poked your head out from behind Bucky and made contact with Tony.

“You brought a civilian with you?!” Tony exclaims.

“She has information on why all of this is happening.” Steve says.

“Trust me. You want me to stay.” You say.

Tony huffs before following the three of you through the rest of the base. You guys found your way to the cryogenic freeze room.

“Oh my god.” You say when you saw the other Super Soldiers in the cryos.

You guys turned around when the four of you heard a noise. It was your dad. You knew he was there.

“Why are you doing this, dad?!” You asked.

“You know why I’m doing this.” Zemo says.

“Well, it needs to stop now. I told them everything.” You say.

Zemo scoffs and shakes his head in disbelief.

“I can’t believe my own daughter would do that to me.” Zemo says.

“You and mom raised me to tell the truth.” You say.

“Your mother and I didn’t raise you to be a traitor.” He says.

Your eyes teared up at his hurtful words. He just loaded video footage of the night of December 16, 1991 on the monitor.

“What is this?” Tony asks.

Your dad left without saying a word. The footage played. It showed the Winter Soldier killing Tony’s parents. Tony’s jaw clenches as he watched the footage.

“Did you know?” Tony asks.

“I didn’t know it was him.” Steve says.

“Did you know?” Tony asks again.

Steve didn’t say anything. He just nodded his head yes. Tony backs up a bit and then blasts Steve. You gasped when he did that. Bucky stands in front of you to shield you from Tony’s blasts and aims his gun at him. Tony blasts the gun out of Bucky’s hands.

“Go! Get out of here!” Steve shouts at you and Bucky.

Bucky grabs your hand and the two of you started running away. You and Bucky climbed upward to escape the base. You got out first. Bucky was about to get out too, but then you two heard a creaking noise.

“Go!” Bucky shouts.

You didn’t have any time to protest. You just got out before you got hurt. You found your way back to the front of the base, which is where you found your dad. You walked over to him to confront him.

“I hope you’re happy now, dad. Someone else might possibly die or get injured because of your dangerous and horrific plan! Is this what you wanted?!” You exclaimed.

“Yes.” Zemo answers with no emotion whatsoever.

“I don’t even know you anymore.” You say.

“I can say the same thing about you.” He says.

You just scoffed and shook your head. You went back inside of the base to de-escalate the fight between Bucky, Steve, and Tony. When you got to them, you gasped and your eyes teared up when you saw Bucky lying on the floor with his metal arm blown off. Your mind immediately made you think the worst. You ran over to him and fell to your knees next to him.

“Bucky!” You say.

Bucky looks over at you. Relief washes over you when you saw that he’s alive and breathing. You couldn’t help but break down in tears.

“I’m so sorry this is what my dad’s plan led to.” You apologized.

Bucky’s right hand gently grabbed ahold of your arm. His thumb rubbed your skin.

“You have absolutely nothing to apologize for. None of this is your fault. You couldn’t have known that your dad’s plan was going to lead to all of this.” Bucky says softly.

Bucky’s hand moved up to your cheeks, wiping your tears away. You smiled when he did that. Then you helped him up. Steve helped too.

“That shield isn’t yours! My dad gave you that shield!” Tony says.

Steve sighs and drops his shield on the ground. Then the three of you got out of there and went to get Bucky and Steve patched up. You stayed by Bucky’s side the whole time.

“You’re very sweet to stay by my side during all of this.” Bucky says.

“Like I said, I can see that you’re a good person. I would also like to keep getting to know you if that’s ok with you.” You say softly.

Bucky smiles. That’s what he wants too.

“I’m more than ok with that.” He says softly.

Bucky’s right hand caresses your cheek gently. You two gazed deeply into each other’s eyes and then he kissed you softly and passionately. Steve saw and smiled. That moment was the start of yours and his relationship.

->->->

That day on, you and Bucky got to know each other really well. You and him got closer too. You also went to Wakanda with him for his recovery. Now, you and Bucky are happily married. You two wouldn’t take each other and yours and his marriage for granted.

Bucky and Sam are trying to get information on the Flag Smashers, but they need a little help. Bucky went to the prison your dad is at to talk to him. He already knows that it’s not going to end well when he tells you that he talked to your dad, let alone that he got busted out of prison.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Sam asks.

“He’s the only one who can help us with this.” Bucky says.

“Does Y/N know that you’re going to take to her dad?” Sam asks.

Bucky didn’t answer him. He stayed quiet. The look on his face said it all.

“You didn’t tell your wife that you’re going to talk to her dad?” Sam asks.

“I will tell her.” Bucky says.

“When?” Sam asks.

“After this.” Bucky says.

Sam sighs as Bucky walked with the guard to Zemo’s cell. Sam already knows how this is going to play out when Bucky tells you that he went to talk to your dad. Zemo looked up when Bucky got to his cell.

“Soldat.” Zemo says.

Zemo said the trigger words that activates the Winter Soldier, but it didn’t work.

“Nice try. Those days are over.” Bucky says.

Zemo shrugs and walks over to the window that’s separating him and Bucky.

“How’s my daughter?” Zemo asks.

“The last time I checked, you called your daughter a traitor.” Bucky says.

“That’s because she is a traitor.” Zemo says.

Bucky’s jaw clenched when Zemo called you a traitor again. No one talks about his wife and gets away with it. Zemo is just lucky that there’s a window separating them so Bucky doesn’t kick his ass.

“Do not call my wife that.” Bucky almost growls.

“Wife?” Zemo asks.

“Yes. Your daughter is my wife now.” Bucky happily says.

“Huh? I didn’t know that the Winter Soldier was capable of marriage.” Zemo says.

“I’m not here to talk about my marriage.” Bucky says.

“Then why are you here?” Zemo asks.

Bucky told Zemo why he’s there. He told him the basics and then left.

“Now you have to tell your wife that you saw her dad.” Sam says.

“I already said I’m going to.” Bucky says.

Now, the three of you are walking around in what looks like car garage. It was dark in there. You guys were looking around with a flashlight for a light switch. Bucky found the circuit breaker and turned the lights on.

“Why are we here?” You asked.

“We have to meet up with someone here.” Bucky says.

“Who are we meeting up with?” You asked.

Bucky was nervous to answer you. He hates keeping the fact that he broke your dad out of prison from you. That’s when your dad came out of his hiding spot. Your eyes went wide when you saw him.

“Dad?” You say.

“Daughter.” Zemo says.

“You’re supposed to be in prison! Why aren’t you in prison where you belong?!” You asked.

“Ask your husband.” He says.

You looked at your husband. The look on his face says it all. You scoffed and ran out of the building.

“Keep an eye on him.” Bucky says to Sam.

Bucky ran after you. You were outside on the verge of having a panic attack.

“Doll.” Bucky says as he wrapped his arms around you.

“My dad is supposed to be in prison! What the hell is he doing here, Bucky?!” You say.

Bucky was silent for a moment before explaining to you why your dad is there instead of prison.

“I’m going to tell you something. Please don’t get mad at me.” Bucky says.

“Ok.” You say.

“I went to talk to your dad earlier and I may have busted him out of prison.” He says.

“You what?” You say.

You felt your anger bubbling up inside of you. You shoved your hands against his chest.

“Why the hell would you do that?! Do you not realize the hell he put me through the last time I saw him?! He framed you for something you didn’t even do!” You exclaimed.

“I remember all of that. Please believe me that I did this for a reason.” He says.

“What reason, Bucky?! There’s absolutely no reason why my dad should be out of prison. He’s dangerous!” You say loudly.

“I’m sorry, doll. I really am.” He apologizes.

“No! You don’t get to apologize for this! You have no idea what you have done!” You say.

“I do know what I did. I did it for a reason.” He says.

You just scoffed and rubbed your hands over your face.

“I promise I’ll do anything to make it up to you.” Bucky promises.

You didn’t say a word. You just stared at him silently for a moment.

“I’m pissed off at you.” You say.

“You have every right to be.” He says.

You stared at him silently again before sighing.

“I have one condition.” You say.

“Whatever it is, I’ll do it.” He says.

“Keep my dad away from me.” You say.

“You got it, babydoll.” He says.

You hugged him and gave him a soft peck on his lips.

“Do you forgive me?” Bucky asks softly.

“I’ll forgive you when my dad is back in prison.” You say.

“Ok.” He says.

You two went back inside of the building where Sam and your dad are.

“Did you tell her?” Sam asks in a whisper.

“Yes, I did.” Bucky whispers.

Sam looks at you. He can tell that you’re upset that your dad is there.

“If I may?” Zemo says.

“NO!” The three of you shouted at your dad.

The whole time your dad was with you guys, you didn’t say a word to your dad. You didn’t want anything to do with him. You’re trying your best to tolerate the fact that he’s there. The four of you went to yours and your dad’s house. It felt weird to be back there, especially since you haven’t been there in a long time.

“You’re married.” Zemo says.

“I am.” You confirmed.

“Congratulations.” He says with no enthusiasm.

You rolled your eyes at your dad. Zemo didn’t mean that congratulations.

“Just so you know, I want nothing to do with you while you’re temporarily out of prison. You’re only here to help my husband and best friend. That’s it.” You say.

“Ok then.” Zemo says sarcastically.

You rolled your eyes at him. You continued to ignore him. You didn’t say anything to him. Anytime Zemo said something to you, Bucky and Sam stepped in and told him to leave you alone. All you wanted was your dad back in prison where he belongs. When it came time for your dad to go back to prison, you felt relieved that you won’t have to see him again. You know that’s a horrible thing to say and think, but it’s the truth. While Bucky was taking care of that, Sam stayed with you. Sam, being the amazing friend he is, wanted to ask if you’re ok, but he didn’t want to overstep in any way.

“You can ask.” You say.

“Ask what?” Sam asks.

“If I’m ok after seeing my dad for the first time in a few years who my husband broke out of prison.” You say.

“Are you ok with all of that?” He asks.

“No, I’m not. I’m pissed that my husband would even do something like this. All I want is for my dad to pay for what he has done.” You say.

“Well, at least, it’s all over now and your dad is going back to prison.” He says.

“Yea.” You sighed.

Bucky went back to you immediately after your dad was taken back into custody. He saw Sam comforting you.

“It’s over. Your dad is back into custody.” Bucky says.

“Good. That’s where he belongs.” You say.

Bucky walks over to you and gives you a hug. You leaned your head against his chest. The sound of his heartbeat soothed you. Sam walked away to give you and Bucky time alone.

Are you still pissed at me?” Bucky asks.

“Not anymore.” You say.

“Am I forgiven now?” He asks.

“Yes, I forgive you now.” You say.

“I’m sorry. I really am.” He softly apologizes again.

“I know you are, baby.” You say just as softly.

You looked up at your husband. Bucky looks down at you and moves a piece of hair out of your face.

“Promise me something.” You say.

“I’ll promise you anything in the world, babydoll.” Bucky says.

“I want you to promise me to never do anything that involves my dad ever again.” You say.

“I promise I would do anything that involves your dad ever again.” He promises.

You smiled and stood on your tippy toes to kiss him softly and passionately.

“I love you so much, honey.” You say softly.

“I love you too, doll.” He almost whispers.

-Bucky’s Doll

[maplesyrizzup]

Lovesick Summary: Bucky has the biggest crush on you but he can never bring himself to ask you out and he's so done with the teasing everyone else does about it Warnings: it's very fluffy but also angsty because Bucky thinks very lowly of himself. mutual pining. bucky who yearns. bit of jealously, but does it count if it's because his cat? Everyone say thank you Sam. Bucky who is scared of rejection and who thinks you deserve better than him. patient reader, like omg she's so patient. Words Count: 2.8k Present for @buckysdecaflove! Hope you enjoy lovely!

Bucky doesn’t mean for it to happen. It’s just something that sprung up on him the first time he met you. When Steve brought you to Wakanda and introduced you two with this stupid smug grin on his face like he knew exactly what was about to happen. 

You put your hand out and looked at him like he was just Bucky. You smiled at him and told him your name. And Bucky’s brain short circuited for a solid ten seconds. 

He hates that that was your first impression of him. How he immediately felt hot and struggled to say his own name back. And then he did and he knew that was stupid because Steve had told you about him. You already knew his name.

But it isn’t until years later. Years that hadn’t been years to him because they passed in a blink of an eye for him. When quiet had settled within the Avengers Compound and slow days rolled in.

It wasn’t until the afternoons where you’d had a second cup of coffee at the kitchen island with him while he had his first because he didn’t wake until 11 unless he had to be up. Words barely spoken. The days where you’d casually mention a book you’d read and Bucky would find himself writing it down so he could see what you like. The nights where you’d both be in the gym together and he’d keep an eye on you while you lifted something heavy. 

It wasn’t until then did he realize just how fucked he was.

You were the best part of his day without even trying to be and that made it so much worse.

It’s stupid--not you. Him and the way he acts. He’s a grown ass man, not a school boy, his brain shouldn’t just stop working because you smiled or hell even looked at him.

You also deserve better. You don’t deserve rough and bloodied hands. You don’t deserve someone who can barely sleep peacefully through the night. You don’t deserve someone as haunted as him.

What you deserve is the world and he wishes he could give it to you.

~

The smell of coffee brewed earlier this morning lingered in the kitchen and mixed with the faint scent of burnt toast from the bottom of the toaster that no one had gotten around to cleaning out.

Sunlight comes in through just the right - or wrong - angle through the wide windows that make it bounce off the polished floor and shine far too brightly then it has any right to.

There’s stillness in the space, the kind that comes from the quiet, the kind that settles a pounding heart--a kind that makes Nat’s and Yelena’s chatter from the other end of the room nothing more than a buzz that Bucky tunes out easily. 

It’s far too early--earlier than Bucky likes to be up, but Sam had other ideas. He walked into his room like he belonged there and dragged Bucky out of bed. Literally. Sam ignored Bucky’s threats and just yanked his blanket, taking Bucky with it with a harsh thud onto the floor and then into the hall. 

THANK GOD you didn’t see. He had been in just his boxers after all.

But now Bucky was up and his mind had no intention of falling back asleep after training anytime soon so he settled on breakfast and coffee. Strong coffee that kept Bucky from sneering at Sam.

Who wakes up at seven for sparring!? 

Bucky should, at least, be able to push Sam down the stairs.

“Oh, mornin’ Bucky! You’re up early!”

He nearly choked on his cereal at the sound of your angelic voice and nearly got whiplash as his head cranked in your direction, still struggling to get his food down correctly. With his face turning red—it’s just the food, no one can make him admit otherwise.

There’s a smile on your face, it’s sweet and soft, and makes every wall he built crumble immediately. It makes his stomach twist and his heart pound wildly in his ears like a hammer. 

Maybe mornings aren’t so bad after all. Not if he gets to see you.

Bucky swallows, thickly, attempting to force down the logs that suddenly formed in his throat, but the action is in vain. His mouth moves but words struggle to roll off his tongue as his gaze follows you while you move towards the fridge.

“Hey.. Mornin’...” He finally manages to say and instantly curses at himself internally.

You pull out the cake Torres made yesterday that somehow survived to today. “You and Sam heading out?” You ask, helping yourself to the last slice. 

Bucky looked down at himself, then remembered why you were asking; because of the time. “No. He dragged me outta bed to spar.”

You hummed in response and licked a piece of frosting that got on your finger and Bucky’s brain malfunctioned entirely.

“That sounds like him. Y’know he tried to get me to join too, but I already promised Wanda we’d head to the farmer’s market this morning. We brought back a lot, but I got some plum jar for you, it’s in the pantry. I tasted some myself. Had to make sure it was good before I bought it,” you rambled, rambling that Bucky could listen to for hours.

Instead, he blinked. “You got me jam?” he asked slowly.

You nodded like it was no big deal. “You like plums,” you said so simply, voice muffled from the bite you took, and finally turned, leaning against the counter.

Fuck, you were beautiful. Eyes that marveled the heavens. A smile that made his knees weak. And a touch that was ungodly gentle compared to how you treat your enemies.

He realized you had said something else and were looking at him with a furrowed brow. “Buck? You good?”

He nodded quickly. “Yeah, yeah, fine. Just--. Just tired.”

Your face crinkled in the sweetest way, not pity, but still care. You pushed off the counter, plate in one hand, and moved towards him. “I’ll tell Sam he’s gotta let you get enough sleep.” Your hand fell on his shoulder and even through the fabric of his henley it felt like his skin was on fire. You can’t keep looking at him like that. It’s not fair. Not when he could never be more than just this to you. “And then he can mess with you. After the eight hours.”

He couldn’t take his eyes off yours. “I’m afraid that’s easier said than done,” he murmured.

You snorted. A noise so close to your laugh that he adored. “True,” you mused. “We are Avengers. See you later.” and squeezed his shoulder.

He nodded. “See you later,” he mumbled as he watched you walk away, longing shimmering in his steel blue gaze. 

The space is quiet for a solid five seconds after you leave, your footsteps growing dimmer down the hall, and Bucky realized who was still in the room as he turned and saw them.

Nat and Yelena were grinning, eyes swimming with mischief, and it made Bucky’s stomach sink because he knew what was coming.

“Coward,” Natasha muttered in Russian.

And so it had begun.

Bucky sighed, heavily and slumped forward in his seat.

They did this every time.

“Are you going to wipe off your drool from the floor?” Yelena asked.

“Y’know normal people ask out their crushes, not whatever the hell you’re doing,” Nat mused and sipped from her coffee while searching for Bucky’s gaze--something he refused to give either of them.

Bucky wanted to sink into the floor. “Do you have to do this?” he grumbled.

“Talking to a woman isn’t as hard as she makes you.”

Death would be too good of a punishment for Yelena.

The stool squeaked from under Bucky as he prominently stood up, taking his bowl with him.

But Yelena kept going. “It’s literally so easy. It’s ten words. ‘Would you like to go on a date with me?’ Then you eat her out. Every woman wants that. Hey! You always have to let a woman finish before you leave!”

~

It’s game night when someone finds the chance to tease him about you again and it’s Sam this time.

It’s stupid. He shouldn’t even be staring--there shouldn’t be jealous churning in his gut, but there is.

You're sitting on the floor, back brushing against Wanda’s leg, and in your lap is Alpine. You’ve got her face in your hands and you’re giving her soft little pecks as you consistently mutter how Alpine is such a good girl. How Alpine is such a princess.

And Alpine is eating it up. She’s no doubt purring as she just lets it happen. As she just leans into your touch. It’s like Alpine knows Bucky is watching.

He wants that to be his face you’re holding. His face that you’re kissing. But it’s his damn cat.

You’re completely ignoring the chaos around the coffee table. So is he. He isn’t even aware of whose turn it is. He’s just watching you pet Alpine.

It’s strange that Alpine is letting you do this. She hates everyone. She hates Steve for fucks sake. The first time Bucky introduced them after he brought the feline home she tore up Steve’s arm and they had to get the blood stains outta the couch. But for some reason she liked you, basically as much as she liked Bucky.

Bucky never questioned why she liked you. Of course, Alpine has great taste in people. But that still didn’t mean it wasn’t odd to see at first.

“Are you glaring at your own cat?” Sam whispered into his ear as he leaned over.

Bucky’s jaw ticked and he looked away from you. That lasted about five seconds.

“You can’t seriously be jealous.”

He was and it was so stupid.

Alpine was getting to do something Bucky has wanted to do for months. How was that fair?

“You could just go over and talk to her.”

No. Bucky already knows what happens when he tries to do that. He’d much rather become one with the ground than make a foul of himself. Again. 

Sam sighed. “Happiness is not this hard. Dude, you walked into a wall because you were too busy staring at her last week and she noticed. You genuinely can not be anymore obvious.”

No. You had seen the aftermath. If you had noticed the fact that he had been staring at you then he would’ve probably jumped out the window.

“Maybe I should give Joaquin 50 bucks to ask her out,” Sam mused.

Bucky’s chin snapped in Sam’s direction.

Sam snorted. “You’re hopeless,” he said bluntly.

Sam wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t. First off, giving someone money to ask someone out. That was an insult to the recipient. Sam wouldn’t do that to you. Not even to get Bucky to finally man up. Right?

~

Bucky didn’t get a wink of sleep last night.

He stared at the ceiling, unable to get the things that played in his mind to go away.

Joaquin showing up to your room with flowers. Joaquin flashing that flirty grin your way. Joaquin taking you out like Bucky wanted to do. 

You saying yes.

You wouldn’t say yes, would you? You didn’t like Joaquin like that. But you were single. Bucky knew that. And Joaquin was right there. Joaquin was sweet and… not broken. He wasn’t someone who got woken up in the middle of the night by nightmares that left his skin damp with sweat. He wasn’t someone who looked down and saw blood dripping from his hands.

You deserved the world, not someone who was haunted by his past.

“She wouldn’t, right?” He murmured to the furball curled up against his leg.

Alpine’s eyes opened at the sound of his voice.

“It wouldn’t happen,” he insisted.

But…

“She deserves to be happy.” 

His jaw ticked.

“I could make her happy,” he blurted.

He made her smile. He made her laugh. Sometimes so hard she would snort and clutch her stomach. When has Joaquín done that?

But there was so much blood on his hands. So much pain he caused.

“You think I could make her happy?”

Alpine merely only blinked at him before her chin returned to her paws and her tail flicked on top of her pink nose. 

Bucky let out a frustrated breath. “I’m not overthinking this. I’m thinking about this the correct amount.”

Alpine didn’t even grace him with a sigh.

“You rub it in just because you can and I know you do.”

This wouldn’t be the first time he’s talked to Alpine about you and it certainly wouldn’t be the last.

“If she says no then we’re moving to a different country, you know that right? I don’t think I could show my face ever again.”

There was a soft thump as he lay back down. “I just need to get over this crush. That’s all.”

~

By eight he’s outside your bedroom, pacing like a madman.

He shouldn’t be out here and he knows he shouldn’t but he is anyway, and every time he turns around to walk away he stops in his tracks and returns to the line he’s been walking back and forth for the past 40 minutes.

Coward.

The word rings in his ears.

He used to be able to do this with ease. He used to crack that smile that always had dames swooning. He used to know what the right thing to say was.

But that was so long ago and you weren’t just anyone. You were his friend. You were someone he trusted. You were someone too good to lose. 

He needed to leave. He needed to return to his room before you showed your face and saw him out here.

But the way you looked at him. The way you always relaxed when he was in the room. The way you always fell asleep on missions so quickly when he was there.

He raised his knuckles but drew it back immediately.

Would you like to go on a date with me? Please?

No. No. That sounded desperate.

He was desperate.

Could I take you out on a date?

I think I’m in love with you.

No. Absolutely not.

He can’t do this.

You’re going to reject him. You’re going to rip out his heart and throw it onto the floor.

He’s going to have to move. Maybe running from those bounty hunters in Madripoor would be a better fate than hearing your rejection. 

The door opened and Bucky froze like a deer in headlights. Heat instantly flooded across his skin and his clothes felt way too tight.

You startled, not expecting anyone to be standing there, and he cursed internally at himself for making you react like that.

Your hair is a mess and your sleep wear wrinkled. 

And the softness that comes with the traces of sleep that lingers erases at the sight of him.

Shit.

You put a hand over your chest. “Oh—Jeez. Don’t—. Hey, Bucky.”

Fuckin’ idiot. 

A sheepish look passes over his heated face. “Hey. Hi.”

Hi???

Her brows furrow and she glances over his shoulder for a moment. “Whatcha doing outside my door?” You asked, lightly.

“Nothing. Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

Fuuuuucccckk

“… it’s not nothing,” he admitted quietly.

And you waited. You always waited. You never rushed him, not with anything that wasn’t life or death. 

“I had a question.”

Still that patience you always held for him stuck to your face.

He swallowed thickly

“… would you… wouldyougoonadatewithme?” He finally blurted and immediately wanted to become one with the floor.

He didn’t wait for your response, he just looked down.

Something soft swam across your face, it came with the way your heart clenched and stomach twisted in knots. 

Your lips ticked up, not amused, just fond. “Could you repeat that?” You asked even though you had heard him.

He took a deep breath as he squeezed his eyes shut and leaned against the doorframe. “Would you go on a date with me?” He asked, forcing the words to roll out slower.

He peered up and realized how flushed you were. How you were looking at him like that. So fondly. 

You smiled. “I was waiting for you to ask.”

He blinked. “You knew?”

You nodded. “I suspected and you aren’t exactly the most subtle man about it,” you admitted. 

Then that softness melted into something shy and your eyes flickered down. “But I just wanted to make sure you wanted this.” You gestured between them. “That you took the time you needed. I didn’t want to rush you,” you said gently.

He searched for your gaze. “I want this,” he blurted firmly. “I want you.”

You gazed up and tried to fight the smile that threatened to come to your lips. “Tonight?”

He nodded eagerly. “I’ll pick you up at seven.”

“See you then, Bucky.”

His skin buzzed. His heart hammered. And his stomach twisted in a million different ways. “See you then,” he murmured and quickly turned on his heels, hoping you wouldn’t see the smug smile on his lips and hoping you didn’t see the way he punched the air when he thought he was far enough away.

You did.

[buckysdecaflove]

MY SHAYLAAAAS

They are idiots in love, your honor.😭😭😭

[swaggamuffin]

i’ve lowkey been soft launching the idea that i’m probably trans to my family and idk how it’s going to go

[swaggamuffin]

today feels like one of those days where everyone is out to get me

[caeruleusbarnes]

imagine waking up one morning, the sun gently warming your face as you turn over, expecting your husband’s side of the bed to be cold like it usually is, only to find him still dead asleep next to you.

To others, it might seem like a couple spending a cozy morning in bed together, but panic creeps up your spine so quickly your heart nearly beats out of your chest because this isn’t like your man at all.

Usually, Bucky is up and out of bed with the sun rise, as he never really managed to get rid of the habits he developed as a soldier.

Sure, he always comes right back to bed when he notices you’re waking up, ready to spoil you with cuddles and fresh coffee first thing in the morning, but this isn’t something that has ever happened before. Bucky never sleeps in, not even after a long and grueling mission or when he isn’t feeling well. Now, it’s 9 am already, and you can’t help but carefully shake his shoulder, trying to wake him up as gentle and calm as possible even though you are anything but.

“Buck?” Your voice isn’t much more than a whisper, but the urgency hidden underneath makes his eyelashes flutter immediately. “Everything okay?”

The sound that slips past his lips is definitely not one you would expect from a super soldier like him, a whine more than it is a groan.

“No,” he complains, blindly reaching for you so he can tug you closer and nuzzle his face against your stomach, voice muffled against the fabric of your shirt now. “You are a crazy woman, you know that? I won’t ever recover again. This is it.”

It takes you a moment to understand what the hell he is talking about, but when do, you can’t help the laugh that escapes you, your fingers comfortingly running through his hair. “That bad, huh?”

”Bad? I’m broken, sweetheart. Leave it up to you to completely wreck a super soldier. Not that I’m complaining, though.”

“Of course you’re not,” you agree, your thoughts going back to how good you’d made him feel last night, finding out just how much his enhanced stamina could actually handle, making him take you until your husband couldn’t give anymore.

Turns out, testing just how often your man can cum in one evening is enough to leave him spent and exhausted like nothing else ever manages to wear him out.

And if that is enough to give him a break from the buzzing energy usually running through his nerves?

Yeah, you are definitely going to do it again.

(yeah that’s it I think this is my sign to go to bed now.)

[thegoatoffanfiction]

EVERYBODY HERE WANTS YOU

pairing: possessive!bucky barnes x female!reader

warnings: smut, p in v, possessiveness, no description of reader except clothes , established relationship, blowjob, no one's dead, lowkey got some randoms at tony's party, pet names (doll, baby, etc.) , age gap (obviously), buckys a little rough, little bit of clit slapping, cum, a bunch of plot before smut towards the end, degrading a teenie tiny bit , not proofread, very little begging from reader, and maybe something else i don't know. (maybe a little ooc bucky, sorry!)

summary: after a heated argument with buck, reader started flirting with other men to make him jealous.

wc: 1.1k

you two were in your apartment after a mission, you did something reckless and almost got yourself killed. you two were yelling back and forth, probably disturbing the whole block.

"You could've died!"

"But I didn't and that's what matters!"

"But you could've, doll! I can't lose you!"

The two of you just kept going back and forth without any signs of stopping, the bad thing was that there was a party that tony was throwing later, and you two already agreed on going together and you couldn't just cancel now, 2 hours before. You two tried to stop the argument for a bit, but when you two showered together, it just escalated.

"Just let it go buck!"

"No, you almost got yourself killed because of your recklessness!"

You just ignored him and stepped out the shower. You changed into a gorgeous dress and did your hair beautifully. He got out the shower a few minutes after you, his eyes never leaving yours as you both got ready. You two tried to look happy together but you weren't exactly speaking to him. When you two arrived at the party, you immediately parted ways, he went to chat with sam, cap, and some others. You went with natasha, maria, and some others, yet his eyes never left you. You noticed this and decided to get back at him for the argument you two had earlier. You stood, walked over to some group of...decent looking guys, and started flirting with them. They looked nothing like bucky, were shorter, and just weren't like him.

"Hi." You simply said, putting on your best smile. They all turned to look at you, you could see the look in their eyes. One started talking to you

"Hi..I'm daniel" He said, smiling at you. You extend your hand. He took your hand into his and kissed it. Bucky was watching the whole time, his jaw clenched and he was trying so, so, so hard, to not come over there.

"It's a pleasure to meet you" Daniel said.

"Right back at you."

You two started speaking, you had to fake a laugh everytime he said some stupid joke, just to anger bucky further. Soon enough, Bucky got sick of it and excused himself and walked over. His hand snaked around your waist when he got close enough, you were laughing at something stupid Daniel had said. Bucky made you two freeze.

"Hey babe, who's this?"

"Hi bucky, this is daniel."

Daniel smiled, but their was a look in his eyes that told you he was irritated with bucky coming over.

"Hi, nice to meet you."

Bucky spoke, extending his hand towards him. Daniel took it and gripped it, Bucky only gripped his harder. You held bucky's free hand and gripped it, signaling him to stop. He let go grudgingly.

"Alright, well, it was nice to meet you daniel, but me and bucky should get going."

Bucky smiled and just pulled you away before daniel could say anything

"we're going home."

"Buck, wait, what?"

"You heard me, we're leaving."

He took you outside and got you guys home, as soon as you walked in, he pinned you against the wall.

"You think it's funny? flirting with that dick when you know i'm watching?"

"I'm sorry I didn't mean to-"

"You knew exactly what you were doing."

The two of you pause for a moment. You just smashed your lips right onto him and he reciprocated pretty damn fast. His hands went to your ass, squeezing as his mouth worked against yours. He started walking, making you walk backwards as he leads you to the bedroom and pushes you down onto your knees.

"Bucky please..I need you..I'm sorry."

"Yeah? you need me? well get me ready." He said, and then you heard a zip and his belt falling down as he stripped.

His cock sprang free, 9 inches, 9 hard inches. You wasted no time getting your mouth on it.

he was big, too big. You pulled off with a 'pop'.

"Bucky, you're too big." You said, practically whining.

"You can take it baby, you always do."

You sighed but complied, starting with the tip and going lower, you managed to get to the base, all 9 inches inside your mouth, his hands gripped your hair, pushing you on it as he moaned and his grip tightened. You could tell he was close, you swirled your tongue around his cock, that did it for him. He came, long ropes of cum going down your throat.

His moans filled the air, you slowly pulled away, his cock getting soft. He helped you up, only to push you down onto the bed, your ass up and face down. He unzipped your dress, letting his free hand go down your back as the dress started to fall off. When he finished unzipping it, he pulled it off. He turned you over on your back so he could look at your soaked panties.

"Look at her..so wet for me already, you get that wet from blowing me off, sweetheart?"

You squirmed as he played with your clit through your panties.

"Answer me." He demanded, slapping your clit, drawing a moan from your mouth.

"Yes!" He smirked at your response and moans, getting hard again. He pulls your panties off, needing to be inside.

"Need to be inside this cunt, doll."

He lined himself up with your pussy, it was clenching around nothing, it was pathetic. He slowly pushed in the tip, you moaned and your cunt squeezed around his cock, you already felt full.

"Come on baby, we aren't even half way there."

He then slammed into you, pushing every inch inside you. You cried out loudly, it felt like he was in your throat. And as if that wasn't enough, he started thrusting in and out almost immediately. His pace started off as slow and steady, fully pulling out and going back in. It felt so good, but you (and your pussy) are just so greedy, that wasn't enough for you.

"Please bucky...I need more."

"You need more doll, yeah?"

"Yes Buck, please."

"Alright sweetheart."

He slowly pulled out, only to slam back in, but this time his pace wasn't slow, at all. He thrust in and out quickly and roughly. You gasped.

"Yeah? That ok, baby? That what you need?" His tone condescending and mean as he railed into you.

"You think daniel could've done this? fucked you like this?" He said, that only made you wetter and you clenched around him.

"I'm close! 'm gonna cum!"

"Go ahead, cum baby, cum on my cock."

You moaned at his words and squeezed around his cock as you let go, cumming all over him. He followed, cumming not long after, filling you to the brim.

"Fuckkk.."

He slowly pulled out, all the semen starting to ooze out your cunt. He pushed it back in.

"Gotta make sure it stays in, doll."

He lays down next to you, after a bit of silence, you speak up.

"Bucky.."

"Yeah sweetheart?"

"I'm not on birth control."

might make a part 2 if this blow up

tiktok: daddy.im.so.alone (gonna be changed to match my user on here soon)

a/n : i used to be a writer for bucky before i stopped so i actually love writing for this man. please remember to criticize me and leave comments and reblogs so i can get better!

creds for divider: @cursed-carmine

[superbassbuck]

honor him | bucky barnes (18+)

⤷ gladiator!bucky x servant!reader

⭐︎ warnings: smut, rough sex, reader talks him through it, bucky doesn't dirty talk, he snarls instead, size difference, dumbification (bucky talks like a caveman? idk), talks about consent, period typical misogyny, creampie, praise, breeding kink, spitting in mouth, mating press, overstimulation, bucky loves eye contact

⭐︎ word count: 6k

⭐︎ a/n: what started out as a 'hahahehe' food for thought turned into a smutty porn without plot fic. ty to @epiphanyrogers for giving me the motivation to write this by feeding me with her own gladiator steve !! reader literally teaches what consent is to bucky, but ultimately the sex is consensual. either way, please tread carefully.

synopsis: Bucky becomes the reigning champion and naturally, he seeks a prize—a pretty maiden to bed. You fall victim to his rough hands—to a brute who doesn't even know the meaning of the word "no." Yet to your surprise, despite being a man who takes whatever he wants, he is willing to let you teach him what consent really means.

← previous fic | main masterlist

The Colosseum is a home for bloodbaths.

There is a symphony of cheers and screams that rings throughout the entire dome. Swords clash against swords, sweat and blood dance together, dirt kicks into the air, and alcohol and spit shoot out of patrons’ mouths.

It is meaningless—all of it just a cruel form of entertainment for the emperor and his family.

You are thankful that you hadn’t been born a male to be pushed into these silly games, but instead, you are a woman—and that might be worse. But for now, despite all the screaming happening outdoors, you find solitude and a somewhat sense of peace near the barracks, sweeping debris and scrubbing the blood and grime off the floors from the defeated champions who walked away, already on the verge of death.

“Look at them,” you breathe. You pause your sweeping, wiping a strand of sweaty hair out of your face as your eyes peer through the wide holes of the wooden gates. “Animals. The whole lot of them.”

Livia does not need to look up to know what them you are referring to. There is only one kind of ruthless animal in the world—and that is men.

“Do not stare,” she warns you quietly. “If they catch you looking, they’ll punish you.”

“Please,” you scoff. “Their heads are too far up their own egos to notice us.”

“Big egos, yes.” Livia’s golden eyes glance over her shoulder from where she kneels on the floor, scrubbing grime. “And bodies. They are also quite handsome.”

Your eyes snap to her in revulsion. “Handsome? How can you say such a thing!” You glance back at the two men battling in the center of the dome. “Look at them. They are monsters.”

In the center is a man that you recognize—Bucky Barnes, the reigning champion for years. The White Wolf, is what the Emperor likes to call him. He is fighting another man, not much bigger than him, and certainly a man you do not recognize, meaning a man who will soon be falling to his doom beneath Bucky’s swords.

You have to admit, however, the man was giving The White Wolf a run for his money.

Finally, the man kneels before Bucky in defeat. Bucky raises his sword and delivers the final blow that sends the man to his grave.

Cheers erupt inside the dome. People jump out of their seats to shout and stomp. More debris and dust fall from above, landing on your and Livia’s faces—making you both cough.

The gates of the dome rattle as the herald’s voice shouts over the roaring crowd.

“Victory belongs to the undefeated! Behold your champion—The White Wolf!”

Thousands of voices chant his name as the dome thumps in a cadence that shakes the stone foundations around you. Through the wooden slats of the gate, you watch Bucky raise his blood-slicked sword to the sky. Unlike the other victors, he doesn’t smile. He never smiles.

Livia wipes the dust off her brow. “Another one to his name. He truly is unstoppable.”

You pull your gaze away. “He is a butcher,” you mutter.

Livia pushes herself off the floor with a light groan. She lifts the empty wooden basin to her chest. “I am going to refill this,” she says. “We’re going to need a lot of water to wash the victor up. I will be back.”

The wooden gate in front of you begins to groan as it slowly lifts. You grip your broom tight, moving to the side to make space for the blood-soaked victor to return back inside.

When Bucky steps in, the cool shade of the barracks is pure bliss against his hot body. Behind him steps the herald, adjusting his fine robes and wiping a pristine handkerchief over his sweaty brow, while the champion in front of him bleeds everywhere.

Bucky drops onto a wooden bench, and it creaks beneath his large body. His chest heaves as he catches his breath. With eyes still fueled by the adrenaline of battle, he watches as you approach him with a damp cloth and drop to your knees, wiping the splattered blood from his shins and boots.

“A magnificent display, White Wolf,” the herald boasts, pacing the floor and waving a hand dismissively in your direction as if you were just another piece of furniture. “The Emperor was thoroughly pleased. The coin will be transferred to your keeper, of course, but the Emperor insists on a personal reward for his favorite fighter tonight. A token of appreciation. Wine? A feast? Or perhaps a woman from the upper courts?”

Bucky does not answer the herald.

You try to keep your eyes down, working on scrubbing the crimson off his leather armor, but you can feel his cold stare watching your every movement, tracing the line of your shoulders and the curve of your vulnerable and exposed neck.

“We have the finest women prepared,” the herald continues, oblivious. “You have earned the right to take whatever, or whomever, you please.”

A massive and calloused hand suddenly shoots out. His fingers lock around your fragile wrist, making you wince and drop the rag.

“This one.”

You meet the champion’s eyes, and the spirit behind them terrifies you.

Bucky looks at you, not the way he stares at his opponents, but with something far more lethal. He looks at you as if you are roasted meat served on a silver platter by the Emperor himself. It sends shivers down your spine, and you avert your gaze.

The herald stands confused beside him.

“Her?” the herald sputters, looking down at you in disbelief. “White Wolf, she is a mere servant. A floor scrubber. The Emperor offered you a lady of the court. Someone fit for a powerful champion, such as yourself!”

The way the herald utters the word lady sounds like an insult to you—as if insinuating you’re not woman enough for a man like Barnes.

Bucky’s grip on your wrist tightens again as he gives your arm a rough shake, forcing your attention back to him with a gasp.

“Want her,” Bucky grunts, his tone leaving no room for argument.

The herald blinks, his eyes flickering down to you where you kneel before the champion. He clears his throat uncomfortably. “You must be mistaken, champion. She is nothing but a dirty servant—”

Bucky’s leather gloves creak as he tightens his hand on the hilt of his sword, and the herald falls silent, taking that slight movement from the gladiator as a threat to shut up.

“Fine, fine,” the herald mutters with a defeated sigh. “If that is what pleases you, then she is at your disposal.”

Your eyes nearly bulge out of their sockets. You hadn’t expected the herald to give you up so easily. You had hoped he would insist Bucky find a better woman—someone of higher value, and nowhere near your station.

“Wait, sir—you can’t possibly—!”

“I will let the Emperor know of your decision.” The herald turns on his heel, continuing to talk as if you aren’t even present. “He will be very amused. Though… it does make my job easier, finding another prize… I shall consider this a win for the both of us!”

The herald scratches his beard and shrugs as he continues to walk away. You feel like your life is already flashing before your eyes. There are horror stories of men like Bucky—men who just take and take without remorse. You are no exception. You don’t even want to imagine the kind of things he would do to a woman like you once the herald leaves you two alone. Ignoring Bucky entirely, you try to pry your weak arm away from the fighter’s grip and get to your feet.

“Sir, wait! Don’t leave me here with him!”

But Bucky’s grip remains tight. He hauls you against his broad, bare chest as he stands up. You collide into him with a yelp as he pins you still.

“Mine now,” he rumbles deeply.

You try to pull back, your heels digging into the grime stained floor, but it’s like trying to move a stone pillar. “Let me go! I have to finish cleaning, I have to—”

Without a word, he crouches before you and wraps both strong arms over your legs, hauling you like nothing and propping you over his shoulder like a prize he rightfully deserves.

“Come,” Bucky barks without a single opportunity for defiance. “Take you home.”

Your voice is dry from all the shouting and begging for him to release you. Your fists are weak from pounding his back in an attempt to make him let you go. Now, as you sit at the edge of his worn bed in his small home—which feels like it’s being held up by nothing but sticks and tapestry—you realize all of it was futile.

Tears streak your dirty cheeks as you wipe at them pathetically. You couldn’t even say goodbye to your dear friend, Livia. She must be worrying herself sick about you.

Bucky stands large and imposing in the center of the already tiny home. He wastes no time as he strips himself of his clothes, eyes locked onto your trembling frame. This man in front of you has no sense of shame as he leaves himself completely bare, his cock already hard and springing to his muscular lower belly.

You glance up, your breath catching in your throat at his size.

He is huge, his tip already gorging into an angry red while pre-cum dribbles out from the slit. Your eyes follow the veins that decorate his shaft up until you reach the base of his cock, where dark curls sit unruly and trail thinner up to his belly button.

“Good,” he grunts in approval. “Look at me. Only me.”

Bucky’s strong legs stalk forward to meet you at the edge of the bed. All you can do is stare at him with wide eyes. The campfire flickering behind him casts a warm light, highlighting his muscles and the sharpness of his features.

As he gets closer, you scramble backward. His knees dip and creak the bed as he crawls after you. To him, this is a game of cat and mouse—and he doesn’t mind one bit. You’re terrified, but he sees this as foreplay. The two of you continue this until your back hits the stone wall, leaving you nowhere else to run.

“Please,” you whimper. “Don’t do this.”

Then, without warning, his hand shoots out to grab the neckline of your dress. With a simple tug, his mere strength tears right through it.

“No!” you shriek, your hands coming up to cover your breasts before he even catches a glimpse. “Stop!”

Bucky furrows his brows. Your cries and actions only confuse him. His hands grab your arms, trying to pry them away from your chest. He is so much stronger than you; he could easily break you if he wanted to.

“No! Stop! I’m not ready!” you cry again, shaking your head as you gather all your strength to fight back. “I said, I’m not ready—!”

With your hand acting on a mind of its own, it reaches out and delivers a hard slap across the gladiator’s face.

Bucky’s head whips to the side, his dark, matted hair covering the features of his face—you can’t make out his expression at all.

Your eyes go wide, and your hand weakly retreats back to your chest. If you hadn’t thought Bucky was going to kill you before, you are certain he is going to skip the sexual act and kill you right now instead.

But, being as stubborn as you are, you hold onto the shovel that digs your very grave.

“I told you to stop,” your voice is shaky, but you try to find your footing. “I said no. Countless times. I did not give you my consent. Don’t you know what that word means?”

This is foolish, you think to yourself. Talking to a gladiator like Bucky is like talking to a brick wall. Your words will just go in one ear and out the other.

Bucky slowly turns his head back to you, his gaze locking onto yours with eyes so sharp you could swallow the blade. This is it. You’re certain this is where you die.

He makes an expression—not a pained one, but confused. His jaw is tight where your hand just struck him. He doesn’t move to strike back like you think he will, and he doesn’t wrap his hands around your throat to kill you.

He tilts his head, his face scrunched now in a way that makes him look almost like a kicked puppy.

“No?” he repeats, treating it like a question.

The syllable sounds clunky, foreign, and deeply awkward rolling off his tongue.

He looks down at your hands, still clamped tightly over your torn dress, and then back up to your glassy eyes.

“Consent?” he tries the next word, his brows furrowing from how unusual it sounds.

You nod, holding your breath. “Yes. Consent. I did not give it to you.”

Bucky blinks as the cogs work—or try to—in his head.

The reigning champion of the Colosseum, the brute of a man who knows exactly how to sever someone’s limb or take a prize by force, looks completely lost. For his entire life, the rules were simple: fight, win, take. No one had ever told him ‘no.’ No one had ever given him a choice, and he had never given anyone else one either.

“Consent,” he tastes the word again, as if trying to see if he likes it or not. Then, he shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

Now, you are just as confused as he is.

You stare at the gladiator who kneels before you on the bed. He is probably the most feared man in the empire, yet he sits there naked and baffled by such a basic concept.

“You don’t know?” you whisper. “You don’t know what the word consent means?”

Bucky shakes his head, his broad shoulders slumping a fraction. He looks down at his own massive hands, then back at you, looking almost defeated and unsure of what to do from here.

You let out a trembling breath, slowly adjusting your grip on your torn dress to keep yourself covered as you try to find the words to explain it to a man raised only for slaughter.

“It means... permission,” you explain softly. “It means that my body belongs to me, just like yours belongs to you. To take a woman to bed, she has to want it too. She has to say yes.” You gesture weakly between the two of you. “If I say no, or if I say stop, you have to stop. Otherwise, you are just hurting me. You are just forcing me.”

Bucky listens intently, his dark eyes watching your lips as you speak.

“Don’t want to hurt you,” he answers, his voice rough and strained.

That catches you by surprise. You didn’t expect that kind of softness out of him. Then, he meets your eyes again and continues. “Not yet, at least.”

You pull the torn dress tighter against your chest with a slight frown, and Bucky notices. He shifts awkwardly on the back of his heels—his cock still hard but his mind just as confused.

“How do I get you to want it?” He rests his hand on your bare ankle, tugging you gently. “Like how I want you?”

You swallow hard as you stare at his large hand wrapped around your ankle. He could grab you and break you—mold you and bend you so easily to his will—but he doesn’t.

“You have to… court me,” you try to explain. “You have to make me feel safe, and you have to make me want it.”

Bucky tilts his head. Everything you have just said—even the word safe—feels alien to him.

Your teeth worry your bottom lip as you continue. “It means you don’t just take what you want. You touch softly. You talk to me, and you kiss me.” You point a trembling finger to your mouth, then to his. “With your lips. To show me that you care about how I feel, not just what you want.”

“Touch softly,” Bucky repeats, drilling the instruction into his mind.

You shudder as his hand, once wrapped around your ankle, turns into a gentle caress with his fingertips.

Up and down, his calloused fingertips trace your foot up to your bare calf. He leans over your body, forcing you to lie down beneath him as he hikes up the hem of your skirt. He flattens his palm so it rests heavy against your bare thigh.

“Kiss,” he murmurs, his blue eyes tracing the curve of your lip. “Make you safe.”

He lowers his head, his dark, unruly hair brushing against your cheeks as he brings his face inches from yours.

He hesitates for a second, his nostrils flaring like an animal as he breathes you in. Then, with an awkward, slow movement that he isn’t at all used to, Bucky presses his lips to yours.

The kiss is clumsy and far too hard at first, but as much as he wants to, he doesn’t force his way inside. He doesn’t push his tongue into your mouth, demanding dominance. He keeps his mouth pressed against yours, his lips slightly parted, mimicking the action as best as his instincts allow. It is gentle, surprisingly soft, and very wet—he might’ve even been drooling, aching to kiss you.

He pulls away just a fraction and searches your face for any sign of fear.

“Like this?” he murmurs, his breath hot against your mouth. “Safe?”

Your heart flutters wildly in your chest, except this time it has nothing to do with fear. You stare up at the man before you with wide eyes and wet lips. Bucky studies your face, trying to make out if what he did was right or wrong.

“Y—yes,” you breathe out. “That was good.”

Satisfied with your answer, he leans back down and kisses you again. One hand rises up—slowly, to avoid startling you—and cups your cheek gently. His thumb grazes over the curve of your cheek while his lips explore yours.

A soft, needy sound leaves your lips before you can stop it, and Bucky answers with a deep groan. While one hand cradles your cheek, his other hand slowly rises beneath your dress to grip your smooth hip.

You find yourself unexpectedly leaning into the kiss, matching him until his tongue pokes past your lips and swirls around yours. The two of you breathe heavily, moaning softly against each other as Bucky positions himself between your legs. His cock grows even harder, poking against your warm inner thigh.

He can’t take it anymore. Each moan that leaves your lips sounds like yes, yes, yes to his ears. His desperate hands find the waistband of your panties, threatening to tear them.

You suddenly pull away from the kiss with a gasp, catching your breath. Your hand presses against his bare chest, stopping him.

“No,” you pant as you stare up at him. “Stop. Not yet. You have to be patient.”

At the word stop, Bucky freezes. A snarl rips from the back of his throat, and his face twists in frustration. His jaw clenches so hard, his muscles twitch. You wince back into the pillows in fear, thinking you are in over your head and have pushed him too far.

You brace yourself, closing your eyes tightly.

“I’m trying,” he growls, the words tearing past his teeth. “What do I have to do? Tell me.”

You open your eyes and see him hovering over you. His large body acts as a blanket of warmth while one strong arm props him up, the muscles straining under his own weight and restraint.

“You have to touch me,” you explain gently, pulling his hand away from your underwear and bringing it up to your chest. “Like this.”

Bucky’s eyes follow your movement. Your smaller hand rests over his as you guide him to squeeze your breasts. His breathing grows heavier as his fingers tug and start to play with your budded nipple, relishing the way you moan and arch your back into his touch.

“Like that,” you moan softly. “Good—good boy.”

He groans loudly at your praise. His dark, unruly hair brushes your skin before his mouth closes over your budded nipple. He begins to lick and suck hungrily, his tongue swirling around the sensitive peak while his teeth graze the edge.

“Mm…” Your eyes flutter shut at the pleasure, your head tossing back against the pillow while he makes love to your tits.

Encouraged by your sounds, he grinds his thick hard cock firmly against the smooth skin of your bare thigh, seeking any kind of friction to relieve the ache between his legs.

One hand leaves your breast to grip your hip, digging his fingers into your skin to hold you still while he ruts against you like an animal. He whimpers against your chest, drunk on your scent and the high of your soft moans.

“Please,” he begs, his stubble tickling your bare chest. “Say yes. Let me have you. Now.”

The way he pleads sends a warm rush through your lower belly, a feeling that leaves you craving him just as badly. The man who is used to taking whatever he wants without remorse is reduced to being entirely at your mercy between your legs. A sensation settles inside you that you never thought you would harbor.

Control.

Just one word—one breathless little “yes”—would send Bucky over the edge. His pleasure and his craving are both held in your hands.

“Okay,” you say, giving him a small nod, satisfied with how well he has done. “You can have me.”

A growl rips from his chest. Driven by instinct, his large hands grip the waistband of your panties once more, his knuckles pulling taut as he prepares to shred the flimsy fabric to pieces.

“No,” you interject quickly, slapping his hands away. “Don’t rip them! That’s rude!”

He scowls as he draws his hand back, a whine of frustration catching in his throat like a disappointed hound. It’s clear he is unhappy about facing another rule when he is so close to the edge, yet he listens.

“Pull them down slowly,” you instruct.

Using every ounce of restraint in his veins, he resists the urge to tear the cloth. He hooks his thick fingers into the sides and slowly pulls the fabric down past your hips and thighs until you are completely bare beneath him.

“There you go,” you sigh softly, pleased with his gentle movements. “Good boy.”

Bucky’s eyes drop to the slick heat waiting for him. He hovers over your body, his heavy breathing filling the space between you as he positions the thick head of his cock right at your entrance. He rubs himself up and down against you, soaking his length in your arousal and sucking in a breath at the heat of your touch.

He is too big—impossibly so—and you aren’t sure if he will fit.

“Need to fuck you,” he grits through clenched teeth. “Hard.”

Holding himself at the base, he works at your entrance. His tip slowly slides in, stretching the opening and pushing deep enough to make you arch your back off the bed with a painful hiss.

He pauses at the sound.

“No,” you whimper, blinking tears away as you peer down at him. “If you’re going to have sex with me, you have to be gentle.”

His face twists into a strained expression, but he reluctantly abides.

One hand steadies your hip while the other holds his heavy cock, sliding into your warm, tight walls. Your body is so tight, not used to accommodating such a size, but he relents and continues pushing in.

You cry out, eyes squeezing shut as your arms rest on his shoulders for support.

“Look at me,” Bucky commands in a rough, deep voice. When you don’t listen, he tilts his head down so he is in your line of sight and tries again. “I said look at me.”

You finally do, and his eyes search yours intently. The ring of blue demands that you look at him, and him only.

“Keep them open,” he instructs. “Look at me. It will feel better.”

So, you do.

You both stare into each other’s eyes while he slides himself even deeper. As his cock stretches you wide, his brows furrow and his face twists into a snarl, baring his teeth at the tightness of your body until he finally sheathes himself fully inside with a groan.

“Gentle,” he rasps brokenly. “Gentle. Gotta be gentle.” He repeats the words as if he’s trying to remind himself.

Your legs shake around him, your body trying to get used to his size.

He hasn’t moved yet, but you already feel impossibly full. Your walls embrace him, and you feel your body slowly opening up to let him in. As his cock settles deep inside you, pleasure slowly overwhelms your senses.

For Bucky, it feels like pure torture. Your body is snug and warm—like a wet, tight fist wrapped around his cock, so much better than what he’s used to with his own calloused hands.

“Need to move,” he curses. “Need to fuck. Say yes.”

His voice comes out rough and crude, but he refuses to move without your consent.

“Hold on,” you whimper, still adjusting to his size. You shift your hips slightly, trying to get comfortable, but the movement only makes him groan in pleasure.

“Fine,” he grunts, squeezing your hip.

After what feels like forever, you finally nod your head.

“Okay,” you whisper. “I’m ready.”

And just like that, you open the pearly white gates to heaven for him.

With a hungry growl, he draws his hips back until only half of him remains, and then he slides himself back in. Your lips part in a gasp as he fills you again—his cock sinking even deeper, kissing your cervix.

“Tight,” Bucky clicks his tongue, growing frustrated. “Too tight.”

He pulls out halfway before slamming into you again, and again, and again. Each thrust grows harder and more unrelenting, forcing your body to yield to his cock.

“A—ah! It’s… s’too much—”

“Want me to stop?” he groans out painfully and reluctantly, like he doesn’t want you to answer with a ‘yes’.

“No,” you manage to breathe out. “Don’t stop.”

Moans and gasps spill from your lips every time he fills you. His girth splits you open with every savage thrust, his strong thighs forcing your legs wider for him.

His eyes never tear away from yours. Every time you try to squeeze your eyes shut from the force of his thrusts, he grabs your chin roughly and shakes you, forcing you to look back at him.

“Eyes. On. Me,” he hisses angrily.

Squeezing your cheeks to force your lips apart, he drags his thumb down your lower lip to pry them wider. He leans down, his hot breath tickling your skin while his damp strands of dark hair dance over your face.

He spits into your mouth, the traces of it dripping from his lips down to his chin, slicking your open mouth. It’s wild and savage, unlike anything you’ve ever experienced before. Without giving you the opportunity to pull away, his lips cover yours as he forces his saliva to swallow down your throat.

His tongue dances around yours again while he fucks you deeply, each move threatening to break both you and the bed.

Your eyes roll back so far in your skull while your legs dangle helplessly around his hips. Every thrust feels like a punishment for making him wait. Your nerves are crying out for release—and eventually, you give in. Your cunt spasms violently around Bucky’s length as bliss overwhelms every single sense.

“Oh my god,” you cry. “I’m gonna cum—!”

Your cries fill the small house as your back arches off the damp bed. Bucky insists on making eye contact with you, holding your jaw and forcing you to look at him while he fucks you through your climax.

You clench him tightly, your pussy pulsing in loving beats and squeezing him for every last drop.

“Fuck. Yes. Good, feels so good,” he rasps angrily, his thrusts becoming harder and more desperate.

His balls slap vulgarly against your wet pussy, traces of your slick clinging to him every time he bottoms out. His balls churn with pent-up seed, aching to fill you deep. Your cries grow louder, your hips shifting around to accommodate the overstimulation—but it’s no use.

Bucky’s close, so close. While his eyes bore into yours, his pupils dilate with desire. He just needs to get deeper, to fuck you at an impossible angle to pump you full…

“Wait,” you dig your nails deep into his back, making him gasp in pain. “Slow down—it’s too much…”

He snarls angrily, his hips slowing down just a fraction, but not entirely.

The sound that leaves your lips is a cocktail of pain and bliss. It’s a sultry sound that encourages him to continue, to take what he wants, but the words leaving your mouth say otherwise.

“No,” you shake your head. “Stop, please. It’s too much for me. You’re going to break me—”

His hands release your cheeks roughly as his head drops to press his sweaty forehead against yours. Another animalistic sound tears through him as he forces his hips to come to a stop. His cock stills inside you—pulsing for any form of friction. Just a few more thrusts, and he’ll cum. He’ll cum hard. But he stops, because you asked him to.

“Need to cum,” he pants against your face, taking in the way your eyes have gone teary. “So close.”

“I know,” you say with a soft sigh, your eyes fluttering shut for just a moment. “I know. I just… just need a minute.”

You let your fingers trail up and down his back, and he shudders at the feeling.

The two of you lie there, tangled in each other’s limbs while you catch your breath. Bucky waits impatiently—his heart beating so fast in his chest as he uses every ounce of restraint in his blood to refrain from fucking you right through the bed.

Your pussy is already swollen and puffy from his size, and the longer he remains stuffed inside you, the tighter your body squeezes around him.

With his forehead pressed against yours, he shifts his knees and hips slightly to get comfortable, but even those tiny, forced movements are agonizing. Breathy moans and grunts escape both your lips, shared in the tight space between you. It’s sex without the vulgar movements, and it feels far too intimate for a ruthless man like Bucky.

Finally, you grant him permission.

Staring into his eyes, you give him a small nod to let him continue. And the moment you do, the last thread holding Bucky’s control snaps.

He grabs your legs and shoves them high over your shoulders, splitting you wide and pinning you down into a deep mating press. “Need to go deeper. Hold still.”

You had just gotten used to his size, and the sudden change in position makes your eyes fly open. Your mouth falls open in a gasp as he draws his hips back before bottoming out completely inside you.

His heavy, sweaty body crushes down on yours as he begins to fuck you hard and fast. Every draw of his hips fills you impossibly deep, your stretched cunt molding helplessly around his thick length. He works his hips in a wild, frantic rhythm, chasing his release at full speed before you can say another word to stop him.

“Mine,” he rasps through gritted teeth, his chest heaving as his sweat drips onto your skin. “Say it. Tell me you’re mine—”

The force of his hips slamming against yours knocks the breath right out of you, your moans coming out as breathless gasps while he pounds into you. His eyes bore into yours, waiting for you to finally give in.

“Tell me you’re mine. Say it.”

You blink through tears of bliss. “I—I’m yours—” you manage to stammer out.

His face twists in pleasure, baring his teeth as he pins your legs against your chest while the tip of his cock works deep against your cervix. “Good. A perfect sleeve for my cock. Look at me while I cum inside you.”

The sight of your face scrunched in pleasure and vulnerability sends a wave of heat coursing from his lower gut to the very tips of his toes. His cock pulses and throbs inside, slicking your walls with his pre-cum—a warning before giving you the real thing.

“Pump my cum,” his large palm settles over your lower belly. “All in here.”

The thought of you walking around the house barefoot and round with his children—growing up to be champions just like their father—makes his head spin and his balls grow heavy.

“Close. So close,” he curses and groans over and over, speaking more than he ever has. “Hold still. Take it all for me, wife.”

Bucky buries himself as deep as his length will go, pinning you down as his entire body locks tight. His cock pulses, pumping wave after thick wave of his hot seed deep inside your womb.

His head drops into the crook of your neck, his large, sweaty chest heaving against yours as he rides out his pleasure.

He releases your legs for a moment until both your rapid hearts finally slow to a steady beat. Slowly, agonizingly so, he draws his thick length back, pulling out of your slick, overstimulated cunt with a wet suction sound.

You let out a soft, breathless gasp at the sudden empty feeling. A ring of creamy white circles the base of his cock, and his seed dribbles between your folds—physical proof of what he just did to you.

Without a word, he grips both your ankles with one large hand, pinning your thighs together and pressing your legs straight up into the air to hold them suspended above you.

You blink at him—dazed, exhausted, and thoroughly used. His cock rests half-limp between his strong legs, so he clearly isn’t going for another round.

“What are you doing…?” you whisper softly, confused.

He holds your legs firmly in place as his dark eyes scan your bare, trembling body.

“Make sure it takes,” he grunts out, his voice rough from satisfaction. He uses his free hand to trace a warm, possessive line down to your lower belly, pressing down gently right over your womb. “Keep your belly round with my sons.”

You stare up at him in disbelief while your legs are held helplessly aloft by his massive hand. You’re too exhausted to argue, your brain still foggy from your orgasm. Still, you manage an incredulous laugh.

Does he seriously think propping your legs up like a pair of stilts is going to magically guarantee a pregnancy?

He looks so proud of himself that you don’t even have the heart to argue. He squeezes your ankles slightly, letting out a satisfied hum from his chest once he’s convinced his little trick did the job. The smile on his face is almost boyish in a way that does not belong to a rough man like him.

“Good wife,” he praises you. “Birth me healthy champions.”

You let out a soft sigh, fluttering your eyelids shut as fatigue finally crawls its way into your bones.

As you drift into slumber, you make a mental note to teach this brute a lesson on how gravity works. And right after that, you’ll teach him what aftercare is—especially if he plans on keeping you forever and making you his wife.

if you've made it this far, as always thank you so much for taking the time to read my work. interactions are always appreciated, I love reading every bit of them!

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[w1nter-fairy]

okay now that was hot as fuck! however, my favorite quote was:

Livia does not need to look up to know what them you are referring to. There is only one kind of ruthless animal in the world—and that is men.

[swaggamuffin]

i’m telling you bucky being the white wolf is so important to me pls

[swaggamuffin]

plz I hope the wakandans have a moment to see bucky in doomsday and call him white wolf plzplzplzplz marvel plzzzzzz