#...he has two things what are my weak points...

[redheadkittys]

...from all this new (not available) li he's definitely my favorite😏...

[skunkes]

i loooove when ocs unrealized development makes them feel like real people like no i dont know whether talon is genuinely attracted to women after years of both clinging to them for safety and years of putting them onto that untouchable idealized Perfect Protector Pedestal that must remain untainted by any bad experiences, so he doesn't even try to Be With any. He doesn't know either

[purplelea]

I see people getting enthusiastic about the player polycule but will they still be there when I'll start talking about JoshBeat, BeatShiki and Joshiki? not so sure. a shame since those three ships are extremely interesting as well

[chososprettygirl]

⡴ looking through bf!fratkuna’s highschool yearbook

you first saw it around 10 minutes ago when he held open the door to his room for you. right on his nightstand below his hanging spider-man lamp you’d gotten him for his birthday, probably using the hard cover as a coaster.

and now you’d unfortunately have to admit curiosity had struck you. so now, the moment he goes downstairs to rummage through the frat house’s cabinets for snacks, you’ve hooked your finger on the hard edge. you do it so quietly like you’re worried if you make the faintest peep he’ll come running up here.

as soon as you hear his distinctly angry voice yelling at gojo downstairs for something, just muffled enough you can’t hear exactly what, you start to flick through the pages.

you have to hold back an excited squeal when you land on the page for the ‘s’ names of the seniors, eyes darting across the paper till you find his photo. you actually do squeal then.

his face is just as grumpy as you remember it, clearly not changing with time in any way. he’s dressed in a stark black polo with the collar fully buttoned up, which you’re assuming he was forced into, considering how adamant he is against it now. his pink hair is slicked back with even thicker gel than he uses now with more of a fade than you remember, tapering to black at the underside of his neck. the most jarring, or rather different thing is the lack of facial tattoos he has. he almost looks weird without the ink scattered across his cheekbones and forehead. the ones streaming across his arms are still present, though.

you fumble to take your phone out your pocket and get a picture, snapping it as quickly as you can.

then, you flip to the pages at the back, the ‘senior class’ one’s with all the photos of he and his classmates. there’s one with all students lined up on the gym bleachers, and him with a foul grimace and staring directly at the camera like he wants to kill the photographer.

then there’s a couple from the culinary class section. and you swear your face drops seeing his face, smiling, dicing up vegetables. you swear this is the happiest you’ve ever seen his face, second only to the time when yuji tripped and skimmed his knee while you two were babysitting him—which made him burst out into actual laughter, and actual laughing tears.

he’s slicing up an onion while other various veggies sit separated on the board next to it. he’s got chunks of beef sautéing on a burner next to it and he couldn’t look happier.

you can’t help but smile seeing him like this, before snapping another picture and turning to the back to see if he had any signatures. you expect for them to be blank, assuming if you asked him he’d say “that’s trivial. why would i care about those maggots’ names?” in his deep voice with a genuine grimace while recollecting.

well, before you can even gaze upon the page, you’re startled by the sound of his door clicking open.

you fling the heavy book closed and off your lap before you can even think as you jump.

he stares at the cover, face up lying on the hardwood floor, flicks his eyes back to you in your embarrassed state, then drops the bags of chips he’s brought up onto his dresser to pick his yearbook up from the floor.

he stares down at it like he wants to crush it then and there before asking, “did you see my photo?”

“…yes.” you say, looking up at him from his bed.

he stares back at you, then forms his hand into a point and walks towards you.

“you will forget it. you will forget my quote, my photo, my—”

“OH MY GOSH I FORGOT TO CHECK YOUR QUOTE!”

you reach your hand out to try and grab for the book before his other hand grabs at your wrist midair, and holds the book above his head.

“no. i am going to burn this.”

“whyyyyy?” you whine staring up at him while he watches unamused. “you look cute!”

“i look weak. feeble and homely.” he deapans, but still flustered saying it, turning his face away from yours. “you shouldn’t see me that way.” his tan skin flushes a deep pink.

he grabs the chips off his dresser before tossing them over to you, then yanking open his bottom drawer and slamming the book shut in it.

“what? you wanna look all strong in front of me?” you tease from his bed while he scoffs and rolls his eyes.

“you’re my girlfriend,” he says, before hopping onto his bed and yanking your lazing body on top of his, still with his face away from you in embarrassment. “i’d prefer to.”

“do you not want me to see cause some girl signed it?” you ask, knowing fully well he was a virgin with no history of a relationship before he met you, claiming he was ‘too good for those girls’.

he groans, now staring into your eyes, clearly annoyed.

“my nickname in school was ‘future cannibal’, do you truly believe i had women fawning over me?” he deadpans while you burst into laughter, dropping your head into the crevice of his neck.

“with all that hair gel i guess not.” you joke.

“you’ll find that funny until i find your yearbook and spread those photos around.”

someone save me from my sukuna brainworm he’s overtaking me

[sapiensecrets]

destabilize - dennis whitaker x f!reader

summary: dennis puts his frustrations on you during a mass casualty, after seeing how people seem to drop everything to make your life easier.

pairings: dennis whitaker x RT!reader (respiratory therapist) cw/tags: the pitt warnings (depictions of car crash victims and their treatment, including intubations, fractures, embolisms, various breathing apparatuses). established relationship. swearing. angst but reader and dennis are pretty normal so it’s nothing crazy. park flirting with reader (i dont think this is a warning based on how much tumblr has loved him since his brief appearance LMFAO but just in case), jealous!dennis and some misogyny from him as well i guess. swearing. ooc!dennis in my opinion but hey. the people yearn for the angst and so do i. minor implications that dennis has a past regarding people abandoning him. word count: 4.9k dennis x RT!reader masterlist general masterlist series taglist (will be closing soon!!!) this was requested and inspired by many many messages and people that i combined into one thing, enjoy :)))

“Hey, are you able to cover the ED today?” Your coworker asks. “I’m still getting over that flu I had last week, and I think running between here and there might just kill me.”

“Of course, yeah, no problem,” You say, accepting the trauma pager from her, tucking it onto your scrub pocket. “Did you test?”

“Yeah, flu A,” She says, and you grimace. 

“Rough,” You say. “I’ve got it covered, let me know if you need anything else, yeah?”

The first trauma that requires respiratory assistance rolls in around nine. 

“Eighteen-year-old male, motorcycle versus SUV at approximately sixty MPH,” The paramedic says, wheeling the gurney through the doors as people begin to crowd around. “Helmeted, significant damage to the bike.”

They push him through the trauma bay doors, still listening intently as the paramedic continues. 

“Airway intact, alert and oriented times four, awake and talking on scene,” She adds. “GCS fourteen—confused, repeating questions. Obvious deformity to the left femur, no open wound noted, distal pulses weak but present.”

“Heart rate one twenty-eight, BP ninety-eight over sixty-two, resps at twenty-six,” The secondary paramedic says, just as Samira counts down from three, everyone lifting the sheet up and transferring the patient onto the hospital bed. “Two large bore IV’s, fifty of fent, femur splinted in traction.”

“Great, thank you,” Robby says, letting them leave. 

Princess cuts the rest of the patient’s clothes off while Donnie hooks him up to the monitors, the screens coming to life and showing the mildly concerning vitals. Dennis is already examining the chest, stethoscope in as he listens to his lungs. 

“Sir, can you tell me your name?” Samira says, getting a confused groan in response. 

“My fucking leg,” He mumbles. “Where—what happened?”

“You were in an accident,” She explains. “You’re at PTMC now, we’re gonna’ take care of you, okay?”

She looks at Dennis, asking what his next steps are. 

“Uhm, trauma labs, chest and pelvis ultrasound,” He says, glancing towards the monitors, watching his sats come down a few points. “Let’s get him started on high flow, page RT and ortho.”

“Okay, let’s do it,” Samira says. “Who’s here for respiratory?”

“Adams,” Robby says, having already asked Dana earlier that morning. 

Samira frowns. “She’s not here?”

The question is directed at Dennis, who stutters for a second. “Oh, no, she is. She’s just in the ICU today.”

“Too bad,” She says. 

When the door opens to reveal you everyone reacts a little more enthusiastically than they usually would, happy to have you instead of anyone else. 

“Dana said Adams was here today,” Robby says, watching you pull on gloves. 

“Yeah, she had the flu last week, still struggling with some SOB with exertion,” You explain. “Is it okay that it’s me?”

“Definitely,” Samira says. “Motorcycle versus car, GCS fourteen but his sats keep dropping, eighty-seven on a hundred percent.”

“That’s not great,” You say, making your way to the head of the bed. Dennis’ hand comes back as you move behind him, gripping the front of your thigh for a second, making you smile. You introduce yourself to the patient. “I’m with respiratory. Can you tell me your name?”

“My…leg,” He says, taking an obvious breath between the two words. 

“We’re gonna’ get it fixed up for you, okay?” You say. “Your chest hurt at all?”

He doesn’t respond. 

“Can I grab an ABG?” You ask, and Samira nods. “How was the eFAST?”

“Negative,” Dennis says. “No pneumo, no fluid.”

“Femur fracture?” You question, making the assumption from the splint that’s wrapped around his thigh as you grab the syringe, positioning it over his wrist. 

“Yeah, a bad one,” Samira says. “Why, what’re you thinking?”

“FES?” You suggest, drawing his blood up, capping the needle and passing it to Princess. 

“Definitely a concern,” Samira says. 

“Non-rebreather?” You ask. “He’s too agitated for BiPAP.”

“Yep, do it,” She says. “Let’s prep an intubation tray, just to be safe.”

You slip the mask onto his face, assuring him that everything is going to be just fine, then you start collecting the supplies you would need to intubate. Robby leaves at some point, his attention being pulled by another trauma, putting Samira completely in charge. 

“Did you tell ortho this was urgent?” She asks, and Donnie nods. 

“Sure did.”

“Who’s on for ortho?” You ask, mindlessly adjusting the tube you’ve chosen, lining everything up perfectly. 

“Shark,” Donnie says. Dennis rolls his eyes at the mention of the name, shaking his head a little to try and focus on the patient again. 

“Oh, I’ll call,” You say, making everyone raise an eyebrow, not sure why that would change anything, but they don’t stop you. You pick up the phone on the wall, putting in the right number and bringing it to your ear, waiting for a few seconds before someone picks up. “Hey, is Park still up there?”

The room stills, especially Dennis, his hands coming to a complete stop over the patient’s abdomen that he’s about to palpate again. 

“Great, can you let him know that we need an urgent ortho consult down in trauma three?” You ask. You ask for the person on the other end to tell Park that it’s you asking, and Princess smirks. “Thank you so much.”

The door opens four minutes later, Park coming through, his eyes immediately finding you—then the patient. 

“What’ve you got?” He asks, and Samira gestures for Dennis to go ahead. 

“Motorcycle versus car, closed femur fracture, concerned about FES,” He explains. Park nods, leaning over the patient, gloved hand raising to touch the area. 

“You calling me personally now?” He asks, looking at you again. 

“When the situation calls for it,” You say, a small smile on your face, one Dennis does not miss. “Wouldn’t be necessary if you guys would actually answer pages at a reasonable pace for once.”

“I like to make an entrance,” He says, crouching a little to get a better look at the injury. “Especially when you’re here.”

“Okay, relax,” You say, but you’re laughing through the words. “Just fix his fucking thigh, Brendon.”

“For you?” He asks. “Anything.”

That was when things started going downhill for you and Dennis. 

Had that happened any other day? It wouldn’t have been an issue. People flirt with you all the time, not just at work, but everywhere. It’s a constant that he’s grown used to, and up until today he thought that he could handle any amount of people throwing themselves at you. 

But, apparently he can’t. 

The mass casualty happens at three-fifty-nine. 

A multi-vehicle pile up on the highway with twenty of the thirty-two victims arriving by ambulance and helicopter fifteen minutes later. 

You spend the first hour floating from room to room, assisting with oxygenation and administering medications when the nurses are already stretched thin. You start a few arterial lines, intubate two patients, and do six rounds of chest compressions all within sixty minutes. 

Your name is called from one of the rooms, making you quickly tape an arterial line in place, asking Mel if she needs anything else before making your way over to Dana. You dodge people as you move, following her through the curtain, revealing Dennis standing at the head of the bed, preparing to intubate. 

“Where do you want me?” You ask, looking at Frank, who’s squeezing a bag of blood. 

“You can assist Whitaker,” He says, and you nod, taking the spot beside your boyfriend and accepting the bag mask from Sophie, placing it over the patient’s mouth. 

The ED is loud. 

That’s all Dennis can think about until you’re standing next to him, and then he starts thinking about you and Park earlier. Someone asks what size tube he wants just as he puts the laryngoscope into place, turning the light on and glancing towards the monitor that’s been wheeled in, revealing the patient’s throat. He doesn’t realize that the question was for him, clearly, so you answer.

“Seven, probably,” You say, turning around and opening the drawer, grabbing the correct tube.

Dennis inches farther into the mouth.

The cords still aren’t visible. 

“That’s super anterior,” You say, already reaching towards the patient’s neck, pressing your hand against it. You watch the screen, adjusting to try and bring the cords into view, but the visualization still isn’t great. “Lift the blade slowly, that might help.”

“Yeah, I know,” He says, his tone a little firmer than usual, but you quickly brush it off as the pressure of the mass casualty. 

Her airway is swollen, and even when the cords come into view he doesn’t feel good about the landmarks. He keeps looking down into her throat and back up at the screen, and then Sophie speaks up. 

“Sats down to seventy-one.”

Dennis shakes his head, pulling back in a swift motion. 

“Switch?” You ask, and he nods, passing you the tools. You take his place, and he sets his hand where yours was moments prior, mimicking the pressure that you were doing for him. 

You get the same view that he had, but you’re much more confident as you adjust the blade, sliding the tube into place without even looking at the monitor. Dennis puts his stethoscope in to confirm breathsounds. 

“Waveform looks good,” Frank says. “Yellow on end-tidal.”

“Good breath sounds bilaterally,” Dennis adds. 

“Thank you,” Frank says, and you nod, your hand landing on Dennis’ side as you walk past him, a slight action of reassurance. 

“Call if you need anything else,” You say, then you slip through the doors, off to the next critical patient. 

He’s rattled after that, and he can’t help but notice the difference in how you’re doing compared to him. People call for you specifically, anticipating your next move and passing you whatever you need before you can even ask, thanking you or even congratulating you once you finish up with patients. You move through the chaos in a way that he can’t, and it seems like everyone does their best to make it easy for you. 

He ends up in one of the back hallways between crises after Robby tells him to take a breather. 

He lost the patient that you intubated, and he can’t stop wondering if maybe he wouldn’t have if he had been able to get the tube in. You eventually come into the hallway, sliding down the wall beside him, tucking your knees up to your chest, a small amount of dried blood on your scrubs. 

“You okay?” You ask, nudging his leg with your own. 

He nods. “Yeah. You?”

“Yeah,” You say. “Heard you lost a patient.”

He inhales sharply, shifting his legs away from you ever so slightly. “I did, yeah.”

He pauses for a second before continuing. 

“I should’ve let you intubate from the get-go,” He says, but it’s not proud like usual—it’s bitter. “Maybe that extra minute of oxygen would’ve saved her.”

“Don’t do that,” You say. “Don’t blame yourself, you did everything right.”

He scoffs. “Not as right as you.”

“I’ve been doing this a lot longer than you have, Denny,” You counter. “You’ll get used to it, I promise. And, I’ve got your back. Always.”

He nods, his frustration finally coming to the surface, spilling out with his words. “Would be a lot easier if the entire department wanted to sleep with me.”

You stiffen, and he doesn’t see the way your face drops. 

“What?” You ask, incredulously. 

“Surgeons don’t come quickly when I page,” He continues. “People aren’t lining up to make my life easier because they think I’m attractive.”

You don’t speak for a minute, but you push yourself away from him on the floor, hurt rising in your chest. 

“And if they were? I at least wouldn’t be entertaining it in front of you,” He adds. “Is that why you always want to look nice at work? So people will trip over themselves to try and impress you?”

You blink a few times. 

“Is that really what you think?” You ask, already standing up, wanting to put as much distance between you and him as possible. “Cool, good to know.”

You’re gone before he can say anything else. 

Somehow, because the universe hates you, you end up in a trauma together during the last thirty minutes of your shift. 

Your entire demeanor changes the second you see that he’s in there, silently adjusting oxygen settings and doing whatever you’re asked as everyone works around you. Dennis keeps trying to catch your eye, but you barely look in his direction, keeping all your focus on staying fucking professional. 

Jack, who showed up shortly after the pile-up was on the news, notices the tension between the two of you right away.

“Everything okay?” He asks, mostly to you. 

“Yep,” You say. “You want BiPAP?”

“Yeah, and let’s page ortho for that arm,” He says, raising an eyebrow, watching closely as you set the mask up. “Then you can get out of here, pass this off to the nightshift.”

“Great,” You say. “Thanks, Jack.”

“Anytime, kiddo.”

“You wanna’ give them a call, let Park flirt with you again?” Princess asks, to which you shake your head. 

“Not this time, sorry,” You say, a tight smile on your face. “Can’t pull that card too often, people might start questioning my clinical abilities.”

Dennis goes completely still over the chest, one hand holding the diaphragm of his stethoscope mid-air. Jack raises an eyebrow, barely looking up from his task.

“Why would that make someone question your clinical abilities?” He asks, to which you shrug, reaching for the BiPAP settings. 

“Beats me,” You say. “Eight over four?”

“Whitaker?” Jack asks. 

“Yeah, eight over four, please,” He says, giving you a quick nod. 

You adjust them accordingly. “Anything else I can do for you, Dr. Whitaker?”

He glances up at you, shaking his head. “No, uh, thank you.”

Your last name stumbles awkwardly out of his mouth at the end of the sentence, and Jack watches as you leave before turning back to Dennis.

“That was fun,” Jack says. “You wanna’ tell me what happened?”

“Not really,” Dennis mumbles. 

You’re standing by the central hub when Park comes back down into the department, pivoting away from the room and instead heading towards you, calling your name to get your attention. 

“Hey,” You greet, giving him a small smile. “Here for two?”

“Yeah, the broken arm,” He says. “You intubate?”

“Nope, just BiPAP,” You answer. “They’re A&O times four.”

“Great,” He says. “You still somehow look amazing, even after that mass cas.”

Your response is foreign to him. He’s been harmlessly flirting with you for years, and both of you would go as far as saying the other is a friend, and you’ve always joked back or at least smiled. Now, you take a half step away from him, eyes flitting towards the trauma room, your expression neutral.

“Hey, don’t,” You say, making him chuckle a little. 

“Okay, sorry,” He says. “Didn’t realize I couldn’t compliment my favourite RT anymore.”

“Yeah, you know, we’re at work,” You say. 

“When are we not?”

Your eyes land on Dennis when he comes out of the room, only for a second, but Park turns around, seeing your boyfriend. 

“Did Whitaker say something?” He asks. 

“No, no, I just think we should keep it professional, okay?” You say, wanting today to end. “I’m sorry.”

“He said something,” He says. “After he choked in that trauma and lost his patient?”

“Don’t fucking say that,” You counter. 

“Did he take that out on you?” He questions. “Couldn’t handle the fact that you had to swoop in and save his ass?”

“I didn’t—I didn’t ‘save his ass,’” You argue. “I’m an airway specialist, I’ve had to step in for practically every doctor in this department at least once. I lost that patient just as much as he did, and he didn’t do anything wrong.”

The nurses at the hub go completely silent, quickly acting as though they weren’t listening to the conversation. Jack smirks, reminding himself to never get on your bad side. You look to Dennis again, who heard the majority of the exchange, before pushing off the desk. 

“I have handover,” You say. “See you later.”

Dennis reaches for you as you walk by. “Hey-”

You twist your body away, avoiding him entirely as you make it to the door, heading back up to the ICU without another word. Trinity lets out a low whistle, waiting until you’re gone before speaking. 

“You fucked up, Huckleberry,” She says. 

Dennis grits his teeth. “Yeah, I know.”

He’s actually shocked to see you waiting for him outside the ER once he’s finished. 

You’re leaning against a pillar, headphones in, a grim look on your face. Trinity widens her eyes at Dennis, the look saying something along the lines of ‘fix this, you fucking idiot.’

She says bye to you as she walks past.

“Night, Santos,” You say, tugging your headphones out and putting them in your jacket pocket. Dennis approaches slowly, holding the straps of his backpack, head slightly tilted towards the floor. 

“I-”

“Can we stop and pick something up for dinner?” You ask, reaching for his hand, intertwining your fingers with his. “We don’t have any leftovers and I don’t feel like cooking.”

His fingers are frozen around yours for a second, then he curls them over your hand, falling in step beside you. 

“We can do whatever you want,” He says. “Do you want me to take you home first? Then I can go-”

“No, I wanna’ come with you,” You interrupt, swinging your arm a little, leaning into him like you usually do. He’s warm, protecting you from the wind as you step outside. 

He doesn’t say anything as you walk to the car, just opening your door for you, shutting it as gently as he can before hopping in the driver’s seat. 

“You can pick what we eat,” You say. “My brain hurts.”

He nods. “Fair enough.”

You’re almost at your favourite restaurant when he speaks again. 

“You waited for me,” He says, quiet, a little nervous. 

“Of course I did,” You say. “Me being mad doesn’t mean we don’t go home together.”

You pause for a second. 

“You had a shitty day,” You add. “Let’s talk about it later, yeah?”

Later comes after you’ve both eaten, showered, and sat in silence for awhile, you tucked into his side on the couch and your cat curled up beside you. 

“Okay,” You say, making him jump a little. You shift away, turning so you’re facing him. He spins too, anxiety written all over his face. 

You take a deep breath. 

“You can’t talk to me like that,” You say, getting straight to the point. “Or even think about me like that.”

He nods, slowly, not wanting to sound remotely defensive. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“You don’t know,” You insist, keeping your tone from dipping into anything close to anger. “Because if you did you wouldn’t have said it.”

“I don’t think that about you,” He says. “Not at all.”

His voice wobbles a little. 

You inch a little closer, touching your knees to his, looping a finger into the bottom of his sweatpants, toying with the hem. 

“You’re so good at…everything,” He continues, swallowing roughly, clearing his throat. “I don’t know why seeing you so…fine in the middle of it all made me so upset.”

You shrug. “You had just lost a patient and felt like it was your fault.”

“Yeah, but that happens everyday,” He counters. “And you come and fix my mistakes everyday. I don’t usually react like that.”

“Are you looking for help psychoanalyzing yourself?” You ask, the tone a bit teasing. 

He smiles. “A little, yeah.”

You purse your lips, shifting closer again. 

“Park was flirting with me in front of you,” You start. “I didn’t think anything of it because that’s the relationship we’ve always had. You felt...bad about that.”

You stop, realizing that sounded better in your head. 

“Tell me if I’m wrong, please,” You add, and he nods, gesturing for you to continue. “You lost a patient after having to pass the intubation to me, and I don’t think it being me had anything to do with it. You would’ve been upset no matter who took over, because you felt like you should’ve been able to get that airway.”

His face flickers, and you can tell that you’ve said something that doesn’t completely resonate. 

“It did matter that it was you,” He corrects, gently. “I…I always wanted to impress you when we worked at the clinic, and I still do. Even five years later.”

“You do impress me,” You promise. “Every single day. Do you have any idea how proud I am of you?”

You don’t give him the chance to answer. 

“I tell literally anyone who will listen that my boyfriend is the most caring, patient, amazing doctor every chance I get,” You continue. “I’ve seen so many interns in that emergency room and you’re better than all of them. And I’m not just saying that because I’m in love with you.”

“Wait, you’re in love with me?” He asks, smiling, the joke making you grin, the tension genuinely starting to loosen now. 

“Extremely,” You say.

He clenches his jaw, on the verge of tears. 

“I love you so much,” He says. “And I know that your job is just as hard as mine, and that people finding you attractive doesn’t make it any easier.”

You squint, tilting your head to the side. “Well…”

He wipes a tear off his cheek, chuckling. “Yeah, the thing with Park was pretty helpful.”

“Sometimes people listen more,” You say. “Sometimes they don’t take me seriously. It balances out.”

He nods. “Right.”

His hand moves towards you, but he hesitates, placing it back in his lap. 

“I had no right to say that to you,” He says. “Not during a mass cas, not ever. I’m so sorry, angel.”

“I know you are,” You say, reaching for his hand, taking it in your own. “I’m still upset, but-”

You feel him stiffen, eyes dropping to your lap, more tears pooling on his lashline. 

“Hey, I’m not going anywhere,” You say. 

He squeezes his eyes shut, nodding. “Okay.”

“I’m still upset, but I just need time,” You continue. “And I need you to not do that again.”

“I won’t,” He says, opening his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

An hour later you’re curled up on the couch, a blanket over you, the light from the TV flickering over your face. You’re not really paying attention, but it’s nice to have in the background as you process the day while Dennis busies himself in the kitchen, putting your leftovers away and making some tea. 

He sets a mug in front of you on the coffee table, earning a tired smile from you. He looks towards the couch, then back to you. 

“Can I—”

You sit up a little, nodding. 

“You don’t have to ask,” You say. 

He sits beside you, leaving a few inches of space, not wanting to overstep. You lean over, setting your head in his lap, pulling the blanket up to your jaw and putting your hand on his thigh. He exhales with relief, slipping a hand under the blanket and resting his arm across your chest. 

Trinity barely gives him a second to put his bag in his locker before she’s on him the next day, her arms folded over her chest as she squints slightly. 

“What?” Dennis asks, his actions slowing when he notices her. 

“Did you apologize?” She questions, and he sighs. 

“Yes, of course I did,” He says. 

“So, you guys are good?”

“Why are you so invested?” He asks, holding the door open for her as they both walk out of the locker room. 

Trinity hesitates on the answer for a second. 

“She’s Garcia’s best friend,” She says. “That means I give a fuck about her, too.”

“Oh, yeah?” Dennis says, smiling a bit. “You’re that serious now, huh?”

“Shut up,” Trinity counters. “I’m glad you didn’t fuck anything up too badly.”

He exhales sharply. “Me too.”

Gossip spread fast about you and Dennis acting ‘weird’ towards eachother yesterday, so all eyes are on the two of you when you’re paged to help with a conscious nasotracheal intubation. You join the small group of people outside the patient’s room, already having been briefed on the situation by Dana. 

“Just in time,” Cassie says, making room for you in the circle. “We were just going over the plan.”

“Great, keep going,” You say, glancing towards Dennis for a second, who’s already looking at you, giving him a small smile. He returns it, along with a nod, then both of you focus on Cassie again. 

“We’ll topicalize, that’ll be you,” She says, setting her hand on your shoulder for a moment. 

“Got it,” You say. “Who’s doing first pass?”

“Uh, me,” Dennis says, raising his hand up a fraction. “Never done one outside the cadaver lab, so…”

You smile again. “Cool, sounds good.”

“We want to work quickly to avoid any complications,” Cassie emphasizes. “We need all meds ready, and second pass is you, too. What meds do you prefer?”

The reliance that she shows on you makes Dennis’ heart race, and not in a bad way this time.

You don’t hesitate—because you never do. Not because people make your job easier, but because you know your shit. 

“Atomized lidocaine, four percent for MAD,” You say. “Viscous lidocaine for the passageway and a little phenylephrine is what I’d start with.”

“Nasal spray or pledgets?” Cassie asks. 

“Pledgets,” You answer. “Let it sit for sixty seconds.”

“Okay, perfect,” Cassie says. “Whitaker, can you walk us through the plan step by step, please?”

“Oh, uh, Princess and Jesse will prep meds, I’ll insert the pledgets with…point two-five PE?” 

He looks to you after asking, and you nod. 

“Let those sit for a minute, set up suction, administer viscous lido,” He continues. “Start numbing the airway with MAD, give fent as needed for comfort while keeping her awake. Then I’ll do first pass.”

“You want me to set up your tray?” You ask. 

He nods. “That would help, yeah, thank you.”

“You got it.”

Everyone can see that you’re slightly different with eachother, but not in the way they thought you might be. They expected a day filled with awkward tension, maybe even wished for it, but the two of you are just…softer. Leaving less unspoken than you usually would, making sure you communicate everything you need. 

“Okay, let’s get in there,” Cassie says, and the five of you step inside the room. 

You introduce yourself to the patient before Cassie can do it for you, saying your first name and walking over to the side of her bed. 

“I’m a respiratory therapist,” You say, smiling, reassuring the patient with ease. “We’re gonna’ get you breathing better, yeah?”

“Yeah, right,” She says, smiling back, but her voice is laced with anxiety. 

“You’re gonna’ do great,” You say. “You’ve got a really good team here.”

Dennis feels his chest and neck start to heat up when you look directly at him as you say it. 

You move towards the cart, opening drawers and setting up the intubation tray for Dennis, placing two tubes down incase the larger one doesn’t fit. He walks her through what he’s doing as he moves, inserting the cotton and explaining what she’ll feel once it starts to kick in. You set up the MAD, coming back to the side of the bed once you’re done, viscous lidocaine in hand.

“I’m gonna’ put some of this in both nostrils, okay?” You say, showing her the syringe. “It’s like a jelly, it’ll be a little cold. Ready?”

She nods, leaning her head back. You apply the medication, handing the empty syringe to Princess. You pick up the MAD again.

“This’ll slowly go down your throat so I can numb your airway,” You explain. “It might not feel super nice, but there shouldn’t be any pain. If it hurts just grab my arm and I’ll stop.”

You advance the tube into her nose, the pacing muscle memory, keeping an eye on her to make sure she’s okay as you work. 

“Push the fent,” Cassie says. Princess does. 

“Almost there,” You say, eyes on the monitor. “You’re doing great, almost done.”

You pull out once you’re finished. “Dr. Whitaker’s gonna’ put the tube in now, okay?”

“Same thing, goes in slow,” He says. “Let me know if it hurts.”

You shift to stand beside him, not too close, just wanting him to know that you’re there. He takes the tube in his hand, gently inserting it into her nostril. 

She coughs at one point, her sats dipping for a second, making him look at the monitor. 

“Feels awful even with the numbing, I know,” You say. “Slow, deep breaths.”

She listens, the coughing fading out, her chest rising and falling more rhythmically now. You give Dennis a nod. 

You set up the vent once the tube is in place, then you step outside, finding a computer to start charting at. He comes out a few minutes later, landing beside you, making you look over. 

“Thank you,” He says. “You were amazing in there.”

“I try,” You say, teasingly. “You did great too, you didn’t even need me.”

“I did,” He counters. “I always do.”

Robby calling his name cuts the moment short, and he glances over his shoulder before looking at you again, quickly. 

“See you later?” He says.

You nod. “Yeah, I’ll be around.”

tags:

@libbyqypu @lulusa27 @futuremrscameron @esposadomd @findingjaxx @scouser-villanelle @filthgf @kysosa @lilyyexe @mythology-dragon @abbotafterhours @superlegend216 @maebyi @sephiexlove @realizemandi97 @yixo3 @friendly-neighborhood-boricua @maytuscany @chickencrispers-666 @teenwolfbitches28 @vastscoutweapon @random-movie @milflover-72 @jocrice30 @goldfishenthusiast67 @xebiuzaograndao @darkhorrorutopia @flowerburner666 @massivecomfortable20 @thevoid-fics @p1asstri @davaga06 @kathylvr @paigewouldloveamilkshake @tswanie @lapizluuuz @abzidabzy @xreader1989 @knicoleworld @op81got @echosprite @veilmylife @lunadi1una @ilooksocute @bborra @nataliagianna01 @justarandomflowerchildofthenight @cvvtiinaa @amandjslpz @w1theredr0se @escapi3m

[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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[victoriasoroka]

for the longest time I couldn’t understand the purpose of cuno and cunoese in the disco narrative until I’ve started working at a local order pickup point and got my own two gremlins to imprint on me

jesus fuck. these two dipshits barged into my pickup point ant started destroying e v e r y t h i n g around and i was so appalled i just. fucking stared into the distance for a while. until they pulled out of their pockets like five vapes and started puffing in my face and then suggested that I buy one from them for a good deal and I laughed at their faces like “you think I can’t buy myself a vape?” and these two fuckos blinked at me in unison and said yes. today they asked what my degree’s at I said arts and they followed “and now you work at a pickup point” FUUUUUCCKKK YOOOUUUUUUUU ONE DAY ILL BE NORMAL AGAIN

the feeling of being humbled on your work hours by nine year olds is. incomparable

anyway the point is that now I’m their bestie against my will. they visit me every day after school and somehow they fucking vape less now. because they don’t want to disappoint me. like what. I’m a fucking smoker myself where did you get this wisdom from. they hug me hello and goodbye.

today one of them begged me for a puff and I was like no one day you’ll want to live a longer life and he goes actually I don’t wanna live. ever since my dad has died I feel like there’s no one else who can love me anymore. and I was like. one day you’ll grow up and you’ll be here for yourself by your own side and no one will harm you. your dad loved you. your brother who beats you is a weak idiot who can’t step up and fill his shoes. give me back my vape

like. the writers captured the raw batshit bonkers honesty and devastation of lost kids and didn’t forget to make them call you a fag. and after they’re done with you you’re left alone with all this bs that you wish you’ve been told before and hope those are the right things to say now.

[hinagiiku]

childhoodbestfriend!bakugou who has always called you ‘baby’, but you never took it in a cute romantic way. it's your own personal insult. 

childhoodbestfriend!bakugou who got saltier after he got his quirk, but that never took as big of an effect on your relationship with him as it did izuku.

childhoodbestfriend! bakugou who has always been protective over you.

childhoodbestfriend!bakugou sees you drifting away at a party? his hand is at your waist.

childhoodbestfriend!bakugou sees you laughing with izuku a little too hard? he’s extra rude to him for the rest of the day.

childhoodbestfriend!bakugou who scowls when you invite izuku to your plans. “does that damn nerd always have to come?”

childhoodbestfriend!bakugou who wishes you would treat him the same way you treat izuku. you checking in on him more than he likes.

childhoodbestfriend!bakugou who secretly just wants to spend alone time with you, doesn’t matter what you're doing. it brings him a comfort of nostalgia, a piece of his childhood that hasn’t grown on him yet.

childhoodbestfriend!bakugou who always makes ‘too much’ of your favorite food and ends up having just enough leftovers for you to eat.

but when you see the cooking pot, that was the only portion.

childhoodbestfriend!bakugou who gets nervous and mumbles excuses when you point it out. “tch. that old hag…”

childhoodbestfriend!bakugou who holds in his anger when you slap his head for calling his mom (your aunt) an old hag. just like she taught you to in this exact situation.

childhoodbestfriend!bakugou will refuse to ask for affection from you. he knows what he wants so he takes it whenever he wants.

growing up together, there was not much communication between you two due to you being too shy and him not wanting to make you cry. so it’s just always been that way.

he understands when he’s pushing things and when he’s not pushing hard enough just because of how long he's known you.

childhoodbestfriend!bakugou who just grabs your hand by instinct now. crossing fingers with you; praying you don’t think his hands are too sweaty.

childhoodbestfriend!bakugou who only feels comfortable sleeping in his subtle all might pjs around you because he knows even more embarrassing things about you.

he ‘wouldn’t hesitate to tell everyone your secrets if you tell anyone.’

but deep down you know that he wouldn’t do that to you.

he might be a bit mean but he’s not cruel.

childhoodbestfriend!bakugou who always ends up cuddling you while sleeping over.

his excuse is always ‘that you take up the whole blanket’ and as a pay back is needing to ‘borrow your body heat’

childhoodbestfriend!bakugou who wakes up and if not already immediately spoons you because he already knows your morning breath sinks him 6 feet under. doing this makes it easier for him to not pass away at such an early age, and gives another excuse to feel your soft breathing and heartbeat so close to him.

childhoodbestfriend!bakugou who kisses your forehead before you wake up. he would be extremely embarrassed if you ever found out about this.

jokes on him, you already knew. he wasn’t very sneaky as a kid and would make a loud ‘MWA!’ sound.

childhoodbestfriend!bakugou who is equally as confused as you as to why he felt different about you than others. caring, nonconfrontational you.

childhoodbestfriend!bakugou who gets flustered easily when you say things that make his heart flutter.

“stop saying mushy shit i don’t understand,”

“my mind is a fuckin’ mess because of you...”

childhoodbestfriend!bakugou who goes to bed with dreams constantly reminding him of your first and only real kiss.

in junior high, you and his friends were playing spin the bottle. he didn’t want to play because it’s a ‘stupid idea!’ and ‘kissing just gets in the way of becoming a real hero!’ but his friends convinced him by calling him weak. telling him he’s a wimp who’s too scared of kissing women.

they wanted to tease and embarrass him. so, they rigged the game by adding a magnet.

when he realized the bottle stopped in your direction, his heart stopped. would you hate him? would this ruin your friendship?

childhoodbestfriend!bakugou ‘s heart can’t take it when you kiss him so easily for the first time. both of your lips perfectly formed around each other. it’s almost like you have been kissing him since you knew him. you felt soft, warm, sweet, all in one. why do you make him feel this way? how cruel do you have to be?

childhoodbestfriend!bakugou who yearns for another kiss, even though he continuously gets to kiss you on the forehead. but where’s the love in that? all unrequited kisses.

childhoodbestfriend!bakugou who finds himself struggling not to kiss you when you help fix his hair after best jeanist brushed it down. your face was so close just like the day you gave him his first kiss.

childhoodbestfriend!bakugou who doesn’t know what to say when ‘i’ve known that brat my whole life’ doesn’t work and he has to actually put a label onto it.

childhoodbestfriend!bakugou who’s face lights up bright red when you're in the same situation and just say “katsuki is mine.” what does mine mean to you?

childhoodbestfriend!bakugou who finally gets you alone again and finds the courage to quietly ask, “what are we?”

childhoodbestfriend!bakugou who’s heart skips a beat when you say “i’m your’s, and you're mine. that’s how it’s always been?”

he leans in to kiss you. he can’t wait any longer after not being able to sleep so many nights about your lips. “you're such a witch. makin’ me all mushy n shit.”

but when he turns around, he has the biggest grin on his face. finally confirming what he’s wanted to hear for so long.

now when people ask him about your relationship, he doesn’t hesitate to be possessive about you. just like he’s always wanted.

© HINAGIIKU 2025-26 all rights reserved.

more childhood best friend bakugou! favorite trope oat 👅

masterlist here —> 🧁 izuku ver.