can’t believe my cute lil biker!bucky x bunny story hit more than 1000 notes! it’s honestly so surreal because it was my first time writing again in like… a decade 😅
read it here! Look at the Sky, It’s the Color of Love
(i used to write for the vamps here on tumblr, condorkball if any of you remember! doubt it tho haha)
im aware that i promised a part 2 for them… but i couldn’t help but write a completely new story so maybe you guys will have to wait a little longer haha
but you’ll like this new one! (i hope!) wishing and praying it’ll tickle your fanciesss… here’s a sneak peak
me seeing all the comments asking for the second chapter of saints of motel blue knowing it’s been sitting in my drafts for too long BUT I PROMISE ITS COMING IN JANUARY I PROMISE GUYS
You shrug your way into your powder pink coat, fluffy pink Uggs on each foot to further shield you from the winter air as you venture outside into the light sprinkling of snow. The other women are ready and waiting for you up front with their bundle of invitations.
It was the time of year for the neighborhood Christmas party, and you were chosen to play host this time around. Having won good favor with the many old, often bitter bags that lined the high table of the homeowners association, you were graciously elected for the role.
You looked at the pretty pink envelope that sat atop a pile of plain Christmas-y white ones. The perfect color for your very important guest.
You scurried down your steps and called out to the affluent wives of the neighborhood still waiting in your driveway. You gave them a sweet yet rehearsed “Good morning” delivered with a plastic smile.
They called back with a “Morning” of their own.
They weren’t your favorite sort of company by far, but rubbing elbows had its advantages. As host, you had some control over the guest list, taking care to include someone who was often excluded for his less than social personality.
So for every ‘don’t you look adorable’ and ‘that outfit is very you,’ you simply smiled and nodded just as they liked you to do.
It would be all worth it, though. As soon as you can get away from them, you would plant your seed of intrigue in a certain man’s front garden.
In no time at all the other women grew tired, and upon your offer to deliver the rest yourself, they quickly took you up on it and made their way home. This gave you your moment, and when all the other white envelopes were dispatched, you found yourself standing nervously at the edge of James’ driveway.
Courage is so much more abundant on paper than in person.
You hadn’t seen Bucky for a good month or two, giving each other passing glances in the morning at best. Yet, it seemed like his eyes were always hungry when they were on you. Whether he looked your way as you jogged past his house or the scene he’d display while mowing his backyard. He knew you had a good view from your bedroom window and would glance up at it when he would be taking off his sweaty shirt once he had stopped to take a break.
The memory made you overheat underneath your modest coat.
It was now or never.
Even for a stupid neighborhood party, you’d simply wilt if you couldn’t have him there.
What if he wasn’t home? What if he said no?
All these awful thoughts swirled around your head as you worked up the nerve to move forwards. The heels of your little boots crunched through the snow as you approached his house.
He always contrasted with you, and his home was no different with its gray exterior and a big black door in the center. You reached for the little doorbell to the side and pressed it with your gloved fingers.
You could hear it ring through the house, but there was yet to be an answer. Each second was longer than the last, and you could feel the cold seeping into your jeans, the only pop of color on your body that wasn’t pink. Denim was a vice you allowed yourself every once in a while, but it wasn’t faring very well against the cold.
You figured that you’ll just have to drop it off in his mailbox like the others instead of standing out in the snow hoping he’d find you. But, by then, the lock on the door clicked out of place and the great black barrier between you and his inner sanctum opened up to show the man you’d hoped to find.
His beard was shaven away and his hair trimmed short, leaving him almost unrecognizable from the man that had made your empty birthday party such a night to remember.
To him, of course, you looked like the same cutie he had propped up on her kitchen table. Hair done up in bowed braids and looking as soft and squeezable as ever.
His lips spread into a sweet smile to see his pink party favor this close to home, as if a few houses over wasn’t close enough.
He’d always had issues reaching out to others and often felt like kicking himself for not visiting again. Yet, he always knew you were watching, from afar at least.
“Fancy seeing you again.” He said with a sly smile.
“Fancy indeed,” you chuckled back.
“What can I do for you today, young lady?”
That cheeky fucker, you almost wanted to take a bite out of the thick bicep that popped out when he pressed his hand to the door frame.
“I’ve come with a party invitation. I was wondering if you were interested.” You pull out the envelope and point it towards his chest. It was a quick movement, and as his sight shifted from you to the little card, he almost looked astonished.
He uses his other hand to grab the little square between his middle and pointer finger before giving it a look over.
“I do like your kind of parties.” He flips the envelope over and runs his thumb along the little sticker holding it closed. “Will there be other guests this time?”
You couldn’t help but let out a little chuckle before he continued with, “cause..I’d hate to have to share you.”
Just as before, when you think he’ll zig, he zags instead.
You give a little smile and answer with “You’ll have to come and find out” before walking away. You do turn back with a “merry Christmas,” hoping he was checking out your round ass in your cute denim jeans as you left. He was, and he parroted the same “Merry Christmas” to you before carefully closing the door.
He turned the pink envelope over in his hands. Sometimes he wished you weren’t so coy, but maybe that’s just how you like to play with your food. For now he’ll keep going along with this, but soon he is going to shake up that little pink world of yours.
He runs his thumb under the opening of the envelope before breaking the little heart sticker holding it closed.
As he opened it, he got to see how spectacularly pink it really was, but instead of more pink writing, it was done in dark blue. Something small to mimic his personality being surrounded by yours.
He smiled at the little letter, unaware of how much he’s already made your day by simply taking it from you.
You’d nearly skipped home after that little exchange, but there wasn’t any time to stay giddy. You had a party to prepare for.
Over the course of the month you busted your ass with all the decor and food in prep for this big neighborhood party. It wouldn’t be starting for another hour, so you had some time to rest, clean yourself up, and take a moment to pick out your outfit.
As always, you wouldn’t be stepping too far out of your chosen style. Underneath would be a trump card you used before. More strappy than the previous lace surprise, but just as sexy. The little flare on the shoulders and hips made the garter and thigh straps look so cute. The bra was barely even that, with another strap to cover each bud.
Let’s just hope it didn’t get too cold tonight.
When the guests started to arrive, there was some small chit-chat before they began to tuck into the food. A lot of “we never get together often enough,” like they actually enjoyed each other’s company. But, with no Bucky yet, you had to fight off a somber face for your current guests.
That would change soon, as he wasn’t far.
Bucky had walked up to the house feeling confident in his choice of attire. Blue blazer with a white button-up and black slacks.
But what did he have hidden underneath?
Nothing.
The slacks hid the way his cock pressed against the zipper and button, as he’d chosen not to wear another barrier.
He thought that maybe going commando would be a nice surprise, as well as a little gift of wine and a card he’d picked up at the store a few days ago
But, his stride slows when he gets closer and sees that there are a lot of cars parked near your house. He almost thought he’d mistaken your home for another, but when he walked closer and saw the big peachy Christmas tree in the window, he knew he had the right house.
A thought about turning around and putting on those missing boxers, but shook the thought off. Maybe he could corner you in a little alcove and press his hard revenge into your side for leading him astray.
He approached the door and gave a quick knock.
Not a moment after the door flies open, and your sweet smiling face is the first thing he sees. You call out to him to “Come on in” as you open the door further to let him in.
You offer to take his coat, leaning in close as you help him slip it off. Your lips nearly brushed his ear when you whispered, “I’m so glad you came.”
He gave a little chuckle as his lips curled into a smile. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
Your fingers lingered on his shoulders as you took the coat to hang it up in the side closet. But, once he’d pulled away, it felt cold not having him pressed against you.
“Want a drink?” He lifted the bottle he’d brought. A thick Cabernet with a pink bow tied around the neck of the bottle.
“Absolutely! Glasses are in the kitchen; follow me.” Your fingers brushed over his as you took the wine from him. He answered with “gladly” before letting you lead him through the house, not that he couldn’t remember the layout from the last time he was here.
You take out the corkscrew, but when you go to uncork the bottle, Bucky has already pulled it back into his possession. He slips one hand in yours to take the wine opener and screws it in before giving the cork a hefty pull until it pops.
“This the whole neighborhood?” He asked as he filled your glass. Bucky didn’t like big crowds, and even a small party was enough to make his skin crawl just a little.
“Just most of the homeowner association and whoever the hell else they wanted to invite.” You answered back, keeping your voice low so as not to be overheard.
“They wanted me here?” He hands you the glass and goes to pour his. He didn’t even know the neighborhood had an HOA.
“I wanted you here.” You purr back before taking a sip from your glass.
It’s a dry wine and a little bitter, but you are a big girl, and you can keep it down.
You’d grown used to the sweet moscatos and sangria, but you could belly up to the stronger stuff if you wanted to.
He saw right through it, but it didn’t matter. He figured you’d get used to a bitter taste.
“And I wanted you to myself.” He growls a little under his breath before taking a drink of his own. His tone is almost serious but still playful. Your nerves had held up better than you could have imagined, as the conversation moved like warm water down your cold skin.
A sweet feeling that sadly wouldn’t last.
It would be one of the old women that resided further up the street, barging through the kitchen asking for you and how she just had to get your recipe for the lemon cranberry cake pops.
She stood right between you and Bucky like he wasn’t even there, and to your dismay, he took that as his sign to branch off and mingle with the neighbors he hadn’t met yet.
Damn.
The small talk that was to be had with the other guests was wholeheartedly one-sided. Many are commenting on your overall aesthetic, and others are telling you how a girl like you needs to ‘settle down’ while you're still young. Just a lot of the same stuff you hear every year.
As soon as someone gathered the courage to first approach him, everyone had crowded around him to finally talk to their quiet neighbor. Whenever you could throw him a glance, the discomfort was written all over his face as he looked back at you.
Every time you successfully tore away to reapproach him, you'd get blocked by another excited partygoer.
You started to regret dragging him to this holiday get-together just to be bombarded from every angle, but he still held a smile and even charmed some of the old ladies from the HOA.
Which, you had to admit, was a little impressive.
The night wound away before he could slip beside you once again, finding enough room to just brush his warm palm against the back of your dress. There’s something that can barely be felt through the sweater material, something he can’t quite place with the brush of his fingers before you playfully push him back.
“There you are.” You say with a relieved smile once you turn towards him. “I was afraid we wouldn’t be able to bump into each other again tonight.”
“It is pretty lively in here.”
He spoke with a smile that seemed almost half-formed, missing its genuine spark of happiness. “Kinda makes it too easy to get lost in the crowd.”
He was well rehearsed with hiding his discomfort. But, you could still tell he wasn’t really in his element in this crowded room.
“Not your kind of party, is it?” You whisper back sheepishly, reaching out slightly to brush your hand over his arm as he buries his palm into the pocket of his slacks.
“And, if it isn’t?” He said with a forced smile hiding an obvious grimace.
“I wouldn’t hold it against you.” You say guiltily. It seemed more and more that you trapped him into being your only enjoyment at this party at the expense of his own comfort.
His gaze softens, and he licks his lips as he tries to think. The brush of his pink tongue catching your eyes.
“I don’t want to leave.” He spoke in a low whisper.
You lean in, matching his soft speech. “Then stay.”
It had to have been some horrible form of Christmas karma, as yet another interruption reared around the corner and caught the two of you getting just an inch closer.
“Dear…?” “Oh, I’m terribly sorry… not a good time?”
Another neighbor, and a sweet old woman at that. Her cheeks were rosy from a night full of wine and warm cookies.
You clear your throat as Bucky reluctantly pulls himself away. “Uh, no. What do you need, Cheryl?”
“Do you have another bottle of Merlot floating around?” She asks sheepishly.
You spare a glance back at Bucky, sighing slightly before looking back at her. “I might have one hiding in the garage.”
You pat Bucky on the back before turning towards the door to your garage with yet another unceremonious departure.
You miss the look of disappointment in his eyes, as well as the subtle glare he chanced towards the intrusion before he watched you walk away again.
Even as the older woman left, Bucky didn’t linger by the kitchen. He quietly followed your lead towards the other room, somewhat relieved by the possibility of going somewhere other people wouldn’t be.
At first you did hear him, his footsteps proving to be surprisingly light. It was his warmth you’d feel first once he was close enough behind you. Just as the two of you entered the garage, he shut the door behind you both before pushing you into a small space tucked between two shelves. Somewhere that would be just far enough out of sight.
He whispers his frustration to you while huddled in this forgotten corner. Tucked between a storage shelf and an old tool locker that came with the house. “Did you invite me here just to tease me all night, or...”
You sigh with a smile, something small but breathless. “I’m just trying to be a good host, don’t you think?”
“I don’t think I like losing you every time I have you close enough to touch.” You could nearly hear the way his teeth ground together as he spoke with a forced smile.
You couldn’t help the smile that pulled at your lips, the devious way it curled upwards as he drew closer. “I didn’t realize you were so impatient.”
His lips tickled your cheek before drawing power over your jaw as he spoke in a low growl.
“I have been very patient.”
He gently takes your hand in his, pulls it towards him, and presses it over an indecent bulge that had formed throughout the night. It was fighting against the seam of his pants.
Still so thick even through the fabric of his slacks.
“That’s awfully naughty of you.” You choke back, trying to hide your bashful smile with a mask of unearned confidence that was already slipping away.
“You wanna talk about naughty?”
He drags his fingers over the knit fabric of your dress, tickling along the seam of your spine, and with just enough pressure he begins to feel the straps of his present through the outer material. It triggers somewhat of a surprise response, leading him to search further with his now curious fingers.
“What are you wearing underneath this?” He quirks an eyebrow, his smile nearly that of disbelief, as he traces the pattern of straps with his thumbs through the fabric of your dress.
“It’s a surprise.” You whisper back, trying to hide a slight girlish giggle to your tone.
“I don’t think I can keep waiting.”
His lips had honed in on your still giddy smile, tearing past your teeth with the push of his tongue as he finally devoured you.
His kiss was hungry, the gnashing of greedy teeth as he gave the occasional nip to your bottom lip. He ate everything; every time your voice would break, and with every sharp or shrill whine and whimper, he took that from you on the tip of his tongue. It was the kind of melody he wanted only for himself.
He pressed himself all the closer, grinding himself with the subtle roll of his hips so that he could feel himself press against the soft flesh of your belly and mound.
Breaths intertwined, mingled gasps in the chilled air as you inebriate yourself with his deepening kiss.
The door, old and noisy, clicked open at the other end of the garage.
You stifle a whine as the kiss breaks apart messily. The smear of saliva over your lips and his. Bucky presses you into the crevice a little harder to hide the both of you. You felt his frustration, the shape of his cock in its entirety as it digs against your stomach with the new proximity.
The rasp of a feminine voice taints the moment further as you hear it call out your name.
“She said she would be here.” The older woman said over her shoulder to another guest.
“Maybe she already took it in the kitchen.” Another woman calls back.
There’s a pause before the door shuts again as both of the women officially retreat.
You laugh with a small cough, finally exhaling after holding back your last breath. “Fuck.”
“We really can’t win.” He scoffs, head tilted up so that his chin rested on your head.
“I’m sorry, Bucky.” You try to remedy the situation, pressing your cheek against his chest.
“No sorries.”
He leans in again to steal one last quick kiss before pulling back entirely to finish his thought.
“This night isn’t over yet.”
“I hope not.” You sighed back, stepping out of the small space on weak legs. You stumble towards the rack of wine, grabbing one bottle by the neck on your way to the door. Hips moving with a slight swing before you glanced at him over your shoulder.
He was readjusting his clothes, pressing down on his member to better hide his erection.
“I might need a minute.” He says with a smile and a soft laugh.
You felt your stomach tighten as you forced yourself to leave, pushing through the door and closing it behind you.
An hour later the night wears down, finally. You bid many guests goodbye, and nearly all of them leave. Aside from one last gentleman already beginning to pick up glasses around the living room.
He holds one out to you as you approach him, leaning in slightly to speak softly and low. “I think I might stay behind. Looks like you could use a little help.”
You return with a whisper to match his.
“If you don’t mind.”
You take the glass from him, and then another, walking the dirtied dishes back to the kitchen to load the dishwasher.
Bucky would, of course, follow closely behind. Wordlessly he waited, trailing along as you came back to the living room for more cups, only to have him stop you before another glass could touch your palm.
You can tell he’s reaching his limit, but your true nature shines through your copy and calculated outer shell, tilting your head to hide a small warm blush forming over your cheeks.
“I just have so much to clean up.” You chuckled back, and your smile was in immediate contrast to your words.
His gaze sharpens, his already thin patience nearing translucence before disappearing completely.
His was quick, pinning you against the wall within the blink of an eye. The edge of the entryway digging into the small of your back as he pushes more of his weight against your chest and belly.
His lips meet yours again, kissing you with that familiar ferocity. His fingers were far more busy than before, eagerly pulling at the bottom of your dress. He wanted it gone this time; no more teasing fabric to stand in his way.
When you push against his hands, it’s only in a playful manner.
“Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to open gifts before Christmas?” You try to laugh back, but your voice is wispy as you struggle to breathe evenly beneath the press of his hard body.
“Don’t think for a second that I’m going to play that game.”
He wasn’t having any of your holly-jolly-nonsense, evident by the harsh way he reached for the hem of your dress, wiggling his way under it and digging his fingers into your thigh.
“But, I really do have a lot to do…” You try to push back like the spoiled brat you have shown to be time and time again, only to have your fingers batted away from any attempts to pull the dress back down.
“Doll, if you don’t let me take it off, I’m ripping it off.”
You paused, taking a moment to breathe before giving in.
“Take it off, please.”
His hands make quick work pulling the bottom of the dress up and over your hips. He slows as he sees more and more of the outfit appear.
It’s all straps. Pretty pink tethers skillfully webbed around your body.
The little pink strings over your breasts barely covered anything, and with a chilly night, it’s any question how your buds weren’t showing through your dress.
Two soft pink flares of fabric at each hip and on each shoulder. The rings of fabric wrapping your waist lead further down, connecting to garter straps that stop at your knee with tiny pink bows as their cherry on top of a slutty bubblegum sundae.
The panty is a string thing with one triangle of sheer fabric to cover the front of my pussy. It did just as to hide your body, and yet it still stood as one last barrier to having all of you.
You watch as his eyes widen, the dim blue catching a subtle glint off straw Christmas lights. “Jesus Christ, Doll!”
“Surprised?” You ask back, trying to pose slightly with a small quirk to your hips.
“Amazed.”
His smile was unmistakably as it pulled across his features, pure bliss and yet devilish as he spoke.
“It’s beautiful, but I don’t think… Tell me this wasn’t expensive.”
“I mean…” You shrugged slightly. “Not really, I guess.”
He leaned in just as quickly as you gave him confirmation that what he was about to do wouldn’t cause a lasting consequence.
His pink lips, nearly a dark magenta, framed with a day’s worth of stubble. It made his kisses all the more rough as his lips brushed your skin.
Then there are his pearly teeth, hooking around a metal ring at your side. It was holding a few of the lines together like an anchor to this web of pink straps. With one clean jerk of his head, he snaps it off as if it were nothing more than cheap twine.
“Bucky!”
You yelp down at him, watching as he tears your little outfit into hanging strings.
Snap!
Snap!
Snap!
40 bucks down the drain and well worth it as what’s left of your tribute falls between your legs and hits the floor.
This man was an animal, ready to devour you. You were the lamb, left naked and defenseless, ripe for the taking.
He stands again, letting himself stand above you to look down at all he has done. That smile, small but unwavering, as he leans into you slightly to let the growl of his voice vibrate across your skin as it dusts across your neck and ear.
“On your fucking knees, princess.”
You inhale, sharp and shaking, through your teeth before you oblige. Your knees knock together, bumping past each other as you shuffle just a little further away before falling like a limp-ankled baby deer.
Clumsy and yet endearing, and he chuckles slightly as you land onto your knees, digging them into the rug that runs along the cold wood floor. Your hands push against the floor, and you rock side to side slightly as you adjust the placement of your hips.
He saunters closely behind, only to snap at your thighs with the toe of his shoe. A signal to spread them wider, something aggressive and demanding without so many words. It’s a silent command you follow without question, pushing your thighs further apart as he begins unbuckling his belt.
You try to crane your head over your shoulder, hoping to steal a glance at him unwrapping himself.
The button pops apart with ease, and he slides his thumbs past the hem of the fabric. His skin finally became bare, and his slacks hung lower around his hips as he pushed himself free of the fabric just enough to feel the cool air of the room on his warm member.
“Not wearing any underwear?” You mused to him, noticing the lack of extra fabric hiding behind the dress pants.
“You’re one to talk. Hiding that getup under your dress the whole night.” He said with a wicked smile, kneeling towards you to align himself with your soft entrance.
He pushes at the base, letting his tip brush the wet folds of your entrance. He dips himself, hips moving with a slow cruise as he pushes himself into the soft warm pool of your dripping cunt. A slow and deliberate movement as he keeps his own desires at bay to savor the feeling of you surrounding him, and you revel in the deliberate glide of his cock as it stretched your inner walls apart.
He hums out a low moan, a soft exhale, as he pushes his hips further.
Your ass was cradled against his pelvis, two pieces of the same puzzle fitting together perfectly. He settles himself here for a moment, hands gripping your hips as his cock flexes in your heat, pressed hard against the back of your cunt.
You buried your face against the carpet, trying in vain to silence a sharp hum as you accommodated for his size after so long since you had last seen him. It makes him chuckle anyway as he gently drags his hands along the sides of your body.
It gives him time to think, time to take in his surroundings. His fingers reach for the discarded strings of your once lovely set of lingerie, pulling up one particular long strand.
Wouldn’t it be lovely to have you at his mercy?
He leans further overtop of you, the change in angle making you wince against the carpet.
“Lift your head, baby.” He cooed down to you, his lips brushing your shoulder as his words tickled along your neck.
You did just as he asked, slowly looking up as he slipped a strap of torn fabric around your delicate throat. He twists the two ends between his fingers before balling them together in his fist and giving this new restraint one soft tug.
“You tell me if it’s too much, ok Doll?” He whispered reassuringly, keeping his tone more gentle just one last time to make sure you were comfortable with this new development.
You nod back in confirmation before he twists the strap in his hand and tugs it just a little tighter around your neck, pulling your head back slightly while pushing your shoulders forward with a nearly uncomfortable bow to your spine.
Ass up, his cock buried deep in your heat as he dragged himself back through the soft embrace of your inner walls, feeling you tighten around him as if your body protested the loss. Your cunt closing around less and less of his length as his hips drag back leisurely, a careful and delicate regression before he buried himself back inside. Harsher than his descent, punching the air from your lungs with his first rough thrust.
“Never had a chance to talk to you all fucking night.”
His teeth grit together with a feral smile, frustration overflowing to run wild after hours of captivity. He
“Always swept away by somebody else.”
“But, now I have you all to myself. Every last inch of you.”
He purrs through his teeth, drawing himself back as he speaks to feel you squeezing around him for dear life before slowly pressing back in. Gradual but with enough pressure to make your cunt ache as he crushed the back of your cunt like a hydraulic press flattening steel.
A whine, a precious break in your voice as it draws higher and higher in pitch. Like a little tea kettle, boiling over until it whistles that sharp tune as it overheats on the stovetop.
One hand fists around the back of the string; the other gently combs through your hair at the side of your head. He pushes your shoulders to the floor as he starts a torturous pace. Slowly, maliciously, dragging his cock from your pink folds and driving himself right back in with a brutal slap of his hips against your backside.
He brushes your hair away from the side of your face, giving him the view he’d wanted. Your open mouth, the dribble of drool against the floor, and your wet eyes drawing upward and almost rolling back entirely as you're crying out nonsense against your plush pink carpet.
He twists you slightly, turning your hips outward as he grips the bottom of your knee. His cock slips all the deeper, knocking at something soft and sensitive towards the back of your tender cunt. Each thrust ripples with pleasure, twisting into a tightly wound knot in your lower belly. All as he pulls you into this new angle, stomach stretched as he pushes your knee up towards your side to nearly brush your shoulder.
Your cries are murderous, shrill and wild. Pushing faster and faster towards the edge into oblivion as each thrust ricocheted ecstasy through your body.
Bucky was running towards that end as well, slowing down only slightly to saver its taste before catching himself before the finale, just to ask “Where can I cum, sweetheart?”
Tugging at your neck with that strap, holding up your face from the floor with his other hand clamped around your jaw, as he rolls to his side, still pistoning his hips.
You can’t respond with words, only a weak whistle of a whimper at first.
“C’mon, baby. Speak before I make a mess in this pussy.”
You winced, involuntarily clamping down on his cock at the mere thought of him spilling himself inside of you.
“…in…in…” You answered weakly. A poor attempt at begging.
He laughs a low chuckle, smiling against the side of your head.
“Inside? You want me to cum inside?”
You nod back vigorously, reach at the hand gripping your chin and holding it by the thumb.
“Then take it, baby?”
His thrusts became slow again, purposeful. Each drag is drawn out to let him feel every soft and spongy spot inside your body. Carefully working himself toward his climax as it teased that knot in your belly.
You groan high in your throat, eyes rolling again when it all begins to crumble apart. You gushed around him, squeezing and pulsing as the tightness in your core spasmed around his throbbing member.
You felt him flexing against his own will, spurts of his hot cream jetting through you as each moment was prolonged by several minutes.
He holds himself inside you, hugging his arms around your upper body as he relinquishes his hold on that now loose strap left dangling around your neck.
“Merry Christmas, doll.” He chucked softly, his warm breath tickling your chin and cheek as he nuzzled further against you with each word.
You struggle to say a muffled ‘Merry Christmas’ back to him. Leaning into his touch while bathed in the afterglow.
thea’s note: hii! first chapter is here! i’m so excited!! let me know your thoughts in the comments!! also, in my mind, bucky is in his late 30s and the reader is in her mid to late 20s!! i’m working on a playlist for this series so also let me know in the comments if you’re interested in that!! MWAAAHHH <33
You arrive glittering.
Not because you feel glittering — God, no — but because there are cameras and lights and screaming voices and every flashbulb insists that you must be a thing that shines. You step out of the car and the world goes up like a match being struck: bright, abrupt, blinding.
You’ve survived auditions, call sheets, sleepless nights memorizing sides, being told you are too green, too soft, too unformed. You survived your own doubts. But none of that prepared you for this — for the sound of your name ricocheting off hundreds of strangers’ mouths, like they’ve always known it, like it’s theirs to call.
The carpet feels endless, too red, too loud. You feel yourself becoming something — a symbol, a performance, something glossy and unreachable — and yet inside you are still the girl who used to rehearse monologues in a bathroom mirror until her voice cracked.
And then the air shifts.
You feel him before you see him.
Like a change in weather.
James Buchanan Barnes — Bucky to everyone who pretends they know him — steps out of his own car down the line, and the crowd tilts toward him like a field of flowers leaning into the sun. The noise sharpens, goes higher, becomes hunger.
He walks like someone who has done this for decades. Not tired of it, just… unsurprised by its desire. Like the world wanting him is just gravity now.
He wears the age difference like a tailored suit — not something to hide but something that fits. Lines at the corners of his eyes that aren’t exhaustion but laughter, whiskey, late-night memories he doesn’t share. His jaw is rougher now, scruff just this side of lazy but intentional. His tie is slightly loosened. He looks like he didn’t need to try.
And you?
You feel twenty-two in a way that is louder than anything else.
You stand straight anyway. You step forward into the light because that is what you are here to do.
The photographers shout for you. Your name. Your name again. They call it like encouragement, like demand. You turn your head, you give them angles, the pose you rehearsed, chin just slightly down, soft eyes, don’t squint, breathe through your mouth so your lips part just enough.
You are doing fine. Perfect, even.
Until someone shouts his name.
Just his.
And the carpet erupts.
You can’t help it — your eyes look for him.
And his are already on you.
Not lingering. Not dramatic. Just there. As if he’d been waiting for you to turn. As if of course you would look to him first.
The stories about him were campfire tales on set — whispered in makeup trailers and rehearsal rooms:
He used to break hearts like habits.
Back when he was younger, before he grew quieter.
Before he learned to dance with his own reputation instead of letting it eat him.
You didn’t believe them.
Or maybe you did.
It didn’t matter — because meeting him the first time was not rumor. It was impact.
You drag your gaze away. You breathe. You keep smiling.
But the knowledge sits low in your ribs:
He’s dangerous for you.
A handler taps your elbow and murmurs, “Move to your mark,” and you nod, stepping forward down the line. Your heels click, your dress whispers against your legs, your pulse is performing acrobatics in your throat.
There’s a pause. A shift again.
Then his voice, close enough to feel at your spine:
“Big night.”
You hadn’t realized he’d moved toward you.
He stands beside you now for the joint photos they want — the leads together — the pairing they will market to death. His cologne is warm, something cedar and smoke, something that feels like a memory you haven’t had yet.
You don’t look directly at him. You look at the cameras.
You say, without moving your mouth much, “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?” His tone is easy. Light. But not careless.
“Call me kid.”
His laugh is soft. Private. Only for you.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
The photographers direct you: closer, shoulder to shoulder, bodies angled. He steps in. His hand moves to the small of your back — just a guiding gesture for the cameras. Innocent. Expected.
Your body reacts like he set you on fire.
You keep smiling. You’re good at that. You’ve practiced that. But your breath catches because he is warm and present and steady and real in a way none of this glittering chaos is.
He feels it, the little jolt that runs through you.
You know he does.
But he doesn’t move away.
He just holds the pose.
Confident. Unbothered.
Like standing next to you is the most natural thing in the world.
A photographer shouts something about how good you look together.
He glances sideways, barely a tilt of his head. Just enough for you to hear the quiet murmur:
“Told you you’d handle this.”
“This?” Your voice comes out too soft. Too honest.
“All of it.” His eyes stay forward, but his words aim straight at your skin. “You belong here.”
The carpet, the lights, the noise — it all blurs.
For one suspended second, there is only him.
And the terrifying thing isn’t that he says it.
It’s that you believe him.
The cameras explode again. The crowd roars his name. Someone calls for you to look their way — and you both turn, in sync, like choreography you never rehearsed.
Your heart is a wild, beating animal inside your chest.
He doesn’t look at you again.
He doesn’t need to.
He already knows he’s in your bloodstream now.
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The interview line is a hallway of spotlights and smiles sharpened into weapons.
One reporter after another, each with the same questions dressed in different phrasing. The same compliments wrapped in shiny bows. The same jokes rehearsed long before you ever arrived.
It’s a performance of being you.
Or, at least, the version of you they want: bright-eyed, grateful, star just beginning to rise.
Your cheeks are beginning to ache from smiling. Your pulse hasn’t slowed since the carpet. You’re good at keeping your breathing even, answering clearly, seeming like you belong here — but your nerves buzz in your bones like electricity looking for ground.
You know he’s somewhere behind you in the line — but you do not turn to look.
You cannot afford that.
You know what happens when you do.
A handler touches your waist lightly and guides you to the next interviewer. You settle into position on the taped mark. Your dress sways just a little around your ankles, the shimmery fabric catching the glare of the overhead lights.
“Congratulations on the big premiere!” the interviewer says, gleeful.
You smile. “Thank you. It’s surreal.”
They ask the usual questions. You answer like you’ve practiced. Like you’ve learned the difference between truth and presentation.
And then the interviewer glances past you — just over your shoulder. Their eyes light up. Their tone shifts.
“Speaking of the cast — James Barnes is joining us. Perfect timing.”
Your breath pauses.
You don’t turn.
But you feel him arrive.
It’s not dramatic. It’s not loud.
It’s simply presence. A gravity shift. A subtle warm pressure in the air.
He steps beside you, just close enough that the sleeve of his suit could brush your bare arm if either of you moved even half a breath closer.
“Sorry to interrupt,” he says, voice smooth, warm, threaded with the faintest amused curve. “Didn’t want to miss the fun.”
You look at him then — because you have to — and the small, knowing flicker in his eyes tells you he’s been watching you longer than the camera has.
The interviewer beams. “We were just talking about the film! How was it working together?”
He doesn’t answer right away.
He looks at you.
Not the way one looks at a colleague.
Not like someone reciting a PR-approved compliment.
He looks at you like there is something worth seeing.
“It was easy,” he says finally, voice deliberate, steady. “From day one.”
Your stomach folds in on itself.
You try to keep your stance calm, composed. But there is a question under your tongue, pressing: Why does it feel like we’re speaking in code?
The interviewer laughs. “Easy? That’s high praise. What made it easy?”
His jaw flexes just slightly — like he’s choosing words.
He keeps his gaze forward now, but his voice is lower, like the words are meant to be heard first by you.
“She listens,” he says. “And she cares. More than most people understand you need to, in order to do this.”
Your breath catches.
He speaks like this is not about acting.
The interviewer doesn’t catch the undercurrent; of course they don’t. They’re already pivoting, asking about the emotional scenes you filmed together. You answer as best you can, keeping your voice steady, your eyes on the interviewer even as you feel him there — warm, steady, unflinching.
Then, the inevitable:
“Some people are calling this your breakout role,” the interviewer says, turning back to you. “Do you feel like you’re ready for all of this attention?”
You hesitate — not because you don’t know the answer, but because honesty rises like a tide, threatening to break surface.
Before you speak, he does.
“You don’t need to ask if she’s ready,” he says, the hint of a smile in his voice — not cocky, not teasing, but sure. “Just watch her.”
The interviewer laughs, delighted by the soundbite. “Is that your official endorsement?”
He finally turns his head — just enough to meet your eyes — and the look there is different now. Not the playful glint from before. Something softer. Older. Warmer. Something that knows what it costs to stand where you are standing.
“Yeah,” he says, gentle, sure. “Keep an eye on her. She’s going to be the one everyone’s talking about in a year.”
Your throat goes tight so quickly you almost forget to breathe.
The interviewer reacts in excitement, already thinking of article headlines and pull quotes. You keep your expression steady — polite, grateful, professional — but your heart…
Your heart is a storm.
Because praise from critics is one thing.
But this?
A man who has survived the blaze of fame and come out the other side — telling the world you belong here?
It hits somewhere deep. Somewhere soft. Somewhere raw.
When the interview wraps, the lights shift and the handler moves to usher you to the next spot — but he touches your arm, light, checking:
“You okay?”
Barely a whisper.
Not for the cameras.
Just for you.
You nod.
But the truth is no — you are not okay at all — because something unnamed has begun to settle in your chest.
Something warm.
Something dangerous.
Something you do not yet have language for.
He smiles — but not the public smile, not the charming grin the world knows. This one is smaller, nearly hidden, like a secret shared.
“Good,” he says. “Just keep breathing. The rest will come.”
Then he lets go.
And the moment dissolves back into the noise, the lights, the endless line of interviews — but your pulse doesn’t slow.
Because something has shifted.
Not on the carpet.
Inside you.
And there is no turning back from that.
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It comes back to you in pieces.
Not a memory so much as a temperature.
A particular way the air felt.
Thick.
Expectant.
Like something was about to begin that you did not yet understand.
The lot was bigger than you imagined — all white trailers and cables and yellow tape on concrete. People moving with purpose. Voices calling scene numbers and equipment needs and coffee orders like some vocabulary you hadn’t learned yet.
You walked through it all clutching your little binder of annotated script pages like a lifeline. Trying not to look as young as you felt.
The director found you first — warm, excited, already thinking six shots ahead. Praise pouring out like confetti, the kind that feels good but doesn’t land anywhere.
“You’re going to be brilliant,” they said, hand on your shoulder. “He’s going to bring out the best in you.”
He.
You’d heard his name whispered the night before — in the makeup trailer, in the wardrobe room.
Rumor spoken like prayer.
Bucky Barnes is intense.
Soft-spoken until he’s not.
Used to be reckless with his heart. Used to be reckless with others’.
Got older and quieter, but some men don’t lose the gravity. They just learn how to wear it differently.
You’d nodded. You’d acted unbothered.
But even then, something restless had stirred in you. Something like anticipation disguised as nerves.
The director led you across the lot to the rehearsal space — a warehouse nearly empty except for taped marks on the floor and two chairs near a script supervisor. Bright afternoon light spilled through tall windows, catching dust particles that drifted like slow snowfall.
And he was already there.
Sitting in one of the chairs.
Elbow propped on the armrest.
Hand resting against his jaw.
Reading sides he probably didn’t need to read.
A man who had long since memorized how to hide his own storms.
He looked up when the door opened.
Not dramatically.
Not like in a movie.
Just… simply.
Eyes lifting.
Landing on you.
And that was the moment you knew.
Not because of anything he did.
But because your whole body recognized him.
Like you were stepping into a scene already written somewhere under your ribs.
The director said your name like an announcement: “This is her.”
Something gentler happened then — the smallest shift in his expression. Not surprise. Not interest exactly. More like confirmation.
As though he’d been expecting you.
He rose from the chair — unhurried, like the world always had time for him.
“James,” he said, offering his hand.
You took it.
His palm was warm.
The grip firm but not claiming.
“Nice to meet you,” you said, and hoped your voice didn’t betray the tremor running down your spine.
He said your name — and when he did, it was quiet.
Like he tested the weight of it.
Like he didn’t want to waste it.
You had spent weeks preparing for this. Rehearsing character motivations, arc development, emotional pacing.
None of that helped with this.
Because no acting textbook covers what to do when your scene partner looks at you like he already knows where the soft parts of you are.
He didn’t stare.
He didn’t smirk.
He didn’t give off the practiced charm of a man used to being wanted.
No — he looked at you like someone reading weather.
Assessing.
Considering the storm patterns.
Like he wanted to learn you, not impress you.
The director talked for a while — blocking, emotional cues, tone of the first scene — but the room felt like it had narrowed to just two points:
You.
Him.
And the distance between.
You sat when they told you to sit.
Opened your binder.
Tried to steady your breath.
He leaned back in his chair. Script resting loosely in one hand, legs stretched out just enough to look at ease. A man comfortable taking up space without needing to demand it.
You caught him watching you once — not your face, but your hands. How tightly you were holding your pen. How your thumb pressed into your palm like a warning.
His voice cut through the quiet.
“You nervous?”
You didn’t look up. “Should I lie?”
He huffed a soft breath — not quite a laugh, but the idea of one.
“No. Don’t waste your time lying to me.”
You looked up then.
His eyes were blue.
Not the dramatic kind.
Not the movie-star kind.
The kind that looked like they had once been too bright and were now softened by years of surviving their own intensity.
“Okay,” you said, exhaling. “Then yes. I’m nervous.”
His gaze held steady — not pitying. Not superior. Just… present.
“Good,” he said.
“Good?”
“Means you care.”
The director called for a run-through before cameras.
You and him moved to the marked spots.
Your first scene together — close. Emotional. Loaded with unsaid things.
You stepped into your character.
He stepped into his.
And when he looked at you in that scene — not as you, but as her — the world changed shape.
Not because it was romantic.
Not because it was dramatic.
But because something inside you recognized him again — in character, in silence, in breath.
You forgot the lines for just a moment.
Not because you didn’t know them.
But because the gravity shifted.
His voice was softer when he delivered his dialogue than it had been in rehearsal.
Not changed — just adjusted.
To you.
After the run-through, the director praised the chemistry.
Someone joked about how natural it felt.
People laughed.
But when the room began to move again — when the noise returned — you were still anchored in that quiet, impossible awareness.
You hadn’t even spoken to him beyond a handful of words.
And yet some part of you already knew:
He would matter.
Maybe too much.
Maybe exactly enough.
But either way —
Your life had just changed.
And you were the only one who felt the ground shift.
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Time bends strangely when you’re being watched.
The interview line dissolves behind you, swallowed by handlers and coordinated movement, and soon you’re being guided through velvet ropes and unwritten hierarchies into the theater where everything you made will be projected ten times larger than life.
Your heartbeat is a slick, restless thing at the base of your throat.
He walks beside you.
Not leading.
Not following.
Just there.
But it feels like the world notices anyway — like the heat between your bodies exists in visible wavelengths.
The theater is dim except for the soft amber aisle lights. The crowd murmurs — coats shifting, whispers weaving, laughter sparking in tiny pockets. You feel the collective waiting.
You are shown to your seats — and of course they are together.
Lead talent, they say, like that explains everything.
You slide into your seat. The dress folds around you like water. The air is cool enough to raise thin goosebumps along your arms.
He sits beside you.
Not close enough to touch.
Just close enough that if either of you stopped holding yourselves exactly the way you are holding yourselves, the space between would collapse.
You look forward. At the screen. At the still nothing of it.
He’s quiet for a long moment — the kind of quiet that doesn’t feel empty.
Then—
“You handled that well,” he says. Voice low, meant for you alone, in the hush before the film begins.
You swallow. “The interview line?”
“The whole thing.”
And there’s something like… approval there. Not the kind given from above. Not patronizing. No — more like recognition.
Like he’s seen this battlefield before and sees the way you’re standing on it.
You take a breath. The air smells faintly of popcorn and perfume and warm fabric.
“Thank you,” you say, even though something in you wants to ask why it matters to him at all.
He doesn’t respond right away. Just shifts one elbow on the armrest between you — not touching, just… near.
The lights dim further.
The audience hushes into a single held inhale.
And as the studio logo flickers into blue light, you feel it:
Him turning his head, just slightly, toward you.
Not to look at you.
To make sure you are ready.
It is absurd how much that undoing lives in your chest.
The movie begins.
There you are — on screen — younger by months but worlds away from now. You watch yourself move, breathe, break, rebuild.
But the strange thing isn’t seeing yourself.
It’s seeing him.
It’s seeing the way he looked at you even then.
Not romantic.
Not hungry.
Like he saw you.
Before anyone else did.
Before you even knew how to see yourself.
The first scene between your characters arrives — the one you filmed on your first day. The one where your breath had caught without warning.
The audience reacts — soft murmurs, the smallest shift of attention, leaning forward.
You feel every muscle in your body tense.
Beside you, he leans in.
Just enough for his shoulder to nearly brush yours.
“Breathe,” he murmurs.
Barely a whisper.
Barely sound.
But you hear it.
Of course you do.
Your body is tuned to him whether you admit it or not.
You exhale.
On-screen, your character looks up at his — and there it is, the moment where something unsaid sparked to life.
You remember filming it — the way the room felt smaller. The way silence thickened between you. The way the director had whispered perfect under their breath.
You remember your pulse being a desperate thing.
And now the whole room gets to witness it.
Your stomach flips — not with embarrassment, but with something resembling… grief? Longing? An ache for something that was never spoken but lived in the spaces between breaths?
In the dark, he shifts just slightly, enough that his knee could touch yours if you moved even a fraction.
But he doesn’t touch you.
He doesn’t have to.
The restraint is the touch.
Another scene passes. Laughter ripples through the crowd at a line you improvised. Your chest warms. You glance at him — quick, instinctual.
He is already looking at you.
Not smiling.
Just watching.
Softly.
Like he’s proud in a way he doesn’t know how to disguise.
Your breath stutters.
You look forward again.
The screen light flickers over both your faces — white-blue-gold-blue. And in the dark, the world feels smaller. Simpler. Like just the two of you exist in a quiet universe.
Halfway through the film — during a moment of silence — his voice reaches you again, soft enough that you almost think you imagine it:
“See?”
You blink. “See what?”
He doesn’t look away from the screen.
“Why they’re all looking at you.”
You don’t say anything.
You can’t.
Because the thing you feel is not vanity.
It’s not pride.
It’s something tender.
Something terrifying.
Something like being witnessed.
The film moves on — scene after scene — and the tension between your on-screen characters becomes the tension in the room. The kind you can’t disguise. The kind you can’t perform.
You feel warm. You feel too aware of your own breathing. You feel like if you looked at him again, something would break open in your chest.
So you don’t look.
And neither does he.
But the space between your bodies is not empty.
It’s alive.
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Applause begins like rain — scattered at first, then swelling, filling the room all at once.
The credits roll. Your name appears larger than you’ve ever seen it, and the theater responds with something that sounds like belief.
Your chest goes tight.
Not painful — just full.
You rise with everyone else. The lights return slowly, taking their time with you. People turn in their seats, smiling, congratulating, touching your arm, praising with the frantic brightness of those who want to say I was here first.
But it all blurs.
It all floats.
Distant.
Because he is right there beside you. Standing. Straightening his jacket. Running a hand through his hair like he’s shaking off sunlight.
You don’t look at him.
But you feel him.
You move together toward the aisle — not walking as one, but falling into step like you have done this for years. Like your bodies know something your minds are still catching up to.
Someone stops him. Someone else stops you. Your hands brush as you step aside for different greetings, different compliments. The contact is nothing.
But your entire pulse skips anyway.
You keep smiling. Thank you, yes, so grateful, unreal, unbelievable — the words all folding into each other like they mean the same thing.
Eventually, a handler waves you both toward a side exit — smaller, quieter, away from the main flow of the crowd. You follow, heels tapping soft rhythm on carpet, the dress whispering around your legs.
He follows too. Or maybe you followed him.
You can’t tell anymore.
The door swings shut behind you, and the noise dims to a hum on the other side of the wall. Like you’ve stepped out of the world and into the space between moments.
A narrow hallway. Warm light.
No cameras here.
Just breath.
Just you.
Just him.
You stop without meaning to.
Or maybe you did mean to.
He stops too — close, but not invading. Just enough that the air seems to vibrate between your bodies.
For a moment, neither of you speaks.
Your heartbeat is too loud. You’re certain he can hear it.
You’re certain the world has narrowed to this one hinge of time.
He looks at you then — really looks.
Not like on the carpet.
Not like on the interview line.
Not like on set.
This is the look of someone taking inventory of the truth.
“You alright?” he asks, quiet.
Your first instinct is to lie. Smile. Say yes. Keep the mask on. But the mask feels… wrong here.
So you exhale.
And you shake your head. Just once.
He nods. Not surprised. Not worried. Just… understanding.
“It’s a lot,” he says softly.
You swallow. “More than I thought.”
His gaze doesn’t waver.
“Yeah. It always is, the first time.”
There’s a weight behind that sentence.
A history.
A memory you have not earned the right to touch.
But he stands here anyway. Sharing it, somehow.
Your hands twist together at your waist, and his eyes flicker down — a small movement, barely there — before returning to your face.
Then, slowly, he steps closer.
Not to touch.
Not to close the space entirely.
Just close enough that you can feel the warmth of him.
Close enough that your next breath trembles.
His voice drops to something almost private.
“You did good, you know.”
You laugh — quiet, embarrassed, too small.
“I don’t know. I kept thinking I was going to mess up.”
“You didn’t.”
You lift your head. “How do you know?”
He tilts his head, and there is something like softness at the edge of his mouth.
“Because I was watching.”
There it is.
The truth neither of you will name.
Your breath stutters. His does too — barely, but you feel it, like a shift in the air pressure.
He looks at you like you are something fragile and dangerous at the same time.
Like he knows exactly what this is and exactly why it shouldn’t be touched.
You step back — not because you want space, but because you need to breathe.
The distance resets the world.
He notices. His expression doesn’t change, but something in his posture does — a tiny loosening, a silent thank you for holding the line with him.
His voice comes low, almost gentle:
“Ready for what comes next?”
The words land like a question and a warning.
You don’t answer.
You can’t.
Because there is no safe answer to that.
Because yes is too much.
And no is a lie.
So you hold his gaze.
And he understands.
Of course he does.
A small breath leaves him — not frustration. Not disappointment. Something steadier.
Respect.
He nods once, slow.
Not breaking eye contact.
And then the door at the end of the hall swings open — handlers calling both of your names, the next moment ready to swallow you up again.
You look away first.
You walk forward first.
He follows.
But something has already taken root.
Something that will not go away.
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You remember it all too well. It was late.
The kind of late that settles into your bones, where the air feels thinner and the world feels smaller, like everything outside this moment has gone to sleep.
You had made it through your first emotionally heavy scene — the one where your character cracks open, the one the script said required rawness, the one that had lived under your skin since the table read. And you had done it — or at least, you hoped you had — but the weight of it stayed on you like a second skin.
You stepped outside the soundstage to breathe.
The night air was cool.
Not cold — just enough to remind your lungs they were real.
The studio lot was quiet now, most of the crew gone, the set pieces sleeping in the dark. A couple of floodlights buzzed overhead, throwing long shadows across asphalt.
You leaned against the trailer wall and lit a cigarette.
You didn’t even like the taste.
You just needed a moment that belonged to you.
Something to hold.
Something to ground you.
The smoke curled upward, slow and silver.
Then the door of the neighboring trailer opened — and he stepped out.
Not stumbling. Not searching. Just… arriving.
He didn’t look surprised to see you.
He didn’t look like he expected it, either.
He just existed in the space with the quiet kind of confidence older men carry — not performance, not ego, just a familiarity with his own presence.
He walked toward you — slow, unhurried — hands in the pockets of his coat, hair a little mussed from running his hands through it. He looked tired in the way people look when they’ve given too much of themselves on camera and haven’t figured out how to take it back yet.
He stopped beside you, not close enough to assume familiarity — just close enough to be companionable.
Neither of you spoke.
The night didn’t need words yet.
After a moment, his eyes flicked to the cigarette between your fingers.
He let out a breath that was almost a quiet laugh — barely there, just the exhale of someone who understands too much.
“You’re too young for that,” he said.
Not scolding.
Not patronizing.
Just noticing.
You didn’t look at him.
You took another drag.
“So are you,” you said.
He huffed — an actual laugh this time. Soft. Real.
“Probably.”
You offered him the cigarette.
He didn’t take it.
He plucked it from your fingers instead — slow, delicate, like he was removing something breakable — and then dropped it to the ground, crushing it under the heel of his boot.
You stared at him.
He didn’t apologize.
He just said, “There are other ways to come down from a scene.”
“Like what?” you asked, folding your arms to hide the tremor in your hands.
He shrugged. “Breathing. Music. Shower hot enough to peel your skin off. Whiskey, when it’s a bad day.”
“Which was today?” you asked.
He didn’t answer for a long moment.
The night stretched around you.
The floodlights hummed.
Then he said, quietly, “Not for me.”
You turned your head to look at him.
He was watching you.
Not intensely — not the kind of look that takes something from you — but the kind that waits.
The kind that says:
I saw what you did today.
I saw what it cost.
You don’t have to pretend with me.
Your chest tightened.
“I didn’t know if I got it right,” you said softly.
“You did,” he replied without hesitation.
“How do you know?”
He looked up at the night sky — empty except for the washed-out haze of city glow — and then back at you.
“Because it was honest,” he said. “And you can’t fake honest.”
The words landed somewhere deep — low in your ribs, where belief and longing share the same room.
You wanted to look away.
You wanted to hold the moment still.
You did nothing.
He leaned back against the wall beside you — not touching, but near.
The kind of nearness that builds its own gravity.
“You did good today,” he murmured.
You almost told him he didn’t have to say that.
But you didn’t.
Because you needed it.
Because you wanted him to be the one saying it.
You let your head fall back against the trailer wall.
You let the quiet return.
After a while, he spoke again — softer this time.
“You’re going to have to learn how to put yourself down after scenes like that,” he said. “Otherwise it’ll eat you up. This job — it doesn’t end when the cameras cut.”
You looked at him then — really looked.
At the lines beside his eyes.
At the tired shadows under them.
At the history sitting in the slope of his shoulders.
“Did it eat you?” you asked.
He didn’t look surprised by the question.
But he didn’t answer quickly, either.
He took a slow breath.
Exhaled just as slow.
“Yeah,” he said. “Once.”
The floodlight buzzed. The air felt still.
He didn’t say more.
You didn’t push.
Some truths don’t need audiences.
Some are only meant to be held, not spoken.
You nodded.
He nodded back — a silent acknowledgment of what had passed between you.
After another long moment, he pushed off the wall.
“Come on,” he said softly. “You should sleep.”
You expected him to walk away.
He didn’t.
He waited for you to move first.
So you did.
And the two of you walked back across the lot — side-by-side but not together — saying nothing at all.
But the silence wasn’t empty.
It was a promise.
One neither of you had agreed to.
One neither of you had named.
One that had already begun.
୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡ ⋆ ⋆ ˚｡ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡ ⋆ ⋆ ˚｡ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ⋆୨♡୧
It was weeks later.
You were no longer the new one trying to memorize where the marks were taped on the floor. No longer the girl who held her script like armor. You had learned to breathe inside your character. To live inside her skin. To let her heartbeat run parallel to yours without swallowing you whole.
And he — he was steady as always.
Steady like a tide comes in.
Steady like gravity.
Steady like something you could lean on, if you were foolish enough to try.
The scene was a quiet one.
No shouting.
No crying.
No fast movement.
Just the kind of silence that means something is about to happen.
Your character had just revealed something. Not everything — just enough. Something vulnerable. Something sharp. The kind of vulnerability that asks for nothing but is still a question.
And his character was supposed to be the audience to that.
Witness, not savior.
The crew quieted in that way they only do for scenes that matter. The director didn’t say much. They didn’t need to. The room already understood what this moment was supposed to be.
You took your mark.
He took his.
The distance between you was small — close enough that you could feel the warmth of his body across the air.
“Whenever you’re ready,” the director said.
You didn’t even hear action anymore.
You simply stepped into it.
The scene asked for stillness.
So you gave it stillness.
Your character speaks first.
Voice soft.
Words stripped of pretense.
The kind of line that can only be said once in a story — and only when it matters.
You remember the way your voice wavered — not because you were acting, but because something in the words had been sitting in your chest for days, waiting to come out.
You lifted your eyes to him.
And he was already there.
Not acting.
Not performing.
Seeing.
He didn’t blink.
Didn’t look away.
Didn’t soften or tighten or adjust for the camera.
He received you.
There is a kind of intimacy in being looked at like that.
A dangerous one.
A quiet one.
A truthful one.
Your breath caught.
Not loudly.
Just enough to shift something in the room.
Your next line came out lower than rehearsed.
Warmer.
Truer.
He stepped closer — that was in the script — but the way he did it wasn’t.
Slow.
Not hesitant.
But like something inevitable.
His gaze never left yours.
You didn’t move back.
You didn’t breathe.
You didn’t know how.
His character was supposed to touch your cheek next — gentle, grounding, careful.
He lifted his hand — exactly as written.
But the moment before the touch — the space just above your skin — that was the thing.
Your breath shifted.
His did too.
No one else in the room existed.
His hand cupped your cheek.
Warm.
Steady.
And your eyes closed — not because your character would — but because you would.
Your heart was a live wire.
You opened your eyes again — slow, like waking up.
And he was there, pupils darkened, jaw tense, breath deep and controlled like he’d had to rein himself back into his own body.
The scene gave you your final line.
You spoke it.
Soft.
Bare.
True.
And that was when something happened the script never asked for:
Neither of you stepped away.
The silence settled.
The air held itself.
The director didn’t call cut.
The crew didn’t move.
No one breathed.
Because everyone could feel it.
The invisible thread.
The pull.
The moment that was not character, not blocking, not craft.
Just you and him.
Your eyes stayed locked.
His thumb barely — barely — brushed your cheekbone.
Not enough to be deliberate.
Enough to undo you.
Your pulse hammered.
His throat worked in a swallow.
Your bodies did not move apart.
The scene was over.
Every instinct inside you said:
Don’t move.
Don’t break this.
Don’t breathe.
And then —
“Cut.”
The word broke the spell.
He dropped his hand.
You stepped back.
The world returned.
Crew started adjusting lights. Someone laughed. Someone rolled cables. Someone complimented the natural tension. Someone said the chemistry was unreal.
You couldn’t look at him.
But you could feel him.
A gravity at your back.
A pull you did not know what to do with.
You went to your mark for the reset.
You stared at your own hands.
You tried to slow your breathing.
Behind you — the sound of him breathing out through his nose.
Calm.
Measured.
Controlled.
Like he had put something dangerous back behind a door.
But doors like that are never locked.
Not really.
୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡ ⋆ ⋆ ˚｡ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡ ⋆ ⋆ ˚｡ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ⋆୨♡୧
The night was almost over.
The interviews were done.
The cameras had stopped flashing.
The red carpet had cooled from something electric into something close to normal again.
The theater lights spilled onto the street. Cars idled at the curb, waiting to take people back to hotel rooms, afterparties, quiet apartments where their costumes would finally fall away.
You stood near the entrance, arms wrapped loosely around yourself — not because you were cold, but to keep your body from floating off into the air. You could still feel the premiere inside you — the lights, the voices, the questions, the eyes on you.
Your first premiere.
Your first leading performance.
Your first time seeing yourself that big on a screen.
Too much and not enough all at once.
And then — like gravity remembering you — he appeared beside you.
Not from across the room this time.
Not from a shadow or a doorway.
Just there.
Like he had known where you would be.
Like he always would.
He didn’t speak right away.
You didn’t either.
The night hummed between you — busy and loud and somehow distant. Cars. Voices. Laughter. Music drifting from somewhere nearby.
But here — in the small pocket of space you shared — it was quiet.
Finally, he said, “You okay?”
You didn’t answer immediately.
Not because you didn’t know — but because you did.
And saying it out loud felt like stepping onto a ledge.
You nodded. “Just… taking it in.”
He hummed — a soft, approving sound.
“You handled yourself well,” he said. “Better than most do their first time.”
You glanced up at him.
There was something in his tone.
Not mentor.
Not co-star.
Not friend.
Something warmer.
Something proud.
Something careful.
“You meant what you said earlier,” you murmured. “About the paps keeping an eye on me.”
His mouth curved — not a smirk.
Something real.
“I don’t say things I don’t mean,” he replied. “You’re going to be big. People are going to know your name. Soon enough you’ll be tired of hearing it.”
You wanted to laugh — or deny it — or brush it away with something light.
But you didn’t.
Because you remembered the smoke break.
And the scene where the world stopped.
And every small moment in between where he looked at you like he recognized something in you.
Something dangerous.
Something familiar.
Something he couldn’t name either.
You exhaled slowly. “Thank you.”
He looked at you — really looked — and something softened in his eyes, the way something softens only when no one else is watching.
“Don’t thank me,” he said quietly. “You did the work. You earned this.”
You felt your heartbeat where it lived — deep in your ribs, where breath and want intertwine.
A driver called out a last boarding for the cast van.
A producer waved at him from across the pavement.
Someone was ready to pull him back into the night.
But he didn’t move.
Not yet.
You stood close — closer than public should allow — close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off him, not touching but nearly.
Your bodies had always known how to find that distance.
That half-inch of space that feels like a question.
He lowered his voice — quiet enough that only you could hear it.
“You did something on that screen tonight,” he said. “People saw you. Really saw you. That’s rare.”
Your breath caught.
He watched that happen.
His gaze didn’t leave your face, even when someone called his name again.
“Get some rest,” he murmured. “Tomorrow’s going to be loud.”
You nodded.
Though neither of you moved.
For a moment — the kind of moment that could tilt an entire future — he leaned in.
Not a kiss.
Not a touch.
Just close enough that the air changed.
Close enough that his breath brushed your cheek.
Close enough that you felt how carefully he was holding himself back.
Close enough that you knew — he felt it too.
Then he stepped away.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Measured.
He walked toward the waiting car.
Crew. Publicists. Cameras. Flash.
But before he got in — he looked back.
Just once.
A look that was not for the public.
Not for the movie.
Not for the story you’d filmed.
A look that said:
This isn’t over.
We both know it.
We just haven’t said it yet.
And then he was gone.
Leaving you standing in the warm spill of streetlight, heartbeat loud in your chest, the night too full, your lungs too tight, the world newly tilted.
Content: spanking as punishment, fingering, orgasm denial, AU Bucky is mean, dubcon just in case
18+ Minors DNI
A/N: my entry for 9/7 of Sexy September Scribbles Challenge - the prompt is "Don't you dare cum until I say so."
"This is what happens when you don't follow my directions," he hisses, bending you over his lap roughly and pulling up the hem of your dress. "I don't talk to hear my own voice, sweetheart. I talk so you will listen, but you didn't listen to me, did you? So now you're going to count." His hand palms your ass harshly as he rips your underwear off in shreds.
The first slap comes with a sharp sting. "I said count," he demands, pulling at the back of your hair.
"One," you cry out.
"Good girl."
Another smack. Your ass is going to be redder than a cherry.
"Two," you rasp, clenching your thighs together. He chuckles darkly.
"Oh, you like it, do you? Maybe I'm going too easy on you." Slap - much harder this time.
"Three," you say, biting your lip.
"You're wet. You love it," he grunts, pushing two fingers into you abruptly. You gasp and relax your body, letting him have his way. "Fucking soaked for me, baby - just the way I like you." He keeps fucking you with his thick digits and starts rubbing your clit. The stinging pain on your ass mixed with the delicious build-up he's working you toward is going to send you over the edge. You moan, and he pulls his fingers out quickly.
"Don't you dare cum until I say so," he taunts, and spanks you again.
"Four," you whimper as he presses into your wet heat again. "Bucky, please," you beg. "I need-"
He cuts you off. "The only thing you need is to listen to me when I tell you something. You'll cum when I let you cum. Do you understand me?"
"Yes," you keen quietly.
"I can't fucking hear you," he says, smacking your ass again.
Pairing: 90s!Best Friend's Dad!Bucky Barnes x female reader
Word Count: 3.1k
Content: 1990s Bucky AU, best friend’s dad trope, age gap (reader is in college), cheating (not by reader or Bucky), drinking, minor The Empire Strikes Back spoilers lol, mention of morning wood
Synopsis: You're spending your summer working at the local bowling alley and thirsting over your ex-best friend's dad, Bucky.
A/N: thank you @buckybarnes82 for beta reading this chapter. ILY.
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You spend Thursday lounging around the house. It's your day off, so you watch cable TV and take your dad's decrepit dog, Milo, on a walk around the neighborhood while he plays yet another round of golf with Mike. After eating a frozen toaster waffle for dinner and reading on the back deck, you hear the landline ring and walk inside to answer. Your dad gets upset if you ignore it saying it could be your mom, but it never is.
"Hello?" You say, a tone of annoyance coating your voice through the phone
You hear a familiar voice say your name through the crackle of the reciever. "Hey."
You swallow, wondering why the hell Heather is calling you. You haven't spoken in months.
"Before you hang up," she starts as you pull the phone away from your ear, "can you just not?"
"What do you want, Heather?" You grumble, irritation growing beneath your skin.
She sighs. "Look, I just have a box of things here of yours, and so does Jason. We thought you'd want to know, ya know, get your stuff back."
You do your best not to slam the phone in to the wall. "So you're a we now, huh?"
She sighs again, more heavy this time. You can picture her holding the bridge of her nose between her fingers in frustration. "Your stuff is here. Just come whenever, okay?" Then she hangs up before you get the honor of doing it first. Bitch.
You gather the few clothing items of Heather's and a friendship bracelet you made in high school with her, along with an ugly necklace Jason got you for Valentine's Day and one of his football t-shirts and throw them in a plastic grocery bag before driving over to her house later that night. It's dark enough to need headlights, but the sun isn't completely set yet - your favorite time of day. The sky is painted a gorgeous burnt orange and the breeze is relaxing as you make your way into her neighborhood. It's nicer than yours, but one thing Heather never did, no matter how much you can't stand her now, is make you feel like less than for literally having less than her.
The brick house where you spent countless hours growing up comes into view and you pull into the drive. You grab the bag and walk up the steps. You used to walk in without even knocking, but it doesn't feel right anymore, so you knock a few times and wait until you hear footsteps, but it isn't Heather that opens the door. It's Bucky. His eyes widen slightly as he holds the storm door open, half in-half out. "Hey, hon. Um, Heather isn't here. She went out with J-her boyfriend," he corrects himself quickly, as if he knows you can't stand to hear his name.
"Oh, um, well, she called me about an hour ago saying there were a couple boxes for me here to pickup. Some of my stuff?" You say.
"Oh, that would have been nice to know. Um, here, come inside," Bucky says, gesturing for you to enter the home that you could walk through blindfolded.
"I'm sorry," you start, stepping across the threshhold. "I can come back another time. I don't mean to intrude," you say quietly.
"No, honey, you're never intruding. I just don't know where the boxes are," he says sheepishly, raking a hand through that dark hair again. Your eyes flit to the TV where Bucky has The Empire Strikes Back muted.
"She didn't tell me. She just said they're at her house and to come get them. I'm sorry," you say again, looking around the living room. You recognize one of Jason's sweatshirts on the back of the couch and feel your stomach clench. Bucky's gaze follows yours and he clears his throat.
"I don't really like the guy," he mumbles. "He's a bit of a dick, isn't he?"
You huff out a laugh. "Well, obviously, or I wouldn't be here for boxes of my stuff."
He clicks his tongue. "Right, well, let me check her room. I'll be right back. Make yourself at home, sweetheart."
You nod and watch him walk up the stairs. You sit on the edge of the couch and survey the living room. There's a bowl of pistachio shells on the coffee table next to a cold, half full beer. You smile, picturing him kicking back and relaxing, watching one of his favorite movies. You can basically quote this damn thing because of him. He walks back down the steps slower, arms full of two boxes. You didn't realize you'd accumulated so much stuff at her house over the years. He sets them by the front door and sighs.
"I can't believe she ruined such a good friendship with you," Bucky says, shaking his head and looking at the boxes.
"Yeah, well," you start, unsure what to say. You stretch and your shirt rides up. Bucky watches your breasts perk out as you push your arms out and then back in. He clears his throat. "I should get going. Thanks for getting them for me. I have another exciting night at home with a rerun or two of Cops with my dad," you say, standing up. He steps between you and the boxes, pupils blown wide, breathing a touch heavier than necessary.
"You could stay here for a bit," he says, looking at the TV. "I mean, I'm not kicking ya out or anything, honey. Besides, I know you love Star Wars."
You look from him to the TV to the couch and swallow. "But Heather isn't here," you mutter.
"Part of the appeal, no?" He jokes, walking over to the couch and sitting down. He nods to the cushion on the far end. "C'mon, I'm only twenty minutes in. Plus, I was about to make some popcorn anyway."
You bite your lip, trying to hold back a smile. "What if she comes home? I mean, won't she think that's weird?"
His expression grows stoic before he admits, "She isn't coming home tonight. She stays at his place a lot."
"Oh," you whisper.
Bucky stands up and walks to you. "Look, it's their loss. Both of them. You know that, don't ya?" He rubs your arm hesitantly. You look up at him and nod.
"You're right. Let's watch Han get frozen in carbonite for the millionth time," you giggle, settling into the other end of the couch.
"There she is," he says sweetly. "Let me make some popcorn. You want a drink? I guess I can offer you beer now, huh?" He chuckles as he asks.
"Uh, sure," you agree. "I'll take a beer. Thanks!"
You rest your head on the couch cushion and try to calm your breathing. What the fuck are you doing? Watching a movie with Bucky when it's just the two of you? This feels like you're crossing some unspoken line, but are you really? It's just a movie. It's just popcorn. It's just… he walks around the corner and cracks the lid off with the bottle opener on the coffee table before handing it to you. It's just his muscles flexing as he opened the beer bottle. It's just the way his black t-shirt is clinging in all the right places. It's just the way he's looking at you like you're a woman and not some kid anymore. Okay, time to get your shit together. You still have 104 minutes of Empire to get through without climbing into his lap.
You listen to him making popcorn in the kitchen as you take a sip of beer. It's disgusting, actually, but it's cold, so you suffer through. You thumb through the Time magazine on the table absentmindedly before he walks back in with the popcorn bowl - it's the same one you've used for every movie night here. Big and red with little flowers on the outside. He puts it on the cushion between you and sits down, picking up his beer for a swig. You do the same and try to hide the shudder that goes down your spine.
"Oh, you hate it," he says with a chuckle. "Here, gimme. I'll drink it. What do you like? I can make you something," he suggests as you hand the beer bottle to him with a sheepish grin.
"I actually don't know," you admit. "I haven't tried much."
"I'll make you something sweet," he says. "Be right back."
You smile and wait patiently. He comes back with a lowball glass full of dark liquid with two cherries on top. You eyeball it and take a whiff.
"It's just rum and Coke with cherries. Light on the rum," he says. "Try it."
You take a sip and close your eyes. That's much better. You must smile because Bucky lets out a soft laugh. "So she's a rum gal."
"I guess so," you say, taking another sip.
"Good to know," he mutters before starting the movie up again and settling into the other end of the couch. You steal glances throughout the movie and listen to him quote his favorite parts, but you don't notice him stealing glances right back. He watches the way the colorful light of the TV flickers across your soft face and swallows, grabbing another handful of popcorn. The big scene starts and you look to him as he quotes Darth Vader's lines and you quote Luke's. You both end up laughing and reaching for popcorn at the same time. Your fingers brush and you pull back first and sit up straighter. Bucky notices and tilts his head, almost playfully.
"Are you alright over there?" He asks, finishing his third beer. You take a sip of your second rum and coke - he put extra cherries in this one.
"I just need to use the bathroom," you say quickly, and hop off the couch. As you enter the all-too-familiar bathroom you look in the mirror and smile. You hold the ledge of the sink and move in a bit closer to the mirror. Oh, you're tipsy. Fuck. You pee and walk back out to the couch and the realization must be written all over your face because Bucky stands up and steadies you. His hands are warm and sturdy on your arms and it gives you goosebumps.
"Woah there, hon. Are you feeling it? I guess I shouldn't have made you that second one," he says, glancing at the clock. It's getting late. "I'm sorry."
"Yeah, but I'll be fine to drive if I just have some water," you say, waving him off. He looks at you warily.
"No, I don't think that's a good idea. Why don't you just crash here and head home in the morning? It's best not to risk it," he says authoritatively.
You shake your head. "I can't just sleep here. You're here," you mumble and he looks at you with a raised brow.
"Well, you would sleep here," he clarifies, gesturing to the couch. "And I'd sleep upstairs. Nothing nefarious about that, is there?"
You shrug. "I guess not, but I need to call my dad. I don't want him to worry," you say as you walk to the kitchen to use the phone. You dial your home number and your dad doesn't answer, so you leave a message, "Hey Dad, it's me. I know it's late. I, um, stopped by Heather's and we got to talking about everything that happened so I'm just going to crash here. I'll see you tomorrow. Night," you say before hanging up. You're almost scared of how easily the lie slipped past your lips, and from the look on Bucky's face when you walk back to the living room, he is too.
"I'll, uh, get you some blankets," he says, pointing up the stairs. "Be right back."
"Thanks, Bucky," you reply, moving the popcorn bowl to the coffee table and taking off your earrings.
He walks back down and hands you two blankets and a bed pillow. "It's, uh, one of mine. Hope that's okay. The blankets are fresh, though." You feel your face flush and take the linens from him.
"Thank you," you mumble.
"It's no problem, honey. I'd much rather go to sleep knowing you're safe here than trying to drive home when you're not totally sober. Plus, the house gets too quiet with Heather gone all the time," he says with a sigh. "Well, I'm heading up. Sleep well, and let me know if you need anything."
"Goodnight," you say softly, watching him walk up the stairs again.
You settle into the couch with the blankets and his pillow and try to relax. You can feel a headache starting to form and rub your brow bone, willing it away unsuccessfully. You turn on your side and nestle into the pillow until you're hit with his scent - cologne, a little bit of smoke, and something minty. You take a deep breath, inhaling, and close your eyes. The creaks and sighs of the house evenutally lull you into a fitful sleep, and you wake a couple hours later to the light from the refrigerator door casting a glow from the kitchen. You squint your eyes and see Bucky's silhouette standing in front of it, chugging a glass of water. He's wearing sweats and no shirt. You shift on the couch, trying to get a better look, but the rustling of the blankets alerts him to you. He turns and shuts the fridge door.
"You awake?" He whispers and you hear him fill another glass of water before padding over and handing it to you. "Drink."
You accept the glass gratefully and take a long drink of the cool tap water.
"Can't sleep?" He grumbles.
"I have a headache," you sigh, laying back on the pillow.
"Ah, let me get you some Advil. One second."
He returns with two tiny pills in his hand and places them in yours. You swallow them down with more water and let out a tiny groan. "Who knew two drinks would knock me on my ass?" You try to joke.
He chuckles quietly and sits down near your feet on the edge of the couch. "You're a lightweight, that's for sure," he whispers. "Are you okay out here? Warm enough?"
"Oh, yeah, just my feet are kind of cold, but that's my fault for not wearing socks," you say, curling them under the blanket. He stands up with out saying anything and disappears before coming back with a rolled up pair. He sits on the last cushion as you pull your legs to your chest, but he reaches for one of your feet. He slides a sock on that foot before moving to the other.
"Thanks," you whisper, your legs breaking out in more goosebumps from his touch. He makes no move to get up, resting his head against the back of the couch. You wait a few moments before you test the waters and stretch your legs, putting your socked feet in his lap. He looks at you through the darkness and meets your gaze, asking for silent permission to stay here. You close your eyes in response and feel his warm hands pull one of the blankets up his chest before he rests them on your calves protectively. His warmth seeps into your skin and relaxes you instantly. Before long, you hear his steady, rhythmic breathing and realize he's fallen asleep sitting up with your feet curled into his lap. It doesn't take long before you're asleep, too.
You wake the next morning to the Eastern sky shining through the blinds and shift, remembering where you are. Bucky is still asleep with his head thrown back on the couch. You can feel one of his hands on your ankle while the other rests on your upper thigh. He must have shifted in his sleep without realizing it. You move your legs from his lap slowly and sit up, staring at him.
"Bucky," you whisper, poking his arm. He doesn't flinch, so you poke harder. "Bucky!"
His eyelids flutter and he whispers your name, but doesn't wake up.
"Bucky, I should go," you say a little louder this time.
He flinches and says your name again. You look down and notice a growing issue in his sweats. You don't have time to dissect that, so you yell a bit. "Bucky!!"
He finally sits up with a start and looks around, clearly expecting to see his bedroom. His eyes flit around until they meet yours and then he looks down and presses on his morning wood, like he's trying to minimize it. "Sorry," he mumbles.
"I have to go," you say again, standing up and trying to look anywhere but his sweatpants.
"Right," he says, standing up and stretching. Jesus Christ, that's not helping. "Let me take these boxes to your car."
"It's fine, I got 'em," you mutter, slipping on your shoes. Your headache isn't completely gone, but you have to admit you did sleep better once Bucky sat on the couch at your feet last night.
"Why are you in such a rush?" He asks through a yawn, rubbing his eyes like a child.
"It's already weird that I'm here, and I don't want Heather to walk in and see this," you admit.
"See what? That I made sure you didn't drive drunk last night?" He asks, irritated all of a sudden.
"No, it's not that," you say with a wave.
"Then what is it?" He presses. "And before you answer, remember you put your feet in my lap last night."
You swallow and look at him. "And you didn't stop me."
His eyes glint and widen at that. "Stay for coffee?"
You rake a hand through your bedhead and bite your lip. "Fine."
He brews a pot and you each have a cup, not saying anything over the dining table, but stealing glances all the same. He swallows and really looks at you.
"Can I ask you something?" He says, looking out the window.
"Yes."
"Is this all to get back at Heather?"
"Define this," you say, wrapping your hands around the warm mug.
"You know what this is," he replies with a knowing look.
You take a sip and meet his gaze. "This has nothing to do with anyone else."
He smiles softly and nods. "Good."
You smile back and shake your head in disbelief before standing up from the table. "I really do need to go. I work today."
"Okay, fine. Let me help you out," he says, putting on a pair of slippers by the door and picking up your boxes. He follows you to your car and stores them in the backseat as you get in the driver's seat. You start your car and roll your window down as he walks up.
"Thanks for letting me crash," you say.
"Anytime," he replies.
You put it in reverse and he steps away. "Hey," he says your name, "I'll see you Tuesday. Wear that blue top."
You blush and shake your head. What are you going to do with him?
