Summary: Based on this anonymous request here, after you’re struggling to fall asleep one night, Bucky notices and… helps put you back to bed.
Warnings/Tags: Explicit Sexual Content, Established Relationship, Plot? What Plot?, Fingering, Clitoral Stimulation, Overstimulation, Smut But With Feelings
Word count: 1.2k
Music:
Alkaline - Sleep Token
Kiss It Better - Rihanna
Earned It - The Weeknd
Notes: hi hello!! A short and spicy request that I hope you all enjoy! <3
Night has settled over the compound like a woolen blanket, thick, muffling, almost too warm. You’ve kicked off the sheets twice already, flipped your pillow to the cool side three times, and still your mind buzzes with static. Beside you, the mattress dips under the steady weight of Bucky sprawled on his back, left arm bent behind his head, moonlight spilling across the ridged vibranium plates.
He’d been motionless for twenty minutes, but you hear the shift in his breathing the instant restlessness coils through your muscles again. A soft scrape of stubble against cotton, then that deep-rumble whisper:
“Still awake, doll?”
Your answering sigh feels petulant even to your own ears. “My brain won’t shut up.”
“C’mere.”
It isn’t a suggestion. He rolls onto his side, covers the narrow space between you with one languid slide, and pulls you against him so your back meets the furnace of his chest. The weight of the metal arm drapes over your waist, the cool vibranium contrasts deliciously against your overheated skin. His flesh hand splays over your abdomen, thumb stroking tiny half-moons just beneath your navel.
“Talk to me,” he murmurs, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “What’s keepin’ you wired?”
“Tomorrow’s briefing. The paperwork I forgot to file. The way Sam teased you about the coffee mug…” The list tumbles out in a breathless stream.
He chuckles, low and fond. “That mug had it coming. But none of that matters right now.”
His hand drifts lower, lazy, exploratory, until the pad of his thumb grazes the elastic waistband of your cotton shorts. He pauses, waiting. The question hangs in the hush: yes?
You nod. “Please.”
“Good girl,” he praises, voice honey-slow. He curls closer, nuzzling the spot where your neck meets shoulder, breathing you in like home. Then his fingers slip beneath the fabric, into humid warmth.
He starts with feather-light strokes along your inner lips, coaxing slickness with every unhurried pass. You feel the stretch of his grin when your hips buck at the first direct brush over your clit. He doesn’t linger… instead, he sketches broad, soothing circles across your mound, grounding you in the sensation of being touched, owned, adored.
The rhythm builds in increments, fingertips sliding, pressing, withdrawing, then returning with a firmer sweep that drags a gasp from your chest. Your knees draw together on instinct, but his vibranium arm tightens, guiding your top thigh over his, opening you wider.
“There we go,” he croons, pressing a slow kiss beneath your ear. “Let me take care of you.”
His middle finger finds your clit again and begins a pattern, three languid circles, one deliberate tap. Circle, circle, circle… tap. The gentle percussion sends little sparks ricocheting through your belly, each tap a tiny shock that spikes pleasure higher before the soothing circles smooth it flat again. You ride the rise-and-fall, breath hitching on every fourth beat.
The metal arm shifts, cool fingertips slipping beneath the hem of your tank top to cup a breast. His thumb flicks your nipple lightly, syncopating with the rhythm he maintains down below: circle, circle, circle… tap. Pleasure migrates up your spine, meets the heat blooming in your chest, and forks down your thighs in tingling threads.
“Feel how soft you are,” he marvels, kissing the juncture of neck and shoulder. “Could touch you for hours.”
The words unzip something inside you: confidence, hunger, ownership. You press back into him, offering. He takes the invitation, sliding the finger lower to gather more slick, then returning to your clit with exaggerated slowness. This time, after the third circle, the tap is firmer, sharp enough that you whimper.
“That’s it,” he soothes, easing the circles again until your pulse evens. “Gonna do that a few more times, sweetheart. I want your body nice and heavy when you finally drift off.”
And he does. Each set escalates: circle, circle, circle… tap, circle, circle, circle… tap-tap. Your hips jerk, your thighs tremble. He murmurs praise for every twitch, sweet, gravel-rough endearments that settle warm in your chest.
By the fifth repetition, the tap becomes a staccato double beat that sends an electric crackle tearing through you. Your hand shoots out to grip his wrist. “Bucky—”
“I know,” he whispers, kissing your knuckles before guiding your hand away so he can continue. “Trust me. Let me push a little more.”
His flesh fingers change tempo, circles tightening, taps turning into toe-curling flicks. Your vision whites out with each measured strike, then melts into velvet with the slow swirl that follows. The duality, sharp and soft, tease and balm, drives you higher than relentless pressure ever could.
You pant into the pillow, thighs quivering, nerves humming a single-note plea. He massages the oversensitive nub with tender circles, lets you settle, then taps three quick times. The world tilts.
“Bucky, please… I’m close.”
“I feel it,” he answers, voice reverent. “Come when you’re ready, doll. I’m right here.”
He resumes the pattern until your body bows despite his hold. The coil snaps with a soundless cry, heat pulses outward in concentric rings, gripping his finger where it still moves in steady, grounding circles. He doesn’t stop, eases the rhythm instead, drawing out aftershocks until you sag boneless against him.
But he’s not finished.
While your muscles are still fluttering, he coaxes your shorts down your thighs, leaving them tangled at your knees. Cool air kisses swollen flesh, a delicious counterpoint to the furnace of his body. He drags the flats of two fingers through your slick folds, collecting evidence of your release, then slips those fingers into his mouth with a groan that rattles your bones.
“Taste so good when you’ve just come,” he mutters, hips grinding forward so you feel the hard length of him against the curve of your ass. “One more, sweetheart. You’ll sleep like a baby.”
You whimper, half protest, half need. He hushes you with kisses along your shoulder blade, then slides wet fingers back to your clit. This time he alternates pressure: firm anchoring presses that make your toes curl, followed by rapid-fire taps you feel in your teeth.
Stimulation skates the edge of too much, but the overwhelming care in his touch steadies you. He murmurs constant assurances, “I’ve got you”, “So perfect for me”, “Let it wash over you.” The words weave into the rhythm and become another kind of caress.
Your second orgasm hits quick and bright, a burst of stardust that leaves you gasping his name like a prayer. He rides the wave with you, whispering praise, easing the tempo until your tremors subside.
At last he withdraws, pulls the discarded shorts free of your legs, and settles you back against him. His vibranium arm curls protective across your middle while his other hand strokes gentle patterns over the thigh draped across his own.
“Breathe,” he instructs softly, syncing his inhale with yours. The room is silent save for the joint cadence of your breaths and the distant hum of nighttime generators. Your eyelids grow heavy, every limb feels dipped in warm honey.
Somewhere in the haze you sense him press a final kiss to your hairline. “Sleep, doll. Paperwork and mugs’ll still be there tomorrow.”
You manage a sleepy smile. Wrapped in unbreakable metal and unwavering devotion, you yield to gravity, sinking through the mattress into a darkness threaded with fireflies.
The last thing you register is the steady drum of his pulse at your back, two heartbeats, perfectly in time with yours, lulling you into the kind of rest only love can buy.
Wrote this for tiktok, decided to drop it here too. <3
Pairing: Jefferson x Reader
Word Count: 1,762
Rating: M (spice)
Chapter: 1/1
Summary: Trapped in the dark with Jefferson and the sound of thunder, you realize the storm isn’t what you should be worried about — it’s the way he looks at you when no one else can see.
Author's Note: Please check the tags for any possible triggers. Thank you!
The first rumble of thunder is distant enough that you don’t really think about it.
Just a low growl somewhere over the ocean, blending with the hum of the fridge and the rain pattering against the windows. Storybrooke feels smaller when it rains — like the rest of the world pulls back, leaving you and Jefferson in your own little pocket of existence.
You’re halfway through your cup of tea when the lights flicker.
You freeze, mug halfway to your lips.
“Don’t you dare,” you mutter at the ceiling.
Jefferson, sprawled on the opposite end of the couch with a book balanced on his chest, looks up with lazy amusement dancing in his eyes.
“Talking to the power now?” he asks. “Should I be jealous?”
You open your mouth to answer — and the house goes black.
The hum of electricity dies. For a second, the only sound is the rain and the low, rolling thunder over the bay.
“Shit,” you hiss under your breath, already fumbling for your phone. “Where did I put—?”
You bump your knee on the coffee table and curse louder.
Before the panic really settles, a warm hand finds yours in the dark, fingers sliding between your own with easy certainty.
“Relax,” Jefferson says quietly, right at your ear.
You jump slightly. You hadn’t heard him move.
His breath kisses the side of your neck, warm and steady.
“It’s just the storm,” he murmurs. “She likes to throw tantrums. She’ll get over it.”
“Yeah, well, I like being able to see,” you grumble, but your fingers tighten around his anyway.
Another roll of thunder booms, closer this time, making the windows rattle in their frames. The house creaks around you — old wood shifting, pipes ticking, the distant drip-drip of rain sneaking in somewhere it shouldn’t.
You feel, more than see, the way his attention sharpens.
“This,” he says, and his voice is suddenly different — lighter and darker at the same time, threaded with something wild. “This just means no one can bother us.”
Lightning flashes outside, bright and sudden, washing the room in white for half a heartbeat.
You see him clearly in that strobe of light.
Hair mussed. Shirt sleeves rolled up. Bare feet on the rug. A smile spread across his face — wide, delighted, and just a little bit unhinged, like the storm has flipped a switch inside him.
“Think of all the terrible, beautiful things we can do,” he says softly, “when the whole world is forced to look away.”
The darkness swallows his expression again, but it’s burned into your mind now.
“Terrible, huh?” you murmur, pulse skipping. “That’s a strong word.”
“Is it?” He tugs your joined hands, guiding you up from the couch. “Depends who you ask.”
You stumble a little and end up chest-to-chest with him, your free hand splayed against the front of his shirt. You can’t see a thing, but you can feel him — warm, solid, amused.
You feel his chest rise and fall under your palm. His heartbeat is faster than he’s pretending.
“Where are we going?” you ask, as he gently steers you through the darkened living room.
“Somewhere with fewer coffee tables out for your blood,” he says mildly. “And a better view of the lightning.”
His thumb strokes over the back of your hand as he leads you, slow and sure. He knows this house by memory and madness; he could walk it blindfolded.
You, however, bump into a doorframe.
“I don’t mean to be a poor guide,” he murmurs, stepping closer, his other hand finding your waist to guide you through. “But you’re quite distracting.”
“You can’t see me,” you point out, breath catching as his fingers splay warm and possessive against your side.
He hums.
“I don’t need to see you to know exactly what you’re doing to me.”
His words hang in the dark, heavy and intimate.
He stops abruptly.
There’s a faint creak as he nudges a door open with his foot, and then he’s guiding you into a room that smells faintly of old books and his cologne. Another flash of lightning outside outlines the tall windows, the shadow of the bed, the curve of his jaw as he turns his head toward the storm.
You realize where you are.
“Wow,” you say lightly, trying to ignore the way your skin prickles with awareness. “I see. Power outage protocol. Straight to the bedroom, is it?”
He turns back to you, and even in the dark you feel his smile.
“Technically,” he says, stepping closer, “this is where the candles are.”
His hand leaves yours. For a moment you feel strangely untethered — until his fingers find your hip instead, steady and firm. He lets go only long enough to grope for a box of matches on the nightstand.
Scritch.
The match flares to life, a small, wavering sun that throws the room into gold and shadow. His face comes into view, all sharp angles and soft focus — cheekbones ghosted by light, pupils blown wide.
He lights one candle. Then another. And another.
Soon, the room is bathed in a warm, flickering glow that paints the ceiling in swirls and makes everything feel a little unreal. The storm becomes a distant drumbeat, the rain a curtain between your world and everyone else’s.
Jefferson turns back to you, matchbox tucked away, hands free again.
He looks at you like he’s been waiting his whole life for this exact moment.
His hand lifts, knuckles skimming delicately along your jaw, tracing the line of your throat.
“Just you,” he murmurs. “And me. And the dark.”
Your breath comes a little too fast.
“Sounds a little dangerous,” you say, but your voice betrays you — soft, eager, already leaning in.
His eyes brighten.
“Good,” he says.
He closes the distance slowly, like he’s giving you every chance to change your mind.
You don’t.
His mouth meets yours with a kind of careful hunger — like he’s starving, but terrified of breaking what he’s finally dared to reach for. One hand props on the wall beside your head, the other settles firmly at your hip, thumb pressing into the bone as if to anchor himself.
You fist your hands in the front of his shirt and pull him closer.
That’s all it takes.
The kiss deepens, losing its initial restraint. He tilts his head, lips parting, tongue teasing along yours like he’s trying to memorize the exact taste of you. He makes a sound against your mouth — half-groan, half-laugh — as your fingers slide up into his hair.
“Careful,” he breathes, pulling back just enough that his words brush your lips. “You’ll make me forget there’s a world outside this room.”
“I thought that was the point,” you whisper.
Lightning flashes again, bright enough that for a second you see everything clearly: his flushed cheeks, the way his hair sticks up where you’ve tugged it, the wild, reverent look in his eyes.
“You,” he says, voice low and rough, “have excellent instincts.”
His hands move — one traveling up your spine, dragging you flush against him, the other slipping lower to grip the back of your thigh. He hikes your leg up around his hip with an ease that makes your head spin. The press of his body against yours is hot and unmistakable; you feel the way he shudders at the contact.
“Jefferson,” you breathe, fingers tightening in his hair.
He smiles against your throat, open and almost boyish for a moment — before his teeth scrape lightly along your skin.
“I love when you say my name like that,” he murmurs. “Like a confession.”
The storm cracks loud overhead, making the glass tremble. He doesn’t even flinch. If anything, he seems to draw strength from it, nuzzling into your neck, kissing and nipping his way along the sensitive skin.
Outside, the world is all chaos and noise.
Inside, it condenses into him.
His hand slips under the hem of your shirt, palm flattening against your back, fingers splayed wide as if to cover as much of you as possible.
“Do you have any idea how often I think about this?” He asks, words muffled against your skin, “About you. Trapped in this town with me and my ghosts.”
“Trapped?” you echo, the word dissolving into a soft sound as his mouth finds a spot that makes your knees threaten to give out.
His grip tightens, holding you up.
He leans back just enough to meet your eyes, breathing hard.
“You could have run,” he says. There’s no accusation in it — just raw, almost disbelieving wonder. “When the curse broke. When doors opened. When everyone else was running toward their happy endings.”
You swallow.
“I didn’t want theirs,” you say simply.
Something breaks open in his expression.
He kisses you like that answer unravels him — like you’ve just pulled the thread on a carefully woven mask and he doesn’t have the will to stop it coming apart. The kiss turns messy, hands roaming, bodies shifting until the wall is a support rather than a prison.
“What terrible, beautiful things we could do,” he repeats, murmuring into your mouth. “I want to hear what you sound like when you forget anyone else exists. When it’s just us and the storm and the dark.”
You shiver, heat curling low in your belly.
“And if the lights come back on?” you ask, teasing but breathless.
His smile turns feral.
“Then the world can watch,” he says softly, thumbs stroking slow circles into your hips. “They’ll see exactly how much you belong here. With me.”
Thunder rolls again, distant now, as if even the sky is retreating to give you space.
He presses his forehead to yours, breath mingling with yours, candlelight flickering around you both like a ring.
“Tell me to stop,” he whispers. His hands are gentle even as his body trembles with restraint. “And I will. I swear it. But if you don’t—”
You hook your fingers in his shirt and tug.
“Don’t stop.”
For a beat, everything hangs suspended — the candles, the storm, his heartbeat under your palm.
Then he laughs, soft and disbelieving and so full of relief it almost hurts. He gaze flicks across your face before he leans in.
“Then let the world stay in the dark,” he murmurs, claiming your mouth again, deeper this time. “We’ve got better things to do.”
The storm rages on outside.
Inside, the house is full of quiet, breathless sounds and the rustle of sheets and the low rasp of his voice saying your name like a prayer — terrible, beautiful, and entirely yours.
Pairings: Lee Bodecker x Reader, Charles Blackwood x Reader
Word Count: 2,482
Rating: E
Chapter: 3/14
Fic Summary: You’ve been stuck in a holding pattern with Lee Bodecker for longer than you care to admit — the kind of almost-thing that never quite becomes anything real, no matter how good it feels in the dark. Then Charles Blackwood rolls through Knockemstiff, all quiet charm and soft promises, and suddenly you're wondering if there's more out there than late-night backseats and half-kept words. Because now you know what it feels like to be chosen — not cornered.
Author's Note: This one has some smut. In fact, it's pretty much all smut lol. Check tags for specifics. :))
The silence stretches between you, warm and crackling, like the space before lightning strikes. The mug in your hand has gone lukewarm, forgotten on the counter. Charles steps closer — slow, deliberate — his eyes never leaving yours.
"You know," he murmurs, voice low, steady, almost coaxing, "you're allowed to want more."
Your breath catches.
It’s not just what he says. It’s the way he says it — not like a challenge, not like a threat. Like a truth. Like permission. Like something you've never been given without strings.
He’s close enough now that his fingers brush yours. Then your wrist. Then your hip. Still light. Still waiting. Still asking.
And then his hand finds the small of your back as he leans in — and your lips meet again.
It starts soft. Gentle. But this time there’s intention beneath it. A slow press of mouth to mouth, a deepening that makes you part your lips without thinking. Your hands rise instinctively — one curling in the collar of his shirt, the other settling over his chest, where his heart beats solid beneath your palm.
He groans low against your lips, just a whisper of sound — and his hands tighten at your waist.
“Come here,” he breathes.
And in one fluid motion, you're lifted — thighs brushing his hips before meeting the edge of the counter as he sets you down with care. Not shoved. Not claimed. Placed.
Your legs part instinctively to make room for him, and he slots between them like he’s meant to be there. The kiss turns deeper now — hungrier, but still controlled. Still listening.
His hands land on your thighs, thumbs stroking slow circles. Your fingers tangle in his hair. The kiss is hot, breathless, lips parting and meeting again and again — and every time he pulls back, it’s just enough to make you chase him.
Your head tips back when he kisses along your jaw, down to your neck, slow and tasting. And then, just under your ear, he murmurs.
“I could stay right here all night.”
The words sink into your skin like heat. You feel seen. You feel safe. You feel wanted.
Not owned. Not hidden. Not claimed like a possession — but chosen. Over and over.
You whisper his name. And he pulls back just enough to meet your gaze — eyes searching, asking, waiting.
“Tell me what you want,” he says, low and breathless. “I’ll stop if you say so.”
Your hand finds the fabric of his shirt, tugging slightly, drawing him back in.
His breath is warm against your neck, lips trailing kisses just beneath your jaw, then lower — slow, reverent. Each press of his mouth feels like it’s meant to brand you. Your back arches instinctively when his teeth graze the hollow of your throat, soft but firm — just enough to make your breath hitch.
“God, you’re beautiful like this,” he murmurs, the words sinking into your skin, low and rich and addictive. “Legs open. Eyes soft. Letting me take my time.”
His fingers trail from your waist down the curve of your thigh, slow enough to make your stomach clench. He draws little circles just above your knee, teasing the hem of your skirt — but not rushing. Not yet.
You lean into him, chasing the kiss again, lips colliding — wetter now, hotter. Your thighs tighten around him as his hand finally moves. Sliding under your skirt, inch by inch, until his fingers brush against the heat of your panties and he exhales sharply into your mouth.
“Fuck,” he breathes. “You’re soaked already.”
His other hand anchors at your hip, steadying you on the counter. He presses kisses along your collarbone, up the side of your neck, murmuring filth in a voice too sweet to sound wrong.
“Been thinking about this since the diner. Since the second you smiled at me and poured that damn coffee like you didn’t know what you do to people.”
His fingers stroke lightly through the damp heat, feather-soft until you’re squirming, gasping into his mouth, needing more.
And still, he doesn’t rush.
“I’m not like him,” Charles whispers, voice molten as his lips brush your ear. “I don’t take without giving. I want to see you come apart for me. Want to make you feel how badly I want you.”
He dips lower — fingers nudging your panties aside, teasing your folds with maddening patience. Every slow swipe of his fingers sends a jolt straight through your core. His thumb circles your clit in lazy, perfect rhythm.
You gasp when you feel the slick, slow press of his fingers sliding against your entrance. Not fast. Not deep. Just there — testing, teasing, letting you feel it coming.
“Shhh,” Charles murmurs, kissing beneath your ear as his free hand smooths over your thigh, anchoring you to the counter. “I’ve got you, sweetheart.”
He moves with control — easing just the tip of one finger inside you, slow enough to make your hips jerk, desperate for more.
“Easy,” he soothes, his voice that same sweet-coaxing drawl. “Let me learn you. Let me feel what it’s like when you take your time opening up for someone who actually gives a damn.”
Your head falls back, hitting the cabinet door with a dull thunk as he pushes deeper — knuckle by knuckle — until he’s fully inside.
You clutch his shoulders, fingernails digging in.
“God,” you whisper.
His mouth trails along your neck, breath warm against your skin. His finger curls just slightly — testing, coaxing, and when your body responds, fluttering tight around him, he groans low in your ear.
“Fucking perfect,” he breathes. “So tight, so wet…and all for me.”
His finger moves again — not fast, not rough, but purposeful. Stroking slow and deep, curling with precision, like he’s mapping out every inch of you from the inside. Every time you gasp, every time your thighs twitch, he adjusts — marking exactly what makes you whimper.
And then he adds a second finger.
You bite your lip, breath catching, but he doesn’t falter. Doesn’t force. He takes his time — working you open with smooth, confident pressure, his thumb circling your clit in tandem, never rushing.
“You feel that?” he whispers, lips brushing your temple. “How full you are for me? How soft you get when I touch you like this?”
Your legs are trembling now, thighs bracketing his hips, trying to stay open as the pleasure builds low and heavy in your belly.
But Charles slows down again.
Not to stop — but to tease, to test.
His strokes turn lazy, drawn-out, like he’s painting pleasure inside you with every curl of his fingers.
“I’m not trying to make you come just yet,” he murmurs, eyes locked on yours now, voice low and intoxicating. “I want you to feel it first. Really feel what it’s like to be touched like you matter.”
The pressure builds, deep and rhythmic — a slow crescendo, not sharp, not sudden. And through it all, Charles keeps whispering.
“I could keep you like this for hours.”
“So pretty like this. All wet and open and mine to take care of.”
“You’re allowed to need this. To want this.”
“I want you desperate for it.”
And gods — you are.
You’re shaking, clutching his shirt like it’s the only thing anchoring you. His fingers pump slower, deeper, the heel of his palm pressing just right — and you can’t decide what’s worse: the unbearable edge of it, or the fact that he’s holding you right there, refusing to tip you over until he decides.
His mouth meets yours again, stealing the moan from your throat. The kiss is deeper now, more desperate. You can’t help the way your hips roll, chasing every glide of his fingers, every press of his palm.
And when your thighs start to tremble — when your breath comes short and your hands claw at his shoulders — Charles doesn’t stop. He leans in, lips against your throat, and whispers.
“Come for me, baby. Come on my fingers. Let me see how pretty you break.”
Your breath fractures in your chest as the tension finally snaps — not sharp, not sudden, but slow and rolling, like the tide pulling you under. Your body tightens around the sensation, every nerve lighting at once, and Charles feels it immediately.
He doesn’t rush you through it.
He stays with you — close, steady, murmuring your name like it matters, like it’s something sacred — until the last tremor fades and you’re left clinging to him, forehead pressed to his shoulder, breath uneven.
“Good girl,” he whispers, soft and reverent. “There you are.”
You’re still shaking when he eases back, hands lingering at your thighs like he’s reluctant to let go of the moment. His eyes search your face — not for triumph, not for possession — but for your reaction. For your softness. For your vulnerability.
And then he lowers himself.
Not hurried. Not greedy. Just deliberate.
He sinks to his knees in front of you, hands resting lightly against your legs, his posture almost devotional. He looks up at you, eyes dark, intent, tender in a way that feels far more dangerous than hunger. The sight of him steals your breath all over again.
“Let me,” he murmurs. “Let me take care of you.”
His hands slide up your thighs again, slower now, grounding, reverent. His touch isn’t about urgency anymore — it’s about attention. About staying with you in the aftermath. About not leaving you alone in the wreckage of pleasure.
Your thighs are still trembling when Charles presses that first kiss to the inside of your knee. Slow. Soft. Just enough heat behind it to make your stomach flip all over again.
“Stay right there,” he murmurs, voice rough with restraint. “Let me enjoy you.”
He eases your legs open with both hands — not demanding, but steady, assured, like he already knows you’ll give him whatever he asks for. His palms are warm against your thighs, thumbs brushing slowly, anchoring you to the moment.
You can feel your pulse in every inch of you when he leans in.
And when his mouth finds you — hot, open, deliberate — you whimper.
There’s nothing hurried about it. No messy greed. Just slow, devastating attention. His tongue traces through your folds with lazy precision, savouring you like something sweet he’s been dying to taste. His hands stay on your thighs, holding you open, grounding you while his mouth moves slowly, purposefully, circling your clit with maddening rhythm until your hips start to twitch against the counter.
You can’t help it — your hand finds his hair, fingers tangling instinctively.
He groans when you pull.
“Yeah,” he breathes, voice muffled, lips slick against you. “That’s it. Take what you need, sweetheart.”
Then he dives back in, lips closing around your clit this time, tongue flicking just right — not frantic, not soft — just perfect. The kind of rhythm that lights you from the inside out.
You gasp his name, legs trying to close around his shoulders — but he doesn’t let you. One strong arm wraps around your thigh, holding you steady while he sucks you deeper into the edge of it.
Your head falls back, eyes fluttering, moans spilling from your throat.
“God, you’re so fucking good like this,” he groans against your skin. “So wet for me. Tastes like you were made for this.”
His fingers return — two of them sliding in again as his mouth works your clit — and that’s when you lose it. The pressure builds faster this time, already tender and aching from earlier, and he knows. He feels it.
He hums low in his throat — the vibration against you nearly enough to make you cry out — and whispers.
“Come on, baby. Let me have it again. Let me feel you come on my tongue this time.”
That’s all it takes.
You shatter.
Your whole body tightens, thighs clenching around his head as you cry out, back arching off the counter. He doesn’t stop. He stays with you through it — licking you through every wave, fingers curling deep, like he wants every aftershock. Like your pleasure is the only thing keeping him breathing.
Only when you finally go limp — chest heaving, skin burning — does he slow down.
He lingers there for one last kiss — gentle now, reverent — before rising, tongue flicking along his slick lips.
And the look in his eyes?
It’s not cocky. It’s not smug.
It’s hungry.
But for more than your body.
He leans in, hands cradling your face, and kisses you again — slow and deep — like he wants you to taste yourself on his tongue. And when he finally pulls back, he rests his forehead to yours and murmurs.
“I told you I'd take care of you.”
You’re still breathless when your fingers slide toward his waistband, hands fumbling at his belt, tugging softly, your lips parted from the kiss he just gave you.
“Charles,” you whisper, voice low, still trembling. “Let me—”
But he catches your wrists. Gently. Firmly.
His hands wrap around yours, lifting them away from his body — not with force, but with finality.
“No,” he says softly, brushing your knuckles with his thumb. “Not tonight.”
You blink up at him, confused, half-wrecked and raw.
“But you—”
He leans in, pressing a kiss to your forehead, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth. Each one soft. Controlled. Laced with intention.
“I didn’t come here for that,” he murmurs against your skin. “I came to take care of you. That’s all I wanted.”
You swallow hard, heat pooling low in your belly all over again — not from what he’s doing, but what he’s denying you.
“I wanted to see what you looked like when someone made you come without expecting anything in return,” he says, voice like silk wrapped around barbed wire. “I wanted to see if you’d let yourself be wanted…without having to pay for it.”
Your chest tightens.
Gods, the words are so kind. So sweet. So fucking calculated.
You can’t move. You can’t think. He’s left you undone — in more ways than one.
Charles presses one last kiss to your mouth — slow and possessive, not hungry, but sealing something. Something quiet and dangerous.
Then he steps back, smoothing your skirt down, helping you off the counter like a gentleman.
“Get some sleep,” he says, pulling his jacket on. “You’ll need it.”
He turns to the door, pauses with his hand on the frame, and glances over his shoulder.
“I’ll see you at the diner in the morning,” he adds with a small, knowing smile. “I’m sure I'll be in the mood for breakfast.”
And then?
He’s gone.
The door shuts softly behind him. The quiet of the room wraps around you like a second skin — warm, sticky, unsatisfied.
And you’re left standing there — wrecked, trembling, empty in a way that has nothing to do with your body.
Because Charles Blackwood didn’t just take care of you tonight.
Pairings: Lee Bodecker x Reader, Charles Blackwood x Reader
Word Count: 1,778
Rating: E
Chapter: 2/14
Fic Summary: You’ve been stuck in a holding pattern with Lee Bodecker for longer than you care to admit — the kind of almost-thing that never quite becomes anything real, no matter how good it feels in the dark. Then Charles Blackwood rolls through Knockemstiff, all quiet charm and soft promises, and suddenly you're wondering if there's more out there than late-night backseats and half-kept words. Because now you know what it feels like to be chosen — not cornered.
Author's Note: Nothing too concerning in this chapter. Enjoy!
The lunch rush is finally winding down, the clatter of dishes and hum of the grill fading into a comfortable quiet. You wipe down the last of the tables, the diner smelling faintly of coffee, frying onions, and warm bread.
The bell jingles. You glance up, expecting one of the regulars — but it’s him. Charles.
He steps inside with that slow, confident saunter, hands casually tucked into his pockets. Sunlight catches on his hair, and the fabric of his jacket carries a subtle, clean scent that makes your pulse tick faster. He pauses just inside the door, surveying the empty diner like it’s his own private stage, before his eyes settle on you.
“Afternoon,” he says, voice easy, playful, warm in a way that makes your stomach twist. “You still game for a little tour of the town?”
You can’t help the small smile that creeps onto your face.
“Absolutely,” you reply. “Give me just a couple more minutes to clean up.”
He slides onto the stool at the counter, just far enough away to keep the space charged but not so far that it feels distant. He leans forward slightly, elbows resting on the worn laminate, eyes bright.
“So,” he says, tilting his head, “what’s the best this town has to offer? I want to see the spots that don’t make the brochure, too.”
“Oh, I think I can manage that,” you answer, heart thumping in a way that makes your head feel light.
He grins, just the slightest flash of mischief in his eyes.
“Good. I like a guide who knows her town—and can show me the interesting bits no one else would.”
For a moment, the diner feels smaller, warmer, suspended in time. The memory of yesterday — of Lee’s reaction to your plans for today — flits across your mind like a shadow, but Charles’ presence is different: light, teasing, intoxicating in a way that makes you forget the weight for just a little while.
“I’ve got just the plan,” you say, gathering your things. “If you’re ready.”
He stands, and his jacket swishes around him as he moves toward the door. His smile lingers, a private little spark meant only for you.
“Lead the way,” he says.
You step out with Charles, sunlight hitting your face, and the town seems to open around you. He opens the car door with a flourish, grinning when you slide into the passenger’s seat. He shuts your door and saunters around to slip into the driver’s seat. The engine purrs to life, low and smooth, vibrating through the metal beneath you.
As you pull onto Main Street, something catches your eye. Across the lot, near the diner, parked like a silent sentinel, is Lee’s cruiser. Dark blue, gleaming in the sun, windows slightly tinted. You freeze for a heartbeat, stomach twisting, heart hammering.
Charles notices the pause.
“Everything okay?” He asks softly.
“Yeah,” you say, forcing a casual laugh. “Just…someone I know.”
Lee isn’t moving. Just sitting there, engine off, watching. The hair at the back of your neck prickles. That quiet, contained power — Lee in stillness — is almost worse than if he’d stormed out to confront you.
Charles reaches over, hand brushing yours lightly.
“Don’t worry about him,” he says, voice low, confident. “We’ve got the afternoon to ourselves.”
You swallow, glance once more at the parked cruiser, and then turn your gaze forward, letting the convertible carry you away. The road stretches ahead, sun-hot and empty, and for a little while, the world narrows down to him, you, and the thrill of choice.
Charles keeps one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually along the back of the seat, his posture easy and confident. You point out a few spots along the way — the little gas station with the faded Coca-Cola sign, the riverbend where kids skip stones in summer, the old mill that creaks and groans with every gust of wind.
After a quiet stretch, Charles glances at you, curiosity sparkling in his eyes.
“So what’s your story?” he asks. “I mean, the guy back at the diner, the one with the cruiser. I’m gonna assume he’s a cop or something. What’s your deal with him?”
You glance out the window, fingers fidgeting with the edge of your skirt. The sun warms your shoulders, but the memory of Lee’s hands, the weight of him in the car, curls like a warning in your stomach.
“It’s complicated,” you admit, finally looking over at Charles. “That’s Sheriff Lee Bodecker. He’s protective. Possessive, maybe. And I’ve known him a long time. We have a kind of arrangement. He doesn’t really like me going around without him, but at the same time, he won’t ever actually take me out.”
Charles nods slowly, listening, eyes thoughtful but patient as he occasionally takes his eyes off the road to look at you. There’s no judgment in his expression, just that careful intrigue that makes you feel safe enough to speak.
“And you?” he asks softly. “Do you like that?”
You hesitate, then shrug.
“It’s familiar, I guess. But it’s also…limiting? He never asks, he just assumes. I’ve learned to navigate it, but…” You trail off, exhaling slowly.
Charles leans back a little, giving you space, his grin returning.
“Sounds intense,” he says lightly, fingers tapping the wheel in rhythm. “But hey. We’re not here to dissect the past. Today is about seeing the town with the best guide it’s got.”
You can’t help but laugh a little, the tension in your chest loosening.
“Exactly. Let’s enjoy the day,” you say, turning your attention to the streets ahead, letting the past fade behind the hum of the engine and the bright sunlight on your face.
He nods, eyes on the road, but glances at you every so often, that quiet spark of interest never leaving. You guide him down the narrow streets, pointing out little oddities — a rusted swing set behind a church, a faded mural on the side of the old general store. The sunlight catches the edges of the buildings, making everything feel golden, like a secret world just for the two of you.
“You’ve got a knack for showing the interesting bits,” Charles says, eyes flicking to yours with a slow, teasing grin. “I bet most people just think of this town as sleepy. But you? You make it feel alive.”
Your chest warms at the compliment, and you can’t help but laugh softly.
“Well, someone has to. Might as well be me.”
He leans a little closer as he speaks, that faint, confident heat in his gaze. His hand brushes yours, just enough to make your pulse quicken.
“I like that,” he murmurs. “You have this way of making everything feel worth noticing. Like even a stranger feels like he belongs here.”
You feel a thrill at the attention, at the way his words linger in the air, unspoken promise curling in them. For the first time in a long while, you feel wanted, not just noticed or assumed. The memory of Lee, of that possessive hold in the cruiser, flits through your mind, but Charles’ easy warmth makes it fade to the background — like the sun pushing shadows aside.
“Careful,” you tease, nudging his shoulder lightly. “You might be setting a very high bar for other visitors.”
He laughs, a low, warm sound that makes your stomach twist in a good way.
“I’m not worried about them,” he says, eyes locking with yours. “Not when I’m the one with the best guide in town.”
You catch yourself smiling wider than usual, feeling lighter, freer, more alive than you have in months. The engine hums softly beneath you, the wind tugging at your hair, the streets stretching ahead, and for a little while, the world narrows down to him, you, and the spark that’s growing between you with every word, every laugh, every brush of a hand.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
The convertible is parked at the edge of the lake, gravel crunching softly beneath the tires. The sun is low, spilling gold over the water and catching on the trees. Charles leans back in his seat, turning toward you with that easy, playful smile.
“I think this is my favourite view so far,” he says, voice low, teasing.
You laugh softly, brushing your hair back from your face. There’s a pause, and then he leans in closer, just enough for you to feel the heat of his body, the faint scent of his cologne mingling with the pine-scented air.
His hands don’t claim, don’t press; they hover lightly, brushing an arm, a shoulder, just enough to make your pulse quicken. When he kisses you, it’s different from Lee — gentle at first, testing, exploratory, like he’s discovering you and letting you discover him. Every brush of lips, every soft pause, feels mutual, a give-and-take that leaves you dizzy in the best way.
You melt into the moment, heart hammering, aware of the lake behind him, the wind in your hair, the way the world narrows down to the two of you. There’s passion, yes, but it’s shared, a spark of energy that makes you feel alive, wanted, and seen — not owned.
When you pull back slightly, laughing breathless, he grins, just a hint of mischief in his eyes.
“I could get used to this,” he murmurs, voice warm and soft.
You lean against him for a moment, letting the sun sink lower and the lake glimmer gold. For the first time in a long while, the world feels like it belongs to you — and maybe just a little to him.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
The kettle clicks off with a soft pop, steam curling into the quiet of your kitchen. Charles leans against the counter, sleeves rolled just enough to show his forearms, watching you move like he’s memorizing every step.
The lights are low — just the overhead and the one flickering bulb above the sink. Outside, crickets sing lazily, the lake now nothing but a reflection behind the trees. The house smells like lemon soap and something faintly sweet. You’re suddenly aware of how intimate it all feels: the space, the silence, the fact that you invited him in.
You hand him a mug, fingers brushing, and he smiles over the rim before taking a sip.
“You know,” he says, “you don’t strike me as the type to bring strangers home.”
“I’m not,” you say, quieter than you mean to.
A beat of silence.
“I’m glad you made an exception.”
He doesn’t press. Doesn’t move in. Just leans on the counter like he belongs there, like the room is his to soak in — and you’re something he wants to take his time with.
Warnings/Tags: Modern/College AU, Best Friends To Lovers, Mutual Pining, Idiots In Love, Oral Sex, Unprotected Sex, Emotional Intimacy, Fluff And Angst, Protective Bucky Barnes, Bucky Barnes Is Down Bad
Word count: 22k
Music:
Delicate - Taylor Swift
Stick Season - Noah Kahan
Guilty as Sin? - Taylor Swift
Do I Wanna Know? - Arctic Monkeys
Ruin The Friendship - Taylor Swift
I Put A Spell On You - Annie Lennox
Notes: hi hello!! When I tell you I have been working on this fic since the beginning of the year, I’m not kidding. I made this post January 2nd and it’s been sitting in draft hell while I write, and re-write, then edit, then re-write again. But here it is!! I hope you all enjoy this one! <3
Bucky’s apartment always felt like a second campus building you actually liked.
Not because it was clean, because it definitely wasn’t. There were always a couple of abandoned textbooks stacked on the coffee table like a small, depressing tower of responsibility. A stray hoodie draped over the arm of the couch. A lone sock that didn’t belong to anyone currently in the room (you refused to ask).
But it was his.
Warm light leaked out of mismatched lamps, one with a shade that was slightly crooked no matter how many times Bucky fixed it, another thrift-store find that cast everything in a soft amber glow. The couch had survived at least three different friend groups and probably a small war, it dipped in the middle like it recognized your body and welcomed you back.
The snack cabinet was perpetually half-empty in the way that proved Bucky tried to stock it and Sam took that as a personal challenge. And there was always some low-level hum of life: the radiator clanking, the faint buzz of street noise through the window, the occasional creak of the floorboards when someone shifted their weight.
The kind of easy, lived-in chaos that made your shoulders drop the second you stepped inside, like you could unclench without anyone noticing.
Tonight was no different.
Sam had claimed the “good” spot on the couch like he paid rent (he did not), sprawled out with his feet on the coffee table and a bag of chips balanced on his stomach like it was sacred. Steve was sitting cross-legged on the floor, back against the couch, posture stupidly perfect even while he ate pizza like an art form. There was an open notebook beside him that he’d pretended to take notes in for exactly five minutes before giving up and just existing pleasantly in the room.
And Bucky was in the kitchen. Well, not fully in the kitchen, more like hovering at the boundary between the living room and the counter, as if he couldn’t decide whether to participate or retreat. He’d made himself busy with something that didn’t require much effort: rinsing a glass that was already clean, rearranging the stack of paper plates, checking the oven even though nothing was in it.
The performance was obvious. So was the way he kept half an eye on you anyway.
You hovered near the counter too, picking at a bag of kettle chips like it was a delicate hobby. One chip at a time. Slow crunch. Salt on your fingers. A ridiculous amount of focus for someone who was absolutely not thinking about chips.
Bucky glanced over quickly, like a reflex, and his gaze landed on your hands, then your face. His expression didn’t change much… but it did soften at the edges, in that way it always did when you were around, like his body remembered you before his brain could get in the way.
You pretended not to notice. Because noticing made things feel… loaded.
“You know,” Sam said suddenly, craning his neck dramatically as if addressing an invisible audience, “I could do my homework tonight.”
You blinked, deadpan. “That’s a strange way to spell ‘ignore it until the deadline and panic-text me at 2 a.m.’”
Steve laughed into his soda, the sound bright and helpless. Sam pressed a hand to his chest like you’d stabbed him. “Et tu, Brute?”
“You say that like I haven’t watched you ‘suddenly remember’ an entire semester’s worth of work in one night,” you shot back.
Sam wagged a finger. “First of all, I prefer the term academically spontaneous.”
Steve snorted. “That’s not a thing.”
“It is a thing,” Sam insisted. “It’s just not a thing that gets you scholarships.”
From the kitchen, Bucky huffed, quiet and low, but there was a curve to it, something soft that always slipped into his reactions when you were there, like he couldn’t help it. “She’s not wrong.”
Sam whipped his head around. “Wow. Betrayal from within the house.”
Bucky didn’t look up from the cabinet he was pretending to organize. “Do your homework.”
“You’re all conspiring against me,” Sam said, pointing at each of you like you were a jury.
You smiled, reaching into the bag for another chip. “It’s not a conspiracy. It’s an intervention.”
Sam gasped. “I don’t need an intervention.”
Bucky’s gaze flicked to you again and this time it lingered a fraction longer, like he was tracking the way you smiled, the way you fit into this space like you belonged here. Like you always had.
Your eyes drifted to him without permission, pulled by something magnetic and irritating and familiar.
He was leaning against the counter with that permanently unimpressed expression he wore like armor, one hip hooked against the edge, arms loosely crossed. A dark henley stretched across his shoulders and chest like it had been designed solely to ruin your ability to think, sleeves pushed up to his forearms, skin warm-toned under the lamp light, and his hair was messier than usual in a way that looked accidental but… wasn’t helping.
His gaze met yours for half a second too long.
And the room didn’t go silent, Sam was still talking, Steve was still laughing… but your brain did. Just a brief blank, like your thoughts hit a wall.
You felt your heart stumble in your chest, just a little stutter. Like a skipped stair step. Like that moment right before you trip, when your body goes oh— and tries to correct itself.
It was stupid. It was so stupid how normal it all was, how easy it was to pretend this was just another night. Just another round of Sam being loud and Steve being kind and Bucky pretending he didn’t care while constantly making sure everyone had what they needed.
And still, your body acted surprised every time Bucky looked at you like that. Like you were something steady. Something safe. Something he didn’t have to brace himself around.
It made your throat tighten in a way you hated. So you did what you always did when emotions got too close: you shoved them back down, forced your attention onto Sam, and willed your face into neutrality before you did something embarrassing like smile too much, or soften too obviously, or let him see that his attention hit you like a touch.
Sam was mid-story, gesturing wildly with a chip like it was a microphone. “—and then the professor looked at me and said, ‘Mr. Wilson, what exactly are you contributing to this discussion?’”
Steve made a sympathetic noise. “What did you say?”
Sam spread his hands. “I said, ‘Vibes.’”
You snorted. “You did not.”
“I did,” Sam insisted. “And she said, ‘That is not a measurable academic contribution.’”
Steve laughed, shaking his head. “She’s not wrong.”
“Anyway,” Sam said, pointing at you like the moral of the story was your fault, “this is why I need you to bring the flashcards. Because if I’m left to my own devices, I will perish.”
“You brought the flashcards?” Steve asked hopefully, like there was a real chance you’d show up unprepared and the world would end.
You held up your tote bag with exaggerated dignity. “I’m not an animal.”
Bucky’s voice came from the kitchen without him even looking up. “Debatable.”
You turned slowly, deadpan, letting the pause stretch just long enough to make it a threat. “James Buchanan Barnes,” you said, calm as a scalpel, “I will personally label every cabinet in this apartment in Comic Sans.”
Sam made a choking sound that was half laughter, half horror. Steve gasped like you’d just threatened a war crime.
Bucky’s mouth twitched barely, like he was trying to smother it before it became a smile. He straightened a fraction against the counter, eyes narrowing like he was measuring you. Not angry. Not annoyed. Just… amused in that reluctant way he got when you cornered him.
“You wouldn’t,” he said, voice low, like he was calling your bluff.
You raised your brows. “Try me.”
His eyes stayed on yours, steady and challenging, but there was something warm underneath it now, something that made the air between you feel charged in a way it shouldn’t. “You’re evil,” he muttered, like it pained him to admit it.
You tipped your chin up. “You love it.” The words slipped out too easy, too familiar. Too true in a way that made your stomach do a slow, traitorous flip, like your body heard it and went Oh. That. That’s a thing.
For half a second, you regretted it. Not because it was wrong, but because it wasn’t. Because Bucky’s expression shifted in the smallest way, like he’d been caught off guard by how soft it sounded coming from you. Like he’d been prepared for sarcasm, for banter, for a fight.
Sam noticed immediately, because Sam noticed everything. He grinned like a shark. “Aww.”
You pointed at him with a chip. “Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You’re thinking it loud.”
You bit down on the chip and tried to ignore the way Bucky’s ears had gone a faint pink. Which was… ridiculous. Bucky Barnes did not blush. Bucky Barnes stared down frat guys at parties until they apologized for existing.
And yet… here he was, subtly flustered because you teased him the way you’d been teasing him since freshman year, back when you’d met him in Intro to Psych and he’d looked like someone had dragged him into the building against his will.
The lecture hall had been too warm, packed with bodies and backpack straps and the faint smell of overbrewed coffee. The professor had been cheerful in a way that felt illegal for an 8 a.m., clicking through a slide titled “Welcome to PSYCH 101!” like it was the most thrilling thing on earth.
And then there was Bucky. Three rows down, hunched in his seat like he wanted to shrink out of existence. Hoodie up. Jaw clenched. The kind of posture that screamed do not talk to me.
Which, obviously, had been a challenge.
You’d chosen the seat next to him like it was fate instead of impulse. Dropped your tote down. Pulled out a notebook. And when he’d flicked his eyes to you with that flat, unimpressed stare, you’d smiled like you were meeting a stray cat.
“Hi,” you’d said, bright and fearless, offering up your name. “You look like you hate it here.”
He’d blinked slowly, like he wasn’t used to someone pointing out the obvious. “I do,” he’d replied.
“That’s okay,” you’d said, utterly delighted. “I’m going to sit here anyway.”
He’d stared at you for a beat too long, like he couldn’t decide if you were annoying or dangerous. And then, begrudgingly: “Fine.”
That had been it. That had been the beginning. Not some grand meet-cute. Just you deciding, without consulting him, that you were going to be friends.
And somehow, impossibly, you’d gotten under his skin the way you always did. You’d teased him when he refused to participate in discussion. You’d slide your notes toward him when he’d missed a class. You’d offered him a piece of gum one day and watched him look at it like it was a trap.
He’d been prickly. Guarded. Uninterested in everyone. And still, somewhere along the way, he’d let you stay, let you become a constant.
Now, three years later, it was easy. So easy it should’ve been suspicious.
You could walk into his apartment without knocking. You could steal his hoodie off the back of his chair and he’d grumble but not stop you. You could talk over him, interrupt him, poke at his patience like it was a button you’d installed, and he would roll his eyes like he hated it while quietly making sure you had a plate, a drink, a place to sit.
It was easy. And the ease of it terrified you a little, because it felt like something you weren’t supposed to get for free.
The night kept rolling, a blur of half-studying and mostly roasting each other.
Sam was the loudest variable, as usual. He’d contributed absolutely nothing to the study effort but 80% of the noise, narrating the evening like it was a documentary no one asked for.
Steve had tried, earnestly, to implement structure—“Okay, twenty minutes of focus, five minutes break”—as if any of you were wired for that kind of discipline.
And Bucky continued to hover in the kitchen entrance, close enough to be part of the group but far enough to feel like he had an exit. He was present in that steady way that made the room feel anchored, even when Sam’s brain was ping-ponging around like a loose marble.
At some point the sky outside the windows shifted from dusky blue to full dark. You checked the time and groaned. “Okay,” you announced, cheerful but tired. “I should go. I have an eight a.m. lab and I’d like to arrive with my soul intact.”
Sam groaned, flopping back dramatically. “You’re leaving? But we were just getting to the part where we all admit we can’t read.”
“You’ve admitted that,” Steve said. “Like, ten times.”
“Yeah, but I haven’t processed it emotionally,” Sam argued.
Steve was already rubbing at his eyes, fatigue setting in like a slow tide. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said, voice warm. “Get some sleep.”
You slung your bag over your shoulder and headed for the door, fingers curling around the strap like it anchored you. “Text me if you need anything.”
Sam lifted a hand immediately. “Need you to stay and explain what ‘citations’ means.” You flipped him off with love, a gesture so familiar it felt like home.
Then, because your body did it before your brain could stop it, you looked back at Bucky. He was still standing at the kitchen entrance like he’d been doing all night, pretending he wasn’t paying attention to you like you were the only thing in the room that made sense.
He took a step forward before he spoke, as if his body had decided for him. “I’ll walk you out,” he said, quick. Like the words had been waiting behind his teeth all night.
Your heart did that stupid thing again, thudding too hard, too fast, like it didn’t know how to be normal about him.“It’s…” you started, forcing a laugh that sounded steadier than you felt. “It’s ten steps to my car.”
Bucky’s eyes didn’t soften, not really. They stayed serious, grounded, like this was not a debate.
“Still,” he said. One word. No argument. Just Bucky being Bucky, like it was a rule carved into him: you don’t walk alone at night.
The door to Bucky’s apartment clicked closed behind you a few steps later and the warmth you’d been swimming in fell away as you stepped into cooler air that smelled faintly of old carpet and laundry detergent.
Bucky fell in beside you without making it a thing, hands tucked into his pockets, shoulders broad enough to make the cramped corridor feel smaller, like he took up space even when he was trying not to.
He walked at your pace the way he always did, matching you without looking like he was doing it. Every few steps his gaze flicked forward, then to the side, checking corners out of habit, old instincts in a place that didn’t deserve them.
It should’ve felt ridiculous, letting him escort you ten steps to your car like you were made of glass. But it never did.
Because with Bucky, it didn’t feel like control. It felt like… care. Quiet and steady. Like a hand at the small of your back when you stepped off a curb or an umbrella offered without commentary.
Your fingers tightened around your bag strap as you walked, the fabric rough against your palm. “Thanks for tonight,” you said, because you always said it, even if the night had been chaotic and loud and half-useless academically.
Bucky gave a small nod like it was nothing. “Mm,” he murmured, noncommittal, like gratitude made him uncomfortable.
You tried not to smile too hard.
The front entrance came into view, glass doors, the small lobby beyond it lit by harsh overhead fluorescents. The building’s posted notices on the wall. A crooked bulletin board covered in flyers for lost cats and study groups and someone offering tarot readings for $10.
Your steps slowed without you meaning them to.
Bucky opened the lobby door and held it, letting you pass first. The air changed as you stepped into the brighter light: colder, cleaner, less forgiving.
He followed you through, the door easing shut behind him with a soft thump. His boots sounded heavier on the tile.
You stopped just before the final doors to outside.
Bucky stopped too, turning slightly, angling his body between you and the glass as if it mattered. As if it was his job.
It wasn’t. That was the problem.
“Drive safe,” he said, voice low.
“I always do,” you answered automatically.
He didn’t respond right away.
His gaze flicked down your face in a way that made your stomach tilt. Not scanning like he scanned the hallway. Not checking like he checked exits. This was different, slower, almost careful, like he was trying to place something he’d felt all night and didn’t have a name for.
Like he was memorizing you.
Your pulse stumbled.
Bucky’s jaw shifted like he was about to speak and decided against it. Like the words were right there behind his teeth and he didn’t trust them.
Your fingers tightened around your bag strap again “Bucky?” you heard yourself say.
His eyes lifted immediately. “Yeah?”
A single word and yet it felt like it meant too much.
You didn’t know what you were asking. Not really. Not unless you wanted to pull at the thread you’d been avoiding for months and watch everything unravel.
You didn’t know what you wanted from him… an answer, a confession, permission, denial. So you did what you always did when you got too close to the edge and grabbed humor like it was a life raft.
You smiled softly and said, “Tell Sam I’m not proofreading his essay if he keeps calling it ‘a vibe piece.’”
Bucky’s mouth curved, the tension easing with it. It wasn’t a big smile, Bucky didn’t do big smiles, but it was real and it warmed something in your chest you didn’t want to examine.
“I’ll tell him,” he said, voice rough with amusement.
“Good.” You shifted your weight toward the door, trying to behave somewhat normal. “Night.”
“Night, doll.”
The nickname slipped out like muscle memory. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just… easy.
Your breath caught. Heat rushed up your neck and into your cheeks so fast you felt embarrassed by your own body. Because doll wasn’t new, he’d said it before, here and there, but tonight it landed different.
You forced a laugh that came out too thin. “Goodnight,” you repeated, like saying it twice could override the way your heart was sprinting.
Then you stepped backward toward the glass doors before you could do something stupid like stare. You lifted your hand in a small wave, because you were normal, and this was normal, and best friends said goodnight all the time.
Bucky lifted his hand back, just a fraction, like he didn’t want to let the moment go any more than you did.
You turned quickly before he could see how flustered you were. You hurried down the steps, boots tapping, the night air loud in your ears. You didn’t look back.
You told yourself you didn’t look back because you didn’t want to slip on the icy step, because you were focused, because you were responsible.
Not because if you looked back and saw him watching you, you might crumble.
You reached your car and fumbled your keys out, fingers clumsy from cold and nerves. You slid into the driver’s seat, shutting the door and sitting there for a beat with both hands on the steering wheel, breathing like you’d run a mile.
You started the car, heat blasting on weakly, the engine coughing awake. Only then did you glance up through the windshield… and see him. Bucky was still inside the lobby, standing just behind the glass doors.
Still, broad shoulders squared, hands in his pockets like he’d put them there to stop himself from doing something else. His face was turned toward your car, eyes fixed on you with that quiet, steady attention that always made you feel seen.
He didn’t wave this time, he just watched. As if you leaving was the part he hated most. As if he wasn’t satisfied until he knew you were gone, safe, out of sight, beyond the reach of whatever his brain insisted might happen.
You looked away quickly, because the moment felt too intimate through the glass. Because your cheeks were still hot. Because your heart was doing something stupid and hopeful and dangerous.
You backed out carefully, tires crunching over gravel, as you pulled out of your parking space and out onto the main street.
You didn’t see Bucky standing there, watching your taillights until they disappeared at the corner. You didn’t see the way his jaw clenched after you were gone.
Back upstairs, the apartment felt quieter without you, which was stupid because it was still three grown men and a TV that Sam refused to mute.
But your absence left a shape. Like the warmth you brought in with you didn’t fully disappear so much as drain out slowly, leaving everything a little flatter around the edges.
Bucky shut the door and leaned against it for half a second like he needed the wood to keep him upright.
Sam, half-sprawled on the couch, glanced up immediately because Sam had the survival instincts of someone who’d spent years learning how to read a room faster than it could read him. His grin came slow, sharp, delighted.
“Aww,” Sam crooned, all fake tenderness. “He walked her out.”
Bucky didn’t answer. He moved into the kitchen and grabbed a glass, filling it with water like hydration could fix… anything.
Steve was collecting empty cans and stacking them in a neat little row on the counter like he couldn’t help himself. His voice stayed casual, like he was narrating something harmless.
“She’s got lab early,” Steve said, as if that explained the tight line in Bucky’s jaw.
Bucky nodded once, short and clipped. Still not looking at them. He took a long drink of water that did absolutely nothing. Cold slid down his throat. His pulse stayed high anyway.
Steve didn’t push right away. That was Steve’s thing, he never yanked. He waited. He let people settle into their own truth.
Sam, on the other hand, lived to poke bruises and Bucky could feel Sam’s stare like heat.
Then Steve spoke again, tone light, like he was asking about the weather. “So…” He tipped his head toward the door. “You guys just friends?”
Bucky’s stomach did something unpleasant, like a drop on an elevator. He kept his eyes on the faucet even though it was off, like he was still busy. “Yeah.” But it came out too fast.
Sam’s eyebrows shot up. Steve’s expression didn’t change, but there was curiosity under it…real, quiet curiosity.
“Just friends,” Steve repeated, like he was testing the words.
Bucky’s grip tightened around the glass. “Yeah. We’ve been friends forever.”
Sam leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Uh-huh. Bucky shot him a look that said don’t you dare. Sam held up both hands, delight practically vibrating off him. “I’m just… listening.”
Steve nodded slowly, like he’d reached a conclusion. “Okay.”
Bucky finally looked over, suspicious. “Okay?”
Steve shrugged. “Just checking.”
Bucky drank again because he didn’t know what else to do with his hands. The water didn’t help. His chest still felt tight, like it remembered your smile too vividly.
Then Steve’s mouth tipped into something almost mischievous, so rare on him it should’ve been illegal “Cool,” he said, lightly. “So I can talk to her.”
The room went silent.
Not the normal “we ran out of things to say” silence, but the kind of silence that happens when something instinctive snaps into place.
Bucky’s entire body locked up like someone had flipped a switch in his spine. The glass in his hand stopped halfway to the counter.
Sam’s eyes widened, delighted. “Oh my God.”
Bucky’s voice came low. Flat. “What.”
Steve lifted his brows. “I said, if you’re just friends, then—”
Bucky set the glass down very carefully… then stepped closer. Not aggressive, at least not outwardly. But the air changed anyway, heavier, sharpened. Bucky Barnes did not have to raise his voice to make a room listen.
Steve’s smile faded into confusion. “Dude—”
“You’re not talking to her.” Bucky’s words were quiet, almost casual, which somehow made them worse.
Sam pressed a fist to his mouth to keep from laughing. It sounded like pain.
Steve stared. “Bucky. Why would I not talk to her? She’s cool. She’s smart. She’s funny—”
Bucky’s jaw flexed and Sam made a strangled noise like oh no he’s listing reasons. Steve, still oblivious in the way only Steve Rogers could be: “And she’s pretty, and—”
Bucky’s eyes went dangerous as he interrupted Steve, voice still calm but edged with something feral. “Stop.”
Bucky took another step, close enough now that Steve actually leaned back a fraction without realizing he was doing it.
“Listen,” Bucky said, each word measured. “You don’t get to—” He cut himself off, because saying you don’t get to look at her like that would’ve been admitting too much. But his stare did it for him anyway.
Steve’s eyes flicked across Bucky’s face like he was reading something he hadn’t noticed before, like puzzle pieces clicking together.
Realization dawned slowly. “Oh,” Steve said, very quietly. “Ohhhh.” Sam wheezed in the background.
Bucky’s cheeks went hot with irritation, at Steve, at Sam, at himself, at the fact that his body had reacted like a guard dog before his mouth could catch up.
Steve’s expression softened into something almost fond, which only made Bucky angrier. “You like her,” Steve said.
Bucky’s shoulders went rigid. “No.”
Sam barked a laugh. “That ‘no’ had a stutter in it, buddy.” Bucky looked like he wanted to throw the entire couch at Sam.
Steve held up both hands, backing off a little. “Okay. Okay. But you just told me you’re friends.”
“We are friends,” Bucky snapped.
Steve tilted his head. “But you want more.”
Bucky didn’t answer. Which was an answer.
Sam swung his legs off the couch, animated now. “Dude. You literally look like you’re about to challenge Steve to a duel for even imagining asking her out.”
Bucky’s gaze cut to Sam. “I’m not.”
Sam pointed. “You are.”
Bucky’s voice dropped again, stubborn. “I’m not.”
Steve’s smile came back, gentle this time, not teasing. “Bucky.”
Bucky’s eyes flicked away like the ceiling suddenly had something interesting going on.
Steve stepped closer, careful. “I wasn’t actually going to ask her out. I was messing with you.”
Bucky looked back at him, sharp. “Why.”
Steve shrugged, helpless honesty. “Because it’s been three years,” he said. “And you’ve been looking at her like she hung the moon.”
Bucky’s throat bobbed once. Steve kept going, because he wasn’t wrong and they all knew it.
“You keep calling her cute little nicknames like you don’t know what that does to you. You save her a seat without thinking. You go quiet when she’s tired like you’re trying to absorb the weight for her. And you get weird when anyone else gets her attention.”
Sam nodded violently. “So weird.”
Bucky’s jaw tightened. “I don’t.”
“You do,” Steve said, gentle but firm. “And I’m not trying to steal your girl.” He paused, watching Bucky’s face. “I’m trying to get you to be honest… at least with yourself.”
That phrase, your girl, hit something deep and instinctive in Bucky’s chest, and the worst part was how right it sounded, like it had been written somewhere long before he’d even learned how to want things again.
Bucky exhaled, hard, like he was letting go of a fight he didn’t know he’d started.
Sam leaned forward, quieter now. “You gonna tell her?”
Bucky stared at the floor for a beat.
He could still see you at the door, turning with that small smile. He could still hear the soft “night.” He could still feel the way his chest had tightened when you stepped away, like his body didn’t know what to do when you weren’t within reach.
Then, barely, like the words cost him pride and oxygen, “She deserves better than me springing it on her,” he said.
Steve’s expression softened even more. “That’s not an answer.”
Bucky swallowed. “I’m not gonna—” He shook his head once, frustrated. “I don’t wanna mess up what we have.”
Sam’s voice went surprisingly gentle. “You mean the thing you’re already messing up by acting like a kicked puppy every time she smiles at someone else?”
Bucky shot him a look. Sam held it, unflinching.
Steve nodded, calm. “You don’t have to do anything tonight. But… maybe stop lying about what you feel.”
Bucky’s hands clenched at his sides. Then he muttered, like the words tasted like pride and fear at the same time, “I’m not lying.”
Sam lifted his brows. “Then what was that back there? ‘Yeah just friends’?”
Bucky’s jaw tightened. “I’m just… defensive.”
Steve smiled, small. “You mean possessive.”
Bucky’s glare could’ve melted glass.
Sam slapped his thigh. “Oh, he’s down bad.”
Bucky’s voice came low, warning. “Sam.”
Sam held up his hands again, laughing. “Okay, okay. But for the record? If you don’t tell her soon, somebody else is gonna try. And you’re gonna have an aneurysm.”
Bucky’s gaze flicked to the door, like he could still see you, could still feel the warmth you left behind in the room. Then, reluctantly, like admitting it might break him, “…Yeah,” he said. “Probably.”
Steve’s smile went soft. “Good. That means you care.”
Bucky’s eyes narrowed. “I’ve always cared.”
Sam grinned like Christmas came early. “Awww.”
Bucky turned, already moving toward his bedroom, because if he stayed in the living room any longer he was going to do something dramatic, like text you right now and say something catastrophically honest.
Sam called after him, bright and smug: “So we agree? She’s not just your friend.”
Bucky paused in the doorway, shoulders tense. Then, without looking back, he said, quiet and deadly: “Try and find out.” And shut the door.
Sam exploded into laughter. Steve just stood there, shaking his head, smiling like he’d finally solved a mystery.
And somewhere off in the distance, you were driving home with no idea that the line between “best friends” and “mine” had just been drawn hard inside Bucky’s chest.
You didn’t think about Bucky on the drive home. That was the lie you told yourself, anyway.
You told yourself you were thinking about your eight a.m. lab, about the way your TA looked like he’d been spawned by black coffee and bad sleep, about how you still needed to print your pre-lab worksheet, about whether you’d remembered to pack your goggles or if Future You was about to have to buy another pair from the bookstore for a price that felt criminal.
You told yourself you were thinking about the exam next week, the one that sat in the back of your head like a storm cloud you kept pretending wasn’t there. You told yourself you were thinking about literally anything else.
But your mind kept doing that annoying, traitorous thing where it rewound moments like a song you couldn’t stop replaying, even when you changed the station.
Bucky’s eyes on you in the kitchen. Not a glance. Not a check-in. A linger. Like he’d been looking at you and forgetting to look away.
The way his voice had dropped when he’d said “Night, doll”, soft and low, like it belonged in the quiet. And the pause after, that half second where everything in you had gone still because you could tell he’d realized he’d said it out loud.
You gripped the steering wheel a little tighter and forced your gaze onto the road, like you could steer yourself away from the thought if you held on hard enough.
It was nothing, you told yourself. It was a nickname. Bucky called people nicknames. Bucky was… Bucky. Quiet, protective, occasionally softer than he wanted anyone to notice. And you were his friend.
His best friend, technically, if you were counting hours spent in the same space, shared notes, shared snacks, shared silence. If you were counting the way he always saved you the seat that wasn’t too close to other people. The way he always angled his body between you and whatever made you tense. The way he somehow knew when your social battery was dying and would silently hand you your coat like here, I’m giving you an exit.
Friends did that. Friends walked you out. Friends texted you to make sure you got home.
You repeated it like an incantation as you drove, friends, friends, friends, like saying it enough times would make your stomach stop doing that weird, soft flip every time you pictured his face at the door.
You should not be noticing his shoulders. You should not be noticing the shape of his hands when he reached for a glass. You should not be noticing the way he looked at you like you were the only calm thing in a room.
You were not doing that. You were normal. This was normal.
Your brain, unfortunately, did not agree.
You swallowed hard at a red light and stared straight ahead, unblinking, like that could keep you from spiraling.
Because spiraling meant admitting something, and admitting something meant you’d have to do something about it… and you weren’t ready.
You weren’t ready to name the thing in your chest that kept swelling every time he said your name. You weren’t ready to admit that sometimes you caught yourself looking at his mouth. That sometimes, when he was laughing, rare and rough and real, you felt like your heart had been physically tugged in that direction.
You weren’t ready to ask yourself what it would mean if he didn’t just feel safe, but what it would mean if he felt like home.
So you did what you always did when feelings got too big: You shoved them into the “later” folder in your brain and hoped they would die of neglect.
By the time you pulled into your apartment complex and killed the engine, you’d decided it meant nothing. By the time you climbed the stairs and brushed your teeth and crawled into bed, you’d reinforced that decision so aggressively you almost believed it.
And by the time you fell asleep, you’d filed the whole night away under:
Bucky being Bucky. Me being dramatic. Nothing to see here.
When you woke up, your phone buzzed. You blinked at the screen through sleep-heavy eyes squinting at the brightness like it was personally offensive.
Bucky: You get home okay?
Your brain didn’t even have time to put up defenses before your body reacted, warmth blooming in your chest, soft and immediate. Like your insides had been waiting for it.
You stared at it for a full ten seconds until your thoughts caught up.
He texted to check in. That’s normal. People do that.
Your thumbs hovered over the keyboard. Don’t be weird, you told yourself as you typed back with a yawn and a smile you refused to examine.
You: Yeah. Fell asleep like a rock. You guys survive without me?
You hit send, then immediately rolled onto your back and stared at the ceiling like it might tell you why your heart was suddenly beating like you’d just done cardio.
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Bucky: Barely.
Bucky: Good luck in lab.
You blinked at the screen.
That second text, good luck in lab, was so stupidly sweet it made your chest do the thing again. That soft squeeze, right under your ribs, like your body recognized care before your brain could dismiss it.
He remembered your schedule. Of course he did. He remembered everything. He remembered your coffee order “by accident” and then never forgot it. He remembered the exact brand of granola bar you liked. He remembered the way you got quiet when you were anxious.
He wasn’t just being polite. He was being… Bucky. And you weren’t supposed to feel like this about Bucky.
Because feeling like this about Bucky meant risk. It meant the possibility of losing the easiest, safest relationship you’d ever had. It meant ruining the one thing in your life that didn’t feel complicated.
It meant taking something good and putting it in your shaky hands.
You typed a reply, erased it, typed again.
You: Thanks 😊
Too soft. Delete.
You: Appreciate it.
Too formal. Like he was your professor. Delete.
Your fingers hovered again and your brain scrambled for something safe and normal, something that didn’t scream I read your texts like they’re scripture.
So you sent the only armor you had: sarcasm.
You: Thanks, old man.
Three dots popped up immediately and you felt your mouth twitch, helpless, like you could already hear him.
Bucky: I’m 23.
You laughed before you could stop yourself, one of those soft, stupid laughs that made your whole face warm. You rolled onto your side and hugged your pillow tighter, smiling like an idiot.
Stop it, you told yourself. Stop smiling. Stop reading into it. Stop—stop—stop—
But your mind, traitorous as ever, offered up the image of him in his lobby again. The way he’d looked at you like he was holding something back. Like he’d wanted to say more and didn’t trust himself.
Your stomach dipped.
Because if you were being honest, if you peeled back all the sarcasm and denial and careful avoidance, there was a part of you that knew this wasn’t new. It had been building. In tiny, quiet ways. In ways you’d pretended were nothing because nothing was safer than something.
But last night… last night had felt like a line you’d both stepped too close to.
And now you were lying in bed with your phone in your hand, cheeks warm, heart stupid, and your lab looming, trying very hard not to think about how you wanted to text him something soft.
Something honest, something… terrifying.
Instead, you sat up fast, like movement could shake the thoughts loose, and threw the covers back.
“Nope,” you muttered to yourself, climbing out of bed. “We are not doing this today.”
You set your phone down like it had personally betrayed you, then immediately picked it back up and looked at the screen again.
Because you were weak. And because Bucky Barnes was your best friend. And because something in you was starting to realize that might not be the whole truth anymore.
Campus was already loud by the time you got there.
Winter air, backpacks, the smell of burnt espresso and wet concrete. You power-walked across the quad with your tote bag thumping against your hip and your hair still damp from the shower.
Halfway to the science building, you cut through the student union to grab coffee, because if you had to pipette anything before caffeine, you would simply pass away.
The line was long. Of course it was.
You shuffled forward, clutching your tote bag, scrolling your phone with the dead-eyed focus of someone trying not to think about how little you’d slept.
“Hey.”
You looked up and immediately softened at the sight of Steve, standing a few feet away with one hand wrapped around a coffee cup, the other lifting in a small wave like he’d been waiting to spot you.
He looked annoyingly put-together for eight in the morning in a hoodie, clean sneakers, his hair behaving. The human embodiment of “I definitely slept.”
“Steve,” you said, relief in your voice before you could help it. “Thank God. A friendly face.”
He smiled. “Is that what I am? Not ‘a walking lecture on responsibility’?”
“You contain multitudes,” you said gravely. “Mostly protein.”
Steve laughed, stepping up beside you so you were shoulder-to-shoulder in line like it was the most natural thing in the world. Which it was. You’d had enough shared group projects and late-night study sessions for it to be normal.
“Early lab?” he murmured, like he didn’t remember from the night before.
“Eight a.m. The crime of it all,” you sighed. “Why are you up? You don’t even have class until like… never.”
“Rude.” Steve took a sip of his coffee. “I have an eight-thirty. And Sam texted me at seven asking if ‘breakfast counts as a concept.’ So I’m on crisis duty.”
Your mouth twitched. “You’re enabling him.”
“I’m saving the GPA of the friend group.”
You bumped your shoulder lightly into his. “Hero complex.”
Steve’s grin widened. “Guilty.”
You both moved forward a couple steps. You felt your shoulders unclench, the simple ease of it. Steve was one of the few people who could talk to you without draining your battery.
He took a sip of his coffee, then glanced at you over the rim like he was trying very hard to look casual about something he’d already decided to bring up.
“So,” he said, measured, “you escaped pretty quick last night.”
You blinked. “I did not escape.”
Steve’s mouth quirked. “Uh-huh. You left and Buck spent the next ten minutes pretending he wasn’t listening for the door.”
You huffed, trying to keep it light. “Maybe he was just… making sure the door latched. He’s weird about locks.”
Steve’s eyes crinkled. “Maybe.” Then, softer, like he couldn’t help it: “He’s just… different when you’re around.”
That landed quieter than it should’ve. You busied yourself with the menu board, as if latte options could save you from emotions.
Steve didn’t push right away. He let the line move, let the moment breathe. He was good at that. Then he said, like it was nothing: “He was up early.”
You glanced at him. “Bucky? Voluntarily?”
Steve’s mouth tipped. “Didn’t say that.” A beat. “Just… seemed like something was on his mind.”
Your stomach did a small, annoying flip.
Steve’s gaze dipped to your hand, the way your thumb kept hovering over your phone like you were waiting for it to light up. He didn’t smile, just looked back at you with quiet, patient understanding.
“And you,” he added, “seem… a little distracted.”
You scoffed automatically. “I’m not distracted. I’m thriving.”
Steve smiled like he’d known you long enough to translate. “Sure you are.”
The line crept forward again. You were just starting to decide what you wanted when Steve, very casually, asked: “So… you and Buck still doing the “we’re just friends” thing?”
You paused for half a second, your brain doing a hard reset at the question. Steve’s eyes crinkled. “That’s not a no.”
You gave him an unimpressed look. “It’s also not a yes to whatever you’re trying to start.”
“I’m not starting anything,” Steve said, too innocent.
You scoffed. “You’re literally always starting something.”
Steve lifted his free hand in surrender, but his voice softened as he said it, no teasing now, just honest. “Okay, fine. I just…” he shrugged, eyes kind, “I care about him. And you’re important to him. That’s all.”
Your throat tightened in a way you didn’t love. You reached for sarcasm once again like it was a blanket. “I’m important to everyone. I’m a national treasure.”
Steve smiled like he believed you. “You kind of are.”
You rolled your eyes, but you can’t stop the little tug at the corner of your mouth. The line shuffles forward again, and now you’re close enough to the counter that you can actually smell the espresso. The barista at the register looks half-awake, hair shoved into a messy bun, name tag slightly crooked. “Next!” You step up automatically, slipping into your practiced morning voice as you rattle off your order.
You drift toward the pick-up counter after paying for your drink, the shop humming around you. Steam hissing, cups sliding, the low clatter of lids and sleeves. Music plays somewhere under all the conversation, muffled by the grinder going off again.
You lean back against the wall near the window, cradling your receipt like it’s a promise. Outside, students cross the quad in bundled-up clusters, their breath ghosting in the cold. Inside, it’s warm enough that your cheeks finally stop stinging.
Steve sips his coffee and watches you over the rim with that same I’m being casual but I’m actually paying attention look.
You lift your chin, already defensive. “Don’t.”
Steve’s eyes crinkle. “Don’t what?”
“Do your Captain Concerned face.”
“I’m not,” he says, which is a blatant lie.
You huff a laugh and look away, tracking the line of cups moving down the counter like you can will yours into existence. A barista calls a name and someone snatches the drink like it’s a life raft.
Steve shifts a little closer, voice dropping just enough to stay between the two of you. “You know you don’t have to figure all of that out at eight in the morning, right?”
You glance at him. “Figure what out.”
He gives you a look. Not pushy. Just… come on. “You and Buck,” he says simply.
Your stomach flips. “I’m not figuring anything out,” you say, a little too quickly. “There’s nothing to figure out.”
Steve hums, unconvinced, but lets it sit. “Okay,” he says lightly. “Just don’t spiral yourself into a wall over it.”
You flick your gaze back to him. “And if you keep talking like that, I’m going to start calling you ‘Dad’ unironically.”
Steve grins. “I can live with that.”
You shake your head, smiling despite yourself, and bounce lightly on your heels, half-impatient, half-anticipating that first sip like it’s going to reset your whole nervous system.
Then the barista calls your name and relief hits so fast you almost laugh. “That’s me.” You step forward, reach for the cup, warm in your hands, sleeve snug around it. The smell alone makes your shoulders drop like your body finally remembers how to unclench.
You turn back toward Steve… and nearly collide with someone entering the shop. You stop short on instinct, yanking your drink back so it won’t spill, heat sloshing dangerously close to the lid. Your apology is already on your tongue, automatic, practiced.
“Sorry—” But the word catches.
Because it’s Bucky. And for one stupid second, your body reacts like the universe just reached into your chest and squeezed.
He’s not dressed up. Just a worn jacket and a dark hoodie underneath, like he threw it on without thinking. His hair looks slightly damp, like he showered in a hurry and left with his hoodie still smelling faintly like soap. The cold outside has pinked his cheeks a little, and you hate how much you notice details you shouldn’t be noticing.
His eyes sweep the room once as he steps in on instinct and they land on you almost immediately. For a second, his face eases. The hard line of his mouth loosens. The set of his shoulders drops by a fraction. Like seeing you in the room resets something in him.
And your chest tightens, because you feel it.
Then Bucky’s gaze shifts, just a quick flick to your side where he notices Steve. You watch the tiny recalibration. Not anger. Not hostility. Nothing that would give him away. Just… awareness.
Bucky’s gaze flicks back to you like he’s checking in, like the only question that matters is are you okay?
“Hey,” you say, surprised into a smile that you try to make normal. Try to make casual. Try to make friend-shaped. It comes out softer anyway. “What are you doing here?”
Bucky clears his throat like your voice did something to him. “I—” His eyes dart to the menu board, like he needs a reason to exist in this space that isn’t you. “Was nearby.”
Nearby. On campus. At your coffee shop. Right when you’re here… Sure.
Steve, because Steve is Steve, lifts his coffee in greeting like this is all perfectly normal and not actively making your pulse misbehave. “Morning.”
“Morning,” Bucky returns, polite. Normal. The kind of normal he uses when he’s trying very hard not to show his cards.
Your fingers tighten around your cup without you meaning to, the sleeve warm against your palm. Bucky’s eyes dropped to the cup in your hand, lingering on it like it was safer to look at that than at your face for too long. “You got something?”
“Hazelnut latte,” you said. “Because I’m brave.”
Your voice comes out light, teasing, your practiced armor. Like you didn’t spend the entire morning trying not to think about him and that you didn’t stare at his text until your chest warmed in a way you refused to label.
He nods once, gaze still on your drink and then, casual, almost absentminded, he reaches out and adjusts the tote strap on your shoulder where it’s slipping.
The touch is quick, nothing dramatic, not even a full second. But it lands like a spark on dry paper.
His fingers brush the fabric, then the edge of your shoulder through your sweater, and your brain goes briefly blank, like someone unplugged it and forgot to plug it back in.
Bucky’s hand drops back to his side like it meant nothing. Like he hasn’t been doing little things like that for years.
Like you don’t remember a hundred tiny versions of this: him tucking your scarf in when you didn’t notice it slipping, him nudging your notebook back onto the desk when it slid, him sliding your coffee closer when you were too busy talking to reach for it.
“Thanks,” you manage, and it comes out quieter than you intended.
Bucky meets your eyes for the smallest second, just enough for you to feel like he heard the softness and didn’t look away from it. “Yeah,” he says.
Steve watches it happen with the patient expression of someone seeing a puzzle piece click into place. He doesn’t smirk, doesn’t pounce, doesn’t make you feel exposed. He just shifts his weight and asks, warmly, “You heading to lab?”
You clear your throat like a person who has not just short-circuited over a tote strap. “Yep. My own personal hell.” You try to laugh but it comes out a little breathy.
Bucky’s gaze sharpens immediately, purpose sliding over his features like a mask he knows how to wear. “I’ll walk you.”
Your stomach drops again and you blink. “You don’t have to—”
“I know.” His tone is gentle, like he doesn’t mean it as pressure. Just fact. “I want to.”
The words hit like a warm hand on your spine, your chest squeezes in that soft, terrifying way it did last night when he said doll. In the way it did this morning when he wished you good luck like he’d been thinking about you before you even woke up.
“Okay,” you say, aiming for casual and landing somewhere closer to flustered. “Sure. You can—” you gesture vaguely, because words are failing you, “escort me across the terrifying quad.”
Bucky nods, already turning with you like the decision is made. Like this is just what he does: follows you. keeps you warm. makes sure you get where you’re going.
Steve steps back to give you space and smiles at you. “Text me later,” he says. “I want the lab gossip.”
You point at him, grateful for something normal to hold onto. “Only if you promise not to mother-hen Sam into my DMs.”
Steve laughs. “No promises.”
You roll your eyes and start toward the door with Bucky beside you, your shoulder nearly brushing his, your body walking a little too carefully like it doesn’t trust itself not to lean in.
As you pass, Steve adds lightly, like it’s nothing at all: “Tell Buck I said hi later.”
You look back, incredulous, grateful for the excuse to blink and breathe. “He literally heard you.”
“I like to be thorough,” Steve calls, grin bright.
You snorted and stepped into the cold with Bucky, breath catching as the chill cut straight through you.
It was that sharp, early-winter kind that made the inside of your nose sting and turned every exhale into smoke. You tucked your chin into your scarf and immediately regretted wearing cute boots instead of practical ones.
Bucky didn’t seem to register the temperature at all. He moved beside you with that steady, unhurried pace he always had, hands in his jacket pockets, shoulders slightly hunched against the wind.
The student union doors swung shut behind them, sealing in the warmth and noise and suddenly it was just campus morning again: footsteps on concrete, distant laughter, the thrum of cars, someone yelling into a phone about a quiz they definitely forgot.
You glanced at Bucky sideways and instantly noticed how he was walking half a step closer than normal.
Not touching. Not crowding. Not doing anything that anyone else would clock as anything. Just… close enough that when the wind cut hard between buildings, you felt the edge of his body heat brush your sleeve like a private little shelter.
It shouldn’t have felt like anything. And yet your brain kept tripping over it like a loose stair. You told yourself it was just him being protective. You told yourself that didn’t mean anything.
Your body, traitor, did not agree.
“You didn’t tell me you were coming to campus today,” you said, keeping your tone casual, like you weren’t overanalyzing his presence as if it were a crime scene.
Bucky’s eyes stayed forward. His hands were in his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched against the cold, jaw set like he was bracing for the wind to pick a fight. “Didn’t know I was.”
You snorted. “That’s deeply concerning.”
His mouth twitched, almost a smile. “I was up,” he said, like that explained everything. Like being awake automatically meant he belonged wherever you were.
Your gaze flicked to the faint shadows under his eyes, the kind that didn’t come from one bad night but more like a pattern he pretended wasn’t a pattern. “You didn’t sleep.”
Bucky’s jaw shifted subtly, like a muscle flex. Like he didn’t love being perceived. “Some.”
“That wasn’t an answer.”
He glanced down at you and for a second his expression softened in a way that always startled you. like the “Bucky Barnes who scowls at the world” melted into something warmer when it was just you.
“I’m fine,” he said, quieter.
You made a face. “You say that like it’s a spell.”
Bucky’s mouth twitched again. “Works most of the time.”
“It does not,” you said, and your voice wanted to be teasing, wanted to stay light, but there was something tender underneath it you couldn’t quite smother. You swallowed it down and tried again, steadier. “But really… why did you really come?”
Bucky’s shoulders lifted in a small shrug, but his eyes stayed fixed ahead, scanning the quad like he was tracking a hundred small things at once. “You had lab.”
You blinked, waiting for him to elaborate. He didn’t “Okay,” you said slowly. “And?”
“And it’s early,” he added, simple as a fact. “And it’s cold.”
Something in your chest shifted. It wasn’t fireworks, wasn’t a confession, wasn’t even romantic on the surface… but it hit you anyway.
Because it wasn’t about the weather. Not really.
It was about him showing up. About him quietly deciding that you shouldn’t have to do the morning alone. About him making himself part of your day the same way he always did, like it didn’t cost him anything, like it wasn’t a choice.
Your mouth went dry. You forced a laugh to cover it. “You’re acting like I’m going to get jumped by a chemistry beaker.”
Bucky’s eyes flicked to you again, sharp and steady. “Stranger things have happened.”
You rolled your eyes. “You’re dramatic.”
He didn’t even hesitate. “You’re underdressed.”
You gasped, offended, clutching your coat tighter around yourself like it was a courtroom drama. “These boots are fashion.”
Bucky huffed a laugh, quiet and rough, barely there, but it warmed something in you anyway. “Those boots are a lawsuit.”
You bumped your shoulder into his, a little harder than necessary, because you needed the contact to feel normal. “You’re such an old man,” you accused.
“I’m twenty-three,” he reminded you again, like he’d been waiting to say it.
You smiled despite yourself, couldn’t help it, even when you tried. “And yet. So ancient.”
Bucky’s gaze lingered on you for half a beat, like he wanted to say something else. Like there was another version of this conversation where he admitted the real reason he was here wasn’t the cold, or the hour, or the hypothetical beaker attack.
Like maybe the real reason was the simplest one: I wanted to see you.
But he didn’t say it.
You crossed the quad together, weaving through the morning crowd like you’d done it a hundred times except this time… you couldn’t stop noticing the shape of it.
Bucky stayed half a step closer than normal, body angled just enough that he took the worst of the wind when it knifed between buildings. His pace matched yours without you asking. When you slowed to dodge a cluster of freshmen walking five-wide like they’d never heard of spatial awareness, he slowed too. When you sped up to get around a skateboarder who nearly clipped your ankle, he adjusted without breaking stride, guiding you through the chaos like it was second nature.
It should’ve been funny. It was funny, a little. But it also made something in your chest twist in that warm, uncomfortable way you’d been trying to ignore.
By the time the science building came into view, your hands were cold inside your sleeves, but your face was warm for reasons that had nothing to do with the weather.
At the edge of the steps, you slowed.
“This is me,” you said, turning toward the doors like you weren’t reluctant to break away from him. Like you weren’t suddenly hyperaware of how much calmer your brain had been with him beside you.
Bucky stopped with you but didn’t immediately step away.
You became abruptly aware of how close you were now, close enough you could see the tiny scar near his eyebrow, the faint crease at the corner of his mouth from the way he held tension, the little flecks of lighter brown in his eyes when the sun hit them right.
Bucky’s gaze dropped to your hands. “You got gloves?”
You blinked down, as if the answer might change if you looked harder. Your fingers were shoved into your sleeves like a child. “No.”
“Jesus,” he muttered under his breath, and you weren’t sure if it was aimed at you or at the concept of winter itself. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a pair of black knit gloves, and held them out.
You stared. “Are those… yours?”
Bucky’s face stayed neutral, but his ears pinked faintly, the only betrayal of anything happening under the surface. “Extra pair.”
“Since when do you carry extra gloves?” you asked, because your brain needed to cling to logistics before it got swallowed by the way your chest was tightening.
Bucky shrugged like it was obvious. Like it wasn’t at all strange to have an extra layer of warmth ready to hand to you.“Since always.”
You didn’t believe him. You didn’t believe most things Bucky said when he was trying to play something off. But you took them anyway because you always did. Because your hands were freezing. Because refusing would make this a thing, and you were trying so hard not to make things things.
Your fingers brushed his for the briefest moment as you took them and your body reacted like you’d been burned. A little jolt, sharp and hot, flaring up your arm and straight into your chest, and your stomach dipped like you’d stepped off a curb you didn’t see.
You focused on the gloves like they were the only thing holding you together. “You just carry extra gloves,” you said, a little too pointed, like you could logic your way out of whatever feeling was trying to take root in your ribs.
Bucky’s shrug came again, smaller this time. “Yeah.”
You narrowed your eyes at him. “You’re lying.”
“I’m prepared,” he said.
You huffed a laugh, but it came out thin. “You’re—” you started, ready to tease him, ready to keep it light… then the truth landed too cleanly in your mouth.
“You’re always prepared for me.”
The words hung there between you, visible in the cold. You hadn’t meant to say it like that, hadn’t meant to say it at all.
Bucky didn’t answer. Instead, his gaze lifted to your face, steady and unreadable except for the way something in it tightened, like your words had hit a place he kept guarded.
You swallowed, forcing air into your lungs.
“Well,” you said too brightly, voice climbing a note higher than usual. You shoved one glove on, then the other, because movement felt safer than standing still. “Thanks for walking me.”
Bucky’s voice dropped lower. “Text me when you’re done.”
You blinked. “Why?”
His gaze flicked past your shoulder toward the building, scanning like it was a threat, then came back to you, sharp and full of intent, like the only thing he was really paying attention to was you. “Just… do it.”
It wasn’t controlling. It wasn’t harsh. It sounded like a habit he didn’t realize he had: check in, make sure she’s okay, make sure she’s still here.
Your chest tightened. “Okay,” you said, quieter now. Honest despite yourself. “I will.”
Bucky nodded once, satisfied, as if that was all he needed. As if your promise was something he could hold onto. Then, finally, he stepped back like he’d completed his mission.
You turned toward the doors, breath fogging in front of you, and took one step… then hesitated.
You looked back and he was still standing there, watching like he always did until you were inside. Your heart did that stupid, traitorous thing again, beating too hard against your ribs.
You lifted a hand in a small wave, trying to look normal, trying to ignore the fact that your fingers felt warm inside hisgloves.
Bucky lifted his hand back, subtle and restrained, but his eyes stayed on you the whole time.
And you ducked inside before you could talk yourself into circles, before you could stand there long enough to do something reckless, like walk back down the steps and ask him what the hell you were to him.
The lab greeted you with the sharp scent of bleach and metal, disinfectant hanging heavy in the air. You shrugged off your coat, hung it on the rack, slipped your goggles into place, and forced yourself back into the rhythm of the room: steady hands, precise measurements, careful data collection.
You turned toward your station, the one with the slightly crooked label and the burner that always clicked twice before it lit. Your lab partner, Riley, was already there, hair in a messy bun, sleeves shoved up, face bright with the kind of morning energy that made you distrust her.
“Hey!” Riley chirped, waving like you were meeting for brunch instead of chemistry.
You waved back, grateful for something normal. “Morning.”
Riley leaned over the bench, eyes scanning your materials like she had a radar for preparedness. “Did you bring your notebook?”
You patted your tote bag. “Always. I’m the only reason you pass.”
Riley grinned, shameless. “True.”
That made you laugh, and for half a second you felt like yourself again, like you could just slide into the routine and let your brain go quiet. You both started setting up: measuring, labeling, filling small beakers with precise amounts of solution. You wrote your names on a strip of lab tape and stuck it to the glassware.
Normally, you loved this part, the rhythm of it. Hands busy, mind narrowing down to a single point. The satisfaction of order: numbers, measurements, exactness. Lab work was one of the few places your brain could be loud without being chaotic.
But today your thoughts kept drifting like static, like a radio station you couldn’t tune out.
Bucky standing at the science building steps, still watching you when you turned back. Bucky’s quiet voice: Just… do it.Bucky’s gloves on your hands, now folded in your tote like a secret you couldn’t put down.
You shook your head once, sharp, like you could physically dislodge it.
Focus.
Riley was mid-sentence about your TA, something about the man’s obsession with “proper labeling” and “not treating acid like juice”, when a voice cut in from the station beside you, murmuring your name like it belonged in his mouth.
“Hey… that’s you, right?”
You glance over and another classmate, Ethan Calder, tall, sandy-haired, always wearing a hoodie like it was glued to him, stood by the neighboring bench with a smile that was trying a little too hard. He sat two rows behind you in one of your lecture classes. He’d asked you for notes once and now laughed too loudly at your jokes since.
“Yeah,” you said, polite. “Hey.”
Ethan’s smile brightened like you’d just rewarded him. He leaned an elbow on the counter, casual and rehearsed, like he’d seen someone do it in a movie and decided it counted as charm.
“Didn’t know you were a morning person,” he said, tone light.
You blinked. “I’m not.”
He laughed, like that was delightful. “That’s kind of cute.”
Your stomach twisted.
Not because Ethan was doing anything wrong, he wasn’t. He was flirting, harmlessly, the way college guys did when they thought they had an opening.
But the word cute landed on your skin like an ill-fitting sweater. Scratchy. Wrong. A label you didn’t want.
Ethan kept going, undeterred. “You always seem… chill,” he said, gaze lingering in a way that made your shoulders want to tense. “Like you’ve got your life together.”
You stared at him for a beat. My life together?
Your life was held together by color-coded planners, caffeine, and the sheer determination not to disappoint people. But sure. If that looked like “together” from the outside, maybe everyone else was worse off than you thought.
“Uh,” you said, trying to steer it back to neutral ground, “I just… write everything down.”
Ethan nodded like that was adorable, like the idea of you being organized was part of his fantasy. “Maybe you could write my number down.”
Riley made a very unfortunate choking sound that could’ve been interpreted as a cough if the universe was kind and your face went hot instantly.
Ethan smiled, pleased with himself. “Unless you’re seeing someone.”
The question should’ve been easy. You should’ve smiled, said no thanks, kept it polite. It would’ve slid off you like water. You’ve brushed off flirting before, deflected, redirected.
Except your brain didn’t stay in the present, no, instead it immediately supplied Bucky.
Bucky’s face at the coffee shop. Bucky stepping to your side like he belonged there. Bucky adjusting your tote strap without thinking, like touching you was instinct. Bucky giving you gloves as if keeping you warm was as natural as breathing.
Your mouth opened… and nothing came out.
Because if you said no, it felt like lying. And if you said yes, you didn’t know who you’d be talking about.
Ethan’s smile faltered slightly. “Or… are you?”
You forced a small laugh, light and awkward. “I’m… not really looking to—”
“That’s fair,” Ethan said quickly, eager to recover, but then he added, softer, like he thought this was romantic: “I could change your mind.”
Your skin prickled. It wasn’t aggressive. It wasn’t cruel. It was the kind of line people said when they thought persistence was attractive, but it made something in you recoil. Not because he was scary… but because he wasn’t Bucky.
And that was the problem. That was the sudden, horrifying clarity of it.
You didn’t want attention like this from someone else. You didn’t want to be someone’s new interest, someone’s casual flirt, someone’s challenge. You didn’t want to be looked at like a prize. You wanted—
You froze. Because your brain finished the sentence before you could stop it.
You wanted Bucky.
The thought landed clean and undeniable, like a door slamming shut. Your breath caught in your chest and your hands, holding a test tube, went suddenly too still.
You swallowed past the tightness, forcing your voice steady the way you did when you were trying not to shake.
“Ethan,” you said, calm but firm, “you’re nice, but… no.”
Ethan blinked. “No?”
You nodded, firmer now. “No.”
He stared at you for a beat like he wasn’t used to being shut down without softness. Then he lifted his hands, backing off. “Okay. Got it. Sorry.”
“It’s fine,” you said, because you were always fine, always polite, always smoothing edges even when you didn’t owe it.
Ethan retreated to his station, cheeks a little pink, posture a little smaller, and the air around you finally loosened.
Riley leaned in, whispering, “Was that—”
“Don’t,” you hissed.
Riley held up both hands. “I was going to say ‘was that uncomfortable’ but okay.”
You exhaled sharply through your nose and focused on the beakers because if you looked at Riley’s face for one more second you might actually scream.
They worked in silence for a few minutes: measure, pour, record, repeat. Your hands moved on autopilot. Your mind, meanwhile, was in full catastrophe.
Why did that feel so wrong?
Because you didn’t like Ethan, that was normal, but it wasn’t just dislike.
It was… comparison. Immediate, involuntary comparison. Ethan’s smile against Bucky’s quiet warmth. Ethan’s practiced charm against Bucky’s raw sincerity. Ethan trying to impress you versus Bucky never trying at all and still somehow being the person you wanted most.
Your throat tightened again.
You’d been telling yourself for years that what you felt for Bucky was friendship.
You’d told herself the warmth in your chest when he smiled was normal. That the jealousy you felt when other girls laughed too hard at his jokes was just protectiveness. That the way you always noticed him first in a room was just because he was your person.
But Ethan had flirted with you for thirty seconds and all you could think was: I want Bucky.
Your hand steadied the burette like it was the only thing keeping you upright, eyes locked on the meniscus because if you looked up you might actually fall apart in front of fluorescent lights and twelve other people in goggles. You counted drops. You breathed through your nose. You pretended the tightness in your chest was just anxiety about the lab report.
Riley nudged you lightly with an elbow. “You okay?”
You blinked hard, refocusing on the liquid levels like your life depended on it. “Yep.”
Riley’s eyes flicked to your face, immediately unimpressed. “That was a ‘no’ disguised as a ‘yep.’”
Your laugh came out too sharp, more of a bark than a laugh, the kind that was all edges. “I’m fine.”
Riley narrowed her eyes like she could see straight through your skull. “Did Ethan bother you?”
You hesitated, because the truth wasn’t that Ethan bothered you. He was fine. He was normal. He was what flirting was supposed to look like in college: harmless lines, easy confidence, a little too much charm.
He’d held up a mirror for half a second, and you’d seen what you’d been refusing to look at, what your body already knew, what your mind had been trying to outrun.
You shook your head quickly. Too quickly. “No. He’s—he’s harmless.”
Riley didn’t move. Didn’t press. Just waited, patient in the way only someone who knows you well can be.
You stared at the data sheet until the numbers blurred into gray lines, swallowing thickly. And then, so quietly it barely registered over the lab noise, you whispered, “I think I’m screwed.”
Riley’s eyebrows lifted. “Academically or emotionally?”
A sound escaped you, half laugh, half broken exhale. “Both.”
Riley’s expression softened immediately, the teasing draining out of her face. “Hey…”
Your fingers tightened around your pen until it dug into your grip. “I didn’t like it.”
“Okay,” Riley said, gentle. “That’s allowed.”
“No, I mean—” You swallowed hard, throat tight in a way that made your eyes sting for the stupidest reason. “I didn’t like it because it wasn’t… him.”
Riley went still.
And you hated that your body betrayed you in real time, the heat crawling up your neck, the ache behind your ribs like something deep had been pulled awake, the way your breath turned shallow like you’d just run up stairs.
Riley’s voice dropped. “Bucky.”
You didn’t answer, because saying his name out loud felt like stepping off a cliff.
Riley’s face did that slow, dawning thing people do when the last gear finally clicks. “Oh my God.”
You squeezed your eyes shut for half a second. “Don’t say it like that.”
Riley’s whisper was reverent yet delighted, like she’d just discovered a secret romance in the margins of your life. “You like him.”
Your eyes snapped open. “No.”
Riley stared at you. “Dude,” she said, flatly.
Your throat bobbed. “I mean—I don’t know. We’re just—”
Riley held your gaze with the quiet endurance of someone watching a friend lie to themselves in slow motion.
“I didn’t want Ethan to ask for my number,” you admitted, your voice cracking with honesty as the words came rushing out. “I didn’t want anyone else to… want me like that. It felt wrong.” You inhaled shakily. “And then all I could think about was—” Your stomach rolled. “How Bucky looks at me.”
Riley’s mouth softened. “How does he look at you?”
You stared at the beaker like it contained the answer and if you stared long enough, the solution would change color and give you clarity. But the truth was already there, bright and unavoidable.
He looked at you like he was holding back, like he was always one breath away from doing something reckless.
Like he was trying to be good, trying to be careful, trying not to ruin what you had, while still orbiting you like gravity.
Like he wasn’t just watching you… he was keeping you.
Your voice came out on a whisper that scared you with how true it sounded.
“Like I’m his.”
Riley’s eyes widened.
Your heart thudded, loud in your ears. Because now that you’d said it, you couldn’t un-know it. And worse? You realized you wanted it to be true.
You wanted to be his. Not in some dramatic, possessive, unhealthy way. In that quiet, steady way Bucky did everything, like care could be a constant and safety could be a person.
The thought terrified you so badly your hands shook, the pen wobbling against the page.
Riley reached out and touched your wrist lightly, grounding you. “Okay,” she murmured. “Breathe. You’re not dying.”
You let out a shaky exhale. “It feels like I am.”
Riley’s eyes flicked to your phone on the counter. “Didn’t you say he walked you here?”
You swallowed. “Yeah.”
“And he told you to text him when you’re done.”
Your chest tightened again, because you’d almost forgotten, you’d been too busy unraveling. Riley gave you a look that was gentle but firm, the kind that didn’t let you run away from yourself. “Text him when lab ends,” she said.
You nodded, even though the idea of seeing Bucky now, knowing what you knew, feeling what you felt, made your stomach flip violently.
You finished the lab on autopilot. You recorded numbers. Cleaned glassware. Put equipment away. Smiled at the TA like you weren’t internally combusting. When the final timer beeped, relief hit you so hard you almost swayed.
Around you, the room loosened. Students started filtering out in clumps, noise swelling as people tugged off goggles and complained about the assignment, their voices overlapping into that familiar post-lab chaos.
You wiped your hands on a paper towel, tossed it, and reached for your phone with fingers that suddenly felt clumsy, your screen lighting up. Your stomach flipped like it recognized what was about to happen and you stared at the screen like it might bite.
Your thumb hovered over Bucky’s contact for a second. You swallowed hard, pulse thumping in your throat and you typed before you could chicken out.
You: Done. Survived. Barely.
You hit send… and then you just stood there, heart pounding, staring at “Delivered,” because suddenly you couldn’t remember how to be casual with the boy you’d been casual with for years.
Riley nudged your shoulder gently, snapping you back into your body. “You okay?”
You blinked and realized you were holding your breath. Your hand was still hovering midair, phone clenched like a lifeline.
“No,” you whispered honestly, because you were past pretending now. “I’m not.”
Riley’s mouth quirked, sympathetic and smug at the same time. “Welcome to having feelings.”
You let out a small, shaky breath that might’ve been a laugh if you weren’t on the verge of panic.
Your phone stayed silent for one awful second. Then two. Your chest tightened.
Because now that you’d realized it, now that you’d said it out loud, even if only to Riley… there was no going back to just friends.
Not when your body reacted to him like this. Not when the thought of someone else flirting with you made your skin crawl. Not when being “casual” suddenly felt like standing on a fault line pretending the earth wasn’t moving beneath your feet.
Your phone buzzed in your hand, startling you out of your spiraling thoughts.
Bucky: Where are you coming out?
Your stomach dropped so hard it felt like your organs shifted.
Because… of course he was asking that.
Because he hadn’t actually said he’d be waiting, he’d just quietly built it into his day like a fact. Like your lab ending meant his next step was to be wherever you came out.
You swallowed, fingers suddenly clumsy on the screen, and typed back.
You: East doors. By the stairs.
The response came so fast it almost felt like he’d been holding the phone, waiting for it.
Bucky: Okay.
You shoved your phone into your tote, forced your face into something neutral, and started packing up the last of your things while Riley watched you with the kind of expression you wore when your friend was actively walking into a romcom plot.
The hallway outside the lab was crowded with students spilling out in little clusters, chattering about assignments or complaining about rubrics as you walked around them with your head down, moving with purpose.
Then you saw him, standing near the east doors like he’d been placed there on purpose.
Hands in his jacket pockets. Shoulders loose but alert. Hair slightly messy, like he’d run his fingers through it and forgotten to fix it after. That familiar, contained stillness that made him look like he’d been carved out of calm.
But the second his eyes found you… something in him eased. Not dramatic, just a subtle softening in his mouth, in his gaze, like tension he’d been holding finally released. He pushed off the wall and started toward you, closing the distance with that steady, unhurried stride of his.
And then, because the universe loved torment, Ethan appeared at your elbow like a poorly-timed jump scare, sliding into your path with the kind of confidence that only came from not realizing you were currently hanging on by a thread.
“Hey,” Ethan said, too smooth, matching your stride like it was the most natural thing in the world. “About earlier—”
Your skin prickled instantly. Not fear, not dread, just that full-body nope, the reflexive recoil of your nervous system when it recognized a situation you did not have the bandwidth for.
You didn’t want to do this again. Not in a hallway full of people. Not while you were still trying to pretend your life hadn’t tilted on its axis. Not with Bucky ten feet away, walking toward you, and your heart already sprinting like it knew.
“I meant what I said,” you replied, polite but firm. “No.”
Ethan blinked, then lifted both hands like you’d just pointed a weapon at him and he wanted you to know he was harmless. “I know,” he said quickly. “I just—listen, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I’m sorry.”
The hallway swelled around you: voices, laughter, the squeak of shoes, the faint beep of a door mechanism. People streamed past in clumps, talking over each other, and you could feel your pulse in your throat like your body was trying to make itself heard.
“Okay,” you said, careful. “Thanks for saying that.”
Ethan nodded, and instead of stopping there like a normal person, he kept walking with you, still at your elbow, still in your space, still acting like proximity was something he was entitled to.
“So… no hard feelings?” he asked, as if the conversation needed to continue. As if he could negotiate his way back into comfort.
You opened your mouth to answer, but then Bucky reached you.
He didn’t wedge himself between you and Ethan. He didn’t square up or puff out his chest or do anything dramatic. He simply stepped into the space on your other side, close enough that the air around you changed. Like a warm wall appeared. Like your body recognized him and settled on instinct.
And Ethan, without even realizing he was doing it, drifted half a step away.
Bucky’s gaze flicked once to Ethan, quick and assessing, before landing on you like Ethan didn’t exist. Like you were the only thing that mattered.
“You okay?” Bucky asked quietly.
Your brain stuttered for a second before you nodded, a bit too fast. “Yeah. I’m fine.”
Bucky held your eyes for a second longer than necessary, like he was deciding whether to believe you. Like he could see the little crack in your “fine” and he wasn’t sure yet whether to push.
Then he shifted his attention just slightly to Ethan.
Ethan cleared his throat, suddenly aware of his own existence. “Hey, man.”
Bucky gave a short nod. “Hey.”
A beat of silence sat between them and you could practically hear Ethan recalculating his odds, his confidence shrinking by degrees. His gaze flicked from Bucky to you, then back, trying to read the situation like it was a test question he hadn’t studied for.
Ethan’s smile returned, smaller now, edges a little forced. “So you two are…?”
Your heart jumped into your throat, but Bucky didn’t look at you when he answered, didn’t glance at you for permission, didn’t hesitate. He just said it, calm and sure: “She’s with me.”
Your breath caught so hard it almost hurt. Not because it was a lie… but because it didn’t feel like one.
Ethan blinked, thrown off-balance. “Oh.”
Bucky’s gaze didn’t waver. “Yeah.”
Ethan’s mouth opened like he wanted to argue, like he wanted to clarify or try to save face. But then he looked at Bucky again and thought better of it. “Okay,” Ethan said quickly, backing off with an awkward half-laugh. “Cool. My bad. Have a good one.”
He peeled away into the crowd, disappearing into the hallway noise like he’d never been there.
And you just… stood there, frozen in the hallway while the world kept moving around you. Students streamed past in waves. A girl laughed loudly behind you. Someone complained about the lab report. The doors hissed open, letting in a bite of cold air, then shut again.
But everything sounded muffled, like your hearing had dipped underwater.
Bucky turned back to you like nothing had happened, like he hadn’t just taken your entire nervous system and shaken it.
“Let’s go,” he said gently. “It’s cold.”
Your voice came out too soft, almost fragile. “Bucky…”
He paused immediately, like your tone hooked him by the spine. “Yeah?” he asked, his voice quiet.
You didn’t know what to say, you just knew that a warm, traitorous part of you had liked it.
Liked the way Ethan had backed off without argument.
Liked the way Bucky had been effortless about it.
Liked the way he hadn’t asked you if it was okay first, because he’d read you, decided you didn’t have the bandwidth, and stepped in.
Liked the way it made you feel… chosen.
You swallowed hard, forcing your brain to function. “You didn’t have to do that,” you managed.
“Say… that.” You made a helpless little gesture in the air, fingers fluttering like you could physically wave the sentence away. “The… with me thing.”
Bucky stared at you for a second, like he genuinely didn’t understand why it was a big deal. Then his jaw shifted subtly, the smallest tell you’d learned to recognize over years of knowing him. Not anger or irritation, but something more like restraint.
“He was bothering you,” he said simply.
You blinked, thrown off. “He wasn’t— I mean, kind of, but—”
Bucky’s gaze sharpened, not at you, never at you, but like he was focusing in, narrowing down to the truth you were trying to dodge. “You didn’t like it.”
Your chest tightened. Because he wasn’t just guessing, he knew. Not in a dramatic, mind reading way, but in the way he always knew things about you.
You tried to laugh it off, because laughing was safer than letting your throat go tight like it wanted to. “You’re psychic now?”
Bucky’s mouth twitched once, the hint of humor faint and fleeting. “No.”
And then, quieter, like he was admitting something he didn’t usually say out loud: “I pay attention.”
The words hit you like a punch to the ribs.
You looked away quickly, because if you kept staring at him you were going to do something insane, something that would change the entire shape of your life like grab his sleeve and ask him what he meant by she’s with me.
You pushed through the doors into the cold with him. The wind met you immediately, biting at your cheeks, threading through your hair, slipping under the edges of your coat like it had a personal vendetta. You instinctively hunched and Bucky, without thinking, angled his body slightly on your side.
Not dramatically or obviously, just enough that the wind hit his shoulder first instead of yours.
Your fingers curled around your tote strap until your knuckles went pale under the knit gloves. Your heart wouldn’t calm down, pounding violently in your chest like it didn’t know how to be normal anymore.
You walked in silence for a minute. Not an awkward silence, exactly. Just… full. Packed with everything neither of you was saying.
Finally, the question bubbled up and spilled out before you could talk yourself out of it. “How did you know I didn’t like it?”
Bucky didn’t answer right away. He kept his eyes forward, scanning the walkway out of habit like he was still half in protector mode even though the biggest threat on campus was probably a rogue scooter.
His silence stretched just long enough to make your stomach dip, and when he did answer, his voice was low. “Because you smile different when you’re uncomfortable.”
Your throat went dry so fast it felt like someone had turned off a faucet. You swallowed, trying to force your voice back into something normal. “That’s… weirdly specific.”
Bucky shrugged, but his shoulders were tense like he’d said too much, like he’d let something slip past the walls he kept up around everyone else.
“I told you,” he said quietly. “I pay attention.”
And your brain, which had already been cracked open all morning, just… spiraled.
He notices my smiles. He knows the difference. He knows my uncomfortable smile. He knows me.
You stared at the path ahead like it might offer a lifeline. You needed something normal. Something you could grab onto that wouldn’t make your ribs ache.
“So,” you said, forcing lightness into your voice like you were shoving a smile onto a bruise, “do you just hang out outside my classes now? Like a campus security guard?”
Bucky huffed a quiet laugh. It was small, but it was real. “No.”
You arched a brow. “Because it kind of feels like yes.”
“I was already up,” he said again, like that explained everything.
Your stomach twisted, the humor slipping away. “Why?” you asked, softer without meaning to be. You had brushed it off earlier but now it was going to nag at you. “Why didn’t you sleep?”
Bucky’s hands stayed buried in his pockets. His jaw was tight, a muscle shifting once as if he was grinding something down, and for a second you thought he might dodge. Thought he’d give you something vague and safe: had stuff on my mind, just couldn’t, it’s fine.
But then he said it, very quietly, like it slipped out before he could stop it.
“I didn’t like what Steve said last night.”
Your breath caught. “What did he say?” you asked, your stomach dropping to your feet as you could only imagine what Steve might’ve said.
“He said…” Bucky’s voice dropped, rougher than before. “If we’re just friends, he can… talk to you.”
Your heart slammed so hard it felt like it knocked air out of your lungs. For a second, the campus noise blurred, all of the chatter turned into background static as the sentence rearranged itself inside your head into something sharper.
Because Steve wasn’t a threat. Steve was Steve. But the idea had landed somewhere deep in Bucky and set off something instinctive.
And suddenly everything clicked into one clean, terrifying line: Bucky had come to campus because Steve’s joke had hit something real in him. He’d come because the thought of someone else having access to you made him restless.
He’d come because… Because he didn’t want to share.
You forced your voice steady. “And that bothered you?”
Bucky’s shoulders went rigid for half a second like your question hit the exact spot he’d been trying not to press, before he muttered, rough and blunt, “Yeah.”
Your pulse went so loud you could hear it in your ears, a frantic drumbeat that didn’t match the slow winter morning at all. “Why?” you asked, barely above a whisper, the word sound almost like a plea.
Bucky’s gaze dropped to your mouth for half a second and then snapped back to your eyes. His voice came out low. Careful. Measured like each word was something he had to decide to let go of.
“Because I—”
Your name being shouted from across the quad interrupted Bucky.
You turned on instinct, heart still lodged in your throat, and saw Sam jogging toward you from the sidewalk, one arm lifted in an enthusiastic wave. He was moving with that unmistakable Sam energy, loud even when he wasn’t speaking yet. Steve followed behind him at an annoyingly calm pace, moving like a man who had never once in his life been late to anything.
Beside you, Bucky’s posture changed, subtle, but immediate. His shoulders shifted, his stance angling a fraction closer to yours, like his body had decided to make you a safe point without asking permission first.
“There you are!” he said, slightly out of breath, grin wide. “Steve said he saw you earlier and I was like—”
He cut himself off mid-sentence as his eyes finally took in the scene properly: the proximity, Bucky’s position, your flushed face, the fact that you and Bucky looked like you’d been in the middle of something serious.
Sam’s grin sharpened into something gleeful and dangerous. “Ohhhh.”
Steve stopped beside Sam, gaze flicking between you and Bucky, taking in the distance between your shoulders, the way Bucky’s body was angled toward you, the slight tension in Bucky’s jaw like he was clenching down on words.
Steve’s smile was gentle. Not smug, just… knowing. “Well,” he said, like he was commenting on the weather, “this looks familiar.”
Heat flooded your face so fast you could’ve powered the entire science building. Bucky looked like he wanted to evaporate on the spot.
Sam’s grin widened until it bordered on feral. “Oh my God.”
You cleared your throat violently, because if you didn’t make some sound you were going to combust. “Hi, Sam.”
Sam’s eyes sparkled with chaos, gaze bouncing between you and Bucky like he was watching live entertainment. “Hi,” he said brightly. “Are we interrupting something?”
Bucky’s jaw tightened. “Yes,” he said flatly.
You and Steve both spoke at the exact same time. “No.”
Sam blinked, then slowly turned his head between the three of you like a referee. “That,” he said, delighted, “is a lie from at least two of you.”
You wanted to disappear into the concrete. Melt right into the sidewalk. Become one with the campus landscaping.
Bucky’s gaze flicked to you briefly and you could see the frustration, felt it like a touch. Not angry at you, but annoyed at the interruption. And even more annoyed at himself for almost saying something he couldn’t take back.
Because you could still feel it… the way he’d looked at you right before Sam showed up, the way his voice had dipped.
You couldn’t unfeel the sentence he’d been about to say. And you couldn’t ignore the sick little flip in your stomach when you realized:
Whatever Bucky had been about to tell you… It mattered.
Later that evening, you tried to be normal about it. You really did.
You went home, kicked your shoes off by the door like you always did, washed your hands like you’d been handling radioactive material, scrubbed under your nails, tied your hair up, made yourself a sad little dinner that consisted of a microwaved frozen dinner, a slice of toast, a handful of grapes you ate standing at the counter because sitting down felt like admitting you were home alone with your thoughts.
You even opened your laptop, even pulled up your lab notes, even stared at them long enough to pretend you were reading.
But the words might as well have been written in another language because your brain refused to care about molarity when it was busy replaying Bucky’s voice like a cursed audio loop.
She’s with me.
I didn’t like what Steve said last night.
Because I—
You pressed your palms to your eyes until you saw stars.
It wasn’t like you hadn’t known Bucky was… protective, he always had been. In ways that were easy to explain away if you kept your eyes half-closed and your heart on mute.
He walked you to your car. He waited until you got inside. He kept an eye on your drink at parties. He texted when you got home, sometimes hours later, like the worry came for him in waves.
You had always filed it under best friend behavior, because if you didn’t file it there, you’d have to file it somewhere much more dangerous.
Somewhere that asked you questions like:
Why does your heart do that when he looks at you?
Why do you hate it when he laughs with other girls?
Why did “she’s with me” make you feel… safe?
You groaned into your hands and slumped down onto the couch.
Your apartment was quiet in that particular way that made your thoughts louder. The window beside your couch showed a slice of campus life: students crossing the sidewalk, headlights in the dusk, the occasional burst of laughter.
You felt like you were trapped behind glass.
Your phone buzzed on the coffee table and you snatched it up so fast you nearly dropped it.
Bucky: You good?
You stared at the screen until your eyes stung. Because that was his favorite question. Like he could feel when you weren’t.
You typed back, deleted it, typed again, erased half the words and tried to make the lie look smaller.
You: Yeah.
You hated the lie the second you sent it.
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again, like he was choosing his words carefully.
Bucky: Okay.
Bucky: You got my gloves?
You set your phone down like it was too heavy and opened your tote bag. Your fingers found the simple, black knit immediately. They were soft from use, warm in the way fabric got warm when it lived near someone’s skin. You turned them over in your hands like you might find an explanation stitched into the seams.
Your thumb brushed the inside cuff and caught on something. You frowned, pinching the fabric between your fingers and pulling it open. There was a little stitched tag on the inside with a name written in black ink like someone had labeled them carefully.
BUCKY
Your chest cracked open.
Of course he’d labeled them. Of course he’d kept track of them. Of course there was no such thing as an “extra pair” that just happened to be in his pocket the exact day you forgot yours.
He’d brought them for you, like he’d been prepared to take care of you before you even realized you needed it.
You stared at the name until you went a little dizzy, your vision blurring at the edges.
Stop, you told yourself. Stop being dramatic.
But your mind wouldn’t stop pulling at every thread, because now that you’d seen it, it was everywhere.
You swallowed hard, staring at your phone again like it might save you as your thumb hovered over Bucky’s name. You could call. You could text. You could pretend this was fine.
But it wasn’t fine. You didn’t do well with limbo, never had. It ate you alive.
And Bucky… Bucky was your best friend.
If this was going to change, you needed it to change on purpose, not in pieces, not in half sentences and interrupted almost-confessions and Steve and Sam showing up like the universe’s worst timing.
You needed to know if you had just imagined the whole thing… or if Bucky Barnes had almost admitted something that would rearrange your entire life.
You stood abruptly, like your body decided before your brain did. You paced the living room once, then twice, the gloves still in your hand like a stupid little talisman.
Your phone buzzed again.
Bucky: If you’re not, just say that.
You stopped mid-step, your throat tightening so hard it felt like swallowing glass.
He knew your “yeah” was a lie because he knew your voice even through text. Because he knew how you dodged when you were unraveling. Because he’d been paying attention for so long you didn’t even know what parts of you belonged only to you anymore.
You stared at the message for a long beat, chest rising and falling too fast. Then you typed before fear could talk you out of it.
You: I’m not.
The response came so fast it felt like he’d been waiting with his phone in his hand the whole time.
Bucky: Want me to come over?
Your pulse spiked as you imagined Bucky in your apartment, in this quiet space where there was nowhere to hide. You imagined him sitting on your couch, those steady eyes on you, his voice low and careful.
It made you feel like you might combust.
You swallowed, fingers trembling.
You: No.
You: I’m coming to you.
There was a pause. Not long, but long enough for you to imagine him reading it, blinking, sitting up straighter.
Bucky: Okay.
Bucky: Door’s open.
That did something to you, something soft and devastating. Like he’d been waiting for you all along.
You grabbed your coat without thinking, shoved your feet back into your boots, and headed out the door before you could reconsider.
The walk across campus was cold and surreal, streetlights pooling pale gold on the sidewalks. Your breath came out in nervous little clouds. The air smelled like winter, sharp, clean, faintly like smoke from someone’s distant cigarette.
Every step made your stomach tighten.
Because what if you were wrong? What if Bucky had been protecting you because that’s what he did and you were about to embarrass yourself in the most catastrophic way possible?
But then you remembered the gloves. The name inside them. And the way his voice had gone low and rough when he said he didn’t like Steve’s joke.
Your heart pounded harder.
Bucky’s building was only a few blocks away, but it felt like a mile by the time you made it there.
The stairwell smelled faintly like someone’s laundry detergent and old carpet. Your boots thudded softly as you climbed, the sound too loud in the quiet. Your hands were numb by the time you reached his floor and stopped outside his door.
You lifted your fist… and hesitated. Because this was it. This was the moment where you either saved your friendship by pretending nothing had happened… or risked everything by naming it.
You exhaled shakily, then knocked.
The door opened almost immediately, as if he’d been standing on the other side waiting for the exact moment you decided you were brave.
Bucky stood there in a black t-shirt and sweatpants, hair still damp like he’d showered recently. He looked… tense, like he’d been pacing, like he’d been trying to burn nervous energy off with movement and failing.
His eyes found you and something in his expression eased. Relief. Quick and raw and so obvious it nearly broke you.
“Hey,” he said, voice low.
You swallowed around the lump in your throat. “Hey.”
For a half second neither of you moved. Then Bucky stepped back and opened the door wider. “Come in.”
You walked in on legs that felt slightly unsteady, like your body was moving a beat behind your mind.
Bucky shut the door behind you, the click of the latch loud in the stillness.
You turned to face him and for a moment you just… looked at each other. Best friends, standing a little too close. Two people on the edge of something neither of you had wanted to name until the universe forced your hand.
Bucky’s eyes tracked your face the way they always did, like he was checking for damage, like he could read your mood in microexpressions you didn’t even know you made. Your throat tightened at the thought.
Your voice came out shaky despite your best efforts. “What were you about to say.”
Bucky blinked once, like your bluntness snapped him out of whatever careful script he’d been trying to build in his head. “What?”
You dug into your coat pocket and pulled out the gloves, holding them up between you like evidence. “These,” you said, breathy. “The ‘extra pair’ you just happened to have. With your name written inside.”
Bucky’s ears went pink instantly, the color creeping up like betrayal. His jaw flexed once, and his gaze flicked away to the side toward the kitchen, toward the counter, toward literally anything that wasn’t your eyes.
“You were about to say something today,” you continued, forcing yourself to keep going before you lost the nerve. “Outside the quad. You said… you didn’t like what Steve said.”
Bucky’s jaw tightened.
You stepped closer, just enough to make it impossible to pretend this was casual. “And then you said ‘because I—’” your voice cracked on the last word. “And you stopped.”
Bucky finally looked back at you, his eyes serious and unguarded in a way that made you feel like you’d stepped too close to the edge of something sharp. He breathed in slowly through his nose, controlled and measured, like he was trying to keep himself steady.
“I need you to tell me what that was,” you said quietly. “Because I’ve been spiraling for six hours and I’m either insane or… you meant something.”
Bucky’s throat bobbed as he looked down for a second, like he couldn’t bear the weight of your gaze, then back up at you. When he spoke, it wasn’t your question he answered first.
He said your name, rough and low, like saying it hurt.
You didn’t flinch. You lifted the gloves slightly, your hands trembling. “Tell me,” you whispered.
Bucky stared at you like the truth was something fragile in his hands. Then he exhaled hard, like he’d been holding his breath for years.
“I meant it,” he said.
Your chest tightened. “Meant what.”
Bucky’s eyes flicked to your mouth, quick and involuntary, then snapped back up to your eyes like he hated himself for it.
“When I said you were with me,” he said quietly. He took a step closer, closing the space between you until you could feel his warmth like heat rolling off a radiator.
His voice dropped, softer but more dangerous somehow. “I didn’t say it to scare you,” he said. “Or to… make you feel trapped.”
You shook your head quickly. “I didn’t—”
“I know.” His words cut in gently, not harsh, just urgent, like he needed you to understand this part. “But I need you to hear me anyway.”
His hands stayed at his sides, fists loose but clenched enough to show he didn’t trust himself to reach for you.
“I said it because the idea of someone else—” Bucky stopped, jaw working, like he was fighting himself for control over the sentence. He swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing. “Because I don’t like it.”
Your heartbeat was so loud in your ears it felt like it filled the whole apartment. “Don’t like what?” you whispered, even though you knew.
Bucky’s gaze held yours, steady and raw. “I don’t like anyone thinking they can have you,” he said, voice low. “Like you’re… available. Like you’re a thing they can just try for.”
Your breath hitched. The words shouldn’t have sounded as intimate as they did. They shouldn’t have made your chest ache like relief… but they did.
Bucky’s eyes went a little darker, not with anger, not really, but more like restraint straining at the edges. Like he was trying to keep himself from stepping over a line he’d drawn for himself years ago.
“And I know that’s not—” he swallowed again. “I know I don’t get to decide that. I know you’re not mine.”
Your eyes burned. Because the words hurt in a way that didn’t make sense.
You’re not mine.
You hated it.
Bucky’s voice broke just slightly and it was the crack in it that shattered you more than anything. “But I want you to be.”
Silence stretched between you like a held breath, too big for the room, too heavy for your ribs. Your chest went tight, as if your lungs forgot how to work. Bucky’s eyes looked almost panicked now, the kind of panic that didn’t match his size or his stillness, like he’d said too much and was about to start taking it back.
“Shit,” he said quickly, words tumbling out rough and hurried. “You don’t have to say anything. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t— I—”
He started to shift, shoulders pulling inward like he was trying to make himself smaller, like he was about to back away and put space between you before you could reject him, but you stepped forward and grabbed his wrist before he could.
Bucky froze, his eyes snapping to where your fingers wrapped around him.
Your voice came out small. “I didn’t like it,” you admitted.
Bucky’s brow furrowed, pain flashing so fast it made your stomach twist. “I—”
“No,” you rushed, tightening your hold just a fraction, not to restrain him but to anchor him. “Not… not what you said. Not you.”
You swallowed hard, throat tight. “I didn’t like it when Ethan flirted with me today,” you said, the words feeling like an electric shock to your nervous system. “Because it wasn’t you.”
Bucky went completely still.
“I realized it in lab today,” you whispered. “And it scared the hell out of me.”
Bucky stared at you like you’d just handed him oxygen. Your name left his lips on a breathless whisper, soft and disbelieving, like he needed to say it just to make sure you were real.
You laughed shakily, the sound wobbling on the edge of tears because apparently your body decided this was the moment to be dramatic. “I think I’ve liked you for a long time,” you confessed, and your voice broke on the last part, “and I just… didn’t let myself know.”
Bucky’s eyes softened so suddenly it made your heart ache. He lifted his hand slowly, like he was asking permission with every inch of movement, and brushed his knuckles along your cheek, so gentle it almost didn’t feel real.
“You’re sure?” he whispered.
The question wasn’t just about the words. It was about the jump, the change, the way there was no putting it back once you stepped over this line.
You leaned into his touch before you could stop yourself, your cheek fitting into his hand like it belonged there. “Yes,” you said.
Bucky exhaled like a prayer, then nodded once, jaw tight, like he was trying not to fall apart right in front of you. “Okay,” he murmured, and it sounded like he was telling himself as much as he was telling you. “Okay.”
Your fingers tightened around his wrist. Your voice trembled, suddenly shy in a way you hadn’t been in years. “So what now?”
Bucky’s gaze dropped to your lips again, slower this time. Less accidental, no longer fighting it.
“Now I kiss you,” he said softly, “if you’ll let me.”
Your breath hitched, your heart hammering so hard you could feel it in your throat, in your fingertips, in the space between your ribs.
And you didn’t even pretend to be brave, you just whispered: “Please.”
And Bucky moved, slow and careful, like he was handling something precious. Like he’d been wanting to do this for years and had forced himself not to.
His hand slid to the back of your neck, warm and steady, fingers spreading there like he’d memorized the shape of you in his head long before he ever got to touch you. He tilted his forehead to yours for a brief second, eyes closing, breath leaving him in a shaky exhale as if he needed to ground himself first.
Then his mouth found yours, soft at first. A question that you answered immediately without hesitation, your lips parting, your hand still holding his wrist like you were afraid he’d think this wasn’t real and pull away.
Bucky made a sound in the back of his throat, low and wrecked, as the kiss deepened with all the restraint he’d been holding back finally slipping loose.
You rose onto your toes without thinking, needing to be closer, needing to meet him fully. Your fingers curled into the fabric of his t-shirt like you needed proof he was solid and warm and not just a daydream you’d tortured yourself with.
Bucky’s hand tightened protectively at the back of your neck, pulling you in that last inch like he couldn’t stand the space anymore.
It wasn’t frantic, it was inevitable. The kind of kiss that rewrote the past. That made every late night “drive safe,” every tote strap adjustment, every “text me when you’re done” suddenly glow with new meaning.
When he finally pulled back, it was only an inch. His forehead stayed close to yours, his hand still at your neck like he was anchoring you both to the same reality. His eyes searched your face, as if he was checking for regret and finding none.
His voice came out rough, almost shaken. “Hi,” he murmured, like he was meeting you for the first time.
“Hi,” you breathed back, smiling through the residual tremble in your lips. “Took you long enough.” The words came out like a joke, but they landed like truth.
Because you could still feel him, still feel the warmth of his mouth on yours, the careful way he’d kissed you like you were something fragile and holy and real. Not a moment he’d stolen. A moment he’d waited for.
And now… now he was just looking at you like he didn’t know what to do with the fact that you were standing in his apartment and you’d said yes and the world hadn’t ended.
His chest rose and fell slow, controlled, but his hands were giving him away, hovering just above your waist like he couldn’t decide whether he was allowed to touch you again. Like he was holding himself back by force, braced on a thin line of restraint.
You watched his throat move when he swallowed, watched his gaze flick from your eyes to your mouth and back again like it hurt.
“You’re… really here,” he murmured, almost to himself.
You let out a soft breath that sounded suspiciously like a laugh. “Yeah, Buck. I’m here.”
His eyes softened, relief and disbelief tangling together, like he’d been preparing for you to change your mind at any second.
Your voice came out quieter, gentler, because you could see how hard he was trying to be careful. “Are you going to kiss me again,” you asked, heart thudding, “or…?”
Bucky huffed a low laugh, quiet and disbelieving, like you’d just handed him permission he didn’t trust himself to want.
Then he stepped in like the floor gave way beneath him. His hands found your waist gently, thumbs brushing the hem of your shirt. He leaned in, and this time when he kissed you, it wasn’t exploratory. It wasn’t cautious.
It was yes. It was finally.
You made a soft, helpless sound into the kiss, and that was all it took. Bucky responded with a quiet, almost desperate shift of his body, tilting his head, deepening the kiss with purpose. With hunger. With years of restraint breaking like a tide over both of you.
He kissed you like he’d been starving. Like this, like you, were something he’d wanted for so long that now, having you in his arms, was almost too much to believe.
Your hands slid up his chest, fingers fisting in the fabric of his t-shirt as he began walking you backward, not forcefully, never that, but with a steady, unspoken pull. The kind of guidance he’d always offered without words. The kind that made you feel like he’d always known how to take care of you, even now, even here.
Your back met his bedroom wall with a quiet thud, gasping softly against his lips.
Bucky froze the moment you made that sound. He pulled back just enough to breathe, eyes scanning your face with wide, protective panic.
“Too much?” he rasped, voice hoarse, already starting to pull back like he’d rather hurt himself than risk hurting you.
“No,” you whispered, your voice shaking as your fingers tugged at the front of his shirt to keep him close. “Please don’t stop.”
His eyes darkened instantly, breath catching.
“Don’t say that unless you mean it,” he murmured, voice low, nose brushing yours, his hands still bracketing your waist like he was containing himself by touch alone. “Because I—” He swallowed. “I won’t be able to stop wanting you.”
You slid your hands up under his shirt, fingers meeting warm skin. The heat of him made your breath catch, His chest rising unevenly beneath your palms.
You traced the defined line of his abs, the faint scar that cut across his ribs, the familiar terrain you’d never let yourself map until now. His breath shuddered, body rocking infinitesimally closer to you like he couldn’t help it.
Your voice came out trembling, but sure. “I mean it.”
Bucky exhaled something close to a moan, a low, wrecked groan that sounded like surrender. “Fuck,” he breathed, eyes fluttering shut like the weight of your touch, your words, your want was too much all at once.
His hands slid beneath your shirt, palms dragging over the curve of your back, and you shivered at the heat of his skin. He kissed you again, deeper this time. Hotter. No hesitation. No fear. His mouth moved with urgency, his tongue parting your lips, teeth grazing your bottom one like he was trying to memorize the taste of you.
Your back arched with a soft moan when his fingers brushed the clasp of your bra, and he made a sound low in his chest, something primal and completely wrecked. Like he’d dreamed about this. Lived in the edges of it. And now that it was happening, he couldn’t believe he was allowed to touch you like this.
“I’ve thought about this,” he panted between kisses, lips brushing your cheek, your jaw, your neck, “more times than I should admit.”
You let out a breathless laugh, light and shaky. “Tell me.”
He shook his head, kissed down the column of your throat with open-mouthed heat, nipping lightly at your pulse point as you gasped. “I’d rather show you.”
With shaking hands, you helped him pull off your sweater and bra, suddenly bare to him under the low golden light of his bedroom. You expected him to dive in hungrily, to lose control.
But Bucky didn’t move. He just stared like you were something sacred.
His breath hitched, eyes dragging over every inch of you like he was trying to memorize it. The reverence in his gaze made your whole body flush.
“You’re beautiful,” he said, hoarse with truth. “So fuckin’ beautiful.”
Your face went warm. “Stop looking at me like that.”
He blinked, confused. “Like what?”
“Like I’m going to disappear.”
His brow furrowed.
And then, so slowly, like he wanted you to feel it, he leaned in and kissed the center of your chest. Then just above your heart. Then lower, to your sternum, your collarbone, the soft swell of your breast.
“I look at you like that,” he murmured against your skin, “because I still can’t believe you’re real.”
You made a small, broken sound, a half sigh, half laugh, and reached for him with shaking hands. You pulled his shirt up and over his head, and your fingers immediately splayed across his chest.
You felt everything, the lines of his muscle, the warmth of his skin, the old scars that you’d only ever glimpsed before. Now, they were yours to learn.
“You are so—” you choked, voice cracking. “God, Bucky.”
He kissed you again before you could finish, and this one was hot. Messy. Desperate. His mouth moved like he was drowning in you. Like he didn’t know how to stop. His hands slid down your sides, over your hips, gripping tight enough to make you gasp.
“Come here,” he breathed.
You didn’t even hesitate.
He walked you backward toward the bed, guiding you with gentle pressure, and when your legs hit the edge, he caught you, lifting you just enough to lay you back like you were something precious.
Bucky hovered over you like he was afraid you might fade if he moved too fast. You reached up again, arms around his neck, legs curling around his waist, needing the contact, the heat, the pressure.
He kissed you like he wanted to know every inch of you by heart.
When his mouth finally moved down over your chest, your ribs, your stomach, you could barely breathe. He peeled your leggings down slowly, dragging his hands over every new inch of revealed skin.
Bucky looked up at you from between your thighs, hair falling into his eyes, pupils blown, lips swollen. “You still sure?” He asked, waiting.
You bit your lip and nodded, dazed, already unraveling. But he didn’t move.
“Use your words, baby,” he said softly, gently kissing the inside of your thigh. “Need to hear it.”
“Yes,” you whispered. “God, yes.”
The look he gave you, starving, reverent, almost ruined, was something you would never forget.
Then he lowered his mouth to you.
There was no urgency in him, only intention. Purpose in every movement, like he’d waited his whole life to be here and now that he was, he wasn’t going to waste a second of it.
His mouth was slow and devastating, tongue dragging in languid, sinful strokes that made your breath catch and your thighs twitch around his head. He held you down when you tried to lift your hips, just enough pressure to remind you who was in control, making your stomach flutter and your fingers clutch the sheets like they were your only tether.
Bucky learned you. Treated every gasp and every stuttered moan like gospel. He was methodical, alternating between soft, teasing licks and firm, relentless pressure that made you feel like you were unraveling from the inside out.
He groaned when your thighs clenched around him, like it turned him on just knowing how close you were.
When you pulled his hair harder than you meant to, he let out a ragged moan against your skin, the vibration sending another shudder straight through you. One of his hands slid up to lace his fingers with yours above your head, grounding you, anchoring you, holding you still as your body began to tremble beneath his mouth.
And when you finally came, loud and breathless, your back arching, eyes shut tight, voice breaking on his name… he didn’t stop.
He didn’t stop.
He slowed, yes, gentled his mouth, softened the drag of his tongue, but he didn’t stop. He coaxed you through it, easing you down from the high with care in every movement. He kissed the inside of your thigh as you shook. Pressed his cheek to your skin like he was listening to your heartbeat there. He murmured something low and sweet that you couldn’t quite hear. couldn’t think enough to make out, but it sounded like “That’s it, sweetheart. I’ve got you. You’re okay.”
And then he crawled up your body slowly, each movement deliberate, almost languid. He kissed the soft slope of your stomach, your ribs, your collarbone, your lips. Slow and messy. Open-mouthed and gentle. Like he had all the time in the world and nowhere else to be but here.
You tasted yourself on his tongue and whimpered into his mouth, trembling. “Bucky,” you gasped, nails digging into his shoulders. “I need—please—”
“I’ve got you,” he whispered, his voice rough and broken in the middle. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this. How long I’ve wanted you.”
He stripped the rest of the way, pushing his sweatpants down his hips with hands that weren’t nearly as steady as he probably wanted them to be. The last barrier between you fell away and for a second he just stood there, exposed and breathing hard, eyes flicking over your body like he still couldn’t believe you were real.
You were already bare beneath him, skin flushed, hair mussed, lips swollen from his mouth.
For one blinding second, nerves flared sharp and electric in your chest. Not because you weren’t sure, but because this was real now.
No more almost. No more tension disguised as friendship. No more pretending the looks didn’t linger too long.
What if this changed everything?
Bucky’s gaze lifted to yours, vulnerable in a way he rarely let himself be. Not cocky. Not smug. Not assuming.
Just… hoping.
And that’s when you knew… It already had.
He moved back between your thighs slowly, like he was stepping into something sacred rather than something physical. His hand came up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing over your skin like he was grounding himself.
“Tell me if you want to stop,” he murmured. “I’ll never—”
You kissed him quiet. “Please,” you whispered against his lips. “I want you.”
He groaned softly and dropped his forehead to yours. His breath mingled with yours in the quiet space between, warm and ragged. You could feel the heat of him, the solid weight of his body pressing you into the bed, his chest rising and falling in time with yours.
Then, slowly, achingly slow, he began to push into you.
The head of his cock nudged at your entrance, teasing at first, until he started to sink deeper, inch by inch. Your breath caught, a soft gasp breaking from your lips as he stretched you open, filling you with steady, unrelenting pressure. There was no rush in his movement, only worship. Like every second inside you was something sacred.
Your hands gripped his shoulders, nails grazing down his skin, trying to anchor yourself as your body trembled beneath the overwhelming sensation. Every inch he gave you felt like a new place inside you had been claimed.
He didn’t stop until he was buried fully, flush against you, his hips nestled to yours. Both of you stilled, breathless, bodies shaking under the weight of it.
His forehead rested against yours again, nose brushing yours, eyes fluttering closed. His voice was barely a whisper when it came, raw and wrecked. “Fuck… You feel like home.”
Your chest cracked wide open like a dam giving way, every nerve ending suddenly too exposed, too alive. You couldn’t get enough air. Each breath stuttered in your lungs, shallow and desperate, like your body had forgotten how to function under the weight of him.
Your fingers tangled in his hair, nails scraping lightly over his scalp as you tugged him closer, like proximity alone could soothe the ache blooming hot and needy between your hips.
“Move,” you whispered, already wrecked, your voice breaking on the word. “Please… I need you.”
He groaned low in his throat, like the sound had been ripped from the center of his chest, and obeyed, rolling his hips forward devastatingly slowly.
The stretch was deep and intoxicating, the drag of him inside you so full it made your mouth fall open in a silent cry. He didn’t thrust like someone chasing release. He moved like someone memorizing you. Like someone savoring every inch.
His hips circled once before he pushed in again, deeper this time. Your back arched helplessly off the bed, breasts brushing against his chest as your thighs tightened around his waist.
“Jesus…” he breathed, forehead dropping to yours. “You feel so damn good.”
Every word vibrated between you.
He pulled almost all the way out before sliding back in, slow and unhurried, and you felt every single inch. The heat. The stretch. The way your body welcomed him like it had been waiting.
You moaned openly now, unable to hold it in, your nails dragging down his back as you tried to pull him even closer, impossible as that was. “Bucky,” you sobbed softly. “Please.”
“Got you,” he rasped, kissing along your jaw, your cheek, the corner of your mouth. “I’ve got you, sweetheart.”
His pace shifted, still deep, still intentional, but heavier now. Each thrust pressed into that sensitive place inside you that made your toes curl and your stomach tighten. He wasn’t frantic. He was claiming.
Every roll of his hips said I’ve wanted this.
Every slow drag said you’re mine to learn.
Every deep push said I’m not letting go.
Your legs locked tighter around him, ankles crossing at his lower back as if your body had made the decision before your brain could. You rocked up to meet him, desperate for friction, for more.
He groaned when you did that and his hands slid from your waist to grip your hips, steadying you as he began thrusting harder.
“Could live here,” he muttered against your throat, kissing and biting at the sensitive skin beneath your ear. “Die right here.”
Your body clenched at the rawness in his voice.
He kissed down your neck, tongue smoothing over the spot he’d just bitten before moving lower, dragging his mouth across your collarbone, your chest. His thrusts never faltered. Slow, powerful, stretching you open around him again and again.
The bed creaked softly beneath you. The sound of skin against skin filled the room. You could feel the slick heat of yourself coating him, feel the way he slid inside you with increasing ease, each motion sending sparks down your spine.
His name spilled from your mouth in broken, breathless sobs. Over and over. Like a mantra. Like you needed him to know exactly who was doing this to you.
“Mine,” he growled against your ear, the word rough and possessive but not demanding, just overwhelmed. “You’re mine, sunshine. Every inch.”
Your nails dug into his shoulders. “Yours,” you gasped. “I’m yours, Bucky—God—please—”
That did something to him. His hips snapped forward harder, a sharp thrust that made you cry out. His hand slid between your bodies without breaking rhythm, fingers finding your clit immediately, like he’d studied you for this moment.
He circled once, slow and precise. You jolted, your thighs trembling violently around him.
“Look at me,” he breathed, forehead pressing to yours.
You forced your eyes open. His were dark, blown wide, pupils swallowing the blue. He looked wrecked. Completely undone.
“You’re so fucking perfect,” he said hoarsely. “Taking me so good.”
The praise shattered whatever control you had left as your orgasm hit hard and blinding, ripping through you with a cry that broke in your throat. Your body locked up around him, clenching tight, pulsing helplessly as wave after wave tore through your core.
You shook violently beneath him.
Bucky swore, his thrusts losing their smooth rhythm as your body milked him. He pressed deeper, hips grinding against you as he worked you through it, not stopping, not pulling away.
“That’s it,” he groaned. “That’s it—come for me—”
You felt like you were falling apart, like your entire nervous system had short-circuited. Your hands clawed at his back, your legs tightening impossibly tighter as you rode out the aftershocks.
He snapped once more, deep and desperate, before he was coming too. His hips stuttered against yours, his whole body trembling as he buried himself fully inside you. A low, broken sound tore from his throat, your name spilling out with it like confession.
He held you close, so close your ribs ached, while he came undone. You felt him everywhere. The heat. The fullness. The way he pulsed inside you as he finished, forehead pressed hard to yours like he needed the anchor.
Neither of you moved for a long moment. Just breathing. Just feeling.
His face dropped into the crook of your neck, lips brushing your pulse. His chest rose and fell in ragged heaves against yours, sweat-damp skin sticking together.
And when your legs loosened slightly around his waist, his arms tightened instinctively, pulling you back against him like letting space form between you wasn’t an option. Not tonight. Not ever, if he could help it.
His hand slid up your back, slow and grounding, fingers threading gently through your hair as your heartbeat came down from the clouds. “You okay?” he murmured, lips brushing the skin just beneath your ear.
You nodded, still breathless, still floating. “More than okay.”
There was a beat, a moment suspended in the quiet, where the air felt thick with everything unspoken. And then it spilled from you, raw and steady, like it had been waiting all along.
“I’m in love with you,” you whispered, voice rough with truth.
Bucky’s hand stilled mid-stroke. Then he leaned in, nose brushing your temple, and breathed you in like that was the only answer he’d ever needed.
“You’re lucky,” he murmured, voice thick. “Because I’ve been gone for years.”
You blinked up at him, lips parted. And this time, when you kissed him, slow and soft and certain…
It didn’t feel like a first. It felt like forever.
Pairing: Lee Bodecker x Reader, Charles Blackwood x Reader
Chapters: 14
Total Word Count:
Fic Rating: E
Fic Summary: You’ve been stuck in a holding pattern with Lee Bodecker for longer than you care to admit — the kind of almost-thing that never quite becomes anything real, no matter how good it feels in the dark. Then Charles Blackwood rolls through Knockemstiff, all quiet charm and soft promises, and suddenly you're wondering if there's more out there than late-night backseats and half-kept words. Because now you know what it feels like to be chosen — not cornered.
Author's Note: Each chapter will have individual tags related to the chapter's contents. And the author's note at the start will include any necessary trigger warnings.
Pairings: Lee Bodecker x Reader, Charles Blackwood x Reader
Word Count: 1,890
Rating: E
Chapter: 1/14
Fic Summary: You’ve been stuck in a holding pattern with Lee Bodecker for longer than you care to admit — the kind of almost-thing that never quite becomes anything real, no matter how good it feels in the dark. Then Charles Blackwood rolls through Knockemstiff, all quiet charm and soft promises, and suddenly you're wondering if there's more out there than late-night backseats and half-kept words. Because now you know what it feels like to be chosen — not cornered.
Author's Note: This particular chapter only has a bit of spice towards the end and adult references throughout. However, this fic will eventually get explicit with some dubcon/noncon in certain chapters. The chapters containing said content will be properly marked in the author's notes. For everything else, please checks the tags for each chapter.
The bell over the door gives its worn little jingle, thin and tired after the lunch rush. The sound cuts through the low murmur of the radio on the shelf, where Patsy Cline hums about heartbreak and highways. You’re halfway through wiping the counter, cloth damp with coffee rings and sugar grit, when a flash of cherry-red paint glides past the window.
A convertible — bright, clean, too new for a town that smells mostly of motor oil and fried onions. The kind of car people turn to look at, even if they pretend not to.
Then he’s there in the doorway, sunlight catching on his shirt buttons. He pauses long enough for the bell to jingle twice more before stepping in. You can tell at a glance he isn’t local: the crisp collar, the careful hair, the faint trace of expensive cologne that cuts through the diner’s usual perfume of grease and brewed coffee.
He takes in the room with one slow sweep of his eyes — the booths with their cracked vinyl, the old man at the corner table nursing a milkshake, and finally you behind the counter. His smile is polite but edged with something practiced, like he’s done this sort of thing before.
“Afternoon,” he says, voice smooth enough to slide under your skin. “Didn’t mean to wander in uninvited. I was driving through, saw the sign for Knockemstiff. The name alone was worth stopping for.”
You set a menu in front of him, careful to keep your tone even.
“Not much to see here, unless you’re a fan of dust and coffee.”
He laughs quietly, a sound that draws a glance from the old man in the corner.
“Maybe that’s what I need. Somewhere quiet to catch my breath.”
He chooses the stool right in front of you and leans on the counter, tapping a rhythm with two fingers while he looks around again. The radio crackles. Outside, a truck grinds its gears up Main Street. The air smells of heat and metal and the lemon polish you used that morning.
There’s a pause before he speaks again.
“What do you recommend?”
“Coffee’s decent,” you answer. “Pie’s better.”
“Then coffee and pie it is,” he says, smiling. “You can tell a lot about a place by its pie.”
You pour his coffee, the dark liquid catching a shimmer of light as it hits the cup. He thanks you, bright blue eyes lifting just long enough to make you forget the next thing you meant to do. The diner feels smaller suddenly, like the air is holding its breath.
“I’m Charles,” he says, stirring sugar into his coffee. “Charles Blackwood.”
You pause for just a moment before giving him your name. When you glance toward the window, you half expect to see a cruiser rolling by, a familiar face behind the wheel. It’s instinct now, that small check to see if he’s watching. But the street is empty, just heat waves dancing off the asphalt.
You turn back to Charles, still smiling, still a little wary.
“So you’re passing through?” you ask.
“For now,” he says, pausing to take a sip of coffee. “Maybe I’ll stay a while. Depends on what I find here.”
He doesn’t say what he’s looking for, and you don’t ask. But you can feel the spark of curiosity catching anyway — small, dangerous, and already too bright.
He takes another sip of coffee, eyes flicking around the diner again.
“Busy place you’ve got here,” he says.
“Only around lunch. After that it’s just the regulars and the sound of the fridge.”
He smiles again, softer this time.
“And what about you? You work all hours, or do they let you escape once in a while?”
You shrug, feeling a warmth flicker through you. “I’m off tomorrow. Well, I get off at noon.”
“A Saturday afternoon off in a place like this,” he muses. “You must have the whole town to yourself.”
There’s a playful note in his voice; it’s teasing, but it doesn’t carry that edge of ownership you’re used to. You meet his gaze and he doesn’t look away.
“You could show me around,” he says after a beat. “If you don’t mind. I’d like to see what keeps a person here.”
You should tell him there isn’t much to see: a church, a gas station, a river that runs shallow by the mill. But the way he says it makes it sound like an invitation to something else — something that feels a little like freedom.
“Sure,” you hear yourself say. “Why not.”
Charles grins, that flash of white teeth and confidence.
“Then it’s settled.”
He leaves a dollar beside his empty cup, more than the pie’s worth, and tips his head in a kind of half-bow before walking back into the sunlight. The door swings shut behind him and the bell gives its tired jingle.
For a moment you just stand there, cloth still in your hand, watching the red car pull away down Main Street. The air feels different, lighter, though you can already sense that someone like him doesn’t stay unnoticed long in Knockemstiff.
You’re still watching the red convertible’s taillights fade down Main Street when Ruthie slides out from the back room, hair up, apron streaked with flour.
“Who was that?” she asks, propping a hand on her hip. “Didn’t look like one of the regulars.”
“Passing through,” you say, grabbing the coffeepot just to have something in your hands. “Said he wanted a tour tomorrow. I told him I’d show him around.”
Ruthie’s eyebrows jump.
“Tomorrow? You said yes? Don’t you normally go with Lee on Saturday nights?”
You shrug, trying for nonchalance.
“Why not? Lee’s been ‘meaning to take me out proper’ for about a year now. A girl gets tired of waiting for something more than driving out to the lake and steaming up the cruiser windows.”
Ruthie gives a low whistle.
“You’re brave, honey. Lee won’t like hearing that.”
The bell over the door answers her before you can. A gust of warm air rolls in with the smell of exhaust and aftershave, and the room seems to tighten a little.
“Speak of the devil,” Ruthie murmurs under her breath.
Sheriff Lee Bodecker steps inside, hat tilted back, the easy grin he wears for the townsfolk already fixed in place. He nods at Ruthie, then at you, gaze lingering a second too long.
“Afternoon, ladies,” he says. “Place smells good as ever.”
Ruthie mumbles something about checking the pies and vanishes toward the kitchen. You keep your hands busy with the coffeepot, pulse ticking high in your throat.
“Didn’t expect to see you till later,” you say, hoping your voice sounds casual.
“Figured I’d stop in,” he answers. “Make sure my favourite little waitress is keepin’ out of trouble.”
The line lands halfway between a joke and a warning, and you feel the air in the diner change again — thicker now, quieter.
Lee leans against the counter, one hand brushing the brim of his hat, the other resting on his holster. His grin is there, but it’s thin, forced — like the edge of a knife disguised as a smile.
“What time you off tomorrow?”
“Noon,” you reply, trying to keep your voice steady.
“I’ll swing by then,” he says, low and smooth. “We’ll grab a bite. Maybe take a drive.”
You shake your head. “No need. I’ve already got plans.”
He blinks once, then the grin drops just a fraction.
“Plans?”
“A newcomer came in earlier,” you say, keeping your tone casual. “Asked if I’d show him around town. I said yes.”
The air thickens. His jaw tightens, and his hand flexes against the counter.
“A newcomer,” he repeats, voice darkening, smooth but low, the sort of quiet that makes you swallow hard. “In that red car…the one out front?”
“Yeah,” you admit. “Said he’s just passing through.”
His smile flickers, replaced by something sharper, possessive.
“And you’re just gonna spend your afternoon with him?” His tone has a weight now, the sort that presses down, like the room suddenly shrank.
“He asked,” you say, trying to sound lighthearted, but your pulse is picking up.
Lee leans in a fraction closer, enough that you notice the heat of his body and the edge in his voice.
“I don’t like the idea of you showing yourself off to strangers,” he says, low and dangerous, with that simmering jealousy beneath every word. “You belong where I can keep an eye on you.”
He straightens, tugs at his hat, and forces a polite tilt of the head.
“But do what you think’s best,” he adds, voice calmer, but the dark edge hasn’t left his eyes. “Just remember…I see everything.”
He walks out, leaving the bell to jingle thinly behind him, and the diner seems suddenly quieter, the air heavier.
Ruthie pokes her head from the kitchen.
“He took that better than I thought he would,” she whispers.
“Sure he did,” you murmur, heart still racing. “For now.”
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
You sit on the edge of your bed, the moments from the diner still flickering in your mind. Tomorrow’s plan with Charles feels like a secret thrill, bright and new, the kind of thing that makes your pulse quicken at just the thought.
But then your mind drifts, as it always does, to him…
The cruiser engine hummed low, then died, leaving the car in a heavy, sun-warmed silence. Lee shifted beside you, hand on the wheel, then suddenly there’s a tug at your arm. Before you could react, he pulled you across the seat, into his chest.
You felt the weight of him, firm and commanding, pressing you into him, and the air between you crackled with heat. His hands weren’t gentle, but they weren’t rough — they claimed, they guided, they made you shiver.
“Stay still,” he murmured, voice low, almost a growl, lips brushing your hair.
The warmth of his body, the scent of him — leather, faint cologne, sun on his skin — wrapped around you. Your heart raced, pulse hammering in time with the quiet thrum of the car.
His hands roamed with that confident possessiveness you’d learned to both fear and crave. Every brush, every press, was a reminder that this was his space, his world, and in this small pocket of time, he owned it — and you — with a casual authority that made your stomach twist.
You pressed back, partly in surrender, partly to hold on to the thrill. The world outside the windshield blurred, the river glinting in the late afternoon light, the heat trapped inside the car thick and electric.
He tilted his head, lips brushing your temple, jaw, the subtle places that made you shiver and left you needing more.
You blink, pulling the memory back like a veil. Your fingers trace the edge of your pillow, heart still thudding. Tomorrow, Charles will be waiting. Bright, polished, asking instead of claiming, offering instead of taking. The contrast makes your stomach twist in anticipation, in anxiety, in something that feels dangerously like desire.
You bite your lip, torn between the pull of the familiar and the thrill of the new — the man who makes you feel owned, and the one who makes you feel wanted.
And somewhere deep down, you know tomorrow will force a choice, or at least make the tension unbearable.
Summary: You only meant to use Carter Baizen as a prop to make your shitty ex jealous. Unfortunately, Carter is very, very good at playing the part…and even better at making it feel real.
Author's Note: Please check the tags for any possible triggers. Thank you!
It’s not when you insist on him picking you up in front of your building instead of meeting at the bar like usual.
It’s not when you hand him your keys and say, “Drive mine tonight,” all casual, like you’ve actually let someone else touch your car before.
It’s not even when you tell him where to park — half a block away, right in front of a very specific restaurant with outdoor seating and very good lighting.
No, it’s when you step out of the car, smoothing your hands down the front of your outfit, and he catches the way you glance — just once — through the big plate glass window.
Carter follows your gaze.
There, at a corner table, head bent over a drink, is the man you haven’t mentioned by name but have absolutely bitched about in fragments. The one who “didn’t know what he wanted,” the one who kept you on a string and then acted surprised when you got tired of dangling.
Carter takes it all in: the way your shoulders go tight, the way your chin lifts, the way you deliberately turn away before your ex can look up and see you.
Interesting.
He says nothing. Just pockets the keys and offers his arm, like you haven’t just staged an ambush.
You hook your hand through the crook of his elbow. Both of you pretend this is normal.
The bar you picked is a hotel lounge — dim, expensive, full of soft leather and low conversation. The kind of place where deals are made and mistakes are born.
You slide onto a barstool, crossing your legs. Carter takes the one beside you, ordering for both of you without asking.
You let him.
Your eyes, however, are not on him.
They’re on the door.
Every time it swings open, you shift just a little. You smooth your skirt, fix your lipstick in the reflection of your phone, tilt your head to make your neck look better.
Carter watches you do it three times before he gets bored of pretending he doesn’t notice.
“You keep looking at the door, sweetheart,” he drawls, turning his glass in his fingers. “Planning an escape route, or waiting for someone to witness the show?”
You blink.
“What?”
He smiles, slow and amused. “Come on. Give me some credit. You haven’t looked at the menu once, which is a crime, because they make an excellent old fashioned here. But you have checked your reflection eight times and laughed a little too loud every time a man walks past.”
You glare at him, cheeks heating. “You’re imagining things.”
“Mm.” He tips his head, studying you. “Am I?”
As if on cue, the door opens again. A handful of new arrivals step in, the night air curling around their ankles.
Your gaze snaps over before you can stop it.
You go very still.
Carter follows your line of sight.
Your ex is here.
Of course he is. Carter’s not stupid; he decoded your whole plan somewhere between your building and the valet stand. But seeing it confirmed — the way your spine straightens, the way you suddenly lean in closer to Carter, fingers brushing his sleeve — is deeply, deeply satisfying.
“Oh,” he says softly. “So that’s what this is.”
You swallow.
“What what is?”
He turns fully on his stool, knee brushing your thigh, his voice dropping so only you can hear.
“You don’t want a drink,” he murmurs. “You want an audience.”
You flinch like he’s physically poked you. Your eyes dart to his. “That’s not—”
“Sweetheart.” He laughs, and it’s not unkind, just knowing. “You picked a bar two doors down from his regular spot, had me park your car where he’d see it, and you’ve been performing happy, moved-on-girl for the last twenty minutes. I may be a bastard, but I’m not oblivious.”
Your mouth opens. Closes.
“Did he screw you over that bad?” Carter asks, almost conversational. “Or are you just naturally this vengeful?”
Something in your face must give you away, because his expression shifts — not soft, exactly, but less sharp at the edges.
“A little of both,” you admit, staring into your drink. “He…ended things like I was an inconvenience. Said we wanted different things, then showed up with someone else on his arm two weeks later.” Your fingers tighten around the glass. “I’m not trying to win him back or anything. I just…want him to see I upgraded.”
Carter’s laugh is genuine this time, low and delighted. “Upgraded, hm?”
You finally look at him. Up close, under the warm bar lights, he’s all dark edges and expensive ease. Collar open, tie loose, wristwatch worth more than your car. A bored prince in exile.
“You are obnoxiously handsome,” you mutter. “It seemed like a good plan at the time.”
His smile turns wicked.
“I do love being weaponized.”
You roll your eyes.
“I’m using you. You’re allowed to be mad about it.”
“Oh, I know exactly what you’re doing,” he says. “You don’t want me. You just want your ex to see you with me.”
“Ouch.” You wince. “You didn’t have to say it out loud.”
He considers you for a long moment. Then his gaze shifts past your shoulder.
“Well,” he says lightly. “Showtime.”
You don’t have to look. You feel it. The weight of someone’s stare on your back, the way the air changes when old ghosts step into the room.
“He’s looking,” Carter murmurs. “Don’t freak out.”
“I’m trying,” you hiss.
“Relax.”
His hand finds your knee under the bar, warm and steady, thumb gliding lazily along the inside of your thigh — not high enough to be indecent, just enough to make your breath catch.
“Let me do what you brought me here to do.”
“Which is what, exactly?” you whisper.
He smirks.
“Be unforgettable.”
Before you can retort, he leans in.
From the outside, it must look effortless: the charismatic playboy dipping his head to murmur in his date’s ear, your mouth parting on a laugh, your hand curling over his wrist.
Inside, your pulse is a drumline. Your heart threatens to beat out of your chest as warmth flickers down your spine to settle in your core.
“Smile,” he murmurs, lips ghosting your jaw. “He’s almost at the bar.”
You do. It feels a little too wide, a little too sharp, but Carter’s presence grounds you. His hand at your knee, his cologne in your nose, his breath against your skin.
You don’t have to see your ex to know he’s there. You hear the hitch in his voice when he orders, the pause when the bartender asks, “You want to start a tab?”
“Go on,” Carter says softly. “Look.”
You do.
Your ex stands a few feet away, trying very hard not to stare. His eyes flick from your hand on Carter’s wrist to the hand on your leg to the way Carter is murmuring in your ear like you’re the only person in the room.
Jealousy looks ugly on him. Satisfaction tastes sweet on your tongue.
“Okay,” you breathe. “This was a good idea.”
“Obviously,” Carter says. “I agreed to it.”
You elbow him. He chuckles, then lifts his glass toward your ex in the barest hint of a toast before turning his attention fully back to you.
“Now,” he says. “You want to really sell it?”
You blink.
“We’re not already?”
He leans back an inch, studying you.
“Do you trust me?”
It’s a stupid question. It should be a stupid question. He’s Carter Baizen. You’d be an idiot to trust him.
You nod anyway.
“Good girl,” he says, and before you can process that, he’s tugging you off your stool and between his knees.
You land against him with a soft oof, hands splayed on his chest. He brackets your hips with his hands, looking up at you with a lazy, worshipful heat that makes your knees feel weak.
“Eyes on me,” he murmurs.
Your gaze flicks to his.
He kisses you.
It’s not soft. It’s not chaste. It’s possessive and showy and just this side of indecent, his mouth moving against yours with practiced confidence, one hand sliding up your spine to cradle the back of your neck.
Someone at the bar lets out a low whistle. Someone else mutters something under their breath.
You don’t care.
For a moment, there’s only the press of his mouth and the way he hums quietly when you kiss him back.
When he finally lets you breathe, your head is spinning. His thumb brushes your lower lip, eyes dark and amused.
“Think he got the message?” Carter asks.
You risk a glance.
Your ex looks wrecked. Angry. Small.
“Yeah,” you say, voice a little hoarse. “He got it.”
Carter’s smile turns satisfied. He settles you back on your stool, his hand lingering on your thigh.
“Good,” he says. “Because now I’m invested.”
You arch a brow.
“In what? Ruining his night?”
“In that,” he agrees. “And in proving a point.”
You tilt your head.
“What point?”
He clinks his glass lightly against yours.
“That he lost something he never really deserved,” he says. His gaze drops to your mouth, then back up. “And that I’m not nearly as fake a date as you thought I’d be.”
Your heart does a treacherous little flip.
“You’re having too much fun with this,” you mutter.
“Oh, sweetheart,” Carter purrs, leaning in again. “I haven’t even started.”
The first time Chris ever kissed you, he was careful.
Measured. Controlled. Like he was trying not to scare you. Like he thought you might break.
Now?
You’re on your knees in his living room.
Lips swollen. Drool on your chin. His taste still thick in your throat. Your eyes are glassy, shoulders trembling, but you haven’t moved. Not an inch.
Like you’re waiting. Like you know better now.
Chris stands above you, cock still hard in his fist.
And the way he looks down at you?
Not soft. Not careful.
He looks down at you like you’re art. Like you’re something he made.
“You've never sucked anyone else's cock like that, have you?”
You shake your head, face flushed, thighs pressing together instinctively. Your lips part like you want to say something — apologize, maybe — but you can’t speak.
Not with the way your breath catches every time he strokes himself lazily, still wet with your spit. Not with the way your whole body aches to be touched again.
He grins, slow and filthy.
Then he leans over you.
One rough hand cups your cheek. The other drags his cock along your lips again, deliberate, messy — like he’s reminding you exactly what you just did.
“Open.”
You obey without even thinking, lips parting, tongue sliding out.
“What would your friends say if they saw you now, hmm?” he murmurs. “Innocent little thing on your knees…letting the big bad man use you like a toy…”
You whimper. And that’s when he spits.
Right onto your tongue. Casual. Smooth.
You hold your tongue steady, letting his spit slide down towards the back of your throat, but you don’t swallow. Not yet. Not until he tells you to.
He chuckles. A dark approval flashes in his eyes, something sharp and satisfied settling in his expression.
“Gods, you were so fucking pure when I met you…”
He leans closer, voice dropping.
“…and now look at you.”
The words aren’t cruel.
They’re worse.
Proud.
“Mouth full of spit and come, eyes all fucked-out. And you love it don’t you?”
You nod.
It’s barely a movement, but he sees it. Feels it.
And something shatters behind his eyes.
“Fuck,” he growls. “C’mere.”
You don’t even get your balance before he’s hauling you up — strong hands, no hesitation — like you weigh nothing, like you belong in his grip.
The couch creaks as he drops back into it, legs spreading, hands already guiding you. Your fingers dig into his shoulders, your whole body going tight as he pulls you down onto his cock in one smooth, unforgiving motion.
You cry out. He groans. Hands on your ass, jaw clenched, forehead resting against your collarbone. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t thrust. Just holds you there — deep, steady, overwhelming, split around him — letting you feel exactly how deep he is.
“Gonna fuck the rest of the innocence outta you, sweetheart.”
His breath is rough against your skin, his grip tightening.
“Till you don’t even remember what you were like before me.”
I wrote the first half of this for Tiktok…then I couldn't resist expanding it a little bit hehe.
Pairing: Steve Kemp x Reader
Word Count: 2,079
Rating: E (Smut-ish)
Chapter: 1/1
Summary: A hidden stash of Polaroids. A boyfriend with a dangerous little smile. And the slow realization that Steve Kemp has been quietly collecting every version of you he can get his hands on. The only real problem? You might like being his favourite subject.
Author's Note: Please check the tags for any possible triggers. Thank you!
At least, that’s what you tell yourself when you’re digging in the drawer by his nightstand, looking for a spare lighter. He swore he had one in here somewhere, tossed between chargers and receipts and the kind of junk only he can decipher.
Your fingers brush something smooth.
Not plastic. Not metal.
You pull it out.
A stack of small, glossy squares, edges worn from handling.
Polaroids.
You almost put them back without looking.
Almost.
The first one is you.
Laying on the couch, dead asleep. Mouth slightly parted, one hand curled under your cheek, his hoodie swallowing you whole. There’s a blanket half-kicked off your legs, sunlight from the window striping your face.
You don’t remember him taking that.
You flip to the next.
You again. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, hair a mess, laughing at something off-frame. A mug beside you, your phone in your hand, eyes crinkled with genuine joy.
The third: you sitting at the table, chin in your palm, reading. Completely absorbed. The world could’ve caught fire and you wouldn’t have noticed.
None of them are posed. None of them are flattering in the way people usually mean when they say that.
But they’re…intimate.
Like he’s documenting you.
Your chest tightens.
The drawer doesn’t feel like a drawer anymore. It feels like a shrine.
“Whatcha doing, sweetheart?”
His voice comes from the doorway — light, casual.
You still jump like you’ve been caught stealing.
You look up. He’s leaning against the frame, hair mussed, shirt half-buttoned, one hand on the wood, the other holding a water bottle he clearly forgot he came in for.
His gaze drops and he sees the Polaroids in your hand.
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t curse, doesn’t snatch them away. Just smiles. Slow. Like this moment was inevitable.
“Find something interesting?” he asks.
You swallow. Your fingers tighten around the stack.
“Steve,” you say carefully, holding one up between two fingers, “what is this?”
He pushes off the door and saunters in, every line of his body relaxed. Predators look like that when they’re not hungry. Or when they know there’s nowhere for the prey to run.
He stops right in front of you, close enough that you have to tilt your chin up to keep his eyes. His gaze flicks from your face to the Polaroid.
“That one’s my favourite,” he says.
It’s the laughing one.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were taking these?” Your voice isn’t angry. It’s too soft for that. Too…off-balance.
“Would you have laughed like that if I did?” he counters.
You hesitate.
He knows the answer. You see it in his smirk.
“Steve, it’s—” You search for the word. Invasive. Weird. Intense. All of the above. “It’s a lot.”
He hums.
Then he plucks the top photo from your hand and studies it, like he’s seeing it for the first time too. His thumb brushes over your printed face.
“I like keeping things that matter,” he says finally, eyes still on the picture.
Your stomach flips.
You try to make a joke, because that’s safer than the warmth flooding your chest. “Most people just save camera roll pics, you know.”
He finally looks at you.
“Nah,” he says, and there’s something dark and fond and impossibly sincere in his gaze. “Those get lost. Deleted. Forgotten.”
He lifts the Polaroid just enough that you’re looking at yourself, framed in his fingers.
“This? I choose to keep it. And I keep it safe. Just like the subject.”
His free hand finds your hip. Your mouth is dry.
“You could’ve asked.”
He chuckles, low and amused.
“You really think you’d have believed me if I said, ‘Hey baby, can I take candid shots of you and keep them in a drawer like a creep?’”
You huff despite yourself.
“You are a creep.”
He leans in, nose brushing yours.
“Yeah,” he agrees, voice dropping, “but I’m your creep.”
His hand slides up, fingers splaying over your ribs. You don’t realize he’s maneuvered you until the back of your knees hit the mattress and he nudges you to sit on the edge of the bed.
He reaches into the other drawer and pulls out the camera itself — compact, familiar, the one you’ve seen lying around the house and never thought twice about.
He raises it. Points it at you.
“Look at me,” he says quietly.
Something in his tone makes your spine straighten. Your fingers loosen around the stack in your hand. Your thighs press together as you meet his eyes.
The shutter clicks.
A soft mechanical whirr fills the silence as the new photo slides out. He waits, watching as the image slowly blooms to life.
Then he steps forward, settling between your knees, one hand cupping your jaw. He looks down at the fresh Polaroid. Smirks.
“There,” he murmurs, tilting it so you can see — your eyes wide, lips parted, cheeks flushed. “That’s my new favourite.”
His thumb strokes your lower lip, pressing just hard enough to make you gasp.
“You gonna let me keep collecting?” he asks, voice a husky drag. “Build a whole gallery out of you?”
Your heart thunders as you nod.
“Use your words,” he reminds you, that familiar command slipping in like a knife between ribs.
“Yes,” you breathe. “Keep them.”
His smile is slow and satisfied.
“Good girl,” he says, leaning in to kiss you, Polaroid still clutched in his hand. “Because I’m nowhere near done.”
He kisses you slow at first.
Mouth warm, patient, like he’s savouring the decision you just made. Your fingers curl in his shirt, Polaroids pressed between your palm and his chest.
When he pulls back, he takes them gently from your hand and sets the stack on the nightstand. The new one, though — the one of you flushed and wide-eyed — he stares at for a moment before finally adding it to the stack.
“Lie back,” he says quietly.
You do. The mattress dips as you shuffle up toward the pillows, heart fluttering. He watches the whole thing like he’s committing it frame by frame to memory.
Then you hear it. The soft mechanical click of the camera in his hand.
You blink.
“Steve—”
“Shh.” He lifts the camera a little higher, sighting down at you. “This is the good part.”
Another click.
You become aware of yourself all at once — shirt rumpled, thighs parted just enough, hair mussed from his fingers. Your first instinct is to smooth everything down, to close your legs.
He sees it.
“Don’t,” he murmurs. “Stay just like that.”
You freeze. He smiles, small and pleased, like you’ve just obeyed an order that matters.
“That’s it,” he says. “Look at me.”
You do.
The shutter snaps again.
He sets the camera on the pillow beside your head for a moment only to crawl onto the bed, bracing one knee between your legs. His hands slide under your shirt, palms hot against your stomach as he pushes the fabric up, up, up, until cool air hits your skin.
“You know what I like about my photos?” he asks, voice low, gaze roaming over you while his thumb traces slow circles just under your ribs. “You never look posed. You never look like you’re trying.”
His fingers slip under the waistband of your pants, tugging them down your hips with excruciating patience.
“You’re just…” he exhales, almost a laugh, “real. Mine.”
Your breath stutters when his hands settle on your bare thighs, urging them open. He doesn’t look away, not even when he reaches back for the camera again.
“You okay?” he checks, tone softening around the edges.
You nod, throat tight.
“Use your words,” he reminds you gently.
“Yes,” you say, voice barely above a whisper.
Something in his expression relaxes, even as his eyes darken.
“Good girl."
He shifts back, kneeling between your spread legs, camera back in his hand. The situation would feel ridiculous if his gaze wasn’t so intent, if your whole body didn’t feel like a live wire.
He angles the lens down your body.
“Hands above your head,” he murmurs.
Heat blooms across your cheeks, but you obey, wrists crossing loosely on the pillow. The position makes you feel exposed in a way you can’t quite name.
The shutter clicks.
You squeeze your eyes shut for a second, overwhelmed. When you open them again, he’s watching you over the top of the camera.
“Don’t hide from me,” he says softly. “That’s the whole point.”
He sets the camera down carefully within reach and slides his hands up your thighs, thumbs brushing the sensitive skin where they meet. You suck in a breath.
“See, this is what I get from you,” he whispers, leaning down until his mouth is at your ear, “Not just what you show the world.” His lips drag along your jaw. “I get the in-between. The messy. The real.”
His hand slides between your legs, not subtle in the slightest. You gasp, hips jerking.
“There it is,” he croons, satisfied. “That’s the shot I want.”
You hear the faint shuffle of his other hand, the reach, the lift…
Click.
Your head falls back.
“Steve,” you breathe, somewhere between protest and want.
“Relax, sweetheart.” He laughs against your throat, the sound rough and pleased. “This one’s just for me.”
His fingers work slowly, deliberately, building you up with infuriating control. Every time your hips buck, he eases off just enough to keep you on the edge.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice going hazy with arousal. “If you could see what I see right now…you’d understand why I can’t stop.”
You’re half-gone when he finally sets the camera aside for real and shifts down, kissing a trail along your stomach, your hip, the inside of your thigh.
“Tell me what you want,” he says against your skin, the echo of earlier curling through your chest. “Use your words, or I’ll just keep teasing you until you cry.”
Your fingers tangle in his hair.
“Please,” you whisper, the word cracking. “I want your mouth.”
He hums, pleased.
“That’s my girl.”
When his mouth finally settles where you need him, all pretense of composure shatters. He’s thorough and unhurried, the kind of focused that makes you feel less like a person and more like a favourite habit he’ll never give up.
Your eyes flutter shut as your head falls back against the pillows. Every sound you make earns you a murmured “there you go,” or “that’s it,” like he’s guiding you somewhere only he knows the way to.
You’re right on the edge when you hear it again.
Click.
Your eyes fly open, dizzy.
You glimpse him for a heartbeat — hair mussed from your grip, lips slick, eyes blown wide as he lifts the camera with one hand and keeps working you with the other.
“That one is going in a very private collection,” he says, voice wrecked.
You can’t even answer. Your whole body locks up in sensation, every muscle going tight as the wave finally crashes over you. He keeps you there, holds you through it, swallowing every broken sound you make like it’s the only thing keeping him alive.
When you finally slump back against the mattress, shaking, he presses a soft kiss to your inner thigh and crawls up your body, bracing over you on his elbows.
He nudges your nose with his.
“Still okay?” he asks, gentle again, the camera set aside at last.
You nod, boneless.
“Yeah. I just…wow.”
He smiles, softer than you expect, thumb brushing lazily over your cheekbone.
“You should see these,” he says. “The way you look when you let go for me? Could frame it.”
“You’re not hanging those on the wall,” you mumble.
He chuckles.
“No. Those stay where they belong.”
“Where’s that?”
His hand slides to your chest, right over your pounding heart.
“Here,” he says, then taps his own chest. “And here.”
He leans in, lips brushing your ear.
“And maybe,” he adds, voice dropping to a sinful murmur, “locked in a box under my bed so I can take ’em out every time I miss you.”
You swat his shoulder, heat blooming all over again.
“You’re insane.”
He grins, kissing you slow and deep.
“Yeah,” he agrees. “Insane about you. And I love to catalogue my obsessions.”
On the nightstand, the newest Polaroid finishes developing: your head thrown back, mouth open on a moan, fingers tight in his hair.
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