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[thehornyscriptures]

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Reia’s buried archive ࣪ ִֶָ☾. 18, she/her, libra

𝜗ৎ about me

i watch a lot and i think a lot afterwards. seriously, just a girl whose invested herself in way too many franchises. i’ve got too much books in the pile yet it's just been and gonnna be me and AO3 for the foreseeable future.

the fandom wormhole i currently find myself falling in: the walking dead | game of thrones | marvel | yellowjackets | stranger things | the rookie | attack on titan

i might be a tad bit obsessed with everything daryl dixon (disregard the very late entrance to the fandom)

Ships i fw: Braime (got), Richonne (twd), Glaggie (twd), JackieShauna (yellowjackets), Jancy (stranger things), Lumax (stranger things), Sambucky (marvel), Chenford (the rookie) Levihan (aot), yumihisu (aot)

𝜗ৎ about the blog

©thehornyscriptures | EST. 2021

fanfiction lover • fanfiction writer • mature and explicit sexual content • minors respectfully get out! • i am not responsible for the media you consume • all works here are mine

I would love to take requests! Currently, my hyperfixation has been the walking dead, and subsequently am in love with anything daryl dixon. I’d write xReader, but im also down to write about my favorite ships;)

tropes i wouldn’t do | incest/familycest, snuff, extreme age gap, minorXadult, violent sexual themes, race play, daddy and little relationships, pedophilia.

.☘︎ ݁˖ the bookshelf of masterlists — open and read at your own discretion!

[cherryysunshine]

Blind Spot

Pairing: Bucky Barnes/F!Reader

Word Count: 5.7k

Rating: Mature

Warnings: mutual pining, jealousy, sparring, minor injury, kissing

Summary: You’re usually more than capable of holding your own against Natasha. 

Unfortunately, you’re also usually not watching Bucky Barnes smile at another woman from across the training room.

Author’s Note: written for this request (it appears that tumblr at this inbox message and i can't find it anymore)

set at some point in a lightly canon-divergent post-The Winter Soldier/pre-Civil War timeline where Steve and Sam found Bucky earlier and he’s been staying at the Avengers Compound while he figures out what comes next

this is the first of three fics i’m posting today! this one and the two others i’m posting today are the last ones i finished working on before i started the 1k celebration event. i’m putting the other requests in my inbox on pause for now and prioritizing event submissions :)

Natasha caught your wrist before your fist reached her ribs, turned beneath your arm, and sent you stumbling two steps past her. You recovered before she could capitalize on it, twisting back around with your guard raised.

“Cheap,” you muttered.

Natasha’s mouth curved slightly. “You left your side open for almost three seconds.”

“I was trying something.”

“Try keeping your ribs next time.”

You narrowed your eyes before moving forward again.

Sparring with Natasha was always an exercise in accepting that whatever you thought you were doing, she’d probably figured it out three moves ago. She’d spent the first ten minutes letting you establish a rhythm, the next five disrupting it, and the last several making increasingly pointed comments every time you fell for something she’d already used against you. You still liked training with her most days, but today Natasha had the unfair advantage of being considerably better at keeping her attention where it belonged.

You ducked beneath her next strike and drove forward, forcing her to retreat. Natasha blocked the first punch, redirected the second, and avoided the kick you aimed at her thigh. You followed her movement instead of overcommitting and earned the briefest flash of approval in her expression.

Then Bucky laughed somewhere behind her.

Your attention shifted before you could stop it, and Natasha’s knuckles halted an inch from your sternum.

“Dead,” she said.

You looked down at the fist hovering over your sternum. “That seems dramatic.”

“You gave me enough time to put a knife there.” Natasha lowered her hand and studied you for a moment. “You’re distracted.”

“I missed one block.”

Her gaze slid past your shoulder instead of answering. You didn’t need to turn around to know where she was looking.

Bucky had been in the training room when you arrived, working through a set of exercises at the far end with Steve. That had been manageable. You were accustomed to Bucky being around while you trained, and you were even getting relatively good at ignoring the fact that sleeveless shirts existed and Bucky Barnes had recently become comfortable enough to wear them.

Steve had finished twenty minutes ago and left. The woman standing with Bucky now was considerably harder to ignore.

You didn’t know her, although you’d seen her around the Compound a few times wearing a Stark Industries badge, usually carrying a tablet or arguing with someone from the equipment division. She was pretty, which you resented despite being fully aware that it was neither her fault nor a reasonable thing to resent.

More importantly, Bucky had been talking to her for at least ten minutes.

He didn’t talk to strangers for ten minutes. He barely talked to some of the people he lived with for that long.

“She’s from equipment,” Natasha said.

You returned your attention to her. “I didn’t ask.”

“No.” Natasha’s gaze lingered on you for a beat. “You’ve just checked on them four times.”

Heat climbed your neck as you stepped back into position. “Are we training or keeping statistics?”

Obviously, the problem wasn’t that Bucky was talking to another woman. He could talk to whoever he wanted. He was allowed to have friends, conversations, interests, and an entire life that had absolutely nothing to do with you. Considering how much of that had been taken from him, you wanted him to have all of those things more than you could properly explain.

You just wished he’d stop looking so handsome while doing it.

Natasha raised her hands again. “Whenever you’re done monitoring the other side of the room.”

You came at her harder than necessary, which answered the question well enough.

Natasha absorbed the sudden increase without difficulty, blocking your strikes while giving ground just quickly enough to encourage you. You realized what she was doing a moment before she tried to hook your ankle, hopped over the sweep, and caught her shoulder with your palm.

She gave you a satisfied nod. “Better.”

You should’ve known the approval wouldn’t last. Natasha waited until you committed to your next strike before saying, almost conversationally, “He’s still over there, by the way.”

Your fist went wide.

Her smile widened. “Interesting.”

Natasha laughed, and across the room, Bucky glanced over at the sound. You immediately pretended to be deeply interested in fussing with the wrap around your wrist. Natasha watched you for a moment. 

“Don’t,” you warned.

“I haven’t said anything.”

“Your face has.”

Her amusement deepened, but she lowered her voice anyway. “You know you could save yourself a lot of trouble and ask him out.”

You glanced instinctively toward Bucky before catching yourself. “I’d settle for you not discussing my love life in a room full of spies and at least three people who thrive on gossip.”

“So there is a love life to discuss.”

You stared at her.

Natasha only lifted her hands for you to resume, her expression softening. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think you’re imagining this.”

You frowned. “Meaning?”

“Meaning Barnes watches you too.”

“He watches everyone.”

“Not the same way.”

You glanced toward Bucky despite yourself, unwilling to let that tiny possibility settle anywhere important.

He was standing near one of the equipment benches, his metal hand braced against the edge while the woman showed him something on her tablet. His hair was long enough to fall into his face during training, something he’d complained about yesterday before refusing your offer to cut it because, according to him, the expression on your face when you made the suggestion had looked suspicious.

You’d only been joking about giving him bangs.

Mostly.

Things had gotten easier with him over the last few months. When Steve and Sam first brought him to the Compound, Bucky had moved through the place like someone expecting every open door to become a trap. He’d spoken when necessary, disappeared whenever too many people gathered in one room, and positioned himself where he could see every exit without appearing to think about it.

You hadn’t tried to fix any of that. You’d simply started leaving an extra mug beside the coffee machine on mornings when you knew he was awake before everyone else, and eventually he’d started sitting beside you at breakfast. You’d invited him to movie night without caring when he spent the first three invitations finding excuses not to come; the fourth time, he’d appeared halfway through the opening credits and taken the empty seat beside you, and after that, the empty seat had quietly become his.

Somewhere along the way, cautious conversations had turned into teasing. Training together had become normal. Bucky had started knocking on your door when he couldn’t sleep because he knew you were usually awake too, and you’d learned that his sense of humor was much sharper than the solemn expression he showed most of the world suggested.

Somewhere along the way, you’d also made the catastrophic mistake of falling in love with him, not that you were dramatic enough to call it that aloud. You preferred hopelessly attracted, pathetically fond, possibly doomed—anything sounded better than admitting you’d gotten to the point where one quiet laugh from across a room could make you forget Natasha Romanoff was trying to hit you.

“You’re doing it again,” Natasha said.

Your gaze returned to her. “I looked for two seconds.”

“Six.”

“You weren’t counting.”

“I was.”

“You need hobbies.”

“I have one.”

Her eyes flicked toward Bucky.

You pointed at her. “Don’t.”

Natasha caught your finger and pushed your hand aside. “Guard.”

You raised it, and she moved.

For the next several minutes, you managed to keep your attention where it belonged. Natasha made you work for every opening, forcing you backward and then allowing you to press forward just to see whether you’d recognize another trap. Sweat gathered along your spine, your breathing grew heavier, and the rest of the training room faded beneath the familiar rhythm of impact, movement, and correction.

Then Natasha pivoted, putting Bucky directly into your line of sight.

The woman rested her fingers briefly against his upper arm, apparently indicating where the sleeve of his field gear would sit, and Bucky looked down at whatever she was showing him. It wasn’t intimate, and even in the instant it happened, some rational part of your brain understood that.

Then he smiled.

It wasn’t the polite expression he’d learned to produce when people introduced themselves around the Compound. It was smaller than that, warmer at the edges, his shoulders relaxing as the woman said something you couldn’t hear.

You stared long enough that Natasha had already started moving.

Her right hand came toward you in a combination you’d blocked dozens of times, but this time you didn’t block it. The controlled hook caught you across the mouth and jaw, pain bursting through your face as your feet tangled beneath you and you hit the mat hard enough to knock the breath from your lungs.

Natasha was kneeling beside you immediately. “Shit.”

You blinked up at the ceiling. “That was rude.”

“I thought you’d block.”

“So did I.”

Blood touched your tongue, and Natasha’s expression tightened.

“Let me see.”

You pushed yourself onto one elbow. “It’s my lip.”

“I know where I hit you.”

“Then why are you—”

“What happened?”

Bucky’s voice cut through yours, and you closed your eyes. Of course he’d noticed.

When you opened them again, Bucky was already crouching beside you. The woman from equipment remained near the bench several yards away, concern replacing whatever expression had been on her face before, but Bucky didn’t seem to remember she existed as his attention moved over you quickly, checking your posture, your face, and the way you were holding yourself. His flesh hand hovered near your jaw without touching.

“Did you hit your head?”

“No. Natasha caught my mouth, and then the mat caught the rest of me.”

He looked to Natasha for confirmation.

“No head impact,” she said. “She’s embarrassed, not concussed.”

“Nat.”

Bucky ignored that. His gaze moved over your face again. “Any dizziness? Nausea? Anything feel off?”

“Everything looks fine. My dignity’s in critical condition, but apparently nobody here treats that.”

His mouth tightened, and you recognized the expression. He was trying not to be annoyed because annoyance would imply he’d already decided you were fine enough to be annoyed with.

You reached for the edge of the mat and started getting to your feet. Bucky’s hands moved automatically, one closing around your forearm while the metal one settled carefully at your waist. He steadied you without taking your weight unless you gave it to him, and when you stood, nothing spun.

“See?”

He studied your face while Natasha rose beside you.

“She’ll live,” she said.

Bucky’s gaze settled on the blood gathering at your lower lip. “Come on. Let me clean that up.”

“It’s barely bleeding.”

He was already offering you a hand. “Humor me.”

You looked at Natasha for support, but she only folded her arms like a traitor.

“Fine.”

Bucky kept one hand at your elbow as he walked you toward the door. You made it three steps before Natasha called after you.

“Barnes.”

He glanced back.

“She stopped paying attention.”

Your stomach dropped.

Bucky frowned. “Why?”

Natasha looked directly at you, and you silently begged her to remember every good thing you had ever done for her. Her expression suggested that she did and that none of them were enough.

“You should ask her.”

“Natasha.”

She smiled. “I’ll finish my workout.”

You considered several methods of murder as Bucky guided you from the training room, but none seemed satisfying enough.

The small medical station down the hall was empty, which you would normally have considered lucky. At the moment, you would’ve preferred an audience of several hundred people if it meant avoiding the conversation Natasha had just deliberately arranged.

Bucky opened one of the cabinets and pulled out a first-aid kit.

“I can do it.”

“I know.”

He set it on the counter anyway.

You hopped onto the edge of the examination table and accepted the cold pack he handed you, pressing it against the side of your jaw. The ache had already settled into something duller. Your lip stung more than anything else, especially when you ran your tongue over the shallow cut.

Bucky washed his hands at the sink, and you watched his back.

Apparently getting punched in the face had taught you nothing.

“You’re staring again.”

You nearly dropped the cold pack. “I was looking in your general direction.”

Bucky glanced over his shoulder, clearly unconvinced.

“Natasha’s been accusing me of it all afternoon,” you added.

“Yeah?” He turned off the faucet. After a moment, one corner of his mouth lifted. “Starting to think she might have a case.”

You pressed the cold pack more firmly against your jaw and decided not to dignify that with an answer.

He dried his hands and came back toward you. For all the teasing that had become increasingly common between you, his movements changed when he reached the examination table. He slowed, his expression becoming more careful.

“Can I?”

You realized he meant your face. “Yeah.”

Bucky stepped between your knees and gently tipped your chin upward. His thumb rested beneath your jaw while he inspected the cut. He didn’t touch the metal hand to you, although you wouldn’t have minded if he did. He still favored his right for delicate things when he had the choice, as though decades of HYDRA treating the other as a weapon hadn’t quite stopped echoing.

“It’s small,” he said, some of the tension finally leaving his shoulders.

“See? I survived.”

Bucky reached for the gauze. “You joke when you want people to stop worrying.”

You paused. “That sounds suspiciously like something you’ve been saving.”

“Just noticed it.”

You watched his face while he worked. This close, it was even harder to remember why you were supposed to be embarrassed about liking him. His hair had fallen forward near his cheek, a small crease sat between his eyebrows from concentration, and his mouth remained set in the serious line he wore whenever he thought someone he cared about might be hurt.

Someone he cared about. That should have been enough, and for months, it had been.

You’d never expected anything from Bucky. You hadn’t befriended him because you thought eventually he might kiss you. You hadn’t sat with him through bad nights, learned which foods he avoided because memories attached themselves to them, or figured out that he liked old science-fiction movies because you expected some romantic reward at the end. You loved being his friend; you just also wanted things friendship didn’t give you.

Bucky touched the gauze carefully to your lower lip, and you flinched.

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

His eyes lifted to yours, and neither of you moved for a second before he lowered the gauze.

“What were you looking at?”

You sighed. “Nothing.”

“‘Nothing’ distracted you enough to let Romanoff punch you?”

“She’s punched me before.”

“Not like that.”

“You’ve seen us spar maybe four times.”

Bucky’s hand stilled. “Eight.”

You looked at him.

For the first time, he seemed to realize that number might have revealed more than he’d intended. His attention dropped back to the gauze. “Give or take.”

“That didn’t sound like give or take.”

His thumb remained beneath your chin. “What happened?”

“I got distracted.”

“I gathered that.”

“Then the mystery is solved.”

“By what?”

You considered lying. Unfortunately, Bucky had gotten considerably better at recognizing when you lied to him. The first few months at the Compound had involved a strange reversal where everyone around him seemed terrified of saying the wrong thing while Bucky spent most conversations quietly assessing what people weren’t saying.

You’d made it a point not to do that.

Now you were suffering for your principles.

“Something stupid.”

His expression softened slightly. “Okay.”

That should’ve been your escape. Bucky never pushed when you drew a line; if you told him you didn’t want to discuss something, he would drop it and probably never bring it up again unless you did.

Instead, the immediate acceptance made guilt crawl beneath your ribs.

You looked away, and Bucky moved his hand.

“Was it Maya?”

Your eyes returned to him. “Who?”

“The woman I was talking to.”

Of course she had a name. You hated that you hated knowing it.

“What about her?”

Bucky leaned one hip against the counter. “You kept looking over there.”

Your face warmed. “You noticed?”

“I notice when you look at me.”

That was somehow worse.

Bucky misread your expression and continued. “If something about her bothered you, tell me. Stark says she’s been with the equipment team for years, but if you saw something—”

“No.”

He stopped.

“It wasn’t anything like that.”

“Then what?”

You stared at the cold pack in your hands.

This was absurd. You were an Avenger. You had been shot at, thrown through walls, and once spent forty minutes trapped beneath a collapsed building while listening to Clint make increasingly terrible jokes through your comm. You could tell Bucky Barnes you’d experienced one humiliating human emotion without spontaneously combusting.

Probably.

“I was jealous.”

Silence stretched until you finally looked up. Bucky was staring at you as though you’d switched languages halfway through the sentence. His lips parted, and you could practically watch him trying to process the information.

“Forget it.”

“No, I—” He stopped, visibly recalibrating, understanding arriving slowly enough that you could watch it happen. “Maya?”

“I didn’t know her name until thirty seconds ago, Buck.”

His brow furrowed. “You were jealous because I was talking to her?”

Hearing it repeated back made the whole thing sound exponentially worse. “You were talking to a pretty woman for fifteen minutes and smiling at her. My brain made some unhelpful assumptions.”

Bucky was quiet for another second. “About me and her.”

“Yes.”

The humiliation became unbearable. You dropped the cold pack beside you and slid off the examination table, forcing Bucky to step back and give you room.

“This was already embarrassing before Natasha hit me. I don’t know why I decided making it worse was a good idea.”

“Wait.”

“I’m going to go find the nearest closet and pretend this conversation never happened.”

His flesh hand closed loosely around your wrist. You stopped, and Bucky released you almost immediately, but you stayed where you were.

“Maya’s married,” Bucky said.

You shut your eyes. “Please don’t.”

“Her wife works in avionics.”

“Bucky.”

He was quiet for half a second, apparently deciding whether mercy was warranted. “She came over because Stark wants the sleeve on my field gear modified. That’s all we were talking about.”

“I believe you. Every additional detail is just making me want to climb into that closet faster.”

His voice softened. “I wasn’t flirting with her.”

That made you open your eyes. Something had changed in his expression; the confusion remained, but something warmer had joined it, something dangerously close to hope.

“You thought I was flirting with her?”

Your shoulders dropped. “For a second.”

Bucky looked at you for another long moment before asking, very carefully, “Would it bother you if I was?”

You stared at him. “I feel like the split lip answered that pretty conclusively.”

His mouth pulled sideways before he could stop it.

“Don’t.”

Bucky ducked his head, but you caught the smile anyway. “Sorry.”

“You don’t sound sorry.”

“I’m trying.”

“You got distracted fighting Natasha because you thought I was flirting.”

“That’s not making me feel better.”

The smile finally escaped—the exact same small, crooked smile you’d been watching across the training room when Natasha hit you.

You pointed at him. “That.”

Bucky’s smile faded into confusion. “What?”

“That’s why I got punched.”

He blinked. “The smile?”

“Yes.”

“My smile got you punched?”

“You smiling at another woman while I was supposed to be watching Natasha got me punched.”

Bucky considered that, and the corner of his mouth pulled higher. “Feels like Romanoff should carry most of the liability.”

“I’m assigning you a very reasonable percentage.”

Bucky laughed, an actual startled laugh that made his head dip and his shoulders move with it. You stared again, unable to even blame the hit this time.

When Bucky looked up again, the humor had faded into something quieter. “You really like me.”

There was wonder in his voice rather than arrogance or even the pleased teasing you might have expected from someone who’d just discovered another person had been making heart eyes at them for months. Bucky sounded genuinely astonished, and that erased most of your irritation.

“Yeah.”

He kept looking at you, as if the answer had rearranged something he’d been certain about.

“I do,” you said, softer this time.

He looked away for a second, and you knew him well enough to recognize the retreat before it happened. His expression closed slightly, something old and uncertain pulling at the edges of this new realization.

“You don’t have to say anything,” you added. “I wasn’t planning to tell you. Apparently I needed a split lip and Natasha’s complete lack of loyalty to get there.”

“You’re blaming Romanoff?”

“She contributed.”

His mouth twitched again.

“I’m serious,” you said. “You don’t owe me anything because I like you.”

His gaze came back to yours. “You think that’s why I’m not saying anything?”

“I think you’re allowed to take whatever time you need.”

Bucky stared at you, and then his eyebrows rose. “You really don’t know.”

“Know what?”

He looked almost incredulous. “You’re not the only one who missed something obvious.”

You frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Bucky leaned back against the counter.

“I like you.”

For a moment, the words didn’t register. When they did, you stared at him.

“You what?”

His smile returned, smaller and nervous this time, and it was the first thing that convinced you he wasn’t messing with you. 

“I like you,” he repeated.

“How long?”

Bucky rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t know exactly.”

“Approximately.”

He looked down for a moment, thinking. “Long enough that Sam noticed before I was willing to admit it.”

That made you smile despite yourself. “That could mean anything. Sam notices everything he can annoy people about.”

“Yeah.” Bucky glanced back at you. “He’s been pretty annoying.”

You were still staring at him. “You like me?”

“Starting to feel like you want me to repeat it.”

“I might.”

“I like you.”

Something in your chest seemed to unfold all at once, and Bucky watched it happen.

His expression changed. “That look.”

You blinked. “What look?”

He gestured vaguely toward your face.

You touched your split lip. “Pain?”

“No.”

“Then I don’t know what you mean.”

He hesitated. “When I come into a room sometimes, you look at me like that.”

You suddenly understood why Natasha had found this entire situation so entertaining. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“That’s embarrassing.”

“I like it.”

That stopped you.

Bucky looked almost embarrassed by the admission, but he didn’t take it back.

You stepped closer. “How did you not know?”

Bucky gave you a helpless look. “Because none of it seemed safe to assume.”

“I bring you coffee every morning exactly how you like it. I save the seat beside me at movie night because it’s the one you always choose. I learned how to make those ridiculous pancakes you remembered from when you were a kid.”

Something shifted in his expression. “You said you wanted that recipe.”

“I hate pancakes.”

He stared at you.

“I’ve always hated pancakes.”

“Okay,” he said slowly. “That one might be on me.”

“And,” you continued, “I spend approximately half of every movie night touching you.”

“I noticed that.”

“Apparently not enough.”

“I noticed.”

His voice lowered enough to change the air between you, and you went quiet.

Bucky’s gaze dropped briefly toward your mouth before returning to your eyes. “I just didn’t think it meant that.”

Understanding softened your embarrassment. “Why not?”

His shoulders rose slightly. There were a dozen possible answers buried inside that movement, most of them complicated enough that you didn’t want to drag them into a room where neither of you needed them.

Bucky chose a simpler one. “Seemed like a lot to assume.”

You nodded. “That’s fair.”

“I thought maybe I was seeing what I wanted to see.”

Your heart stumbled. “You wanted to see it?”

He looked at you as if you’d just proven his point about your observational abilities. “Yeah.”

You smiled despite the sting in your lip, and Bucky noticed. He always did, apparently.

Bucky looked at you for a long moment before the amusement faded into something gentler. “Can I kiss you?”

Every clever response disappeared from your head. “Yes.”

He stepped closer, his flesh hand coming up first as his fingers settled lightly along the side of your neck. He gave you enough time to change your mind even though you’d just said yes, and you loved him a little more for it.

Then Bucky kissed you so carefully that you almost laughed.

His mouth barely brushed yours, avoiding the cut on your lower lip as though he expected you to break if he forgot it was there. The kiss was soft and warm and over much too quickly.

Bucky pulled back less than an inch. “Okay?”

You stared at him. “That’s it?”

His eyebrows rose. “You’re injured.”

“My lip is split.”

“Exactly.”

“Natasha hits harder when she’s annoyed.”

“That doesn’t make me want to test it.”

You slid your hands up his chest, and Bucky went still beneath them, not tense so much as attentive.

“You can kiss me without treating me like I’m made of glass.”

His eyes dropped toward your mouth again. “It’ll hurt.”

“Probably.”

“You’re okay with that?”

“I got punched because I was too busy staring at you. It feels ridiculous to let the punch stop me now.”

Bucky’s expression turned helplessly fond. Heart eyes, you realized.

Oh, Natasha was going to be unbearable.

“You’re doing it too,” you whispered.

“Doing what?”

“Looking at me like that.”

His brow furrowed. “Like what?”

You smiled. “Never mind.”

Bucky clearly didn’t believe you, but you pulled him closer before he could ask again.

The second kiss was still careful, but it was decidedly more convincing. His metal hand settled at your waist while the other remained at your neck, thumb brushing beneath your ear. You felt the faint hesitation before he let himself pull you closer, followed by the warmth of his body against yours as you leaned into him.

Your lip stung, and while you ignored it, Bucky didn’t. He broke the kiss the second you made a small sound.

“It hurts.”

“That wasn’t a question.”

“It’s barely anything.”

He gave you a stern look.

You touched your thumb to the corner of his mouth. “You worry a lot.”

“About you.”

The answer came too quickly for either of you to pretend it hadn’t. Your chest tightened, and although Bucky seemed to realize what he’d admitted a second later, he didn’t withdraw. His metal hand only flexed lightly against your waist.

The medical room door opened, and you jerked apart on instinct.

Natasha stood in the doorway.

Her gaze traveled from you to Bucky, took in the distance you had absolutely failed to create between your bodies, then settled on his hand still resting at your waist. She looked unbearably satisfied.

“I came to check whether she needed medical attention.”

You looked pointedly at the hand Bucky still had around your waist. “Your concern is touching.”

“You seem to have recovered.” Natasha’s gaze flicked between the two of you. “Remarkably quickly, actually.”

“You knew exactly what you were doing when you told him I stopped paying attention.”

She didn’t bother denying it.

Bucky looked between the two of you. “How long have you known?”

Natasha considered the question.

You pointed at her. “Don’t.”

“About her?”

“Natasha.”

“Months.”

Bucky’s head turned toward you, and you covered your face with both hands.

“This keeps getting worse.”

Natasha leaned against the doorframe. “If it helps, most of us knew.”

Your hands dropped. “Most?”

“Steve. Sam. Wanda.” She paused. “Clint owes me fifty dollars.”

Bucky looked genuinely betrayed. “Steve knew?”

You turned toward him. “That’s the part you’re stuck on?”

“He’s supposed to tell me things.”

“Apparently not when fifty dollars are involved.”

You turned back to Natasha. “You bet on us?”

“Technically, we bet on when one of you would finally figure it out.”

Bucky looked almost offended. “And nobody thought to tell me?”

Natasha smiled. “We tried.”

He paused, and you watched realization slowly cross his face.

“Oh.”

You started laughing.

Bucky turned toward you. “What?”

“Sam.”

His expression became grim. “You’re enjoying this too much.”

“You thought he was just being an asshole.”

“He was being an asshole.”

“An informative asshole.”

Natasha pushed away from the doorframe. “For the record, I had tonight.”

Your laughter stopped. “What?”

“For the confession.”

“You knew this was going to happen?”

“I had a feeling after the third time I caught you staring at him.”

“You punched me on purpose?”

Natasha looked offended. “Of course not. I expected you to block.”

Bucky’s hand tightened slightly at your waist.

Natasha noticed. “Barnes, I didn’t hit her on purpose.”

“I know.”

He still sounded unhappy enough that you leaned into him before Natasha could decide that counted as a challenge. Her gaze dropped to the movement, and her expression softened just enough that you almost forgave her.

Almost.

“I’m taking the rest of the day off,” you announced.

“Probably wise.”

“You owe me.”

“For what?”

“My lip.”

“You owe yourself for that one.”

Bucky made a quiet sound beside you.

You looked up at him. “Did you just agree with her?”

His expression stayed perfectly neutral, although his hand remained warm at your waist. “Didn’t say anything.”

“Coward.”

Natasha made an exaggerated gagging noise.

You threw the abandoned cold pack at her, and she caught it easily.

“Eyes on your opponent,” she said.

“I’m not fighting anyone.”

“Good. You clearly can’t handle it today.”

She stepped back into the hallway before you could find something else to throw. “Dinner in an hour.”

“We’ll be there.”

Natasha looked from Bucky to you, her smile returning. “Sure.”

The door closed before you could respond.

You stared after her. “I’m going to kill her.”

Bucky hummed. “Might want to wait until your lip heals.”

You looked at him.

He was smiling again.

“You’re enjoying this.”

“A little.”

“You were much sweeter five minutes ago.”

“I was still making sure you were okay five minutes ago.”

“You worry a lot,” you repeated.

His expression softened. “Yeah.”

You slid your arms around his neck, and Bucky’s hands found your waist with noticeably less hesitation this time. For several seconds, neither of you said anything.

You were suddenly aware of how strange it was that something could change so completely while everything remained familiar. This was still Bucky. His metal thumb was tracing an absent movement against your side, something you’d felt dozens of times when you sat too close during movies or leaned against him after missions.

You’d just never let yourself understand it that way before.

“How long?” you asked.

Bucky sighed, but there was no real reluctance in it. “You’re not letting that go, are you?”

“Absolutely not.”

He thought about it. “Remember the movie with the shark?”

“Three months ago?”

“At least that long. Probably before.”

You drew back enough to look at him properly. “And you never said anything?”

“I spent most of that time convincing myself you were just being nice.” His thumb moved slowly against your side. “Turns out I was working with bad information.”

“Information I made incredibly obvious.”

“You did get punched before either of us figured it out.”

You narrowed your eyes. “I’m reconsidering this relationship already.”

He smiled, and you touched his cheek.

“So we’re both idiots.”

“Looks that way.”

“I’m blaming you.”

“Of course you are.”

Bucky’s thumb continued its slow path along your side. “I’ll live with it.”

The ease of the answer made you smile. A few months ago, Bucky might’ve found some reason to put distance between you after a moment like this, but now he simply stayed, his arms around you and his thumb moving absently along your side as though neither of you needed to question whether he belonged there.

Bucky leaned his forehead against yours. “I really do like you.”

The quiet confession warmed you more than the first one had.

“Good.”

“Good?”

“I’d hate to explain this to everyone if you changed your mind.”

He laughed under his breath. “You think Romanoff would let me?”

“Absolutely not. She has money riding on us.”

“Fifty bucks.”

“That’s basically sacred to Clint.”

Bucky’s smile lingered, and you looked at his mouth.

He noticed.

This time, instead of asking, he leaned forward slowly enough to give you the choice, and you met him halfway.

The kiss stayed soft, your injured lip limiting how much either of you could do, but you didn’t mind. There would be other kisses. There would be movie nights where neither of you had to pretend the closeness was accidental, mornings when you could hand him his coffee and let him know exactly why you remembered how he took it, and however many future sparring sessions Natasha allowed you before deciding you were capable of keeping your attention where it belonged.

Bucky pulled back just enough to look at you. “You really hate pancakes?”

You groaned and let your forehead fall against his shoulder. “Of everything I confessed today, that’s what you’re holding onto?”

His chest shifted beneath you with a quiet laugh. “It’s new information.”

“Forget I told you.”

“Not likely.”

He smiled, and you felt your own expression soften before you could stop it. Bucky watched you for a moment before his eyebrows lifted.

“That look again.”

You buried your face against his shoulder, his laughter vibrating against your cheek as his arms closed around you.

“You’re never letting this go, are you?”

“Not a chance.”

You should’ve been embarrassed. Instead, with Bucky holding you close and his cheek resting lightly against your hair, you found that you didn’t mind nearly as much as you should have.

After months of both of you looking directly at what you wanted and somehow failing to recognize it, being caught staring didn’t seem like such a terrible thing anymore.

credit to @uzmacchiato for the cherry divider ❤️💛

[thehornyscriptures]

This was so sweet

[nonotwithoutu]

down a few pegs !

⤷ read on ao3 here

⤷ bucky barnes x reader (no y/n)

⤷ rating: mature / mdni / 18+ !

⤷ tags: f!reader, au - college, enemies to lovers, control issues!reader, insecurities and misunderstandings, eventual communication, pegging, strap-ons/sex toys, sub bucky, soft dom reader, anal sex / anal fingering (m!receiving), bucky praise kink (use of ‘good boy’), oral sex (f!receiving), multiple orgasms, use of ‘pussy’ and ‘cunt’ for reader, petnames (baby, sweetheart), baby bi bucky if you squint, implied p in v sex, implied getting together

⤷ word count: 12,2k

⤷ synopsis:

Bucky is friends with Steve. Steve is friends with you. And you’re friends with Steve, but you are not friends with Bucky. Common mistake, unfortunately, but one you’re all too happy to correct if needed. Determined to prove you wrong about his ego, Bucky agrees to put himself at your mercy—not realizing he’s about to be fucked in more than just the metaphorical sense. (To be fair, you're not anticipating it either.)

⤷ notes: this one is for all the girlies (gn) who use control as a self defense mechanism….. which is totally something EYE personally don’t have any experience with hahaha…….. </3 anyway i couldn’t get needy college!bucky out of my mind sooo here we are! hope you enjoy! :D 

p.s. the strapless strap-on reader uses is hyperlinked accordingly in the fic, but PLEASE DO NOT CLICK IT IN PUBLIC ! hfgksjhgfs the pic of the toy is like RIGHT there when you open the link. it’s described in writing anyway, but if you want a visual it’s there!

not proofread. AND HAPPY CHRISTMAS EVE to anyone celebrating! here's something to read if you need an escape from the holiday stress. enjoy! x

There’s bass thudding from the corner speakers like a heartbeat, the strength of the foul smelling liquor is burning your nose, and you’re pretty sure there’s people fucking in the hall closet to your left. 

Parties have never been your thing. Too loud, too many people, too much unpredictability in a room full of reckless twenty-somethings in search of an easy outlet. You don’t go to the frat ones at least, Steve doesn’t either. At least this party doesn’t have anything that could earn you some kind of criminal record by proxy. You hope, anyway. 

Parties also, unavoidably, mean that Barnes is here. 

Right in your field of vision, in fact. On the loveseat adjacent to the one you’re sharing with Steve, Sam and Nat on the rug by your feet. Even the slim degree of separation and noise can’t buffer the display of theatre from your front row seat: Bucky grinning wide and crooked, his face flushed from shotgunning beers earlier while the entire room cheered him on, his fingers sneaking up the skirt of the girl on his lap. She’s not even the same one he’d been flirting with in the kitchen earlier. 

You grimace and take another sip of the drink Steve got you, but the aftertaste lingers. Steve catches you, nudging his elbow against yours with a tilt of his lips. 

“Wanna head out?” 

You’re grateful he said it without you having to ask for it. You nod and start shifting off the couch to find a trash can, but you don’t quite make the quick getaway you’d been hoping for. 

“You guys are leaving?” 

Bucky’s actually pouting when you turn to look, eyes wholly fixed on Steve over your shoulder. You toss your drink in the garbage and cross your arms. 

“Yeah. Got an early class tomorrow,” Steve says. 

Bucky’s gaze flicks to you. “It’s not just ‘cause she wants to leave early?” he asks. “You guys’ve only been here like an hour. I wanted to hang out with you tonight.” 

“She is right here,” you chime in dully, ignoring the parts of the sentiment that clearly weren’t meant for you. 

“I’ll see you for lunch tomorrow anyway, Buck. We’ll catch up then,” Steve assures, then turns to you. “I’m gonna go find our jackets. Be right back.” 

“I’m gonna wait outside,” you tell him. He nods and disappears down the crowded hallway to your right. 

Before you can follow through on your own directives, Bucky’s voice sullies your plans once again. 

“Can’t stand to be here without your support Steve?” 

“Bucky,” Natasha drawls. “Leave it alone.” 

“Interesting, coming from you,” you dish back at Bucky, unperturbed. “Think you can loosen his leash enough to let him walk me home?” 

His eyes narrow. “Steve’s more than capable of making his own decisions on who he spends time with,” he says. 

You tilt your head. “And look who he chose.” 

“Alright. Let’s just cool off,” Sam interjects from his side of the coffee table between you. “Anybody want a refill?” 

Bucky sits up a little, the girl in his lap disentangling herself with a bored shift of her legs. “Maybe he’d have chosen differently if he didn’t have someone pouting in the corner the whole time.” 

“Don’t worry,” you say through gritted teeth. “Without me here there’s even more room for you in the spotlight, yeah?” 

You turn without waiting for a response, headed for the front door and the blessed quiet of the front yard. The noise all blends together inside the house, but once you step onto the porch, you roll your eyes at the sound of his shoes thudding out behind you. 

“Can’t finish what you started?” he taunts, then scoffs when you ignore him. “I don’t understand why everything has to be a thing with you.” 

“Do not act like I started this,” you toss over your shoulder. 

“You did. You couldn’t have stayed a little longer? You know I haven’t seen Steve this week, and you knew he’d leave if you said you wanted to.” 

“We don’t share fucking custody of him,” you snap, stopping abruptly by the curb to face him. “Look. I’m tired. I want to go home. Steve has to be on campus early tomorrow. I promise you—it’s really that simple. Believe it or not, not everything is about you.” 

“There it is again,” Bucky laughs once, humorless and abrupt. “God. What’s your problem with me?” 

You straighten your shoulders. “I don’t have a problem with you, Bucky.” 

“Bullshit.” 

“I know you’re used to getting everything you want, but I don’t actually owe you an explanation.” 

“It’s the least you could give me, I think. I’m sick and tired of you goin’ around acting like I’m some jackass who can’t control himself.” 

“I never said that’s what you were,” you argue. 

His eyes narrow. “It’s pretty obvious that’s what you mean.” 

“Did you ever think about taking your hands out of someone’s pants long enough to ask me what I mean instead of just assuming things?” 

“What do you think, then?” He steps forward, arms crossed over his chest to match yours. “Since you know everything, apparently.” 

“I think that you could be a really decent guy to be around if your ego didn’t make you an obnoxious ass. You don’t always have to be the coolest one in the room, you know.”  

“You’re calling me the asshole,” he scoffs. “Seriously?” 

“I’m just saying that I don’t have different personalities for every group of friends I hang out with. I’m happy with who I am. I don’t have to change myself just to be liked.” 

Something flickers across Bucky’s expression, the cocky lilt of his next retort falling flat. You struggle not to flinch away yourself under his sharp gaze, reminding yourself that you really don’t owe him an explanation. 

It’s a stalemate for the sixty seconds you’re out there, you on the curb and Bucky on the street. At least you’re eye to eye. Sort of. He doesn’t open his mouth again, and just as you’re about to open yours, the front door opens again. 

“Hey,” Steve says, descending the steps and approaching tentatively from the side. He glances between both of you. “Everything okay?” 

“Fine,” you and Bucky chorus at the same time. 

His gaze shifts over you again to Steve, and then he steps around you completely to get to him. 

“Lunch tomorrow. Right?” 

Steve nods. “Yeah, man. We’re on.” 

Bucky gives a short nod of his own, then marches back toward the house without looking back. You’ve just managed to paste on a finicky smile when Steve turns his raised brow to you, holding up your jacket so you can slip your arms into it. 

“You good?” 

“Mhm. All good.” 

“You’re such a bad liar,” he laughs, shoving you in the shoulder once the jacket’s on. 

“And you know I hate parties,” you remind him as you start walking. “I am not responsible for that.” 

“Yeah, yeah. Neither of you are ever the problem, huh? God forbid I want you two to get along.” 

You sigh, slipping an arm around his elbow when the wind blows through. “We’re just too different, I think.” 

You can feel his eyes on the top of your head when he hums. “Maybe.” 

You can’t be as blunt with Steve as you’d like to be. You know they’re friends, always have been and likely always will be. You seem to be more okay with cohabitating than Bucky does, honestly. Steve should be giving him the lectures. 

You dislike Bucky because it’s easy. He’s your antithesis, laidback and charmingly charismatic, fitting in easily wherever he goes. He’s untouchable in a way that makes your stomach turn, even if only because, under all of the contempt, you’d wanted to touch him in the first place. 

He’s exactly the sort of guy that could shatter you if you let him. 

So. You don’t. 

You startle when a backpack lands haphazardly in the chair adjacent to yours in the library, your eyes snapping up from your laptop to find Bucky situating himself across from you. 

He seems oddly determined, a wrinkle in his forehead and a pinch at the corners of his mouth. He scoots the chair in and links his fingers together on top of the table like this is some kind of business negotiation, and you raise a brow at him over the top of your screen. 

“I’m not apologizing,” you tell him eventually. 

“I’m not askin’ you to,” he says, “but you’re wrong. I’m not an asshole, and I don’t just fake shit because of my ego.” 

You look back at your screen, but your brow stays raised. “Okay.” 

With a huff, Bucky uses a sweatshirt-clad arm to reach over and shut your laptop, leaning forward on his elbows now. “And I don’t think that us going on like this is very pleasant for the rest of our friends either. So. If I have to be the one to suggest a truce, then fine. What do I have to do to prove it to you?” 

You bite your tongue, choosing not to point out that even this, in fact, is proving your point. 

“Actions speak louder than words, I guess,” you shrug. 

He gives an exaggerated roll of his eyes. “So what actions, then?” 

“Bucky—” you start, shaking your head. But you pause when a thought crosses your mind, unprompted and impossible to ignore. 

Your eyes flick back to him more intentionally this time, adjusting your perspective. 

Bucky’s never been unattractive. You’d be a fool to insist otherwise, and it’d only make your infuriating not-quite-feelings for him more obvious. But typically when your brain runs away with those sorts of thoughts, you cut them off as quickly as possible, stifling any opportunity for them to fester. 

This time, though… 

You lean forward on the table to match him, your elbows on the wood and arms crossed, finger tapping on your wrist as you take in this non-perfect version of Bucky you’ve been presented with, the one that has faint dark circles under his eyes and raised shoulders, who’s still in practically pajamas with fucked up hair and a bit of a five o’clock shadow. He shifts under your attention. 

You really got to him this time, didn’t you? You fight off a saccharine smile. 

“You want to prove it to me?” 

“Yes,” he says impatiently. 

“There is a pretty accessible way to do it,” you reason. 

“Fine. Great.” He huffs. “Whatever it is, just—tell me and I’ll do it.” 

 Sliding your laptop out of the way, you adjust and lean in a little more, leaning on your elbow and propping your chin in your hand and lowering your voice. 

You make sure to pay close attention, because the look on his face is sure to be one to remember. 

“Ever been fucked before, Bucky?” 

Yeah. You were right—priceless. 

His face flickers through several different emotions before he settles on something like defensive confusion, his eyes wide and cheeks flush with surprise. He blinks. 

“What.” 

“And I’m not talking about the stuff you and Steve used to get up to,” you clarify. “Though I’m sure that was…enlightening enough.” 

Bucky’s jaw clenches. “If you’re just gonna make fun of me—” 

“I’m not making fun of you, Barnes,” you interrupt earnestly. “You told me you want to prove that you can abandon your ego long enough to let your guard down. In my experience, this is a great way to put that to the test. Hard to put on a show when there’s nothing left to hide behind.” 

For a minute he says nothing, and you wait for the moment that he decides this isn’t worth it and marches back off toward the exit. But eventually he purses his lips and runs a hand through his hair, leaning forward to meet you halfway like you’re talking about national secrets instead of anal sex and strap ons. 

“I figured we’d settle this between us,” he hisses quietly, tossing a cursory glance over his shoulder around the library. “Not just get some random guy to—” 

Oh. You were wrong. This can get even better. 

“I never said anything about a guy,” you interject. 

“How exactly am I supposed to get fucked then?” he bites, red faced. 

This time, you let the smile spread indulgently over your lips while you wait for him to put it together. Bucky leers impatiently, then hesitates, does a double, then a triple take. 

“Wha—you—?” he whispers, mouth open while his gaze darts all over you as if to uncover something he hadn’t seen before. “But you don’t—you’re not—?” 

“It’s the twenty-first century, Bucky. I thought you were more progressive than that,” you lament dryly. “I don’t have to be born with a dick to fuck you with one.” 

His mouth abruptly snaps closed. You watch his brow furrow, watch him contemplate it for a minute while he chews at the inside of his cheek. Almost hesitantly, he looks back up at you. 

“What’s in it for me?” 

Unable to help it, you laugh. “The fact that you’re asking me that proves that you’ve definitely never experienced it before.” 

“Y’don’t gotta be mean about it,” he grumbles, glowering. 

“Would you rather me be sweet?” you tease, leaning forward again. “It is your first time, after all. We could break out the candles and dim the lights, if you want. I’ll be gentle.” 

“Fuck off,” he says, but it’s lacking any of signature heat. “It’s not, like. Something you’re doing so you can tell everybody about it after. Right?” 

“What happens between us stays between us unless we decide otherwise,” you tell him seriously. “Besides, I’m not really one to kiss and tell.” 

Bucky blinks. “Apparently not, if you’ve got a dick somewhere that I didn’t know about.” 

You tilt your head, flashing him a sweet grin. 

“Thinking about it already?” 

He groans, scrubbing both hands over his face as he falls backward in his chair. “The other guys you’ve…” he motions vaguely with his hand. “Does it, you know. How’d it feel for them? Was it—weird?” 

“Sure, a little. If you’ve never done it before.” You lean back to mirror him, lifting a shoulder. “But I have, and I’ve done it enough times that I’m confident I can make it good for you. There hasn’t been a single one of them that hasn’t verifiably and…vocally enjoyed it, if that tells you anything.” 

For a long few seconds, he does nothing but stare you down. 

“You’re not joking.” 

You shake your head. “I’m not joking, Bucky. I think it’d humble you a little, and I think you’d look really hot doing it.” 

It’s the first time you’ve ever complimented him openly, and fuck if the way his pupils dilate a little doesn’t absolutely make heat gather between your legs. 

“And then, if you’re good for me, and you take me really, really well…” you add, leaning into his space, “I might just be convinced enough to let you fuck me.” 

His eyes flick up to yours from your mouth. “You’d let me?” 

“I don’t make promises I can’t keep.” Pushing out your chair, you shove your laptop into your bag, slipping it onto your shoulder as you stand. It’s a rush even now, standing above him while he watches you. “Choice is yours, Barnes. Let me know when you’ve decided.” 

You can feel his eyes all the way through the library and outside the windows. You absolutely don’t count the minutes, but you do lose track of time for a while throughout the afternoon, your mind drifting and fixating on the litany of things you’d like to do with him if you had the chance. 

In all honesty, you’re expecting him to say no. Radio silence typically means you’ve pissed him off enough to make him run to Steve about it, which will in turn result in Steve reaching out to remind you to play nice as if Bucky wasn’t the one to start shit in the first place. 

But none of that happens. You eat dinner, clean up, watch a bit of a movie on your laptop until you get tired, then get ready for bed. 

The second your eyes close, your phone vibrates from the nightstand. Your pulse kicks up despite your best efforts for it not to, and it’s not Steve’s name on the screen. 

It’s Bucky’s number, saved simply under Barnes. His message is no more detailed. 

Yes. 

(You vow to tell absolutely no one that you're shocked by the response.)

A plan forms. 

It’s not like you can drop everything to fuck him, even if you sort of would like to. But aside from the fact that you’re still trying desperately to keep control of the situation and not seem entirely transparent, there’s also real life. 

There’s scheduling conflicts and shitty part time jobs so you can afford rent and Bucky can keep up his habit of BYOB-ing and funding his parties. There’s midterms and extra credit courses and events like the one you’re on your way to now, making connections you’re sure you’ll appreciate later when you’ve entered the professional sphere. 

But right now it just feels like needless ass kissing to a bunch of old guys who probably have never had a single issue in the job market for the entirety of their generationally paved careers. 

Nonetheless, you’re leaving the apartment half an hour early and wearing a blazer, so. You mean business. Literally. 

You’re descending the steps of your apartment building when Steve rounds the corner at the bottom, hands in his pockets and a little withdrawn. 

“Hey,” you greet him at the bottom. “You missed the dorms by a few blocks. Everything okay?” 

His mouth lifts a little at your humor, but he still seems distracted. “Hey,” he says back. “You got a second?” 

“Sure. I’m on the way to this networking thing for a professor, but I have a few minutes. What’s up?” 

“It’s about Bucky,” he prefaces as the two of you start to walk back toward campus. 

You huff a laugh. “Barnes convince you to make me go easy on him?” 

“No, actually. I’m telling you to do that on my own.” 

“Steve,” you glance at him, “it’s not that serious. And I know you two are friends, I would never do something to ruin that.” 

“I know you wouldn’t. And I know you wouldn’t mean to hurt him. But he’s—he’s not as bad as you think he is, alright?” 

“I don’t think he’s a bad person,” you say carefully, your short heels clicking on the pavement. “He’s just—irritating. Egotistical. Not much worse than most of the guys here, actually.”  

“And I’m not saying that you’re wrong about that sometimes.” 

“Then what are you saying?” you ask, confused. 

The two of you come to a stop at a red light, and Steve punches the walk button and then turns to face you. 

“You—you gotta promise me that this won’t get back to him, okay? He wants you to think of him as untouchable or whatever and if he knew I was saying any of this he’d have my ass.” 

“I won’t say anything,” you promise, unease deepening. 

You fall back into step with him when the light flashes, the crosswalk suddenly very interesting as the lines blur under your feet. 

“The reason Bucky gets himself into all these situations with girls, with you—it’s not that it’s a challenge, or that he just wants to flaunt that he’s capable of it, or anything else like that. I grew up with him. He doesn’t have an ego problem, he has—he needs to be liked.” 

“You’re telling me he is the way he is because he’s…a people pleaser?” 

“I know it doesn’t seem like it to you, but yeah, sort of.” Steve shrugs. “It makes him push himself past his limits. Makes him bite off more than he can chew, and by the time he realizes it he’s already gotten himself in too deep and he doesn’t want to say anything and make it seem like he’s in over his head. And all of that’s ten times worse with you, because you don’t care about the things that he thinks make him good and fun and nice to be around. So he just pushes himself even harder, and then…” Steve trails off, searching for the words. 

“You’re worried I’ll hurt him,” you realize with a pang of misplaced defensiveness. 

“Not intentionally,” Steve sighs, his shoulders dropping. “I just—I know you wouldn’t, and that’s why I’m telling you this. I don’t know the exact terms of the deal you guys made, and I don’t need to. But I’m saying that if it seems like it’s going too far, you might have to be the one to pull the plug. Because Bucky might not, if he feels like he still has something to prove. And I care too much about you guys to watch this blow up in your faces just so you both can make a point.” 

His words feel harsh compared to the way he usually is with you, but you try not to let them swell into anything he doesn’t mean. 

It’s just—out of the two of you, you’d sort of thought that maybe Steve would be more concerned about you getting tangled up with Bucky than Bucky getting tangled up with you. 

It makes something sour settle in your stomach, a creeping feeling of doubt nagging at you that you haven’t felt in years. Bucky always seems, true to Steve’s word, untouchable. Or unshakeable, at least. You two bite back and forth at each other endlessly and there’s never been anything one of you couldn’t handle. 

That you’d known about, apparently. 

Doubt is quickly eaten up by a bigger, worse feeling; an unwelcome twinge of guilt. 

“I guess I’m just trying to say that you have more power over him than you think you do,” Steve adds gently. 

You spend a few minutes walking in silence, yours contemplative and Steve’s vaguely nervous. It’s the only reason you can tell this isn’t a joke, not something Bucky put him up to that he’s going to jump out and say sike! about afterward. 

There’s a part of you, a stinging, indignant part that wants to call off the entire thing. But you’re stubborn, and against all odds, you don’t hate Bucky. You never have. 

And just as you’d feared, now that you know this, you can’t help but want to know even more. 

“I’ll take care of him,” you promise when you have to part ways at campus. It feels raw and strangely genuine, lacking any of the usual veneer you hide behind. 

But Steve only nods, tension eased and that trusting look back on his face as he smiles. 

“Good.” 

The short walk past campus to your professor’s house is enlightening. You can’t stop thinking about what you’d said to him the other week, the way the fight had drained out of him. 

I’m happy with who I am. I don’t have to change myself just to be liked.

The lie had slipped out of you so incredibly easily, with years of practice solidifying it. Like if you said it enough, it might eventually be true. 

Might make you forget that you feel isolated at every group event you ever attend. That you’ve always found it incredibly difficult to make friends, let alone to keep them. That you wonder, sometimes, if the problem has always been you and not them. 

You wonder if Bucky knows that you’ve never considered him to be the difficult one. 

The pattern is clear in hindsight, now that Steve’s pointed it out. You figured Bucky would hurt you if you let him close, and you’d engineered a dynamic where he’d never even have the chance. 

It’d kept you safe, sure. But it’s also made you miserable. It’d seemed like you were having fun sometimes, bickering back and forth and pestering each other. But had Bucky been miserable the whole time too? 

You take a moment outside the bustling estate home to right your clothes and attempt to pull a professional smile back onto your face, already dreading the handshakes and the way your voice is going to come out two octaves higher than it naturally does all night when you make introductions and try to seem pleasant. 

Add another to the list, you think to yourself. Doubt. Guilt. 

Hypocrite. 

The front door swings open moments after you raise the knocker on the old wood, your professor’s wrinkled face smiling down at you as he welcomes you in. 

“I’m so glad you could make it tonight. Everyone’s just through here in the living room. I think it’ll be a wonderful networking opportunity,” he says. “Champagne?” he asks as you pass through the kitchen, handing you a fresh flute. 

You accept the sparkling glass with a pleasant agreement, idly wondering if there’s any drink you enjoy less than needlessly expensive, sugary sweet champagne. 

Somewhere between the sixth and seventh stale, dull introduction you make up your mind: you’ll give Bucky an out, let it be his choice and not some dumb attempt at competition. 

And then, if he still wants it, you’re going to blow his fucking mind. 

“Can I kiss you?” 

It’s hardly the first thing you’re expecting to hear when you open your apartment door after Bucky’s eager knocking, but it’s certainly a hell of an opener. 

You take him in for a second, dressed comfortably in jeans and a t-shirt and rolling on the balls of his feet while he waits for an answer, and then you nod. 

He crosses over the threshold like this isn’t the first time he’s ever been here in your space, stepping forward to get his hands on either side of your face while he kicks the door shut with his shoe. You can hear his bag hit the table distantly but it’s all useless compared to the way his lips meet yours, warm and wanting and a little chapped. 

You make a noise, small and stifled but still audible between your mouths, and Bucky has to stop kissing you just to grin before he leans back for another. He’s as good at this as you figured he would be, all wet presses of his mouth and teasing swipes of his tongue, holding your face in his hands like something he thinks is valuable. They stay there until your hand lifts to his shoulder and up the back of his neck, and then his fingers slip down your arms and rest gently but firmly on your hips. 

You’d planned to talk to him first, maybe sit down and go slow, prepare yourself for inevitable disappointment before you could really have something to be disappointed about. 

But now he’s splaying a palm against your lower back to pull you close while his tongue tangles with yours, and he’s walking you back in the general direction of the sofa, and words suddenly feel far, far away. 

He turns and lands with a dull bounce on the cushion, taking most of the weight as you land in his lap. It’s seamless, the way he keeps going, a hand on the back of your head, the other grabbing your waist to pull you flush against him, your combined sigh when your hips align just right and you can feel the subtle bulge of his pants nestled right up between your folded legs. 

If you hadn’t had that conversation with Steve, you’d be worried that this might be just a tactic meant to distract you and gain the upper hand, maybe convince you that you should let him fuck you first so he could loophole his way out of the deal without following through. 

But knowing what you know now, you drop a hand from the back of his neck and press it against his shoulder, pulling back. 

He whines a little when you do, which makes you grin against his mouth even as you pointedly dodge any more of his eager attention. You slip your fingers into his hair and that seems to momentarily pull his focus enough, his head tilting back into the pressure and his eyes slipping shut. 

You drop forward while he’s not paying attention to graze your lips at the corner of his pinkened mouth. “You know that we don’t have to do this, right?” 

He frowns, eyes opening again to settle on you while his fingers twitch on your waist. “I thought you wanted to?” 

“I do,” you assure him. “But you have to want it too. I was goading you into it, and I shouldn’t have—” 

“It’s not like you didn’t give me a choice,” he interjects. 

You chew at your lip. “No, but I made it seem like you had something to prove to me, and that wasn’t right.” 

Drawing in a slow breath, Bucky wipes some of your spit from his mouth and glances down between you. “Do I not have something to prove?” 

“No, Bucky. You don’t owe me or anyone else anything you don’t want to give. Ever.” 

As if you’d said the magic words, Bucky’s hesitancy shifts back into enthusiasm right in front of your eyes. 

“...What if I want to give it?” 

You pause for a moment, eyes flicking over his face. 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah. I—” he worries his lip again, fidgeting a little underneath you. “I looked it up. After we talked about it. I’ve been reading and…watching some stuff.” 

“And?” you hedge, curious. 

“And I liked it,” he admits in a whisper. He goes nearly cross eyed staring at your mouth again. 

“What did you like?” you press, hands on either side of his neck. “Tell me.” 

Holding his head still, you dip down just enough to tease a light kiss to his lips before easing back to let him talk. 

“You weren’t totally wrong about some things,” he confesses. You can hear him swallow. “I think it’d be nice to feel like I don’t have to put on a show, y’know? Not that I’m just gonna lie back and take it, but—I’m usually the one doin’ all the work, so. Might be cool to see what it feels like the other way around.” 

“Mm. Makes sense.” You allow, fighting a smile as you drag your kisses over to his jaw. “That all?” 

He exhales shakily, shifting underneath you. “Uh. I’ve never actually done it before, but every time I watch it, or think about it, about you, it’s—my body’s definitely on board. That’s a good sign, probably.” 

You bite a little over his pulse and he hisses, fingers gripping tight onto your hip. “A very good sign. What else?” 

“I kept wondering how you’d do it. What kind yours would be. If you’d have me on my back ‘cause you’d wanna mouth off at me, or on my front so you could watch yourself fuck me from behind.” 

His words roll off the tongue even easier this time, eyelids fluttering the more you work him over. With a measured roll of your hips, you earn a gravelly moan and a curse of your name. 

“And if I said both?” you press right against his ear. 

“Both is good,” Bucky rasps. “Totally down for both.” 

Pulling away from his neck to look down at him, you take his jaw in your hand, thumb on one side and fingers on the other, making him tilt back as you chase each other with your lips. 

“You really want it?” 

He nods in your hold. “Yeah. I do.” 

You kiss him firmly again, his head tilting and mouth parting easily against yours as he pushes up against you. He feels good under your hands, better than you thought he’d feel, and the slow roll of your body against his this time is more self indulgent than anything else. He’s hard underneath you. 

“I want it too,” you tell him, finally letting the smile tugging at your lips show openly. “C’mon.” 

He watches you like a fixation as you stand and reach back for him, and when he slips a hand into yours to follow you to the bedroom, the imposter syndrome is, for once, blissfully silent. 

The strapless strap-on had been quite the investment when you first bought it, but you don’t have a single regret. 

In sleek black, the side meant for you comes with a four inch stretch of silicone molded around two semi-thick bulbs, a modest four inches in length, but the shape makes it press right up against all the best spots without overcompensating. From there it curves into a vibrator on the outside, making a U shape that presses up against your clit. 

The part that Bucky’ll get extends past that, an extra six inches of dick-shaped silicone, complete with a subtle upward curve and a bulbous tip you can already picture slipping inside of him. The shape and the counterbalance of the bulbs inside you keeps it from shifting around too much—especially when you’re very sure that your body is going to be bearing down on it quite a bit.

But it has to go inside of you first, and it’s one of your favorite parts. When you do it yourself it can feel a little methodical, but with someone else… 

You can almost see Bucky’s mouth watering when you show it to him, clean, prepped, and a bottle of lube set out beside it. He’s on his stomach in between your legs before you’ve even finished asking him if he’d help stretch you out. 

You learned the hard way that the soreness afterwards is awful if you don’t use your fingers first, but Bucky’s are proving even better. 

They’re thicker and longer than yours, nails short and blunt instead of the sometimes sharper edges when yours are a little outgrown. With his mouth suctioned around your clit it’s easy to relax enough to let them inside, your thighs spread around his head and your chin tipped back toward the ceiling with a hand in his hair. 

Your first orgasm accomplishes what you need it to; it leaves you pliant and shivering while you catch your breath, muscles lax and a little of the residual tension of a first time with a new person out of the way. Bucky eats pussy like a champ—you’d had a feeling he would, with the praise kink it seems like he’s shaping up to have—and you’re more than happy to be on the receiving end of someone’s mouth that actually happens to know what they’re doing with it. 

You let him stay there for a few seconds even after you get a little too sensitive, enjoying the way he seems to enjoy having both arms wrapped around your thighs, tongue lapping broad strokes from the quivering entrance of your cunt back up to pulse against your clit. 

When you tug at his hair he lifts himself away from you obediently, lashes brushing his cheeks in a slow sweep, looking obscene as he uses the back of his wrist to wipe your wetness from his mouth. He doesn’t get it all, but you take one look at his sheepish, dimpled grin and don’t correct him. 

Even between his spit and your excitement, you direct him to put a good amount of lube on the toy. It dries moderately quickly and your muscles will do most of the work to keep it inside, but it’s always an easier stretch with the lube.

He’s lost his shirt and pants since getting to the bed, boxers crooked on his hips from grinding against your bed while he ate you out. He kneels between your legs now on his knees, tongue poking the corner of his mouth and brow furrowed as he makes sure the silicone is easily covered in slick. You let slip a small, fond smile of your own as you watch. 

When it’s wet enough he leans down in the split of your thighs again and drags two fingers over your cunt, softly and then more firm as he spreads you open. 

You talk him through working it inside of you, fucking it in and out a few times to get you used to it before the first bulb finally slips inside fully. You moan, fingers twitching on his shoulder, his own breathing shaky as he watches with blown pupils and teeth in his lower lip. 

The second one goes in more smoothly after that, settling low and making the first one curve right up against your spot. Pleasure begins to swell again in your stomach, just a sliver but enough to have you aching for friction again. 

He shifts it the last fraction until your muscles naturally clench around it and keep it inside and you groan, thighs shaking a little on either side of his shoulders. 

“That’s it,” you exhale, shifting your hips. “Right there, Bucky.” 

His grip eases up on it, slowly and then altogether when the toy holds on its own. His thumb drifts over your clit in passing, your eyes fluttering. “S’that good?” he asks. 

“Mm,” you nod. “Perfect.” 

When you look down you catch him eyeing it again, the now familiar glistening skin of your pussy and the contrasting length of the silicone where it extends far enough to just barely graze Bucky’s chin when he’s so close. 

Your fingers sink into his hair again, nice and slow, and you draw him forward just a little until the curved tip of the toy grazes his full, pink lower lip. He looks just as fucking hot as you thought he would, curious and excited and a little like he might pass out from horniness. 

Right where you want him. 

“You can put your mouth on it,” you tell him, lifting your hips to bump it against his lips. “Get it wet for me.” 

You’re going to use a shit ton of lube again anyway, but you can’t think of a single reason not to indulge yourself in the image of Bucky’s chin dipped low, plush mouth spreading open for you to fill, glassy eyes blinking up at you as his throat tries to relax around the newness of it all and—

“Fuck,” you breathe, watching your vision come to life as Bucky sinks tentatively down an inch or so on the toy. “Have you done this before?” 

Bucky’s face goes a beautiful shade of incriminating between your legs. You moan again, fingers tightening in his hair as your hips lightly shift into motion, gently fucking up onto his tongue. You can’t feel what he’s doing with it but the sounds are enough, and you think idly, if he lets you do this again, you could turn on the vibrations right now and get off in no time. 

“You like this,” you realize as you watch him start to get into it, spit slipping down the silicone as his head bobs up and down the length. It’s only six inches and he’s pushing almost four, eyes watering as he swallows around it determinedly. 

He pulls off to breathe but doesn’t hesitate to slide his mouth in a slew of filthy kisses back down the side of it, moaning to himself a little as he nods. 

You let him keep going for a minute until you worry the grind of his hips against the mattress is going to make all of this end too soon, and then you nudge his shoulder with your leg until he blinks his eyes open and pulls off. 

“You look so good between my legs,” you tell him, swiping a bit of spit from his chin with your thumb, “but I need you on your hands and knees. Gotta get you ready.” 

He nods, voice raspier now when he kneels back and says, “I showered. Did everything like you said.” 

“That’s good,” you kiss his cheek as you sit up, hand slipping down to squeeze just shy of his ass, “but we still need to open you up.” 

“Oh.” His face darkens again, a crooked smile tilting his lips. “That makes sense.” 

“Hands and knees,” you remind him. 

It’s yet another thing you’re coming to like about doing this with Bucky, you think as you watch him bashfully but eagerly settle into position, looking over his shoulder at you for approval. Most guys get to this point and then insist they don’t need it, and then you have to tell them you won’t fuck them without it. They’re going to take a silicone dick up the ass, but taking your fingers somehow crosses a line. 

But Bucky seems to feel none of that. Or, you realize instead, he just trusts you. 

It makes something warm settle in your chest, a sense of responsibility on your shoulders. You want, almost viscerally, for this time with you to be the time he compares everything else afterward to. 

On his hands and knees in the center of your mattress, Bucky’s thick thighs are parted just enough to be able to see the generous length of his cock hanging down in between them. He’s hard, has been since making out on the sofa, but now that he’s lost his boxers you’re actually getting to see it instead of just feeling it. 

You kneel behind him, your own knees parted a little to encompass the toy between them, and reach for the lube. You coat your fingers generously so it’ll be warm and then re-cap the bottle, leaving it close in case you need more. 

With a warning kiss to the rounded, firm curve of his ass, you drag a fingertip up from the back of his balls to the lowermost part of his spine. 

“Shit,” Bucky breathes out in a rush, shivering. 

“Relax,” you encourage, even though you know it’s easier said than done. “Not gonna do anything that doesn’t feel good, remember?” 

“Yeah,” Bucky nods against your pillow, one of his fists unclenching from the sheet beside him. “Yeah, fuck. Okay. I trust you.” 

Hearing it out loud only intensifies the feelings from before. You run your touch back down again, one hand rubbing idly at his thigh as your finger presses in behind his balls at a spot you know feels good. It has the desired effect—Bucky moans and his legs open a little more, subtly arching further into your touch. 

With an easy, slick slip of your thumb, you shift from that spot back up to his entrance. He tenses like you’d anticipated, and you lower your mouth to his hip again, spreading out the sensation as much as you can. 

“You really did do everything I asked,” you comment, hoping the praise will relax him further as you rub slow circles against his rim. “So nice and clean. Made it easy for me.” 

“Wanted—fuck,” he curses when your pressure increases just slightly, his body fighting to lean both into and away from the touch. “Wanted to look good for you.” 

“You do.” 

Your free hand drifts further up his thigh, around to the sensitive inside that makes his muscles twitch under your fingertips. Subtly pulling away for a moment to wet your fingers again, you return to rubbing tight circles around his entrance while your other hand finally wraps around his dick. 

You haven’t touched it all night up until now, a calculated move that pays off when all of Bucky’s attention is pulled to the tight, hot pressure of your fist around him. He bucks down into it on instinct, body bearing down naturally, and unbeknownst to him, all of your steady rubbing mixed with the hand on his cock is the perfect cue to finally let the tip of one of your fingers slip past his rim and inside. 

You feel it the moment he stops breathing for a second, realization setting in. 

“Breathe,” you instruct, taking your fingers off of his dick to rub at his hip again as you hold still. 

“You—you’re—” he struggles, voice tight but seemingly not in any pain as he muffles himself in your pillow. “Shit.” 

His body flutters around the new stretch, confused but eager as it attempts to suction you in further. Very gingerly you twist only the tip of your finger until the first inch is inside, and give him another few moments to get used to it before you do it again—pulling out in tiny increments and pushing in in slightly larger ones. 

You start stroking his cock again and he opens up even further, something like a whimper buried in the bend of his arm as he tries to decide which sensation to focus on. Eventually he must choose both, his hips minutely rutting into your fist and then back a little onto your fingers by design. It’s no more than an inch or two but it’s enough that he hardly realizes you’ve worked an entire finger in by the time your knuckle meets his skin, his gasp loud in the quiet of your bedroom and the slick noise of the lube. 

“Tell me how it feels,” you request. 

“Full,” he says breathily. He shifts again. “Kinda weird.” 

You press a smile into his hip. “Good weird?” 

“Good weird,” he confirms with a groan when you start moving it inside of him. 

Without rushing, you let him get completely used to one before you try for a second. The toy isn’t terribly thick so you’ve never had a problem using only two to prepare. Judging by the way Bucky starts subtly pushing back against your finger, you think that’s probably still true. 

He huffs out a breath when you slip out of him to get more lube, and you smirk at the broad, arched expanse of his back. There’s seldom anything you love more than seeing someone bigger and stronger than you spread out at your mercy, but this time, with Bucky, you feel something…different. Something a little more fond. 

Something to explore later. After you’ve fucked him good enough to ruin him for anyone else. 

(You should probably explore that thought later too.) 

One slips back inside of him smoothly with added slick, and this time Bucky sighs into the stretch, arms wrapped around your pillow. You lull him into it with a few thrusts before testing the press of a second digit against his rim, pleased when his body yields to you much easier than it had before. 

You keep them straight as you stretch him open further, and then when he starts to relax into that too, you twist the two digits until they’re facing his cock from the inside and subtly press down in a sweeping circle. 

“Stop,” Bucky spits, nearly slurring as he grasps at the sheets. You freeze, ready to pull out until his hand tosses back to keep your arm in place. “No—not—not your fingers. Jus’ your hand. Won’t last.” 

Overwhelmingly relieved, you release your breath and grin, your free hand dropping off of his dick accordingly. You hadn’t expected him to be the type to warn you when he was going to come, especially not if it meant you stopping, but he just keeps surprising you. 

“Taking my fingers so well,” you murmur against his ass, letting your teeth graze the skin as your fingers spread wide and then settle over his spot again. It’s breathy and a little too honest when you add, “I can’t believe you’re letting me do this.” 

Bucky chokes on a pleasured noise higher up the bed, his midsection tense and thighs trembling subtly as he starts pushing back against your thrusts. He’s more sensitive than you thought he’d be—which you’re very much into, but it means you probably shouldn’t draw this part of it out any further. 

“Think you’re ready for me,” you tell him, warning him before you slip your fingers out. 

He whines a little at the loss, shame absorbed by want, and you struggle to think of the last time you had so much fun doing this with someone. 

His body protests alongside him, the greedy muscle clenching and trying to keep you inside. You’d stay all you both wanted if you didn’t have something better for him. Once you’re out of him completely, he collapses against the sheets with a groan. 

“Easy,” you chuckle, reaching for the lube a final time to slick up the toy. “Lay flat. Chest against the bed.” 

He gathers himself a bit, adjusting to lay more comfortably on his stomach as you kneel up behind him. He’ll be taller than you on his hands and knees but like this all you have to do is grind down into him, and you can watch his face where he’s got a cheek shoved into your pillow, eyes flicking back over his shoulder to yours every few seconds. 

Once everything is slick enough you ease into position, bracing yourself over him with your breasts brushing his back and your knees anchored between the spread of his for support. 

You grip the length of the toy and settle your hips right up against his, using a generous handful of his ass to spread him open for you. He moans when the tip of it bumps against his rim when you rock against him, sliding the toy in between and against his most sensitive places, but you don’t press inside of him just yet. 

“Bucky, hey,” you say, nosing at the back of his shoulder. 

“Huh,” he slurs, blinking slowly at you. “Wha’s wrong?” 

“Need you to be honest with me. You’re not gonna impress me more by taking things fast and rough. Okay? If you need a break, or if something’s not working for you, we stop.” 

His cheek shifts against the pillow in a half-nod, pupils starting to focus in a bit more. “I’ll tell you.” 

“Promise?” 

“I promise.” 

With a sweet smile, you stretch an inch or two further to brush your lips against the high point of his flushed cheek. “Good boy.” 

“Fuck,” he chokes. “Please. Please, sweetheart, you gotta—” 

You’re pressing down when he pushes back against you, and the combination makes the bulbous tip of the toy pop inside of him with a slick sound. But it’s Bucky’s body that tells you it’s happened more than anything else—the way he freezes up completely for a split second before seeming to unravel beneath you into a puddle of heat and want. 

It’s an endless groan as you sink into him further, slow and careful enough that the stretch isn’t much more than he’d taken before. You let out a curse of your own as you watch it disappear inside of him, six inches down to nothing at all as you press in flush. 

“Okay?” you ask, brushing your lips behind his ear. 

Bucky takes a minute to get himself together, then nods, already panting. You wish you could feel the stretch even more intimately, the way he’s probably so tight around the toy right now. 

He pushes up a little on his elbows, just enough to turn and meet your mouth in a messy, spit-slick slide of your lips, intimate and unexpected enough to take your breath away. 

“Fuck me,” he breathes. 

And so you do. 

Reaching down between your legs as you slip out of him a little, you find the button at the base of the bulbs and click it once, turning on the lowest level of pulsing vibrations. It makes the length inside of you light up your nerves again, thrumming lightly against your spot from the inside, and against your clit on the outside. 

Then, with your hands braced on his hips, you slide back inside. 

Both of you moan. It feels more intense now that the preparations are out of the way, all that’s left a predictable deluge of pleasure. 

You fuck him like that for a minute or two, slow and steady as you both get a feel for it. It’s good but your arms end up doing most of the work fairly quickly, and you want to draw this out as long as possible. 

Pulling out of him briefly, you push one of his thighs up and bent a little against the bed, until his ass is pushed up and angled. With an added touch of your other pillow shoved underneath his hips, it gives you the perfect leverage to straddle the thigh that remains straight, bracing yourself at an angle to slip back inside of him. 

“Oh, oh shit—” Bucky croaks loudly, blindly tossing a hand backward to pull you closer. It lands on your hip, curves slightly until it can grab your ass, then pulls until you’re grinding into him as deep as you can get. 

“Fuck, Bucky,” you moan, rocking indulgently against him, the weight of his thigh between yours making the toy press up even more firmly inside of you. Your fingers spread out on his hips, eyes tracing a constellation of freckles near the dimples of his back—lower still to where he’s split open around the toy. Around you. “You look so fucking good like this.” 

“Feels good,” he groans. 

“Yeah?” you ask, slipping a hand up his spine to bury it in his hair. “I’m glad. Want you to feel good.” 

His response is buried in the pillow for the next handful of thrusts, a series of noises you can’t make out as his hips start to press back for more, getting into the rhythm you set. 

“D-do you?” you hear when he turns enough to say it properly. 

It startles a breathless laugh out of you, leaning over him to brace on your fists as you grind in a pointed circle. “Does this feel good for me?” 

You sink inside of him fully and pause, enough that he can feel the subtle thrum of vibrations when you click the button up another notch. You watch his eyes roll back from the side at the depth and the pulsing he can probably just barely feel against his prostate, words devolving into gibberish again. 

You kiss his slack mouth, his shoulder, the back of his neck as you start thrusting again. “It feels fucking incredible, Bucky. Promise.” 

“As—ah—as good as the others?” 

The lobe of his ear catches between your teeth when you whisper: “Better.” 

He shudders, murmurs your name, begs for more. 

Leaning up enough for leverage, you brace your knees and fuck him a little harder now, confident that he can take it. He opens up for you easier than any of the others had—you hadn’t lied. But the whole thing is better, the way he feels, the way you feel, the knot of pleasure in your belly and the equally as pressing one in your chest that feels close to bursting with everything you wish you could have, do, say, express. 

All that’s missing is— 

“Wanna turn you over,” you gasp. “Wanna see your face when you come.” 

“Yeah, yeah—” Bucky mutters agreeably, already halfway to getting into position when you pull out of him and he winces at the sudden loss. He’s still trembling slightly but turning over shows you the evidence of his pleasure, his cock straining hard and leaking at the reddened tip when it smears against his hip with his excitement. 

Without even telling him to, he takes hold of the backs of his own legs and pulls them up toward himself so that you can get in between them easily, only letting them go once you’ve settled back inside—face to face this time. His feet meet the mattress as he throws his head back with a low groan, knees brushing either side of your hips when you lower yourself on top of him. 

“Look at you,” you marvel, using a thumb to swipe at the stray tears on his cheek. “Still feeling good?” 

He nods, nose brushing yours. “Yeah. Real good. Promise. C’n take more.” 

You can’t fuck him proper like this but you let yourself indulge for a minute; the span of his warm palms over your waist and your back, your breasts pressed up against his chest, rabbitting heartbeats syncing together. Your mouths slide together easy as breathing, his face in your hand, his legs wrapped around your waist. 

All of this is so much…better than you thought it’d be. You know enough about how to make it good regardless but you hadn’t anticipated that you and Bucky would fit quite so well. Not like this. 

The kiss turns slower, something undeniably sweet, sharing the same air while the toy rocks inside of him and the vibrations press in up against your clit. His wet lashes brush your cheek when you pull back, and for a single moment, it’s so undeniably intimate that you feel like running from the room—from Bucky—altogether. 

But you have something to finish. And there’s a separate but equal part of you that desperately wants to stay. 

Pulling away from him with a final press of your mouths, you kneel between his legs and prop the pillow back under his hips when he lifts for you, giving you a clear runway to move your hips quick and steady between his thighs. 

You slide in to the hilt, watch Bucky’s expression melt, and carefully wrap your hand around his cock. And then you fuck him like you want him to fall apart. 

It’s faster and rougher than it’d been before, the angle perfect for the toy to curve up against his prostate while you work his cock from the top. Your other hand holds his hip, the delicate inward curve that he covers with jerseys and sweatshirts and jackets, the palmful you get greedier than you mean for it to be. 

It feels safer to be honest like this, when you know he’s vulnerable too. Safer to let praise slip out and watch him shudder with it, safer to lean into him like you might fall if he weren’t there holding you up. 

When you can feel the muscles in his thighs clenching around your hips, noises bitten off into awed speechlessness, you hold the angle and tighten your hand around him, using the slick spread of his excitement to work him over. 

“Shit, baby, that’s—m’gonna—” he chokes, trying to twist in your grip and only succeeding in further fucking himself between the toy and your hand. “Fuck. What the fuck.” 

With a breathless grin you keep going, knowing that it’s all the more intense when prostate stimulation is involved. You push in close and make your thrusts shorter and more pointed, the flicks of your wrists focused heavily on the head of his dick, thumb stroking over the sensitive, leaking tip. 

“C’mon, Bucky,” you urge, using the hand on his stomach to scratch lightly down toward his hips. He shivers and bucks, eyes rolling backward as his knees clamp down around your hips. You shove them back open and keep going. “Wanna see you come for me, baby. Be a good boy.” 

The entirety of his big, strong body seizes up beneath and around you, chin tipped toward his chest to watch himself, aroused and awed and a little confused as his cock begins to spill over your fist. Whereas a regular orgasm might last a handful of seconds, this one is longer, more intense, the toy shoved right up against his spot as you work him through it relentlessly. 

He comes so much, over your hand and down onto his stomach, a little even all the way up to his chest on a particularly strong one. It pools in the divots of his muscles, around his navel, smears of white shimmering on sweat-dotted skin. He looks good enough to eat. 

When he starts shivering you slow your thrusts and slip your hand gently off of him, but a sweaty palm clamps down on your hip before you can pull out. 

“Keep—keep goin’,” he rasps. 

“Bucky—” you shake your head, watching him lick the spit from the corner of his mouth. 

“Please,” he begs. His legs tighten around you. “Wanna feel it. Want—want you to come like this. I can take it. Please.” 

You gauge his face for a second, then dip down to kiss him firmly with a murmur of, “Tell me if it’s too much.” 

He nods, pushing up on his elbows like he’s connected to you, following as you lean up enough to reach the button on the bottom of the toy. Your face scrunches as you bump up the vibrations two more notches, now a steady, inescapable pulse against your clit. 

You moan, legs shaking around the new intensity, and Bucky’s right there waiting to catch you when you drop your forehead to his shoulder. 

He leans up, arm slipping around your waist, the other at the back of your head. The position makes his legs lock around your hips, the lock of his ankles pressing you as close against him as you can get, and the vibrating extension of the toy gives you nowhere to run from the pleasure. 

It all fades back into focus now that Bucky’s already come, your breathing uneven and your cunt clenching around the bulbs inside of you. It’s almost too intense—Bucky’s hand around the back of your neck, his low voice in your ear, his mouth pressed to your temple in what you’re just overwhelmed enough to consider a kiss. You go easily when he shifts you a little to press your foreheads together, stealing presses against your lips when he can get them. 

“Bucky,” you pant, your thrusts going a little sloppy as the vibe throws off your rhythm. “Fuck.” 

“Yeah, here, lemme…” he starts, failing to finish the thought. He uses his arms to shift you a bit, enough to duck his head down toward your chest and take your nipple into his mouth. 

You curse, head falling backward and hand tangled in his hair, your thrusts now nothing more than a frantic grind against him. One of the hands splayed against your spine slides down to palm at your ass and urge you on, what’s sure to be an indention of his teeth forming as he flicks his tongue against your nipple the same as he’d done to your clit earlier. 

Eventually you can’t hold the tempo at all anymore, your hips shoving in and stilling against him. Something suspiciously close to a sob gets stuck in your throat, your head falling back down to gasp into his hair. 

Bucky’s chin tilts up at the noise, slick mouth popping off of your chest to find its way to your lips instead. 

“You close?” he whispers. 

You give a frantic nod, mouth open while his tongue pushes against yours, maps out the planes of your tongue and teeth. 

“Please, sweetheart, please—” he begs. “Feels so good. Wanna feel you come while you’re—fuck. While you’re inside me.” 

Your body bears down on the toy like it’s his cock instead, the vibrator thrumming against your clit and the highest silicone bulb nestled right up against your spot. The penetrative sex you’ve had in the past with guys is pretty good at best and awkward or uncomfortable at worst, but your mind clings to the visual as you start to come: this but the inverse, Bucky fucking you, your legs around his waist, his head against your chest, the only thing between you a strip of latex instead of several inches of silicone. 

It shocks you a little, how badly you want it then. 

You don’t even realize until after that it’s the first time you’ve ever let someone see you come face to face. 

Neither of you get up afterward, like you’re both afraid to shatter the moment. You’re hesitant to even talk until the discomfort wins out, and you have to ease out of him and take the toy out of you. 

You use the bathroom and wash your hands while Bucky fetches two waters, and you toss him a towel as he underhands the bottle to you over the bed. For a minute you both stand on either side of it, you in a t-shirt and a clean pair of underwear, Bucky wide eyed in his boxers, pants hanging from his hand at his side. 

It takes only a barely there nod toward the mattress to get him back inside of it. 

You end up on your back against the pillows, Bucky’s head on your ribs and fingers tracing patterns over your thigh while yours slip back into his hair. He moans quietly, tipping back for more. You smile.  

“Can we talk about it now?” he asks eventually. 

Easing in a breath you’re sure he can feel, you chew at your lip, smile fading. 

“Yeah.” 

You shift a little underneath him, and he clears his throat, going first. “You were always so sweet on Steve, and I—I wanted to have that with you too,” he admits. “But then it was like, everything I did to try to impress you was the wrong thing, or it only made you hate me even more. I told myself eventually I’d just stop trying, but. I don’t think I ever did.” 

You smile wryly at the back of his head. “I don’t really know why you wanted to be friends with me so badly.” 

“What?” he asks, adjusting so his cheek is the other way, facing you. “Why not?” 

“Because I’m not—I’m not like you,” you tell him. “I can’t walk into a room and just immerse myself in it the way that you can. One on one is one thing, but crowds are something I’ve never been good at.” You glance away from him, staring at the design on your t-shirt. “If you wanna know the truth, sometimes I feel like people are scared of me and I—I hate it.” 

“Nobody’s scared of you,” he frowns. 

“Intimidated, then,” you argue. 

He lifts a shoulder, the arm folded above his head extending to stroke a thumb over the side of your ribs. “Yeah, maybe. But only because you’re confident. You know what you want and you go get it without jumping through all the bullshit hoops first. People aren’t scared, they’re staying out of your way.” 

“I’m not that confident, Bucky. I’m just as clueless as everybody else here is. I just work hard at making people think the opposite.” 

The truth is, you cling to control the way that Bucky clings to validation. When you don’t have it, it can make you just as bad as you’ve accused him of being in the past. And by denying not only yourselves but each other the things you need to feel safe, you’ve made enemies from something that probably would’ve never been that in the first place if you’d just—if you’d just been brave enough to try. 

“Well,” Bucky gives a theatrical sigh, warm through the fabric against your stomach. “Then I guess we’re both liars.”

You laugh. “Pretty shit ones, too.” 

“Speak for yourself,” he grins with a wink.  

The humor breaks the tension but another kind eases in just as quickly, the quiet growing tense with something you don’t think either of you can put a finger on. 

The twitch of his brows betrays his thought even as he tries to appear casual, his eyes flicking up to yours, cheek bunching up your shirt. The vulnerability from him that’d made you feel so powerful before makes you feel way out of your depth now—like he’s giving you something you aren’t quite sure how to hold yet. 

He sniffs, playing with the hem of the collar by your neck. “This wasn’t—this wasn’t a lie, though. Right?” 

Throat suddenly tight, you shake your head. 

“No.” 

His confidence visibly increases then, his wavering molded into something more solid. Like he’s made a decision about something. 

Lifting himself slowly off of you, Bucky shifts from lying adjacent to lying parallel beside you, watching your face the whole time as he presses himself close. With you against the pillows and him on one elbow it puts him hovering above you, his face inches from yours. 

When you tip your chin up, he bends to meet you halfway. 

He kisses you deep and heavy, with slow rolls of his tongue and spit gathering between your mouths. Gasping breaths get smothered with the swallowed noises both of you are trying and failing not to make, and you want to blame him for rolling on top of you and settling in between your thighs—but you were the one who pulled him closer, who spread them for him in the first place. 

He sucks on your lower lip like he wants to keep it while your hand slides over his shoulders, up his neck, to the back of his head to hold him there. You’re panting again by the time he pulls back, foreheads touching and lips swollen to mirror yours. 

His kisses skew over, across your jaw. “Did you mean what you said about—about me fuckin’ you?” 

“You want to?” you ask. 

“Really bad, yeah,” he nods into your neck. 

Even as nerves flutter in your stomach, you find yourself smiling at the ceiling over his shoulder. 

Bucky clears his throat, voice coming deeper when he speaks again. 

“But it’s late, so. Probably shouldn’t unless I stay over.” 

“Bucky,” you huff, pulling him out of your neck to look at his face. “You can spend the night. I wasn’t planning on kicking you out.” 

“Thank God,” he collapses onto you again, mouth hungry against yours. 

“Condoms are in the nightstand,” you tell him, oddly emotional as you watch him reach over and rifle through to find them. 

You keep your t-shirt on but let Bucky slip your underwear back down your legs, rubbing a hand on the outside of your thigh as he settles in between them. The lube clicks open again, you rolling the condom on while he slicks himself up, spreading enough of it over your cunt too and taking a minute to press his fingers against your clit. 

“You wanna be on top?” he asks. 

You shake your head. “You set the pace this time. I trust you.” 

The tremble in your voice must betray the nerves despite it being the truth, and Bucky’s eyes soften as he dips down to kiss you again. Unhurried, patient. On the pillow beside your head, his free hand tangles with yours. 

He presses in just as you take a breath, and for once, giving doesn’t feel like losing. 

The music’s low enough not to give you a migraine, the drink in your hand from a bottle that was splurged on just for you, and from your view in Bucky’s lap, you can see practically the entire room. 

It’s less of a party these days and more just hanging out, the easy cadence of Steve’s rambling, Natasha’s intermittent dry humor, Sam’s laugh that always follows predictably. People you enjoy being around instead of a room full of them you try to impress for no good reason. 

The end of the semester finds you much more calm than the one before, both academically and professionally and…

Otherwise. 

A hand is settled on your waist, fingers splayed out and pinky teasing the hem. Familiar lips press to the back of your ear, warm breath your warning before Bucky’s voice makes the rest of the room fade out. 

“You wanna get out of here?” he asks. 

Biting down on a smile, you try not to be too terribly obvious about it when you nod. With a stray graze of his mouth to your head, Bucky steals your drink and downs the rest of it for you. 

You’re met with a teasing round of boos and suggestive noises in equal measure as Bucky takes your hand and leads you through the living room toward the door. 

“You gonna be okay to get home?” you ask Steve, nudging his knee as you pass by. 

He smiles, eyes flicking between both of you as he nods. “Yeah. I’m good.” You get to the foyer before he calls out again, “Hey, Buck?” 

You both pause, glancing back at him. “Yeah?” 

“Take care of her,” Steve says. 

It makes your face feel hot, but no one laughs. The part of you that had ached so badly when Steve made you promise the opposite is healing—you can already feel it. 

But this feels pretty good too. 

Especially when Bucky adjusts from gripping your hand to wrapping an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close. “‘Course I will.” 

It’s what you do now, after all. Look after each other. You nod at Steve once more and follow Bucky out into the night air, watching the streetlights reflect in his eyes and his grin when he looks at you. 

He’s exactly the sort of guy you could fall in love with if you let yourself. 

So. You do.

<3

[thehornyscriptures]

I love this

[unificsation]

can i?

thinking about kissing bucky’s metal hand

part 2 -> you can. gn!reader (let me know if it’s not!), 1.8k WARNINGS/TAGS: attempt at writing emotional/sexual tension, reader is a new avenger, mentions of past injury, intimacy

The two of you are in the Tower’s common room when you finally ask about it.

2AM on an uneventful Monday. Yelena, Ava, and John are somewhere in Eastern Europe on a cursed sequence of back-to-back recon missions. Bob is asleep in his room. Alexei is nowhere to be found.

Which leaves you and Bucky alone, and not in the way that you’re used to.

You’re used to being alone with Bucky in a corridor of a dilapidated power plant, shadows entwined and guns raised. In a black SUV, him at the passenger seat and you behind the wheel, sharing stale air as a stakeout bleeds through the hours. On a training mat while your feet and his trace watchful circles, patiently waiting for the first pounce.

This kind of alone is different.

No context to hide behind. Just two complicated people in simple silence, doing the little dance of strangers in a grocery store aisle. The unspoken, delicate measures of am I taking up too much space, are you passing me by, are we reaching out for the same thing?

A dance you’ve been doing for far too long.

You’re past the “can’t sleep?” conversation. It died seconds after it started—the two of you cross paths like this way too many times to the point where asking feels like a pointless formality. So many nights where his bedroom feels like a cage. As many as the ones where your bloodstream pronounces your thoughts out loud.

He’s always there first.

Always standing by the window, looking down at the city that’s just as awake as he is, as if staring at it long enough will reveal some kind of answer. Always looking at you when you walk in.

Tonight is the same.

You make tea—the flowery one Yelena bought for you. She claims it’s calming.

“Want some?” you ask, pouring boiling water into a cup with a teabag. Steam begins to waft, and so does a faint chamomile scent, the softness of it almost out of place against minimalist concrete curves.

“It doesn’t work,” he replies.

“I’m not drinking it because it does.”

A beat. Then, whispered quietly, “yeah, sure.”

That’s how you end up hanging around the kitchen island with him, sipping floral tea past midnight while exchanging sentences that barely count as small talk.

Like grieving mothers. Not knowing the words, yet understanding so fully what it feels like.

In the dimly lit room, you catch the glint of his metal arm, fully exposed thanks to his standard issue black t-shirt. Gold markings on sleek Wakandan vibranium ripple and glow when he rests his arm on the counter, plates shifting quietly.

Despite the many times you’ve seen it, it’s still mesmerizing. Especially tonight.

Maybe it’s the hour. Maybe it’s your lucidity, or lack thereof.

It must be a heavy thing, the arm, literally and figuratively. How it carries his past.

You’ve seen Ava lug it like a pipe. Seen him wind it up when it reattaches. Heard the sound it makes. Learned how it affects his gait and reveals vulnerabilities on his right side—the side you always cover when you’re assigned to him. The side you prefer to stand on.

But more than that, you’ve felt it. Not just brush of his fingers when he returned a dagger he borrowed from you—but on your forehead, firm and real. The weight of it reassuring, the coolness of it almost soothing.

“Remember Brunei?”

You say it so soft, like you don’t mean to say it out loud to him. He looks at you, standing almost right in front of you across the island. The room seems to shrink.

“The paralytic agent?”

You nod as you replay the way that mission went sideways just two weeks ago.

The two of you and Yelena, John at the jet. An illicit research facility deep within a rainforest. How you caught a microdose of something potent through a hollow-tip dart to the neck while extracting yourself from the scene. How the hundred-degree fever hit one minute after, too fast to be harmless.

Walker had his hands full piloting the take off, rocky and bullet-riddled. Bucky noticed the signs first: your thousand yard stare and the flush on your cheeks.

“What is it?” Yelena asked, eyes darting.

His vibranium hand was on your forehead in an instant. Flesh hand on your pulse. A status check.

“You’re burning up,” he whispered, scrambling to strap you in your seat before barking all military-like at Walker—something about going faster.

You blacked out after that.

In the kitchen, you nod with your chin towards the metal arm.

“You can feel temperature?” you ask behind the rim of your mug, all casual, like you haven’t thought about it for the past fourteen days.

He glances down. The plates flex, as if they don’t appreciate the attention.

“And other indicators,” he answers quietly. “Nano-receptors. I can feel if something so much as hovers over it.”

There’s a pause before he continues. “Helps with reflexes.”

You put down your drink, not taking your eyes off dark metallic fingers against the smooth marble countertop.

“Can I touch it?”

The air is sucked out of the room into a cold vacuum. You realize what you just let escape from your mouth.

Your eyes snap to his. They’re blue and just a fraction wider than usual. Your lips part, eyelids fluttering as you avert your gaze to everywhere except him, unsure of how you’re going to glue back the moment you just shattered into pieces on the floor. How will he ever trust you again?

“Sorry, I wasn’t thinking—”

“You can.”

It takes a second for his words to register. Two. Three.

Even after they do, the world is still stopped on its axis.

Your eyes find his again, searching in them the balm to your mortification, and it’s there. A look. Soft and wavering, as if he doesn’t quite believe what he’s saying, just like you.

But his palm is still upturned. Open. For you.

And then your hand moves, a motion so subtle you swear it’s not your own, like it got pulled by a gravitational force emanating from where his hand sits. Your fingertips stop above his, an inch apart, and you feel it.

The electricity. A kind of energy that’s not just alchemical reaction of two warm bodies, but a spark elusive enough to be craved, too real to be hallucinated.

You realize it has always been right there, in the space between your existence and his.

In every furtive post-mission glance, cataloging each other’s wounds from afar, how looking away feels as difficult as a ten-step containment protocol.

It’s there in the circles you draw around each other on the training mat, prolonging a tightrope tension that was never just about sparring.

It’s in the look on his face when you woke up in the med bay, the first thing you saw after tilted Bruneian skies. Steel blue silencing a brand of suffering you recognized as his. Like his sanity was tested while you slept.

You’ve ignored this for so long, it can only be blamed on negligence. A conscious carelessness towards your own feelings—and his—just so you can move on through life with a false sense of security.

Tenderness means both sweetness and an ache. If avoiding it means not hurting, then that’s what you’ll do.

That was your intention, and you have a feeling it was his, too. But you can’t run, not now.

You’re not sure you want to anymore.

Your fingers brush against his before you slide them down to hold his knuckles in your palm. Bucky breathes out like he hasn’t for the past minute. You sigh. He’s cold and hot at the same time, foreign but familiar.

The air crackles with heat, condensed to a fine point that coalesces in your point of contact. Your thumb brushes slowly down the back of his index finger, tracing cybernetic knuckles.

His eyes follow your movement.

Bucky tries to even out his breathing, he really does, but there’s not enough and too much air in his lungs. Box-breathing doesn’t work when you’re touching him like this.

You caress his hand like it’s made of glass and not a thousand crimes, touch so featherlight he almost thinks you’re testing its sensitivity. Like you want to find out the softest thing he can feel.

The answer is you. You are.

Bucky feels goosebumps forming on his other arm instead.

You study him like you’ll never get the chance to again, running your fingers down his with the lightest of touches—did he just shiver?—until you’re left with his pinky. You gently grab the pad of it between your thumb and index, tugging.

Like a child who wants to play, a lover who begs to stay.

He breathes your name. You look at him, lips suddenly dry. His pupils are dilated.

“Tell me to stop,” you whisper, walking round the island to stand next to him.

The thought of stopping makes him ache.

He doesn’t say anything. Just shifts, his body aligning with yours like a magnet finding its match.

The metal arm moves to your face, gently guiding your chin up to meet his gaze. Your knees are close to buckling. Intoxicated by a single look.

Bucky brushes his thumb across your lower lip, taking his turn to study you. The motion is both patient and indulgent, slow and sensual, betraying a deeper want in the way the metal pad of his finger catches against the plush of your lip.

The pronounced ‘thump’ behind his ribs cracks the facade. He camouflages as a silent observer, a shadow in the corner of the room, a colleague who only looks at your six for threats—when between God and himself, he’s stared at your lips like he’s memorizing the shape of them to feed his dreams at night.

And he has dreamed of them. Just never as dangerous as this.

His thumb parts your bottom lip slightly. Your breath hitches.

Then you turn your head just enough to kiss his palm.

A quiet groan escapes him, one that sends rushing warmth through every nerve in your body. You stand there, hand gently keeping his in place as your mouth traces reverently across precise indentations, down to the inside of his wrist.

Your lips are supplicant against gold veins, slow and light like a private prayer.

There’s fire in his body, a holy purge or hellish torment, he’s not sure. He just knows he wants more. His heart is overwhelmed with feeling. Thanksgiving to the Wakandans who allowed this to happen. Disbelief at the sweet, sweet way you twist his hand. Salvation for every sin he’s ever drowned in.

You kiss the back of his hand first—three trailing up—then his knuckles last. One by one, your mouth closes around each protrusion with affection so pure it’s nearly erotic.

He’ll worship every part of you like that, too, if you’ll let him.

In a moment of impatience, he cradles your face again, forcing you to look at him. This time his flesh hand is on your other cheek.

You’ve never seen Bucky look so lost.

“How does it feel?” you whisper. Earnest.

Then he leans down, breathing the same air as you. He’s so close—broad chest brushing against yours—you swear you can count his eyelashes from here.

He exhales and you grow dizzy.

“Like I’m losing my mind,” he rasps, thumb swiping your bottom lip again.

Your hands move to his chest, compensating for the sudden weakness in your legs, painfully aware of the inches between your lips and his—almost zero.

“You didn’t ask me to stop.”

His eyes contemplate yours with a look that barely barricades a flood. Waves of silent secrets and denied desire thrash beneath blue rings, waiting to be let out, to be known. They scream I want you and you’re the most precious thing I don’t deserve to have in the same silence.

“I’d be stupid to,” he replies, voice low.

The electricity sparks. You can’t take it anymore.

“Bucky…”

Half-lidded eyes stare up into his, voicelessly spelling out the five letters that make the word please, the eight that make I need you, the very many that tell him there’s no going back from this.

He seems to understand.

Time stands still.

Then he kisses you—slow and deep—and the world spins.

[barnesonly]

Favorite

steve kemp x reader

summary: you crave what you shouldn’t and after Steve has called you his favorite, you want to live up to his expectations so he doesn’t change his mind.

word count: 3,8k

WARNINGS: 18+ explicit content, MDNI, disclaimer: contains dark themes. read at your own discretion! steve kemp is literally a warning himself, smut, stockholm syndrome, praising, psychotic behaviours (from both steve and reader), petnames (peach), PiV, unprotected sex, rough sex, nipple play, creampie, oral (f receiving), cum eating, pussy slapping, biting.

Part Two for „Peach” | series masterlist coming soon…

Favorite.

That word hasn't left your head since he said it.

Last week was… good. If you can call it that. He did what he promised—now he keeps you in his bed, tucked against him like a possession he'd never part with. He doesn't just want you near—he wants you everywhere, woven into him like skin and bone.

And God help you, there's a part of you that's almost happy about it. Happy that he adores you so much he won't let you go, happy that he chooses you.

At this point? You don't know how you feel.

It begins to feel like you're getting addicted to him as mush as he's addicted to you.

You know it's bad. And yet, what is worse is the way you're starting to need him. The way your chest tightens when he's gone too long, the way you crave his eyes on you like a drug.

It's sick. You're sick.

The bed feels too big without him. Too cold. You lie there on your back, staring up at the ceiling and the sheets that are twisted around your legs feel more like restraints than something comfortable.

Is this it? Is this how your life is going to look now?

Always with him? Always in this house, locked and hidden from the world?

You get up and pad out of the room in nothing but the thin nightgown—the one he got for you, pink with white laces that sticks to your figure just perfectly.

Your bare feet move across the cold floor, quietly making your way to the kitchen and you spot him at the stove, humming a little tune to himself as he stirs. For a stupid second you just stand there and watch him. The ordinary motion of him making breakfast turns feelings in your heart into something that shouldn't be there.

It takes him a moment to realize you're here. But when he does, a smile appears on his face almost instantly. His eyes soften in a way that makes your knees go weak.

The way he looks at you is different from how others ever had. It's so… affectionate. And yes, you know who he is, what is he like—a terrible person. But this? This doesn't feel terrible. At least not anymore.

"Hey," he says casually and the spoon he was holding drops in the pan with a clatter you barely hear over the thrum in your chest.

Steve shuts the stove off, his attention fully on you, now. He crosses the space between you in few slow steps and when he reaches you, one of his hands settles on your hip.

You lean in without even realizing it, stomach tightening, chest pressed to him. His thumb traces lazy circles on your hipbone and the little shock of contact makes you shiver.

"Sleep well?" his voice is casual but there's an edge to it that makes your stomach clench. It feels like every question he gives you is some kind of test, even the simple ones—one wrong answer and it's over for you. You know better than disappointing him.

"Yeah," you nod and he smiles at that, satisfied with your answer. His hands lift up to your face, cradling your cheeks as his thumbs now brush over your skin there like he's memorizing it.

"I missed you," the words leave your mouth as a whisper, hesitantly, as if you didn't want him to hear them.

It's probably wrong to say it out loud because why would you expose to him another weakness of yours? You still don't know his intentions. You don't know if he means what he says. Maybe you were never his "favorite" and this is one of his disturbed tactics to break you.

His eyes catch the sound before his ears do, and then his head lifts up. "Did you?”

By the tone in his voice you can easily tell he's savoring it. So you nod again, afraid of saying too much. You hate yourself for how easy the truth comes out around him. You hate that you want him to know that. Know that you missed him, even when you shouldn't. Even when every warning in your head screams that you're giving him too much, that he'll take it and use it the way he always does.

But you can't stop. You'd give him anything just to have his attention. Just to feel the warmth he gives you when he's pleased even if later you'll regret it.

His smile stays on as he leans in, closing the space between you. Your mouths meet in a slow, passionate kiss and when they do, there is this weird spark. You wonder if he feels it too, if he thinks just like you that this is something special.

That you're special.

Because now you live for his validation. You don't want to be like other girls he had. And you don't even mean it in i don't want to end up dead like them kind of way—no. If somehow you lose him, then maybe the scenario where he kills you wouldn't be so bad. It would feel like mercy.

Your fingers curl into his shirt without thinking, tugging at the fabric until he lets you lead him. You drag him toward the couch, and of course—he lets you. Doesn't resist, doesn't even question it. You've gained enough of his trust during last few weeks.

You don't think twice, nor hesitate. You push him down into the cushions before getting on top of him, straddling his lap.

"Sweetheart," he murmurs in a low, teasing voice and his mouth curls as he smirks at you. "Whatchu doing, hm?"

You don't answer him at first—you just kiss him again, the corner of his lips, his jaw, anywhere you can reach, desperate for more. Your hips start moving on their own, slow drags of friction against the hard line of him beneath his jeans.

When you finally speak, your voice comes out small, breathless. "I just—I wanna make you feel good.. wanna make you proud,"

"Oh, baby…" he breathes out, his eyes darkening with lust as he watches you. "You always make me proud."

His words hit you deep, almost shattering something inside you. You kiss him harder—mouths colliding in a messy and hungry way. Your fingers twist in his shirt as you start rocking against him, dragging your cunt over the bulge straining his jeans. The thin barrier of your nightgown does nothing to ease the ache—if anything, it makes it worse.

Steve groans into your mouth, and then whimpers. A broken sound escapes his throat, making your body jolt with heat. You can feel how badly he wants you—how his hips twitch up to meet your grinding, how his hands tighten on your wait like he can't decide if he should let you do the job the way you like it or take some control back.

You bury your face against his jaw, panting into his skin, mouthing at the corner of his lips. "Steve—" you moan and his breath shudders.

"Fuck, pretty girl," he mutters, head falling back against the couch as you move on top of him. "You're makin' me lose my mind."

His hands slide down, gripping your hip hard enough to bruise as his other works at his zipper impatiently. The sound of it splitting open fills the room.

And then he frees himself. His cock is thick and flushed, heavy against his stomach. You gasp softly when you feel him pressing against you. The heat of him so close makes your thighs tremble and suddenly all of your worries are gone, replaced by the only thought in your head—lust.

Steve groans low, his thumb stroking your cheek as he looks at you like he can't believe you're real. "C'mere, sweetheart," he rasps, guiding you with one steady hand. His fingers grab around the base of his shaft, dragging the head through your slick folds, coating him with your arousal.

Your nails bite into his shoulder and you let out a tiny, cracked whimper.

"Shhh, baby," he soothes, voice rough. "I've got you. Just let me—yeah, that's it." He steadies you, one hand on your back and then pushes you down slowly.

You sink onto him inch by thick inch. The stretch is brutal, his tip splits you open, making you feel fucking dizzy and cockdrunk already. Your mouth falls open but no sound comes out beside the strangled moan when you finally bottom out with his cock pulsing deep inside you.

Steve's head drops forward, his forehead pressed to your shoulder now, panting hard like he's the one being undone. "Jesus Christ, look at you," he growls, almost in awe. "Taking me so good, my pretty girl… Fuck—made for me."

"Oh, fuck!—" you whimper, thighs shaking. "Stevie—" you brace your hands on his chest and begin moving, hips rolling, rising and sinking on his cock like you were made for this. Like this was your only purpose, and now it feels like it is.

His grip on your waist tightens, eyes stay locked on you. "Take all of it,” he whispers into your ear, jaw clenching as you grind down harder. "So desperate to satisfy me… Yeah, baby. Just like that—"

Every thrust drags another moan from your throat. Every slide of him inside you only fuels your filthy needs. You chase his praise like it's air, the only thing keeping you alive and, in the given circumstances—keeping you sane. You want to give him everything, want him to look at you the way he's looking at you now—like you're his whole world.

Because over the last weeks, he had become yours.

And God, it feels good. Too good. The way he fills you, the way his cock splits you open and rubs against that sweet spot inside that makes your vision blur. Your body is betraying you, tightening, fluttering around him as you ride him harder.

Steve cups your face again, not gentle at all—not anymore—forcing you to look at him as you bounce on his lap. "That's it, Peach. Show me how bad you need it. Show me how good my favorite girl can be."

Your thighs are already giving out, but you keep moving just to prove yourself to him and Steve leans back into the couch, whimpering like a total mess underneath you. His hands glide up your body, palms skating over your waist, then your ribs, then cupping your breasts through the thin fabric of your nightgown.

„Oh, fuck—” he curses into your neck, squeezing your breast just enough to force a moan out of you. „God, baby. Don’t stop, please. You’re doin’ so good, feelin’ so tight fuck—”

„Yeah? Like that?” A cocky grin appears on your face, confidence rising at the praise as you continue your work on his cock without slowing down the tortuous rhythm you’ve set up.

„Mhm… Just like that,” he tries to breath steadily, although his voice is shaking, betraying his composure and revealing the power you have over him. „God, you’re so good to me, sweetheart. You’re the best thing that—fuck—that happened to me.”

He raises his hand to your face. His thumb brushes your bottom lip before he presses it inside your mouth, making you suck it.

“You love this, don’t you?” he tilts his head at you with your mouth wrapped around his finger. „Love me?” His other hand squeezes your hip, pushing you down harder onto him.

„Mhm…” you moan out. Your pace falters for just a moment before you drive down on him again, much harder this time.

„Oh, fuck!” The volume of his tone rises, as though he’s not able to take it anymore. You know you’re going to be full of bruises from how intensely he’s holding you. Grabbing your hips so rough as if it was the only thing that could anchor him in the moment. „Yeah, baby. Good girl, yes!”

You whimper, heat burning in your belly as his praise washes over you, tightening the knot of need inside you. You tilt your chin up to look into his eyes and you hold his gaze.

He looks as if he was about to lose it any moment now. His eyes are glassy, overwhelmed with the pleasure and you cannot help but ride him harder, doing your best to send him over the edge.

„Fuck! Peach, you—” he growls, his eyes flutter shut. His thumb leaves your mouth and his hand flies to your hair, tugging on it. „You’re such a needy little thing—so fucking perfect when you’re like this.”

One of his hands slips under your nightgown, pushing the thin fabric up until it bunches around your waist, leaving you bare for him. The other cups your breast, and his thumb brushes over the hard peak of your nipple.

You gasp, your rhythm stuttering, but his grip on your hip steadies you. “That’s it, sweetheart,” he praises again. His fingers pinch and roll your nipple, pulling another whimper from your throat. “Ride me while I play with these perfect tits, fuck—.”

He squeezes your breast harder which is only making your cunt clench tighter around him. He groans, head falling back for a moment as you grind down harder. “Fuck… you feel that? The way your pussy’s gripping me? You’re trying to keep me all to yourself, aren’t you, Peach?”

You can’t answer. Not when his fingers are tugging and twisting your nipples, not when his cock is stretching you so good it makes your eyes roll back. All you can do is moan, a broken sound that makes him smile like he’s won.

“Don’t hold back, Peach. Give me everything,” he murmurs, dragging you closer, lips brushing against your jaw as his hand continues to toy with your breast. “Wanna see you lose yourself on me. Wanna feel you squeeze my cock until I can’t take it anymore.”

“Steve—fuck, baby—you feel so good,” you moan, hips rolling faster against him. “So full… can’t—can’t get enough of you.”

His grin is smug and adoring, like he’s been waiting to hear you say it. He squeezes your breast again, tugging at your nipple just to watch your face twist in pleasure.

“Is that so?” he whispers soothingly as he fucks you from beneath with slow, deep thrusts. “Tell me what you need.”

You whimper, breath catching as he hits that perfect spot inside you. “Need you—need you so bad, Steve. Please don’t stop, I can’t—”

“I know, baby. I’m here,” he cooes „I’ll always be here. You don’t need anything else but me. Say it, baby. Say I’m the only thing you need.”

You don’t even think. The words tumble out of you without hesitation. “You’re the only thing I need, Stevie.”

„Fuck—I can’t,” the sounds he makes sound choked, trapped in his throat. „Oh my, ’m gonna cum. Fuck, baby—oh God, I—” His hips jerk up hard, pistoning into you once, twice and then he’s coming, spilling inside your cunt.

You feel each pulse, the thick heat fill you as his body shudders under yours and he buries his face in your neck with a ragged inhale.

You ride it out with him. Tears prickle behind your eyes but you don’t stop. You can’t. Even as Steve’s cock twitches inside you, spilling deeper into your cunt, you move even rougher, moving your hips to chase the high that is still clawing at you.

“Baby—” His voice cracks, spent and shaky, but his hands stay locked on your waist, letting you use him. “Fuck, you’re still going? Milking me dry like that…” His head tips back, eyes squeezing shut as you drag another strangled groan from him.

You whimper, nails digging into his chest, your thighs trembling with the effort. “Need it—need to come, Steve, please—” you sob, desperate to wring every ounce of pleasure from him.

His hand flies up to cup your face, thumb smearing over your swollen lips. “Shh, sweetheart. It’s okay. Take what you need.” His hips buck weakly up into yours, giving you that extra push.

The pleasure slams into you so hard your back arches. A scream tears from your throat. Your cunt clamps down around him, milking his cock, squeezing him so tight it makes his groan melt into a laugh of disbelief.

“That’s it, Peach—fuck—scream for me,” he urges. His thumb presses against your lip until your mouth falls open wider. “Soak me, baby.”

You can’t stop the sounds pouring out of you—loud, desperate cries, broken moans that echo in the room. The pleasure is overwhelming and you ride the wave of it until you’re shaking all over, tears spilling hot down your cheeks and Steve of course, holds you through it.

When you come down from your high his hands move to your waist. He steadies you only long enough to lift you off him, his cock sliding free with a wet, lewd sound that makes your cheeks burn. His spend trickles out immediately, a messy, hot stream down your thighs.

“Up,” he orders gently, pushing you forward. You barely manage a dazed whimper, but you listen, sprawling out on the couch as he flips you onto your back.

The cool fabric kisses your overheated skin and Steve sinks down on his knees between your spread legs, his palms urging them wider, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh until you’re open for him—dripping and ruined.

He licks his bottom lip, eyes fixed on the mess he’s made of you. “Look at that, baby. My cum leaking out of your pretty pussy. You love that, don’t you?”

„Mhm…” you whimper in response, looking down at him.

„We can’t waste it, can we? That would be such a shame…” his voice drops darker and he caresses your thigh gently.

You don’t even have time to respond before he dives in. His mouth seals over you, tongue lapping up everything he spilled inside you. He groans low in his chest at the taste, sucking greedily as though cleaning you out is the most important mission of his life. His tongue drags through your folds, circles your swollen clit, dips down to fuck into you, gathering every bit of cum.

Your back arches, fingers flying to his hair as a broken cry rips from your throat. “S-Steve—oh god—”

He only smirks against you, his tongue working on you continuously and when his voice comes—it’s muffled. „It tastes so good, Peach… ’m not stopping ‘til you’re shaking all over my face.”

His tongue is everywhere at once. He drags the flat of it up your slit, moaning like he’s savoring you before his mouth ends up right over your clit.

The suction is instant, his lips wrapping around your swollen pussy and pulling. You cry out, thighs closing, but his big hands clamp them wide, keeping you open for his mouth.

“Fuck, Steve—oh god, oh god, don’t stop—” your voice breaks as he sucks harder, tongue flicking mercilessly against you.

It’s messy—so fucking messy. His saliva mixes with your slick and his own spend, dripping down his chin, coating his jaw. You hear the obscene sounds of it, wet slurps and smacks as he eats you like he can’t get enough. Every breath he takes is through his nose like he’d rather drown in you than pull away.

He growls into your pussy and then he tongues you deep again, fucking into you with long strokes before dragging back up to your clit.

His lips close around it once more, sucking hard, tongue rolling over it in quick, ruthless circles. Your whole body jerks, nails scratching at his scalp.

“Steve—fuck, you’re gonna make me—”

He pulls back just enough to pant against your soaked cunt. His eyes are wild. “Good. That’s what I want. Wanna drink it straight from you, baby. Come for me—right on my tongue.”

He marks his words with a slap on your pussy. The smack makes your whole body jolt as his palm comes down against you.

Before you can even gasp, he does it again. You cry out, half-shocked, half-pleading, hips bucking up into his hand.

“I could never get enough of this pussy,” Steve groans, eyes fixed on your folds glistening with both spit and cum. He spreads you wider using his thumb, watching your hole twitch. “You like that, sweetheart? Getting spanked on this pretty cunt?”

Another smack, much harder, and you moan so loud it makes his cock throb against the couch.

„Yes! Yes, Steve!” you cry out. „I fucking love that.”

He leans down, tongue dives back into you. His mouth latches onto your clit again like he’s punishing you with pleasure,

Your thighs shake violently, the mixture of sting and wet heat overwhelming every nerve in your body.

“Stevie—fuck—please—”

Your orgasm rips through you suddenly. Your body arches off the couch as another scream tears from your ribs.

And Steve doesn’t let up. He drinks down every gush, every drop you spill onto his tongue.

“Fuck—fuck—Steve!” Your voice breaks, choking on his name and still—he stays latched to you.

By the time your body finally slumps against the couch, every limb heavy, every breath ragged—he pulls back with his chin shining, lips wet and swollen. He’s panting, chest rising like he just ran a mile.

He kisses the inside of your thigh, soft at first. Then his teeth sink in, hard enough to make you yelp.

„Mine,” he whispers, biting down once more before soothing it with a slow drag of his tongue.

Your body twitches under him, already oversensitive, but you can’t stop the needy whimper that escapes you.

You watch him dazed as he lingers between your legs, kissing one, then the other, leaving trails of saliva and sharp little nips that make your stomach flutter.

He looks ruined—hair a mess, lips swollen, chin drenched in your slick—and still he’s so fucking beautiful it hurts.

Your fingers twitch, then reach for him without thinking, threading through his damp hair.

“Steve…” The word falls from you quietly, sounding unsure.

His steel blue eyes flick up, catching yours from between your legs. You stroke through his hair tenderly and the awe on your face must be plain, considering how he smiles back at you.

Something inside you cracks at the sight—splinters straight through the careful walls you’ve tried to keep.

“I love you,”

These three simple words leave your mouth without thinking and the air seems to still.

But Steve just bends his head, pressing one last kiss against the tender inside of your thigh.

“I love you too, Peach.”

💌 tag list: @iamthatonefangirl @buckytakethewheel @thatsbucknasty @buckybarneswife125 @peanutbutt3rcup @avengemepercy @gottareadthosefics2 @sassandscribbles @avgdestitute @gottareadthosefics2 @umbreoni @houseofhyde @earthsmightiestbenders @flockoff-featherface @firingstars @its-in-the-woods @bckyslover

⋆⁺₊✧ MAIN MASTERLIST

[barnesonly]

Teasing

possessive!bucky barnes x reader

summary: there’s non. this fic is pure, filthy porn. look at the warnings!!

word count: 3,7k

WARNINGS: 18+ explicit content, MDNI. curse words, desperation, dirty talk, degrading kink, praising kink (just a very tiny bit), teasing, dacryphilia, PiV, unprotected sex, dom!bucky, overstimulation, breeding, cockwarming, fully consensual by both parties although not explicitly stated.

Your problem was that Bucky knew how much you wanted him. How much you craved him. And he loved to take advantage of that.

He always waited for the quietest moments—when your guard was down, when your body was warm and soft in his arms, and your mind had just started to slip toward sleep.

Like now.

Spooning you in bed, his arm curled around your waist, his breath slow and steady against the back of your neck. His hand, resting innocently on your thigh, begins to move. Slow at first—just the lazy drag of his fingertips along your skin, barely noticeable, like he’s tracing the shape of your body from memory.

But then it shifts. Higher. Bolder.

Over the swell of your hip, the curve of your ass—his touch deliberate now, possessive. You bite your lip, heat already pooling low in your stomach.

And then he does it. Rolls his hips against you just enough for you to feel him—hard and heavy through the thin fabric of his boxers, pressing perfectly into the curve of your ass.

It’s too perfect. The kind of pressure that makes your breath catch, your thighs clench involuntarily.

You whimper. Quiet. Needy.

That’s when he moves his hand again. Slipping beneath the waistband of your panties, slow and teasing, fingers grazing over your slick heat like he’s testing you—barely touching, just enough to make you ache.

“You’re already wet,” he murmurs against your neck, voice thick and low. “Were you hoping I’d do this?”

You don’t answer—not with words.

Just a soft, pathetic little whimper, your body already arching back into him, desperate for more of his touch.

But instead of giving it to you, Bucky pulls his hand away.

You whine at the loss, but then you feel the subtle shift behind you—his hips rocking back, the rustle of fabric as he pushes his boxers down and strokes himself, slow and lazy, like he has all the time in the world.

“Shhh,” he murmurs against your shoulder, voice thick with heat. “I’ve got you.”

Then you feel it. The warm, heavy weight of him pressed right against your soaked folds. Not inside. Not even close. Just resting there—teasing—and then he starts to drag it down. Up. Down again.

Barely any pressure.

Just enough to spread your slick. Just enough to make your breath hitch and your thighs twitch with need.

“Fuck,” he groans softly, voice strained. “You feel that, baby? How wet you are for me?”

He keeps doing it. Slow, maddening glides of his cock through your folds, the tip catching on your clit every time in a way that makes you whimper again—quieter this time, almost like you’re embarrassed by how badly you want him.

And that just makes him grin.

“You were gonna fall asleep like this?” he breathes, voice dark and amused. “So needy and wet, and you weren’t even gonna tell me?”

The way he moves—slow and lazy—leaves you trembling and aching. It’s unbearable. It feels like nothing and so much at the same time.

A gasp stutters out of you when the head of his cock brushes your clit a little harder than before, hips twitching. Your fingers clutch the sheets, desperate for something to ground you.

“Bucky…” you breathe, a plea more than a protest.

He hums low behind you, nuzzling into the crook of your neck. His free hand—strong, steady—slides up to hold your thigh, keeping you spread just how he wants.

“Shh…” he whispers. “I wanna take my time.”

His cock slides down again, hot and soaked in your slick, nudging at your entrance—but he doesn’t push in. Not yet.

Just rocks his hips again, back and forth, dragging himself through your folds with that same agonizing pressure, like he loves how desperate you’re getting.

And god, he does.

“You feel that?” he murmurs, lips brushing your ear. “Feel how your pussy’s just soaking for me? So fucking soft… all this mess for nothing, baby.”

He smiles when you let out another whimper, your hips bucking back against him instinctively, chasing more friction. But he tightens his grip on your thigh, holding you right where he wants you.

“Easy,” he says, voice low and almost cruel in its calmness. “You’ll take it when I give it to you. Not a second sooner.”

His tip nudged your entrance again, teasingly slow, just enough for your breath to catch and your hips to twitch back against him.

A soft, tiny whimper escaped your lips before you could stop it.

“You like that, baby?” he murmured, smug and low, cock dragging slowly through your slick again—coated, hot, deliberate.

You nodded frantically, desperation clawing at your throat.

“Please, Buck…”

Your voice was barely more than a breath, shaky and wrecked with need.

But he didn’t give in. Didn’t push in.

Instead, he just chuckled darkly and kept doing exactly what he was doing—grinding himself between your folds, up and down, the tip of his cock gliding over your clit in featherlight passes. He was soaked in your arousal now, the sound of it obscene in the quiet of the room.

“You’re fuckin’ dripping,” he whispered, voice thick with lust, his mouth close to your ear. “And all I’m doin’ is rubbing it on you.”

You let out another whimper, pressing your thighs together—but his hand was still gripping one, keeping you spread for him, helpless.

“Mm-mm,” he smirked, thrusting a little harder through your folds now, enough to make you feel it.

“Please, Bucky, I can’t—”

“You can,” he growled, nipping at your shoulder. “You’ll take it when I say. I wanna feel you sob for it first.”

To say you were underwhelmed would be an understatement.

It was maddening. Infuriating.

You thought you’d come the moment he pushed inside you—but he hadn’t. He hadn’t even tried. Just kept rubbing his cock through your clit, again and again, slow and teasing, like it was a game to him. And you were losing.

You were trembling. Wrecked. Your body burning with a need so sharp it felt cruel.

You looked back at him over your shoulder, eyes glassy, lips parted. Your gaze already dazed—tears stinging at the corners, threatening to spill.

And Bucky saw it.

Saw the pure begging in your eyes.

And finally—finally—he gave you what you wanted.

He pushed in. Just the tip.

Fuck, it felt so good—hot and thick and perfect, stretching you open with that first inch. Your mouth dropped open in a broken gasp, a choked sound of relief.

But he didn’t go any deeper.

Just held you there, filled barely enough to satisfy anything, and began to thrust—slow and shallow. Just the tip, dragging back and forth with a torturous rhythm that had your walls fluttering, clenching desperately around him every time he moved.

Your hands fisted the sheets. Your legs shook.

It was almost cruel. Almost.

“Bucky—” you sobbed, the sound choked and desperate. “Please—just—”

“Shhh,” he cooed, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder as his tip nudged deep again, then pulled out—slow and slick. “You feel that, baby? Feel how tight you are around just this?”

You nodded, broken and breathless.

“I could keep you like this all night,” he whispered, voice dark and aching. “Just my tip. Just enough to make you cry for it.”

And god—he was.

You couldn’t take it anymore.

Your body was shaking, walls fluttering around the teasing stretch of him—just the tip—and it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough.

So you tried. Just a tiny shift of your hips, angling back to take him deeper, even just a little. To feel more of him. Anything.

But he felt it instantly.

His hand snapped up and caught your chin, firm and unforgiving, forcing you to turn your head and look at him. His eyes were dark, wild with control and desire, but there was no softness in his grip.

“Try that again,” he said, voice low and sharp, “and I’ll pull out.”

The words hit like a slap—sharp, cruel, threatening in the way only he could make sound loving.

Your breath hitched, tears threatening again, but you didn’t move.

You wouldn’t.

“Good girl,” he muttered, releasing your chin slowly, dragging his thumb along your jaw as if to soothe what he just said—but his hips stayed steady, cock still buried in that shallow depth, moving in and out with that same teasing rhythm that had you falling apart.

“That’s better,” he whispered. “You’ll take what I give you. Nothing more.”

He pressed in again, slow and deep this time—but still not all the way, just a little more than before, enough to feel every inch like a gift. Your mouth dropped open, eyes fluttering shut.

“Look at you,” he murmured, voice thick with smug affection. “Already fucked dumb and I haven’t even given you half of it.”

You tried to stay still. You really did.

But your body was trembling, thighs shaking, your core clenching so hard around nothing it almost hurt. His tip kept stroking inside you, slow and shallow, perfect—and still so fucking insufficient.

It was too much.

Your breath hitched. Your face crumpled. And then the tears spilled—hot, helpless streaks running down your cheeks as a sob tore from your throat.

“Bucky—” you choked, voice wrecked, broken, desperate. “I can’t… I need it, please…”

He stilled for a moment.

Then you felt him lean in closer, his hand coming up to brush your hair off your face—and then down again, fingers curling around your jaw to tilt your face toward him.

And he saw it.

The tears.

Your flushed cheeks, your trembling lips, your eyes blown wide with need and soaked with helpless want.

“Look at you,” he murmured, a slow smirk curving at the edge of his mouth. “So pathetic.”

His voice was low. Cruel. But there was affection under it—desire.

He loved seeing you like this. Ruined. Falling apart. All for him.

“Crying ‘cause you’re not getting cock,” he whispered, dragging his thumb across your wet cheek. “That’s what you wanted, huh? Thought if you sobbed pretty enough, I’d give it to you? Just because you know how fucking much I love seeing you cry for it?”

“Yes, Bucky—yes, please,” you gasped, your voice cracked and wrecked, thick with tears and need.

You didn’t even know what you were begging for anymore—more, everything, anything—as long as it was him.

Bucky groaned low in his throat, still cradling your cheek, his cock barely buried in you, just the tip stroking maddeningly slow. He leaned in, mouth brushing your ear as he rolled his hips once—deep enough to make your breath catch, not deep enough to give you what you needed.

“Maybe I should just hold my cock inside you like this all night, huh?” he whispered darkly. “Keep you stuffed, all warm and desperate, just like this.”

Your whole body tensed, a shiver running down your spine as your walls fluttered around him.

“You’d take it,” he murmured, grinding shallowly into you, teasing. “Wouldn’t even fight it. Just lay here, crying, dripping all over me while I keep you filled—so full, so fucking needy.”

He smiled against your skin, nipping lightly at your shoulder.

“Maybe that’s what you really want. Not to be fucked—just to be used.”

Your breath hitched. Your hips twitched back, chasing him—again.

He stilled.

“Ah ah,” he warned, tightening his grip on your thigh. “You move again and I’ll pull out for real. And you won’t get it back tonight. Understand me?”

“Please, Bucky,” you sobbed, your voice cracking under the weight of it. “Please, I can’t take it anymore.”

He didn’t move. Just kept you there—cock teasing the edge of where you needed him, thick and hot and cruelly still.

“Promise me, baby. Promise you’ll be good for me,” he murmured, voice dark and firm against your ear. “Say it.”

“Fuck—yes!” you cried, nodding frantically. “I’ll be good! I’ll be fucking good, I promise, I swear—just—please, Bucky—please—”

God, it was pathetic. The way you begged. The way you’d say anything just to get filled.

“Good girl,” he said low, almost a growl—and then he did it.

He sank into you, slow but deep, burying every inch until his hips were flush with yours and you couldn’t even breathe.

Your mouth fell open in a silent gasp, eyes wide and wet as the stretch stole every thought from your head. He didn’t wait. Didn’t let you adjust. He pulled back and slammed in again—once, twice—hard, deep, perfect—

And you came.

Just like that.

Your whole body seized, a strangled sob ripping from your throat as your pussy clenched down around him, fluttering wildly, soaking his cock as your orgasm tore through you like a fucking earthquake.

Bucky let out a dark, amused laugh.

“Look at you now…” he groaned, grabbing your chin and turning your face toward him again, forcing you to meet his gaze. “You’re such a pathetic fucking whore—coming so fast, just ‘cause I finally gave it to you.”

Your face burned, breath hiccuping in your chest as he kept moving—deep and slow now, like he had all the time in the world to drag it out of you again.

“Gonna give me more, you hear me?” he rasped, voice thick and relentless as his cock worked into your trembling cunt. “You’re gonna be a good girl and take it. Gonna let me fuck more out of you.”

His grip on your chin tightened. “Ain’t done with you yet, sweetheart.”

Your orgasm was still rippling through you—sharp, overwhelming, your body twitching and trembling as he kept thrusting into your overstimulated cunt.

You whimpered, trying to shift away from him, instinctively pulling your hips forward to escape the relentless drag of his cock.

But Bucky didn’t let you. He grabbed both your wrists in one fluid movement and slammed them down into the mattress above your head—his metal arm locking them there effortlessly, unmovable, unbreakable.

You gasped, back arching as he pressed his weight into you from behind, his chest flush against your spine.

“You tryin’ to run, sweetheart?” he growled into your ear, cock still moving inside you, deep and steady. “After all that fucking begging? After you promised me you’d be good?”

You cried out—high and wrecked—your body flinching with every stroke, too sensitive, too full, but god, you let him.

Because it was Bucky. Because it was his cock splitting you open, keeping you full, keeping you grounded.

“That’s what I thought,” he rasped, snapping his hips forward hard enough to make your breath punch out of you.

He fucked into you freely now—his other hand gripping your waist tight, holding you in place as your arms stayed pinned helplessly above your head, your wrists burning under the cool pressure of vibranium.

Every thrust was overwhelming. Too much.

But you loved it.

Tears streaked down your face again, your thighs shaking with the force of it.

“You’re takin’ it,” he muttered, breath heavy. “Fuck, baby—you’re still clenching so tight for me.”

Your voice cracked on another sob, but you didn’t beg him to stop.

You didn’t want him to. Even when it was too much—you still wanted more.

You were falling apart. Absolutely wrecked.

Bucky’s cock dragged through your soaked, overstimulated cunt with punishing rhythm—deep and relentless, every thrust sending sparks through your spine, making your legs quake and your voice catch on raw sobs.

Tears streamed down your cheeks. You could barely breathe.

Your wrists were still pinned above your head, trapped beneath the cold grip of his metal arm. You had nowhere to go. No way to escape the brutal pace of him driving into you like he owned you.

Because he did.

“Fuck—Bucky—please—” you choked out, voice trembling. “I—I can’t—”

“Oh, but you can,” he growled against your ear, his voice low and thick with satisfaction. “You’re gonna come again for me. You want to, don’t you?”

Your walls fluttered, a helpless answer.

“I feel it,” he snarled. “You’re squeezing my cock like a fucking vice. This messy little pussy’s begging to come again.”

You sobbed again, your whole body twitching as you felt it building—again. Too much. Too soon.

But just as you were about to tip over the edge—

He stopped.

Just kept himself buried deep, holding you tight and not moving.

You let out a broken, desperate cry, struggling against his grip.

“You want it?” he rasped. “You wanna come again, baby?”

“Y-Yes! Please, Bucky, please—I need it, I need it—”

“Then thank me,” he growled, thrusting once—hard and deep enough to make your back arch.

“What—?”

“You fucking thank me,” he hissed. “Thank me for ruining you. Say it. Or I’ll pull out and leave you dripping and empty.”

And god—you were so far gone, so desperate, so needy, you didn’t even hesitate.

“Thank you—fuck—thank you, Bucky!” you sobbed, tears spilling freely now. “Thank you for ruining me—thank you, please—I wanna come—I wanna come so bad—”

“That’s my good girl,” he growled—and slammed into you again.

Once. Twice. Again.

And that was it.

You shattered around him, a broken scream tearing from your throat as your cunt clamped down hard, milking his cock in wave after wave of pulsing, messy bliss. Your body convulsed under him, completely overwhelmed, mind blank with nothing but pleasure and his name.

“Fucking ruined,” Bucky groaned, fucking you through it with brutal, merciless strokes. “That’s it, baby. Give it to me. Let me feel that pussy break for me.”

Your orgasm still had you trembling—your cunt clenching and fluttering around him, overstimulated and dripping, your cries raw and broken.

Bucky growled low behind you, his thrusts getting rougher, more erratic, his breath hot and heavy on your neck.

And then he snapped. He slammed in deep and stayed there, his body tensing against yours as a low, guttural moan tore from his throat.

“Fuck—fuck, baby—”

You felt it. The sudden, hot flood of him spilling inside you—thick ropes of cum pumping into your already ruined cunt, and there was so much, you could feel it start to leak around his cock almost instantly.

You whimpered, twitching beneath him, too sensitive, too full, too much.

But he didn’t pull out. He stayed buried in you, balls pressed flush against your swollen, aching pussy, his metal arm still pinning your wrists above your head.

And you cried. Silent, overwhelmed tears streaking your face as your body convulsed from the aftershocks—still trembling, still spread open, still his.

Bucky leaned in close, breath brushing your ear, voice low and wicked.

“Mmm… you feel that?” he whispered, rocking his hips once, slow and deep, just to press it in further. “Feel my cum inside you? Leaking out already… but you’re gonna hold it, sweetheart. You hear me?”

You whimpered, nodding weakly, and he chuckled darkly.

“That’s right. Keep me warm, baby. Keep it all right there—fuckin’ stuffed full like you were made for this.”

His free hand trailed down your side, fingers splaying over your lower belly, pressing just enough to make you feel it even more.

“You feel so tight around me still,” he murmured. “Still fucking pulsing. Like your pussy’s thanking me for ruining it.”

You let out a shaky sob, and he kissed your shoulder softly—sweet, almost gentle, a cruel contrast to the mess he left you in.

“My perfect little cum-drunk whore,” he breathed. “So good for me. So full. So fucking mine.”

You were shaking—mind blank, tears streaking down your cheeks, his cum still hot and thick inside you.

And Bucky… god, he still didn’t stop. He stayed deep, cock twitching inside you, and then he started moving again. Slow now. Deep. Unhurried.

Fucking his release into you like he was claiming you with every inch.

You sobbed softly, overstimulated and overwhelmed, your arms finally dropping when he let go of your wrists—but only for a moment.

His hand moved immediately to your jaw, firm and guiding, turning your tear-streaked face toward him.

“Look at me,” he whispered, and you did—barely. Dazed. Broken.

His mouth caught yours in a kiss—hot, slow, lingering. His tongue slid gently against yours as his cock kept moving inside you, dragging through your soaked walls with a rhythm that felt soothing, almost comforting.

And then he didn’t stop there. He kissed you again—just as slow—but this time it wasn’t just your mouth.

He pressed his lips to your cheeks, damp with tears. Gentle kisses, one after another, as if he could wipe them away with his mouth. As if he wasn’t the reason you were crying in the first place.

Your jaw. Your temple. The corner of your eye.

Each kiss was soft. Deliberate. Soothing.

His mouth found your ear, and he whispered, voice rough but steady:

“So good,” he placed a kiss to your neck. “Such a good fuckin’ girl,” then another to your jaw.

But you were still crying. Still wrecked. Still whimpering into his mouth.

“You took it so good for me, baby,” he murmured against your lips, fingers cradling your face now, gentler than before. “So fuckin’ messy, so desperate—my perfect little thing.”

You whimpered, clenching around him again.

“Such a good girl,” he rasped, voice thick with lust and something dangerously close to affection. “You made such a mess for me.”

His thrusts stayed deep, slow, dragging every last bit of overstimulation out of you, cock still thick and heavy inside your slick, swollen cunt.

And even through your tears, even through the way your body shook, you still pressed your cheek into his hand. Still gave him everything.

“That’s it,” he breathed. “Just let me fuck it into you. Nice and slow. You earned that, didn’t you?”

You could only nod—pathetic and ruined.

He kept fucking you—slow and deep, every thrust thick with his cum, every drag of his cock pulling a soft whimper from your swollen throat.

His hand cradled your jaw, lips brushing against your cheek where the tears still lingered, and his voice dropped low—raspy and certain.

“I’m not fucking pulling out of you tonight. I can assure you that.”

⋆⁺₊✧ MASTERLIST

tag list: @iamthatonefangirl @buckytakethewheel @thatsbucknasty @buckybarneswife125

[nonotwithoutu]

bite the hand

[gif credit]

♡ read on ao3 here

♡ steve kemp x reader (no y/n)

♡ rating: explicit / mdni / 18+ !

♡ tags: f!reader, dark fic!, blackmail/coercion, paranoia, gaslighting and manipulation, implied stalking, wearing you down, praise / use of 'good girl', petnames (honey, sweetheart, baby), dubcon!, dirty talk, use of 'cunt' and 'pussy' for reader, restraints/handcuffs, oral sex (m! and f!receiving), fingering (f!receiving), p in v sex, unprotected sex, clit slapping, squirting/vaginal ejaculation, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, dacryphilia, one minor instance of face slapping during sex, possessive language, open ending

♡ word count: 10k

♡ synopsis:

When you signed on as a QA at a local hospital, you hadn't expected it to be anything more than the monotonous trade-off of paperwork, clinical reviews, and long advocacy meetings. But when you start suspecting one of the area's most lauded physicians of doing things that surely break his medical oath in his free time, you're morally obligated to report him. If he lets you get that far, anyway.

♡ warnings (PLEASE READ!): this is a steve kemp fic, so morally gray is a baseline, not an endpoint. please heed the tags above! however, there is no cannibalism in this fic, neither depicted or alluded to. it's inferred in several places that Steve is responsible for a few disappearances and that he's getting up to some nefarious things off-screen, but most of the fic itself focuses on the reader, which steve needs alive and well by design. so if the whole cannibalism thing is a hard pass for you, this fic should be safe!

it's also my first steve kemp fic! he's so hard to get right on the page, but i hope i've done okay! take care of yourselves, and enjoy! x

(not yet read over for mistakes!)

By the time you finally make it out of your last meeting, the halls are half-dark and the hospital is quiet. 

Your back hurts from hours spent around a conference room, the back of your ankles raw from bouncing your knee in your heels under the table. It was productive at the least, but it’s difficult to focus on enforcing protocol or patient advocacy when your mind is so sharply pulled in other directions. 

The click of your footsteps follows you down the corridors toward your office, your files held to your chest and shoulders tense from glancing over them so much. You know you’re being paranoid. This is a safe hospital, with good people and plenty of security. 

There’s no way that he could already know. 

As you turn a sharp corner toward the offices, you pause at the maintenance door being cracked slightly ajar. You have to pass by it to get out, the open side facing away from you so you can’t see what’s inside. 

Your breathing ticks up, fingers clammy on either side of the tightly held manila folder, feet frozen in the middle of the hall. This side of the hospital isn’t the one that houses the patients or overnight personnel, and most of the administrative staff have gone home for the evening. You glance fleetingly at the security camera in the corner, debating your options. 

There’s shuffling from inside the closet, a sharp clatter of something hitting the ground. You take a fumbling step backward, unsteady on your feet, and curse the fact that you don’t have anything to defend yourself with, not even a pair of keys to tuck between your knuckles. The hospital has never felt as unsafe as it has the last forty-eight hours. 

Inhaling a steep breath, you brace your shoulders and step with your toes, forcing yourself carefully down the hall on the opposite side of the corridor without taking your eyes off the closet. 

The dingy light bulb hanging inside of it doesn’t offer much illumination, but what it does give off spills across the hallway tile, staining the cream and blue in a subtle yellow. There’s a thud inside, a boot, maybe, or something heavy—bleach, rope, chloroform—and you peek around the corner as you creep past, considering how quickly you could kick off your heels and make a run for the exit if you needed to. 

There’s a dark shadow and the faint lines of one of the shelving units, a quiet, manly grunt that makes your hair stand on end. You listen closely for any other noise, the suggestion that someone else might be in there too, might be hurt—

The door bangs open when a burly shoulder knocks into it, and a malfunctioning floor buffing machine pushes its way into the hallway, spitting solution onto the tile until it finally putters out. 

“Kenny,” you gasp, unbelievably relieved to see the face of your custodian. You press a hand to your chest, your held breath leaving you in a long sweep. 

It’s not him. 

“Hey there,” Kenny grunts, wiping his forehead with a rag as he slams a palm against the side of the machine. “I’m real sorry about that. I didn’t mean to scare ya. I’m just puttin’ this equipment away and headin’ out for the night. Givin’ me a damn headache, I swear.” 

“That makes sense,” you chuckle, heartbeat coming back down into range. “Well, I’m—sorry for the panic. I’m just headed to pack up too.” 

Kenny wrangles the machine back by the handles, turning it enough to jam it inside the closet before locking up with his keys. He wipes off his hands then turns back to you. 

“It’s gettin’ pretty late. All the stuff on the news lately…” he says, wrinkled eyes glancing over your face, “I could stay and walk ya out, if ya need.” 

Your fingers twitch on the folder again, your shoulders rising just the slightest bit. You trust Kenny enough, but you’re still not ruling anything—anyone—out. Not just yet. 

“No, no. That—that’s really nice of you, but I’ll be fine.” 

“If you’re sure,” he hesitates. “You have a good night, then. Be safe.” 

You give him a tight smile. “You too, Kenny.” 

The two of you set off in opposing directions, Kenny heading toward the exit while you speed walk the rest of the way to your office, more than ready to get home. Your bag is in the bottom drawer of your desk, with keys and a travel sized mace. It’s probably overkill, but it’ll make you feel safer getting to your car if nothing else. 

Pulling on the badge reel clipped to your waist, you scan yourself inside with your I.D., pushing down quickly on the handle and letting yourself in, then spinning to shut it back behind you.  

Your exhale is heavy and well-earned, the nerves you’ve been carrying with you all day momentarily soothed behind the click of the lock. People have always told you you’re too paranoid, too vigilant, but your gut instinct has been correct too many times to start doubting it now. No  matter how much you wish you were wrong. 

“Late night?” 

You spin until your shoulder blades knock into the door behind you, and there he is. Sitting comfortably in the chair behind your desk in the lamplight, rocking in it idly, a slanted smile on his face and a folder sitting neatly on top of your desk. 

“Dr. Kemp—” you start. 

“Thought I’d borrow your office to get some reading done. It’s riveting stuff. Really. I mean, listen to this,” he talks over you, picking up the folder like it’s a daily newspaper. “While highly proficient in his practice, Dr. Kemp exhibits several concerning behaviors that I feel warrant further evaluation.” 

It’s your review, turned in not even a full 24 hours prior. Your breath hitches, trying not to give him a reaction. The evaluations are confidential; he should never have had access to it. 

“We shouldn’t be discussing this,” you tell him evenly. “If you’d like to schedule a meeting with me you can do so during regular office hours—” 

“Let’s see here…unapproved use of hospital resources, selectively neglecting case information leading to inconsistent reports,” he lists, cutting you off again as his eyes skim the page. “Ah. Here we go: Routinely finds reasons to linger around the clinic after hours, with full, unimpeded access to a variety of medical tools and paraphernalia that would otherwise be inaccessible, with little to no surveillance during these periods,” he quotes from the file. “Given the recent disappearances of women in the area, I cannot in good conscience sign off on Dr. Kemp’s evaluation without first suggesting that an investigation be conducted to rule out any…foul play.” 

The folder shuts in his hands with a deceptively soft whisper of movement, his elbows coming to rest on the wood of your desk when he leans forward. 

“I have to admit, you’re more perceptive than I gave you credit for.” 

Your hand twitches toward the door handle behind your back, catching the lock in between your pointer and middle fingers. But the click is deafening in the silence of your office, and Steve’s head tilts, his eyes narrowing slightly. 

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” 

Taking several breaths, you square your jaw, letting your hand fall visibly back to your side. You knew this was a possibility when you filed that report, even if you’d hoped it wouldn’t be. You’ve seen all the crime shows. If you play your cards right, keep him talking, you can bide time until you can slip out the door and run, and you might even manage to get some more information out of him before that. 

You swallow, and he watches your mouth when you say, “What do you want.” 

Steve leans back in your chair with a shrug. “I’m not hung up about the job itself. It’s not really the lack of pay that bothers me, because I can make about ten times what I make here pursuing…other ventures. Not to brag.” 

He stands from your desk altogether then, and you tense as you watch him round the corner, moving to lean against the back of it instead with his arms crossed over his chest. It puts him closer to you, means that there’s nothing left in between now to keep you separated. 

“But, thing is, if I don’t have this job, then people might start wondering about the cash. The nice house. The lifestyle. Might start asking questions, you know?” Steve continues, looking at you like you’re in on some kind of private joke. “And people usually aren’t fond of what happens when they start asking questions.” 

“You won’t get away with this,” you manage, praying he won’t call your bluff about the security guard downstairs, who’s probably leaned back in his chair snoring by now. “I can call security right now and have them on you in sixty seconds.” 

“You could,” Steve admits with a smile that tells you you’ve been caught, “but you won’t.” 

“Give me one reason I shouldn’t.” 

“I’ve got friends in high places, sweetheart. It took me less than twelve hours to track down this file, and I was at home, asleep for half of them,” he says, glancing back at the papers on your desk. “It doesn’t really take much for me to tidy up the narrative.” 

Your spine runs cold. “To kill me, you mean.”  

Steve’s face twists with faux pity. “Oh, no. No, no. I don’t want to hurt you. You think I haven’t noticed you asking around about me these past few months? Haven’t noticed you sneaking into my office when I’m out, looking for precious evidence?” he croons as you freeze against the door. “It’s on camera, honey. All of it. A brand new QA and an esteemed physician…it wouldn’t take much to suggest that you’re just looking for a reason to lock me down and needed leverage. A broken heart is a hell of a drug, isn’t it?” 

“They won’t just toss out those claims,” you insist, your voice shaking. “It’s a serious accusation. There would be questioning, an investigation, and—” 

“You’ve had this job for less than a year. Doesn’t matter how good you’ve been at it. I’ve brought this hospital dozens of clients, reputation, millions of dollars. I’ve got the credentials, the influence, and a whole lot of experience covering up the skeletons in the closet.” 

When he pushes off of your desk, the inches of height he has on you feel like a threat. You get the feeling that they’re meant to, especially when he begins closing the distance. You’re hyper aware of your chances of escape dwindling the closer he gets but your limbs feel like they’re stuck in concrete, your heart beating too fast to get enough blood to your head. 

“Don’t—” you choke when he closes you in against the door, not touching, but bracing a palm on it beside your head so that you can’t open it even if you did try. Against your will, hot tears burn in the backs of your eyes, and Steve coos at you. 

“Shh, shh. I’m not gonna hurt you. I’m not. We can make a deal, okay? That’s all I want.” 

“I’m not helping you with this,” you mutter. 

“I think you might want to hear me out first before you go making any decisions,” he counters calmly. “You’re a smart girl, so I’m sure you can see where this is going.” 

You glare at him with wet eyes, but the lack of reaction only seems to spur him on further. 

“I need a signature on that form to be able to keep practicing here. And I’m going to need it again, every six months. Typically people in your position just sign right off on it, because quite frankly I’ve perfected keeping my hands clean.” 

You scoff at him and turn your head to the side, if only to escape the intensity of his attention. But Steve doesn’t let you get far, his hand appearing seemingly out of nowhere to dig his fingers into your jaw and steer you right back to him. 

“But those other people weren’t as smart as you are, honey. I wasn’t expecting it. But I know better now,” he says, stroking across your lower lip with his thumb while you grit your teeth. “So I’m going to need you to use that big brain of yours and make the right decision here and sign off on the evaluation form for me.” 

“Great,” you mutter. “We can add blackmail and coercion to the list of your offenses.” 

With a tilt of his head, Steve eyes you, appraising, and his mouth stretches into something sinister and deceptively fond. 

“I can end your life so quickly and so quietly that no one even realizes you’re gone,” he whispers, stroking over your jaw with his fingers. “I don’t want to do that, sweetheart. I really don’t. I’m giving you a choice here. It’s just one little signature. Surely that’s not more important than your life, right?” 

“So—what,” you spit shakily. “I’m just—a pawn? Another thing you get to control for your own benefit?” 

“I wouldn’t say that,” Steve argues, dropping his eyes down to your mouth again. “This is a negotiation, sure. But there’s no reason that the agreement we come to can’t be…amicable.” 

“You’re sick,” you sneer. 

Steve, unbothered by your disgust, only smiles wider. “And you have no idea what you got yourself into when you filled out that form.” 

His hand moves from your jaw down to your neck, and the second you’re able, you turn your head away from him again. He makes it impossible to think, every survival instinct clanging together inside your head, caught between fighting or playing along until it earns you your freedom. 

Steve takes advantage of the stretch of skin you’ve unintentionally bared for him, tracing over the lines of your jugular and collar bone with his fingers. His other hand is pressed to the wall beside your hip, preventing an exit. 

“I can be good to you, honey. I promise. I could give you money, gifts, connections,” he goes on. “...But that’s not what you want, is it?” 

Your eyes squeeze shut. “You have no idea what I want.” 

He exhales a chuckle, warm against your cheek. “Oh, but I do. You think you’re the only one that’s been watching? Piecing things together?” 

His thumb drifts over the curve of your chin and down the line of your throat, feeling your stubborn silence from the source. 

“I’ll admit, you were hard to read at first. Always nice, always polite—but just the slightest bit different with every person you talked to. Imperceptible, probably, to anyone else. But I saw you. And in the beginning, I thought maybe you were just like me, changing and shifting things depending on the company, using whatever angle you needed to to get what you wanted from them.” 

With his fingers wrapped around the back of your neck, he drags your face back toward him, and this time he’s close enough that your noses nearly touch. You try not to flinch and fail, and he seems sickly pleased at your reaction. 

“But I was so, so wrong,” he admits. “You’re not like me at all. And what I thought was manipulation was really just a need to be good, wasn’t it? Trying so hard to mold yourself into whatever anyone else needed, even when it made you exhausted. Even when it was hard. Even when you cried in your office and your car when you thought nobody was listening, that nobody heard you.” 

“Stop,” you whisper. 

He shakes his head. “I can’t stop, honey. ‘Cause this—this is the other part of what you crave, isn’t it? Being seen. Being known. Doesn’t even matter if it’s by someone who you didn’t want watching in the first place.” 

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” you tell him, shifting in his grip. “Someone will find out eventually, no matter what you do to me. They’ll know what you’ve done, and they’ll—they’ll take you and—” 

“Do you even know what I’ve done?” he interjects sharply. “You’ve got such a wild imagination in that head of yours. But you don’t actually have any proof. Do you?” 

“You can’t hide forever. The others, all those women, they’ll—” 

Steve’s gaze falls flat, blank, as he abruptly slips a hand over your mouth and squeezes. 

“I’m tired of talking now, sweetheart.” He flashes you a facetious smile, fading just as quickly as it came. “Time’s up. What’s it going to be?” 

He leans in, and your eyes drift over his shoulder toward your desk. If you’d just put the mace in your pocket instead of in your bag, if you’d just grabbed your keys before you’d left for the meeting, if, if, if. 

Steve pushes a piece of your hair behind your ear, rough knuckles soft against your skin, and makes a pitying noise when you whimper into his palm. 

“I can be so good to you,” he promises, leaning close enough to brush his lips against your cheek, “if you’re good to me too.” 

Inside your head, you try desperately to scale down from the bigger picture. You don’t need to fight here, now. Now you just need to focus on getting out of this room. One step at a time. 

Blinking your eyes open as he pulls back, you meet his gaze and nod. When you don’t try anything else, Steve watches you closely as he removes his hand, which quickly falls to your shoulder to steer you toward your desk. 

You know he must have checked through your drawers, because he doesn’t let you near any of them to grab anything. He walks you to the backside of the desk and pushes the pen into your trembling fingers, a steady hand on the back of your neck, thumb rubbing your pulse as you sign your name on the dotted lines on a fresh copy of an approved, falsified evaluation. 

“Good girl,” he murmurs, warm and solid against your back as he leans over you to pick up the new folder and seal it. “See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?” 

You don’t answer, standing so rigid beside your desk that your muscles feel like they could snap. 

You watch him as he slips on his coat and tucks the folder safely inside of it, dread already curling in your stomach when he steps toward you again instead of the door like he’d forgotten something. 

“If you try to tell anyone else, I’ll kill them,” he says softly. He reaches down and picks up one of your hands, bringing it up to his mouth to drag his lips over your palm. “And we don’t want any blood on these soft, clean hands of yours, do we?” 

He lets you go then and leaves you alone in your office, heart still hammering and unsure of what to do. You stumble backward and collapse against your desk, glancing down at your hand where he’d touched you moments before. It feels like a brand. 

Clean, maybe, for now. But every minute you spend giving into him instead of doing what you know is right, the more they’ll be covered in blood. 

You glance desperately at the shredder in the corner where your report sits in a heap of paper strips, useless. 

The countdown has already started. 

Over the next several weeks, your hope dwindles, and something else, something worse, takes its place. 

Steve makes certain you know that you’re being monitored. There’s suddenly little things moved around in your house from where you’d left them when you got home, your mail sliced open and surveilled before you get it from the box, the subtlest of clicks each time you make a phone call that let you know you’re being recorded. You don’t actually know if Steve is paying much attention to what he’s getting or if it’s an intimidation tactic, but either way, it works. 

It breaks you down slowly and dangerously subtle. You’ve always been so outspoken when it comes to doing the right thing, standing up for those who can’t themselves and standing your ground even when it would’ve been easier to stay quiet. The problem is, that bravery never quite extended to yourself. 

You hate that Steve had you pegged so easily. There’s friends, family, even, who haven’t noticed that your people pleasing tendencies make their lives easier while leaving you spread thin and depleted. Are you really so transparent that someone who’s practically a stranger had figured it out first? 

The feeling of being watched follows you everywhere, even when you’re sure you’re alone. Steve gets into your head like a parasite, planting roots, encouraging your paranoia. He knows exactly the right buttons to press to strip you of your privacy and agency, to leave you vulnerable and right where he wants you to be, and he does it all with a smile on his face when he nods at you in the hospital hallways. 

You avoid the news like a plague. Your guilt wars with your fear; you know you should report him, even if it’s the last thing you ever do. Those women can’t speak up so you should do it for them, before they’re injured or sick or worse. You’d signed oaths promising that you’d uphold morality over personal interest, that you’d committed yourself to an ethically higher standard. 

But then you drive yourself crazy wondering how far Steve’s influence goes. He’d said friends in high places—if you go to the police, are they also in on it? You can’t tell a neighbor or a friend without putting them in danger. You can’t pack your things and get out of town, because you know he’s keeping tabs on your car, your phone, your charges. 

He waits until you’re desperate, until you spend most of your time locked in your bathroom or crying in your office or flinching when people approach you, and then—and then things get worse in an entirely different way. 

The evaluations are filed and the board confirms his standing for another six months, and you’re rewarded accordingly. 

You wake up in the morning to a bouquet of your favorite flowers delivered to your doorstep. Your mother calls you, near hysterical in relief, telling you her medical debt has been paid off by an anonymous donor. Your school debt that’s been haunting you since graduation is quick to follow. 

Other physicians and staff members know you by name now, eat lunch with you, share inside jokes as if you’ve always been a part of them. Within another few weeks, you’re stepping into a new position in the hospital, promoted without much of a say in it at all for all the good work you’ve done. 

Notes start appearing in your things. The top drawer of your desk in your office, folded underneath the windshield wiper on your car, your mailbox, your nightstand. Each of them perfectly tailored to appeal to your most deeply hidden wants—never without making sure that it’s his validation its contingent upon. 

Saw you fix the torn carpet everybody keeps tripping over in the breakroom. You didn’t even tell anyone it was you. You’ve got such a big heart, even when you think no one’s watching. I like that. 

You should take the rest of the day off, sweetheart. You’ve been working so hard. I’m so proud of you. 

You looked beautiful today. Couldn’t stop thinking about you. When was the last time someone appreciated you like you deserve? 

Incredible how you handled that client today -- you’re brilliant, sweetheart. You know that? 

You tell yourself you’re disgusted by it. By him thinking he can give you compliments and it’ll make everything else better. You decide to wait him out. Surely he’ll lose interest in you eventually, and that’s when you can slip out from under his thumb and get help. You just pray that not too many people suffer before you get the chance. 

But even as you tell yourself it’s a gameplan, you feel your control beginning to waver, your mind malleable enough after weeks of fear that it begins to feel like something else. 

You don’t dare give it a name. 

The closer it gets to the next time you’re due to sign off on his evaluation, Steve ups the ante. 

You were already having a hard time handling the indirect attention. When he starts showing up in your space, touching a hand to your lower back when he walks you down the hall, squeezing your shoulder in the back of conference rooms, standing close enough to smell his cologne in the elevator, you start aching for something else. Something more. 

Something you shouldn’t. 

Your own shame isn’t even enough to stifle it anymore. And the worst part of it is that Steve knows. You can see it in the way he looks at you now, like maybe this is what he wanted. Like maybe this was the plan all along. 

Like maybe you’ve played right into his hands, yet again. He’s backed you in, constructed himself as the only way out. 

When you find him in your office a week before the deadline, you’re hardly surprised anymore. 

“I’m going to sign the papers,” you tell him flatly, more drained than you’ve been in ages. 

Your body is sore from being tense so often, nervous system shot from the confusing cocktail of volatile emotion inside you, swinging rapidly from one side of the pendulum to the other: either frantic, paralyzing fear, or complete numbness. 

Steve has the gall to seem confused by this, pushing himself out of your desk chair as you close the door behind you. “I’m not here for that.” 

Ignoring him, you swerve around the opposite side of your desk to unlock your drawers and fish out your bag and belongings, shoving the work folders into the pile for tomorrow when you’re hopefully able to focus more. 

“I wanted to check on you,” Steve continues when you don’t say anything else. He flicks his gaze over the halfhearted glare you give him, narrowing in on the redness and your smeared mascara, assessing. “You’re upset.” 

“I’m fine,” you dismiss. But even as you say it, your heel catches the edge of the rug under your desk, and you stumble forward. Would have fallen completely, if not for Steve’s quick reflexes. 

He grabs your bag from you, slipping an arm around your waist. “You’re dead on your feet, honey. C’mon. Let’s get you out of here.” 

Too exhausted to fight him on it, you let him lock up your office and walk you out of the building, always later than everyone else so you seldom run into anyone else. Even Kenny has a way of disappearing these days, another piece of your life Steve’s engineered to isolate you. 

“Steve,” you tug at his arm when he starts walking the opposite direction of your car in the lot. “My car—” 

“I’ll drive. You just relax.” 

“I want to go home,” you tell him firmly, even though your voice wavers. 

But his keys are already out, his hand on your hip steering you toward the passenger seat of his car. “My apartment’s not far from here. You can rest there, I’ll take you home after.” 

He closes you gently in and crosses around to his side, and you think fleetingly once more about opening the door and running. The questions are sharp and make your temples pulse—where would you go? How far would you get before he ran you down? Would he hurt you? Would you get someone else killed if they happened to see? 

Would you be okay with any of that? If freedom looked a little different now? 

Steve slips into the driver’s seat with a smile, rubbing his hand over your thigh briefly before he puts it on the wheel and pulls out of the lot. 

You drift on the drive, not asleep but not fully aware either. Your body’s most accessible defense mechanism lately. You hardly even register when Steve stops to pick up food for you somewhere, explaining that he knows you won’t trust him to make something for you and you should eat. He gives you a fond look when you only look at him in response. He’s going to do what he wants regardless, so why waste your breath? 

His apartment is on the nicer side of the city, with quaint, quiet sidewalks and brick on the outside, the type of brownstones you often dreamed about having as a kid. He holds your hand as he takes you up the steps, smiling at the neighbors, your bag on his shoulder and takeout in his free hand, and you wonder for a second, deliriously, if it looks like the two of you are coming home from work together, mundane and domestic the way you’ve always wanted with someone. 

If Steve isn’t already aware of the feelings you’d had about him when you first started working for the clinic, you certainly are never going to tell him. Back then, he was just Dr. Kemp, the charming and handsome physician who always smiled when he caught you staring and made your day when he went out of his way to notice something about you. It makes you a little sick to think back on how you’d daydreamed about being with him, about how the fantasy extended to long, lonely nights after work or unlucky dates. 

Steve urges you inside, flipping on the lights and easing off his shoes by the door, and you take a moment to look around. You can’t see any mysteriously locked doors or basement entries, neighbors pressed in close on either side of the walls, and you exhale, relieved, that this probably isn’t where anything particularly devious happens. 

The guilt threatens to swallow you whole. 

Oblivious or uncaring to it, Steve sweeps you inside further and leads you to the couch. You can only blink at him as he hums to himself, moving around the room; lighting a candle on the mantle, putting a record on to spin at low volume, laying out the food on the coffee table and then taking a eat beside you to lift it in forkfuls toward your mouth when you refuse to do it yourself. 

“Why are you doing this?” you ask him when you’ve managed several bites, your stomach rejecting anymore. 

Steve looks at you with a pursed lip, his thumb rubbing at your chin. 

“Gotta take care of my best girl, don’t I?” 

You shake your head. “M’not yours.” 

“But you could be,” he counters. 

“You don’t even like me,” you tell him harshly, your voice returning. “You just want to keep me agreeable so I’ll sign the papers.” 

“Honey—” he starts, but you don’t let him finish. 

“This is just a game for you. You think all those nice things you’ve done make it better. But giving me what you know I’ve been neglected in the past as a way to manipulate me isn’t kind. It’s cruel.” 

You wish you could revel in the slackness of his surprised face for another few minutes or so, wish that you had the guts to dump the food on him or grab the fork and defend yourself. 

Instead, you burst into tears. 

Steve’s embrace isn’t the one you want but it’s the one you get, his arms strong around your shoulders as he tugs you into his chest, sweet words in your ear, a hand petting over the back of your head. 

“I’m tired, Steve, I—I want it to stop,” you heave, unable to catch your breath in between sobs. “Haven’t I done what you wanted? You can leave me alone now, I just—I just want to feel safe again.” 

“You have. You’ve been so good, sweetheart. C’mere,” he says. His brow is furrowed in something like concern, but you don’t trust it. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.” 

It takes a long time for the tears to stop. You’ve been keeping them bottled up the last few months, too afraid what would happen if you allowed yourself to break down, but they’ve caught up with you now, demanding to be felt. Each one feels like it comes straight from your ribs, your chest tight and aching, your throat raw as you choke out sobs and struggle weakly in his grip. 

Food and ambience forgotten, Steve waits you out. Your legs have been tugged over his lap, your head resting on his shoulder, arm wrapped tight around your middle. He forces you to breathe with him when you start feeling like you might pass out, making you ease air back into your lungs and wiping at your cheeks with the napkins until you’re not so dizzy anymore. 

“Those notes you keep in your dresser—” Steve shushes you when you whimper at the shameful reminder, “I meant all of those, you know.” 

You shake your head. “Don’t.” 

“You think I watch you just because of our agreement. But, truth is, that stopped being why a long time ago.” 

“Steve,” you whisper. 

“You don’t believe me,” he says, “but it’s true. Let me show you. Stay the night.” 

You tense, trying to push out of his hold. “No.” 

“If you don’t believe what I’m saying, let me show you with my hands, huh? With this mouth. I’ll be gentle, honey. I’ll be so good to you, swear.” He presses a kiss to your temple, deceptively sweet. His breath is hot against your ear when he murmurs, “Give you everything you’ve always wanted but were too afraid to ask for.” 

Without bothering to wait for an answer this time, he stands, pulling you with him onto shaky legs. Before you’ve even steadied yourself he’s steering you from the room with hands digging into your hips, through the kitchen, up the stairs, down a hallway. The closer you get to the door at the end of the hall the more you struggle, but Steve’s hand on the back of your neck doesn’t give you much of a choice. 

You aren’t sure which you’re more scared of. What he’s going to do to you or the fact that you can’t get his voice out of your head, a dizzying loop that hits you right where he’s already cracked you open. You’ve been so good, sweetheart. I’ve got you. Those notes, I meant all of those, you know. Let me show you. I’ll be gentle, honey. I’ll be so good to you, swear.

Give you everything you’ve always wanted but were too afraid to ask for. 

“This—this isn’t right,” you mutter as your feet pass the threshold, the door clicking shut behind you. Steve turns you, slips his hands onto either side of your face. 

“I know. I know you feel like it’s not okay to want me because you want to be good, and the things I do aren’t very good, are they?” he asks without letting you answer. “But it’s okay, sweetheart, because doing something bad doesn’t make the whole person bad, right? Like when I forgave you for making a mistake on those forms?” 

You pull back. “That’s not—” 

“I can take the weight of the world off your shoulders, how about that?” he interrupts, refusing to take his hands off your face, the swipe of his thumbs a little firmer than it should be. “You can’t please everyone, no matter how hard you try. But you can be so good for me without even having to lift a finger. Doesn’t that sound nice?” 

Steve leans in then, tilting his head to seal his mouth to the side of your jaw. You can smell his cologne, feel the light scratch of a days’ old stubble, the lingering spice of your half-eaten dinner when he exhales against you. 

“Already have been. And I’m so lucky—I’m so proud of you, sweetheart. Making my life so much easier, letting me take care of you the way you deserve,” he goes on, slipping a hand into your hair to catch your head when it drops to the side, your eyes closing at the drag of his teeth over your pulse. “Doesn’t it feel good? Knowing you’ve got somebody to give you what you need?” 

His hands drop to your waist again, your hands fisting in his shirt for balance as he walks you backward. You only caught a glimpse of the room when you walked in so you startle when your knees hit a tall mattress, and Steve takes advantage of your delayed reaction to lift you under the knees and drop you back on top of it. 

His eyes latch onto you like a fixation as he kneels over you, a knee on either side of your thighs, and you have to lean back just to avoid being smothered as he continues to lower himself, pressing you down into the sheets. His fingers trace a line over your brow, your nose, your cheek, your mouth, his eyes following the trail as he goes. This close to him, you can’t escape the intensity of his gaze, the crushing weight of his attention. 

He must feel you tense again when the metal clink of his belt cuts through the quiet in the room, his voice coming back to distract you as it clatters somewhere on the floor. 

“Been thinking about this sweet mouth,” he tells you, tracing over the seam with his thumb. “The way it stretches when you smile. The way it dips right here at the corner when you cry, like you’re trying so hard to hold it in. The way my name fits inside of it.” He presses down until you open for him, drawing a noise from your throat. “I wanna know how it tastes.” 

Steve licks into your mouth like he’s devouring the inside of a pastry, something warm and slick and decadent. His hand closes loosely around your throat to keep you still as spit gathers at the corners of your lips, unsure of even how to kiss him back when it’s something so debauched and unfamiliar. 

Eventually, he decides that for you too. Once he’s mapped out every inch of your slack mouth with his tongue he hones in on your lips, first with his teeth, then with bruising presses of his own. 

Your body seems to move on muscle memory, your jaw beginning to work in slow tilts and drags, pushing into the insistent pressure of his mouth. It’s been so long since anyone’s kissed you now with everything going on lately, and as much as you wish it weren’t with Steve, the feeling is…it’s nice. 

Enough that Steve seems to notice the subtle arch of your body into his, no matter how much you try to hide it. 

“Ask me to touch you,” he murmurs against your mouth. 

Hanging onto the last threads of your control, you shake your head. When you roll your lips together stubbornly, Steve simply moves his mouth down to your neck, sucking and pulsing his tongue over the skin, taking it between his canines until you shudder a breath.  

“It’s just us here. Already know you’re aching for it. I know everything about you, remember?” He pulls off of your neck with a slick pop, the skin stinging. “No point in lying, honey.” 

When that doesn’t work, he gets creative. Shifts one of his knees from the outside of your hip to rest in between your thighs instead, pressing in firm and dragging your leg back to the side when you try to close them before he can get settled. 

His other hand slides under your lower back, pressing you up just a little, just enough to inadvertently grind your cunt against the thick, sturdy weight of his thigh. 

It’s been so long now since you’ve been touched there—by yourself or anyone else—that the first graze already feels like relief. You shiver underneath him, one of your hands shooting up to grip the outside of his bicep, and he grins, crooked and victorious, down at you as he rolls your hips against him. 

“Come on. So close,” he urges, condescending and encouraging. “I want to give it to you. All you gotta do is say the words.” 

The rhythm he’d subtly worked you into keeps going as your body takes on a mind of its own, rubbing yourself mindlessly up against his thigh. You roll your head to take one last, longing glance at the closed bedroom door, but even as you do, your underwear’s soaked enough that it’s staining your thighs, your heartbeat pulsing in between your legs. 

“Steve,” you choke out, wanting and humiliated about it. “Touch me?” 

Grabbing your chin, Steve tilts your face back toward his. “What do nice girls say?” 

Your tongue darts out quick and unintentional to wet your lips in a nervous habit, and the sharp edge of shame coils the pleasure tighter in your stomach as he watches. 

“Please?” 

A thin moan gets stuck between Steve’s teeth, his eyes darkening as he leans down to kiss you roughly again. “Good girl, sweetheart. So fucking good for me.” 

He pulls his thigh away from you and shushes your whine, grabbing your hips to drag you toward the center of the bed. your shirt is peeled off next, and he pauses when he sees the bra you’re wearing; and the matching line of the panties peeking out from your work skirt. 

The matching set he’d mentioned was his favorite in one of his notes. 

Your face burns hot at the unintentional confirmation of his effect on you. It was supposed to be something private, just for you. You knew it was wrong—how could it be anything else? 

But the blatant approval in his eyes as he looks down at you, shirt stripped off and skirt shoved up to your stomach so he can see the bottoms too, makes you feel like you can take a breath for the first time in months. 

“Look at you,” he breathes. He leans up above you on his knees for a full view, framing you between his hands from all different angles. You squirm under the attention, unused to it. “Fucking perfect.” 

It’s not much, just a bit of lace that’s from the slightly nicer part of the store than your regular cotton underwear, but Steve eats it up with his eyes like a man starved. You’re near whining by the time he touches you with his hands, which is probably exactly where he wanted you. 

It means that your back arches at the first press of his knuckles at the curve of your breast, fingering the elegantly frayed edges of the lace. Means that you’re less ashamed by the fact that there’s no padding at the front of the cups so your nipples are visible underneath the thin fabric, even more so with the chill of the air in the room and the arousal building under your skin. It means goosebumps raise in the wake of his touches, both the rough ones and the achingly soft ones alike. 

Means that you don’t struggle as much as you should when he reaches over to the nightstand and returns with a set of leather cuffs, gathering your wrists in his hands and dragging them up to the headboard. 

You make a questioning noise, and he smiles down at you as he fastens them in place. He gives a little tug to test them, and they don’t budge. “Can’t have you going anywhere.” 

The stretch of your arms above your head pushes your breasts up and together, the hardened peaks of your nipples all the more obvious for him when he looks down at you. He lowers himself into the valley between them with a groan, the scratch of his stubble as rough as the lace when he rubs himself against them to watch the flush bloom in his place. 

He sinks his teeth into the sensitive flesh over and over again, leaving darkening marks scattered across your chest before he finally lowers his lips around one of your nipples. The sensation is dizzying; the sharp drag of cheap lace and the soft slickness of Steve’s tongue, the persistent pinch of his fingers on the one opposite until he switches to even them out. 

You can’t remember a time when you’ve felt so desperate. Steve’s looming presence in your life has isolated you from even the simplest of pleasures, and now the slightest touch is enough to make you tremble. Your spine is pushing your chest up for him so much that it aches, your hips rutting up into nothing. The emptiness between your legs echoes in pulsing rhythm, your need a living, breathing thing with you in the bed. 

When Steve’s hand slips down past the bunched material of your skirt and presses on your cunt over your underwear, you don’t even recognize the keening, breathless noise that wrenches itself from your throat. 

“Easy,” Steve chuckles as he presses your twitching hips back down to the bed. “Been a while, hasn’t it?” 

At first, it’s easy to ignore the words. You figure he’s just being cocky or facetious, reminding you of the fact that his presence in your life has made you involuntarily celibate as of late. 

It’s easy to be distracted by the last, lingering sting of a kiss around your nipple before he finally leaves it alone, dragging his mouth down your torso toward your navel as his fingers explore the stretch of your clothed cunt, circling your clit before dropping down to press the material inside of you a little with the tip of a wandering finger. 

And then he keeps talking. 

“You’re good at pleasing people, but you’re not a good liar, honey.” His chin meets the fabric of your skirt as he flicks his eyes up to you. “Then again—that last one was gullible, wasn’t he? Didn’t even notice your orgasm was fake.” 

“Steve,” you gasp, tugging at your restraints. 

That was far before you filed the report. Back when you were only just vaguely suspicious of him, when you could still let yourself be distracted enough to let yourself feel wanted, to take someone home. How could he possibly have known? 

He’d been watching you even then? 

“Shh, I know. I’m gonna make it better. Make you forget all about the four and a half minutes he lasted when he finally got you under him before he knocked out cold beside you,” Steve croons, mistaking your noise as arousal instead of panic. “Should’ve killed him for leaving you like that, honestly.” 

“Steve,” you whine. 

“I won’t, I won’t,” he chuckles, nosing past your skirt. “But I should.” 

His fingers shift enough to drag your soaked panties aside, and he groans as he presses his face into the heat of your thigh, inhaling your scent as he settles in between your legs. He kisses you once there, your leg twitching at the punishing suction of his teeth, before he soothes it with his tongue. 

“Ask me to taste you,” he rasps, eyes fluttering closed as he inches closer to your cunt. “Please, baby. Ask me to put my mouth on this gorgeous pussy.” 

You whimper, dizzy with endorphins and the conflicting signals in your nervous system, tugging at your cuffs but unable to find the desire to actually get away. 

“Please, Steve,” you gasp when his hot breath blows over you. “Please—please taste me.” 

“Fuck,” Steve moans, drawn out and slow. And then he gives you what you asked for. 

His mouth lowers to your cunt with double the vigor he’d had against your mouth and your chest, steady and confident with the press of his tongue and the spread of his jaw as he widens it to encompass all you have to give. 

You think you might scream with the way Steve shoves a hand up your body to stuff your mouth full of his fingers, but you can’t be sure. The abruptness of pleasure after going without it for so long makes you feel like you’re falling, tipping over edge after edge after edge and hoping you can rely on Steve to ground you at the bottom. 

It’s so sharp it nearly hurts, coiled tight in your lower stomach, but Steve doesn’t give you any reprieve. He holds your hips down as you try to buck against his face, your wetness already smeared over his chin and cheeks and undoubtedly his eager mouth. He moans against you as he fucks you with his tongue and suctions your clit against his teeth, his own eyes rolling backward as he takes his fill of you. 

When he rips himself away with something like a growl, he yanks his fingers from your mouth and drags them down to press against your cunt, slipping two of them inside of you as you cry out and squirm at the tight fit. 

“I want you to come on my fingers first. I’ll know if you fake it,” he warns. “I’ve got all night to find out what drives you crazy. What makes you beg. I want every fucking thing, you understand? Every cry, every whimper, every scream. You can’t hide from me.” He tosses one of your legs up his chest, your ankle over his shoulder as he fucks you on his fingers. “By the time I’m finished, you won’t even want to.” 

His free arm curves around your outstretched leg, half to hold it steady and half so he can reach around and use two fingers to spread the folds of your cunt for a better view between your legs. There’s nowhere for you to hide from him at this angle, not with his fingers in you and your wrists chained to the headboard, not when the swell of pleasure in your hips looms temptingly within reach. 

“You think this is fake for me? Still think I’m just using you?” Steve asks. “Could’ve kept you right where I wanted you without even laying a finger on you. But this?” He shoves his fingers in, keeps them straight and presses up, hard against the spongy stretch of the pleasure receptors buried deep as your legs shake around him. “This is just for me. Just ‘cause I want to.” 

“S-Steve,” you hitch, overwhelmed and dangling on the edge of something so sweet it’s scary. 

“And because, if you let yourself admit it,” he continues, bending down to hover above your face as he folds you nearly in half, “you want me just as bad.” 

He kisses you once, bruising, and then kneels up again to look back at your cunt. It’s squeezing around him, you can feel it; desperate to keep him inside, pressed up against where it feels so good. He doesn’t even pull his fingers out of you anymore, just jabs his two middle-most fingers in tight bursts against your spot. His arm works in tandem with them, yanking up every time he presses in. 

You feel full inside in a way that you haven’t before, not even with some generously sized partners. The pressure builds, soaring toward a dangerous precipice, your breaths shortening until they stop coming at all, your entire body taut and waiting for its cue. You’re shaking so bad you can hear the restraints rattling against the dark wood. 

Steve’s hand speeds up further, his free hand pressing down hard against your lower stomach while the one inside of you jerks upwards, your pleasure spot stimulated from both sides. He’s playing your body like an instrument, drawing sounds and sensations out of it that you hadn’t even known existed. 

You’re coming before Steve even finishes telling you to. 

This time you really do scream—you can feel it leave your throat in a startling rush, all the strings Steve’s tied you up in cut at once. Your limbs jerk and flail, your head wrenched back and hips rutting frantically against his hand, your thighs shaking so much your bones rattle. 

And between your legs, the pressure you’d felt earlier releases in a burst of wetness, so intense that stars dance behind your eyelids. When you finally manage to crack them open again, wheezing in breaths through your gasps and tears, the evidence is dripping all over Steve’s arms and chest, written into the proud lines of his face. 

“Fuck,” he spits, taking turns jabbing his fingers in for more and rubbing your clit rapidly with the flats of his fingers until you’re finished. “Good girl. That’s it. Knew you could. Just needed the right touch, huh?” 

“Steve—” you plead, nothing more than a wisp as you twitch away from him. 

He seems to oblige you for a second, his hands and fingers finally relenting with a final gratuitous slap of them against your clit. You blink hazily at the ceiling through blurred vision as your chest heaves to catch up on the breath you’d been holding before, your climax having left you more than a little unmoored. 

You’re so caught up in it that you don’t notice him stripping off his pants and his boxers, sliding your skirt and ruined underwear off of your ankles, easing back on top of you and nudging your thighs apart again. 

Not until you feel the bare press of his cock at the entrance of your cunt. 

You tense again, shifting on the sheets, but you’re even weaker than you’d been before. He holds you steady with a hand on your hip and eases himself inside you slow, using his mouth to stop the tears in your eyes before they can roll down your cheeks. 

“Shh, just take it. Know you can—doing so well, such a good girl. God, you feel fucking incredible.” 

He fucks his cock into you, shallow at first and then deeper as he works himself in, stretching you out until he’s flush against you. His fingers, still wet and smelling of you, dig into your jaw until your mouth opens for him, slipping his tongue back inside again with a groan. 

Your body can’t decide what the proper reaction should be. The logical part sneers that you should hate this, that you should be trying harder, trying to do anything to get away or resist. But the part of you that’s been starved of touch for the last several months and starved of intimacy for far longer than that demands that you give in to every part of it; the warm press of Steve’s body, the sparks of pleasure still dancing on your skin, the wetness of his kiss and your eyes and your cunt as it welcomes him inside again and again and again. 

“Look at those tears.” He slides a hand up the outstretched line of your arm above your head until he reaches your hands that hang limply from the cuffs, slipping his fingers through yours in a mocking display of intimacy. “So pretty when you cry for me, honey. Always so pretty, aren’t you? Just for me.” 

Your eyes grow wetter as if eager for more of his approval, and you gasp into his mouth when his hand wraps around your throat, his hips pushing into you harder now. 

Steve isn’t particularly long but he is thick inside of you, overwhelming and inescapable. He murmurs filth against your mouth in between lazy kisses and rolls of his tongue, his own breathing quickening as his cock spears into you in a way that must feel good for him too. 

It must, you think distantly, because the aftershocks from your first orgasm just won’t seem to subside under the onslaught of continued sensation. You can feel yourself bearing down on him and forced to relax the next moment, can feel the way you quiver inside as you attempt to adjust to his size and rhythm. 

You eagerly take in a lungful of air when Steve’s hand vacates your throat, only for it to leave you in another moan when his fingers dip down to rub messy circles on your clit. You writhe with it, hips lifting from the bed to meet his thrusts as you use the cuffs as leverage, and then scream again when his touch disappears and reappears with a mean slap that’s much harder than the one he’d given you before. 

You lock up around him, whimpering and hovering right on the edge of another orgasm. He slaps you again and you mewl, caught between hiding from the sensation and chasing more of it, twisting underneath him and pulling on the cuffs. 

“What’s that?” Steve taunts. “Y’don’t like it a little rough? I don’t know if I believe you. This tight little cunt’s telling me something different, sweetheart. Suckin’ me in like s’never gonna let go.” 

His hand returns to your upper body again, slipping under your outstretched arm and settling underneath your head to cradle it in his palm. The grip keeps you from turning it away or tilting it back, makes you have to look at him or close your eyes—and he doesn’t let you do the latter. 

Grabbing for the pillow beside your head, Steve yanks it from its place and reaches down to shove it underneath your hips, shifting the angle just enough that his cock jams into you the same as his fingers had earlier, and your mouth drops open at the intensity on your already abused inner walls and sensitive tissue. The unfamiliar pressure swells in your stomach all over again, your eyes threatening to cross and roll backward as you’re knocked around with each of his hard thrusts. 

“That’s it. Let me fuck that pretty head empty, huh? Nothin’ but me in there, just like it should be.” 

You nod before you realize what you’re doing, all too happy when he gives you his tongue to occupy your mouth with so you don’t end up biting through your own. You can feel his hand yanking one of your thighs up higher on his hip, his nails leaving marks down the back and over the curve of your ass. He digs them in there for leverage as he begins fucking into in short, punctuated thrusts, perfectly aimed and determined to unravel you again. You wish, desperately, that this weren’t the best sex you’ve ever had before. 

But it is, so when Steve intuits that you’re close, you’re not even surprised anymore that his wandering fingers find your clit in record time. You’re wet enough that they keep slipping off but Steve is persistent, unwilling to compromise. 

You choke on a sob as he takes you over the edge again, the burst of your orgasm sharp and sudden and taking you over completely. Your hips jump up off the bed as you get him wet with your release again, his cock slipping from you in a rush so that even more of it spills out of you onto his lap. The lack of control over your body makes you feel terrified, makes you feel weightless. 

The haze of it hasn’t even ebbed yet when Steve yanks your hips up and shoves his fingers back in, three this time, working your still twitching inner muscles. 

You cry out, twisting away from him, and he growls as he shoves you back down and makes you ride his hand until you’re already working up to another, unsure if the first ever really even stopped. 

“No,” he demands. “You don’t get to run away. You’ll take it, and you’ll thank me.” 

Another sharp slap to your clit hits you just right in conjunction with his fingers and, helpless to stop it, you feel yourself wetting your thighs, the bed, his hands for a third time. He doesn’t stop rubbing you through it even when he takes his fingers out, chasing your hips as they crawl as far away from him as they can get before the restraints hinder your movement. 

You’re shaking with it when he finally backs off, sliding his knuckles and fingers over your sensitive clit and quivering folds in a casually proprietary show before he mercifully leaves you alone. 

Your cunt, anyway. 

You hardly have your eyes open when you feel a weight on your chest, shadow enveloping your face. You squint up at his torso as he swings a leg onto either side of your chest, at his cock right in front of your face, wet with your slick and peeking at you from the tight ring of his fist as he works himself over. 

“You asked me to taste you,” he pants from above, as if he wasn’t the one who made you say it. “Now it’s your turn.” 

You try to turn your chin weakly when he presses down on your lower lip, but it only earns you a light slap of his fingers against your cheek and a firm slide of his hand as he puts you back where he wants you. Which, evidently, is your mouth stretched wide around his cock. 

He tucks himself past the slick barrier of your lips with a muttered curse, face pinched in pleasure as he slips further inside. He uses his thumbs to tuck your lips over your teeth when you’re too out of it to do it yourself, holding both sides of your head as he gently starts fucking your face. 

It’s a blur punctuated by the spasm of your throat when he shoves himself too deep, the soft way he coos down at you when you choke or when his thrusts make the tears swimming in your eyes finally slip over. 

“Such a good girl,” he mutters, picking up speed. “You’re so—so good for me. Just what I need, baby, you’re—all mine. All. Fucking. Mine.” He punctuates his words with snaps of his hips, eyes narrowed into slits as he looks down at you. “Gonna fuck you good enough that you never fucking forget it.” 

He slides a hand down the back of your head and tilts it up to meet the brutal pace of his hips, only narrowly fast enough to avoid the way your gag reflex flares each time he nudges the back of your throat. You force a breath in through your nose, try to relax as much as you can, push your tongue up against the sensitive fold of skin at the underside of his cock as balls slap against your chin, his thick, corded thighs stealing your air from your chest. 

You shouldn’t like any part of it. You should feel trapped, used, disgusted. 

Instead, primally sated and freed from the ever present weight of having to make constant decisions, you feel your grip going slack in the cuffs, your body and mind twistedly free, for once, to just drift. 

Steve’s filthy praises, the slick noise of him filling your mouth, your own heartbeat—it all grows pleasantly distant, eased by the low level thrum of lingering pleasure. When he finally comes down your throat and over your tongue, the hot, briny taste of him feels like a victory, like relief, even more than when he pulls back to let you breathe again. 

You let him move you easily, forcing your mouth open to make sure you swallowed, easing your hands out and back down from the cuffs, lifting you so he can take away the soiled duvet before he sets you back down on soft, warm sheets and climbs in beside you. 

“Good girl,” he keeps saying, just like he did all those months ago in your office. You struggle to reconcile the length of time in between the memories, the person you were then versus now. “Gonna keep you.” 

You whimper again in his arms, too weak to do much else, and he shushes you. You’re not even sure anymore if it’s a protest or a plea. 

“I know, sweetheart,” he tells you, like an answer. 

Maybe you’ll just keep letting him decide.

.

.

.

[thehornyscriptures]

I might start enjoying more steve fics;)

[barnesonly]

Favorite

steve kemp x reader

summary: you crave what you shouldn’t and after Steve has called you his favorite, you want to live up to his expectations so he doesn’t change his mind.

word count: 3,8k

WARNINGS: 18+ explicit content, MDNI, disclaimer: contains dark themes. read at your own discretion! steve kemp is literally a warning himself, smut, stockholm syndrome, praising, psychotic behaviours (from both steve and reader), petnames (peach), PiV, unprotected sex, rough sex, nipple play, creampie, oral (f receiving), cum eating, pussy slapping, biting.

Part Two for „Peach” | series masterlist coming soon…

Favorite.

That word hasn't left your head since he said it.

Last week was… good. If you can call it that. He did what he promised—now he keeps you in his bed, tucked against him like a possession he'd never part with. He doesn't just want you near—he wants you everywhere, woven into him like skin and bone.

And God help you, there's a part of you that's almost happy about it. Happy that he adores you so much he won't let you go, happy that he chooses you.

At this point? You don't know how you feel.

It begins to feel like you're getting addicted to him as mush as he's addicted to you.

You know it's bad. And yet, what is worse is the way you're starting to need him. The way your chest tightens when he's gone too long, the way you crave his eyes on you like a drug.

It's sick. You're sick.

The bed feels too big without him. Too cold. You lie there on your back, staring up at the ceiling and the sheets that are twisted around your legs feel more like restraints than something comfortable.

Is this it? Is this how your life is going to look now?

Always with him? Always in this house, locked and hidden from the world?

You get up and pad out of the room in nothing but the thin nightgown—the one he got for you, pink with white laces that sticks to your figure just perfectly.

Your bare feet move across the cold floor, quietly making your way to the kitchen and you spot him at the stove, humming a little tune to himself as he stirs. For a stupid second you just stand there and watch him. The ordinary motion of him making breakfast turns feelings in your heart into something that shouldn't be there.

It takes him a moment to realize you're here. But when he does, a smile appears on his face almost instantly. His eyes soften in a way that makes your knees go weak.

The way he looks at you is different from how others ever had. It's so… affectionate. And yes, you know who he is, what is he like—a terrible person. But this? This doesn't feel terrible. At least not anymore.

"Hey," he says casually and the spoon he was holding drops in the pan with a clatter you barely hear over the thrum in your chest.

Steve shuts the stove off, his attention fully on you, now. He crosses the space between you in few slow steps and when he reaches you, one of his hands settles on your hip.

You lean in without even realizing it, stomach tightening, chest pressed to him. His thumb traces lazy circles on your hipbone and the little shock of contact makes you shiver.

"Sleep well?" his voice is casual but there's an edge to it that makes your stomach clench. It feels like every question he gives you is some kind of test, even the simple ones—one wrong answer and it's over for you. You know better than disappointing him.

"Yeah," you nod and he smiles at that, satisfied with your answer. His hands lift up to your face, cradling your cheeks as his thumbs now brush over your skin there like he's memorizing it.

"I missed you," the words leave your mouth as a whisper, hesitantly, as if you didn't want him to hear them.

It's probably wrong to say it out loud because why would you expose to him another weakness of yours? You still don't know his intentions. You don't know if he means what he says. Maybe you were never his "favorite" and this is one of his disturbed tactics to break you.

His eyes catch the sound before his ears do, and then his head lifts up. "Did you?”

By the tone in his voice you can easily tell he's savoring it. So you nod again, afraid of saying too much. You hate yourself for how easy the truth comes out around him. You hate that you want him to know that. Know that you missed him, even when you shouldn't. Even when every warning in your head screams that you're giving him too much, that he'll take it and use it the way he always does.

But you can't stop. You'd give him anything just to have his attention. Just to feel the warmth he gives you when he's pleased even if later you'll regret it.

His smile stays on as he leans in, closing the space between you. Your mouths meet in a slow, passionate kiss and when they do, there is this weird spark. You wonder if he feels it too, if he thinks just like you that this is something special.

That you're special.

Because now you live for his validation. You don't want to be like other girls he had. And you don't even mean it in i don't want to end up dead like them kind of way—no. If somehow you lose him, then maybe the scenario where he kills you wouldn't be so bad. It would feel like mercy.

Your fingers curl into his shirt without thinking, tugging at the fabric until he lets you lead him. You drag him toward the couch, and of course—he lets you. Doesn't resist, doesn't even question it. You've gained enough of his trust during last few weeks.

You don't think twice, nor hesitate. You push him down into the cushions before getting on top of him, straddling his lap.

"Sweetheart," he murmurs in a low, teasing voice and his mouth curls as he smirks at you. "Whatchu doing, hm?"

You don't answer him at first—you just kiss him again, the corner of his lips, his jaw, anywhere you can reach, desperate for more. Your hips start moving on their own, slow drags of friction against the hard line of him beneath his jeans.

When you finally speak, your voice comes out small, breathless. "I just—I wanna make you feel good.. wanna make you proud,"

"Oh, baby…" he breathes out, his eyes darkening with lust as he watches you. "You always make me proud."

His words hit you deep, almost shattering something inside you. You kiss him harder—mouths colliding in a messy and hungry way. Your fingers twist in his shirt as you start rocking against him, dragging your cunt over the bulge straining his jeans. The thin barrier of your nightgown does nothing to ease the ache—if anything, it makes it worse.

Steve groans into your mouth, and then whimpers. A broken sound escapes his throat, making your body jolt with heat. You can feel how badly he wants you—how his hips twitch up to meet your grinding, how his hands tighten on your wait like he can't decide if he should let you do the job the way you like it or take some control back.

You bury your face against his jaw, panting into his skin, mouthing at the corner of his lips. "Steve—" you moan and his breath shudders.

"Fuck, pretty girl," he mutters, head falling back against the couch as you move on top of him. "You're makin' me lose my mind."

His hands slide down, gripping your hip hard enough to bruise as his other works at his zipper impatiently. The sound of it splitting open fills the room.

And then he frees himself. His cock is thick and flushed, heavy against his stomach. You gasp softly when you feel him pressing against you. The heat of him so close makes your thighs tremble and suddenly all of your worries are gone, replaced by the only thought in your head—lust.

Steve groans low, his thumb stroking your cheek as he looks at you like he can't believe you're real. "C'mere, sweetheart," he rasps, guiding you with one steady hand. His fingers grab around the base of his shaft, dragging the head through your slick folds, coating him with your arousal.

Your nails bite into his shoulder and you let out a tiny, cracked whimper.

"Shhh, baby," he soothes, voice rough. "I've got you. Just let me—yeah, that's it." He steadies you, one hand on your back and then pushes you down slowly.

You sink onto him inch by thick inch. The stretch is brutal, his tip splits you open, making you feel fucking dizzy and cockdrunk already. Your mouth falls open but no sound comes out beside the strangled moan when you finally bottom out with his cock pulsing deep inside you.

Steve's head drops forward, his forehead pressed to your shoulder now, panting hard like he's the one being undone. "Jesus Christ, look at you," he growls, almost in awe. "Taking me so good, my pretty girl… Fuck—made for me."

"Oh, fuck!—" you whimper, thighs shaking. "Stevie—" you brace your hands on his chest and begin moving, hips rolling, rising and sinking on his cock like you were made for this. Like this was your only purpose, and now it feels like it is.

His grip on your waist tightens, eyes stay locked on you. "Take all of it,” he whispers into your ear, jaw clenching as you grind down harder. "So desperate to satisfy me… Yeah, baby. Just like that—"

Every thrust drags another moan from your throat. Every slide of him inside you only fuels your filthy needs. You chase his praise like it's air, the only thing keeping you alive and, in the given circumstances—keeping you sane. You want to give him everything, want him to look at you the way he's looking at you now—like you're his whole world.

Because over the last weeks, he had become yours.

And God, it feels good. Too good. The way he fills you, the way his cock splits you open and rubs against that sweet spot inside that makes your vision blur. Your body is betraying you, tightening, fluttering around him as you ride him harder.

Steve cups your face again, not gentle at all—not anymore—forcing you to look at him as you bounce on his lap. "That's it, Peach. Show me how bad you need it. Show me how good my favorite girl can be."

Your thighs are already giving out, but you keep moving just to prove yourself to him and Steve leans back into the couch, whimpering like a total mess underneath you. His hands glide up your body, palms skating over your waist, then your ribs, then cupping your breasts through the thin fabric of your nightgown.

„Oh, fuck—” he curses into your neck, squeezing your breast just enough to force a moan out of you. „God, baby. Don’t stop, please. You’re doin’ so good, feelin’ so tight fuck—”

„Yeah? Like that?” A cocky grin appears on your face, confidence rising at the praise as you continue your work on his cock without slowing down the tortuous rhythm you’ve set up.

„Mhm… Just like that,” he tries to breath steadily, although his voice is shaking, betraying his composure and revealing the power you have over him. „God, you’re so good to me, sweetheart. You’re the best thing that—fuck—that happened to me.”

He raises his hand to your face. His thumb brushes your bottom lip before he presses it inside your mouth, making you suck it.

“You love this, don’t you?” he tilts his head at you with your mouth wrapped around his finger. „Love me?” His other hand squeezes your hip, pushing you down harder onto him.

„Mhm…” you moan out. Your pace falters for just a moment before you drive down on him again, much harder this time.

„Oh, fuck!” The volume of his tone rises, as though he’s not able to take it anymore. You know you’re going to be full of bruises from how intensely he’s holding you. Grabbing your hips so rough as if it was the only thing that could anchor him in the moment. „Yeah, baby. Good girl, yes!”

You whimper, heat burning in your belly as his praise washes over you, tightening the knot of need inside you. You tilt your chin up to look into his eyes and you hold his gaze.

He looks as if he was about to lose it any moment now. His eyes are glassy, overwhelmed with the pleasure and you cannot help but ride him harder, doing your best to send him over the edge.

„Fuck! Peach, you—” he growls, his eyes flutter shut. His thumb leaves your mouth and his hand flies to your hair, tugging on it. „You’re such a needy little thing—so fucking perfect when you’re like this.”

One of his hands slips under your nightgown, pushing the thin fabric up until it bunches around your waist, leaving you bare for him. The other cups your breast, and his thumb brushes over the hard peak of your nipple.

You gasp, your rhythm stuttering, but his grip on your hip steadies you. “That’s it, sweetheart,” he praises again. His fingers pinch and roll your nipple, pulling another whimper from your throat. “Ride me while I play with these perfect tits, fuck—.”

He squeezes your breast harder which is only making your cunt clench tighter around him. He groans, head falling back for a moment as you grind down harder. “Fuck… you feel that? The way your pussy’s gripping me? You’re trying to keep me all to yourself, aren’t you, Peach?”

You can’t answer. Not when his fingers are tugging and twisting your nipples, not when his cock is stretching you so good it makes your eyes roll back. All you can do is moan, a broken sound that makes him smile like he’s won.

“Don’t hold back, Peach. Give me everything,” he murmurs, dragging you closer, lips brushing against your jaw as his hand continues to toy with your breast. “Wanna see you lose yourself on me. Wanna feel you squeeze my cock until I can’t take it anymore.”

“Steve—fuck, baby—you feel so good,” you moan, hips rolling faster against him. “So full… can’t—can’t get enough of you.”

His grin is smug and adoring, like he’s been waiting to hear you say it. He squeezes your breast again, tugging at your nipple just to watch your face twist in pleasure.

“Is that so?” he whispers soothingly as he fucks you from beneath with slow, deep thrusts. “Tell me what you need.”

You whimper, breath catching as he hits that perfect spot inside you. “Need you—need you so bad, Steve. Please don’t stop, I can’t—”

“I know, baby. I’m here,” he cooes „I’ll always be here. You don’t need anything else but me. Say it, baby. Say I’m the only thing you need.”

You don’t even think. The words tumble out of you without hesitation. “You’re the only thing I need, Stevie.”

„Fuck—I can’t,” the sounds he makes sound choked, trapped in his throat. „Oh my, ’m gonna cum. Fuck, baby—oh God, I—” His hips jerk up hard, pistoning into you once, twice and then he’s coming, spilling inside your cunt.

You feel each pulse, the thick heat fill you as his body shudders under yours and he buries his face in your neck with a ragged inhale.

You ride it out with him. Tears prickle behind your eyes but you don’t stop. You can’t. Even as Steve’s cock twitches inside you, spilling deeper into your cunt, you move even rougher, moving your hips to chase the high that is still clawing at you.

“Baby—” His voice cracks, spent and shaky, but his hands stay locked on your waist, letting you use him. “Fuck, you’re still going? Milking me dry like that…” His head tips back, eyes squeezing shut as you drag another strangled groan from him.

You whimper, nails digging into his chest, your thighs trembling with the effort. “Need it—need to come, Steve, please—” you sob, desperate to wring every ounce of pleasure from him.

His hand flies up to cup your face, thumb smearing over your swollen lips. “Shh, sweetheart. It’s okay. Take what you need.” His hips buck weakly up into yours, giving you that extra push.

The pleasure slams into you so hard your back arches. A scream tears from your throat. Your cunt clamps down around him, milking his cock, squeezing him so tight it makes his groan melt into a laugh of disbelief.

“That’s it, Peach—fuck—scream for me,” he urges. His thumb presses against your lip until your mouth falls open wider. “Soak me, baby.”

You can’t stop the sounds pouring out of you—loud, desperate cries, broken moans that echo in the room. The pleasure is overwhelming and you ride the wave of it until you’re shaking all over, tears spilling hot down your cheeks and Steve of course, holds you through it.

When you come down from your high his hands move to your waist. He steadies you only long enough to lift you off him, his cock sliding free with a wet, lewd sound that makes your cheeks burn. His spend trickles out immediately, a messy, hot stream down your thighs.

“Up,” he orders gently, pushing you forward. You barely manage a dazed whimper, but you listen, sprawling out on the couch as he flips you onto your back.

The cool fabric kisses your overheated skin and Steve sinks down on his knees between your spread legs, his palms urging them wider, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh until you’re open for him—dripping and ruined.

He licks his bottom lip, eyes fixed on the mess he’s made of you. “Look at that, baby. My cum leaking out of your pretty pussy. You love that, don’t you?”

„Mhm…” you whimper in response, looking down at him.

„We can’t waste it, can we? That would be such a shame…” his voice drops darker and he caresses your thigh gently.

You don’t even have time to respond before he dives in. His mouth seals over you, tongue lapping up everything he spilled inside you. He groans low in his chest at the taste, sucking greedily as though cleaning you out is the most important mission of his life. His tongue drags through your folds, circles your swollen clit, dips down to fuck into you, gathering every bit of cum.

Your back arches, fingers flying to his hair as a broken cry rips from your throat. “S-Steve—oh god—”

He only smirks against you, his tongue working on you continuously and when his voice comes—it’s muffled. „It tastes so good, Peach… ’m not stopping ‘til you’re shaking all over my face.”

His tongue is everywhere at once. He drags the flat of it up your slit, moaning like he’s savoring you before his mouth ends up right over your clit.

The suction is instant, his lips wrapping around your swollen pussy and pulling. You cry out, thighs closing, but his big hands clamp them wide, keeping you open for his mouth.

“Fuck, Steve—oh god, oh god, don’t stop—” your voice breaks as he sucks harder, tongue flicking mercilessly against you.

It’s messy—so fucking messy. His saliva mixes with your slick and his own spend, dripping down his chin, coating his jaw. You hear the obscene sounds of it, wet slurps and smacks as he eats you like he can’t get enough. Every breath he takes is through his nose like he’d rather drown in you than pull away.

He growls into your pussy and then he tongues you deep again, fucking into you with long strokes before dragging back up to your clit.

His lips close around it once more, sucking hard, tongue rolling over it in quick, ruthless circles. Your whole body jerks, nails scratching at his scalp.

“Steve—fuck, you’re gonna make me—”

He pulls back just enough to pant against your soaked cunt. His eyes are wild. “Good. That’s what I want. Wanna drink it straight from you, baby. Come for me—right on my tongue.”

He marks his words with a slap on your pussy. The smack makes your whole body jolt as his palm comes down against you.

Before you can even gasp, he does it again. You cry out, half-shocked, half-pleading, hips bucking up into his hand.

“I could never get enough of this pussy,” Steve groans, eyes fixed on your folds glistening with both spit and cum. He spreads you wider using his thumb, watching your hole twitch. “You like that, sweetheart? Getting spanked on this pretty cunt?”

Another smack, much harder, and you moan so loud it makes his cock throb against the couch.

„Yes! Yes, Steve!” you cry out. „I fucking love that.”

He leans down, tongue dives back into you. His mouth latches onto your clit again like he’s punishing you with pleasure,

Your thighs shake violently, the mixture of sting and wet heat overwhelming every nerve in your body.

“Stevie—fuck—please—”

Your orgasm rips through you suddenly. Your body arches off the couch as another scream tears from your ribs.

And Steve doesn’t let up. He drinks down every gush, every drop you spill onto his tongue.

“Fuck—fuck—Steve!” Your voice breaks, choking on his name and still—he stays latched to you.

By the time your body finally slumps against the couch, every limb heavy, every breath ragged—he pulls back with his chin shining, lips wet and swollen. He’s panting, chest rising like he just ran a mile.

He kisses the inside of your thigh, soft at first. Then his teeth sink in, hard enough to make you yelp.

„Mine,” he whispers, biting down once more before soothing it with a slow drag of his tongue.

Your body twitches under him, already oversensitive, but you can’t stop the needy whimper that escapes you.

You watch him dazed as he lingers between your legs, kissing one, then the other, leaving trails of saliva and sharp little nips that make your stomach flutter.

He looks ruined—hair a mess, lips swollen, chin drenched in your slick—and still he’s so fucking beautiful it hurts.

Your fingers twitch, then reach for him without thinking, threading through his damp hair.

“Steve…” The word falls from you quietly, sounding unsure.

His steel blue eyes flick up, catching yours from between your legs. You stroke through his hair tenderly and the awe on your face must be plain, considering how he smiles back at you.

Something inside you cracks at the sight—splinters straight through the careful walls you’ve tried to keep.

“I love you,”

These three simple words leave your mouth without thinking and the air seems to still.

But Steve just bends his head, pressing one last kiss against the tender inside of your thigh.

“I love you too, Peach.”

💌 tag list: @iamthatonefangirl @buckytakethewheel @thatsbucknasty @buckybarneswife125 @peanutbutt3rcup @avengemepercy @gottareadthosefics2 @sassandscribbles @avgdestitute @gottareadthosefics2 @umbreoni @houseofhyde @earthsmightiestbenders @flockoff-featherface @firingstars @its-in-the-woods @bckyslover

⋆⁺₊✧ MAIN MASTERLIST

[thehornyscriptures]

Lowkey… more

[tw1sters]

𝓦elcome to 1917 !

❝ you got that james barnes daydream look in your eye ˎˊ˗

From late-night drives with windows down to fleeting moments that surpass your wildest dreams, this collection features love stories with Bucky Barnes inspired by Taylor Swift's 1989 album.

Note: Each story will have its own set of content warnings, including NSFW — please read thoroughly before proceeding! More fics may be added beyond the dates/songs listed for this current collab in the future <3

▸ You are in Love — @unificsation (August 6)

You, Bucky, and a feeling that doesn't end. — inspired by 'you are in love'

▸ Dirty Little Secret — @blowingbarnes (August 13)

"I'm like Six Flags. I'm a fun ride. Everyone wants their turn, and they move on to the next park. And that's fine by me." You tilted your head at his words, eyes slightly narrowing in his direction like you'd slip through one of the cracks and see the real Bucky. "Is it?" — inspired by 'how you get the girl'

▸ Bad Blood — @tw1sters (August 20)

Interning with your ex-boyfriend’s brother wasn’t how you imagined your summer, but somewhere between the long hours and conversations over late-night takeouts, he’s becoming harder to hate. — inspired by 'bad blood'

▸ Welcome to New York — @epiphanyrogers (August 24)

New York has always been a city of fresh starts. That’s what Bucky Barnes is counting on when he moves back home for the first time in eighty years. except so far he’s only figured out three things: the subway still runs late, Brooklyn has gotten expensive, and he is spectacularly bad at modern dating. Enter, you: an entirely off limits matchmaker who somehow becomes the best part of his life, one terrible first date at a time. Or, Bucky almost gives up on dating until he meets you — inspired by 'welcome to new york'

▸ I Know Places — @pinksplace (August 26)

While the rest of the world searches for Bucky Barnes, the two of you carve out a life in the shadows. Some love stories are written in grand gestures. Yours is written in escape routes. — inspired by 'i know places'

▸ Everything but You — @love-stucky (August 28)

Bucky spent years making sure you never went without, but he never noticed how often you went without him. — inspired by 'all you had to do was stay'

▸ Wild Knights, Wilder Dreams — @houseofhyde (September 6)

War is afoot, blood stains the streets, and by your side stands your husband's sworn knight. With a command to flee the city, you stick close to his side with the blind assumption that he is operating under your husband's orders. But as weeks pass and distance grows between you and the bloodshed, you discover there is something selfish in the protective glares and scowling words Ser Barnes casts your way; a devotion so carnal, the realm shuns it as deadly. — inspired by 'wildest dreams'

An ode to old taylor songs from one of our favorite albums! Please look forward to all the stories. If you enjoyed reading it, please be sure to reblog, comment, and like! Every single interaction is very much appreciated and treasured, particularly when you share your lovely thoughts and reactions <3 this masterlist may grow again in the future if the writers choose to add more!

A very big thank you to my friends for agreeing to participate in this lil activity <3 I'm glad we can all suffer through the writing process together while crying to Taylor Swift

all graphics above made by me so please don't use elsewhere! ♫ wave divider by @/angeliicid

[vunblr]

The Language of Effort

Pairing: Cecaelia!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Tags: Established relationship. Fluff. Smut.

Warnings: Teratophilia.

Word Count: 11.7k

Summary: He could fight. He could hunt. But when Bucky discovered a human ritual he couldn't quite grasp -dates- he found himself trying to show his mate that he could be more than just a creature of instinct.

Note: Immediate follow-up story of Tangled.

The house smelled like her. Like wool and something he'd never fully managed to name, and no longer needed to, to recognize it as his.

Bucky was sprawled on the couch, legs stretched over the low table, and she was pressed against his side under a shared blanket, her feet hidden beneath his thigh. His hand had settled on her knee at some point, heavy and still, the way it did when she was near, and he was restless.

The screen flickered with one of those shows she watched. People acting out things that weren't real, to tell stories.

Humans were strange.

In the box, a couple sat across from each other at a small table, candles and glasses between them. The woman laughed at something the man said. He poured her wine. Flowers sat crammed into a glass jar at the center of the table, already dying but arranged to hide it.

Bucky frowned.

"Why are they there?" he asked, chin tipped toward the screen.

He watched the way the man's hand moved, deliberate, not reaching but inviting. The woman's smile shifted, softer. It wasn't the same as what he and she did. When they sat together, it was without ritual. Without this careful performance of interest.

She glanced up, following his gaze. "The dinner? It's a date."

The word meant nothing on its own, but the picture did. Two people, seated face to face, offering each other food and wine, suggestive words and intent body language. He knew of that, in another shape…

"Why?" he pressed.

"Why, what?"

"The purpose." His voice came out more demanding than he meant. "Of sitting like that. The food, the flowers. What are they after? Are they friends or is it a couple’s thing?" he still struggled to understand where the line was drawn between friendship and claim. It irritated him, the way they blurred what his kind made clear.

She laughed, not unkindly, more at the way he'd said it, like he was cross-examining a suspect.

"There's no big purpose, Bucky. It's just... getting to know each other. Spending time together. Showing the other person you care, that you put effort into the moment." She shrugged. "Sometimes it's at the start, when you first begin seeing someone. Sometimes couples keep doing it years later. So they don't lose that."

So they don't lose that.

Lose what? he wanted to ask. But his tongue felt heavy, suddenly too clumsy for the question forming in his mind.

He went quiet, eyes still fixed on the screen, where the fictional man tucked a strand of hair behind the woman's ear and produced a small box with some earrings.

The woman gasped, hands flying to her mouth. Bucky's fingers tightened on her thigh, irritated by the sound -too sharp, too rehearsed- but something else moved beneath his skin, older than annoyance.

Something felt wrong.

They'd shared breakfasts at the kitchen table, dinners, spent entire afternoons pressed together beneath blankets, talking, watching television until she fell asleep against him, but that wasn't the same thing.

Humans seemed to assign meaning to the circumstances rather than the act itself.

His own sought someone apt out once a year, met what the body demanded, and each returned to their own dark after, alone, needing nothing from the other until the next season.

What he felt about her, and her for him, had no name in his tongue. No protocol. No elder to ask how it was done right, how you kept a human who needed things he could not feel the need for.

He thought, suddenly, of the Valentine’s Day situation. The pink foil chocolate. The presents in the market. His own frustration afterward, lying alone beneath cold water while trying to understand gifts, offerings, and fish that carried stones to impress a mate.

He had not given her anything that day.

I could have, he thought bitterly. I could have found something, but I chose not to.

His jaw clenched.

The couple on the screen kissed. The camera pulled back, showing other couples at other tables, a room full of humans performing the same ritual with slight variations.

"We've never had one," he murmured.

She blinked. The hand that had been tracing lazy patterns on his chest stilled. "Never had... what?"

"A date." The word felt foreign, too small for the weight he was giving it. "What they are doing. The ritual. We've never..."

He didn't finish. Couldn't find the words for what they had done instead, afternoons on the beach, in the nest, the occasions when he held her through asthma attacks, and she held him through haunting memories. None of it had been framed. None of it had been for something.

She was quiet for a moment. Then: "Hmm that’s true. We never had one."

It wasn’t a reproach. Just acknowledgment. But he heard reproach anyway, or maybe he heard his own voice saying it for her.

He shifted, uncomfortable, his hand retreating from her thigh to grip the edge of the cushion beneath them. "Would you like to?" The question came out forced, scraped from somewhere low in his throat. "Having… this date thing."

She smiled. That smile that always seemed to know something he didn't. "Bucky, that’s not necessary right now. We are together-"

"But would you like to?" He interrupted her. Hated doing it, but the words not necessary had stuck him like a barb. As if what they had was sufficient, as if she was tolerating his lack of courtship abilities. "Not 'need to.' Like to."

She looked at him. And he saw something shift in her expression, the amusement becoming something more careful, more serious.

“That we go out in a more… human way?" she said, slower.

He nodded once. Rigidly.

She hesitated. Not long -a breath, maybe two- but he noticed it.

"Yes," she said. "I would like to."

He should have felt relief. He felt terror instead.

She must have felt something shift in him -the way his body went still, the way his hand had stopped its lazy path over her leg. She looked up at him, her head tilting slightly.

"Bucky?"

He forced his jaw to unclench. "Yes."

She studied him for a moment, then reached up and touched his cheek, her palm warm against the tension in his jaw.

"We don't have to do anything elaborate," she said softly. "I just... I'd like to do something with you. That's all."

He nodded. Didn't trust his voice.

----

She fell asleep against him eventually, the way she always did, her breathing slowing into the rhythm he knew better than his own heartbeat. He didn't sleep after turning the television off, just stayed awake, staring at nothing, his mind churning.

More human.

The phrase turned like a current, pulling him toward depths he didn't know how to navigate.

What could he offer that wasn't already given? his body, his time, his fierce and unwavering attention?

Money? He had none. Food? He could hunt, but most of the things he could bring her would probably be unfit. Besides, they had eaten together hundreds of times. Was a date simply "eating but with candles"? Was the candle what made the difference?

A restaurant. He'd seen a couple in town when he tagged along with her while shopping for groceries. Lights, tables, people sitting while others served them. The concept had seemed absurd then. It still did. But she had smiled at the screen when the couple entered.

His hand closed into a fist on the cushion.

Objectively -he forced himself to think it, because his kind was nothing if not objective about status- he was a worthy male. The mating mark on his arm proved it, the ink extending past what most achieved. He had survived capture, magic, the war they forced him to wage. He had dealt with those who attacked him while looking for Steve, alone, unarmed, with nothing but what nature had given him.

For his species, that was enough. More than enough, actually. It was superiority.

But she was not his species.

And when she spoke of "effort," of "showing you care," of "putting time into the moment", none of those things required physical traits or abilities. They required something he couldn't name.

Where did he fit in human standards?

He listened for hours while she spoke of things he barely understood: her customers, knitting patterns, shipping policies of some digital platform. He had learned to make toast, to tolerate shoes, to sit in a car that vibrated wrong against his nerves.

The sex was good, that was unquestionable. But she had said once, casually, that for humans sex wasn't enough.

He felt cold suddenly.

Because what else did he do, really? He couldn't buy her things. Couldn't take her to places. Couldn't give her the kind of life that humans built with houses and plans and futures that stretched beyond the next tide. What he could give didn't translate into human currency.

And he had seen what happened to males who couldn't provide in the ways their mates needed in other species. They were left behind.

She stirred against him, murmuring something unintelligible. His hand moved automatically to her hair, caressing it, soothing her back to stillness. The gesture was unconscious now.

That, he thought. That is effort. Learning her. Adapting to her.

But would she see it that way? Would any human?

He looked at the darkened television, then down at his mate sleeping against his chest, completely trusting, her body relaxed in a way no one ever had been with him.

She had chosen him. Was choosing him still, every day she came back to the shore, every night she let him into her house, her nest, her warmth.

I have never shown her that I keep choosing with a gesture. I have simply... stayed.

The thought sat heavy as stone in his chest.

He didn't know if that was enough.

But he knew he couldn't keep asking her to settle for what he didn't understand.

He would learn. He would watch. He would find out what humans needed from each other when they sat across a table with candles and flowers and offered each other their time.

Even if it felt like performing. Even if it made him feel like a creature wearing a skin that didn't fit.

Because she had said yes. And that meant he had to try.

----

A couple of days passed after that.

Not that she noticed anything unusual… not at first. Bucky still came to the cottage, still took up his space on the couch, helped with some things. But his mind was elsewhere, turning like an undertow, circling the same problem from every angle.

She had to sleep, eventually. He didn't always. And those dead hours, when her breathing slowed, and her body went slack against his in the bed, became his window.

The movies.

Not the ones she picked for them to watch together; those had complicated plots and dialogue he couldn't quite track. No. Bucky waited until she was asleep, then took the remote and searched for the ones that seemed to show what people did to impress each other.

The first two nights were frustrating. The movies showed men bringing flowers -he didn't know where to get flowers, or what kind- or reserving tables in places with dim lights – also he had no coin-, or saying things that sounded rehearsed and false.

Is that what she expects? That I pretend to be someone I'm not?

But on the third night, he found a different movie.

A woman walked along a beach at night. Moonlight silvered the water, and then the sea began to glow. Blue. A blue that moved with the waves, that lit up where her feet touched the shore.

Bucky sat up slowly on the couch.

That, he thought. I can do that.

There wasn’t a male there accompanying her, but the woman on screen laughed, spread her arms, spun in the darkness while the water around her flickered like the sea was alive.

He knew where to find that blue. He'd seen it before, floating on the surface like scattered stars.

He would need something to carry it back.

He could already imagine her face. The way her eyes would widen. The sound she'd make, that soft breath she let out when something surprised her in a good way.

He would make her make that sound.

----

The dairy aisle was cold enough to raise goosebumps on her arms, but she lingered there anyway, hand hovering over the butter display.

She grabbed one pack, then paused. Her fingers twitched. She reached for a second pack, then a third, then caught herself and laughed under her breath.

He's going to eat all of this in three days.

She tossed the extra packs into the cart anyway; the butter budget was just part of her life now. She pushed the cart forward, past the yogurts and the cheeses, but her mind had already drifted.

Four days now. She'd noticed a change in him, subtle but unmistakable. He was still there, still present, but something was different.

His silences felt heavier. His eyes would drift to the window when he thought she wasn't looking, and there was a tension in his jaw that hadn't been there before. His hand, which used to find hers instinctively, now rested still on his own thigh. Like he was waiting for something. Or preparing for something.

Four nights, she thought again, he hasn't reached for me first. And coming from him, that was practically a scream.

She'd asked him about it, of course. Twice.

"Are you okay?"

"Yes."

"Are you sure? You seem-"

"I'm fine."

The second time, he'd said it with enough finality that she'd let it drop. But she hadn't stopped noticing.

She turned down the next aisle, grabbing a box of tea, -a new strawberry blend- and put it into the cart.

Maybe she was overthinking it. He wasn't exactly a talker. He showed things through actions, through presence, and sometimes, words didn't come easily to him. They never had.

But this felt different.

It wasn't the closed-off silence of someone hiding pain, or the distant quiet of someone lost in old thoughts. It was more like... he was somewhere else.

She paused at the end of the aisle, leaning on the cart for a moment, staring at a display of crackers without really seeing them.

Maybe it's the sea.

The thought surfaced before she could stop it, and once it was there, it wouldn't leave. She knew -had always known- that the ocean was part of him in ways she couldn't fully understand.

Not just his home, but his blood. His nature.

What if the restlessness she'd been sensing was something biological pulling at him from the deep?

What if he was trying to figure out how to tell her he needed to leave?

To swim far and deep, to follow whatever instinct was whispering to him?

She remembered what he'd told her, months ago, before they'd become anything. My kind doesn't attach; everything has a purpose. And though he'd changed, though he'd chosen to stay, what part of that nature still pulsed beneath his skin?

Her stomach churned.

Stop it, she told herself firmly. You're spiraling. He said he was fine.

She grabbed a box of crackers at random, threw it in the cart, and forced herself to keep moving. The checkout line was short. She paid, bagged her groceries, and walked out into the cold afternoon air.

The ride back to the cottage was quiet. The sky was overcast, the sea a dull grey, and the wind carried the smell of salt and wet stone. She let herself drift, still thinking about him, still turning over the same questions.

She'd asked him, once, if he ever missed the deeps. The places where the sun didn't reach, where the pressure was so great it would crush a human body. He'd said yes, but he'd said it like it didn't matter. Like she was more important than the ocean.

She'd believed him. She still believed him.

But that didn't mean the sea had stopped calling him.

She reached the cottage door and fumbled with her keys, nudging it open with her hip. The house was empty when she stepped inside.

No Bucky sprawled on the couch, no heavy presence in the kitchen eating toast. He'd said something about the sea yesterday. Feeling the pull. Needing to swim.

She'd nodded, not questioning it. She understood that part of him better than he probably realized. The sea was his home. His body needed it the way hers needed air.

But now, standing in the quiet kitchen, she felt the absence more sharply than she expected.

She unpacked the groceries slowly, putting the butter in the fridge, stacking the tea next to the kettle, folding the reusable bags and tucking them under the sink. Her movements were automatic, her mind elsewhere.

What if he's really trying to figure out how to leave?

The thought hit her like cold water, and she had to stop, her hands braced on the counter, breathing through it.

No. That's not who he is. That's not what we are.

But she'd seen the way he looked at the sea sometimes. The longing in his eyes, even when he was holding her. He'd spent decades alone, wandering, surviving. What if that part of him was too deep to change?

She wrapped her hands around the warm mug a few minutes later, staring out the window at the grey sea, and tried to convince herself she was being ridiculous.

He wasn't going anywhere.

He'd told her, in his own way, that she was his home now.

She had to trust that.

----

The dock was quiet the night of the recollection.

He'd swum the distance, moving through the dark water with the efficiency that only came from being in his element, silent and fluid as a shadow.

The swim had been easy. Almost relaxing, compared to what he was about to do.

He surfaced near the pilings, his head breaking the water in a slow, cautious rise. His eyes swept the dock, the fishing boats, the shore beyond. Empty. Good.

The transformation came quickly, quicker every time he did it, a familiar twist of bone and muscle, his limbs retracting and reshaping, his skin pulling tight over a form he'd never quite learned to love.

He bit back the sounds that wanted to escape his lips, the low grunts and hisses that always accompanied the shift.

It hurt.

It always hurt. But he was used to pain, and he didn't have time to dwell on it.

When it was done, he was human again. Naked and cold. The night air bit at his bare skin, raising goosebumps along his arms. Disgraceful.

He'd considered bringing clothes. Briefly. But the swim had been long, and he had quite the feat to perform after leaving the docks.

Besides, he'd assumed the place would be empty.

He pulled himself up onto the wooden planks, his bare feet silent against the damp surface. The wood was rough and splintered beneath his soles, and he moved carefully, scanning the shadows for any sign of movement.

A few fishing boats bobbed at their moorings, dark and empty. The air smelled of fuel and salt and the faint, rotting sweetness of bait left too long in the sun.

His naked body moved carefully, scanning the ground, then froze.

A sharp sting shot up from his foot. He looked down. A piece of broken glass, glinting in the dim light, buried in the pad of his heel.

He hissed through his teeth, pulling his foot up to inspect the damage. Blood welled dark against his skin.

"Fuck," he muttered, the word still foreign on his tongue but satisfying somehow. That was a human word he'd learned well.

He pulled the glass free -a small piece, nothing too deep- and pressed his thumb against the wound until the bleeding slowed. It would heal quickly. It always did.

But the irritation lingered.

This wouldn't have happened in the sea.

He limped forward a few steps, testing the weight on his foot, then dismissed it. He'd had worse. Much worse. A piece of glass was nothing.

He found what he came for near the end of the dock, a stack of discarded plastic barrels, the kind used for storing fish bait or industrial fluids. They were empty, smelled clean enough, with sealed lids that would keep all inside during the journey.

He tested one. It was large. Heavy, even empty. Carrying two would be a challenge.

He dragged them to the water's edge, then paused, looking out at the dark expanse of the sea.

He slipped into the water silently and shifted again, his limbs spreading wide, tasting the currents, orienting himself.

The barrels floated beside him. He wrapped two tentacles around each, securing them against his body, and began to swim.

The current was against him tonight, but he was stronger. The town faded behind him, then the coast, then the shallows, until he was alone in open water, the stars above and the darkness below.

He swam for hours. Past the fishing grounds, past the drop-off where the seabed fell away into nothing. The water grew colder. The current shifted, then stilled.

And then he saw it.

A faint glow on the horizon, spreading across the surface like a slow dawn. Blue. Electric. Alive.

He slowed, letting himself drift, watching it approach. The light was thick here, so dense it seemed to pulse with its own heartbeat. Thousands upon thousands of tiny organisms, each one a point of light, gathering in the warm currents to perform their silent, ancient dance.

He floated among them for a moment, surrounded by blue, and felt something in his chest loosen. This was his world. This was what he could offer.

Carefully, he uncapped one of the barrels and dipped it beneath the surface. The algae flowed in, glowing faintly, swirling like liquid starlight. He waited until the barrel was full, sealed it, and repeated the process with the second.

The weight was immense. Each barrel was heavy with water, and the distance back was just as far. But he'd carried heavier things. Two barrels of glowing water were nothing.

He turned and began the long swim back, the blue light trailing behind him like a phosphorescent wake. For a while, he let himself feel the satisfaction of making an effort.

By the time he reached the cave, his muscles were burning and the sky was beginning to lighten. He dragged the barrels onto the rock, his muscles burning with exhaustion, and looked at the pools where he'd planned to pour the glowing water.

The tide would reach them in a few hours. If he poured the algae now, it would be washed away before nightfall. All that effort, wasted.

He cursed under his breath, a low, frustrated sound.

He thought about the alcove they used in mating season, and with a final surge of effort, he hauled the barrels there.

His arms trembled with the strain, and his limbs ached from swimming for hours and carrying impossible weights.

He was done.

He let himself slide down into the deepest pool, the cool water enveloping his tired body, and he didn't even have the energy to find a comfortable position. His limbs went slack, his eyes closed, and he let the darkness take him.

----

He woke to the sound of water dripping and the soft gray light filtering through the cave's chimney.

His body was stiff, and his muscles protested as he stretched, uncoiling his limbs one by one. The exhaustion from the night before had settled into a dull ache, manageable but persistent.

The light told him it was late afternoon. Almost evening.

He cursed and dragged himself to grab the containers. Then, he uncapped them and began to work.

Once the last remaining of glowing water was poured, he stopped, breathing hard, and let himself look.

It was… beautiful. He'd known it would be.

The pools glowed softly, even with sunrays still entering from the mouth and the vents. The light reflected off the wet stone and danced across the ceiling. The cave was transformed. It wasn't the kind of beauty his kind usually made: functional, purposeful, built for survival. This was something else. Something that existed just to be seen.

He hoped she'd see it the way he did.

He then moved through the cave, gathering what he needed.

From the alcove he pulled the blankets. The ones she'd brought from the cottage, stored in plastic bags. The ones that still smelled like them, and from time to time, they still used.

He carried them to a flat section of rock near the glowing pools, where the surface was smooth enough to be comfortable, and spread them out with clumsy hands.

It wasn't a bed. Not really. But it was soft, and it was theirs.

Also, some things from the cottage that he took before departing for the lights.

The tupperware with the strawberries that he'd seen her pack the other day, rinsing them carefully, patting them dry with paper towels before putting them on the fridge.

He had doubted. They were hers, and he was taking things from her only to give them back as a gesture. It felt... wrong. Like stealing. Like he was pretending to offer something he hadn't earned.

Then he remembered what she'd said, weeks ago, when he'd hesitated to take food from her pantry.

"Bucky, you live here now. Half the time, anyway. You don't have to ask. It's our food."

Ours.

So he took the strawberries. And the wine, too, a bottle of white she'd bought for a dinner she never ended up making, forgotten in the back of the fridge. He didn't know if it was the right kind. He didn't know much about human wine at all.

But he'd seen it in the movies; it seemed important, and he wanted to get this right, so he had snatched a cooler, ice, and the bottle and gone out before she came back from wherever she was.

----

He stepped back and looked at the glowing pools, the blankets, the food.

It looked like something from one of those movies. Something magical. Something that said I thought about you. I planned this. You matter to me.

He felt a flicker of pride. Small, fragile, unfamiliar in this context.

Then he thought about the logistics.

He shouldn’t be just there, waiting for her to appear through the mouth of the cave by inspiration.

He'd have to go get her. Bring her here. And hope that when she saw what he'd done, she'd understand what he was trying to say.

He slid to one of the pools, looking at his work, and waited for the right time.

----

He waited until the sun was low, just before it slipped beneath the horizon, painting the sky in shades of orange and purple that made the sea look as if it were burning.

He climbed the path to the cottage with his heart beating harder than it should have been. Ridiculous. He'd faced a lot of things trying to kill him. Walking up a hill to knock on a door shouldn't make him feel like this.

Once at the door, he took a deep breath and let himself in.

She was wearing something he'd never seen before. A dress -not the comfortable things she wore around the house, not the practical clothes she wore to town. Something softer. Her hair was different, too, in a way that made her look almost like a different person.

He just… stared.

Humans, he thought, do this on purpose. They change their appearance to signal something.

She smiled when she saw him. That was good. Her eyes looked brighter than they had earlier, when he'd left. He'd been gone for almost two days, and she'd clearly been busy preparing for something.

Maybe she expected me to come back.

He hadn't told her he would. He never did. Some days he just... left and came back when the sea had released him. She never complained. Never asked where he'd been. She'd just open the door and let him in, like it was natural. Like she knew he would always come back.

He'd never told her he would.

She has no reason to expect me tonight, he realized. 

But she was dressed like she might meet someone.

"Hey," she said, closing the distance. "You're back."

"I said I would be."

He hadn't. But it felt true anyway.

She chuckled. A small, amused sound. "You didn't, actually. Still, I'm glad you're here." She glanced over her shoulder, into the house, and something in her expression flickered. "But… actually, I was just about to head out."

Something cold went down his spine.

"Head out?"

"Ian, Arthur's friend, the one from the town? He and his girlfriend invited me for drinks at the new pub. They've been trying to get me to go for some weeks now, knowing I don’t go out a lot." She shrugged, a little apologetically. "I figured I'd finally take them up on it. Since I didn't know when you'd be back."

Since I didn't know when you'd be back.

It was fair. Completely fair. He never told her. He never could tell her, because he didn't know himself. She understood that. She'd always understood that.

But right now, the understanding didn't help.

Because he knew that name. He remembered the half-eaten chocolate on her coffee table, the way his chest had twisted when he'd realized another male had given her an offering. On Valentine's Day. On a day meant for courtship.

He'd said nothing then. Had no right to say anything. They weren't anything. He'd told himself that over and over, had let himself drown in that denial for months.

But he remembered.

The one who gave her chocolate. The one who had a girlfriend, supposedly, but still gave offerings to another female. The one who, even now, was taking her out at night.

His jaw clenched.

"You're going out with him," he said. Flat. Controlled. The kind of control he'd learned to use when he was trying not to do something he'd regret.

Her brow furrowed. "With him and his girlfriend, Bucky. Both of them.

"You arranged to go out with him."

"I didn't arrange it. They invited me." She paused, and something in her expression shifted, a hint of wariness. "And I told you, his girlfriend is coming too. It's not-" She stopped, exhaled. "It's not what you think."

What I think.

He didn't know what he thought. Only that the name Ian had lodged itself somewhere in his stomach and was burning.

"The chocolate," he said. "On the human holiday. He gave you chocolate."

She stared at him. For a long moment, she didn't speak.

Then, slowly: "That was months ago, Bucky."

"I remember."

"That was different," she said quietly. "We weren't even-” she sighed. “Ian has a long-term partner," she repeated, firmer this time. "And I'm going out with both of them. Not just him. Both."

The emphasis was deliberate. He heard it.

But his blood didn't care. His blood was already moving, already readying itself for a fight that wasn't there.

He looked at her dress again. The soft fabric. The careful way she'd fixed her hair.

She dressed up for him. The thought came sharp and cruel. She dressed up to go out with the male who gave her an offering. Not for me.

And then, quieter: But I never gave her anything. Not on that day. Not when it mattered.

"You didn't tell me," he mumbled, "That you were going out with him."

"Because I didn't know when you'd be back. You don't have a phone, Bucky. You don't tell me when you're leaving or when you're coming back. I can't just sit here waiting; I have a life."

Again, it was reasonable. He knew it was.

But reason had nothing to do with the way he felt.

He'd been trying so hard to do the human thing. The date thing. The effort thing. He'd spent a day swimming and dragging heavy barrels through the sea, all so he could show her something beautiful, something that proved he'd thought about her, that she mattered.

And she was walking out the door.

The words left his mouth before he could stop them:

"I was going to give you a date," he said. The words came out rough, scraped. "Tonight. In the cave."

She went still.

"A date?"

"Yes." He forced himself to meet her eyes. "The human thing. The one we talked about. I was going to show you. But you are going out with him."

He couldn't say the name.

She stared at him. Her lips parted slightly, and something in her expression shifted. Surprise, then confusion, then something softer.

"You were planning a date for tonight?"

"Yes."

"Oh, Bucky." Her voice came out soft, almost careful. "You didn't have to-"

"Don't." He cut her off, rougher than he meant. "Don't say 'not necessary.' I know it's not necessary. I did it anyway."

----

She blinked.

The words hung in the air between them. His jaw was tight, his eyes fixed somewhere past her shoulder, and she watched the muscle in his temple twitch.

He's nervous, she realized.

Bucky. Nervous.

The man who'd faced down his own kind, who'd swum through dark water with nothing but claws and teeth, who'd looked at her like she was the most fragile thing he'd ever held, was nervous.

Because he planned a date.

She'd spent the last few days watching him drift in and out of the cottage, his silences heavier than usual, his eyes distant. She'd told herself it was the sea calling him. That maybe he was figuring out how to tell her he needed space.

And all along, he was planning a date.

She almost laughed.

Almost.

But the look on his face -the way he was bracing himself, like he expected her to tell him it was stupid, unnecessary, too much- stopped her.

"Bucky," she said with a soft voice. "You planned a date for us in the cave?"

His throat worked. "I- yes."

"And you've been working on this for days."

He didn't answer. But the way his eyes flicked away told her everything.

She stepped closer. "I've been thinking you were pulling away."

His head snapped back to her. "What?"

"The silences. The lost gazes. I thought-" She stopped, shook her head. "I thought maybe the sea was calling you. That you were trying to figure out how to tell me you needed… to go."

Something broke in his expression. His hand came up, not quite touching her, hovering near her elbow like he was afraid to make contact.

"No," he said, and the word came out hoarse. "No. I was-" He stopped, jaw working. "I was trying to give you something. The thing we talked about… when we watched that movie." He gestured vaguely, frustration bleeding into the motion. "I thought you deserved that. With effort. With-" He stopped, swallowed.

His eyes met hers, and for a moment, he looked almost lost.

She didn't think. She just moved.

Her arms came around him, pressing her body against his, and she felt the way he went rigid beneath her touch. Every muscle locked, his breath caught somewhere in his chest, held captive by whatever was still coiled tight inside him.

For a heartbeat, he didn't move at all. Just stood there, frozen, like he'd forgotten how to accept comfort.

Then, slowly, something in him gave way.

His arms came up, and she felt it, the faint shake of his fingers against her back. Then his arms closed around her, tighter than she expected, pulling her into his chest like she was the only solid thing in a world that had been shifting beneath him for days.

She felt the breath leave his lungs in a long, shaky exhale, felt the tension in his shoulders begin to loosen, increment by increment, like a rope slowly being untied.

"Okay," she murmured against his chest.

He didn't answer. Just pressed his face into her hair and breathed.

She stayed there, letting him hold her, letting him collect himself. Her hand found the back of his neck, fingers threading through the strands at his nape, and she felt him shiver. Not from cold.

"Okay," she said again, softer this time. "Let's go then. Show me what you prepared."

He pulled back just enough to look at her, his brow furrowing. "But you were going out-"

She almost smiled at the way he said it, all clipped and reluctant, like the words tasted bad.

"I was," she said. Then she reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone. "And now I'm not."

He blinked, confused, as she unlocked the screen and opened the messaging app. She tapped the voice note icon and held the phone up to her lips, watching his face as she spoke.

"Hey Ian, I’m sorry, but something came up, and I won't be able to make it tonight. Nothing bad, so don’t worry. I’m so sorry for the late notice. Tell Hannah I said hi, and enjoy your drinks!"

She pressed send and slipped the phone back into her pocket.

"There. Done. It’s not like they need me as a third wheel."

"Third wheel?" he asked slowly, brows furrowed in confusion. "What would you do with a wheel in a pub?"

She laughed.

"That means you're the extra person when a couple goes out," she explained, caressing his back. "You're the third one. The one who's not part of the couple. It's a little awkward sometimes, because they're focused on each other and you're just... there."

His frown deepened. "Why a wheel? I don't see why it would be a third thing."

"It's just an expression." She smiled, stepping back just enough to take his hand. "I'll explain more on the way."

He didn't move at first, but then he gave a small nod, barely perceptible.

"Okay," he said.

She grabbed his hand and tugged him gently toward the door. "Lead the way. I want to see this date you planned."

As she followed him out into the cool evening air, she felt his fingers tighten around hers. She noticed, too, as they walked, that the tension in his shoulders had eased. His steps were steadier. His jaw, still set, had lost that sharp edge of worry.

There you are, she thought. There's my Bucky.

----

The path to the cave was familiar by now. She'd walked it enough times, in the golden glow of late afternoon and the gray hush of overcast skies. But tonight, something was different.

A faint glow spilled from the mouth of the cave, soft and blue, pulsing like a slow heartbeat against the darkening sky. She slowed, her hand tightening around his. The light wasn't harsh or artificial; it was gentle.

"What is that?" she whispered.

He didn't answer. Just watched her, waiting.

She stepped forward, drawn by the glow, and when she reached the entrance, she stopped.

The cave was transformed.

The pools that usually sat dark and still were now filled with liquid light. Blue and silver and white, shifting and swirling like captured stars, drifting in slow, hypnotic circles across the water's surface.

The light reflected off the wet stone walls, dancing across the ceiling in rippling patterns that made the rock itself seem alive. It was like standing inside a living constellation, like the night sky had decided to come down and make its home in the dark.

She couldn't speak. Couldn't find the words. Her breath caught somewhere in her chest, and she just stood there, drinking it in, letting the wonder settle into her bones.

Then she started moving, her feet carrying her deeper into the cave without conscious thought. The glow grew brighter as she walked, the light intensifying as she passed each pool.

Some were shallow, barely more than puddles of liquid starlight. Others were deeper, the blue so rich it seemed to have weight, like she could reach in and scoop it up in her hands.

And then she saw them, on a flat section of rock that overlooked the largest pool: a nest of blankets had been spread out. And on top of them, arranged with careful precision: a green Tupperware container, and beside it, a bottle of white wine.

She turned slowly, her heart too full for her chest to hold.

He was watching her. Standing just a few feet away, hands at his sides, his face unreadable but his body tight with tension, like he was bracing himself. Like he was waiting for her to tell him it wasn't enough. That he'd gotten it wrong. That she'd expected something different.

"Bucky," she breathed.

He didn't speak. His throat worked, a swallow he couldn't quite hide.

"It's-" She stopped, shook her head, tried again. "It's beautiful. It's so beautiful."

Something in his expression eased, a crack in the armor he'd been wearing for days. "I thought… you would like it," he said, and his voice was a little unsteady.

She crossed the space between them in three quick steps and wrapped her arms around him, pressing her face into his chest. "I love it. I love it."

His arms came around her, and she felt it, the release of tension, the way his whole body seemed to exhale. The grip of his arms was careful, still testing, but the rigid wall he'd built around himself was finally coming down.

She pulled back just enough to look up at him, a smile spreading across her face. "You're the best mate ever."

He went still.

The words hung in the air between them, and she caught the way his jaw tightened slightly, the way his breath caught for just a fraction of a second. His pupils dilated, just a little, and she saw the muscles in his throat work as he swallowed.

"You're the best mate ever," she repeated, softer this time, and she watched him process the word. Mate. His word. His language.

His hand found hers, his fingers closing around her smaller ones, and she felt the slight tremor in them, barely there, but unmistakable. He squeezed gently, and pulled softly at her hand.

"Come," he managed. "Sit with me."

She hesitated a moment.

"Bucky," she said slowly, "don't you want to shift first?"

He stopped, and she saw the brief flicker of uncertainty cross his face. His mouth opened, then closed. When he spoke, his voice was careful, measured.

"I thought... the idea was a date, as a human thing. I assumed you would prefer-"

She reached up, brushing her fingers along his jaw. "I prefer you. Whatever way you want to be tonight. The date isn't just for me, Bucky. It's supposed to be for us. Both of us. I want you to enjoy it too."

He stared at her, processing, and she watched the conflict play out across his features. Then, slowly, a spark of his usual confidence flickered back to life.

"In that case..."

His hands moved to the waistband of his jeans, his fingers finding the buckle with deliberate ease. His eyes never left hers, and there was something in his gaze now, a hint of the old Bucky, the one who knew exactly what he was worth.

She stepped forward, her own hands reaching for his. "Let me help."

His breath caught, just slightly, when her fingers brushed against his, taking over the task of undoing his belt. Then she worked the button free, tugged the zipper down, and let the denim fall. He stepped out of them, and she pushed the fabric aside with her foot.

"You're not just saying that to see me undress?" he murmured, and his voice was low, amused, a hint of the teasing she'd missed.

She laughed softly, her hands sliding up his chest as she pushed his t-shirt up. "One thing is not mutually exclusive from the other."

He hissed as the fabric cleared his shoulders, and she took the opportunity to press her mouth to the curve of his neck, just below his jaw. He tilted his head back, a low sound rumbling in his chest, and her fingers splayed across the warm skin of his torso, feeling the way his muscles tightened beneath her touch.

Then his hands were in her hair, tilting her face up to meet his, and when his mouth found hers, there was nothing careful about it.

This kiss was hungry, deep, the kind that stole breath and made her forget where she ended and he began. His tongue swept against her lower lip, and she opened for him without hesitation, pulling him closer, her fingers digging into the firm muscles of his back. He tasted like salt and something darker, something that was entirely him, and she let herself drown in it.

His hands slid down her sides, gripping her buttocks, pulling her flush against him, and she felt the heat of his body pressed against her through the thin fabric of her dress.

She whimpered against his mouth, and he answered with a low groan, his teeth grazing her lower lip before he soothed it with his tongue.

When they finally broke apart, both of them breathless, his forehead rested against hers, his eyes still dark and heavy-lidded.

"Turn around," he said, his voice rougher now, quieter. "I don't want you to see."

She nodded, but before letting go, her hands slid down to the waistband of his boxers, her fingers hooking into the fabric. "These too," she murmured, “you aren’t a cartoon, and they are not cheap.”

He let out a low sound, almost a growl of surprise, as she slid them down his hips, working the fabric past his thighs until he stepped out of them. Her eyes dropped for just a moment -she couldn't help it- before he gently turned her, guiding her to face the wall. Then he pressed against her from behind.

His body was warm and solid against her back, one hand bracing against the stone beside her head, the other splayed across her hip. His mouth found her ear, breath hot against her skin.

"Now," he said, low and rough. "Stay like that."

She felt the word vibrate through her, felt the heat of his naked chest pressed against her, and for a moment, her body screamed at her to turn around, forget about the date entirely and just climb him like a tree. The thought made her fingers curl against the stone.

She took a breath, steadying herself.

Focus.

But his hand was still on her hip; he was still warm against her back, and the ghost of his breath still lingered at her ear.

It took everything she had to push those thoughts away, to remember that this moment -the cave, the lights, the blankets- was about more than just her wanting him.

She pressed her palms flat against the cool rock and waited.

Behind her, she heard him take a slow, steadying breath, and then he walked away.

Then the sounds began briefly after that. A sickening crack. Bone shifting, rearranging, finding a shape that wasn't meant to be seen. She flinched at the sound, her fingers pressing harder against the stone, and she heard him suck in a sharp breath through his teeth.

He was trying to be quiet. She could tell. He was holding back the sounds he didn't want her to hear.

Another crack, wetter this time, followed by a low, gritted grunt that he couldn't quite swallow. Her eyes squeezed shut. She focused on the texture of the rock beneath her palms, on the rhythm of her own breathing, on anything but the sounds of his body pulling itself apart and putting itself back together.

Then came the soft, wet splash of his limbs meeting the stone floor. One, then another, and another after that, uncoiling into the water, the sound of suction cups releasing and reattaching as he adjusted to his true form.

"Okay," he said, and his voice was lower now, richer.

She turned slowly.

He was half in the water, his torso rising from the dark surface, and his limbs -black and blue and gleaming- curling around him in familiar, graceful arcs. The bioluminescence cast his features in soft blue light, shadows flickering across the angles of his face.

His chest was still heaving slightly, and she could see the fine sheen of sweat on his skin, the evidence of what the shift had cost him.

But he was looking at her like she was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen, and that look made everything else fall away.

She crossed the space between them, her hand reaching for his. He took it, and she let him guide her to the blankets, settling onto the soft fabric with him beside her.

The moment they were seated, his limbs moved with a quiet, possessive certainty. One curled around her waist, another wrapped loosely around her calf, and a third settled across her thighs, heavy and slightly moving. He pulled her closer without a word, and she felt herself relax into his hold, the tension of the past days finally beginning to ease.

Then his nose brushed against her throat. A slow, deliberate inhale. She felt the subtle graze of his lips against her skin, and a shiver traced down her spine.

Her hands found the Tupperware container, and she opened it, the scent of strawberries rising up between them. She pulled one out, holding it up to his mouth.

"Strawberries," she said softly. "You're so damn thoughtful," she added, and she watched a faint flush creep across his cheeks.

It wasn't obvious. Not like a human blush. But she'd learned to read him, to see the subtle shift in his skin, the way his gaze dropped for just a second. It made her heart squeeze.

He reached for the wine next, his fingers closing around the bottle. He examined it, turning it over once, his claws finding the cork. He pulled, once, and it slipped. A low grunt of frustration. He tried again, angling his claw differently, and this time it came free with a soft, satisfying pop.

He looked at the bottle, then at her, then at the cave around them.

"Didn't think of cups," he admitted, and there was something almost sheepish in his voice. Like he'd studied so hard and still forgotten something essential.

She smiled and pressed a kiss to his jaw. "It doesn't matter. I don't need cups. This-" she gestured at the cave, at the glowing water, at the blankets and the fruit and him, "this is more than I could have asked for. It's perfect."

His eyes searched hers, like he was trying to see if she meant it.

"Seriously," she added, and she let her gaze travel across the cave, watching the way the bioluminescence danced across the wet stone walls. The blue light rippled and shifted, casting moving shadows that made the cave feel alive. "It's beautiful. How did you do this?"

His chest rose and fell with a breath. "I found something I could give you," he said. "Something only I could do."

That was all he offered. No details.

She wanted to ask. She could see it in the slight tension in his limbs, the evidence of what the task had cost him. But if he didn't want to talk about it, she wouldn't push.

Because she knew him. Knew that if he wasn't bragging about the effort, it was because it had been more than he wanted to admit.

So she let it go.

----

He watched her take another strawberry from the box, observed the way her fingers closed around the soft red flesh, and he felt proud. His mate liked it. What he'd made. What he'd done. She'd called it beautiful, called it perfect, said she couldn't have asked for more.

She held the strawberry out to him, and he leaned forward, taking it from her fingers with his mouth. Her skin brushed his lips briefly, accidentally and electric. She smiled at him, with a knowing smile, and he felt the satisfaction washing away the exhaustion.

In his world, you didn't press food into someone's mouth and watch them taste it, didn't wait for their expression to shift with pleasure. Didn’t indulge. It was not necessary. It was, plainly worthless.

She took a sip from the wine bottle, her lips wrapping around the glass rim, and handed it to him. He lifted it to his own mouth, tasting the warmth, the faint sweetness that lingered where her mouth had been.

They talked. Nothing important. She asked about the human form again, about the things he'd learned to tolerate. He told her about shoes -how he still hated them, how they felt like cages for his feet- and she murmured soothingly at him, a sound that made his limbs curl tighter around her.

And beneath all the merriness, he could smell it.

Her arousal.

It was subtle, buried under the sweetness of the wine and the salt of the sea air. But it had been there since they kissed, building as the night wore on, a slow, steady heat that made his skin prickle and his thoughts scatter.

He tried to focus on her words. He really did. But his limbs, traitors that they were, had begun to move on their own. One slid higher up her thigh, the suction cups grazing her skin. Another curled around her waist, pulling her closer. He felt the heat of her body through the thin cloth, felt the way she yielded against him, and his jaw clenched.

This isn't how it goes.

He'd watched the movies. The humans in the restaurants, the candles and the wine and the careful rituals, or the walks in the park, or the theatre.

They didn't do what he wanted to do.

They sat across from each other, kept their hands visible, their bodies apart. They talked. They laughed. And when the male escorted the female to the door, maybe they kissed, and maybe they didn't.

But they didn't -he was fairly certain- get distracted by the taste of their mate's arousal while they were still eating.

He could feel his control slipping. His concentration, sharp and focused moments ago, was fracturing. He tried to pull his limbs back, to give her space, to remember the ritual she deserved.

But she shifted against him, and one of his suction cups brushed her inner thigh, and he couldn't. He couldn't.

His mind was spinning, caught between the Thal'kyr part of him that wanted nothing more than to pin her down and fuck her, and the part that wanted to prove he could do this right.

He opened his mouth, tried to form words, tried to remember what she'd been asking him-

"-ucky. Hey."

Her voice cut through the haze, and he blinked, focusing on her face. She was looking at him, her head tilted slightly, a small crease between her brows.

"Are you okay?" she asked, and the question was gentle, but there was something in her voice... concern?

His jaw worked.

"I..." he started, and stopped.

She shifted again, adjusting her position on the blankets, and the movement pressed her thigh more firmly against the limb that had been creeping upward. A soft, involuntary sound escaped her throat -barely a breath- but he heard it.

Felt it.

The last thread of restraint snapped.

"I want to have sex," he blurted. His eyes met hers, almost obligingly. "But that doesn't… happen on dates." He scowled, frustrated. "In the movies, they don't-"

She started laughing.

It wasn't cruel or mocking, and she pressed her hand to her mouth like she was trying to stop it. "Bucky," she said, and her voice was warm, amused, "maybe you watched a very vanilla catalogue of films. It depends on the movie."

He frowned at her, knitting his brow in confusion. "What do you mean, depends-”

She waved a hand, still smiling. "Let's just say-" She leaned closer, her hand finding his, her fingers curling around his, and she looked at him with a gaze that was anything but innocent. "Not all dates end with sex. But plenty do."

He stared at her. She was looking at him with those eyes, her scent curling around him, her hand warm in his, and he felt the last shred of his careful composure crumble.

"Plenty," he repeated, and the word came out rough, hungry.

"Plenty," she confirmed.

She lifted her free hand, counting on her fingers as she spoke. "You brought me to a beautiful place you prepared with care. We sat down. We ate. We drank. We talked."

Her free hand traced a slow, deliberate path across his chest, leaving a trail of heat in its wake.

"I think the date already hit most of the steps." Her fingers splayed flat against his skin, warm and certain. "Which means we could easily move on to the part you're so interested in."

She leaned closer, her lips brushing the shell of his ear.

"With the added bonus that you don't have to walk me home."

He didn't speak.

Couldn't.

Because she was looking at him like that, her scent thick and sweet in his nostrils, her hand warm on his skin, and every thought he'd been trying to hold onto scattered like fish fleeing a net.

He'd done well. He'd provided. He'd created something beautiful, something she'd loved, and now she was offering herself to him in return.

And he was going to take what she offered.

His instincts took control.

His limbs moved before he could think.

They wrapped around her, lifting her body, arranging her. One curled around her waist, another supported her back, and a third slid beneath her thighs, spreading them apart as he settled her onto his lap. She gasped, and then she was straddling him, her hands finding his shoulders for balance, her eyes dark and wanting.

He didn't need to lie her down. His limbs could hold her exactly where he wanted her, could maneuver her however he pleased, could keep her suspended and open and completely at his mercy.

And he wanted her exactly like this.

"Bucky-" she breathed, and he could feel the way her thighs tightened around him, the way her fingers curled into his shoulders.

He smiled. Slowly.

"I like you here," he murmured, his hands finding her hips, guiding her closer. "Right where I want you."

His limbs shifted beneath her, adjusting her position, spreading her wider. He could feel the heat permeating through the thin fabric of her underwear, and the knowledge that she was already so ready for him made him groan.

But before he could do anything else, her hands slid from his shoulders down his chest, her fingers trailing over his skin slowly. She leaned forward, her mouth finding the curve of his neck, and then she bit down, just enough to make him hiss.

His grip on her hips tightened.

"All night," he said, his voice low and rough, "I've been wanting to touch you like this."

Her teeth grazed his skin again, and she ground down against him, shameless and wanting. "Then stop talking about it."

He gently fisted her hair, throwing back her head.

"Patience, mate."

His mouth found her throat, and he breathed her in, slow and deliberate, letting her scent flood his senses.

"Bucky…" she breathed, and her hands came up to frame his face.

He pulled back just enough to look at her, and the expression on his face was pure, unapologetic satisfaction.

"You smell so good," he said, his lips brushing her jaw. "You've been like this all night. I could smell you while we were eating." A low sound rumbled in his chest. "You wanted me the whole time."

She opened her mouth to respond, but he didn't let her.

His mouth covered hers, deep and possessive, and her hands tangled in his hair, tugging; her hips never stopping the grinding against him. His limbs moved with purpose now, one sliding the hem of her dress higher, another finding the edge of her underwear.

He didn't rush. He savored. Every inch of skin he uncovered, he tasted. Every sound she made, he cataloged.

When his mouth finally left hers, trailing down her throat, she gasped his name.

"Tell me," he murmured as his lips grazed her cleavage. "Tell me what you want."

"You know what I want," she breathed, almost whining. "I want you."

His teeth grazed her skin, just enough to make her gasp. "Good."

One of his limbs found its way under her panties, the suction cups grazing the sensitive skin, and she arched against him with a soft cry. He watched her face, watched the way her eyes fluttered, the way her lips parted as he teased her wet, little pearl. He was in control now. He had her exactly where he wanted her.

His mouth found her ear, his voice low and rough.

"Does this happen on dates?" he asked, and there was amusement in his tone now, a hint of the teasing that had always been there beneath the surface. "Does the male do this-" his limb pressed down in a soft, deliberate stroke against her entrance, and she gasped, "-and the woman still eats?"

He pulled back to look at her face, heated and wanting, and he felt pure, unapologetic, masculine smugness.

"Because I don't remember seeing that," he continued, his teeth grazing her lower lip, "in any of the ones you showed me."

She chuckled, breathless, her hands tugging his hair hard enough to make him groan. "Told you, it depends on the movie."

His limb pressed higher, more insistent now, and she moaned against his mouth, her hips rolling desperately against him. Her hands slid down his chest, across his stomach, and he felt her fingers brush against the slit where his cock was still concealed. He grabbed her wrist and removed her wandering hand, with a hiss.

Not yet

"Then I think," he murmured against her lips, "you're going to have to show me that movie later."

His mouth found hers again, hungrier this time, and the rest of his limbs moved with purpose. One slid her dress higher, bunching the fabric around her hips. Another found the edge of her underwear, and started to tug it down with unhurried precision.

His free hand found the strap of her dress, dragging it down her shoulder with more patience than the rest of him seemed to possess. When her breast came free, he didn't reach for it right away, just looked at it, the way she'd looked at the glowing pools. Then his palm covered it, squeezing as a separate limb, uninvited, curled up along her sides to join it, sliding down the fabric covering her other breast, the ring of suction cups closing gently around her nipple.

She gasped at the double sensation -warm palm, cool pull-  and he made a low sound, pleased with himself.

She was so wet. Of course she was. He'd been smelling it all night, had been tasting it in the air between them. But feeling it -feeling the slick heat of her against his suction cups- made something feral rise up in his chest.

"All night," he murmured against her skin, his lips trailing down her throat again, "you were like this. While you ate. While you talked to me." His teeth grazed her collarbone.

She opened her mouth, but whatever she'd been about to say dissolved into a moan as a suction cup of the limb between her thighs closed over her sensitive pearl and pulled.

"So desperate," he said, and his voice was low, rough. "Even when you were eating strawberries and pretending you weren't thinking about this."

She tried to shake her head, but he wasn't having it.

"Don't lie to me, mate," he murmured. "I can always smell it on you. When you want me to take you. When you want my limbs tasting your body. When you want my heavy seed dripping down your delectable thighs."

His limb teased her, sucking and pushing inside, and he reveled in the way her body arched into his touch, the way her hands found his shoulders, the way she moaned his name.

And then, when she was trembling, when her breath was coming in short, little gasps, almost there-

He stopped.

She made a sound of protest, her eyes flying open, and he smiled at her, knowingly.

"Bucky-"

"I want to feel you come around my cock." he said, and his voice was gentle but firm.

He hadn’t let his shaft free on purpose, forcing himself to wait, so as not to end things too fast even if he craved it. Now it was time, so he finally let his concealing slit relax, and his poor, aching shaft pulsed free against her skin.  

He knew she felt it, heavy and throbbing against her belly, and shamelessly rubbed it up and down, wetting her sensitive skin, his eyes never leaving hers.

"You want it?" he asked, as he lifted her with his limbs, grabbing his cock and teasing her folds.

She just nodded. Couldn't speak.

He pressed his tongue against a fang and pushed into her, slowly as always, and observed her face as she took him. The way her lips parted, the way her eyes widened, the way her body yielded to him inch by inch. When he was fully seated inside her, he paused, letting her adjust.

"Fuck," she breathed.

He pressed his forehead to hers, his breath warm against her skin. "You feel so good."

He pulled back slowly, then pushed in again, and the sound she made -low, desperate- made his jaw clench.

"So perfect," he said, and his voice was rougher now. "My mate. My perfect mate."

She ground her hips against him, trying to take him deeper, to get friction, and he nipped her below her jaw.

"You like it?" he asked, finding a slow, deep rhythm. "You like me inside you?"

She nodded, breathless, and he smiled.

"I would usually ask you for words, mate. But since this is a special occasion, I’m not pushing you tonight," he murmured against her skin.

He started to move faster, harder, his limbs wrapped around her, holding her in place as he thrust up into her, teasing her little bundle of nerves with his limbs.

She was gasping, trembling, her fingers digging into his shoulders, and then he felt her starting to clench around him.

"Bucky-" she gasped.

"I know," he said. "I can feel you. I can feel you getting close."

He shifted the angle, pushing deeper still, and she cried out.

"I've got you, mate. I want to feel it. I want to feel what I do to you." He declared, the tip of a limb rubbing mercilessly against her clit as he fucked her.

She shattered around him with a cry, her body clenching, and he followed her over the edge, thrusting once, twice, before stilling and coming with a low, guttural groan.

For a long moment, he stayed there, buried inside her, his limbs wrapped around her, his face against her throat. His breathing was ragged, and he could feel her heart racing beneath his palm.

"Ok, that was-" she started, but she couldn't finish.

He smiled, satisfied.

"I know," he said.

He pulled out slowly, and she made a soft sound of protest. He felt a surge of warmth at the sound, at the way she still wanted him even now.

He settled behind her, his limbs curling around her, pulling her close. He pressed a kiss to her temple, and she sighed, pressing her back into his chest.

"That was a good date," he said after a moment, and she laughed, soft and tired.

"The best date ever." She conceded.

He felt his chest expand with something he couldn't quite name at the praise. Something deep and old.

"So I did good?" he heard himself ask anyway, his voice quieter now, more vulnerable.

She turned a little in his grasp to face him, her body still pressed against his, her limbs tangled with his. Her hands lifted, finding the line of his jaw, tracing along its edge before sliding down to his throat, that sensitive spot where she knew he loved to be touched.

He shivered, his eyes fluttering half-closed at the sensation.

"What do you think?" she murmured, her thumbs stroking slow circles along the column of his neck.

Her touch was deliberate, knowing, and he felt himself relax into it despite the question still hanging between them.

"I think," she continued, her voice soft, "you brought me to a place you made beautiful. You bring strawberries, the first food we shared. You gave me wine. You talked to me." Her thumb brushed over his pulse point. "You made me feel like I mattered."

He opened his mouth, but one of her hands reached his semi-hard shaft, giving it a playful squeeze, and he groaned, his hips jerking involuntarily into her grip.

"And then," she said, a small smile curving her mouth, "you proceeded to remind me exactly why you're the only one I want."

He felt the damn heat in his cheeks and knew he had blushed like an inexperienced pup. He found himself leaning into her touch like a creature starved for it, his eyes half-lidded, his breath coming in slow, uneven pulls.

"So yes," she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. "You did good. You did so good."

He didn't answer. Couldn't. Instead, his hands and limbs started to wander along her body, fingers tracing the curve of her hip, suction cups grazing the soft skin of her lower back, other limbs curled around her thighs. He pressed his face into her hair, breathing her in, and let himself feel the weight of her words in a language that didn't require saying things aloud.

[vunblr]

Tangled Masterlist

Pairing: Cecaelia!Bucky x Female Reader

Tags: Slow Burn. Light Angst. Fluff. Smut.

Warnings: Possessiveness. Teratophilia.

Summary: Between fear and fascination, a solitary creature struggles to protect his shore -and himself- after an unexpected encounter with a curious human woman makes him question everything he thought he knew about trust, danger, and boundaries.

Note: A Cecaelia is a half-man, half-octopus merfolk. It was the winning choice of This poll.

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4

Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8

Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11

Lore and Q&A

Prequels

The Colossal Feat:

Summary: Eleven winters without a mark, eleven mating seasons watching from the shadows. He decides to hunt something impossible, or die trying.

Adrft:

Summary: Liberated but not free, Bucky survives but never quite lives. A story exploring how he ended up in the cave, long before he meets Reader.

Side-Stories

Offerings

Summary: On a February afternoon, in a market full of pink, Bucky discovers a human custom he has no reason to care about. Or does he?

Sequels

The Language of Effort

Summary: He could fight. He could hunt. But when Bucky discovered a human ritual he couldn't quite grasp -dates- he found himself trying to show his mate that he could be more than just a creature of instinct.

Five Dollars and a Hook

Summary: Bucky navigates the impulse of being a provider, struggling with the rules of the human world.

The Old Pull

Summary: There's a difference between being lured and choosing to come closer. She wants to experience the call that's part of him. He wants to make sure she understands what she's asking for. Trust, it turns out, can transform even the oldest hunts.

Spring Tides

Summary: 300w smutty drabble.

Between the Tides

Summary: Bucky achieved what every male of his kind is supposed to want. But the Thal'kyr don't do fatherhood -don't even have a word for it- and now he must figure out how to be something his species never taught him to be.

Dad!Bucky

Summary: Drabble about Bucky dealing with teenage boys at home.

Wonderful Art From Wonderful Readers:

Gorgeous 01 Gorgeous 02 Gorgeous 03 Gorgeous 04 Gorgeous 05 Gorgeous 06 Gorgeous 07 Gorgeous 08

dividers: @/kaitsawamura

[thehornyscriptures]

I love love LOVE this series

[goldiwrites]

crushcrushcrush

pairing: roommate!bucky barnes x female!reader

summary: it was unrequited love at first sight when you met bucky barnes. having a crush on him—your roommate—is hard enough, but hearing him fuck through your shared wall? that almost kills you.

warnings: 18+ MDNI, modern au, lots of plot, fluff, angst, sloooow burn, anxious!reader, kinda insecure!reader, reader works at a bar, cap’s quartet roommates (romanogers !!), swearing, drinking, weed mentions, idiots in love they just don't know it, oblivious!reader (i love her your honour), yearningggg, jealousy, reader crashes tf outttt, miscommunication, one (1) argument, love confessions, pet names (sweetheart, angel, doll, pretty girl), detailed explicit smut, slight dom!bucky, dirty talk, teasingggg, grinding, munch!bucky, oral (f!receiving), fingering, dacryphilia, pussy pronouns, small inspection kink, praise kink, unprotected pnv (don’t do this, friends), missionary, mating press, multiple orgasms, brief sub space, mention of f & m masturbation, happy ending, no use of y/n, reader wears a dress, no physical descriptions of reader, reader's pov, kinda dramatic, briefly proofread, this is not your typical roommate!bucky fic !!

word count: 20.6k (apparently i have this condition where i can't write a short fic)

authors note: i am actually the leader of the 'having debilitating crushes on your roommate' club so... shout out to my girls who have been hearing me yap about this fic for months 😭 thank you to my gorgeous, stunning, one of a kind beta reader @phoenix-in-writing 🫶 yes, i did use some off campus characters as reader's coworkers - there's no subplot with them, they just suited the vibe 😎 likes, reblogs, and comments are very much appreciated (and feed my validation kink)

song inspo: crushcrushcrush - paramore & boyfriend - best coast

divider credits: line dividers by @/omi-resources, heart divider by @/strangergraphics

masterlist

Nothing compares to a quiet evening alone Just the one, two, I was just counting on That never happens, I guess I'm dreaming again Let's be more than, more than this

You knew from the moment you stepped into the Brooklyn brownstone that you were royally fucked. 

Ruffled, sleep mussed, dark brown hair. Slightly squinted, soft, deep blue eyes. A white sleep shirt that loosely clung to the hard ridges of a muscled body. Grey sweatpants that hung dangerously low and showed the shape of him if you stared longer than was appropriate.

And, god, the low, husky voice that you could feel rumble through your body from metres away. The slender, strong, veiny hands that didn't hesitate to grab the box slipping from yours. The pink lips that stretched into an easy smile, pearly white teeth dazzling and rendering you speechless for a minute.

The heat that crawled up your back was instant—your body reacting to your new roommate before you even knew his name.

Attractive men existed, you knew that. The bar you worked at had handfuls of them come in every night, some that even flashed you a flirty smile with interest in their eyes. But you didn't live with any of them—you didn't see them when they were half-awake, their rough edges softened by sleep and early morning light.

He introduced himself as James Barnes, but he requested you call him Bucky—"only my ma calls me James"—, and mentioned he worked as a physiotherapist at the VA.

He was quick to put the box in your new room, running out to the curb to grab the rest of your belongings from the rental van. You stood near the entrance, frozen in shock. Words failed you, your brain failed you—the only thing you could think about was the shift of his back muscles beneath his shirt as he hauled boxes through the door. It was an intoxicating sight, one you didn't even know would affect you.

You quickly came to learn that the problem was Bucky—everything he did had an intoxicating effect on you.

The smile he flashed you as he handed you your morning coffee, the wink he tossed your way when he took your side in your weekly movie night debate with Sam, his laughs that you could hear through your shared wall when he gamed with his friends.

His laughter was one of the most intoxicating things about him. There were the low, deep huffs when he was tired. The louder, harsher ones when he was caught by surprise. Then your favourite—the long, slightly breathless giggles that crinkled the corner of his eyes and had his nose scrunching. Every time you were blessed with them, you could only think about how cute he looked. It made him even more attractive, and you even more infatuated.

When your friend and roommate said that she was going to move into her partner's apartment once your lease was up, the first thing you felt was dread. You didn't know anyone who was looking for a room, nor did you know anyone who was looking for a roommate. The last thing you wanted was to move in with a stranger—having already lived with complete strangers in the past you could not say it was a pleasant experience. Your friend—an absolute angel—was quick to tell you that a coworker at her law firm was looking for a roommate, and she assured you that Nat would not break into your room and steal your jewellery like your first ever roommate did.

While you weren't exactly ecstatic to move in with four best friends, Nat had quickly won you over when you met for coffee. You sat down feeling like a complete contrast to her—sporting an old sweatshirt over your sweaty work uniform while she was in a creaseless emerald pantsuit. But she made you feel completely at ease—offering up embarrassing college stories about her and the guys, asking you about yourself and actually seeming interested, talking about the brownstone with so much adoration in her voice you couldn't help but love it already.

You felt awkward living with the close knit friends at first—shuffling on your feet as the four of them lounged on the couches, pulling at the loose threads on your sweater as you sat and listened to them bicker.

Fortunately, it didn't take long for you to find your place in the group. Sam played a big part—his teasing and infectious personality making you feel at home within a week. He didn't let you retreat into yourself; he pestered you with a mix of random and personal questions—"what extinct animal do you most identify with" followed by "what was your first heartbreak"—, teased you about your cooking (to which he always stole a mouthful), and was just warm—and yeah, slightly chaotic.

Nat and Steve quickly became one of your favourite couples. They weren't heavy on the PDA—unless red wine was involved—and they balanced each other out perfectly. She was loud, he was quiet. After a few too many on a night out she was ready to start a fight with any asshole who dared to look her way, and he was there to gently steer her away by the shoulders and remind her it wasn't worth ruining her fresh manicure.

Despite having some opposite traits, they were both incredibly kind and comforting people—truly living up to their titles of being the household's mom and dad. Nat was there for you after your gruelling shifts, holding either a glass of wine or mug of hot chocolate. Steve was the one knocking on your door with a bowl of soup and bag of medicine when you had the flu.

And then there was Bucky. He was just as kind, a good middle between Sam's chaotic nature and Steve's quiet one, and he made you feel seen.

Uncomfortably so.

He was the one next to you during social gatherings, gently nudging his shoulder against yours in a silent check in. He was the one suggesting fresh air when your breathing picked up incrementally. He was the one staring at you like he was captivated, sitting forward as you rambled about your niche interests.

Bucky noticed you, paid attention to you, like no one else had in your life.

He remembered what mugs you liked, making sure to use one of them when he made you both coffee—he remembered that too, the way you liked your coffee made. He bought you more body wash when you complained about running out but not having time to go to the shop before your shift. He sat next to you as you rewatched your comfort shows for the fifth time, asking questions like he was genuinely interested—a welcome contrast to Sam's mocking comments.

Each day he was in your life, looking at you like you were worth knowing, was just another day you fell deeper.

And then there were the moments. There weren't many, only a handful, but they were burned into your memory.

The first was when you came back after brunch with old friends, wearing a white sundress that made you feel pretty.

Bucky was in the kitchen, leaning against the counter while eating an apple. You smiled in greeting as you walked in, grabbing a glass to fill with water. You sneaked a side glance at him like you always do when he's in the same room as you, catching his eyes already on you—drifting from the bottom of your dress up to your chest. You watched his adam's apple bob in his throat as he swallowed.

"That's a nice dress, sweetheart."

Goosebumps erupted across your skin at his low drawl, a warmth spreading in your core from the pet name. He had never called you that before.

He pushed off the counter and walked out of the kitchen, acting like those five words hadn't changed your whole day—your whole life.

Where once you thought the dress was pretty, you now saw it as a lifeline—tethering you to the hope that Bucky might just like you back. You found reasons to wear it more often; making an effort to hang out in the common spaces when you came back home wearing it, delaying changing into your comfortable clothes because Bucky wasn't home yet and you wanted him to see it. To see you.

The second moment was when the five of you were at a birthday party for one of Sam's army buddies.

Nat and Steve had left after only being there for half an hour—Nat giggling to you on their way out, telling you and the boys to hold off on coming back home for a couple of hours. Sam was in the lounge with a large crowd hanging on to his every word as he retold his war hero stories— to which Bucky was quick to throw you a look, raising his hands to mimic being strangled, making you laugh and receive dagger eyes from Sam.

The two of you made your way outside towards the game of beer pong being set up. Bucky was quick to accept their offer to join in and that's how you found yourself standing opposite him, a sticky fold out table between you—the ping pong ball in your hand shaking, your breath catching as his lips tilted into a smirk. His eyes were as dark as the sky, the moonlight making them twinkle with their own constellations—staring straight into yours with a silent challenge, daring you to miss your next shot. His tongue sweeping over his bottom lip stole your attention and your hand faltered, the ball almost dropping out of your grip.

"You got this, sweetheart."

Time slowed down as the ball left your hand, your eyes watching it sail through the crisp night air while Bucky watched you. It dropped to the table with a pathetic, dull tock—inches away from any of the red solo cups. Bucky's smile grew even more lopsided, his eyes gleaming with mirth.

"Better luck next time, angel."

What the fuck was with him calling you these stupid, heart stuttering, knee trembling pet names?

Your beer pong partner was quick to brush off your missed shot, chuckling at your flustered expression and offering to help you with your stance. The game continued with you almost missing every shot, your partner guiding you with hands on your hips in the hopes of you sinking a cup. His arms wrapped around your waist when you made your first successful shot, but it wasn't his attention that had your mind clouding—you couldn't even say it was the alcohol flowing through your veins. No, it was the look of pride on Bucky's face that had you freezing, everything else around you fading away until all that remained was shining midnight eyes and curved pink lips.

God, how you wished the arms around your waist were his.

The guys you were playing with retreated inside after the game ended, with your partner telling you to find him before you left, throwing you an easy smile over his shoulder.

Bucky and you lingered in the fresh air, slowly walking towards the backdoor, your bare arm brushing against his denim jacket with every step. Music and laughter trickled out of the open windows, the noise softening in the cool breeze before it reached you. Despite the calm, you felt your body vibrate with a persistent buzz—Bucky's close proximity and the beer you downed making it hard to find the line between your feelings and reality.

"You do realise he was flirting with you, right?" Bucky's voice broke the silence. You turned your head to find him already gazing at you—soft eyes a contradiction to his clenched jaw.

You scoffed, looking at him like he'd grown another head. "What, no he wasn't."

"Uh yeah, he definitely was. The 'let me fix your stance' play is the oldest trick in the book and has a pretty decent success rate." He chuckled softly, shaking his head with an uptick of a smile. "Not with you, though." He paused, giving you a teasing wink. "I'll keep that in mind."

The wink had your body flushing with heat, the words I'll keep that in mind burrowing into your lovesick heart and amplifying the buzzing. Your words stumbled on their way out."Th-there's no way he was flirting with me—he's way out of my league."

Bucky stopped in his tracks, turning to face you fully with a deep crease between his eyebrows. The gentle breeze swept a strand of hair over his face, your hand twitching with the need to brush it behind his ear.

His voice dropped low, the teasing tone subduing. "What are you on about? Tell me you know that's not true, doll."

You crossed your arms over your chest, feeling exposed and vulnerable under the intimacy of the dark sky. You shivered, not just from the cooling wind caressing your bare arms. You gave a small shrug in response.

Bucky started to take his jacket off, exposing the black t-shirt that hugged his biceps a little too tight for your sanity. "While I don't believe in the whole people being in different leagues thing, I can confidently say you are so far out of his league you're on a whole nother planet."

"…Are you saying I'm an alien?"

"If the shoe fits," Bucky responded, a fraction of his seriousness easing into a cheeky smile. He draped his jacket over your shoulders, his thumbs brushing the sides of your neck as he fixed the collar—another shiver running down your spine from his faint touch. The warm, rich scent of his cologne and him wrapped around you and dragged you under—the scent that you now associated with home.

Bucky's eyes met yours, the starlit blue swirling with something you couldn't quite decipher. His hands moved from the collar of his jacket to the hem, fingers toying with the rough fabric. "No, what I'm trying to say is that you're—" he licked his lips, trying to find the right words. "Any guy would be lucky to have you, but I don't think anyone is deserving of you."

Your brain short-circuited, the haze of rose coloured glasses starting to fall over your eyes—threatening to distort the Bucky in front of you with the one you stayed up late daydreaming about.

You found a smaller version of your voice. "I…I'm not that special, Buck."

He tugged on the hem, the force pulling the jacket tighter around your shoulders. "No? Then why are you the only person—other than Steve—that I let call me Buck?"

You stared at him, unblinking. You didn't realise other people didn't call him Buck—the nickname just slipped from your lips so naturally after the first month of living with him.

"One of these days, I'm going to make you see yourself how I do."

He leaned in, brushing the faintest of kisses on your forehead—the mere ghost of his lips burning your skin, eliciting a cascade of sparks to run down your body. He stepped back, stuffing his hands in his pockets and tilted his head towards the door.

"Let's get back inside before Sam tells everyone about the time he had to save you from a raccoon."

"He had very sinister looking eyes!" You cried indignantly. "And I was really stoned—remind me to never have one of Nat's brownies ever again."

The third moment happened during your bar's weekly quiz night.

The four of them were in their usual booth for the night—the one Sam demanded you reserve for them ever since you mentioned your work had a quiz night on Tuesdays. Nat and Steve were sitting on one side, each nursing a pint of craft beer, with Sam and Bucky sitting opposite them—the latter half hanging out of the booth with his hand raised in a beckoning gesture, shooting you one of those irresistible half smiles that made the butterflies in your stomach flutter.

You rolled your eyes at him, knowing exactly what he wanted—but you couldn't stay away from that smile, even if it was starting to get you in trouble at work.

You walked over to them, pocketing your pen and notepad before stopping next to Bucky, your eyebrows raised and arms folded.

"What do you want now?"

"Can I please place an order for the answer to question five?" Bucky held the quiz sheet up to you, pointing at the blank space next to number five like it was a menu. "Oh, and question eight." His smile evolved into a endearing grin, your heart aching traitorously at the sight.

"No."

The smile dropped a fraction, not expecting you to say no to his charm. "C'mon, you're the one here who knows niche pop culture the best—even Sam is stumped. I know you know the answers."

You nodded, looking at the sheet in his hand before his puppy dog eyes made you crumble. "You're right, I do. I'm not giving them to you, though."

"I thought I was your favourite." His voice dropped like he was genuinely upset, but his twitching cheeks gave away the smile he was suppressing. Sam scoffed next to him, Nat and Steve exchanged a knowing look. You ignored them.

Bucky put the sheet on the table, patting it softly like he was about to make a deal. "How 'bout this—I'll make you dinner for a week." He carefully watched your face, trying to find a crack in your resistance. "Two weeks."

You sighed, dropping your arms to your sides. "Bucky, the prize is only a fifty dollar bar tab."

Bucky shook his head. "It's not about the prize, it's about the glory of winning four weeks in a row." He squinted his eyes, tilting his head in the way you knew meant he was thinking—probably something stupid, too. "Wait—is there another prize for that?"

You scoffed, tempted to hit him with your notepad. "Yeah, you get put on the no entry list."

Nat and Steve snickered at Bucky's clearly offended face, and you bit your lip to hold back your smile—he looked too cute, it was tugging at your heart strings.

"Besides," you continued, "you only won them because you cheated."

He raised his hands in mock defence. "Hey, not my fault the pretty waitress was more than willing."

Sam choked on his beer, spluttering a mouthful onto the table. Your eyebrows skyrocketed, heat rushing to your cheeks and ears at his choice of words.

Bucky's cheeks lit up red and he ran a hand through his hair. "No—wait, I didn't—that wasn't what I meant." He nervously chuckled. "What I meant was that you're more than willing to help—help us…" He trailed off, turning and shooting Steve a look.

Some of the tension left your shoulders, along with some of the hope you always carried that Bucky liked you more than a friend. You cleared your throat, your heart rate struggling to slow down after 'pretty waitress'.

"Maybe I've grown a conscience." You looked slightly to your left, your eyes flicking to your manager standing at the end of the bar, narrowing her eyes at you.

Bucky chuckled softly, his confidence back even with his cheeks still glowing. He crossed his arms on the table, leaning towards you. "Are we gettin' you in trouble, sweetheart?"

"There's no we in this, Barnes. It's all you." Nat interjected, pointing a perfectly manicured finger at him. He gave her a dismissive wave, his eyes still looking at you expectantly.

"She said if you win one more time then she's going to put me on the bar for quiz nights—something about testing a theory…" You admitted quietly. You watched his blue eyes soften, his previous amusement dissipating.

"Well, we can't have that happening." He said, serious. "I would stop coming to quiz night."

"Yeah, right." Sam muttered into his beer.

"You'd be on the no entry list anyways, Buck." You said to Bucky, your tone lilting jokingly.

He tilted his head, the right side of his mouth twitching, his eyes looking like a sky full of secrets.

"You wouldn't do that to me, doll. You like me too much."

Your stomach dropped at his low voice, his words piercing right into the chamber of your heart he had unknowingly etched his name on. A breath got stuck in your throat, your usual witty banter getting lost in the sea of thoughts that only screamed his name.

Like an angel pulling you from a seizing riptide, your managers voice called out your name—saving you from saying something stupid, something that exposed how you had gone past the boundary of like six months ago, stepping into a dangerous territory that could tear you apart.

"Duty calls," you laughed out breathlessly, pointing a thumb over your shoulder. You turned on your heels and walked away like you were on fire.

Sam's low mutter made its way to you through the hum of soft pop music and chatter. "Get a room already, for fuck's sake."

Your shoe scuffed on the hardwood floor, your feet almost tripping over each other. You caught your balance—narrowly avoiding falling and making a fool of yourself in front of the guy you're hopelessly in love with.

You reached your manager waiting at the end of the bar, overcome with the desire to kiss her in gratitude.

"I need you to cover the bar while Dean has a smoke. He'll be ten minutes, tops."

You nodded your okay, used to covering the bar for your coworkers breaks. "Unless a pretty girl walks past, then he'll be at least thirty."

Your manager hummed in agreement. "Remind me to dock his pay for pulling that shit on Saturday. Boy gets enough tips from his flirting to make up for it."

You exchanged a small laugh, walking around her to go behind the bar. She touched your forearm as you passed, stopping you with a gentle touch.

"Word of advice?" She started, voice a little quieter. "Don't screw the crew."

You stared at her with furrowed brows, confused. "What? I would never sleep with Dean, that's just—ew, who knows how many untreated diseases he has." You visibly shuddered your disgust at the idea of hooking up with your coworker who was always chasing tail.

She nodded her head in the direction you came from. "They're your roommates, right?" You nodded slowly. "Hon, you look at him like you can't decide whether you want to run in the opposite direction or get on your knees."

Heat rose beneath your skin, your body freezing in mortification. You gaped at her, your mouth opening and closing until you pushed out a forced laugh.

"What—you're—that's ridiculous. You should get your eyes checked because that's, like," you laughed nervously, panic starting to burn through your rib cage, "he's like…a brother to me?" You phrased it like a question, your voice rising uncharacteristically high at the end.

She gave you a deadpan look, not buying a lick of your bullshit. Your shoulders dropped in defeat, your teeth starting to tear at your inner cheek.

"Is it…am I really that obvious?"

She sighed, her hand on your arm giving a reassuring squeeze. "I've worked with you long enough to know when someone is making you uncomfortable, when you're seconds away from exploding at a condescending customer, or when you want to jump over the bar and climb a guy like a tree." She paused for a second, pursuing her lips in thought. "Funnily enough, they all looked like him."

She let go of your arm, nodding towards the bar. "Now, stop thinking about fucking your roommate and get to work. I'm pretty sure table seven just ordered six espresso martini's." She gave your ass a friendly swat, pushing you behind the bar and making you throw your head back with a startled laugh.

You grabbed the docket from the POS printer, seeing an order for five espresso martini's and one spicy mango margarita. You walked down to the cocktail section, hands moving on autopilot as you prepared the margarita first.

Your eyes flicked up out of habit, your attention drawing towards the booth your roommates had practically scratched their names into—finding a pair of piercing blue eyes already gazing at you. The tequila bottle in your hand shook.

Don't screw the crew.

The last moment occurred during a typical movie night, where yours and Sam's raised voices warranted a domestic disturbance call from your neighbours.

"Oh my god, we are not watching Top Gun for the third time this month!" You exclaimed exasperatedly, throwing your head back against the couch with a groan.

Sam scoffed from his spot sprawled on his stupidly large beanbag—the one you're fairly certain is a dog bed for a Great Dane. "Oh, like your suggestions are any better? You made us sit through a fucking Twilight marathon a couple weeks ago! That's precious time I'll never get back."

You glared at him. "That's bullshit, Wilson—I didn't make you do anything. You chose to sit in that exact same spot and watch all five movies." A mocking smile twitched your lips. "And, if I remember correctly, you were the one asking me to pause the movie while you went to get more snacks."

Sam shook his head adamantly. "No, what's bullshit is your taste in movies—I only sat through it so you wouldn't feel bad!"

Nat and Steve were cuddled up on the couch perpendicular to you, their eyes darting back and forth between you and Sam like they were watching a tennis match. Bucky was sitting on the other end of the couch you were on, legs spread wide with a soda in one hand—his eyes shooting daggers at Sam.

You let out a harsh laugh. "Oh, really? So you crying when you thought Carlisle was dead was just you not wanting me to feel bad?"

"Yes!" Sam yelled, throwing his hands up in the air. Then he paused, processing what you just said. "Wait, no—there was no crying! I just acted sad for your benefit."

You opened your mouth to refute his statement when a deep, husky voice rumbled out from next to you.

"Sam," Bucky started, tone low and final, "stop lying, I saw you wiping your eyes." He continued glaring at Sam, his shoulders more tense than they were a minute ago. "Apologise to her so we can move on."

Sam looked at him like he had lost his mind. "Apologise? What the fuck do I have to apologise for?"

Bucky nodded towards you, darkened blue eyes still narrowed at Sam menacingly. "You said her taste in movies was bullshit. Apologise."

You were suddenly speechless—not sure how your usual movie night bickering with Sam led to Bucky being so…commanding. Protective.

You looked over to the other couch, catching Nat's eye—her mouth overtaken by a knowing smile. Your eyes darted to Steve next to her, his cheeks tinted pink and eyes squinted as he looked at his best friend—a sly smile partially hidden by the can he brought to his lips.

Sam shook his head with a disbelieving laugh, grabbing the TV remote off the coffee table.

Bucky reached out a long leg, giving Sam's beanbag a firm kick. "Now."

"Jesus," Sam dragged out, "chill out, man." He turned to you with a sigh, brown eyes glinting as he gave you his best puppy dog expression. "I am truly sorry for calling your movie taste bullshit. I will gladly sit through ten Twilight marathons if that's what you want."

He turned to Bucky with a smug grin. "There, I apologised to your girl. You happy now?"

A breath hitched in your throat, your brain freezing and going offline.

Your girl.

Said so easily, so naturally. Like it was a fact and not a mocking taunt.

Goosebumps prickled across your skin, a pleased shiver running through you at the thought of being Bucky's girl.

Bucky glared at Sam, the apples of his cheeks dusting pink. "Very." He said before leaning forward and snatching the remote out of Sam's hand. He turned to you, cheeks still flushed but eyes considerably softer. "What do you want to watch, doll?"

"…Shrek 2."

Groans erupted from three of your roommates, the fourth keeping his eyes on you while he shook his head with a fond laugh—the one that showed his pearlescent teeth and crinkled his eyes. The one that was your damnation, sentencing you to a life of yearning and false hope.

"It's the soundtrack, right?"

You nodded eagerly, a bright smile making your cheeks ache. "I knew you would get me, Buck."

You faintly heard a fake gagging sound come from the nuisance being swallowed by a beanbag, but you couldn't care less. Not when Bucky was looking at you like you were an astronomical phenomenon.

Condensation beaded glasses stained the wooden tabletop, chewed paper straws slowly disintegrating in melted ice. A half eaten bowl of fries grew stale in the middle of the table—your manager's attempt to get some food in her staff while they abused the (prepaid) leftover function alcohol, yourself included. The disco ball was still spinning, sending a thousand shards of light dancing throughout the empty bar, while an ABBA track murmured softly beneath laughter and gossip.

"I'm telling you," Dean said, spreading his arms over the back of the booth, "the ladies can't get enough of me."

The booth packed full of your coworkers vibrated with long groans, someone to your left loudly booing and your manager threatening to throw her gin and tonic in his face. You shoved his arm off the seat behind you, earning yourself a pinch to your cheek as his arm retreated.

"I'm serious!" Dean continued, pulling his phone out of his jean's pocket. "One of them even left a review about me last week—hold up, I'll get it." He squinted against the glowing light from his screen, bringing up the bar's google page to show everyone.

"Here it is—last Saturday: bartender was cute, would drink here again. Five stars." He leaned back in the booth with a smug smile, barely reacting when your manager ripped his phone out of his hand.

"Did you see who left the review, dingus?" She asked him, her mocking smirk overpowering his. "I don't know about you, but I don't know any ladies who go by the name James." She waved the phone in his face before going back to reading the review.

Dean recovered quickly, holding his hands up with a shrug. "I'm not opposed to having male admirers—they're some of my biggest tips."

You snorted a laugh. "Oh, I bet they are."

The table dissolved into laughter around you, the liquor and line cook's joint lowering everyone's inhibitions.

Your manager looked up from the phone at you, her eyes lighting up. "Weren't you also working on the bar last Saturday?"

You took a sip of your drink, lifting a shoulder in a half-shrug. "I think so? Was that the night we had two bachelorette parties come in?"

"Yeah, we ran out of cold brew because of them." Dean said. "I set a new record for how many numbers I could get in one night."

You rolled your eyes, choosing to ignore him like everyone else at the table. "Yeah, I was definitely on the bar—my arms are still aching from shaking espresso martini's all night."

Your manager leaned forward, her glassy eyes glinting at you teasingly. "I think this review is about you," she said in a sing-song tone.

You couldn't help but feel a little giddy at someone leaving you a review calling you cute, even if they were most likely stumbling drunk.

Allie—your fellow waitress who was sitting on the other side of Dean—grabbed the phone and read the review herself, scrolling on the screen with her eyes growing wider until a delighted gasp left her.

She looked at you with a beaming smile. "This James guy has been leaving reviews about you for months."

"What?"

She nodded eagerly, a small squeal leaving her. "This is so good, nothing this exciting ever happens here!" She was almost bouncing in her seat as she looked back at the phone, her excitement shaking the booth. "Okay, this one is from Valentines Day: waitress's frown is cute, I still should've bought her flowers." She fell back against the booth seat, clutching the phone to her chest with a dreamy sigh.

Your heart stuttered, the tipsy fog in your head clouding further. "That's—it doesn't say my name…" you trailed off with a nervous laugh. "It could be about any of the waitresses."

Your manager snorted. "We called you sourpuss the whole shift, you wouldn't stop frowning."

Before you could start your rant about how Valentine's Day is just another highly commercialised holiday and people shouldn't need a specific day of the year to celebrate love, Allie started reading out another review.

"This one is from four months ago: come to this bar if you want to see a real-life angel."

Dean groaned, "that's so fucking cheesy." He turned to look at you, "I hope you're not falling for this shit."

"We don't even know if it's about me!"

"I think it's cute," the new waitress piped in from the other end of the booth. "You've got a secret admirer."

"More like a stalker." One of the line cooks mumbled.

"Oh," Allie gasped, "this man has it bad. These are borderline love confessions." She reached past Dean, handing you his phone with the review page still open.

You hesitantly grabbed the phone from her, your heart beating rapidly in your chest. There's no way some guy was leaving these reviews about you…right? That just seems insane, like something out of a romcom. Or something that will end with a restraining order and you moving states away.

The phone faintly trembled in your unsteady hands, your eyes narrowing against the screen's bright glare.

James B.

★★★★★ a month ago

Wars were started over smiles less beautiful than hers.

Oh.

That's maybe the most romantic thing anyone has ever said about you.

You don't know if it's about you.

You exhaled shakily, shrugging nonchalantly as you handed the phone back to Dean. "He could be talking about any of the waitresses." You repeated your earlier statement. And then for good measure—"It's hardly a compliment—wars are started over literally anything."

Allie looked at you with wide eyes, bringing her hands up and shaking them in a strangling motion.

"Do you know anyone called James?" Your manager probed, clearly invested.

"No." You answered, ignoring the dull, tingling sensation at the back of your head. "No one significant."

"Well, even if he does turn out to be a stalker, at least he boosted our ratings."

Over the next few weeks, your coworkers had made it their personal mission to find out the identity of James B. Your manager had the brilliant idea to set up a weekly bar tab giveaway—for people to be in the draw they just needed to put their business card in a jar on the bar. What your customers didn't know was that every Friday after close, Allie and Dean were emptying the jar not to find a lucky winner but to look for any cards with the name James B.

It turned out there were a few more James B.'s than they were expecting, and there were no other parameters to narrow down their search. And much to their chagrin, you didn't recognise any of their names.

"Wait!" Dean exclaimed, holding a finger in the air. "Why don't we just reply to one of his reviews?"

"Oh," Allie said, leaning forward in her chair, "that's actually kind of smart. Maybe we could say we have a thank you gift for our number one fan?"

"Or we could just ask who he is."

Something about that made you uneasy.

After the night you all first discovered the reviews, Allie had drawn up a timeline of them which revealed this James guy had been leaving reviews for a year. And while they never mentioned your name, everyone knew they were about you—but you didn't want to believe that; it felt absolutely insane.

Majority of the reviews were brief and mundane, similar to the first one Dean saw. But a few of them…they read like poetry, like the pages out of someone's journal. They mentioned your smile, how your laugh could cure any ailment, that being in your presence was like witnessing a supernova.

It was beautiful and terrifying.

And every day it was looking more like a stalker than someone you knew—you didn't want to give him attention in fear that it could evolve from something harmless to dangerous.

"Already tried that," your manager sighed next to you. "He didn't reply."

Something in the atmosphere felt off when you shouldered the brownstone's front door open with a heavy sigh. It was well past midnight on a Saturday, and the soft murmuring you would usually hear coming from the lounge—Sam had a habit of passing out in front of the TV on Saturday night's—was nonexistent. You didn't think much of it, your mind single-focused on needing a scolding hot shower to wash away the ten hour bar shift.

Your work uniform was drenched and sticking to you uncomfortably, a crust of sugary cocktails and beer lining your skin. It had been one disaster after another—the beer keg soaking you as you tried to tap it, the cocktail shaker exploding in your hands, the new waitress who failed to call out "behind" and you ended up covered in a customers chili cheese fries.

You welcomed the boiling water, scrubbing your skin until it was red and raw. Visible steam swirled from your body even after you retreated into your room, and only then did some of the tension ease from your shoulders. Your fatigue ran bone deep—it felt like you were dragging your feet through mud as you slowly started your nighttime routine.

A noise cut through the eerily silent night, soft and faint, but an unmistakable echo from the room next to yours. It made you pause, your eyebrows drawing together. Then more noise followed, three breathy high pitched moans that the wall separating your rooms failed to drown out. A hot realisation curdled your stomach, rising through your body until it settled in your chest and throat—a tight, unrelenting fist clenching and making it harder to breathe.

Bucky had company.

Your ears zeroed in on the noises against your wishes. The last thing you wanted was to hear the guy you had a debilitating crush on fuck someone else. And yet, you stood frozen—your towel still wrapped around you, water dripping onto the floor, heart trying to beat out of your chest. Your nervous system had entered fight or flight mode, triggered by the sounds of another woman's pleasure.

Sweat started to line your back, your hands trembling where they were clutching the towel, chest stuttering as your breaths turned sharp and quick.

The moans grew in volume and soft thuds reverberated against the wall—then, a faint low murmuring graced your ears. A deep voice you would recognise anywhere, that you had heard through the wall plenty of times during your one year living there.

You snapped out of your shock, ripping open your work bag to find your headphones. Your phone shook in your hands as you searched for 'calming' playlists, your thumb jabbing violently at the first result. You turned the volume up loud enough to vibrate your eardrums, but the damage was already done.

You paced the length of your room, clenching and unclenching your fists in an effort to calm down—to will your racing heartbeat to slow, to tamp down the spiralling thoughts that made you feel like you were drowning.

You got ready for bed in a blur, trying to stay as quiet as possible with your heart beating wildly in your throat. The exhaustion that had your bones aching after your shift was lingering, but had been overwhelmed by the adrenaline surging through your veins. You laid in your bed, trying to concentrate on your breathing.

Inhale. One, two, three, four.

Hold. One, two—

It didn't sound like she was faking it.

The breath rushed out of you quickly.

You squeezed your eyes shut tight, clenching your fists and trying to focus on the sensation.

Inhale. One, two, three—

Bucky's bed is pressed up against your shared wall.

You grabbed the pillow next to you and pressed it against your face, something between a pained whimper and frustrated groan leaving your throat.

Did he like to talk? Was he whispering dirty things in her ear, telling her how good she felt, how much he wanted her? Did she get to hear him moan and whimper?

The music in your ears had become irritating, overstimulating you even more. But there was no way in hell you were taking your headphones off—your heart was already broken enough.

Did he call her sweetheart, too?

You slept for two hours, maybe three if you were being generous. The exhaustion won out against the anxiety around two am, only for you to jerk awake two hours later when the same noises echoed through the wall. At some point in the night your headphones had slipped off and you were defenceless against the noises your body had already filed as a threat.

Your nervous system reacted as if you were being hunted down by a lion, not overhearing your roommate-slash-crush have sex. It was a horrible way to wake up—your body pumping full of adrenaline and cortisol before you even took a deep breath.

The headphones went back on a second too late—leaving a scratched record of giggles looping through your head that the music couldn't drown out. One giggle that you knew well, that had you beaming with pride whenever you coaxed it out of him.

A silent tear slid down towards your ear, disappearing into your hairline as you stared at the ceiling.

Hours passed before it felt safe for you take the headphones off, and even then anxiety gripped your chest whenever you thought about leaving your room. Everything that had once felt safe, had once felt like your solace, now felt like a prison.

You knew you were being dramatic, knew that your jealousy and hurt was unreasonable. Bucky wasn't yours, he would never be yours—you knew that, you'd always known that. But that's the thing with crushes—they are irrational, uncontrollable beasts that mistake kindness for attraction, that disguise inevitable heartbreak as fluttering butterflies.

Opening your bedroom door slowly, you saw the flash of a towel dart into Bucky's room—two faint sets of giggles sounding behind the closed door, slicing into your aching heart. Heat burst behind your eyes and you willed the tears to stay at bay—at least until the shower could drown out your sobs.

You sat on the floor of the shower, staring at the wall while hot water rained down on you, each drop feeling like a knife piercing your skin. You sat there, unblinking, as your vision blurred—the water washing away your endless tears. You sat there as the shower stream changed from a burning fire to an icy bite, your body shivering but unmoving.

Nat's banging on the door about rising water prices snapped you out of your dissociative daze.

"Bucky! Oh, fuck—don't stop, please—"

"Yeah? You like that?"

"Yes—god, so much!"

"You feel so good, baby."

Thump, thump, thump.

You had taken your headphones off for half a minute while getting changed. All it took was thirty seconds for tears to swell in your eyes and a silent scream to claw at your throat.

It had been four weeks since you first heard them. Four weeks of knowing your crush was fucking someone else less than three metres from your bed. Four weeks of debilitating anxiety and heartache consuming you until there was nothing left to take.

You knew their routine; she came over every Wednesday and Saturday, always after ten pm. Depending on your roster for the week, sometimes you were home when she came over—subjected to hearing Bucky's low baritone greet her at the door, their footsteps padding down the hall past your room, the soft click of his door closing and the giggles that followed.

You fucking hated giggles.

By the end of the second week, you had put in a request to work the closing shift every Wednesday and Saturday. The tightness in your chest and churning in your stomach never faded, but you took some comfort in knowing you would only be in the same house as her for a few hours. You hadn't met her—you didn't even know her name—but you were envious of a faceless woman, a voice you heard in the dark, because she had the one thing you wanted but could never have.

No one brought her up—there were no casual chats between the boys, no probing questions from Nat. Apart from the first time, she was out of the house by six am—narrowly avoiding Sam and Steve leaving for their morning run. You weren't even sure they knew she existed—not until Nat gave you a sympathetic smile over a glass of wine, confirming that they did in fact know without uttering a word.

The usual nights the five of you spent together continued as normal. Or, at least as normal as you could manage. The space between you and Bucky grew—he stopped trying to charm quiz answers out of you, and you hugged the arm of the couch like it was a life preserver during movie night. The soft conversations over morning coffee ceased to exist, the nights of you two reading together in the lounge just a hazy memory.

The distance made your heart yearn for him while his proximity made your nervous system overload. It was a push and pull that sucked the life out of you, exhausting you until you were a shell of who you used to be.

When Sam asked you what your first heartbreak was you instantly thought of Liam Turner from the sixth grade. He was the classic class clown that both charmed and annoyed all the girls in your grade. He sat next to you during History and English, always pestering you for help and trying to make you his partner in crime. You did what any smitten eleven year old girl would do—you handed him a note. It was simple, you didn't even write your name—just "do you like me" with tick boxes for yes and no. You handed it to him before recess and watched with bated breath as he ran to his group of friends, watched as all of them turned to you and fell into hysterics. You crashed into your mom's arms once you got home from school, sobs wracking your body as you felt like you were going to die from the crushing sensation in your chest.

What you felt that day wasn't even a drop in the agony that consumed you when you walked into the lounge for movie night.

"You're late!" Nat yelled, her voice travelling down the hall as you rushed through the front door.

"I know, I know," you yelled back, heading for your room and changing out of your work clothes in record time. You made your way towards the lounge once in comfy clothes. "The health inspector would not stop asking me questions, no matter how many times I told him I'm not the—"

Your feet and words came to a halt once you reached the doorway to the lounge, your heart dropping to the floor and shattering into a million pieces.

Because there she was—sitting in your usual spot with her feet resting on Bucky's lap, one of his hands engulfing her ankles.

She was beautiful. And the complete opposite to you in every way possible. From the texture and colour of her hair to the shape of her body. From the clothing and jewellery she wore to the colour of her eyes.

The two of you weren't even comparable—you were from completely different planets, different universes.

It hit like a sucker punch. You weren't his type, not even close.

You're a fucking fool.

She smiled brightly at you, the white of her teeth glaring. You faintly heard her great you through the ringing in your ears, offering you her name. You managed a meek hi in response, dragging your wide eyes away from her over to the other couch.

Big mistake.

Nat and Steve were already looking at you with pity in their eyes, a silent "are you okay?" written all over their faces. Nat scooted closer to Steve, tilting her head towards the small open spot next to her on the couch. You knew the second you sat next to them that her comforting presence would wrap around you and tear away the last of your fraying composure. So, you did something you had never done before.

"Move it, bird brain." You muttered to Sam, squatting down next to his beanbag and shoving his shoulder to make room for you.

"You ever tried not being bossy?" He grumbled in reply, shuffling to the right so you could collapse down next to him.

Normally you would respond with something just as snarky. But that required mental energy that you did not possess—energy that was being drained with each passing second she sat behind you.

You settled into the beanbag, the rustling of polystyrene beads filling the quiet room. You tried to take calming breaths as subtly as possible, the blood from your broken heart clogging your throat and lungs.

"We're watching Interstellar tonight," Nat spoke softly. "Steve's pick."

You hummed, keeping your eyes glued to the TV screen as Steve navigated through the streaming app.

Sam stiffened next to you, turning to you with a peculiar look on his face. "What? You got nothing to say to that?"

You sighed. "Every white guy's number one film on letterboxd. Try being less predictable next time, Rogers." You said in a flat monotone.

A deep, breathy chuckle sounded behind you, and it took all of your diminishing willpower to not turn and get a glimpse of the soft smile that haunted your dreams.

You tried your best to focus on the movie, you really did. You tried to focus on the press of Sam's shoulder against yours, something tangible to keep you grounded. But nothing could distract you from the soft murmuring behind you, the sound of her giggles as Bucky provided commentary throughout the movie. It was something that you normally didn't mind, something you indulged in, even. Not tonight. Thirty minutes into the movie, your eye had developed a constant twitch from suppressing the urge to turn around and tell them to shut the fuck up.

At one point Sam's hand had fallen over both of yours, stopping you from picking at your bleeding hangnails. You didn't even notice the sting from the exposed wounds—too preoccupied with gnawing on the inside of your cheeks.

You walked into your shift the next day with another request.

You clocked into your shift on Tuesday afternoon with a sinking pit in your stomach. A feeling that you had become accustomed to over the last couple months, a feeling that had you walking the scenic route home at night, delaying your arrival. It was the feeling that you had started associating with home, along with the ache in your chest.

You loved quiz night—you loved seeing what stupid team names people came up with, loved judging them when they got such an obvious answer wrong. Once upon a time, you had loved seeing Bucky's handsome face sitting in your section, waving you over with an up to no good smile stretching his lips. Now, it all felt like a taunt.

Nothing was out of the ordinary—the opening shift said it had been quiet as usual, there had been a couple bookings from newcomers for quiz night, and the tabby cat that wandered the block came in to say hi.

And then, she walked in. Strolling in behind Nat and Steve, her arm looped through one of Bucky's, flashing you a kind smile as they made their way to their usual booth. In your section.

You wanted to scream. Cry. Jump into the East River.

The bar had become your safe place—which honestly sounded crazy, you hated half of the customers. But your home hadn't felt like your home since she walked through the door. And now she was in the one place that hadn't been tarnished.

She was nice, you knew she was. But she was a constant reminder that your heart belonged to a man who never looked at you twice.

You rushed over to Allie who was standing at the bar waiting for Dean to finish garnishing cocktails.

"I need you to swap sections with me—please." You said in a frantic breath.

She turned to you, her face already telling you her answer. "Hell no! I've got two tables of big tipper's—I am not giving that away."

Dean leaned his elbows on the bar. "I'll swap with you."

Your head whipped to him at a comical speed, your wide eyes meeting his unbothered grin. "…But you hate working the floor."

He nodded towards one of your tables—one of the newcomer bookings, a booth full of girls in their early twenties. A few of them were already looking over at your trio—more specifically, looking at Dean. You turned back in time to see him flash them a wink.

Your chest deflated with a relieved breath. "This is the only time I am ever going to be grateful for you being such a dog."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"It wasn't." You and Allie said at the same time, matching deadpan expressions on your faces.

Allie turned to you, squinting suspiciously. "Why do you want to swap?"

You shrugged, looking at her forehead to avoid eye contact. "Just felt like a change."

"You said please—pretty desperately, too. It was kinda hot." Dean piped in.

You glared at him, choosing not to acknowledge his comment. You turned back to Allie looking at you expectantly. "Variety is the spice of life?"

She hummed disbelievingly. "Mhm, sure. We'll talk later."

Working the bar brought you no reprieve; every time you walked to the cocktail station, they were in your direct eyeline. Every time you poured a cosmo, shook a lemon drop, garnished a mojito, you could hear them laughing. You watched how she fit in like the missing puzzle piece, her body slotting perfectly under Bucky's arm—like that's where she belonged. You watched your roommates welcome her in with open arms and crying laughter, the realisation hitting you that she replaced the temporary hole your absence had opened.

Your knees were shaking while you closed up the bar, your hands scrubbing the beer grates with an urgency that was cause for concern.

"Hey, hey, woah that's—" Dean came up next to you, his hands gently clasping your wrists. "That's enough," he said, uncharacteristically gentle, "your hands are bleeding." He brought your hands up, your unfocused eyes seeing spots of red raised on your knuckles.

"Oh."

"Yeah, oh. What's up with you today?"

Dean led you away from the bar, grabbing a first aid kit on your way over to where your manager and Allie were sitting, working through the next week's orders. He pushed you into a chair, stepping back with an awkward pat to your head.

"I'm sensing that this is a girl talk so I'm just gonna finish closing the bar."

The two women turned to you with concern painting their faces. Allie glanced down at your hands and opened the first aid kit, pulling out supplies to treat the cuts. Neither of them spoke while she tended to your hands, watching your face closely.

"These aren't too bad, just scrapes." She said softly, packing the kit back up and sitting it out of the way. She clasped your hands lightly, her thumbs rubbing soothing circles on the back of your hands. "What's going on, sweetie?"

You looked up from where you had been staring at the table, seeing her eyes and your manager's shining with worry. A silent tear slipped from your eye, leaving a damp path in it's wake.

"Whose kneecaps are we busting?" Your manager demanded.

That broke you.

Your shoulders started shaking, your throat closing in on itself in the form of a sob. Your heart escaped from your chest cavity, rising up like bile. Your vision was completely blurred, hot tears taking your eyes hostage. You caved in on yourself, wrapping your arms around your body as your frame trembled like a leaf.

You couldn't even feel embarrassed about bawling like a baby in front of your coworkers, the pain you had been sheltering for months overruling any other emotion. Allie wrapped her arms around you, pulling you into her warmth and making you cry harder. Your manager placed a gentle hand on your shoulder, her thumb rubbing calming patterns as they both whispered words of comfort to you.

You gasped for breath, trying to get some air past the ball in your throat. "I-It's so—" your words broke with a hiccup, "it's so fucking stupid." You rushed out. "We were never—ugh!" You wiped at your cheeks furiously, willing the tears to stop. You gulped down a deep breath, trying to focus on the comforting touches and not the agony vibrating every cell in your body.

"We were never anything. God, I'm sobbing over a guy that—he was only being nice, and I made it into something it wasn't." You garbled out, the brine of tears lining your lips.

You opened up to them, telling them about how deeply you fell for Bucky in between sobs. How you felt like a goddamn fool, your lovesick heart reading into things and mistaking your strictly platonic relationship as something else entirely. You told them how you hate going home most nights, finding it harder to breathe the closer you got to the brownstone. You admitted to them that it's not just jealousy over him with another girl, it's something deeper—the fear that you've been replaced, that he doesn't need you anymore.

"…my sleep is fucked, I'm on high alert every second I'm home—I don't feel safe in my own home. Which—I know, it sounds so fucking dramatic. But it's like she's seeped into every crack, changing the foundations I built over a year ago. Now she's turning up here—on fucking quiz night, my night—and I just can't escape." You finished with a deep breath, feeling drained from your emotional monologue.

Allie, who had kept her arms wrapped around you throughout your rambling, lifted her head and looked at you with a mix of understanding and sympathy. "That's why you wanted to swap sections, because she was here." You nodded meekly.

She sighed and sat back in her chair. "Give me a couple days to clear out my spare room. You need it more than I need a second closet."

Before you could start sobbing over her offer a muscular arm reached in front of you, depositing a vodka cranberry onto the table.

Dean's voice rumbled behind you. "If it makes you feel any better, I've wanted to sleep with you since my first shift."

"Dean," both women next to you hissed. You turned to look at him, catching that easy-going smile of his and you started laughing—the first genuine one in weeks.

Thursday 6:18pm

Nat: Hey, you working late tonight? The boys are getting restless, Sam is threatening to watch Top Gun if you're not home in 10…

You: shit i forgot to tell you i'm working thursday nights now! sam can watch whatever mediocre garbage he wants :-)

Nat: We can change movie night to another night! Maybe Sunday? Whatever works for you x

You: don't worry about it, thursdays work for everyone else!

Nat: Is everything ok? I feel like I hardly see you anymore :(

You: aw i'm sorry natty :-( just been picking more shifts up at work - boss has me training the newbies! promise we'll have a wine night soon xx

"I'm moving out."

It was the Sunday after that fateful quiz night, the sun beating down on your four roommates as they laid out in the backyard. Sam was going on about some barbeque he had been invited to—telling the other three that if they behaved he would let them join him. Nat's head was resting on Steve's chest, half asleep while he massaged her scalp. Bucky was lying with a hand behind his head, shirtless, and reading his well-loved copy of The Fellowship of the Ring.

Allie had sent you a photo of her spare room an hour before, a bottle of Tito's sitting on the floor the only thing in the empty room. You couldn't put off telling your roommates any longer, knowing that once you moved out you would start feeling like a human again. You stood in the doorway, arms tight across your body—fearing for their reactions.

Sam stopped talking abruptly, Nat jolted awake and sat up from Steve's chest, Bucky slowly lowered his book to his chest. Nat was the first to speak.

"What?" She asked softly.

You started to shuffle your feet, looking around the backyard—at the fairy lights that flickered like dying stars, the small veggie patch Steve cared for like it was his child—avoiding eye contact with them. "You remember Allie from the bar? We've gotten really close these past few months and she was looking for a roommate—kinda felt like a no-brainer, y'know?"

You finally looked at them, your heart beat rattling your jaw. Sam looked speechless, his face frozen in confusion. Nat was looking at you with that assessing gaze, her eyes squinting like she knew something else was going on. Steve nodded his head solemnly, his features pulled into a frown that looked out of place on him. Bucky had abandoned his book completely, sitting upright with his pretty lips downturned, his sunglasses hiding whatever emotions swam in his cerulean depths.

"I can sort out getting the room filled—can probably pay double rent if necessary—"

"I'll handle it." Bucky cut you off, his tone gruff and curt.

You wrung your hands together, hating being under the spotlight of your roommate's attention. "Are you sure? It's a bit late notice so it might be hard to—"

That same curtness cut you off again,"I said I'll handle it, didn't I?"

He probably wanted his girlfriend to move in.

Your three other roommates momentarily directed their bewildered stares to him, just as surprised as you at his bluntness. Just like Steve frowning, this was out of character for him. You could feel his eyes glaring holes into you through his sunglasses.

Nat shook her head at his attitude, turning her attention back to you. "I didn't know you wanted to move out."

Okay, time for the lies—just like you practiced in the mirror.

"It's not about wanting to move out," you started softly, "it's just something that naturally unfolded. Her landlord upped her rent last month and she can't afford it on her own anymore." Steve and Sam nodded along, while Nat was looking at you with that unwavering stare. You didn't even want to glance at Bucky. "She jokingly asked me over drinks a couple weeks ago if I was looking and after thinking on it, I think it's the best choice for me. It's closer to work, cheaper than what I currently pay and, as I said, we've become really good friends."

Nat continued squinting her eyes at you, watching as you fidgeted with your fingers—your tell that you would rather be anywhere else.

"Okay," she acquiesced. "When are you moving? We'll throw a little goodbye party."

"Great idea," Sam mumbled.

"Sometime in the next week." Everyone's eyebrows shot up at that. "And that's not necessary—I'd prefer it if you didn't do anything; it's not like I'm leaving the city, I'll only be a few blocks away."

Steve recovered from the brief shock at how soon you were leaving them. "Let us know what day and time, we'll help you move your stuff."

"I appreciate the help, really I do, but my coworkers have already offered—we have Dean to do all the heavy lifting."

That made Bucky stir, standing up with a scoff and arms folded across his chest. "Did you think about us at all? Sounds like you can't wait to get away from here."

You froze, the ice running through your veins equal to the frost in his tone. "That's not—I didn't want to bother you—"

"How can you think you bother us after all this time?" He asked, the frost melting into water—revealing something that trembled close to desperation.

"Bucky," Nat warned.

"I just don't understand," He snapped, shaking his head and walking towards where you were stuck in the doorway. He paused in front of you, his sun slicked chest making your heart gallop. You kept your eyes on his chin—locking on the clef still visible through heavy stubble, resisting the desire to glance at his naked chest, or worse, look into his eyes. "Mind letting me through?" He muttered lowly, his frame now blocking you from the sun. You ducked your head, pressing your back to the doorframe to give him space.

"Buck—"

"Not now, Steve." He bit out, your body absorbing the heat radiating from him as he brushed past you. You stood still, head tilted to the floor until you heard his door slam closed.

"Well, that was…" Steve started, his uneasy chuckle filling the heavy atmosphere.

The shock of his attitude left you dazed. You expected some blow back from Nat—she could read you like her favourite book, knowing the emotions you held within yourself better than you did. You expected—hoped, really—that they might be a little down about your departure, but Bucky acting like this wasn't even in your realm of possibility.

"What was that about?" You muttered to yourself.

Sam stood up with a huff, grabbing a beer from the cooler near the table. "Fucking idiots, the pair of you."

You timed the move for the following Wednesday, not wanting to risk another night of hearing what you had labelled your own personal torture. You had been working nights since Sunday, avoiding any interactions with your roommates. The vibe in the brownstone felt off, the air tasting stale even when you were the only one home. Nat had been texting you for updates, apologising for Bucky's strange behaviour, and assuring you your friendship with her wouldn't slip away after you were gone. Sam continued to send you memes—he had an affinity for the gradient instagram reels—and Steve saved you the best strawberries from his garden, hiding them in the fridge for you.

Bucky was radio silent.

Tuesday 5:36pm

Nat: Just spoke to Allie - apparently you're not working quiz night anymore?? What's going on?

You: we thought the new waitress should work it for a bit! good experience :-)

Nat: You should come join us then! We would be unstoppable with you on our team xx

You: maybe another time? don't want the other teams to think you have an unfair advantage lol

Nat: Fuck what they think. We miss you! Movie night was not the same without you last week :(

A month passed before you saw Bucky again.

You had been texting Nat on and off, feeling an awful reluctance to seeing her. It had nothing to do with Nat and everything to do with you continuing to avoid the problem—your feelings. Because you still thought about him, religiously so. You hated yourself for it—hated your brain conjuring up scenarios of him and her, replaying the happiness that glowed on his face the couple of times you saw them together.

Your sleep had improved, at least. There was no anxiety constricting your chest when you walked home, no fear for what you might hear through the walls. Allie encouraged you to cry it out on the bathroom floor, over tubs of ice cream on the couch. While it was horrible to address and to actually feel the heartbreak instead of intellectualising it, you had to admit you did feel lighter. It was a weight off your chest for someone else to know your secret, to let you speak about the pain and not forcing you to move on.

Your manager was quick to approve your request to work the day shifts—asking if you wanted to get your managers license, to be her dependable day shift manager. You were elated to have something else to focus on, and the pay rise wasn't bad either. Working the days also meant you weren't there in case your old roommate's called in for a drink on their way home from work.

But you knew your luck was going to run out some day soon.

It was on a quintessential late summer evening—the kind where the sun was low enough to shine through the tree canopy, casting the ground in a scene of dancing light and shadows. Gravel crunched beneath your shoes as you ambled through Prospect Park, listening to the harmony of kids laughter, dogs barking, and a busker playing guitar. Walking through the park lengthened your journey home by twenty minutes, but on a day like this it was hard to resist.

You heard him before you saw him, too lost in appreciating the world around you to notice him strolling towards you on his trek home. He called out your name softly, hesitantly. And you would recognise that husky baritone even if you were locked in a soundproof pool drowning underwater.

Your gaze ripped away from watching a pair of swans glide along the shimmering lake, your heart jumping into your throat as you saw Bucky a few metres in front of you. He was wearing his gym clothes, the black compression top clinging to his chest with light patches of sweat. His hair was tied back in a small bun, a few strands stuck to his dewy forehead and your fingers twitched to brush them back. Soft sapphire eyes roamed the valleys of your face, his shoulders dropping with an almost relieved sigh.

You hated how your body heated under his watchful gaze in an instant—hated that he still had control over you and he didn't even know it.

"Hey," he said quietly, a small smile tugging his lips. He hesitated for a moment, doubt flickering across his face before he shook his head and stepped closer, lifting an arm and placing his hand between your shoulder blades to pull you into his embrace.

A startled gasp escaped you at the contact, blood pulsing in your ears as his warmth enveloped you. His other arm wrapped around your waist, his hand resting on the small of your back to pull you in closer. Your traitorous body relaxed in his hold, the heady scent of sandalwood, spice, and his sweat clouding your mind.

Fuck him for always smelling so irresistible.

"Hi." You murmured, muffled by his shirt. You kept your arms at your sides, knowing that if you felt his body beneath your hands you would backtrack all the progress you had made over the past month. You could already feel yourself slipping—comparing being in his arms again to lying in front of the fireplace while rain pelted the windows and thunder clapped outside. The feeling of being warm and safe despite a raging storm.

He rested his chin on your head, his chest expanding underneath your cheek as he inhaled deeply. The hand between your shoulders flexed, pushing you further into him. His chest rumbled below you and you felt his words more than heard them. "Missed you."

You stepped back quickly, stumbling out of his embrace. His brows pinched together and his lips turned down with a frown. He took a small step back and cleared his throat, a muscle flexing in his jaw as he stuffed his hands in his pockets.

"I—uh—how, how have you been?"

You folded your arms across you chest, focusing on the light freckle on his neck. "I've been okay."

"That's good, great. I—we've missed you." His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard and his voice dropped lower, softer . "Place isn't the same without you."

You had to leave before you did something foolish—before you dropped to your knees and pleaded for an ounce of his affection.

You cleared your throat, trying to rid the sudden emotion clogging it. "How have you been? How's the new roommate?"

Bucky's eyes flicked away from you, a hand leaving his pocket to rub the back of his neck. "Fine—they're fine." Splotches of red coloured his cheeks. "They don't compare to you, though."

What the fuck did that mean?

"Um—okay, well, that's good? I should—"

"Listen," Bucky interrupted you before you could flee from the increasingly awkward encounter. He stepped closer, his eyes locked on the gravel lining the earth. "I—I want to apologise for my behaviour, when you told us you were leaving." He looked up at you, remorse and distress bleeding from him so viscerally you could almost grab it. "I was in shock, I think—it doesn't really matter, I'm not trying to excuse it. I just wanted you to know that I really am sorry and you didn't deserve that." He closed the distance between you more, hands raising towards you before they dropped to his sides. "I—um, I would hate for that to be the reason you haven't come 'round—if you felt uncomfortable because of me."

It was resting on the tip of your tongue, the truth. It was begging to spill out, to tell Bucky that you were uncomfortable because of him but not for the reason he believed. You could handle a little attitude—what you couldn't handle was hearing the guy you're in love with treat another woman the way you had fantasised about since the day you met him.

Grateful for the fact you had been getting enough sleep to keep a grasp on your filter, you accepted his olive branch instead of starting a confessional. "Thank you, Bucky." You looked into his eyes, trying to express your sincereness. "I appreciate it, really."

Hope flared bright across his face. "So, wanna join us next Thursday? Your pick—I'll tell Sam to keep his comments to himself."

Guilt curdled your gut. "Thank you for the offer, but I can't make it, sorry. I already have plans."

If sitting in front of the TV watching New Girl and doomscrolling on your phone constituted as plans.

And just like that, the flame was extinguished. "Oh."

You interrupted before he could say more. "It was good seeing you, Bucky, but I have to get going." You stepped around him to continue home, giving him a small wave goodbye before focusing forward—walking brisker than the tranquil evening called for, your shoulders too tense for the serene landscape.

"Bye," he murmured, the sound drifting towards you with the light breeze.

You kept your head straight forward the rest of the walk home.

You expected the text from Nat the next day, knowing that Bucky would've told your former roommates that he ran into you. She demanded you meet for brunch at your earliest convenience, and given that it was Saturday and you had no plans you couldn't deny her any longer.

You were sitting on the couch putting on your shoes when Allie burst through the front door, her hands full of bags from the morning market and mouth stuffed with cake from the pâtisserie around the corner.

"Oh my god," you heard her mumble around frosting and sponge. "Guess what I just found out."

"Apparently not what decent manners are. Swallow before you talk."

A mop of floppy blonde hair appeared in your doorway. "That's what he said."

You rolled your eyes as Dean sauntered in with a wolfish grin, closing the door behind him. "What the hell are you doing here?" You shot wide eyes at Allie, wordlessly demanding an explanation.

She took your advice and swallowed before speaking again. "I ran into him at the market—he has an update on James B!"

A mix of anticipation and dread made your morning coffee stir. "I thought he stopped leaving reviews?"

Dean collapsed next to you, eyeing the dress you were wearing with approval. "You dress up for me, angel?"

You shoved his shoulder. "Not in a million years. What's the update, dumbass?"

He pulled his phone out with a sigh. "He left a review last night—don't look at me like that, I set up notifications for this very reason." He tapped on his phone before handing it to you, the screen displaying the latest review.

James B.

★★★★★ 13 hours ago

Quiz night isn't the same without her. Nothing is.

Your heart rate picked up, sweat gathering at the back of your knees.

What the fuck?

"But last night wasn't quiz night?" Was the only thing your dumbfounded mind could vocalise.

"I mean, yeah, but you're missing the point!" Allie interjected, standing behind the couch and leaning her head down to read the review. "Now we know he's a quiz night regular! That narrows the search pool down so much."

"Ooo, what if it's one of the old dockmen?" Dean giddily queried.

"They do normally sit in your section—or, well, what used to be your section." Allie supplied, wandering back to your kitchen to put away whatever trendy new chutney she bought from the market.

Your eyes followed her, catching sight of the clock hanging on the wall. "Shit—I'm going to be late." You jumped off the couch, frantically grabbing your phone and shoulder bag. "We can theorise more later, Nat is going to murder me for being late."

"Bye, honey!" Dean yelled as you ran out the door—stopping for a second to throw him the middle finger.

Nat was sitting at a table towards the back of the cafe, her crimson hair a stark contrast to the soft pastel interior. The atmosphere was buzzing and lively—every table occupied, with laughter and heavenly aromas wafting out the open door. It was the go to brunch spot for Brooklyn natives, it's covered outdoor courtyard an enticing location on a warm summer's morning—you were surprised Nat even managed to score a table.

Her face lit up once she saw you, standing to welcome you with a hug. "One more minute and I would've thought you were ghosting me."

You hugged her just as tight, the smell of her perfume relaxing your shoulders and making your heart clench—you shouldn't have gone this long without seeing her. "God, I know, I'm sorry. Allie came home with gossip before I could make my escape."

You both pulled away and sat down, reading the menu like you hadn't looked at it online on your walk over.

"Gossip? Anything interesting?" Nat asked, wiggling her eyebrows.

You let out a deep sigh. "It's a long story. One that's better told over a bottle of wine."

"Okay, now I am beyond intrigued—you better not leave me hanging for another month." She shot you a small glare, the smile on her face lessening it's sharpness.

The waitress came over and took your orders before the two of you fell into easy conversation. She updated you on what trouble the boys—Sam—had gotten into, and you told her about the time you and Allie were locked out in your pyjamas and tried to scale the fire escape. Neither of you broached the subject of why you moved out, but it was lingering in the air—in the soft way Nat said Bucky's name. Throughout the hour you spent chatting you noticed she didn't mention their new roommate once, and the curiosity was making you restless.

"So, how's the new roommate, really? Bucky didn't say much about them."

An out of place nervous hesitation tightened Nat's face, her eyes darting between yours as she bit her lip. After a tense few seconds her shoulders dropped with a sigh.

"Honey, there is no new roommate."

You reared back, your eyebrows furrowing in confusion. "What? But Bucky said yesterday—he said they were fine."

"Of course he did," she muttered under her breath, pinching the bridge of her nose. She looked at you with a huff. "The room is empty. Bucky…he's been paying for it."

"What?" You nearly exclaimed, your body temperature rising.

"Look, I don't know why he didn't tell you the truth—I honestly don't know what goes on in his mind, he has made some terrible choices the last few months." She placed a gentle hand on top of yours, her tone softening. "Choices that had you leaving us."

"I don't understand." You muttered quietly.

"I probably shouldn't be the one to tell you this, but—Steve and him were drinking after work last week and he admitted he's paying for the room—saving it in case you want to come back."

Shock rendered you speechless—frustration climbing up from your gut, opening the partially healed scars seared into your heart. Confusion, irritation, and heartache swirled together until they formed one emotion—anger.

Your hands balled into fists, your clenched teeth making your jaw ache. "I'm sorry, what?" You bit out.

You barely noticed the smirk twitching her lips, red starting to blur your vision. "Sam and Steve are out fishing today—he's home alone if you want to go bite his head off."

You didn't need to be told twice, the red-hot fury bringing you to your feet quickly. You grabbed your stuff with urgency, your hands already starting to shake.

"Brunch is my shout—go knock some sense into him."

It took you less than ten minutes to reach the brownstone, outrage powering your legs with a speed you didn't know you were capable of. The fresh air did nothing to calm you down—you were too consumed by the memories from the past year, the heartache you endured, your utter confusion at Nat's revelation.

Your fist pounded on the wooden door, not stopping until it swung open to reveal a puzzled Bucky.

His eyes widened at the sight of you, pink lips stretching into a knee trembling smile. Your dress caught his attention, his smile freezing as blue eyes trailed down and back up your body.

He cleared his throat before speaking. "What are you doin' here, doll?"

"Don't fucking call me that," you seethed, pushing him out of your way to storm inside. You barged down the familiar path to your old room, ignoring Bucky as he called out your name behind you.

You opened the door to find the room exactly how you left it—empty. You whipped around to see Bucky standing a few feet behind you, looking down at the ground with a hand rubbing his neck and a fire overtaking his cheeks.

"Why the fuck are you paying for an empty room? No, better yet, why did you lie to me about it?" You loudly demanded, just shy of shouting.

He stumbled over his words, looking up to see you with your eyebrows raised, arms folded across your chest, hip jutted out—the perfect picture of barely contained rage.

"Well, I—you see, it's—" he dragged a hand through his hair, blowing out a breath. "It's complicated?"

"Yeah, no shit. You were so pissy about me moving—it makes no sense! Just tell me the truth for once, Bucky!" Your voice raised higher, your hands flying around as the confusion and aggravation took hold of you.

Bucky's own frustration started to seep through, the volume of his voice a notch below yours. "I was upset because you were leaving—and you didn't seem to care about us, just running straight to Dean for help!"

He was upset? He had no fucking right to be upset.

Hot, frustrated tears flooded your eyes without your permission. "I left because of you, Bucky! No one else, just you." You stepped toward him, pushing a finger into his ridiculously sturdy chest. "And I didn't run to Dean! He offered to help after he watched me have a fucking breakdown over you."

His glistening eyes stared into yours, his eyebrows drawn upwards in distress. "…What?"

A crack had fractured the dam keeping you contained, your pent up thoughts and feelings crashing through and destroying the concrete barrier.

"Every fucking day I came home feeling like my world—my heart—was being torn apart—" your voice cracked and you turned around, starting to pace the length of your old room. "And I know, I fucking know, it's not your fault—that my delusional mind and hopeless romantic heart are to blame for reading into things that weren't there, for creating a fantasy of you—of us."

You wiped away your flowing tears, sniffling as you tried to catch your breath. "But now, you expect me to, what—feel bad for leaving? I was barely human." You let out a wet, humourless laugh.

"What are you talking about?!" He demanded desperately, his face shining with frustration and something akin to hope.

"I'm talking about the goddamn walls, Bucky! I don't know if you know but they're pretty fucking thin! And every Wednesday and Saturday night I heard you and her—I heard the guy I was obsessed with fucking somebody else and it killed me."

"I only started seeing her to get you out of my head!" Both his hands found their way to his hair, tugging the dark strands in frustration. "And maybe I wanted to make you jealous—which I know is a terrible—"

You closed the distance between you in two quick strides, reaching out to shove his chest. "Jealous? You wanted to make me jealous?!" You seethed out, your fists hitting his chest as your vision blurred. "Are you blind?! Everyone could see how infatuated I was with you." Your hits lost their strength, your cheeks growing even more wet.

"Hey," Bucky whispered softly, his hands gently encircling your wrists and his thumbs rubbing tender patterns on your radial pulse. "Breathe for me."

"No," you stubbornly whispered back, despite your panting breaths slowing to match his. You drew in staggering breaths, finally noticing how hard your heart was beating—your body shaking with every thump. Your fists unfurled, your palms resting flat on his broad chest—the fast pounding of his heart a near match to yours.

He let go of your wrists, his hands cupping your face delicately. He wiped your tears away with such care it made your heart ache. Your vision cleared enough to focus on his face, seeing his eyes shining with their own tears.

"I think we're both a bit blind, sweetheart. Everyone can see how smitten I am with you." He rested his forehead against yours, the space around you two growing charged in the aftermath of your anger. "Sam gives me shit about it every day." His breathy laugh ghosted your lips, leaving tingles in it's wake. His voice dropped low, "I'm so fucking in love with you I was leaving reviews about you like some—like a hopeless sap, hoping you would realise it was me."

His confession of love flew over your head, incredulity controlling your mind. "That was you?!" You gasped, pushing his chest lightly. "I thought I had a stalker, you idiot."

The memory of the night you and Allie read all the reviews ran through your head, remembering the disturbingly romantic details written; remembering the reviews you secretly reread like a guilty pleasure, going to sleep with a giddy smile and fluttering butterflies because someone was noticing you.

"That's all you took from that?" He shook his head minutely, one of his hands brushing down your back to cradle your waist. "I'm trying to tell you I'm in love with you here."

You stepped out of his embrace, your mind still picking through all the small details. "But—the first review was, like—" you started to pace again, your hands resting atop your head. "It was well over a year ago!" Your voice raised again, recalling how horrible you felt only a month ago—the heartbreak you could've avoided. "Why did you never say anything?!"

"Because I was scared!" His voice raised to meet yours. "I didn't want to ruin things and lose you forever!"

"Yeah, well look at how that turned out!" You gestured wildly to the empty room.

"Why are we shouting again?" Bucky walked towards you, reaching for your hands. You were both breathing heavily, the sound of your pants echoing in the emptiness as your chests heaved up and down.

"Because I'm mad at you." You finally met his eyes, the blue bleeding with regret and sorrow. Your voice dropped lower, timidness starting to creep in. "You…you broke my heart, Buck."

He gripped your hands tighter, raising one to rest on his chest—right above his heart. "I am going to spend every day until I die trying to make it up to you." His remorse polluted the air around you, tears welling in your eyes once again—this time from the pain clouding his. "If you'll let me."

"That's a bit dramatic," you mumbled, sniffling lightly. "Until you're fifty is fine."

He laughed, wet and husky. He let go of your hands to cup your face again, smoothing his thumbs along your cheekbones. Your breath hitched at the touch, the pain in your system being diluted by the drug that is Bucky.

He leaned in closer, his eyes darting between yours and your lips. "I'm gonna kiss you now, okay?"

You managed a small nod before his lips were on yours—desperate and aching, stealing the breath from your lungs. One of his hands shifted to the back of your neck, tilting your head to kiss you deeper. Your hands found his chest again, fisting his shirt and causing a groan to sound in the back of his throat. He took control of the kiss with no complaint from you—happily letting him suck your bottom lip before nipping it, opening for him when his tongue grazed your lips.

The first touch of his tongue against yours had fire scorching down your body, the intensity of his kisses settling in your gut and awakening the need you've had for him for over a year.

The annoying human need for air had you pulling away from his lips, gasping as you tried to catch your breath. His stubble scratched your skin as he trailed kisses along your jaw, tilting your head to reach the sensitive spot below your ear. He gave it a soft experimental kiss, his tongue darting out and drawing a small whine from you.

His chest rumbled beneath your hands. "You talk about the walls being thin—trust me, I know." He stepped forward, his fingers dancing down your sides to grasp your hips, backing you into the wall. "I know you like to beg, what pretty sounds you make when you're about to come." He trailed his nose back along your jaw and down the other side of your neck, nestling into the crook and sniffing deeply with a small moan.

"Wh-what? I haven't—I never brought anyone home." You stuttered out, head starting to feel heavy from the lust fogging it.

"No, but you still have needs, don't you?" He let out a small chuckle, trailing feather-light kisses along your collarbone. "You thought you were alone, thought it didn't matter how loud you let yourself be." He pulled back, bringing a hand up to brush his fingers along your cheek, making their way down your neck. Onyx eyes met yours—a shiver racing down your spine at the barely contained hunger in them. "I came home with a migraine and you were so wrapped up in pleasure you didn't even hear me—but I heard you. And shit, doll, the noises you made cured my migraine faster than any pain meds ever have." He dropped his forehead to yours, his breath fanning your lips. "I had to fuck my fist three times that night. I replayed every little whimper, moan, every gasp of please until it drove me insane."

A gasp escaped you at his admission, heat rolling through your body—a mix of embarrassment and hunger swirling in your core.

"And then, like it was the universe's sole purpose to bring me to my knees, you walked in the next day wearing this dress." His fingers drifted to the neckline of your dress, toying with it as your breasts moved rapidly beneath. "Looking like a fucking angel sent here to torture me. Like sin wrapped in white lace. I had to leave before I dropped to my knees and begged for a taste—to let me worship you."

Your heart was trying to beat out of your chest, the throbbing in your core escalating with every word he murmured into your lips.

"You kept on wearing it, and I had to pretend like I wasn't replaying those sounds every time I saw you—like my dick wasn't rock hard at just a glimpse of this fucking dress." The hand on your neckline travelled down to the line of lace below your breasts—his thumb stroking along it making your breath stutter and nipples harden. "I had to do something, I felt like I was going insane. I started seeing her to get you out of my head—didn't fucking work now, did it?"

The mention of her cut through the Bucky induced haze, and you hesitated—needing clarification before you could let him consume you.

"Are you still seeing her?" You whispered.

"Fuck no, we were strictly casual. I broke it off the day you left."

Your head reared back an inch, hitting the wall lightly. "You know that doesn't make me feel better, right? That you only wanted to sleep with her because I was in the next room."

Both his hands gripped your waist, squeezing gently. "Okay, that—that wasn't what I was trying to get at." He lifted his head to stare into your eyes. "What I meant was that you leaving really showed how much of an idiot I'd been, wasting my time with her when you were right next door."

"Why didn't you reach out, then?"

He shrugged, his eyes darting away nervously. "I didn't think I had a right to. I wasn't exactly proud of how I acted the last time we spoke."

You saw Bucky almost every day for over a year—you knew he didn't get outwardly nervous often, and you knew when he was being vulnerable and honest. The Bucky in front of you wasn't lying—you could tell he was genuinely worried he'd messed everything up.

You relented with a sigh, lacing your hands around his neck. "I think it's time you start making it up to me."

"Gladly," he said before pulling you into him and kissing you deeply. He pressed his hips against yours, pushing you harder into the wall. You gasped at the feeling of his bulge against your stomach, your core trembling and aching in anticipation.

The pace of the kiss picked up, Bucky's tongue licking into your mouth with a deep moan. His grip on your hips tightened and he spun you around, walking you backwards towards his room without removing his mouth from yours.

He kicked the door shut behind him, leading you towards his bed with his hands drifting down to squeeze your ass. You broke away with a moan, your lips swollen and chin tender from his stubble.

"Sit down for me, sweetheart." Bucky rasped out. You quickly obliged—your need for him making you ready to do anything he said.

He kneeled on the floor in front of you, slowly taking your shoes off. His hands trailed up your bare legs, stopping when they reached the hem of your dress.

He pressed a soft kiss to your knee. "You gonna let me make you feel good?" He mumbled into your skin.

You nodded rapidly, your hands clenching his sheets in desperation.

He clicked his tongue. "I need words, angel."

"Yes, Bucky—please. Please touch me," you gasped out, the sight of him on his knees robbing your intelligence.

His mouth tilted into a smirk, his eyes gleaming. "There you go with that begging again."

He clasped your knees, spreading your legs open. His breath tickled the sensitive skin on your inner thighs, goosebumps erupting and surging up to your core. He pressed light kisses along one thigh, stopping when he got to your dress and switching to the other.

You could feel slick leaking out of your cunt, your clit pulsing from the lack of attention.

"Buck, stop teasing, please." You whined softly, lifting a hand to push the hair away from his eyes. He nuzzled into your hand, turning to press a kiss into your palm. Your hand vibrated as he hummed low.

He grasped the hem of your dress, lifting it slowly up to your hips. "Lean back f'me."

You leaned back on your elbows, your body trembling with need as his hands scorched paths up your thighs.

He let out a low groan once your dress was up past your hips—revealing your soaked panties to him. His eyes locked onto them, his pupils dilating until only a sliver of blue remained.

"All this from a little kissing?" He brushed a thumb along the wet patch, grazing your clit. Your head fell back with a loud gasp, your hips twitching towards his touch.

"Sensitive," he mumbled. His hand moved, tracing the edge of your panties—you were sure he could feel the heartbeat pulsing in your core. "How long has it been?"

You lifted your head up, looking into his dark eyes—the desire in them reflecting your own. "Since before I—"

You cut yourself off with a soft moan, your body jerking as Bucky pressed his thumb to your clit through your underwear—circling it with a steady pressure.

"What was that?" He asked smugly.

Your chest heaved as you tried to wade through the sensations buzzing through you. "Since before I moved in," you rushed out quickly, another moan escaping you at the feeling of his touch directly on your pussy—his hand slipping underneath the wet fabric.

"Fuck," he breathed out through clenched teeth. He grabbed the waistband of your panties and pulled them down your legs quickly. He groaned out looking at your exposed cunt, and you tried to close your legs on instinct.

He gripped your thighs to stop them from closing. "None of that," he growled out lowly. "Let me look at her."

His hands trailed up your thighs until they reached your bare hips, yanking you closer to the edge of the bed. You fell onto your back softly, your breath shaking from the impact.

He pulled your lips apart and moaned loudly. "She's fucking dripping, sweetheart."

You clenched at his words, his teasing leaving you aching and squirming. He chuckled and pressed a soft kiss millimetres away from where you needed him most. He breathed you in deeply making your hips buck up with a needy whine.

"Bucky, please."

He dragged a single finger from entrance to clit, pulling it back with a string of your arousal connecting the two of you. You sighed at the small touch, opening your eyes to see Bucky suck the tip of his finger.

He groaned at your taste, hands grabbing the back of your thighs to push your legs back and spread you wider.

"Gonna make her feel so good, pretty girl." He slurred out, his lips trailing a path of fire up to your core. "Be a good girl and make those noises for me again."

He dove in, licking the same path as his finger. His groan vibrated through you and your hands flew to his hair, gripping the strands as you gasped.

"Taste so fucking good," he mumbled before latching onto your clit. He sucked gently, circling the nub with his tongue. You rewarded him with a tug to his hair and a shaky moan.

He picked up the pace, moaning as he went from tasting you to devouring. He thrusted his tongue into you, lapping up everything he could. The room filled with the lewd sounds of your slick and his saliva coating your pussy—with your unabashed moans and gasps bouncing off the walls.

He pulled away from you, his chin and beard glistening. "That's it, pretty. Being such a good girl." You whined at the praise, using your hold on his hair to push his face back into you.

Your hips rocked against his face, the flame in your core growing fast. He moved an arm to your hips, holding them down to keep you still. He sucked your clit harshly, your back arching at the pleasure he was unleashing on you. You gasped out his name as your orgasm built rapidly.

"Fuck, Bucky—right there! Please, I'm gonna—" you cut off with a loud moan, your body jolting from him lightly biting your clit. Stars started to dot your vision as he continued to feast on you like a starved man—like you were his first sip of water after wandering the desert.

The knot in your core clenched tight before it unravelled, Bucky's groans vibrating through you pushing you over the edge. You came with a cry, your hands yanking his hair hard. A blissful fire spread throughout you, making your toes curl and head float.

Bucky drank up your release, prolonging your high until you were shaking and trying to push his head away. He relented, moving back to kiss and nip your inner thighs. Your heavy panting filled the room, your pussy twitching as you came down.

You propped yourself up on weak elbows, your droopy eyes meeting his glazed, pussy drunk ones.

"You're so fucking beautiful," he whispered reverently. He moved back in closer, his breath fanning your cunt making you clench around nothing. "Another one."

He slowly licked at your hole, leaving your overstimulated clit throbbing painfully. Your arms gave out, a whimper crawling up your throat. You brought a hand up to your chest, squeezing a breast over your dress—trying to relieve the ache in them.

"Fuck, look at you," Bucky cooed, pulling away from you to stand up. "As much as I love this dress, I think you'll look even more beautiful without it."

You nodded, sitting up slightly so he could pull it over your head. Your eyes were level with his crotch, seeing the large bulge tenting his pants—your mouth salivating already. Once your dress was off you reached a hand out, palming his hard dick over his pants. You gasped at the heavy feel of him, your walls clenching at the thought of him stretching you open.

His head rolled back with a moan, a hand catching your wrist to stop your movements. "Not right now." You let out a displeased whine and his mouth twitched with a smirk. "Later, promise. Lay back down so I can worship you."

He grasped the back of his shirt and pulled it over his head, leaving you to gape at his insane torso. You had seen it before but you always adverted your eyes quickly, scared of getting caught staring. Now, you could stare and touch all you wanted.

You leaned up to run a hand over his bare chest, his body scorching beneath your skin. You trailed a finger down the hard ridges lining his body, a thrill running through you as his muscles rippled and breath stuttered. Your mouth found his pecks, lathering them in wet kisses while your hand teased the waistband of his pants. He grasped your chin, jerking your head up to look at him. His jaw was tense and eyebrows furrowed, a slight darkness shadowing his face.

He leaned down and placed a gentle kiss on your lips. "What did I just say, sweetheart?" He mumbled, his tone laced with warning.

Before you could reply, his hands grasped your waist and pushed you up the bed until your head met his pillow. He crawled on top of you, kissing your neck.

"Thought you were gonna be a good girl." He mumbled, biting the spot below your ear and making you gasp. He pulled on one of your bra straps, letting it snap back onto your skin. You gasped louder at the small stinging sensation, the slight pain dousing your core in gasoline.

"Please, I am—I will be. M'sorry." You whimpered out, tilting your head back as he continued his assault on your neck.

He hummed in response, sucking on your pulse point before trailing lower—his stubble scraping the top of your breasts. He reached a hand behind your back, unclasping your bra with ease before pulling the straps down your arms slowly.

Your nipples hardened more once exposed to the cool air, begging for Bucky's attention. He lavished your breasts in kisses, covering every inch of skin with his spit. One of your hands clutched onto his bicep while the other wound into his hair again. He continued to avoid your nipples and you squirmed underneath him, trying to move his head to where you wanted him.

He relented, licking a nipple before sucking it into his mouth. You moaned from the relief and the zaps of pleasure racing down your torso. He pinched your abandoned nipple, rolling it between his thumb and finger as he bit down on the other one. You arched off the bed with a loud whine, the pain and pleasure morphing into one. He switched nipples, dolling out the same sweet torture with moans lodged in his throat.

Once both your nipples were raw and aching he kissed down your abdomen, hands clutching your hips as his mouth worshipped your stomach. You giggled at his beard tickling your sensitive skin and he lifted his head, his blown out eyes meeting yours with a soft—almost unbelieving—smile.

"You're breathtaking," he whispered. "And you're all mine, yeah?"

"Yes, Buck. Only yours."

He hummed in approval, pressing a light kiss to your hip. "Good. 'Cause I'm yours, angel. I'm sorry it took so long for me to say."

He moved back down to where you were dripping onto his sheets, your body wound tight from your first orgasm and his teasing. He licked into you without hesitation, drawing out loud noises from you as he sucked your sensitive clit.

"You're so wet—wanna live between these thighs, doll."

A hand left your hip to poke at your entrance, one finger sliding in easily before your walls squeezed at the intrusion. He pumped it in and out slowly until you were begging for more. A second slipped in, both of them curling upwards and grazing the spot that had you arching off the bed with a sound you'd never made before.

He lifted his head up, praising you for how good you were being—telling you how pretty you sounded. His mouth descended on your clit again and his fingers picked up their pace.

Your head rolled around on his pillow, the dual stimulation to your pussy making a heat rush through you like you'd never experienced with anyone else. You could feel how he was paying attention to you, altering his movements to gauge what sounds he could pull out of you—getting to know what you liked.

The ball tightened faster than the first time, your body edging on being overstimulated. Both your hands were fisting the sheets, your hips grinding against Bucky's face and fucking his fingers—the obscene squelch of your pussy soaking his hand mixing with your moans and gasps.

"Let me come—please. Been s'good for you, Buck—"

You know you didn't need his permission to come, but begging and submitting to him felt so good. Your own words pulled the coil in your core tighter—his resounding moan shaking through you telling you how much they affected him too.

A third finger joined in and you clenched down hard, the stretch almost throwing you off the cliff. They curled into your spot over and over, his other hand moving to push down on your lower stomach—causing something between a moan and squeal to leave you.

"Course you can come for me, sweetheart. I want nothing more than this sweet pussy drenching me."

With one last curl of his fingers and suck to your clit, your body started to shake, the ball bursting and sending waves crashing through you. Your eyes rolled back and your ears started ringing, deaf to the borderline animalistic noises you were letting out. You clamped down on his fingers hard, your juices gushing out and coating his hand—dripping and staining his sheets.

Your head was up in the clouds, cotton filling the space your brain used to be. You briefly registered his mouth leaving your overstimulated and raw nub, his fingers still moving slowly as you floated through your high. Small, gentle kisses across your cheeks, nose, and eyelids had you giggling breathlessly. Your body felt heavy, your eyelids struggling to open.

"You doin' okay?" Bucky whispered into your temple, peppering more light kisses to your forehead. You hummed softly.

"Need'a minute," you slurred out.

His fingers slowed and then left you, a whine slipping past your lips at the emptiness. You felt a hand rubbing soothing circles onto your scalp, your body turning towards his warmth. You slowly opened your eyes to find him staring at you, electric blue lazily roaming around your face.

"Hi," you whispered, lifting a heavy hand to push hair behind his ear. He grabbed your hand and covered it in soft kisses, his eyes never leaving yours.

"Hi. How you feeling?"

You leaned in, nuzzling your nose against his. "Good—really good," you muttered before kissing him softly. Your hand weaved into his hair, pulling him in as your kiss grew more passionate.

One of his hands cradled your jaw and the other spanned the small of your back, pushing you into his bulge. You bit his lip teasingly, revelling in his body shuddering and drinking down the moan he let free.

You grinded your hips against his—gasping and whimpering at the rough fabric of his pants dragging against your oversensitive pussy. He responded in kind, rutting his bulge into you with a groan.

"Want you inside of me," you mumbled into his lips, throwing a leg over his to roll your hips harder.

"Fuck—okay," he breathed out. He pulled away to reach for his bedside drawer but your hand on his chest stopped him.

"Are you clean?"

His eyes widened and he nodded dumbly. "I got tested the other week—wait, I'll show you." He reached for his phone but you stopped him with a giggle.

"I believe you. I'm clean—obviously. And on birth control."

His eyes almost bulged out of their sockets, pupils dilating until they physically couldn't anymore.

"Are you sure?" He gripped your face in his hands, eyes darting between yours. "I only used condoms with her so I understand—"

That fact pleased you absurdly, your hand trailing down his chest to his groin—squeezing his heavy bulge. "I'm sure. Wanna feel you, all of you."

He pulled you into a searing kiss, rolling you onto your back and hovering over you. Your mouth moved against his eagerly, both your hands on his waistband to unbotton and unzip his pants. You reached a hand into his boxers, a gasp leaping out as you wrapped your hand around him—his cock throbbing and big. You briefly worried about the limp you'll have later.

He panted above you, his eyes closing as you stroked him slowly. You could feel his boxers damp with pre-cum, beads of it dripping from his tip. You brushed your thumb over it and he moaned gutturally, eyes opening as you pulled your hand out. You kept eye contact with him as you brought your thumb up to your lips, licking his pre-cum before sucking it into your mouth with a satisfied moan.

He pulled your thumb out, tracing his own along your lip before you sucked on it—twirling your tongue around it.

"You're gonna be the fucking death of me, angel." He groaned out.

He pushed away to pull his pants and boxers off, throwing them behind him carelessly. Your eyes zeroed in on his cock standing proud—your mouth somehow simultaneously drying up and drooling at the sight. He was the biggest you'd ever seen—long and thick, the tip flushed red with his need. Your knees fell apart on instinct, the fire building up just looking at him.

"Wanna take a picture?" He teased.

"Another time," you whispered, surging up to grab his shoulders and pull him back on top of you.

He chuckled into your mouth before it dissolved into a moan, your hips bucking up and smearing his cock with your slick.

He grabbed your hips, pulling them up slightly as he settled between your legs. You both broke off from the kiss with matching gasps, the feel of him sliding along your slit making you both dizzy. His tip bumped into your clit with each glide, whimpers echoing from your chest as you twitched from the stimulation.

"You're so fucking pretty," he mumbled, dropping his head to kiss and nip along your neck.

"Please," you whined, your hips rocking without thought.

He pulled back and looked down between you, groaning at his dick already glistening with you. He wrapped a hand around himself, tapping his head against your clit a few times. You squealed, starting to feel dizzy with desire. He shushed you gently, dragging a thumb along your cheekbone before positioning himself at your entrance.

His eyes met yours as he pushed in slowly, the intensity in them making you choke up. It had never felt like this before—never felt so passionate, adoring. It made everything feel elevated—your nerve endings singing with pleasure wherever he touched you.

You clenched down on him instinctively, your walls stretching around just the tip. Your chest heaved as you tried to relax—you weren't in pain, it just felt so fucking good.

"Be a good girl and let me in," he whispered, leaning forward to kiss you.

Your legs opened wider for him, your core relaxing to let him push in further. Moans and gasps filled the air around you as he thrust slowly, sinking until he reached the hilt.

The breath knocked out of you, the feeling of him filling you completely making your head rush. He moved slowly at first, small thrusts to get you accommodated before pulling back until just the tip was inside. He sank home with deep moans, his cock pushing against your spot with every thrust.

You wrapped your legs around his waist making him reach deeper inside you. He picked up his pace, his hips meeting yours with soft slaps.

"You feel so good—oh, fuck!" He exclaimed as you clenched down on him.

"Harder, please." You moaned out, scratching your nails down his chest.

"Yeah? My pretty girl—my little angel—likes it rough?"

You nodded deliriously, the tension in your core sizzling with every thrust.

He sat up, bringing your hips with him. He held them up and delivered harsh thrusts—each one expelling a gasp out of you. Your legs tightened around him, his strength pushing you up the bed.

The headboard knocked against the wall, adding to the symphony of moans, whimpers, skin slapping that was already deafening the room. Each sound had you soaring higher, each thrust kissing your cervix sending a shock through you.

Bucky removed your legs from his waist, clutching your thighs to push them towards your chest. Your wide eyes met his with a gasp, the change in position igniting a roaring fire everywhere. He dropped forward slowly, pushing into you so far you swear you could feel him in your throat.

He groaned into your ear. "This is—god, you're made for me."

His thrusts resumed their previous pace, your mouth falling open in a silent scream. Sweat beaded along his hairline from the exertion, his hair sticking to his temples—and he looked so beautiful, your eyes started to well with tears.

Everything rushed through you in an overwhelming burst—the heartache you suffered, the months of yearning and uncertainty, how much you loved him. How much he loved you.

Tears fell from your eyes as the sensations built higher and you grasped his face, pulling his forehead to yours. Your gentle kiss to his lips was a stark contrast to his cock drilling into you.

"I love you," you whispered, your words breaking on a sob of pleasure.

His hips stuttered, his eyes squeezing tightly. "You can't say that again or I'll blow my load." You laughed at his clear struggle to hold back, making him groan as you squeezed him tighter.

He continued his thrusts, wiping a thumb under your eye to catch your tears. "This is the only time I'm gonna make you cry from now on, yeah? Only gonna make you sob cause I'm fucking you so good."

You nodded, letting out little "uh-huh"'s as you climbed higher and higher.

"Play with your clit, sweetheart." Bucky rasped out.

Your hand snuck between your bodies to press circles around your clit—your back arching with a whine. Tears continued to track down your temples, wetting the pillow below you.

"Fill me up, please," you managed to get out between whimpers and sobs. Bucky's grip on your thighs tightened, surely leaving marks for you to admire over the next few days.

"Come with me," Bucky moaned, pressing a scorching kiss to your lips as his thrusts grew sloppy. You tensed below him, your body locking up before pure ecstasy barrelled through you. You came with a scream of his name, clenching down on his cock to keep him trapped. Your vision faded to white, your body trembling and pulsing.

Bucky groaned out your name as his orgasm rushed through him, his cock throbbing and pulsing inside you as he filled you completely with cum.

He collapsed on top of you, his sweaty chest heaving against yours. He slowly lowered your legs then wrapped his arms around your waist, nuzzling into your neck.

You laid there for a few minutes, the both of you gradually coming back down to earth. He pulled out of you slowly, the both of you groaning at the feeling. A mix of your releases dripped out of you, coating your ass and staining the sheets.

"Stay right here," Bucky said before giving you a chaste kiss, pulling his boxers on to run to the bathroom. He came back with a wet towel, sitting on the bed next to you to clean you up with gentle, reverent touches.

He climbed behind you, pulling you into his strong chest—a satisfied rumble vibrating your back. He kissed the back of your head, trailing towards your ear and giving your lobe a gentle bite.

"I love you too."

"When can we move your stuff back in?"

Bucky and you were still lying on his bed, basking in the warmth of each other as the afternoon sun trickled through his half closed curtains.

You turned in his arms, slinging a leg over his and booping his nose. "I think we should go on a couple dates before I move in with you."

His nose and eyes scrunched with that laugh you first fell in love with. "Oh, is that right?"

"Living together before you've even bought me flowers? Sounds a bit rash to me."

"I'll buy you a whole flower shop," he mumbled, his fingers tracing patterns on your bare hip. "Well, maybe not right away—I am paying for two rooms, y'know. Would be nice to be able to buy groceries next month."

You laughed softly, poking his bare chest. "Yeah, and whose fault is that again?"

He grumbled something unintelligible, hiding his face in your neck to lavish you in more kisses.

Wars were started over smiles less beautiful than hers.

The reminder of his reviews about you flourished in your mind, prompting you to pull his head away from your neck.

"So, you're James B? This whole time?"

His face bloomed red, a huff leaving him before he nervously licked his lips. "Yeah…"

"Why? Why start leaving them in the first place, why didn't you tell me?"

He shrugged slightly, lifting a hand to trace the lines of your face. "We were at the bar drinking, and some guy nearby pointed to you and said ratings must be higher with you working there. And—I don't know, I guess I was drunk enough to agree and then…it just happened?"

You furrowed your brows at him. "Why not just write in a journal?"

"Trust me, I was already doing that." He laughed softly, his eyes glowing. "I guess, in a weird way, I was telling you how I felt without actually telling you. Stupid, I know."

Warmth started to spread from your chest. "It took us ages to even notice the reviews—we only realised they were there because Dean assumed one was about him."

Bucky tensed under your hands. "Fucking Dean," he muttered.

"…Are you jealous?"

The blush on his cheeks grew, his eyes avoiding yours. "He was always staring at you, and you laughed with him like—like you did with me. I thought there was something goin' on."

Is it bad that him being jealous is turning you on?

"You have nothing to worry about, Dean is a gross womaniser who I only see as an annoying brother." You pushed at Bucky's chest, making him lie on his back as you straddled his hips. You pressed kisses along his chest, your hips slowly rocking against his. "He did tell me he wanted to sleep with me, though."

Bucky's hands grasped your hips harder, his face turning stormy. "I don't wanna hear you talkin' about another guy when you're on top of me, doll." He muttered low.

You leaned in to kiss him, your hips moving faster and drawing gasps out of the both of you—his dick already half hard under you. "You're so hot when you're jealous."

The sound of the front door opening had you both freezing—your former roommate's laughter drifting down the hall.

"Get dressed, lovebirds!" Sam's voice rang out. "We've got fish to fry!"

a/n: thank you to this pic on pinterest that inspired half the plot (i couldn't get the ho to fit into a moodboard 😔)

[thehornyscriptures]

This was so hot

[herejustforbuckybarnes]

low quality photos of a high quality man 🙂‍↕️

[herejustforbuckybarnes]

low quality photos of a high quality man 🙂‍↕️

[smorgaswhored]

At your back door yellin’

(cause I wanna come in)

pairing: grumpy!trailer park!Bucky x fem!trailer park!reader

warnings/tags: 18+ MDNI, smut (soft dom!Bucky, breeding kink, unprotected p-in-v, oral - f!receiving, fingering, creampie, ass play, multiple positions, dirty talk, squint for daddy kink), age gap (r mid 20s, B late 30s), use of nicknames (ex: “kid”), mechanic!Bucky, semi-slow burn, so much angst, arguing, mentions of troubled pasts (ex: bad parents) mentions of prison, mentions of alcoholism, smoking, drinking, no use of y/n

words: 30.2k (WTF!!!!!!!)

summary: When your neighbor saves you from a tight spot, you go out of your way to thank him. You quickly find out that he doesn’t want your thanks — actually, he doesn’t want anything to do with you. The hurt stings while the curiosity burns, but the cracks begin to show when tensions rise. Is it a classic neighborhood dispute, or is there something bigger hiding beneath the surface?

sammy speaks: celebrating 1k+ followers by taking a trip to angst town. thank you for reading and following my blog, I love all you dearly!🤍 also rip to all the letter g’s that did not make it into this fic, you’ll see what I mean

“That doesn’t sound too good, hun.”

Through the windshield, you spot your neighbor standing in front of the hood with a full laundry basket against her hip. Donna’s eyes sweep suspiciously across your car, as if she thinks the ticking of your engine could double for a time bomb.

You groan, your forehead meeting the steering wheel with a dull thud. “I know.”

“What’s wrong with it? Battery dead?” she asks, coming over to your rolled down window. You crack an eye open at her.

“When I know, I’ll tell ya.”

Her answering look is sympathetic.

“Was never too good with cars myself. Harold did all the fixin’ when he was still around. You got somewhere to be?”

“Job interview,” you mumble, the leather digging into your brow; you’re trying not to focus on the sweat soaking through your best shirt, or your growing anxiety over your fast-approaching interview time. Donna shifts the basket to her other hip.

“Could try callin’ on Bucky. He works at Rogers’ garage down on Miner Street. It’s Sunday, so he should be home.”

Your forehead peels away from the sticky wheel. “Who’s Bucky?”

Donna nods toward the other side of the park. “Bucky Barnes. White trailer with the boots lined up all neat outside the door.”

“Have I met him?”

“Doubt it,” she replies. “He works mean hours, leaves before sun up, comes back when it’s dark. But he’s always ready to help a neighbor out when he’s here. Real sweet guy.”

You blow a stray hair out of your eyes. “You think he can fix whatever’s wrong with my car?” you ask, your doubt as strong as your hope.

Donna smiles like she knows something you don’t. “Bucky can fix anythin’ he gets his hands on.”

You turn in your seat, spotting the white trailer with the boots out front. It looks devoid of life, like it was plopped onto that spot of land by a strong gust of wind rather than by human design. The curtains are drawn, vines creep up the paneling, the gate on the far side of the yard swings in the breeze, but there’s a rusting brown pickup parked in front of it. Promising enough.

“Okay,” you say. “Bucky Barnes. Mechanic. Got it.”

“Good luck,” Donna says with a grin, tapping your arm before walking away.

You step out into the scorching heat of the late July afternoon and make your way across the park, stepping over discarded children’s toys and overgrown flower beds. As you near the trailer, you see the pairs of boots your neighbor spoke about lined up with military precision, all well worn but still taken care of, not a speck of dust or dirt on them, which is rare in a place like this.

You knock three times on the plain brown door before taking a step back, holding your breath. Grasshoppers hum, the wind whips; you don’t hear anything inside the home for an agonizing amount of time, enough time to double the sweat pooling on your lower back. You’re about to try knocking again when the door finally creaks open.

Out steps a mountain of a man.

Big arms and bigger shoulders, broad chest and long, thick legs. He wears boots identical to the ones outside, blue jeans that are in desperate need of a wash, and a black henley that offers an intimidating glimpse into what those arms are capable of. His dark hair is a mess on top of his head, sticking up in all different directions, and underneath it is a face so unexpectedly handsome, you’re not sure how it ended up in a rundown park like this instead of somewhere on a billboard advertising cologne. Sun-kissed, weathered, and deadly serious, but striking in a way you could never forget, triggering a blush on your already flushed cheeks. And then you meet his eyes: electric blue and narrowed at you under furrowed brows, raising the hairs on the back of your sweaty neck.

“Can I help you?” he grunts, voice low and gravely. It scrapes against your spine.

“Hey,” you say quickly with a 1000-watt smile, showing off your nerves. “Hi. Uh, Bucky, right? I’m your neighbor. I live—“ You hook your thumb over your shoulder. “—back that way. The one with the pink door. Um…I was hopin’ you could help me out. My car, it’s — well, it won’t start. Makes a clickin’ noise every time I try turnin’ it over. Donna said you’re a mechanic and might be able to help.”

His expression doesn’t change. He stares unblinkingly at you.

“I, um—,” you can feel yourself faltering, your heart rate rising as the seconds tick by, “I don’t mean to barge in on your Sunday, but I’m pretty desperate. I have an interview in, like, twenty minutes, and I really need this job. Do you think you could take a quick look?”

He eyes you up and down, assessing. You try not to smile wider in case it leans too close to deranged. “You live here?” he demands. You nod.

“Moved in about a month ago. Sorry we’re only meetin’ now, I should’ve introduced myself sooner.”

You offer your name and stick out a hand. Bucky ignores this, staring past you in the direction of your trailer. You watch as his eyes narrow, like he’s weighing the honesty of your words.

“Look, I can pay you, if that hel—“

“Is it the little silver thing?” he cuts you off.

Your lips part. “Uh, yes. Yeah.”

Bucky grunts and turns back inside, shutting the door behind him. The shock of it leaves you frozen in place, reeling, until he reemerges as fast as he left, carrying a toolbox half the size of you; he holds it easily in one hand like it weighs nothing, but you can hear the stock of heavy tools clanking around inside.

“Let’s go,” he mutters, stepping past you. You struggle to keep up with him as he stalks toward your car, like a man on a mission that he’s already running late for. You sneak glances at him while trying not to trip on the cracked walking path, noting the faded scars on the back of his hands, the ticking jaw underneath his beard, and the very tip of a dark tattoo peaking out from beneath his collar. A feeling churns in your gut.

Everything about him screams rough. Rude. Even potentially dangerous — from his imposing figure, to his curt words, he seems like the furthest thing from what you would call ‘sweet.’

But regardless of Donna overselling his altruism, beggars can’t be choosers, and you’ll call him sweet all day long if it gets you to your interview on time.

Bucky lets out a heavy breath when he sets the toolbox down next to your car. He nods at you.

“Try it again,” an order, not a request.

Your limbs twitch into action like a bee flew under your skirt. Sliding into the hot leather seat, you turn the key in the ignition and are met with the same low ticking noise from before. The lights flicker on your dashboard in protest.

“Terminal clamp.”

You jump, finding Bucky almost cheek-to-cheek with you while he leans through the open door. He’s close enough for you to smell dirt, sweat and something heavier on him.

“Shit,” you hiss in surprise, but he’s already pulling away and moving toward the front of the car.

“Pop it,” he calls out.

You exhale slowly and do as you’re told. Sweet, your ass. Bucky lifts the hood and locks it in place before bending over the hot engine, pushing up the sleeves of his shirt.

You step out of the car, hovering near the door but craning your neck to watch. “Terminal clamp?” you repeat.

Bucky takes a moment to respond, long fingers moving deftly through the cables and wires and plugs and bolts. He unscrews something, and steam leaks out.

“On your battery,” he grunts. “The part that connects it to the wires. It’s rusted down. Look.”

He beckons with two oily fingers crooked in your direction. It’s borderline crass, and you find yourself hurrying over without argument. Bucky’s mouth is set into a hard line as he watches you gaze down at the engine, looking without really seeing.

“There,” he points impatiently to a black box near the front. Your eyes catch on the rust growing over the top of it.

“Oh. Yeah.”

“Yeah,” he imitates you, high-pitched and sharp; your eyes snap back to him. He’s clearly not amused by your answer. “When was the last time you had your battery checked?”

“Haven’t had the time lately,” you answer, crossing your arms indignantly over your chest.

“Your daddy don’t check it for ya?” he prods, wiping his hands on the back of his jeans before opening his tool box. Irritation rears up inside fo you. Something about his tone, bitter and mocking, makes you think about hitting him over the head with one of his wrenches.

“My daddy hasn’t been sober enough to tell a battery from a brick since 2009,” you snap.

Bucky pauses while rifling through his tools, but only for a moment. “Batteries need replacin’ every four years. How old’s this one?”

You chew your lip, still thinking about the wrench. Bucky pulls out a small metal plate and a brand new cord, along with a screwdriver that looks like it’s seen better days. When he turns to you, his eyebrows lift expectantly.

“It’s…old,” you relent. Bucky snorts and leans over the car again.

“Define ‘old’ to me, princess.”

A zip of electricity runs down your spine at the pet name, angry and hot. “I don’t know,” you grumble. “It came with the car and I bought it five years ago. And don’t call me princess.”

A ghost of a smirk crosses his face. “Whatever you say, kid.”

You glare at him while he unscrews the rusted plate from the battery. Despite your growing frustration, and the nearing interview time, and the heat pressing down on you from all sides, you quickly become entranced with the way his hands move expertly with the replacement parts. It’s obvious he’s well-versed with the inside of a car.

“This will hold for a few days,” Bucky says, attaching the new cord to the engine. “But you need a new battery. Forget it, and you’ll be needin’ a new car. Am I makin’ myself clear?”

Something about the sternness in his voice creates a pressure on your chest that feels foreign and strange. “Yeah, new battery, got it,” you mumble.

He glances at you but says nothing, screwing in the clean plate. As he finishes up his work, you look back at your trailer, the paint on the front door peeling, the screens torn in most of the windows. You clear your throat. “Donna says you fix a lot of stuff for the folks around here,” you begin. Bucky makes a noise of acknowledgement. “You ever, uh…fix any showers?”

He pauses to look back at you, blue eyes sharp. “That a line?”

“What? No!” you sputter, cheeks on fire. “No, it’s — my shower pressure. It’s shit, it’s…not a pick up line. I’m askin’ if you can fix that, too.”

He grunts, satisfied with his finished product, and closes the hood with a snap. You step back, watching as he tosses the screw driver back into the box and wipes his hands on his jeans again. When he turns to you, his face is closed off, stoic.

“I’m busy,” he says, blunt and to the point. The rejection stings like a child daring to touch the point of a needle for the first time — sharp and surprising and oddly shameful. The embarrassment pulls your eyes away.

“But if I find some time, I’ll let you know.”

His gaze is steady and unreadable when you meet it again. You nod quickly.

“That’d be amazing,” you gush, hands clasped together, “thank you—“

“I haven’t even fixed it yet, save your thanks,” he cuts you off.

“Still,” you reply, taking a step toward him, “I’d owe ya big time. Oh, you’d be doin’ me a huge favor ‘cause I need all the help I can get on this place—“

“What’d I just say, kid?” He glares are you, hands on his hips. “Now go on before you start wastin’ any more of my time,” he snaps, jerking his chin toward the car. You hesitate with your hand on the door, the smile on your face flickering doubtfully.

“Is it…safe?” you ask slowly.

Bucky scowls, mean and dark. “Don’t insult me.”

That gets you scampering into the seat. You twist the key, and after a breathless moment, the engine roars to life, the vents blasting you with hot air, but air nonetheless. You let out a whoop and pat the steering wheel proudly, the hope creeping back in. When you look out the windshield, you see Bucky’s already packed up his tool box and is making his way back to his trailer.

“Hey!” You scramble out of the car. “Hey, wait!”

He doesn’t turn around, just lifts his free hand over his head.

“Thank you!” you call out. He doesn’t respond. You watch him as he rounds his truck and disappears into his home. Then your phone buzzes.

“Shit—“

You’re peeling out of the park in seconds, leaving behind a cloud of dust and two blue eyes that watch you go from the safety of his trailer.

You take the keys out of the ignition and lean back in your seat, the smile on your face still as big as it was when the owner announced you got the job. In that moment, it was like the sun had broken through the clouds after years of rain.

It isn’t anything special, just a serving job at one of the many roadside diners in this small town, but what it stands for is more than you’ve had most of your life. Independence, stability, roots — everything you’ve been chasing after for the last few years now finally within your reach. No longer are you relying on the kindness of so-called friends that kick you out when it becomes inconvenient for them, or the generosity of low-life boyfriends that expect indentured servitude for a bed to sleep in; no longer are you couch surfing your way down highway 70, wondering what your next meal is going to cost you, or if your mother will pick up the phone when you’re too low on cash for gas. Just by getting the job, by finding your own little place to call home, you’ve broken free of the chains that have held your pitiful family lineage captive for years.

That’s worth celebrating.

You grab the six pack off the passenger seat before climbing out of the car. Thankfully, the evening air is much cooler now, and settles gently on your skin. Crickets chirp their congratulations, the breeze pats your back, and the light left on inside your trailer welcomes you home.

You sigh as you take it in, a soft smile on your face. Just this morning, you found the peeling front door, weedy garden and crooked paneling daunting; now it looks like a project you want to dive headfirst into, an opportunity to create something beautiful out of nothing, much like your own life.

You’ve got one foot on the steps when the wind grabs your attention. The large oak tree in the middle of the trailer park groans as it shifts, and you glance back to watch the leaves sway in the dusk, shadowed and haunting in a strangely beautiful way, until your gaze catches on a patch of light just beyond it. The white trailer with the boots out front has its curtains open now, and you watch as a shadow passes across a window.

Bucky.

The pressure returns to your chest tenfold, the same as before. Because of him, you get to cheers to a new life with a cold beer on your ratty little couch, and he walked away without so much as a thank you…

You adjust your grip on the six pack when you make your decision, sudden but resolute, and you’re crossing the park before you can think twice about it. A reward is reaped better with others.

As you approach, the shadows in the windows become clearer; wide shoulders, strong arms, big hands that set a mug on a shelf. Your breath goes a little shallow remembering how he towered over you. Stepping up the path, you watch as he pauses in front of the window, as still as a deer in headlights. Your knuckles just meet the door when the light inside flicks off.

You blink, eyes darting back to the window. The trailer is now dark. You can’t see inside, can’t spot movement — it’s pitch black where his figure was, where he stopped in front of the window right as you walked up…

You knock anyway. The beer bottles are cold against the skin of your leg as you wait, condensation dripping down your ankle. But the light doesn’t turn back on and you don’t hear weight shifting over cheap flooring. The crickets that sounded so nice before start to mock you the longer you stand there. You count to ten before trying again, a light rap on the wood.

Nothing.

Your heart sinks before you can stop it, the feeling painful and confusing. You bite down on your lip hard enough to draw blood, cheeks blazing in the soft light of the moon, then set the six pack in front of his door.

Bucky’s lights do not turn on when you make it back to your trailer, and they’re still not on when you spare one last glance out the window. The beers sit untouched on his front step.

Embarrassment courses through you like a summer fever, hot and alive and consuming. It eats away at all of the previous joy from your new job, and that bothers you more than you care to admit.

With a shake of your head, as if to clear the feeling out, you toss the keys on the counter and move to your tiny bathroom to turn on the shower. The nozzle sputters twice before the bare minimum drizzles out. You’re reminded of how you asked Bucky to fix it, the cryptic response he gave you, and how you nearly melted in response — the heat floods back to your face.

You really wish you kept those beers.

When the dried sweat has been scrubbed from your skin, and you’ve pulled on the softest sleep clothes you own, your mind has officially moved from denial to bargaining.

Donna said Bucky works brutal hours — maybe he has a strict sleep schedule. Like he can’t function unless he gets a full eight hours. Maybe it’s a ‘no visitors, lights off by nine on weeknights’ kind of thing. That makes sense for a fully grown man to have…right?

The reasonings filter through your head long after you’ve crawled into bed, some more believable than others. Eventually you decide that you just caught him at a bad time, and that it had nothing to do with him possibly seeing you through the window.

You’ll run into Bucky and explain the beers left on his door step; he’ll explain that he was tired, or he was busy, or something else completely normal and valid, and whatever lingering feelings you have over the whole thing will dissolve into nothing. Maybe you’ll crack a joke, maybe he’ll actually smile. Maybe the ice breaks and you’ll have another neighbor to call a friend in this new home.

You tell yourself this over and over until your restless mind finally fades to black.

You rise with the sun the next morning for your first shift. Your head is pleasantly empty of last night’s internal discourse, and you take it as a good sign.

Breakfast is pitiful — coffee and toast — but you’re too nervous to fill your uneasy stomach with more. When you pull on your uniform and spin every which way in the cracked bathroom mirror, though, the nervousness begins to fade. The dress is threadbare and half a size too big, but the color compliments your skin and emphasizes how bright and giddy your eyes are, bringing a light to your face that you haven’t seen in years. That tattered hand-me-down is a beautiful gateway opening up to a better future, a real future. You already love it.

When it’s time to go, you step out into a quiet, windless morning that promises to be a scorcher later. As you toss your purse into the passenger seat, you hear the rumbling of an old engine approaching, growing louder by the second. A familiar brown truck with the windows rolled down pulls up to the exit, just a few yards from where you stand.

Bucky sits in the driver’s seat, sporting an off-white t-shirt and dark sunglasses. He adjusts the radio, touches the rearview mirror, and pushes his shades up his nose before glancing up. Even behind the tinted lenses, you know that he sees you, and your heart nearly jumps out of your chest. But you still manage a smile, lifting your hand in a small wave.

He stares at you, an immovable statue except for his fingers white-knuckling over the wheel. A moment passes that feels like both a millisecond and a lifetime. You wonder if you should say something. But before you can, he looks away, the truck roaring once more as he eases out of the lot and into the street like he never saw you.

You watch his taillights drop beyond the horizon, your stomach dropping with them. The blatant dismissal sinks in, heavy and cutting, and it brings back all of the embarrassment from the night before. You fight desperately against a few angry tears stinging your eyes, but the hum of your fully-functioning engine does nothing to drown out the ringing in your ears.

You’re not sure which is worse: him ignoring you, or your reaction to him ignoring you.

You’ve dealt with disregard your entire life. Your childhood is a treasure trove of disappointment and neglect, carelessness and chaos, all of it later contributing to your steel-thick skin and low expectations of others. So you’re not sure why a stranger is affecting you like this — and a surly, intimidating stranger at that.

But something about him actively choosing to pretend you don’t exist presses on a bruise you’ve had covered for years. It rattles you more than anything.

Hands shaking, you put the car into drive.

The journey to the diner passes in a blur as you kick yourself mentally for the weakness. Your biggest mistake is that you went to him when you were too vulnerable — you were practically cracked wide open with need, and all it took was a helping hand for him to slip past your usual defenses. Were the sharp edges and sharper tongue not obvious red flags? What is it about Bucky that made you assume so quickly that he would be your friend? You taught yourself much better than that.

Despite the evidence, at the root of you, you refuse to accept it. Bucky’s lack of reaction was completely out of sorts; you know he’s far from friendly, but to completely ignore you is crazy work. So crazy that it just doesn’t make sense. There has to be some explanation for it, other than the obvious.

But unlike last night, your brain draws a blank on reasons for his behavior.

By the time you make it to the diner, you’re determined to figure this out. You need to see him again, to create an opportunity for an olive branch, and to learn if he’ll take it.

You get your first chance less than a week later, when you’re headed toward the mailboxes before the sun’s fully risen. You see a hulking figure already in front of them that you recognize right away. Bucky’s distracted while rifling through his mail, looking disheveled but still undeniably handsome in the pink light; he even looks relaxed, for once, instead of his usual guarded attitude.

“Good morning,” you say, smiling as you open your mailbox.

He tenses as he turns your way, shoulders taut and face creased. His jaw works as he stares you down, like he’s considering words and biting back the harsher ones. But instead of saying what’s on his mind, he grunts, short and crude, before turning on his heel and walking away. Your eyes follow him as he returns to his trailer and slams the door shut. It scares a flock of birds out of a nearby tree.

You stand there with a hand on the mailbox, jaw agape. The message couldn’t be any clearer. But for some reason, you shut your mouth with a snap and stand straighter, determined. His petulant, teenage antics are not enough to get you to throw in the towel yet.

So you try harder. You learn that you both leave the park around the same time, and when his truck rumbles past you, you wave, even if he isn’t looking at you (in a very obvious way.) You don’t care. You still try. He never waves back or throws you any acknowledgment, although you would bet your life on him seeing you each time, and eventually he starts leaving earlier, truck already missing from its spot when you’re headed to your car.

On the few days you’re both not working, you often see him mowing his lawn, mending his fence or washing his truck, domestic things that may trick passerby into thinking he’s a normal, pleasant guy. You fall victim to it as well, even knowing what you know, and head over with the intention of trapping him in a conversation. But as soon as you get remotely close to Bucky’s property, he mysteriously disappears, leaving you to feel like you just saw a ghost rather than your very alive neighbor.

You still don’t give in, but he continues to make it harder. When your car pulls up next to his at a red light, he’s theoretically interested in the SUV in front of him. When you’re passing out day-old pies from the diner to the neighbors, he doesn’t answer the door even though you can hear the TV on inside. When you’re taking a stroll around the park and he’s headed your way, he turns around and walks in the opposite direction.

Frustrating is the politest way you can describe him, but your mind can’t seem to take the hint.

Until the delusion crumbles when you least expect it. You’re bone-tired after your shift, and even your purse full of tips can’t ease the pain from your back. Pulled up to your trailer, you notice a group of three people slowly making their way across the park. One quick look tells you it’s the Markhams, stooped and gray-haired, shuffling down the pathway, and in between them is none other than Bucky, carrying a dozen grocery bags on each arm that you know aren’t his.

You watch as he leans down toward Mrs. Markham, listening to something she says, and your eyes go wide when he throws his head back in a laugh, pure joy lighting up his face. The sound creeps into your car, oozing warmth and light that is at odds with the Bucky you know. Mr. Markham adds a comment that gets him laughing harder, lines crinkling around his eyes, nose scrunching up in delight. You greedily take in this new side of him while your stomach roils with something bitter and nauseating.

So the sweet side of Bucky does exist. You’re watching it in real time as he helps his elderly neighbors with their groceries, chuckling in amusement as they banter back and forth. He holds the door open for them, too, even with his arms full, making sure they cross the threshold safely before letting the door fall shut behind him.

This must be the Bucky that Donna spoke about. The Bucky that everyone but you, apparently, gets to see.

The realization settles inside of you like an anvil dropping from the sky. So it’s just you that he doesn’t like. It’s just you that he can’t bear to be a neighbor to.

Occam’s Razor strikes again.

You move mechanically out of your car and into your home, your body carrying you through the motions while your brain twists itself up into a painful knot. You comb through everything you did and said that Sunday afternoon when he fixed your car; did you offend him? Did you push an unknown boundary? Did you ask for too much? Did you say too little? Were you too loud or too quiet? Too slow to thank him for his help?

Yes, you snapped a few times, but you only ever matched his energy, and everything about him implied that he can take as good as he gives. So what happened? What did you do? Why is your neighbor so unconcerned with whether you live or die?

Whatever the reason, it’s done its damage. Bucky wants nothing to do with you, and that seems to be the way it is.

Later that night, when sleep evades you, and you’ve tossed and turned for hours on end, a terrible loneliness creeps in for the first time since you arrived at the trailer park. It’s familiar in the worst way, reminding you of all the horrible people you met and all the shitty pit stops you made on your journey here. You thought you left that feeling behind — you thought wrong.

It follows you around for the next few days, leaving you hollow and numb. You’re on autopilot most of the time: you smile at customers and make conversation with the neighbors, you gossip with your coworkers and play with the children next door. But it’s constantly there in the back of your mind, like a memory you can’t erase, and when you’re alone in your little home, you feel it wrap around you like a straight jacket.

You’re lonely. And Bucky’s indifference toward you brought it front and center. For you, companionship had always been fleeting and one-sided, transactional at best. You’d had enough of it to the point that companionship was something you began to avoid, even when it promised a warm bed and a free meal. You thought a place to call your own and a means to support yourself were enough to keep the grass greener on your side. Now a stranger who sees nothing to gain by being your friend has reminded you that you’ve never had anyone in your life that wanted to be there just because.

The grass slowly withers away to a dry, lifeless brown.

You think you’re hiding it well, but Donna asks about it when July has rolled into a rainy August.

“How’ve you been, hun?” she says around her cigarette, pushing back one of the many hairs falling out of her clip. “Feels like I haven’t seen you in a while.”

“I’ve been pickin’ up more shifts,” you reply automatically, pulling roughly on the broken piece of siding. Donna watches as you struggle with it, leaning against the far side of the trailer.

“You’re gonna work yourself into an early grave if you keep that up. You leave at dawn and don’t come back ‘til dusk seven days a week. Young thing like you needs time to herself.”

“I’m tryin’ to save up,” you grunt, snapping the siding in half. The part connected to your trailer swings down dejectedly. You look her way. “In case you haven’t noticed, this place is fallin’ apart, and it takes money to put it back together.”

She hums, tapping the ashes from her cigarette. “Why don’t you just ask Bucky for help?”

You pause from picking up the broken pieces of siding in the grass. “I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t wanna bother him,” you grumble, avoiding her eyes.

“Oh, please — Bucky would be happy to help.”

“Are you sure about that?” A sudden hint of irritation in your tone. Donna stands up straighter.

“Whaddya mean?” she asks, eyebrows raised. “Something happen?”

You shake your head quickly. “No, there’s not — no. He just seems really busy, that’s all. No use askin’ for his time when he doesn’t have any.”

There’s a brief silence as Donna considers your words. “Something happened,” she repeats. You toss your head, eyes narrowing in her direction, but she keeps going. “Did he say no to fixin’ your car? Or was he mean? Like he’d rather be talkin’ to anybody but you?”

You let out an exhale, long and ragged, and debate answering truthfully.

“Well, yeah,” you admit, “but that ain’t nothin’ I’m not used to. He was actually—“ Your jaw clenches. “He was helpful. Ruder than hell — and bossy, but he got it fixed and told me to get a new battery and stuff. But ever since then…” You trail off, Donna waits. “It’s like he regrets doin’ it. I’ll see him walk by and his eyes pass over me like I’m not even there. I try startin’ a conversation and suddenly he’s got somewhere to be. He’s avoidin’ me, and I don’t know why. I’d be fine with it if I knew what it was, but I got no clue.” Knees in the grass, you watch as a caterpillar crawls over a leaf and onto a piece of siding; you pick it up carefully, watching as the insect runs circles over the plastic, nowhere to go, just as confused as you. “Why’s he like that?”

“Oh, hun,” Donna soothes quietly, stepping closer to your crouched position. “Is that what’s been botherin’ ya? Bucky not bein’ welcomin’?”

“Yes — I mean, no. That’s not what’s botherin’ me, it’s just — it’s hard to explain.” You set the caterpillar down and stand, brushing the dirt and grass from your knees. “And it’s a lot more than just not bein’ welcomin’. I could get hit by a semi right here on Pueblo Street and I don’t think he’d even blink.”

“Now I know that’s not true. What’s goin’ on in that head of yours, sugar?” Donna asks patiently, putting her cigarette out on the broken siding.

You watch the ashes drop to the ground, fragile, crumbling, and still smoking. Your eyes scan the park, naturally pausing over the white trailer with the curtains drawn and boots out front; there’s no truck outside, so he must be working. Yet the empty house still stings a little to look at.

“I thought that the job and movin’ here meant I figured everything out,” you mutter. “Instead an old man decidin’ he doesn’t like me for no reason reminded me that I’m still on my own. I’ve dealt with it my whole life, so I get along just fine by myself, but I’m only human. I still want someone to — to care about me.” You fight through the sudden lump in your throat.

“And Bucky doin’ you a favor brought that up,” Donna confirms. You nod reluctantly.

“Guess so. It was just nice to have someone care, even if he was grumpy as hell about it. Now he pretends I don’t exist and I keep rememberin’ all the times I thought I found someone who cared, only for them to just—“ You flick your hand like you’re waving off a bug, inconsequential yet inconvenient.

“Honey, we care.” Donna wraps an arm around your shoulders, warm and tight, holding you to her. “You got all of us now, and we watch out for each other.”

You open your mouth to point out that one of them does not, but she beats you to it.

“Bucky is a special case,” she sighs. You watch as she gazes at the white trailer, too. “It took him a while to come around to us. He was quiet, kept to himself, coming and going at odd hours…but eventually we wore him down. Kept inviting him in even when we knew he wouldn’t come. Kept offering our help even when we knew he wouldn’t take it. But then he did. I think Bucky was gone for a few days when a big storm came through — a tree fell and knocked out the left side of his trailer, crushed the roof. We got together and started patching it up just as he pulled in. Told us he could handle it but we wouldn’t take no for answer and did it with him anyway. He was real grateful, awfully sweet and apologetic, extra kind to everyone that helped out, but we told him it’s what we do for each other. After that, it was like living next door to a whole new person. I think he just needed to see that we cared for him no matter what, and that we’d be there for him even when things were tough.”

You huff, kicking the dirt at your feet. “Doesn’t explain why he’s got a problem with me. What’s his deal?”

Donna’s hesitant to answer, pulling out another cigarette and lighting it thoughtfully. When there’s a cloud of smoke in the air between you, she says slowly, “He did some time at the state pen.”

Your eyes snap to her, but she shakes her head a little.

“He hasn’t said much, but from what I gathered, Bucky lost more than just his freedom when they handed him his sentence. Family don’t bother with him anymore, told him as much when he was paroled, and he had no choice but to make do alone somewhere else. That can mess a person up, make them suspicious of others, make them think bein’ alone’s the only way to go about this life.” She looks at you then, a soft smile on her lips. “Sounds like someone else I know.” Her words feel like a sucker punch to your gut, but she waves a hand at you. “That’s all I’ve got, though, so if you’re curious about it, you’ll need to ask him.”

You chew the inside of your cheek, replaying the story, picturing Bucky in an orange jumpsuit behind bars. For some reason, the image seems wrong, but your curiosity begins to burn.

“I doubt I’ll get the chance,” you mumble.

“Give it some time,” Donna chirps. “He’ll come around. But you—“ She wraps a thin hand around your wrist, squeezing with intention. “—next time you’re feelin’ a little too sorry for yourself, you come find me. By the time I’m done with you, you’re gonna be beggin’ for some alone time.”

A smile reluctantly breaks across your face, the first genuine one in weeks. “Sure, Donna. Thanks.”

You’d think your talk with Donna would help ease Bucky Barnes from your head, but it seems to have the opposite affect.

While your cocktail of emotions towards him has been watered down by Donna’s story, the urge to understand him is stronger than ever.

You still see him occasionally, driving past in his truck, stalking toward the mailbox, trudging around his yard; you pick up where you left off with your routine, waving and smiling and wishing him a good morning even when he’s already halfway across the park. Nothing changes in his attitude toward you, but it only makes you more curious.

Between grueling ten-hour shifts at the diner, you capitalize on a specific tidbit you learned from Donna, how the neighbors’ generosity got Bucky to crack. You know you have better things to do than trying to win over someone who doesn’t want to be won over, but your stubbornness has always gotten the best of you in your weaker moments.

You choose to act when he isn’t home, aiming to lessen the pressure instead of amping it up. You spend an entire day baking ten dozen cookies for the neighbors and make sure to leave a few at his door with a note to come by if he wants more (he doesn’t). You suffer through sunburn and dehydration while sweeping the entire walking path around the park, paying special attention to Bucky’s portion so that the dust doesn’t settle over his boots. You sprint through a downpour to pull his clothes off the line, covering your trailer in his shirts and jeans and — gulp — underwear to air dry before folding them up carefully and delivering them to his front step in your laundry basket once the sky’s cleared up.

It’s waiting for you outside your door the next morning as you’re leaving for work. No note, no sign of a thanks. You blink when you see it, wondering how he knew it was your laundry basket in the first place.

Still, nothing changes. You try really hard not to obsess over it. And life moves on as usual.

One Friday afternoon, you find yourself sitting in a cheap folding chair next to a handful of your neighbors; they caught you after a slow shift when your social battery hadn’t dropped below empty yet, calling you over with wide smiles like they’ve been waiting hours for you to show. The group is converged in a circle next to the oak tree, passing around beer and flasks of whiskey and shooting the shit. You’ve made quick friends with the girl two trailers down, Wanda, who isn’t much older than you but has a lightness to her that feels like a breath of fresh air. Her husband, who she calls Viz, sits with his arm draped around her shoulders and a look on his face like there’s nowhere else in the world he’d rather be. They ask you how you’re liking the park, how the repairs to your trailer are coming along, how your job is going. You feel a deep sense of gratitude forming the more you speak with them.

Neighbors filter in and out of the group like clockwork as the afternoon sun fades into the evening sunset. If they can’t stop for a drink, they still join in on the conversation, gossiping and commenting on the goings-on in town, or stirring up good-natured trouble before resuming their chores — Donna comes by to threaten you all with the hose if you don’t pick up after yourselves. You’re convinced you’ve met everyone in the park by this point, and you’ll need to make a list to get their names straight, but they all have one thing in common: they’re all pleased that you’re here.

The beer eventually begins to dwindle, but spirits are still high in the circle. Wanda’s in the middle of telling a story about a squirrel that got into the Markhams’ trailer when you hear the deep rumbling of an engine in the distance. Wanda doesn’t seem to notice it, but you know that sound anywhere. Sure enough, Bucky’s brown truck comes up the hill and pulls into the park as Wanda’s imitating Mrs. Markham’s screams from her standoff with the intruder. While the rest of the group roars with laughter, you watch as Bucky parks the truck in front of his trailer and steps out. That’s when Wanda spots him, too.

“Hey, Buck!” she calls out, hands cupped around her mouth.

Bucky turns toward the group, his eyes sweeping across the faces. You swear they pause on you for a half a heartbeat.

“Come join us! We’ve got beer!” Wanda shouts, waving a hand over her head. A few others in the circle add their agreement, ushering him over and shaking their flasks. Bucky stares for another moment, as still as the trees behind him, before turning around without a word and heading for his trailer. The door shuts with a slam. A few grumbles go up around you, but Wanda just shrugs, smiling lopsidedly. “Eh, if I got off work early, I’d probably want some peace and quiet, too.”

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding, a sense of unease tainting the picturesque scene around you. “Does he…do that often?” you ask as casually as you can.

“Get off work early? Never. He works more than anyone I know—“

“No, I mean…” your finger points vaguely in the direction of the white trailer, “does he usually just ignore you when you ask him to hang out?”

She tilts her head, lips curving. “No, he’s usually at these things when he isn’t workin’. But if he’s home already, it probably means he threw out his back or somethin’. I know Steve threatens to fire him if he doesn’t go home and rest when that happens. Leave it to Bucky to take an order that seriously.” She laughs. “I swear those two were soldiers in a past life.”

You nod, your mind already dissecting the new information. He didn’t look like he was hurt…but you remember his eyes resting on you for a beat too long. The beer and whiskey combo in your stomach churns.

You fidget with your drink for the next half hour, barely hearing the conversations around you. An uncomfortable feeling has settled in your chest, tight and anxious, and your racing thoughts do nothing to help it. Finally, you can’t take it anymore, feeling restless and in pursuit of answers. You excuse yourself and head for your trailer, but when you’re far enough from the group, you take the long way around the park to Bucky’s, your heartbeat growing louder with each step.

You knock on the door before you can convince yourself otherwise, listening to the laughter of the circle as you wait. There’s a shuffling on the other side, then a soft grunt, and the door swings open.

Your lips part.

Bucky stands before you in nothing but his blue jeans. Your eyes jump to the wide expanse of his chest, the hard muscles of his abs. A smattering of dark chest hair tapers off down his stomach and disappears into his pants, right below his belt buckle. You forget how to breathe.

He stares down at you while bringing a beer bottle to his mouth and taking a hard swig. A drop of condensation lands on the dip between his collarbones, and your tongue subconsciously darts out to wet your lips. He shifts his weight to lean against the door frame, expression neutral. “What do you want?”

You realize you look like a fish out of water and shut your mouth with a snap, swallowing thickly as you feel an unwarranted heat bloom in your gut.

“Um,” you start, silently cursing the way your voice shakes. “Not sure if you heard Wanda, but we — uh, we were wonderin’ if you wanted to join us. Patrick’s doin’ a run to the liquor store so there’ll be plenty of beer soon. Or we still have some whiskey. Unless you’ve got plans…” you trail off, eyes flicking to his shirtless chest.

Bucky’s face doesn’t change. “Don’t have plans.”

“Then you should drink with us.”

“Not interested.” You blink.

“…why not?”

He shrugs.

“Don’t feel like drinkin’ with company.” He takes another quick sip from his bottle. Your eyes catch on the label and recognize it immediately from your own preferences; when you look back at Bucky, you find him watching you closely, blue eyes hard and unapologetic. You suck in a breath through your teeth, a strange feeling buzzing beneath your skin. Maybe it’s the alcohol, maybe it’s the heat, maybe it’s the undeniable thrill of seeing him shirtless, but you feel close to exploding.

“Don’t feel like drinkin’ with company, or don’t feel like drinkin’ with me?” you say quietly, eyes ghosting over his frame.

A look crosses his face, something close to bewildered, before he hides it behind his usual expressionless mask. “What’re you talkin’ about?”

You flash him a tight-lipped smile though far from amused. “Sure, like you don’t know.”

“Kid, I don’t have a clue,” he grumbles, though the hand holding the beer bottle twitches.

“Oh, don’t play dumb,” you snap before you can stop yourself, a dangerous flush running through your body, “you know exactly what you’re doin’. What you’ve been doin’ for the last month. Avoidin’ me like I’m the tax man and you’ve got a debt to pay. You don’t like me? Fine. No problem. I don’t need you to be my friend. But I won’t put up with you actin’ like I don’t exist in front of everyone else anymore, and if you keep doin’ it, I’ll make your sad, lonely, little life hell. So just stay away from me and I’ll stay away from you. Got it?”

Your words hang between you for a sour moment, and not even the cheerful sounds of the group can cut through the tension. Your chest heaves as you scowl at Bucky; he scowls right back, though you notice that the tips of his ears have gone a rosy shade of red and his grip on the beer bottle looks close to destructive. Your eyes scan his hardened face one last time before you turn on your heel and kick up a cloud of dust behind you as you march back to your trailer. This time, you slam the door.

Inside the trailer, the urge to throw something, anything, is too strong to ignore. Your vision zeroes in on the laundry basket Bucky returned a few days ago, and you lunge. Taking the cheap plastic in your hands, you hurl it against the floor with all of your strength, gritting your teeth while biting back a scream, watching as it breaks into a hundred different pieces with concerning ease on your linoleum floors. What follows is a silence so bitter, you can taste it in your mouth.

Your temper slowly fizzles out as you absorb the mess you made. You shouldn’t have done that. You shouldn’t have let him get to you again. Now you’ve got a room full of shame and no laundry basket.

Exhaling heavily, you run a hand through your hair while peeking out the window to see if the circle of neighbors heard your crash out. Nobody’s looking your way, thankfully — instead, they’re cheering on Patrick as he emerges from his car with two new cases of beer. A pang of longing hits your chest, but you know you can’t go back out there now, not after this. So you resign yourself to picking up the remains of your laundry basket, piece by piece on your hands and knees until they ache from the pressure and you’ve cut your fingers on the jagged edges.

Later, when you’re nursing a small hangover with a cup of tea and an ice pack on your head, you wait for the regret to sink in over the heated words you threw at Bucky. But, strangely, it doesn’t. Now that the buzz from the alcohol and the leftover anger have vacated your body, you’re left with an odd sense of calm about it.

Sure, you got something off your chest that’s been weighing you down for weeks, but you had truly convinced yourself that you were optimistic over the Bucky situation. You had been foolishly hopeful that you could get through to him. Your outburst said differently. You should feel embarrassed, defeated, tired, but instead you feel…good. You handled it, just like you’ve handled every other hurdle in your life. Maybe not gracefully, but grace has never been your forte, and you don’t really mind.

You only wish that Bucky had shown some sort of reaction to being called out, a protest, a sigh, anything — but the man is as expressive as a bucket of cement. Knowing him, you wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t listen to half the things you said. He probably thought the whole thing was a waste of time, something to forget about as soon as he shut the door…

Doesn’t matter. You’re not going to lose sleep over your emotionally repressed neighbor anymore. You’re not going to spend another second thinking about him.

This turns out to be easier said than done.

You get to enjoy a peaceful week without seeing or thinking about Bucky, until Sunday rolls around. You’re doing laundry, which proves to be harder than usual without a laundry basket, leaving you to juggle armfuls of clothes while trekking back and forth between the park’s shared washing machines and your trailer. While the last of your wardrobe dries on the line outside, you’re moving around your little home in a faded pink tank top and an old pair of some ex’s boxers. The radio plays rock classics while you prep dinner, and you hum along as you man the stove and chop vegetables.

Then a knock interrupts.

You set down the knife and glance out the window, but whoever’s outside is hovering next to the door out of sight. You think it’s Donna, coming by with eggs after she borrowed some from you the other day, but when you open the door, you’re downright shocked to find who’s on the other side.

Bucky stands with one hand against your door frame, the other holding his toolbox, dressed in dirty jeans and a plain black t-shirt that hugs his body in an ungodly attractive way. You take a step back in surprise when his eyes find yours. They’re bright, but guarded. He nods at you.

“You said your shower’s broken,” he says in greeting, voice low like he doesn’t want to be overheard.

Your mouth falls open. “Huh?”

His lips press together in an impatient line. “Your shower. You asked me to take a look at it the other day.”

Your mind feels like an old computer you had to reboot to get working again. You blink at him as it comes back to you.

“Yeah,” you answer slowly, “but that was before.”

He huffs, looking over his shoulder at the park behind him. “You want your shower fixed or not? I got things to do today.”

“Then go do ‘em.” You cross your arms over your chest, trying your best to look down your nose at him while being completely submerged in his shadow.

“Don’t be stupid,” is his retort, “I’m offerin’ you help.”

“Don’t need it. And don’t call me stupid,” you snap.

“You gonna fix the shower yourself?” Bucky challenges, tilting his head at you. You feel heat rush to your cheeks as his eyes sweep up and down your figure, taking in your thin tank top and rolled up boxers.

“Maybe,” you throw at him, though it lacks the previous bite. The corner of Bucky’s mouth curls up.

“Then at least let me watch.”

Your spine locks as a jolt of something new and strange spreads through your body. Your brain decides now is a good time to remember just how attractive he is beneath the oil and dirt and rough demeanor — especially when shirtless.

“That’s — I don’t — you—“ stammers out of your mouth. Bucky responds by pushing past you into your trailer. You stumble into your couch, still struggling for words as he fills your little kitchen with his wide shoulders and long legs, his hair nearly brushing the ceiling. He sets the toolbox down on your table, briefly glancing at your half-made dinner.

“Smells good.”

His gruff tone is a sharp contrast to his casual words. You shake your head, though you feel like you could use a solid smack to the face. “Do you normally go around bargin’ into your neighbors homes?” you ask, slightly breathless. He looks at you, amused.

“When the neighbors are bein’ dumb, yeah. This the bathroom?” He points to the pocket door on his left.

“I told you not to call me—“

“Stupid, I know. I didn’t call you stupid, though.”

Your jaw clenches hard enough to hurt, watching as Bucky pulls open the bathroom door and squeezes into the tiny room like it’s his house. The sound of the shower turning on comes a second later.

“I thought I told you to stay away from me,” you grit through your teeth. “You got a hearing problem, old man?”

From the bathroom, Bucky chuckles, soft and deep. “Old man,” he mutters to himself before shutting the water off and reappearing, eyes pinning you in place. “I can hear just fine. Heard all of your cute little temper tantrum the other day.“

Your entire body flushes against its will. ”Then why are you here?” you demand. Bucky begins rifling through his toolbox.

“You asked me to fix your shower.”

“Yeah, a month ago,” you scoff. “And before I knew how big of an ass you are.” Bucky’s mouth does that half-smile again as he picks up a wrench. It might be the same one you imagined hitting him over the head with.

“That ain’t very nice,” he murmurs, eyes flicking to you. “You hardly know me.”

Your lip curls. “And you don’t know me, but you already decided I wasn’t worth your time.”

He exhales heavily, swapping the wrench for another one and weighing it in his hands. “This again?” But before you can let out the blood-curdling scream that’s been building up inside of you, he sets down the tool and turns your way, shoulders set and face stony. “Look, if I hurt your feelins by not takin’ your invite, then that’s on you. It ain’t personal, neighborhood bondin’s not really my thing as you could probably tell—“

“Unbelievable,” you mutter bitterly, shaking your head. “First of all, I know you’re lyin’ — Wanda said you’re always around when somethin’ is goin’ on. Second, you’re completely missin’ my point.”

“I was gettin’ to it,” he says louder, pointing a sharp finger at you. “But it seems you have a habit of jumpin’ to conclusions before hearin’ a person out.”

“Hearin’ a person out!” you cry, throwing your hands up; the sarcasm drips thick into your tone. “When would I ever be able to hear you out when you walk the other way when you see me comin’?”

He levels you with a hard look, blue eyes burning into yours. Butterflies erupt in your stomach, unwelcome and distracting, but you hold your ground.

“I don’t do friends,” he grunts, “I’m not good at bein’ one and I’m too busy for ‘em anyway. Fixin’ your car that day, I could tell that’s what you were lookin’ for, and I didn’t want you to get the wrong idea in your head.”

You laugh, dry and harsh. “Well, you certainly got your point across, Bucky.” His hand twitches, a quick clench and unclench of fingers; you observe it coolly, eyebrow cocked. “You know, for a guy who “doesn’t do friends,” there are a lot of people in this park who think you do.”

“That’s different,” he’s quick to say, brushing it off, “I’ve known ‘em for years. Thin line between familiar and friends, not my fault if they pick one and I pick the other.”

You scoff.

“Sure, okay. So what happens in, say, five years — when I’m still livin’ across the park from ya?” you ask, taking a bold step forward. “Will I get grandfathered in to your half-assed friendship, or will we still be goin’ at it like this? ‘cause I’m startin’ to think it’s less about you bein’ anti-friends, and more about you not likin’ me.”

“You won’t be here in five years,” he says with a roll of his eyes. “This place ain’t anythin’ more than a pit stop on your way to somethin’ else. You’re young — real young — still got most of your life ahead of you, some great, big future out there somewhere, but it ain’t here. So, no. I don’t think we’ll ever be friends.”

With an inaudible crack, something shifts inside your chest, something heavy and painful as memories of your past flood your thoughts, ruthless and relentless in their intention to hurt. You pull your arms in close to your body, feeling goosebumps on your skin.

“You don’t know anythin’ about me and my future,” you tell him quietly. He shrugs.

“Maybe not, but I know restless when I see it. And I know grit. You’ll want something better eventually, and you’ll go after it.”

The silence that follows is deafening. You look everywhere but him, unwilling to show him just how much his words got to you, but he keeps his eyes steadily on you, unblinking, unwavering, like he’s finally noticed you for the first time and needs to learn everything he can about you in this very moment. Finally, he sighs, running a hand through his thick hair and frowning at the floor.

“But…I think maybe I was…doin’ too much. I didn’t see it that way before, but I do now,” he says, still gruff, but softer now. “Lemme fix your shower. To say sorry for bein’…for bein’ an ass. I know what it’s like to be ignored…and I should’ve realized how things might’ve come across to ya.”

You exhale shakily. So, no. I don’t think we’ll ever be friends. You look away, struggling to separate the sting of his words from the peace offering in front of you.

“Alright,” you relent, packing up the pain and setting it aside. He nods before picking through his toolbox again. You shift your weight, feeling awkward and out of place in your own home. Clearing your throat, you bravely add, “Does this mean I can expect a wave in the mornings?”

Bucky makes a noise in the back of his throat that could pass for a laugh. “Don’t get too ahead of yourself now. Just because I’m sayin’ sorry doesn’t mean I take back what I said about bein’ friends.”

“Yeah. You’re a grumpy old man who likes to be alone. Got it.”

He tosses you a look over his shoulder, equal parts irritated and amused, while you bite your lip to stop yourself from acting on the hurt simmering inside of you. As the fight in you deflates, you take a few careful steps into the kitchen, leaning against the counter as Bucky sorts through a handful of knuts and screws. “So…” you start, searching for a stop to the thoughts inside your head, “what’d you end up doin’ that night?”

“What night?” Bucky grunts.

“The night we were drinkin’.”

He hums, pocketing the screws and picking up a screwdriver. “Finished up a couple projects,” he says slowly. “Got some chores done.”

“Really,” you state, brows furrowed. “Didn’t look like you were up to anythin’.”

He looks at you then and his eyes are unreadable. “Why do you say that?”

“Because you answered the door without a shirt. And you were drinkin’ a beer. The beer I left at your door when you were too scared to answer it, by the way.”

Bucky snorts. “You askin’ for a thanks? I had my head under car hoods all day. I think I deserved a cold drink.”

He turns for the bathroom again; this time, you follow, hovering in the doorway as he starts loosening the shower head from the pipe. “Do you always answer your door halfway to nude, or did I just get lucky that day?”

Bucky laughs, really, truly laughs. Whatever burdened expression you were wearing is wiped clean off your face as you bask in the sound of it.

“It’s called laundry, sweetheart. I smelled like a wet dog on an oil rig after workin’ twelve hours in the heat, and I didn’t care to sit in it any longer.”

“Still,” you mutter, watching as he catches the unattached shower head before it drops to the ground, “you could’ve put on a shirt before greetin’ me like that.”

“Like you’re much better,” he says, glancing over his shoulder at you; again, his eyes rake up and down shamelessly, but this time it feels more concentrated, observant. The blue looks a shade darker than before. You gape at him.

“It’s — well, I’m just—“

“Doin’ laundry?” Bucky supplies quietly. You snap out of it when he turns back to the shower, pulling out his screwdriver.

“Whatever,” you grumble, feeling hot, “just let me know when you’re done.”

You leave him in the bathroom to pick up where you left off chopping vegetables. You should probably have a clearer head when handling a knife, but you’re too riled up to sit still and wait for him to finish. What was that look about? He says he doesn’t want to be your friend, then he stares at you like you’ve got something he wants. Is he waiting for you to snap at him again, or is it something else?

You’re silent while you work, just the radio and the sounds of Bucky working on your shower filling the trailer. Every now and then you’ll hear the water run, or a hushed curse under his breath. You’re just turning off the heat on the stove when he steps out of your bathroom and puts his tools away.

“Pressure’s fine now,” he tells you, snapping the toolbox shut. You turn to him, hands on your hips.

“Mind if I check?” Another half-smile from him as he gestures for you to go ahead. You shuffle past him, brushing his shoulder as you go. You’re shocked to feel how warm he runs, almost hot to the touch; your cool skin begs you to step closer. In the bathroom, you turn the handle and are pleasantly surprised to see water shoot out at a mostly normal rate.

“Nice work,” you call out before turning it off. Bucky’s waiting for you in the kitchen, leaning against the table with his arms crossed and a curious look on his face. “What?” you can’t help but ask, stopping in your tracks.

For the first time since meeting him, Bucky looks slightly put off, like a thought’s crossed his mind that he’s wondering if he should voice aloud. “Are you—“ He clears his throat. “Where were you before this?”

You blink. You haven’t heard that question in a while. “La Junta. But I grew up in Dodge City.”

He nods thoughtfully. “Got family there?”

“Maybe,” you shrug. “Couldn’t tell you where my daddy is. Mom’s got a new boyfriend, don’t know if they moved.”

“What about you? You got a boyfriend?” he murmurs, examining his dirty hands.

“I wouldn’t be askin’ you for help if I did,” you answer, blinking, and you turn back to your food to hide the heat crawling up your face. Bucky hums. Then, to your immense surprise, you hear him ease himself into the tiny chair at your table.

“So you’re on your own,” he comments, as if what he did wasn’t completely at odds with your earlier conversation.

Your shoulders tense instinctively. Well, isn’t this just ironic? The man who made you feel lonely wants to know how lonely you are.

“Could say that,” you respond slowly, “but Donna and the others have been real welcoming. They say the door’s always open.”

You hope he catches the barb in your words, the subtle call out, but Bucky just sighs. “Yeah, they’re like that. Would give you the clothes off their back in the middle of a snowstorm if you needed it. Good people — too good, sometimes.”

“Nobody can be too good,” you say, eyeing him over your shoulder. “I think the world could use a few more people like them.” He meets your gaze before dragging it down your figure again, but it’s softer this time, less analytical and not necessarily uncomfortable. You quickly turn back to the stove. “Didn’t take you as the type to chit chat,” you quip.

“Oh, am I bein’ too friendly now?”

“I thought you got things to do today.”

“I do,” he grunts. “I’ll get to them.”

It hits you suddenly that you’re not sure if you want Bucky to leave yet. When you chance another glance at him, you’re struck with how comfortable he looks sitting there. His broad frame takes up a whole side of the table, and he’s slouched down just enough in the chair with his legs spread wide, like he owns the place, like he knows the inside of your trailer well, like he’s familiar with the way you move around the kitchen.

A teasing smile makes its way onto your face. “If I didn’t know better, it sounds like you’re lookin’ for a friend to pass time with—“

“Don’t be difficult,” he mutters, head tilted as he crosses his arms; his biceps bulge, the golden skin stretching like an invitation for you to touch, taste, bite—

“You sure like givin’ orders, huh?” you remark, matching his stance. Those blue eyes find yours and don’t let go.

“Only when it’s needed,” he says, voice lowering to a pitch that could rumble the floors beneath your bare feet. To your chagrin, it goes straight to your gut, settling there with a deep heat that awakens something inside of you. You scramble to push it down, afraid of the truth showing plainly on your face.

“Bossy,” you mutter under your breath, looking away. Bucky chuckles, somehow making it worse.

“Somethin’ tells me you don’t do well listenin’ to others.”

Your hand tightens over the plate you’re pulling from the cupboard. “Yeah, well. Most people tell you to do things ‘cause it’s better for them, not for you.”

He hums. “You listened pretty well to me.”

Your cheeks flush. “Judgment error,” you mumble.

“Did you get the new battery like I told you to?”

“Uh…” You have the grace to look sheepish because, truthfully, you forgot. You close your mouth before telling him that if he hadn’t completely derailed all of your rational thinking with his avoidant behavior, you’d have remembered.

“I stand corrected,” he mutters, pushing out his chair. Bucky only needs to take two steps until he’s looming over you, pulling out a card from his back pocket. He takes your hand in his and places the card there before his fingers slide to your wrist, gripping tight. “Rogers’ garage on Miner Street. I want you in there this week for a battery change. Unless you’re tryin’ to blow that hunk of junk up.”

You gulp, looking down at where he’s holding you. “I have work,” you whisper.

“After work, then. I’ll be there.” He searches your face, waiting for your confirmation. You nod, but he doesn’t let go. A moment passes where it’s just the two of you breathing along to the soft melody of the radio.

“You’re helping me again,” you blurt. His fingers dig a little deeper into your flesh.

“And?”

You take a steadying breath, your brain picking through your words carefully. “Awfully friend-like, if you ask me—“

Bucky groans, pulling away and leaving sparks along your skin. He picks up his toolbox, giving you a quick glance. He looks like he’s about to say something, and you find yourself desperately wanting to know what it is. But he seems to think better of it and makes for the door, opening it up to the heat of the August evening. His eyes meet yours one last time. “Enjoy your dinner.”

He’s a step out of your trailer when you call his name. He stops immediately, looking over his shoulder. “Thank you,” you say in a rush. “For fixin’ the shower.”

A pause, then, “No problem, kid.” The door swings shut. Through the window you see him traipse across the park and to his truck where he tosses the toolbox into the back, then he disappears into his home. Whatever things he had to do seem to be forgotten. Or nonexistent. A smile curls across your face before you can stop it.

The following weeks feel like a fever dream compared to the last month. You find yourself face-to-face with Bucky a number of times, some by coincidence, some by design.

A quick nod as he drives past you in the morning turns into a quick conversation at the mailbox the next day. It’s mostly you talking, but he stands there nonetheless, listening quietly to your unprovoked story of a difficult customer from the other week. Following that, you bump into him on a walk around the park with Wanda, where he manages to crack a smile when you recount how the little kid next door ran you over with his bike earlier that morning. He makes you promise to treat the patch of road rash on your thigh with rubbing alcohol, warning against infection and causing you to blush like a school girl being told off.

A storm rips through the town later that week, ripping off shingles and felling trees, making the lights flicker uncertainly from time to time as the wind batters the side of your trailer. After the worst of it’s passed, you step outside to assess the damage; you think it’s superficial, nothing that threatens the structural integrity of the outbuilding, but you don’t know the first thing about evaluating storm damage.

Luckily, Bucky materializes out of nowhere like he could read your mind from across the park, offering to check for leaks and punctures that could lead to greater troubles down the road. He claims he does it for all of the neighbors, waving off your word vomit of gratitude with a huff and a scowl, but once again, he either forgets about the others, or those intentions never existed, because when he’s finished fortifying your trailer, he sends you a small salute before crossing the park and disappearing back into his home.

A few days later, you find yourself at the mailboxes with Bucky after he came up behind you with a muttered, “mornin’”, and now he’s listening to you talk about your boss’ erratic revamp of the menu. You manage to pull from him that he’s partial to the danish pastries your diner sells, so you knock on his door later that night with a bag full of them and a smile on your face, watching as the tips of his ears glow bright red when you hand them over. He thanks you in that gruff way of his that doesn’t sound grateful at all, but it’s enough for you.

But to your shock, he repays the favor the next evening.

You’re curled up on the couch with a book, listening to the weak clicks of the AC unit in your window, when you feel your trailer give a sudden lurch. Your glass of water topples off the side table, your basil plant spills into the sink. You’re questioning the probability of earthquakes when it happens again — this time more powerful than the last.

When you open your door, the last thing you’re expecting is Bucky — shirtless again — using a hammer to extract the rotting pieces from the walls of your trailer. You call him crazy — it’s ten o’clock at night and he’s just finished a fourteen-hour shift, after all — but he just grunts and tells you that they were an eyesore, that he was getting too impatient not to do something about them. You’d be offended if your body wasn’t humming with a pleased rush of adrenaline from his attention, however workaround it may be.

You spend the remainder of the evening watching from your open door as he fixes up your little home. Despite the cooler night air, he still gleams with sweat from the effort, and you learn to appreciate this quickly; he looks like trouble and heaven wrapped up in the likeness of God’s surliest angel. By no means are you religious, but all other explanations for how a man that looks like that winds up in your yard seem to defy natural laws. Watching the muscles in his arms ripple as he tears the siding off its hinges, you’re convinced a higher power had to have intervened for this moment to happen.

You’re all too eager to offer him a beer when he finally finishes. He takes it before sitting down wordlessly next to you on your stoop. Then it’s silent except for the crickets and the bullfrogs, but you find it peaceful rather than charged like it usually is between you.

Up close, the tattoo that once teased you that fateful day that you met is on full display. It’s an intricate piece that extends across his back from shoulder to shoulder; black ink curls around three names written in elegant calligraphy: James, Winnifred, and Rebecca. The longer you stare at it, the more your fingers itch with the need to touch it, to trace the whorls from point to point.

You take a large sip of beer for courage.

“What’s this?” you murmur, the tip of your pinky barely grazing the ‘a’ at the end of Rebecca. You feel Bucky tense up beneath your touch, and you know right away that you’ve crossed a line, possibly tearing down what little you’ve built since he fixed your shower. You wait for the blow to come, for the other shoe to drop, for him to stand and leave you all alone in the dark.

But he doesn’t. Instead, Bucky slowly relaxes, muscle by muscle. “My family. I don’t…see them much anymore.”

You let that sink in for a moment. “So you’re on your own,” you comment, using his words.

Bucky hears this and turns, unleashing the full force of those big blue eyes on you. Something flashes across them, and it could be anything: pain, recognition, anger, validation. All real emotions for a situation you’re only too familiar with.

“Yeah,” he finally mutters, looking down. Your gut twists.

Just from that one little word, you could glean all of the history behind him, the past that’s riddled with regret and hurt, and you push against the sudden urge to wrap him in a hug. Too much too soon for begrudging acquaintances. You settle instead for soft words in the form of a distraction.

“Well, except for Donna. She doesn’t know how to leave anyone alone.”

Bucky gives a half shrug, sipping on his beer. “You’re not wrong.”

“Y’know, everyone here kind of adores you.”

“I doubt that.”

“You should hear Donna talk about ya.”

The corner of his mouth ticks up as he glances at you. “That bad, huh?”

“She says you’re the sweetest guy,” you share with him conspiratorially. “That you help out a lot, actually. And that you’re quiet, but you’re really kind when you wanna be—“

“Alright, I get it,” he mutters, eyes scanning the park. “Easy to believe the lie when she says it like that.”

There isn’t any venom to his words, just a simple statement around a beer bottle. You tear your eyes away from watching his neck extend on a swallow, dazedly finding the oak tree. “I know it’s not a lie,” you say, picking at the peeling label of your drink. “I saw you the other day, helpin’ out the Markhams. All of you were laughin’, too. It was…sweet.”

Bucky’s quiet for a moment. He leans back until his forearms rest against the step behind him, stretching out his long torso like he’s asking you to count all six abdominals. “Don’t get used to it,” he mutters darkly, and it sounds like a threat more than anything, but the little pout on his face negates whatever abrasiveness he was hoping for. It makes you giggle.

“Uh-huh, sure. I know a big softie when I see one.”

He rolls his eyes before taking a sip of his drink. “Believe what you want, kid, but I’m not the type to give flowers or sweet nothins.”

Your attention sharpens at his words, a spike of curiosity jetting through your bloodstream. “How else do you woo your woman then?” you tease, just enough to hide the neediness in your voice, the urge to know the answer.

Bucky turns to you, brows furrowed. Then — so quick, you almost miss it — his eyes dart to your mouth and back. The wind shifts, your fingers tingle, Bucky pushes up so that he’s brushing shoulders with you again; you feel like they’re fused together by some invisible, magical weld. He stares straight ahead, elbows on his knees, thumb running circles around the rim of the beer bottle. “Don’t have one,” he mutters.

You blink.

“Really?” His face twists into a scowl. “Huh. Guess it’s hard to believe a good lookin’ guy like you doesn’t have a few crawlin’ all over him. Unless it’s by choice.”

Bucky frowns impossibly deeper, it’s almost laughable. “Why would it be by choice?”

“Because apparently you can barely handle havin’ a friend, or so you say,” you point out.

“Doesn’t mean I’m a fuckin’ loner,” he grumbles. “I just don’t…get out that much.”

“I bet you’d do pretty well for yourself if you did, sittin’ all alone on a barstool with the sad guy look you got goin’ on.”

“I got what?”

“Y’know,” you start with a grin, “the sad guy look. When you’re all mysterious and unavailable. Add in broody, quiet and stares a lot, women will think it’s hot.”

Bucky goes so still, even his thumb pauses.

“Oh, yeah?” he asks quietly, looking very thoughtfully at the oak tree. “Is it doin’ somethin’ for you, kid?”

The smile flickers off your face. Oh. Oh no.

“Uh…”

He eyes you sideways, and you know you’re as red as a stop sign. You gave yourself away before you could even go on the defense. You take a big sip to buy you time, but he’s there and leaning into the spot where you skin touches, and all the sudden your thoughts explode in a hundred different directions, because why is he still staring at you, and why is he actively getting closer, and why, for the love of all that’s good and holy, does he still not have a shirt on?

You think he’s never paid closer attention to you before now, and he’s destined to see through your lie when your face is there to direct him to the truth. So you gamble on a half truth.

“I think it’s a pretty universal thing to be attracted to,” you say with a shrug, giving a mediocre performance on playing it cool. He hums.

“But do you like it?” Bucky presses softly, and your stomach drops into a flip. The wind shifts again, and this time, you can feel something mysteriously close to electricity buzzing back and forth between your skin and his. Why does he care? you ask yourself, as if you know the answer.

“I…” your voice wobbles traitorously, but you know there’s no way out of it now, so you’ll go down swinging. You turn to him, and your eyes connect like a head on car crash: dangerous, devastating, impossible to look away from. “Yes,” you whisper.

He smiles faintly. “Thought so.”

“Please don’t,” you groan.

He chuckles but doesn’t look away, and you’ve already developed Stockholm Syndrome from being held hostage by his gaze. His reaches out to brush a hair from your face, natural, instinctive, and you’re holding your breath without even realizing, feeling the zip of chemistry from the tips of his fingers as they touch your cheek. You’re so close, you could lean in and brush noses with him if you had the nerve to. Or more, which you’re starting to think about—

“You might be the prettiest thing this town’s ever seen,” he murmurs, low and rough, and oh, does your heart try to leap out of your chest and drop into his hands.

You feel your cheeks flush, your sense of reality growing hazy, because is this really Bucky Barnes sitting in front of you saying that?

But he pulls back before you can even think of a response, chancing one last glance at your mouth before silently falling back into position next to you.

For a while, he doesn’t say anything. You don’t push him to. And when your finger brushes the ‘a’ again, he leans your way. Your mind is oddly free of thought as you trace the names gently — you’ve probably gone into shock over him letting you touch him like this. You’re not sure what compelled you to do it, nor what convinced Bucky to allow it, but for a few quiet moments, you feel yourself breaking through one of the walls he had up between you. You wonder if he feels it too.

Later, after he calls it a night and you’re lying in bed, watching as the patch of moonlight crawls across your ceiling, you feel like maybe he was right — maybe you weren’t going to be friends. Because maybe you were always meant to be something more.

Saturday arrives with a bang as thunderstorms roll through the county and soak everything in its reach, but by the time your shift ends, the sky has opened up to an endless portrait of oranges and pinks and purples. You take the scenic route home, windows down to let in the smell of earth and rain, and a smile on your face that hurts your cheeks and feels dangerously close to permanent. A stack of pastries sits in your passenger seat, boxed carefully and tied with a string to keep them from sliding.

When you pull up to your little trailer, Donna’s waiting for you outside your door. She descends on you immediately, taking the pastries from your hands and whisking them away to the middle of the park where the neighbors are setting up for a barbecue.

“Thanks, hun!” she calls out. “Now get outta that rag and put on somethin’ cute — we’re dancin’ later!”

By the time you emerge from your trailer, uniform swapped for something lighter that sways in the wind, the park party is in full swing. Donna’s taken up the mantle as the Chief of Staff of the buffet line, Viz is unloading cases of sodas and waters from the back of his truck, little Mrs. Markham tenderly sets up a s’mores station for the children, and Wanda’s tossing strings of lights through the limbs of the oak tree.

You rush forward when she gets tangled up in a line, stopping the threat of a hard tumble by unwinding it from her ankles. Wanda grimaces. “Thanks. Guess I can forget that career in the rodeo.”

Viz perks up from filling a cooler with drinks. “I wouldn’t say that, honey. You’re a hell of a cowgirl to me.”

Wanda blushes as red as her hair while you fight back a laugh. “Viz,” she mumbles, but her husband just sends her a wink before turning back to the cooler. “Sorry,” she says to you, the color slowly fading from her cheeks. “He can be…pretty affectionate when he’s home.”

You shake your head, smiling. “No, don’t be sorry. I think it’s sweet.” Your fingers work with hers to straighten out a knot in the lights. “Is he gone pretty often?”

She nods. “Three weeks of the month, usually. Long-haul truckin’ definitely wasn’t our first choice. It’s dangerous, and the time apart can feel painful. But the pay’s decent and…well…” She looks around cautiously before leaning in. “We’re tryin’ to start a family.”

“Wanda,” you breathe, eyes wide. She hushes you gently, but she’s smiling now.

“I know. But you can’t tell anyone — especially Donna. She’ll make it a whole thing.” She scrunches her nose adorably.

“My lips are sealed,” you vow, miming a zipper closing across your mouth.

“Thank you,” she says, squeezing your hand. “Now let’s get the rest of these figured out.“

After several more attempts at lassoing lights onto branches, the two of you end up abandoning that plan and decide to treat the trunk like a maypole; each of you take hold of a string and run circles around the tree until not an inch of bark is visible. Your side splits from laughter as you try not to trip over the exposed roots, chasing after your newfound friend. You collapse onto the grass after, knocking shoulders and gulping down air as the rest of the neighbors start to mingle around you. The smell of grilled meat and oil lanterns fills the air. Conversation is a constant hum that provides a comforting white noise. Children race across the grass, dragging bubble wands behind them and leaving a whimsical trail for the lightning bugs to follow. You take a look around the park, at your friends and neighbors sending you easy smiles and carefree waves. They don’t know the quiet impact it has on you, what it means to be on the receiving end of their kindness. It’s like they’re standing at the open door, waving you in and welcoming you home.

Viz comes over and hands you both a water. You take it with a muttered thanks, grateful to have something to distract you from the swell of emotions rearing up inside of you.

That’s when you hear it: the sound of an old engine revving up the hill. Your breath hitches as you watch the brown truck pull into the lot, Bucky’s figure shadowed by the setting sun behind him. Your lips part when you notice he isn’t alone.

The truck comes to a stop next to Viz’s. “Ah,” he says, pushing himself up from the ground. “Finally. Bucky’s here with the good stuff.”

Bucky jumps out of the truck with the ease of a seasoned cowboy dismounting from his horse. Dark shades cover his eyes, but he flips them up as Viz approaches; they shake hands, Bucky clapping Viz on the back. “Good to have you back,” you hear him say, a crooked grin on his face. In the back of your mind you know you’re blatantly staring, but this is new material that your curious brain is desperate to consume. His passenger comes around the other side of the truck, a tall, broad man with sandy blonde hair and oily jeans that give Bucky’s a run for their money. His face is weathered and chiseled like the driver’s, but there’s a softness to it that begs you to trust him, like all of your problems could be solved with just a look.

“Steve,” Viz greets, extending a hand. The newcomer shakes it, grinning.

“Good to see you again, Viz.”

You’re drawn back to Bucky as the other two catch up. His blue eyes sweep across the park, intentional and analyzing. When they fall on you and Wanda, he goes still for a moment. A part of you shrinks in fear, your heart racing in your chest when you remember the last time he picked you out of the crowd.

But Bucky’s hand comes up in a simple two-fingered wave. Wanda waves back. “Hey, Buck!”

“Wanda,” he says in that low tone of his, but his eyes never leave you. “Hey, kid.”

“Hi,” you answer, the faintest trace of a squeak in your voice. Bucky nods, an indefinable look on his face, before turning back to the truck and opening the back. Viz gives a whoop of delight when he sees the kegs waiting to be tapped.

“Right on time, Barnes. You did good.” Bucky shakes his head.

“This was all Steve. That red-headed bartender at Bruce’s is sweet on him.” Bucky’s companion chuckles, bashfully ducking his head.

“Nat’s just a friend.”

“Yeah, pal. Be sure to thank her extra nice for us when you’re at her place tonight.”

The party really takes off once the three men drop the kegs near the coolers. The rest of the group crowds around it like bees on honey. Wanda recruits you to set up a table of solo cups and sharpie markers, but you’re not much help for the urgency she needs. You’re finding Bucky lifting 160 pounds of beer like it’s a sack of feathers to be very distracting while trying to un-stack cups.

Viz christens the first keg with a spray of foam that everyone groans at, but his effacing smile tells you there’s very little that could dampen his spirits, including a botched keg. He quickly fills two cups (of mostly foam) for you and Wanda, and you laugh when she cheers you to “the rodeo life.”

You toss it back like medicine, hoping the alcohol clears your mind of the mysterious haze of self-awareness and poor attention span that Bucky brought with his arrival. The beer dribbles down your chin, and as you move to wipe it off, you glance up.

As predicted, your eyes find Bucky standing a few feet away; by all accounts, he’s locked into a conversation with Steve and Patrick that requires all of their heads to be pulled close together. But while Steve and Patrick exchange enthusiastic words, Bucky’s tight-lipped while staring at you.

You blush, an embarrassed smile flashing across your face while you use the back of your hand like a napkin. You expect him to look away, like a normal person does when they accidentally catch eyes with someone, but he doesn’t. He coolly takes a sip of his own drink, a muscle ticking in his jaw while he watches you. A ripple of heat runs down your spine that has nothing to do with the weather; it’s reminiscent of the feeling you had when his hand held tight to your wrist in your trailer, but it’s like it’s been cranked up to level 1000. When he swallows, you can see the tip of his tattoo curling at the base of his neck, and your fingers give an involuntary twitch as they remember the feel of it beneath them. Bucky shifts a half-step in your direction, and for one delusional second, you think he’s going to come over. But Donna wanders into your line of sight before the heat of his gaze can fully brand itself into your skin.

“Can I get your help with the salad? Mary went to get more plates.”

You’re dragged away before you can say a word.

Throughout the rest of the night, Bucky always seems to be on your periphery. Wherever you turn, he’s there, just a few feet away. Not close enough to warrant a conversation, but not far enough to be coincidence. You know the park isn’t big, but the proximity seems constructed, considered, careful, especially when you can feel his eyes on you at all times. When you refill your drink, he’s finishing his. When the line for the food forms, he’s three people behind you. When you pass by with a tray of desserts, he steps out of the way wordlessly, pulling Steve with him before you can excuse yourself. And he watches you go.

As the sunset melts into twilight, and Wanda’s lights begin to steal the show, you find a chair next to the speaker softly playing Fleetwood Mac. Across from you, Viz is coaxing Wanda into being the first ones to dance; she shakes her head, adamantly against it, but allows him to pull her from the chair anyway. Donna has a content look on her face as she oversees cleanup, which she shooed you away from almost immediately. Bucky’s coworker is doubled-over with laughter listening to Mr. Gonzalez’s tale of a fishing trip gone wrong. But Bucky is missing.

Your eyes scan the park instinctively, even delving into the dark corners between trailers or the full parking lot on the other side. You’re halfway out of your chair — to do what, you’re not sure — when you hear something drag across the dirt.

Bucky pulls up a chair and takes a seat beside you before you can blink. He has a fresh beer in one hand and a pack of cigarettes in the other, which he tucks into the front pocket of his red flannel.

“Enjoyin’ yourself?” he murmurs in greeting, observing the party in front of him. You can smell traces of smoke on him, layered beneath the scent of oil and something that reminds you of the woods behind his trailer.

Your gaze drops to the drink in your hand. “Yeah, this is great. Never been to something like this before.” Bucky settles into the chair, his knees spreading wide until one just barely grazes yours. “Did you guys close up the shop for this?” you ask, nodding toward Steve.

“Have to. Otherwise Donna would have our asses.”

You laugh softly. “Yeah, I got the impression this is pretty important to her when she made me RSVP.”

A ghost of a smirk flits across his face. “Her and Harold used to host this every year. After he died, she dug her heels into keepin’ it a tradition since it meant so much to him. Hard to say no to her when she’s got her mind set on somethin’.”

“I didn’t know that,” you admit. “I just thought she really likes barbecues.” Bucky laughs into his drink, and you nearly preen at the sound. “That’s really sweet, though. I wish I could’ve met him.”

“He was a good man,” Bucky agrees. “Had a lot of strong opinions about things I had no idea about. Most of it sounded crazy to me, but I ended up learnin’ my fair share from him.” He looks sideways at you. “Taught me how to use a lawnmower.”

“Really?” you laugh in disbelief. “When was this?”

“Maybe four years ago,” he says.

“Oh, shut up, you’re just lyin’ now. You build cars from scrap metal for a livin’ — there’s no way you didn’t know how to run a lawnmower.”

He shrugs. “Didn’t have a reason to until I moved here,” he says simply, like that explains the issue.

“Whaddya mean?”

He shifts in his seat before taking a sip of beer, looking past the party at the woods beyond. “There’s no grass where I come from.“

Your head tilts, eyes assessing his profile. The lined planes of his face remain as impassive as ever, but his shoulders don’t meet his ears like you expect. He seems relaxed — or at the very least, prepared — for your inevitable follow up question about his past.

“Where you from, Bucky?” you ask. He opens his mouth, but you quickly point a finger at him with a sudden burst of inspiration. “No, wait. Lemme guess…El Paso.”

The corner of his mouth curls up. “No.”

“Hmm,” you take a sip of your drink, pretending to take your time considering his accent like you don’t already have it memorized and catalogued neatly into a quiet corner of your brain. “Amarillo?”

“Nope — not Texas.”

You pout. “Gimme a hint.”

“East coast.”

You stare.

“Give up already?” he teases, but you wave him off.

“East coast, no grass, bad manners—“ Bucky snorts. “You from Jersey or somethin’?”

“Worse. Brooklyn.”

Your jaw drops. You weren’t expecting that answer. “You’re kidding, right? You’re not from Brooklyn.”

“Born and raised,” he mutters with a grin, amused by your response.

“But how do — where did you — you don’t sound like — what?”

“A story for another time.”

He’s still smiling, but there’s a shuttered look in his eye that doesn’t come from sitting next to you; it comes from revisiting ghosts in your mind while the world moves forward without you. You sit back, occupying yourself with another sip of beer while he comes back to the present.

“For what it’s worth, you can push a lawnmower like a sonofabitch now,” you venture.

He laughs, and your heart swells as you listen to it. It’s surprisingly high-pitched and breathless for a man as big as he is, but it contains something childlike that sounds tragically beautiful to someone who never laughed much as a kid. You count the lines around his eyes, you commit the scrunch of his nose to memory, you hold your breath as his knee knocks into yours and stays there.

“You watchin’ me mow my lawn, kid?” he hums into his drink, eyes flashing.

You balk. “I never said that—“

“You’re implyin’ it.” His husky voice encourages the color in your cheeks to saturate.

“It’s just somethin’ I noticed in passin’,” you plead. He takes mercy on you, for once.

Shaking his head, he mutters, “How’s the diner? It’s Tony’s place, right?”

“Yeah — do you know him?”

He purses his lips in thought, watching as the Markhams begin a slow sway on the makeshift dance floor while Wanda and Viz twirl around them. Several other pairings have joined in on the fun, spinning and dipping and waltzing along to Dire Straits.

“I know him…not very well, though. Friend of a friend, more like,” he adds, nodding at Steve. Then he clears his throat, offering you his drink when he sees that yours is now empty. “He a — he a good boss? He’s not doin’ anything he shouldn’t, right?”

“He’s fine,” you share, accepting his cup with a blink. You’re hyper aware of your lips hugging the rim exactly where his did as you take a sip. “Likes hearin’ the sound of his own voice, but that’s the worst of it.”

Bucky nods. “Good…good.”

Donna marches past then with a firm hand on the shoulder of a young teenage boy. The face beneath the crew cut is fifty shades of red, and his hands are covered in — what you hope is — melted marshmallows. Bucky snickers as Donna hauls the boy up to a group of middle-aged women chatting by the tree; one of them, who you can only assume is his mother, erupts into angry chastising as soon as she spots the teenager.

“Uh oh,” you mumble, watching the scene unfold. You can see how the boy takes after his mother as her face transitions to cherry red the longer she berates him. Bucky‘s still chuckling.

“Nate’s always been a trouble-maker, but he don’t mean much harm by it,” he murmurs in your ear. Donna watches with a sharp eye as the mother points a shaky hand in the direction of their trailer, and Nate slinks away, head bowed. “Oh, he’s gettin’ off easy,” Bucky says. “That’s a lot better than facin’ Donna’s justice.”

You grin. “No kiddin’. She runs this thing like the Navy Seals. I almost dropped the potatoes earlier, thought she was gonna spank me,” you giggle.

Bucky’s head whips around faster than humanly possible, the movement so quick it stops the laughter right in your throat.

“Can’t say stuff like that to me, kid,” he says, voice like silk over gravel.

You stare at him. In the low light of the lanterns, you can just see that the blue irises have changed shades into something darker, heavier; they’re locked on you with an intensity that doesn’t match the lightheartedness of the party. You gulp, he notices.

“Why not?” you whisper. And then his eyes drop to your lips, indisputable and poignant. Your breath hitches as the shape of him changes in front of you, as the delicate foundation of a relationship based on tolerance gets crushed to pieces by just one quick look.

“A man could get ideas,” he rumbles softly.

Your heart begins to pound in your chest, echoing faintly inside of your head. The noise of the barbecue fades. “What kind of ideas?” you push recklessly, and your eyes sink to his own mouth. His tongue darts out to wet his lips as if in answer.

“Ideas he shouldn’t be havin’ about his neighbor…who thinks he’s an ass.”

“I don’t think you’re an ass,” you breathe. He smiles faintly.

“No? All it took was a few weeks of bein’ your friend to change your mind?”

“Thought you didn’t wanna be friends,” you reply quietly. Something makes him pause, taking the time for a slow inhale and exhale to ground him. But underneath it is pure and unadulterated restraint — you can see it clear as day in the lines of his face, a sailor fighting valiantly against the storm.

“No, I don’t wanna be your friend,” he murmurs. But the words are not a rejection, they’re an invitation.

“Then what do you wanna be, Bucky?”

You bite your lip, and his eyes zero in on the tug of your teeth against the flesh. He leans in ever so slightly, like a magnet’s suddenly activated between your mouth and his, and your body hums with a desperate need to know what he tastes like—

“There you are!” Donna’s voice cuts in. She steps in front of you with her hands on her hips, and you jump in your seat like you touched an open wire. “Well, what are you doin’ sittin’? I told ya we’d be dancin’ later, and that dress looks too good on ya not to swing it around.” She looks at Bucky. “And whaddya know, you’ve got a partner right here!”

Your heart stutters in your chest as she points at him, anticipation already squeezing your lungs at the thought of Bucky’s hands holding you close while you sway gently to the music—

“Come on, Donna, you know I can’t dance. I’m not gonna make the poor girl suffer through me steppin’ on her feet,” Bucky answers gruffly.

The dismissal snuffs out the growing heat in your veins like a bucket of ice water on a candle. Your face drops, your eyes finding the dirt beneath your feet.

“That excuse is gettin’ real old, Bucky,” Donna counters, looking suspicious.

“Because it’s true,” he grumbles. “Not my fault you insist on there bein’ dancin’ every time you put somethin’ together.”

Exhaling shakily, you plaster an apologetic smile on your face as you meet Donna’s eye. “Yeah, actually Donna, I think I might turn in. I picked up a shift tomorrow mornin’ and I should at least try to show up sober.”

You see Bucky turn to you out of the corner of your eye. Donna frowns. “The party’s just gettin’ started, sugar, this ain’t the time for sleepin’.”

Chuckling dryly, you push yourself to your feet, the beer catching up to you momentarily as you take an extra step to steady yourself. You feel Bucky’s hand hover near your waist before you see it. You do your best to ignore it.

“I know, and I’m sorry. I should’ve told you sooner. But you know how it is. I got bills to pay and supplies to buy.” You roll your eyes like it’s not physically hurting you to be pulling away from her and the rest of the group, but you can’t be near Bucky right now. Not until you’ve reconciled all of the feelings you’ve felt tonight with the reality of your situation with him. You’ve learned the hard way how logic wins out over emotions, and you’re just sober enough to recognize you need a moment to align yourself with this self-inflicted mentality. You place a quick peck to Donna’s cheek, squeezing her arm. “The party’s beautiful, Donna. Truly, I’m honored to be a part of it. Thank you for hosting.”

She gives you a sad look, one meant to keep you in place, but your feet are carrying you away before you can let it pull you back in. You throw a wave over your shoulder at Wanda, but she’s too busy wrapped up in Viz’s arms to notice. You think some distance between you and Bucky will help to elevate your heart rate, but footsteps behind you put an end to your theory before it can be tested.

“Can I help you?” you ask, struggling to keep your voice light. Bucky’s stride matches yours easily, and he takes a glance at you.

“Thought I’d walk you back.”

You make a face. “It’s thirty feet away, Bucky.”

“Yeah, well, it’s dark out.”

“You can see my door from here.”

“Don’t be difficult,” he rasps like the back and forth is exhausting him. He takes half a step closer to you.

Your jaw clenches, but you say nothing as he walks you to your trailer, just out of reach of the lanterns and music and chatter. You step up to the door but turn sharply toward him when you feel his foot on the little stoop. “Alright, I’m home.”

“What happened back there?” he asks, eyes scrutinizing your face, probably reading right through you. “You were fine and then you weren’t.”

You gulp before bravely sticking your chin in the air. “Nothin’ happened. Just remembered I got work, that’s all.”

“You don’t work Sundays,” he says, shaking his head. Your back meets the door when he leans in. “Why’d you lie to Donna?”

“I didn’t lie, I picked up a shift to help a friend out. And how do you know I don’t work Sundays?” you ask, voice sharper than you intended for it to come out. At least it’s better than cracking on the tsunami of emotions you’re barely holding back.

Bucky blinks at you, going still. You’re not a mind reader, but you can hear the gears turning as his expression evens out into something you can only describe as inescapable resolution. Slowly, so slow you’re wondering if he even knows what he’s doing, he places his hand on the door next to your head; with his arm so close, you can smell how the sun’s baked into his skin, how metal seems to be an undertone all over him. And now his nose is an inch from yours.

“‘cause I watch you,” he murmurs, as soft as the evening breeze. His eyes fall to your mouth, and you can physically feel it, the pressure there, the charge of the unknown next step. Your hands flatten on the door behind you in an effort to hold yourself back.

Your mind plays over the different paths laid before you. Should you lean in? Change the course of this poor excuse of a friendship forever? Should you wait for him to make the move? Let him deal with the consequences of potential bad decisions in the morning? Should you pull away? Give yourself the time to cool off and clean up this mess of emotions following you like a shadow all night?

“You’re thinkin’ too much,” Bucky says. Your eyes refocus on his — his pupils are so wide, you’re afraid you’ll fall into them.

“I’m just tryin’ to figure you out,” you whisper, your breath mingling with his.

“Probably better if you don’t,” he answers, a hint of sadness in his tone. You search his face, but it reveals nothing; only his eyes offer any indication that he’s in control of what’s happening.

“You think that’s enough to stop me?”

Bucky’s mouth curves, but it quickly fades away. “You’re somethin’ else, kid.”

Then, as quick as it was cast, the spell is broken. Bucky leans back, his fingers lingering on the door. “Have a good shift tomorrow,” he says, voice solemn as he steps down from your stoop. And then he’s walking away.

It takes you a minute to gather yourself. The night presses in around you, cool air replacing the heat of Bucky’s closeness from moments before. With a shuddering breath, you slip into your trailer, closing the door on the party, on your friends, on Bucky behind you.

Endless rain floods the countryside the following week. Roads close, streams overflow, leaks and cracks in the trailers are exposed. You unwillingly enter into a war with a certain corner of your roof, and an empty ice cream bucket takes up permanent residence underneath it as your counterattack.

But every time you have the urge to knock on Bucky’s door to ask for help, something stops you. Flashes of the night of the barbecue, of the suggestive pitch of his voice, of his face a breath away from yours, consume your thoughts until you’re frozen in place with indecision paralysis. The ‘almost’ of it all has you twisted up in ways far more complex than when he tormented you with his indifference.

You go over every interaction in your head like a DVD menu on repeat at three in the morning. You think your signals to Bucky couldn’t have been clearer, yet he pulled away, even after giving you every indication that he wanted it, too. Confusion is too simple of a word to sum up how you feel, and you’re still too riled up from Saturday night to dissect it all head on.

Work offers a necessary distraction — at first. The weather brings in a rush of people seeking shelter from the downpour, which means less time for you to think about where you left things with Bucky, and the hours leave you exhausted to the point of collapsing onto your bed and tumbling into sleep as soon as you make it home. Then you wake up and do it all over again.

Eventually your coworkers begin to notice the toll it’s taking on you. You’re still a novice while they’re veterans, fully acclimated to the ebbs and flows of roadside diner foot traffic, so they urge you to take the first cut of the day after already battling through four grueling shifts that week. You don’t have the energy to fight them. You’re ushered out the door with orders to take a hot shower and a nap as soon as you get home. The rain soaks your uniform instantly as you rush to your car, but it’s still warm enough outside to keep your lips from turning blue as you start the journey home.

While the diner had been bustling with activity, the roads are eerily devoid of other people and vehicles. Most likely due to the flood warnings, but unlike them, you don’t have much of a choice.

You haven’t seen another car in ten minutes when the lights on your dashboard flicker. Your eyes snap to it immediately, recognizing the warning signs that nearly derailed you almost two months ago. A soft whine escapes from your chest as you feel the car begin to shake.

“Come on,” you breathe, pressing on the accelerator. The engine whines back. The radio cuts out, your lights turn off, and the car slows to a crawl. It’s with tears in your eyes that you step on the brakes and put the car into park. “No. No, no, no, no, no.”

Your forehead meets the steering wheel. You get a sick sense of dejavú.

Sniffling, you turn off the car and wait before trying it again. You hear a familiar ticking sound over the patter of rain on your roof.

“Fuck,” you whisper as the first tear falls.

Your mind is too sleep-deprived to come up with solutions. Your cell phone died hours ago because you forgot to charge it overnight. Your body aches everywhere from being on your feet all day, and you think if you tried to walk home, you’d pass out in a ditch after fifty yards. You’re stranded — literally stranded on the side of the road.

So you let yourself cry, great heaving sobs that sound warped and hollow in your little car. While the release feels compulsory, it offers no relief, and that makes you cry even more. Outside, the rain persists its assault on the empty county road.

When your cries have turned into hiccups, you’re left shivering in your wet uniform. A chill has crept through the vents as darker clouds roll in. You hug your arms to your chest, breathing deeply to calm yourself down, but your body continues to vibrate past normal human function. You glance at the back seat, where an old sweatshirt lays crumpled and wedged next to the door. You crawl into the back, extracting the fabric with shaking hands and curling up underneath it. It provides some warmth, but not much.

You don’t know how long you lay there, fighting off exhaustion and self-loathing. You have no sense of time since the clock on your dash powered off with the car. The only things you register are the rhythm of raindrops and your slowed breathing.

And then you hear it.

It’s faint, almost like you’re imagining it. But it grows louder and louder the longer your ears strain to catch it. Your head lifts off the seat, and through the side mirror you spot headlights.

A brown truck with an old, rumbling engine drives past your car before slamming on the brakes. The red tail lights blind you momentarily. It quickly backs up a few meters until it’s parked right in front of yours. The driver’s door opens, and out steps Bucky.

You let out a whimper, your eyes squeezing shut. This isn’t real. It can’t be.

But he’s there pounding on your window, calling your name. You shoot up, shaking again, and lock eyes with him through the glass. Bucky’s dark hair is plastered to his forehead, beads of water dripping down his nose and off his beard. You watch as he takes in your wet uniform, your flimsy blanket, your trembling chin.

“Sweetheart,” he says softly, voice muffled through the window. Slowly, you crawl across the seat to open the door. He swoops in before you can say a word; large hands grasp your arms and pull you out of the car. He practically carries you to his, a hand shielding your face from the rain, before setting you down gently on the bench seat of his truck. His touch moves to your shoulders, your throat, then your face, thumbs brushing wet strands of hair from your eyes. “Are you okay?” he demands to know. “Are you hurt?”

You shake your head. “N-no, just c-c-cold. My c-car, it — it d-d-died.”

Bucky’s lips press into a dangerously thin line before he reaches across you to crank up the heat in the truck. “Stay here,” he mutters, then closes the door on you. You whimper again, your eyes following him as he runs to the back of the truck and grabs his toolbox. He reaches inside your car to pop the hood, and then he rolls up the soaked sleeves of his red henley before getting to work.

Burning hot shame floods your body. You don’t need to be a mechanic to know what’s wrong with your car.

Your gaze slides to the empty road past the windshield. The headlights reflect off the puddles of water accumulating on the gravel, creating distorted spots of light in your vision further warped by the sheets of rain. The heat from the vents touches your skin, but does little to permeate the cold that’s seeped into your bones. You slide into the center of the bench, sticking your numb fingers into the slats to warm them up faster. A quick glance in the rearview mirror shows Bucky’s already closed the hood of your car; he stands in the downpour rubbing his face with both hands. You scurry over to the far end of the bench when the door opens a moment later, and he drops into the seat, drenched and silent.

You don’t look at him, he doesn’t look at you. The rain continues to fall.

Bucky inhales. “It won’t start.”

You clench your jaw to keep your teeth from chattering, inching closer to the heat. Your mind is a mess of fragmented responses.

His hand flexes on his thigh, the scars turning white against his skin. He exhales. “I told you to get the damn thing replaced,” he says, voice so low you can barely hear him. He turns to you, burning a hole into the side of your face with his stare. “I told you to come in to the garage.”

Your eyes sting with fresh tears, but whatever resilience is left within you refuses to let them fall. Not in front of him. “I kn-know.”

“But you didn’t.”

The barely suppressed anger in his voice triggers something in you like a fight or flight response. You meet his eyes and see the storm inside of them that rivals the one outside. Passion not so different from the kind you saw Saturday night.

“I didn’t have t-time,” you say, as calmly as you can. Bucky’s hand flexes again.

“Bullshit,” he counters.

“It’s the truth—“

“No, it’s not. I said to come in after your shift. I said I’d be there. And you still didn’t come.”

You shake your head. “I just — I forgot, okay? I was g-grateful for the help, I still am—”

“Kid, you got an odd way of showin’ your appreciation. Do you actually want the help, or did your deadbeat daddy fuck you up so bad that you don’t know how to accept it?”

There’s never been a louder silence than the one that follows his words. He recoils from it before you can, shoulders slumping like the weight of the world’s been dropped on them, a pained look slashing across his face. Your chin wobbles harder than before as the remark echoes in your head.

“Fuck, kid, I didn’t…” Bucky huffs. His hand crosses the distance of the bench, fingers grazing the skin of your thigh. You smack it away on instinct, but it doesn’t go far, dropping to the leather bench inches from you. “I’m sorry,” he says softly. “I shouldn’t have said that. I went too far.”

A single tear rolls down your cheek. You brush it away quickly like it’s an open wound you need to cover.

“Please look at me,” he whispers. The fight in you balances on a razor-thin wire, one side begging you to explode on him, the other offering peace. You find your car in the side mirror, a lone figure of used and abused metal, struggling desperately to just stay alive.

Bucky lets out a heavy breath when your eyes meet his.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats. You see the relief on his face mixed with the regret; it radiates off of him in waves. Slowly, you nod, your body trembling from the cold and something deeper. Bucky notices and draws back, his gaze tracing your figure.

“Come here,” he says gently, opening his palm to you.

You hesitate, the fire still burning in your eyes, and he waits.

But not for long. You slide into his arms with a soft grunt, too willingly, too easily. He catches you and holds you tight against him, hands rubbing along your arms to bring heat back to them while yours land on his chest. Your head fits perfectly into the crook of his neck, your nose skimming the wet skin. He smells like he always does, of oil and metal and pine. You inhale greedily, and it’s like a tonic to your frayed mind, clearing it of the scattered memories of a broken home.

“I didn’t mean it,” he whispers into your hair. Your eyes close.

“I know,” you whisper back.

This silence is softer, easier. You fall into it gratefully as your body slowly begins to relax against him. Bucky’s pure muscle beneath you, but it’s not uncomfortable; you mold to him like you were made to.

He shares his warmth by leaning into you, his nose dragging along your hair; the rhythm of his breaths is stable, even, and yours falls into sync with it naturally. He shifts closer, a hand curling around your waist. Because your history of push and pull dictates an eventual separation, you take the time to feel the steady rise and fall of his chest, the scratch of his beard on your temple, the wet fabric of his jeans brushing against your legs, and you memorize it all, something to hold you over late at night when the loneliness howls at your window and begs to come in like a stray cat. You sigh as your fingers curl into his shirt with every intention of never letting go. Bucky responds with a deep, measured inhale, stabilizing, grounding, human. You soak in every ticking second of this temporary peace. And then his lips, impossibly warm, find the shell of your ear, and your eyes shoot open.

You wait for him to move, to pull away, to gruffly say he’ll handle your car and take you home. He’s done his job, you’re practically burning up by now, and you know he can feel it, too. But he doesn’t let go of you. If anything, he holds you closer. Your heart begins to race — not from his actions, but from what you’re about to do.

You pull back slowly, just far enough for him to see the silent permission in your eyes, the wordless request for him to close the minimal distance between your lips and his. Bucky’s breath hitches in his chest, that steady rhythm halted.

And then he kisses you.

Softly, tenderly, delicately. Words that have never been tied to Bucky before. This hardened, uncompromising man moves his mouth over yours like it’s a gift from the heavens that could be ripped away from him at any moment. A low sound escapes from deep inside his chest, a strained variation of a sigh of relief.

You echo your relief back to him, a barely there whimper against his lips that reverberates down your spine. His fingers tighten around your waist, dragging you closer, while his tongue swipes across the seam of your lips. You open for him, physically, mentally, emotionally. He tastes faintly of metal, of smoke, of coffee, of days spent eagerly waiting for him to return home, of long nights tangled up in old sheets, of oversized sweatshirts and stolen bites of food and messy toothpaste kisses. Of a gentleness you’ve craved your whole life. You’re instantly addicted to the brief taste of this improbable future.

His tongue caresses yours and he groans, his hands and lips quickly turning rougher, needier; you welcome it eagerly. A fire’s been lit inside of you, and grows with every stroke of his mouth. You pull at his shirt, he tugs at your waist. You follow his hands as they move you across his lap, your legs bending to straddle him in the tight space of the bench seat, your chest pressed to his. Bucky breaks away from your lips to gulp down air, but one look at you hanging breathless over him eradicates his need to breathe. He wraps a large hand around your neck and pulls you back down. Your hips roll on top of his instinctively as he ravages your mouth, earning you a soft grunt when your center meets the stiff bulge beneath his zipper. He greedily presses down on the small of your back, encouraging you to do it again. And again. And again.

The hand around your throat tightens imperceptibly when you drag your heat across his erection, whining as the jeans provide a delicious friction to your core. He thrusts up into it, as if he can feel it through the layers of fabric. He groans like a starving beast that’s just found the only thing that can satiate him.

“Bucky,” you pant against his lips, an implied request for more.

His eyes flutter open. He looks at you. You think he’s about to completely make you his.

And then he gently pushes you off his lap.

Your body goes cold immediately. From the loss of his warmth and from the sudden change in tension. He unhooks your fingers from his shirt and presses himself carefully against the car door, running a hand down his face. “Fuck,” he breathes.

“W-what did I do?” you whisper. He shakes his head, unable to meet your eyes.

“You didn’t—“ He swallows. “You didn’t do anythin’.”

“Then why did you stop?”

He exhales through his nose, lips pressed into a tight white line. He’s mad. Or disappointed. Or something between the two. “Kid, I…I shouldn’t have kissed you.”

You swear you can hear the sound of your heart cracking in two. “But I wanted you to,” you tell him, a tremble in your voice.

“I know. You shouldn’t.”

Your throat tightens. “What do you mean?”

He finally looks at you then, and you see his blue eyes are filled with agony, his face lined with regret.

“I’m no good for you,” he murmurs. Your mouth opens, but he cuts you off before you can say a word. “I’m old, and I’m poor, and I’m goin’ nowhere in this life. I can’t — I can’t be what you need.”

“You don’t know what I need—“ you start, but he shakes his head.

“Yes, I do. You need a man that can give you the kind of future you deserve for pullin’ yourself out of the shit. Gettin’ tangled up with someone like me will only hold you back.”

You have to bite down on the sob threatening to burst from your chest. Through gritted teeth, you say, “That’s not your decision, though. You don’t know the kind of future I want for myself.”

“Kid, I’m an ex-con with one too many skeletons in the closet. I live on the fringes because that’s the only place that’ll take me, and I’ve got no way out of it. There is no future with me.”

“Bucky, you’re not—“ your voice shatters and splits. “I don’t care about any of that, ‘cause that’s not how I see you. You’re more than your past. What you’ve done doesn’t mean you aren’t allowed to want more—“

He barks out a humorless laugh.

“Fuck, I know a lot about wantin’ more. It’s all I do these days, and it’ll all your fuckin’ fault.” His eyes flash as they find yours, vicious with pain. “I’ve wanted you ever since you stood at my door yellin’ ‘bout makin’ my sad, lonely, little life hell. Couldn’t stop thinkin’ ‘bout how I wanted you to do it, ‘cause hearin’ you throw a fit at me was the first time I felt excited about somethin’ in years. And when I’m not thinkin’ about it, I’m dreamin’ about it. About comin’ home to your sweet smile waitin’ for me, and I wake up emptier than I ever felt sittin’ in a jail cell because I know it ain’t real. You got your claws in me so deep that I can’t go a minute without thinkin’ ‘bout you. And I can’t do nothin’ about it.”

All the air has left your lungs, and Bucky’s chest heaves like he stole it from you. He looks like he’s on the brink of imploding, or breaking apart, or jumping out of the car and sprinting into the woods. You reach for him, the only thing you can think of to do—

He flinches back, turning to the window. “Don’t,” he mutters. “Don’t make this harder than it already is.”

“But it doesn’t have to be hard, Bucky!” you cry. “I want to be waitin’ for you, I want—“

“You don’t know what you want, but I promise it ain’t me.”

Tears prick your eyes, hot and painful. “Stop,” you whimper. “Stop tellin’ me what I want and don’t want. You’re not bein’ fair — you’re not even givin’ this a chance—“ He shakes his head quickly, meeting your gaze to deliver the death blow.

“You can argue all you want, but I won’t see it any different. I won’t trap you here with me. This can’t…this can’t happen.”

His words sting like a slap to the face; you reel back, pushing distance between you and him. Bucky lowers his eyes, as if he can’t bear to watch the fallout he caused. Another silence settles in the cab of the truck, this one heavier than the others, and thick enough to strangle you. You lean back in your seat, one hand on the door handle, the other pressing down on your chest, keeping you held together.

“I wanna go home now,” you whisper, blindly staring out the windshield.

He obeys instantly. Bucky’s silent as he shifts the car into drive, From the corner of your eye, you see his face is set in stone, a familiar look from the days he wasn’t speaking to you. You know what it means — he’s already shutting down, already pushing you out of his life again.

The drive to the trailer park seems to stretch endlessly; seconds feel like hours, minutes feel like months, ruthlessly challenging your inherent idea of time. When you crest the hill and pull up to your trailer, your body has gone numb from willing time to move faster.

Bucky avoids your eyes once the truck’s in park. “I’ll have your car brought into the shop,” he mutters, voice monotone and clipped. “I’ll drop it off tomorrow.”

Your lips press together to steady the tremble in your chin.

He fidgets in his seat, knuckles going white around the steering wheel. “I’m sorry.”

Your jaw clenches, your heart aches, rejection is a slow-moving poison in your veins. And you’re angry.

“Maybe it’s best if you actually stay away from me this time,” you say, ice embedded in every word. He flinches, but you don’t care. You’re sliding out of the truck and shutting the door on him before he can respond, not daring to look back as you trek through the downpour to your home. When you’re safely inside, you stand very, very still, listening to his car idle listlessly before he slowly drives away, taking your heart with you.

The worst part of it all is that Bucky is right.

Never mind the confusion over how a man that shunned you for your kindness could look at you like you were his last hope. Never mind the embarrassment of making the neediest sounds for someone that refuses to hear them again. Never mind the terrible grief you feel for something that almost existed.

What hurts the most is that he’s right. You’ve felt it in your bones since the day you signed the lease to the trailer — your future wouldn’t stop here. The miles you’ve put behind you don’t exist because you were meant to settle.

Make no mistake, you love the trailer, you love the diner, you love everything they’ve given you and everything they stand for. They bought you freedom from a life condemned to shitty boyfriends and stacked pennies and a lingering taste of resentment at the bottom of every numbing bottle.

But there’s more out there that you ache for; still undefined, still obscure, yet it calls to you in the quiet moments between work and sleep.

And Bucky…

You’ve had enough time to reflect on his words that you can read between the lines of them. His life outside of prison started and ends where he is now, whether he wants it to or not. His future has concrete guardrails that won’t budge for a whim or an opportunity, and most certainly not for a girl lacking direction with a history of going where the wind takes her.

You understand what he saw when you hovered over him in the cab of his truck, that look in your eyes that dared him to follow you into the unknown.

His life is figured out. Your very presence urges him to challenge it.

He’s the rock to your balloon. Better to cut the string now than let you wear yourself thin trying to take him with you.

Your realization makes it easier to avoid Bucky, not that you see much of him anyway. Your car appears in front of your home before your shift the next day. No note, no knock on the door, no indication that it was even Bucky who brought it back. You don’t consider tracking him down to thank him, and you’re not sure how you would: he starts leaving for work before you wake up, returning home only when you’re tucked into bed, like he knows your schedule intimately enough to avoid you completely. Remembering what he once said about watching you, maybe he does.

On Sundays, he’s tucked inside his trailer with the curtains drawn tight, his once-pristine yard slowly becoming overgrown with weeds and disrepair that is so unlike him, it would cause you worry if you didn’t know better. When the probability gods smite you both and you’re walking towards the mailbox at the same time, you stop in your tracks, eyes meeting across the park like magnets drawn together. You turn around and walk the other way before you can do anything stupid — like beg him to reconsider. You’d think it would feel good to turn the tables on him, but it feels like ripping out the stitches on a wound that’s far from healed.

Following the mailbox incident, you both become hermits, which is a hard role to take on in a community as active as this one. Donna’s already forced her way into your home multiple times, demanding your participation in some neighborhood event or another. You think if she asks one more time, it might just kill you to see the look on her face when you tell her no.

You escape to work when you can, picking up enough doubles that Tony pulls you aside and asks in his signature beat-around way if you need a loan. For a moment, you consider taking it and getting the hell out of dodge, setting off in pursuit of whatever it is that you’re chasing. But you wouldn’t know the first place to go — it’s hard to find treasure without a map — and abandoning your boss after taking his money seems like a quick way to put the journey to an end before it even starts.

So you tell him about the repairs to the trailer, and he shrugs to hide his relief before approving your fifth double of the week.

The days roll into nights roll into days. Your brain works through a constant stream of food orders and the future and instant coffee and Bucky. Only in the silence of your room in between wake and sleep do you let yourself remember his charged admission to wanting you, or the fantasized future he dangled in front of your face before snatching it away. Sometimes you can barely breathe for the weight of it all pressing down on you, curling in on yourself like he took a tire iron to your gut instead of telling you it isn’t meant to be.

But you’re a resilient girl. So you carry on, always aware of the option of a next step but never knowing what it is.

You’re coming off a seven day bender of double shifts when the next step becomes clear.

The drive home from the diner is silent — you don’t bother turning on the radio these days, and the views of the mountains and forests that once made you feel alive hardly catch your attention anymore. You’re too tired, too preoccupied, caught between your car and an imagined life where you go home to a trailer that isn’t empty.

But an empty trailer is what you’re expecting when you pull into the trailer park. You tumble out of your car, exhaustion sitting heavy on your eyes.

“Where’ve you been?”

You jump a foot in the air, a tight breath tumbling from your lips as you look around for the source of the voice. Bucky’s sitting on your stoop with his knees bent and a half-empty beer bottle hanging from his hand; illuminated by the moonlight, you can see that his hair is a mess, like he’s been running his fingers through it all night, and his face is severe with apprehension. You breathe deeply to settle your racing heart, but the sight of him has skyrocketed the beat all over again.

“Bucky,” you sigh — you’re surprised you could find your voice so quickly. “What are you doin’ here?”

His gaze rakes over you, from your beat up shoes to your hair falling out of its clip, before he takes a large gulp of his drink. “You’ve been comin’ home late. Later than me.”

You stare back at him, wondering where this is going, and not oblivious to the fact that you’d have to crawl over him to get into your trailer. Casual intention at its finest — he’s making sure you talk to him.

“I’ve been workin’ doubles,” you tell him, glancing at the door.

“What for?”

“Because truck drivers make great conversationalists.”

He rolls his eyes and sets the beer down, unfinished. “Don’t be difficult. Just tell me.”

A rush of anger surges through you at the familiar words. “I think I earned the right to be as difficult as I want.”

Bucky stands, taking a step toward you that feels like more than just him closing the physical distance between you. Your breath gets caught in your chest when you see the storm brewing behind his eyes.

“I know you’re mad at me,” he murmurs. “I get it. You can be as mad as you want. But I’m just tryin’ to make sure you’re okay.”

Your chin lifts. “I’m fine.”

He scans your face, searching for the lie under the surface. “You in some kind of trouble?”

A breathless scoff escapes you. “No, I’m not in trou—”

“You need money?”

“What?” Your expression goes sour. “Bucky, no, what the fuck? I don’t need money, I’m just workin’ more, that’s all—“

“Why?” he presses. You growl at him.

“Because.”

“Because why?”

“It’s none of your business, Barnes.”

“Kid, just tell me why and I’ll leave you be—“

“Because it helps me to not think about you!”

The outburst catches him off guard; he leans back like he’s avoiding the blast radius, a frown creasing his face. He runs a hand through his already-mussed hair, and it sticks up at odd angles that a part of you desperately wants to smooth down.

“I didn’t…” He sighs, hands on his hips. “Okay.” You cross your arms over your chest, suddenly finding interest in the dried coffee stain on your shoes. Bucky shifts his feet in the dirt next to them. Neither of you move, but you can feel his gaze on you again. “You look tired,” he says.

“Gee, thanks.”

“I just meant…maybe a break from the doubles wouldn’t hurt. You look dead on your feet. You gotta take care of yourself.”

“Right, because no one else is gonna,” you shoot at him. “I think I got it handled.”

“Kid…”

“I can take care of myself, Bucky, you don’t need to check on me just ‘cause you feel bad.”

“That’s not why I’m here—“

“Oh, yeah?” you cut him off with a surge of venom in your voice, watching as he fails to meet your eyes. “Why are you here then? ‘cause I thought I made it pretty clear that I want you to stay away this time.”

Bucky stares past you at the oak tree, his jaw clenching and unclenching in time with his breaths. “Yeah,” he mutters quietly, “you did.”

“Obviously not, since you’re here.” You finally have the courage to step around him, taking care not to brush his shoulder as you pass him on your way to the door. “Maybe third time’s the charm—“

Bucky says your name, painful yet reverent, and it cuts through the calm of the evening like a knife.

You turn slowly to face him, the keys forgotten in your hand. You didn’t hear him come up behind you, but suddenly, he’s right there, a foot away and looking like the remaining distance is torturing him.

“It doesn’t matter,” he murmurs. “You could tell me a million times over and it still won’t work.”

You inhale sharply. “What are you sayin’?”

He shakes his head, testing a cautious step forward, and the little gap between you shrinks. “I’m sayin’ I can’t stay away from you.”

Your heart jumps to your throat. “Bucky…”

“I can’t stay away from you,” he repeats, firmer, more certain now. “I hate myself for it, for not bein’ able to do the one thing you asked of me, but I feel like I’m dyin’ every day I don’t see you. And that makes me hate myself even more ‘cause I know I don’t deserve you — and you deserve more than anythin’ I could give you — but I lose all my fuckin’ willpower when it comes to you.”

His words land like a blow to your chest and a kiss to your cheek. Sharp yet sweet, violent yet comforting. You stare at him, lips parted with a hundred questions and a million emotions.

Bucky’s eyes meet yours as he closes the last few inches between you, calloused hands reaching for your face hesitantly, afraid to overstep, afraid to spook you, afraid to worsen the devastation he’s done. You think about the last time he held you, what it cost you to be haunted with that feeling of forever thinking you’d never get it again, and for a moment, every cell within you screams to push him away. Danger, danger, danger, your instincts tell you, reducing him to nothing better than the boys that have come before him, the ones that let your heart go carelessly only to yank it back when it was beneficial for them.

But this is Bucky. Not the pathetic excuses for men that potholed your journey here. Even when he broke your heart, he did it for you.

His fingers are gentle as you let him cradle your face, a passing look of relief turning his eyes a softer blue.

“I know I told you this can’t happen, and you told me to stay away, but I don’t have it in me to see either of those through,” he whispers, thumbs sweeping across your cheeks. “I’ve had enough of my own restraint holdin’ me back. I spent the last seven years convincin’ myself that I don’t deserve a good life because I threw half of it away for people that don’t give a shit about me anymore.”

He takes a deep, shuddering breath, and his eyes flutter shut at whatever memories haunt him. When he opens them again, his gaze is clearer, steadier, like he quietly made a deal with his demons to leave him be for the night. His eyes drop to your lips, just a brief glance that could easily be missed, but it isn’t, because you can’t take your eyes off him. Not when you can practically hear his heart beat in his chest, can feel the heat of him beneath his top, the rough skin of his hands reminding you that this is very, very real and not some imagined scenario you’re still stuck in on your drive home. His fingers tighten around your jaw and Bucky leans in to press his forehead gently to yours.

“When you said you wanted me,” he begins, voice rough and hushed, “it was like comin’ up for air after bein’ under for too long. You’re a livin’, breathin’ example of going through shit and still comin’ out the other side of it, and for the first time in years I thought maybe that could be me, too. But I panicked — I pushed you away like I already knew you were gonna leave because everyone else did. I’m more sorry than you’ll ever know for hurtin’ you like that. I’m a fuckin’ idiot. I’m a stupid old man.” He holds you closer, his grip on the verge of leaving marks. “But kid, I’ll give you everything I got, all the time I have left on this earth, whatever you want…if you’ll have me.”

The world tilts a little. You might have stumbled if Bucky wasn’t holding you like you’re the last light left before the armageddon. He’s so close that you can taste the beer on his breath, and you inhale deeply, drinking it in like it’s straight from the bottle. But a small voice is there in your head, providing clarity on the point of contention that drove him away in the first place…

“Bucky,” you whisper, pulling back. His eyes frantically dance over your face, brows furrowed. Your heart pounds painfully against your chest. “I think…I think you were right. What you said in your truck.” Your eyes fall shut. “About me wantin’ more than what I have now. There’s something else out there that’s meant for me and I…I realized I can’t leave it be. That I’ll do whatever it takes to have it.”

He inhales sharply, his large frame stilling against yours. You look at him then, and he’s stricken, balancing on a fragile fence between panic and hope. Your heart aches more for him now than it ever did while you kept your distance, for this rough, immovable, larger-than-life man. Despite the tears, despite the wicked words, despite it all, he calls to you. He calls…

You blink. “But it isn’t what you think.”

As you say the words, something aligns inside of you, a shifting of your soul. It settles comfortably, like it was waiting patiently for you to figure it out. What you’ve been chasing after all this time is no longer abstract or vague. It’s clear as day, as bright as a beacon, and it’s right in front of you.

Reaching up to cover his hands with yours, you thread your fingers through Bucky’s, appreciating the warmth and sturdiness of his grasp. He’s still looking at you frantically, like you might pull away at any second and tell him to get lost. You squeeze gently.

“This whole time I thought a better life meant gettin’ out of the cycle of hell back home. Leavin’ it all behind so I wouldn’t have the chance to become another sad statistic in that shit town, and makin’ my own way so I’d never have to rely on others who only saw me for what I could give ‘em.”

You shift closer to him, until your noses brush, until your lips are ghosting each other.

“And then I met you,” you breathe. “And I realized how lonely it is. I don’t know what it’s like to be loved or taken care of or given kindness just because. I wasn’t searchin’ for it when I ran, because I didn’t think it mattered — as long as I could dig myself out of where they tried to bury me. But somewhere along the way with you, it all changed.”

Your hands slide up his arms, slowly, carefully, leaving goosebumps on his skin in their wake. The tension leaks from Bucky as your arms wrap around his neck, a soft sigh escaping from his parted lips.

“The trailer and the job — you’re right, they’re not enough. They aren’t gonna give me the future I want. Because the future I want is a place to call home with someone who can give me what’s been missin’ from my life. And I want it to be you.”

A pause. Heartbeats racing in sync. Your eyes meet.

Bucky’s mouth is on yours before you can register him leaning in, and there’s an urgency to his kiss that you sends a thrill down your spine. One hand tangles in your hair, the other maps your body until it finds your waist and drags you closer as he pushes your lips open with his tongue. He moves differently than before, fueled by an emotion that doesn’t fall under a single name, but his determination is as tangible as ever. He’s taking what he wants now.

You pull away with a gasp, forehead resting against his. “Baby,” he murmurs, soft and husky, “it’s already yours.”

Your fingers find his lips and press lightly into wet skin. “You mean it?” you ask with wide eyes.

“I meant every word,” he promises. His hand tugs lightly at your hair, tilting your chin up just how he wants it. “No more stayin’ away. Couldn’t get me to if you tried.”

He seals it with a kiss, demanding and brutal, yet burning with his adoration. Your body’s pulled flush against his and it feels like coming home. Those hard planes fit against your soft curves like puzzle pieces that pledge a lifetime of coming together like this again and again.

You’re panting by the time you pull apart. Bucky’s eyes are half-lidded and full of dark intentions, but you can feel him holding back, testing his restraint, handing you the controls now.

It’s the easiest decision to make.

You pull at his shirt while slowly backing up the stoop. He follows, scooping up the keys you dropped before placing a gentle kiss to your cheek, your temple, your jaw, and unlocking your door. He pulls you into his arms once you’ve crossed the threshold, mouthing at the juncture where your neck meets your shoulder. Your breath hitches on little gasps and moans as his hands find your ass and massage it with interest.

Bucky walks you deeper into your little trailer like he owns the place, feasting on your skin and stopping only at the bedroom door. He pulls away to meet your gaze, and you see his pupils are blown.

“Kid, I’m not here just for this,” he murmurs, mouth hovering over yours. “I need you to know that.”

“I do,” you whisper while your heart swells from his words. “But I want this. I want you.”

He groans, backing you against the wall as his brow meets your temple, sighing against your ear as his thigh slides between yours. “I’ll be so good to you, baby, I promise. Lemme take care of you…”

Hands guide your hips down onto the rough fabric of his jeans, easing you across his thigh with a drag that sets off fireworks in your stomach. You breathe heavily as each pass of your clit over his muscled leg fuels the building heat within you. Bucky kisses the hinge of your jaw, the shell of your ear, whispering, “Fuck, I can feel you. Soaked already…drivin’ me crazy.”

“B-Buck— more,” you whimper as you roll your hips, searching for more friction. He grabs your jaw, something just short of gentle, and makes you meet his eyes as he presses you further into the wall. The arousal slides hot and sticky out of you, soaking your panties and sure to leave a mark on his jeans, making you glide faster on top of him. He groans when your mouth falls open in a choked gasp.

“You look too good like this, baby, gettin’ yourself off on me,” he breathes. “So goddamn pretty.”

Heat rises to your cheeks. You reach for him as you hit a new angle that makes your body sing, fingers curling in his hair to bring him in for a savage kiss, a lustful mark of new territory in your relationship; his thumbs dig into the crease where your legs meet your hips, and you can just feel the hard outline of his length straining against his jeans as it presses into your stomach, making your head spin. Bucky’s teeth nip at your bottom lip, pulling a whine from you that he swallows whole.

It’s almost too much. Like jumping off the deep end and not knowing how far down it goes. It’s terrifying, it’s disorienting, it’s perilous. But you still want to touch the bottom. You still want to know where this goes. You want more.

“Bucky,” you exhale against his lips. He holds you tighter. “Make me yours.”

His eyes flash with possession, with desire, with an enduring need that is rooted in something deeper than the lust you share for each other. It’s trust in its purest form. An exchange of souls, an agreement of devotion. Bucky gathers you up in his arms until you’re pressed against him.

“All mine,” he swears, rough and low, and carries you into the bedroom.

Bucky tosses you on the bed quickly before kicking the door closed and leaving the moonlight as the only witness to what comes next. When he looks at you, something’s shifted — something that makes the heat in your core rise to dangerous temperatures.

“Off,” he demands, dark eyes falling to your uniform. You push up to a sitting position, fingers trembling in anticipation as you slide the dress down your body until it crumples on the floor in front of him. Bucky kicks it aside, unable to look away from the sight of you in nothing but your thin bra and panties.

“Jesus,” he breathes, voice rough, licking his lips while he gets his uninhibited fill of your body. “Look at you.”

Your self-consciousness is short-lived when he leans over to press a tender kiss to your mouth, cradling your jaw like it’s a priceless treasure.

“So fuckin’ beautiful,” he whispers.

Your skin is set on fire when a large hand skims your bare thigh, pushing your legs apart until you can feel a cool breeze against the mark your arousal left on your panties. The vulnerability makes you gasp, but his touch is there to keep your legs where he wants them.

Bucky pulls back to watch as his knuckle drags across your center, teasing the ache just on the other side of the fabric that grows more insistent by the second. You’re throbbing for him, failing to hide your wanton moans as your pussy clenches around nothing but air. He moves his fingers gently over the fabric, finding your entrance and circling it expertly.

“This mine now?” he asks you, lips hovering over yours. You nod desperately. You’ve never been so turned on it your entire life. “Say it.”

You gulp. “It’s yours, Bucky. All yours.”

“All mine,” he echoes, “been wantin’ her for too long.” He traces your folds until he finds your clit. You cry out, legs spreading wider for him like he pressed the magic button. He swears under his breath before capturing your lips in another bruising kiss.

“Perfect girl,” he rasps into your mouth. You melt beneath him as he plays with your clit through your panties, a pattern of soft circles and hard presses that makes your toes curl.

But just as the pleasure begins to crest, his hand is gone. A sound rips from your chest, half-growl, half-whine, as you’re edged for a second time with no relief. Bucky just smirks and slowly pulls his shirt over his head, muscles rippling as he reveals his broad chest and tight abdominals, like a curtain being dropped for the grand finale. Immediately, your hands reach out to touch him, the sharp edges of his body, your lips pressing to the center of his stomach before you can help it, and you look at him as your mouth moves lower.

But Bucky cuts the trail off by sinking to his knees in front of you. “You can suck my cock like a good girl another time. Let your man eat first.”

His thumb sweeps across your jaw gently, then pulls at your bottom lip until you suck it into your mouth. He groans as you bite down lightly, tongue swirling its promises for another night. Bucky’s other hand finds the clasp of your bra, popping it open with practiced ease that should frustrate you but instead elevates your heart rate. Your bare chest is eye level with him, and he wastes no time admiring the way your body is illuminated by the moonlight.

“Fuck,” he breathes, and his thumb is tugged from your mouth so that he can cradle both breasts in his hands, the pads of his fingers stroking the delicate skin until goosebumps erupt under his touch and you’re arching into his hold. “Been hidin’ these from me,” he grumbles, thumb flicking your nipple. You whine when his teeth graze the other, soft and gentle, the bark before the bite.

“Bucky,” you whine, “touch me.”

“I am touchin’ you,” he says around your nipple, a smile in his voice as he sucks heavily at the skin. Your hips jerk up, seeking out some sort of friction that he’s not giving yet.

“More, Bucky, please.”

He mouths at your breast, confident, intentional, and mind-blowingly skilled, while his other hand squeezes tightly around the unkissed one.

“You beg so sweet, baby, but be patient f’me,” he mutters, switching sides. You’re inching closer to the edge of the bed, to grind against what, you’re not sure, but your core is dripping with arousal that snakes a heady trail down your thigh while your pussy throbs from the lack of attention. As he laves at your chest, you bury your hands in his hair, and he makes a small noise of satisfaction before moving his kisses lower, down your naval. He pushes you back slowly until your spine brushes the bed, a thin squeak leaving your lips as his hands find the juncture of your thighs and pulls them open wider to settle between them.

His teeth catch on the waistband of your panties. He looks up at you, and you’re outrageously close to coming just from the sight of it alone.

You realize he’s waiting for your permission, so you offer a frantic nod.

“Good girl,” he says through his teeth, pulling the fabric down your legs with swift efficiency until you’re completely naked before him. He sits back on his heels to stare.

“Don’t,” you whimper, eyes squeezing shut as his thumbs rub tiny circles that get closer and closer to your leaking center with each swipe.

“What?” he answers. “Just lookin’ at what’s mine.”

You can feel his gaze like a physical caress on your folds. It makes your back arch, your hips jerk, and he hasn’t even fucking touched you yet. A man who wouldn’t even meet your eye two months ago can’t look away from the most intimate part of you, and it’s making you come apart in ways that should require psychic evaluation.

“Hold still, sugar,” he orders, voice stern and hold unforgiving as he pins you in place.

“But—“

“No.”

You bite your lip, daring to lift your head and meet his eyes. They’re still focused on your aching cunt, watching as it drools so easily for him. And then he leans in.

Bucky presses a kiss to your clit, just a whisper of a touch that has you twitching yet again. But before the first noise of frustration can slip out, his mouth moves an inch lower, then another inch lower, a line of gentle pecks until he reaches your entrance and curls his tongue into you.

Your mind blanks out while your body reacts, thighs clenching around his shoulders, fingers twisting into his hair, every muscle in your body locking up. Oh.

He eats like it’s his livelihood, tongue circling your entrance before digging inside with a precision so intense, it’s like he already knows exactly what you need. His mouth dances there before his tongue revisits your clit, small flicks before heavy strokes of his tongue to get you writhing until the cycle repeats itself. The tell-tale coil in your gut tightens, your orgasm on the horizon.

“Taste so sweet,” Bucky rumbles, his eyes shooting up to find you already watching him. A dark look crosses his face, something you’ll remember for the rest of your life, before he buries himself back into your center. You whine, head falling back against the bed.

“How does it feel, baby?” His beard tickles the skin of your thighs. You pant and grip his hair tighter.

“S-so— so good—“

“Yeah? Can my girl take more?”

“…m-more?”

Bucky’s mouth is teasing your clit when you feel the blunt ends of two fingers circle your entrance. Your eyes pop open, and you manage to pull yourself onto your elbows in time to watch as his long fingers sink inside you, making your jaw fall open on a whimper. The feeling of them sliding against your walls immediately unlocks a new level of pleasure that is different from anything you’ve felt before, a level that you know only Bucky could have reached.

He curls his fingers, moving them in and out at a deviously slow pace while his tongue flicks faster and faster against your clit. A cry rips from your throat. The coil in your stomach grows tighter, hotter.

“Bucky,” you warn.

“Yeah, baby,” he mumbles between licks, meeting your eyes again. “Give it to me.”

A soft moan tumbles out of you. Pressure that is as cruel as it is generous snaps like a thread, and you come apart on his mouth like it’s the first time your body’s allowed you to feel alive.

“That’s it,” Bucky mutters into your core, easing you through it, “just like that, sweet girl.”

The pleasure strips you raw until you’re nothing but a live wire, twitching and moaning at every swipe of his tongue, every curl of his fingers. He sighs deeply into your cunt, contentedly, like your release was his release, too.

“Fuckin’ hell, woman,” he rumbles, forehead dropping to your thigh as his fingers slowly pull out of you. “Those sounds...Could make a man addicted.”

He pushes up from the floor while you struggle to catch your breath, watching you like a bird of prey that just found its next meal.

The golden skin of Bucky’s torso draws the gaze of your sluggish, post-orgasm brain. It grows closer and closer as he crawls over you, and your tongue darts out to wet your lips. Or to lick every inch of him. Either could apply here.

He settles between your legs easily, naturally, and your hands find his arms as they brace himself on either side of you.

“Be a doll and get my belt, yeah?” he murmurs against your ear, brushing a kiss to the shell of it. You shiver, your hazy brain finally registering the feel of his jeans on your thighs, and reach down with trembling fingers to unclasp it slowly, the zipper following with a sound that splits through the tension of the hot night air.

He kisses you deeply then, a strong hand around your jaw, your name whispered against your lips.

Your hands drift up to his shoulders, fingers curling into the ends of his hair as he pushes his jeans down, his boxers with them. Your eyes gravitate toward the hardness now tucked against your leg, and all it takes is a quick glance to realize that Bucky is truly a big man in every way. A whimper slips from you as you catch the shiny red tip twitch with need.

“What is it, sweet girl?” he murmurs, tilting your chin up to meet his eyes. There’s a light in them that suggests he already knows the answer to his own question.

You swallow thickly. “What if it doesn’t…”

He chuckles softly, brushing his lips to your cheek. “It will. You wanna be a good girl for you old man, don’t you?”

“Bucky,” you mumble shyly, cheeks tinted pink as something warm spreads through your stomach.

“I said I’d be good to you, and that’s what I plan on doin’.”

His hands move you effortlessly until you’re flush with him, just enough space for Bucky’s hips to rock with slow, shallow movements, his cock sliding through your folds and coating himself in your dripping arousal. You bite down hard on your lip when it rolls over your clit, and his eyes snap to your face, watching intensely as the mounting pleasure begins to show.

You let out a shaky exhale when he notches his cock at your entrance, lashes fluttering.

“Eyes on me, baby.”

And in an inevitable moment of tenderness, Bucky’s hand finds yours, fingers intertwining as he brings it up over your head. Then he pushes in.

You gasp, Bucky curses softly, a tension leaking from both of your bodies as he finds his sweet relief in your warmth. You’re stretched out right away, and he’s only halfway in, but it’s a fullness that that makes you feel complete, rather than feeling intrusive. You tug at his hair, pulling him closer until he eases through your tightness and slides in to the hilt. Your consequential moan harmonizes with his.

With all the restraint left in him, Bucky holds still, feeling the walls of your pussy spasm around his cock. The pattern of pressure could make him blow his load right now if he eased up even an inch on his self-control, so he grits his teeth and focuses instead on the look on your face as you adjust to him. You’re so beautiful, even with tiny tears slipping down your cheeks, that little crease between your brow. And you’re such a good girl for keeping your eyes on him.

His good girl.

“You okay?” he whispers, kissing away the tear streak on your jaw.

“Yes,” you breathe, blinking. “It feels…you feel so good, Bucky. I didn’t…”

A sound rumbles in his chest as he tests out a soft grind. You squirm instantly, hips rolling to meet his for double the pressure. His cock touches something deep within you that makes the room blur, makes you cry out.

Bucky’s free hand pushes down on your hip. “Sweet girl, if you do that one more time, this is gonna be over before it even starts.”

The pout comes automatically. Bucky kisses it off your face with the eagerness of a teenage boy, sucking your lip and folding your tongue with his as he begins a snail’s pace of little thrusts. Your cunt still pulses around him like it did when he first slid in; it makes him shake as he tries pulling out, only to be sucked back in at the first chance. His hand tightens around yours.

“Oh, God,” you whimper when he gives you a harder thrust.

“Jesus Christ, baby,” he sighs, “so fuckin’ tight, tryin’ to kill me.”

“Keep goin’, Bucky. Harder.”

“Fuuuuuck…” He picks up speed, cock dragging heavily against your walls, hips snapping. You can hear it, the wet slick of your bodies meeting, and it makes your eyes roll back as you picture his cock drenched in you.

“Perfect pussy,” he grunts. “Fuckin’ made for me. Can feel it.”

Bucky’s cock throbs while he pounds into your cunt, and the rhythm transitions into something deep and desperate and almost out of control. All the while, you can’t look away from him; even as your body jolts and moves with every thrust, your eyes are glued to the broken expression on his face, the raw vulnerability of him seeking out his pleasure in you while on a mission to give you yours.

“Fuck, Bucky,” you moan, back arching as he hits your sweet spot suddenly. His mouth descends on your throat, beard scratching at your skin.

The weight on your hip disappears when Bucky grabs your other hand, pulling it up beside the first. His thrusts get impossibly faster as he holds you down, determined to find the sweet spot again, and again, and again, until stars burst in front of your eyes and you’re clawing at his back, drool spilling from your lips while you mouth half-formed words that don’t exist.

Bucky pulls back enough to take it in, eyes roving from your face to where your bodies connect and back. “You look so pretty like this, baby,” he pants between thrusts. “All dumbed out on my cock, like you should be. Takin’ me so well.”

You whimper when you feel your stomach tighten, your muscles beginning to lock up in that way only an earth-shattering amount of pleasure can create.

“Gonna cum,” you whisper, the first coherent sentence you can think of. Bucky groans, pulling you in for a bruising kiss as his hips pummel into yours.

“Do it,” he growls into your mouth. “Wanna feel you.”

Your body trembles as it explodes and puts itself back together just to explode again. The corners of your vision go blurry. Your orgasm crashes into you with a ferocity stronger than the last, your pussy fluttering around Bucky’s cock.

His pace slows as you come back down to earth, but you’re barely given enough time to catch your breath before he’s slipping out of you and turning you over onto your stomach. You whine softly when he pulls your hips up, settling behind you on his knees.

“Goddamn, you’re a dream,” he mutters huskily, and you feel his warm breath fan over your lower back. A soft kiss is pressed to the swell of your ass before he palms roughly at it with a strong hand. “Should’ve taken you sooner.”

His hand slides lower until it cups your folds, fingers exploring and rubbing and circling freely, making you bury your face into the sheets when he brushes your sensitive clit. He learns what touch triggers the neediest sounds from you and capitalizes on it until you’re all but wriggling away from him. He catches your waist and pulls you back.

“No no no,” he soothes. “Lemme take care of you.”

Bucky slides a finger into your hole, then a second, just because he can, curling them up as if to hook you in closer. You cry out and he hums in response before his thumb brushes over your other hole, the one that’s tight and quivering from the pressure of his fingers working your cunt.

“Fuck, baby,” he breathes, pushing on the muscle enough to get you careening back into him. “You’d let me take you here, too, wouldn’t you? You’d be so sweet to me, so fuckin’ tight around me where no one else has been…ain’t that right, sweet girl?”

All you can do is jerk your head in a nod. He plays with both holes like he owns them, and at this point, he does. The pleasure that hadn’t really died down from your last orgasm is already on the rise again, spiking and cresting in ways you’ve never experienced before the more he circles that second hole.

“Bucky,” you gasp as he presses down on it; not going in, but just enough to break through the rim.

“Next time,” he says wistfully, pulling his fingers out of you. His cock is there to replace them in a heartbeat, and then he’s pushing back into your pussy like he never left.

“Shit—“ you exhale.

Bucky’s length feels different in this position. Longer, bigger, heavier. You don’t have to look to know he’s making your stomach bulge. He lets you adjust for a moment before taking on a pace that’s steady yet intentional. He finds his grip on you, one hand on the back of your neck, the other on your hip, pushing you when he pulls back, pulling you when he pushes in. Smack-smack-smack.

“J-J-Jesus, Bucky, it f-f-feels— t-t-too much—“

“You’re doing so good for me,” he murmurs, grabbing your neck tighter. “Such a good girl.”

He grinds into you, reaching a new depth that has you sputtering on a dry sob, pussy clenching down on him. Bucky groans.

“I know, baby, she’s been waitin’ so long for it. Gonna fill her up…make sure you’re mine for good…keep doin’ it ‘til everyone knows whose bed you’re in…”

His hips jerk suddenly, sporadically, a powerful thrust that bullies the deepest part of you and pushes you up the mattress. A breath expels out of him that could almost be categorized as a whine.

“Fuck,” he pants, “I’ll keep goin’ ‘til it takes. ‘Til you’re mine in every way. Never lettin’ go of ya—“

Your heartbeat thuds in your chest, in your veins, in your ears. You barely hear his words, let alone process them, but they still send a jolt of pleasure straight to your gut. You can’t think of anything but the drag of his cock on your walls, the stretch of your entrance at this new angle, the hold of his hand on your neck that suggests he doesn’t plan no letting you go anytime soon. And why would you want him to?

“Fill me, Buck…please. I want it…” you whisper into the pillows.

Bucky comes almost as soon as the words leave your lips, with a couple of quick, stuttered thrusts before burying himself so deep inside you, you feel him in your chest. His groan is long and ragged as the sticky release leaves his body and enters yours, settling with a finality that leaves more than just a mark on your insides. You sigh deeply as you feel him slowly relax behind you, the last of the shockwaves making his cock twitch as he pulls out. His spend leaks from your entrance and down your thigh, but a quick swipe of Bucky’s thumb returns it to where it belongs.

“Ahh—“ you hiss, but Bucky moves with purpose, gently hauling you up by the neck until you’re cradled against his chest, arms wrapped around your middle. His breathing is heavy in your ear.

“You good?” he mumbles. You only have the capacity to nod, sinking into the sweaty warmth of his skin while he places chaste kisses on your neck. “C’mon, then.”

He picks you up off the bed and carries you to the bathroom, letting you be for a moment to clean yourself up, and you know the image of his bare ass walking away is burned into your retinas for good. He returns with a set of panties and the wifebeater he was wearing before, now dressed in his boxers. He helps the shirt over your head, holds the panties for you to step into, and the act is considerate and intensely intimate, something you weren’t expecting even after the endless devotion you just received from him. His blue eyes watch you closely, softly, still dark from the throes of passion, but free from any haziness and uncertainty. He is where he wants to be, doing what he wants to be doing; there’s no room for doubt, not when you see him look at you like that.

A slow kiss is pressed to your shoulder once you’re dressed. He tugs you back into the bedroom, a possessive hand on the small of your back that guides you beneath the sheets. Bucky slips in behind you, enveloping you in his familiar scent of sweat and metal and evergreen, pulling you to him after so many days of pushing you away.

“Bucky?”

“Yeah?”

You bite your lip. “Was it really me yellin’ at you that did it for ya?”

There’s a small pause before you hear a soft chuckle, just a puff of breath on your skin.

“I’d be lyin’ if I said it wasn’t. But…it was also the before, and the after, too. Still bein’ able to have a smile that big and pretty after all the hell life’s put you through. After all the hell I put you through…it’s hard not to fall for that. You’re a…good person to be around.”

Your stomach erupts with butterflies, your skin zings with electricity wherever he touches you. His words are exactly what your soul craves, so much so that it hurts.

“Careful,” you whisper, “this is startin’ to sound like the sweet nothins you say you don’t give.”

You can feel his smile against your spine. He tugs you closer. “Don’t be difficult.”

“Me? Never.”

A few beats of silence pass, and it’s the easiest thing in the world to lie next to him without saying a word.

“I meant what I said,” he eventually murmurs, absentmindedly stroking your collarbone.

“What part?” you whisper, lips brushing his hand.

His voice is gruff in your ear, low and tentative. “‘bout not lettin’ you go.”

A smile cracks across your face. “Oh, yeah?…what about the other parts?”

He makes a quiet noise in his throat. “Y’heard that?”

You crane your neck to look back at him. He’s focused on a spot on your shoulder, smoldering intensity written across his face dulled only by a touch of sheepishness.

“I heard all of it,” you tell him softly. His eyes meet yours, dark blue storms drowning you in their path.

“Couldn’t help myself,” he says, licking his lips before placing a hot, open-mouthed kiss on the back of your neck. You bend toward him like a flower to the sun. “I want you waitin’ for me when I get home. I want you givin’ me hell for being late for dinner. I want you doin’ laundry in my underwear.” His lips brush your skin again, hands wandering beneath his shirt. “I want you keepin’ me up all night, lovin’ on me ‘til I know nothin’ but you. I wanna show you in every way I know how that I can be what you need.”

Your hand curls in his hair, forcing him to look at you. “You already are,” you whisper.

Bucky slots his mouth over yours with a groan, promising tomorrow, and the next day, and the next, with his kiss.

sammy speaks again: if I told you this took me two months to write would you believe me? 30k words too like I could have shortened it sammy let’s be real, but I think my body physically rejects the idea of not providing an encyclopedia of a build up. which this seriously is, holy introspection and emotions like can I write normally for once? anyway idk what happened to me but I’m just grateful I’ve finally broken through the funk!

good news is I feel way more open and inspired to write my other wips after signing the dotted line on this one. let me get through a couple shorties and then I’ll be back with one of those!

as always I appreciate all the love and feedback, and thank you again for following this blog❣️

[frontmansdefender]

[blowingbarnes]

Cabin Fever

A/N: I had a dream Sebastian was hitting it from the back and only got hornier as I woke up. I think I'm ovulating. PERPETUALLY.

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader Word count: 11.4k Warnings: established relationship, SMUT!!!! p in v, oral (m&f), fingering, breeding kink, cumplay?, secret relationship, semi-public sex (fingering in a restaurant), overstim mention, free use mention, somnophilia, size kink, drinking mention, mentions of face fucking?, finger sucking, spit kink, so much smut. like... so much. I'm so, so horny. Summary: Bucky and you have been sneaking around in secret for a while. Not for any particular reason aside from not wanting all of the questions from the team. But now, your schedules haven't been lining up.

After getting drafted, spending 90 years going from fight after fight, and going to therapy, one could say James Barnes was a little uptight. He liked his routine. Some semblance of normalcy in the midst of the whole brainwashed super soldier arc life put on him.

So of course he'd be drawn to you.

Your chaotic personality and dry humor pulled him in like the ocean tide would pull a boat. Almost imperceptible, until you found yourself stranded in the middle of the ocean having sun poisoning-induced hallucinations.

It took him exactly 68 days of maladaptive daydreaming about ruining you in every humanly possible way, and some inhumanly ones, for his restrain to snap like a twig under the sheer strength of your gaze.

That night at the safe house after a particularly gnarly getaway, where you committed 3 traffic felonies and broke a few other trespassing laws, playing some stupid pop song on the radio like you were going to get your ears pierced at Claire's, not evading an actual gang.

When you closed the door behind you at the safe house, you were buzzing. Your pupils were dilated, you were shaking, and you bounced on your feet like Duracell contracted you to be their newest bunny.

"Did you see that, Buck?!" The faint light gleamed off of your eyes, smile so bright it made his chest hurt. "Oh my God, I feel high right now." The little giddiness in your voice made his cock join his heart in its aching for you. "They couldn't even—"

He didn't let you finish.

Well, he did. But not that sentence.

He grabbed your face and kissed you so hard you thought he'd leave fingertip shaped bruises on your cheeks. His tongue exploring the inside of your mouth and hands roaming over you, undressing in hurry and want, relishing in the taste of your moans spilling into his mouth like he'd never have the chance to again.

But he did. About 3 times that night.

You didn't mean for it to stay a secret. It started out that way because neither of you knew exactly what was gonna come out of it, at first it was all sneaking into each other's rooms late at night and leaving in the morning, teasing the hell out of him over the phone when he was away and paying for it when he got back, and defiling every surface of every safe house you stepped foot in.

But a few weeks into it, his heart ached to leave you every morning, and your chest felt hollowed out every time he was away on a mission without you.

“I know we said no labels or whatever, but… I like this.” He gestures between you, the table, this world you only step into once a week. “I like… bein’ here. With you. Not just the hotel. Not just—y’know.”

You know. Oh, you very much know.

“And I hate that I have to wait all goddamn week just to—” He stops, shakes his head. Starts again more carefully. “…Just to sit across from you and watch you steal my fries.”

Your lips part. You didn’t mean for it to hit this deep. You didn’t mean for your chest to ache with it.

“…Buck,” you say quietly.

His eyes flick up to yours, open, vulnerable, still a little scared.

“I just wanted you to know,” he finishes, voice low. “’Cause I think… Thursday’s startin’ to feel like the only time I can breathe.”

Then it stayed a secret because you didn't want prying eyes or nosy questions, you just wanted the weight of his body on top of yours to lull you to sleep every night.

Every Thursday when possible, though, you'd find yourselves in the same sort of situation: a reservation under an alias in an obscure little restaurant that didn't allow pictures, followed by a king-sized bedroom reserved at the nearest fancy hotel.

Your weekly getaway from the madness you liked to call the Avengers compound.

You slid into your usual booth at the back—a deep burgundy semicircle that practically swallows you both into privacy. Candlelight flickered faintly between you, reflecting in Bucky’s eyes as he leaned back, one arm stretched across the back of the booth, watching you like he’s checking in on his favorite sight.

You pretended you didn’t notice how his gaze softened the moment he saw you in something that wasn’t tactical gear. Deep, plunging neckline of your top is accompanied by no sleeves under your coat, a delicate leather belt with gold hardware holding the black miniskirt in place.

“You clean up nice, Sarge.” you murmured, unfolding your napkin over your lap.

He smirked slowly, eyes lingering over you just a second too long. “You say that every Thursday.”

“Yeah, well. I'm pleasantly surprised by the increasing levels of hot every week.”

His lips twitched—and for a moment it’s easy. Familiar. Thursday. It's like you don't have a super security compound to call home, or like aliens weren't the assignment four days ago.

The waiter comes and goes. You order something light. He orders steak, medium rare, because even off-duty he eats like a soldier who might deploy at any moment.

But there was something different that night. Because between bites, he keeps doing it.

Looking at you.

Not in the usual “I’m gonna wreck you the second we leave” way.

In a “I’m thinking about something dangerous” way. Dangerous could mean a lot of things, specially for superheroes. But the softness in his eyes told you that it was dangerous because it was fragile, precious, and way too normal.

You swore the restaurant’s lighting was designed specifically for him—warm and golden, catching on the scruff along his jaw and the silver of his dog tags tucked under an open henley collar. He didn’t even bother with a jacket tonight. Cocky bastard. He knows what he does to you.

Your knee bumped his under the table. Not an accident. Not even close.

The waiter appears just long enough for you to order another whiskey and a glass of red wine, then disappears into the shadows again.

Bucky settled back, one arm along the back of the booth, “New rule,” he said casually.

“Oh? We have rules now?”

“Just one. No teasing me when I’m away on missions unless you’re ready to deal with the consequences when I get back.”

You widen your eyes innocently. “Consequences? Sergeant Barnes, I have no idea what you’re talking about.” You shifted and only slightly sat on your side facing him, one bare leg sliding over the other and crossing, your foot sliding the YSL hardware of your heels up and down his calf.

"I was merely being supportive and making sure a very highly estimated Avenger made it home safely."

He leans in, voice a sinful whisper, “You know what’s not supportive?”

“Mhm?” You bite your lower lip, gaze never straying away from his face.

“When you tell me on comms that you’re wearing those lace panties I like.”

“That was once.”

“Twice.”

“Tomato, tomahto.” You waved a hand in dismissal and grabbed your glass, sipping the wine.

He reaches for his whiskey, takes a slow sip, eyes never leaving you. “Let me guess. You’re wearin’ them now?”

You refuse to respond in words. Only humming in denial behind your glass before clicking your tongue behind your teeth. "None, actually."

He stills and the glass pauses halfway to the table. His gaze dropped—just for a split second—to where your legs met, even though your skirt left barely anything to imagination.

He swallows, thumb tapping once against the glass like he’s recalibrating. “Lemme get this straight,” he says slowly, quietly, eyes darkening, “you’ve been sittin’ across from me for—” he checks his watch, “—twenty-three minutes… with nothing on under that skirt?”

You take another sip, crossing your legs again—slowly, letting your knee brush deliberately higher up his thigh. “Technically it’s been longer. I didn’t wear any in the car either.”

“Jesus Christ…” He was leaning forward now, forearm braced on the table, staring at you like you’re the mission and he’s seconds from breaching.

His metal arm stays stretched along the booth behind you like it has been all night—casual, protective—but now his flesh hand slides under the tablecloth, rests on your knee.

“Thought you’d maintain professionalism, Sergeant,” you teased softly, eyes fluttering when his hand squeezes just slightly.

“Honey, I left professionalism back at the compound the second I smelled your perfume tonight.” His fingers drift higher. Inch by slow, agonizing inch.

You try to take another sip of wine, but your hand trembles just slightly. You hoped he wouldn’t notice.

But it's Bucky, he absolutely notices and hums to himself while you bite your lip with that horny look in your eyes that make your eyelids sit heavy like you could eat him alive. And he'd let you.

You feel his smirk against your ear before you hear it in his voice. “Nervous?”

“Hardly.” But it comes out breathier than intended.

He continues upward. Your pulse spikes. His fingertips stop just under the hem of your skirt, brushing the sensitive inside of your thigh. You grip the edge of the table with your free hand.

“You’re trembling,” he whispers, amused.

“There’s an air vent,” you lie. His fingers slip further beneath the hem, in the direction of where you wanted him the most.

“Oh yeah?” he hums. “Think this vent reaches between your thighs too?”

You nearly choke when his fingertips brush the bare, hot skin there. His breath hitches quietly—barely audible. If you didn’t know every sound he made, you might’ve missed it.

“You’re already so warm,” he notes, turning his head slightly so his lips ghost your cheek without touching. His fingers finally slide up and press gently—right there.

Your breath stops.

He smiles against your skin. “There she is.” Your nails dig into the table. “Think I can make you come before the waiter brings dessert?” he whispers silkily. You smile tightly at him through clenched teeth.

“I think you should try.”

He chuckled, low and almost mean, and pushed two fingers inside the wet slick he had been salivating after every time you were apart. James Buchanan Barnes is a loverboy at his core, and a menace who enjoys the process.

It's not like you could get caught and be arrested for public indecency at any second.

His fingers keep tracing delicate, lazy shapes just inside, making sure to keep his palm or any source of friction away from where you need him most until you’re squirming almost imperceptibly.

“Settle,” he murmurs in your ear, a quiet, firm command.

You freeze, thighs trembling slightly as you force yourself still. He rewards you with one slow, deliberate circle of his thumb right over your clit.

Your breath hitched audibly and he smirked. “Good girl.”

You tried not to whine. If you did, you know he’d make it worse. He’d stop. Or go even slower. You don’t know which was worse and you’re not sure which one you wanted more.

Minutes pass. Agonizing minutes.

Each pass of his fingers is maddeningly controlled—never too fast, never too direct. Each stroke tells you he knows your body better than anyone alive. He avoids giving you the rhythm you want, changing speed just before you can catch it.

You’re flushed now, half from the wine and mostly from him. Your thighs are tense, fighting the urge to grind subtly against his hand.

“Relax,” he murmurs, and his vibranium arm shifts behind your shoulders, holding you back into him protectively as if you’re not on the verge of shaking apart.

The waiter appears to bring your entrees and you hold back a whine when Bucky pulls his hand away from the heat between your legs.

You answer his polite “How are the first couple of bites?” with a steady, “Perfect, thank you.” and he walks away to attend to other tables.

Bucky, however, lets his fork rest steady on his plate, and barely lets you recover from the slick mess you're making on the back of your skirt before his fingers find you again. He chuckles into your hair, voice like hot honey. “You’re fuckin’ incredible.”

“You’re fucking evil,” you breathe, barely moving your lips.

“Maybe.” His pace increases—not by much, but enough that the twisting heat in your belly starts coiling faster.

“Buck—” you whisper, desperate.

“I know, baby.” He murmurs soothingly. “Almost there.”

But when your thighs start to tighten in anticipation—he stops. Completely. Your head snaps toward him in disbelief.

He leans in, lips brushing your ear. “Keep your legs open.”

You do, because if you don’t, he’ll make you.

He clicks his tongue once in mock disappointment. “Oh, sweetheart,” he hums, withdrawing his hand completely and casually lifting it to his mouth. He sucks one glistening finger clean, eyes locked onto yours with sinful delight. “This is gonna be a long dinner for you.”

Your pulse pounds in your ears. Your body aches, throbbing with every second he refuses to touch you again.

“You’re shaking,” he says under his breath, amused.

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

To say you didn't give a fuck about the chocolate lava cake was an understatement. You don’t remember how your back hit the hotel room door—only that Bucky barely got it shut before he had you pinned against it, one hand cupping your jaw and the other sliding under your skirt, shoving it up past your hips like he had something to prove to both of you.

But somewhere between your desperate gasps and his low moans, something shifts.

It happens quietly.

Accidentally.

You moved on top of him, breathless and messy, nails dragging down his chest. The rhythm was hot, frantic—but when he caught your hips and slowed you down, forcing you to roll instead of bounce, the tone shifted.

“Yeah,” he groans, guiding your hips, “ride me nice and slow—like we’ve got nowhere to be tomorrow.”

You blink—because that’s not how this usually goes.

He keeps going.

“Like we’re not being sent on calls at 3 a.m. to save the world,” he breathes, watching your face. “Like it’s a Saturday. Like we sleep in.”

You swallow hard. The thrusts get deeper. Less rushed. More… emotional.

“Maybe we don’t even live in New York,” you whisper, falling into it before you can stop yourself.

His grip tightens.

“Yeah?” he murmurs, voice softer, needier. “Where we livin’, baby?”

“Some small apartment in Chicago,” you gasp, leaning forward so your foreheads touch. “Or maybe a townhouse in Portland.”

He nodded slowly, grinding up into you. “Yeah. I like that. We don’t save the world. I work construction or some shit. Come home covered in sawdust.”

His hands on your hips tighten just a bit more tenderly, like he’s anchoring himself. Your fingers brush his chest and linger too long.

And then in the middle of your hips slapping down against his, his head falls back and he breathes, brokenly, “Fuck—I’d come home to you like this every night if I could.”

So you lean down, lips brushing his for a second before you bit his chin and let it go with a graze of your teeth, breath shaky. “Yeah? You’d come home dirty and throw me on the bed like this?”

He groaned—deep, guttural, hands squeezing your waist as you kept moving, feeling him get even harder inside of you if that was even possible.

His voice gets rougher. “Wouldn’t even make it to the bed. I’d fuck you on the kitchen counter while dinner burns on the stove.”

He thrusts up suddenly, hard. “Fuck—Bucky!”

He grips your jaw and makes you look at him. “You’d leave me little notes on the fridge before you go on early runs. Tellin’ me to eat breakfast. Like a fuckin’ wife.”

Your breath stutters, something sharp and warm in your chest. You whimper, hips stuttering for a second at the idea of wearing a ring that signifies his last name.

He doesn’t miss it.

“Oh, you like that?” he whispers darkly, sitting up so your chests press together, still inside you. “You wanna wear my ring, honey? Want the whole damn world to know you’re mine?”

You shudder, nails clawing his back. “Yes…”

He thrusts up hard. “Say it clearer.”

“I want it,” you breathe, trembling. “Want your ring.”

He kisses you like it hurts. Like he’s drowning and you're the only breath of oxygen his lungs would ever recognize while fully submerged.

Maybe that’s why he suddenly grips your waist and flips you onto your back with a rough, almost desperate exhale—like he needs to bury himself deeper in this illusion before it slips away.

He settles between your legs, pushing back in with a guttural groan, forehead pressed to yours.

“And maybe…” his voice drops further, wrecked and reverent, “…maybe one night I wouldn’t pull out.”

Your breath stutters—eyes fluttering open to meet his. The air crackles. He watches your reaction like a predator watching prey tremble.

“Maybe I’d just stay inside you,” he murmurs against your lips, thrusts deep enough to make the headboard creak softly. “Fill you up… right there in our shitty little apartment.”

A weak sound escapes you.

“You’d yell at me in the morning,” he murmurs, kissing you slow and deep, “say we weren’t trying. That we weren’t ready. But I’d look at you in one of my old shirts, barefoot in the kitchen makin’ pancakes… and I’d want it all over again.”

Your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him down as you arch into him.

He groans into your neck. “Wouldn’t let you outta bed that weekend. I’d keep fuckin’ you full of me… hopin’ it’d take. Hopin’ I get to walk by you in the mirror and see your belly round with my kid.”

You gasp his name like wishing on a star.

He thrusts deeper—slower—like he’s savoring the image burned into his mind.

“Imagine it,” he whispers, voice shaking with how bad he wants it—even if he pretends it’s still just talk. “You, pregnant with my baby. Nothin’ else in the world but us. No Hydra. No missions. Just… you carryin’ something I gave you. Somethin’ ours.”

You nearly sob at how intensely it hits you.

His forehead presses to yours as his voice falls to a wrecked whisper. “Tell me you’d want it.”

“I’d want it,” you breathe, almost crying. “Bucky, I want it so bad.”

He groans—filthy, tortured, adoring—as he thrusts harder now, chasing something that feels far bigger than pleasure. And that’s how you fall apart beneath him—his whispered fantasies of a quiet life, a warm bed, and a round belly turning into the dirtiest, most intimate thing anyone has ever given you.

Life, however, doesn’t care about what happened in that hotel bed.

It throws missions at both of you like grenades.

First, he gets deployed with Sam to Europe for weeks, chasing arms dealers who won’t stay in one place. You get stuck in Southeast Asia with Nat and Wanda for a hostage op that turns into a two-week storm of adrenaline and zero sleep.

Time differences ruined your ability to talk. Sometimes you'd send a three-word text. Sometimes he likes it six hours later. Sometimes he sends a picture of a shitty cup of coffee with a single: miss yours.

Back on base, you miss him in hallways by hours. He leaves briefing rooms five minutes before you enter them. If you're off, he's not, and vice versa.

A racy picture here, a breathless phone call there, and neither of you being left alone for the same 10 minutes to do anything about it.

Until it marks almost two months since the night at the hotel.

Your body was sore, all you wanted was to wash your hair, get a face mark on, and sleep in your fuzzy robe until about 11pm when he'd sneak into your room. But as you walked through the compound, your phone pinged.

From: Buck 📍 43.7126° N, 110.6751° W

Your stomach lurched in your tummy, and you felt a surge of warmth spread over you as you bit your lip, grinning at the screen. Your footsteps got quicker on the way to your room, an everything shower and barely any packing in your mind.

Seconds later, your phone buzzes again.

From: Buck I need you.

On the other side of the compound, Bucky tightens the straps on his duffel slung across his back. There is not a sleeping bag, tent, hiking boot, or single piece of wilderness survival gear in sight. He was wearing jeans and a henley he fucks in—not fishes in.

“Where you off to, Tin Man?” He didn't have to turn around to know it was Sam, accompanied by Steve, approaching his bike.

“Camping. Out of state. Off-grid a couple days.”

Sam raises an eyebrow. “Since when do you camp?”

Bucky smirks. “Since now.”

Steve blinked slowly, knowing there’s more to this but being too emotionally mature or exhausted to pry. “You got gear?”

Bucky slides on his helmet like the question doesn’t exist. “I’ve survived worse without a tent.”

He revs the engine and leaves before anyone can point out that two shirts and a half-empty Dopp kit don’t equal “camping.”

Your hair is styled. You’re moisturizing. Your bag is small enough to pass as a purse. Inside? A toothbrush, skincare, three pairs of lingerie, and zero hoodies, shirt, thermal leggings, hiking socks, or flannel.

You were walking down the hall to the elevator, an SUV with seat warmers waiting for you in the garage when you heard Nat's voice from behind you. "I'd ask you what's all that but its... not much."

"Heading out for the weekend.”

“Where?”

You keep your tone fluffy. “Camping. In Wyoming. With… college friends.”

Nat blinks. Once. Twice.

Her gaze slides from your perfectly blow-dried hair… to your freshly glossed lips… to the very much not outdoorsy clothes you’re wearing and the perfume that would definitely attract bears.

"Camping?"

“Yeah. Gonna… sit by a lake. Look at trees. Bond with nature. Be one with dirt.”

She’s silent for a full ten seconds. Then… she smiles. She lets you go with no fuss, immediately marching towards the kitchen like she's mid op.

“They’re going camping.”

Sam looks up. “Who is?” Nat folds her hands on the table. Smiles like the cat that ate the canary.

“Your favorite brooding senior citizen and our little chaos gremlin.”

“Barnes does not strike me as a s’mores guy unless s’mores is a sex position.” Joaquin piped up from a mouthful of Nerd Clusters.

Steve exhales. “They have been… weird lately.”

Sam leans back, dramatic gasp loading. “They’re sneakin’ off to a love shack.”

“In the woods. They will return pregnant or emotionally damaged.” Yelena seems more excited about the first one.

Joaquin chuckled. “Or both.”

Snow crunched under your tires as you pulled onto the secluded dirt road. Pines rise on either side like silent sentries. The sun is dipping low, staining the Wyoming sky a molten gold that glows against the frost. Your stomach tightens as the cabin comes into view—secluded, quiet, the lake beyond it frozen still as glass.

And then there’s him.

Bucky Barnes stands outside like he’s been waiting forever—leaning casually against his bike parked near the porch, breath fogging the air in slow, steady clouds. His henley stretches obscenely over his chest and arms, leather jacket hanging open like he’s daring the cold to challenge him. His jeans hug his thighs in a way that should be illegal.

He looks like 225 pounds of pure, coiled heat.

You step out of the car, shoes meeting the crunchy top layer of snow. The cold air bites your cheeks, makes your breath visible. He straightens from the bike, eyes fixed on you—calm, certain, but dark with something that’s been starving for weeks.

Every step toward one another is soaked in tension. You meet about halfway.

You drop your bag dramatically at his feet. It’s small. Embarrassingly small. More purse than luggage, really.

His gaze flicks to it, then to you—brow arching, equal parts question and disbelief. “That’s it?” he asks quietly, voice deep and scratchy with restrained amusement.

You meet his eyes head-on and smirk. “That’s all I packed.”

A slow grin curves along his mouth. He nods once—like he’s both amused and dangerously pleased.

Then, before you can blink, he grabs the bag with one hand and hooks the other behind your knees, hauling you clean over his shoulder in one effortless motion.

You squeal his name, half laughing, half breathless.

Your view was upside-down: him holding your bag in his metal hand, your ass supported easily by his other arm, boots swinging as he walks toward the cabin door with confidence that says he already knows exactly what’s about to happen once you’re inside.

The cold air bites at your thighs through the hem of your dress, but his grip is hot enough to make up for it.

Bucky walks into the cabin and your lungs fill with the scent of wood burning, wine, and that amber resin that only comes from blankets that have been stored for a while.

He sets you down with the utmost care in the world, and you take in the effort he put into this weekend already. The fireplace was lit, throw blankets on the fur rug like a love-nest, and next to it, a wooden coffee table with two wine glasses already resting on it.

You raise a brow slowly, smirking. “Wow. This some kind of plan, Bucky? Get me drunk so you can take advantage of me?”

Bucky just snorts, stepping forward with that lazy swagger that says he’s already got you right where he wants you.

“Take advantage of you?” he echoes, amused. “Sweetheart, you climb me like a tree when you’re sober. When you’re drunk, you’re like a damn jaguar in heat.”

You gape, offended and amused at the same time. 

He nods once, dead serious. “A horny jaguar that thinks humping me is a personality trait.”

“Excuse me?” you sputter, crossing your arms even as heat crawls up your neck.

His lips twitch. “You know how many times I’ve woken up on a mission night to you half-asleep grinding on my thigh like you were tryin’ to assert dominance?”

You refuse to confirm or deny, rolling your eyes as you mutter, “Maybe you shouldn’t sleep so close.”

He tilted his head in that same infuriating way whenever he was right. “Maybe you shouldn’t sleep so needy.”

“Maybe you should—”

You don’t finish the sentence, because he’s already ducking his head to pepper slow, teasing kisses along the side of your neck. He lingers at that spot just under your ear, humming with satisfaction when your breath hitches.

“C’mere,” he says, voice dropping an octave as he steps backward toward the rug by the fire and lowers himself down, back pressed against the couch. He tugs you gently forward until you’re standing between his legs.

He guides you onto his lap effortlessly, hands sliding to your hips as you straddle him, your knees sinking into the thick fur while your body settles against his chest like it remembers the place.

Bucky pushed a strand of hair behind your ear and held your face in both hands, looking into your eyes like he was deciphering the hieroglyphs needed to read your soul.

Like he hadn't unraveled every secret you had and kept them in a drawer in his room, tucked with changes of underwear and a pair of soft shorts, along with a shirt you definitely stole from him.

He kisses you like you’re a memory he’s been clinging to for eight goddamn weeks—urgent, deep, almost grateful. His hands grip your thighs, anchoring you, as your fingers tangle in his hair and tug.

You press into him instinctively, your hips rolling once out of sheer muscle memory.

He groans into your mouth. “There she is,” he mutters, breath rough, lips brushing yours. “My little jaguar.”

You gasp a breathless laugh, "Shut up." That turns into a quiet moan into his mouth as his hands press your hips forward again, encouraging the friction you didn’t even realize you were fully chasing until now.

The friction starts slow, guided by his grip and your desperation. You’re both still half-dressed, clothes scraping together, breaths getting messier as the pressure builds and the world narrows to heat, motion, and the soft crackle of the fire.

Your hands move slowly to the hem of his shirt, fingers tracing his skin first—softly—before pushing it up. His hands leave your body just long enough to let you pull the fabric over his head, exposing his torso. Warm and taut, all muscle and some scarring, the hair on his chest tickling under your fingertips.

When he pulls your sweater and dress over your head in one motion, he does it carefully— like he’s unwrapping something he missed holding.

You watch him watching you, that intensity making your stomach twist in ways entirely unrelated to the heat between your thighs. You don’t feel bared — you feel seen.

His eyes linger over your white lace lingerie — one of the three you packed just for him. “…You wore this for me?”

You smirk, though your hum comes out softer than planned. Nodding and biting your lip, already leaning in for another kiss. When his hands grip your ass, yours fumble with the button and zipper of his jeans, pushing your hand past the hem of his underwear and stroking his cock inside of his jeans.

“See?” he rasps, voice cracked with need. “Didn’t even take a full minute before you went straight for it.”

You grind down against him deliberately. “You complaining?”

You stroke him again, slow, teasing, just to hear that sound again. His eyes flutter half-lidded as he exhales like he’s been waiting two months just to feel your hand on him again.

“Fuck,” he mutters, jaw tight. “You have any idea how bad I’ve needed this?”

Your pulse kicks at that. “Oh yeah?”

He nods slowly, gaze fixed on your lips. “Been thinkin’ about you touchin’ me like this every damn night. Hands under my clothes, whisperin’ in my ear while you use me how you want.”

You swallow, heat flaring hot in your chest.

You’re stroking him just enough to make him need more, watching his jaw clench like he’s trying not to lose it too fast. His grip on your hips turns almost bruising.

“Fuck—” he mutters, eyes squeezing shut for one second as your thumb drags along his waistband, tempting. “You really think I’m just gonna let you sit here and torture me?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Sounds like you’re handling it just fine.”

His eyes snap open—dark, glassy, amused.

“Sweetheart,” he says, voice low and ruined, “I’ve been handling it for eight goddamn weeks.”

And before you can get another word out, he moves.

His hands lock under your thighs, and in one fast, fluid motion, he shifts up onto his knees and throws you back onto the thick fur rug beneath you with a soft thud and a breathless squeal from your lips.

You blink up at him, caught between laughing and panting.

He hovers over you now, hair falling slightly into his face, breathing heavy, jeans still half open, your dress gone, lace soft against the rug.

His metal hand braced beside your head. His flesh one sliding slowly up your bare thigh, deliberate. He’s looking at you like something he’s been hunting and cherishing in equal measure.

His lips ghost your jaw.

“I pictured your face,” he goes on, slow, steady, voice a hot whisper. “Right when you’re about to get loud. When you’re trying so hard to hold it in for me but you just… can’t.”

You clutch at his henley, pulling him closer.

“You think I didn’t go crazy picturing this lace?” he teases hungrily, gaze dropping to what you’re wearing. “Knew it’d look good stretched over you while you beg me to touch you.”

Your back arches involuntarily.

“I missed you talking like this,” you whisper quickly—too honest, too needy.

He grins against your skin, breathing hard now. You whimper quietly as his fingers trace closer—waiting, teasing.

“And I missed watching you fall apart,” he breathes. “I missed making your eyes roll back. I missed you diggin’ your nails into my shoulders. I missed fuckin’ you so good you forget your own name until all you remember is mine.”

His mouth drags heat along your collarbone, your chest, lower still, as his hands coax your thighs further apart with gentle but unyielding pressure.

He looks up once, taking in your face right before he drives you up the wall, and then he lowers himself fully between your thighs, settling there like he plans to stay until he pulls every remembered sound from your throat—slow, steady, incredibly focused. Lace long forgotten in a pile of clothing that wouldn’t touch your body for 48 hours at least.

Your back arches at the first real contact, breath hitching as your grip in his hair tightens when he licks a strip up your slit and circles your clit with his tongue.

"F-fuck, baby..."

He hummed in quiet satisfaction against you, like he was tasting something he’d been dying without, and nuzzled his face further into you, lapping your juices up and down while his nose bumped your clit.

He breathes out a quiet, low laugh — pleased, intimate. “There we go. Look at you… can’t stay still, can you?” His voice is low, not mocking — proud.

“Bucky—” your voice catches when his tongue finds rhythm again, slow and focused.

“Say my name again,” he murmurs, eyes darting up to catch your expression. His voice is steady, coaxing. “C’mon, doll. Let me hear how bad you missed me.”

And you do. Because there's no nosy super spies listening in the vents, and no training sessions, briefings, or meetings to pull this thirsty man away from the oasis between your legs.

“There you go…” he whispers, closing his eyes for a second like he feels it as deeply as you do. “God, I missed how pretty you sound.”

“Please don’t stop,” you gasp, chest rising and falling faster. “Don’t stop—I’ve needed you so bad.”

His tongue roughens against you, responding to your voice as much as your body.

“You always know exactly how to—” Your breath breaks on a wavering sound when he thrusts his tongue in. “God, Bucky… you’re the only one who knows how to make it feel like this.”

His tongue works faster and his lips wrap around your clit, sucking the nerves and sending you into orbit. Your hips raised off the rug while your legs clamped around his head, big hands holding you down through your orgasm, working you through it.

You’re still shaking slightly, body flushed and oversensitized, yet aching in a new, overwhelming way that has nothing to do with just physical need.

So you reach for him.

You cup his face with both hands and pull him down into a kiss that’s not frantic — but full. Deep. His hand finds your hip, thumb stroking gently as if grounding himself in the reality of you.

When you pull back, you rest your forehead against his, breathing unevenly. “Bucky…” you whisper, voice soft but trembling with urgency.

He hums in response, thumb sweeping slowly along your cheekbone, waiting for whatever you need to say next.

“I need you,” you breathe — and the tone in your voice leaves nothing to interpretation. It comes out broken and wanting. “I need you inside me. Right now.”

Your hand gripped the length of him and lined him up with your pussy, neither of you breaking eye contact as he pushed the thick head in, not rushing but not giving you time to adjust either.

“Holy shit…” he mutters, eyes screwed shut for one second as he breathes through it. “I swear… you get tighter every time I’m away.”

Your lips part on a broken sound, heat flooding your chest. You roll your hips impatiently, needing more. “Bucky—”

“You feel that?” he murmurs against your cheek, voice thick and filthy. “That’s how tight you're choking me right now and I’m not even all the way in. You gonna let me all the way, baby? Gonna take all of me?”

“Y-yes,” you whisper, breath shaking. “Please.”

He laughs low — smug and a little breathless. “Begging already? Didn’t even give you the good part yet.”

“You’re such an ass—”

“Yeah, but you still want it,” he interrupts, kissing you hard — messy, teeth and tongue and desperation — before pulling back just enough to watch your face as he sinks in deeper, slow and deliberate. You gasp, nails digging into his shoulders.

He groans loud, head tipping back as he mutters, “Fuck. That’s it. Take me… just like that. Wanted this so bad it hurt.”

Your fingers scramble at his back, trying to hold onto something solid as your rhythm falls apart under him. “Harder,” you whisper — it sounds more like a plea than a demand.

He exhales sharply through his nose, satisfied. “Fuck, I love when you beg.”

“I’m not—” you try, but the protest cuts off when he does exactly what you asked. Your head tilts back, lips parted as an uncontrolled sound tears free.

“Mhm,” he hums, smug. “Yeah, you are.” He leans in close again, breath hot against your jaw. “Look at me,” he murmurs, voice wrecked.

You force your eyes open — and the second your glazed eyes lock with his, something shifts. You see how undone he is too — chest heaving, jaw slack, pupils blown wide with hunger and love tangled up together.

You feel a tremor ripple through you, and he sees it instantly. “There it is,” he rasps, grin gone now, replaced by raw intensity. “Feel it hittin’ you? Feel how good I’m making you feel?”

You nod, whimpering, fingers clawing at his shoulders.

“That’s right,” he whispers, voice gravel. “Only me. Nobody else gets to pull those sounds out of you.”

“Bucky—” his name leaves you like a prayer and a warning and something close to worship.

He kissed you hard, swallowing your breath. “I got you. Let go.”

His hand finds yours, fingers interlacing against the rug as you move together, breathless, desperate, claimed.

He finds a rhythm that's nothing like before—harder, faster, wrecked—and suddenly you’re not thinking in words or even sounds, just reactions.

“Fuck—”

“Yeah?” he pants, voice nearly a growl now, hips moving rougher, chasing something even he can’t hide from anymore. “Say my name—say it—”

“Bucky—oh God—”

“Louder,” he breathes, losing all rhythm for a second as you clench around him. “Let me fucking hear you—”

“I can’t—I—I—”

“Yes, you can,” he insists, voice wrecked, raw. His hand slides to your jaw, holding your face toward him. His eyes are wild now. 

You meet his gaze—and the look on his face destroys you. His jaw is clenched, sweat dampening his temple, lips parted as he gives in to instinct. He looks desperate. Gone. Like if you asked him to die for you right now, he’d say yes.

“I’m close,” you admit in a broken whisper. “Don’t stop—don’t fucking stop—” You choke on a sobbing moan. “Harder—please—”

That word unravels him.

“Fuck—oh my God—you’re killing me,” he curses, slamming his forehead against yours, movements turning almost frantic, chasing the edge with you. “Come on, baby—give it to me—give it—come with me—”

"Bucky— oh God, please, please, please cum in me."

He cums first—just a moment, a hitched breath, a curse hissed against your neck that sounds like your name torn in half—and the heat of him spilling inside of you is all it takes for your world to snap, heat flooding through you like freefall.

He stays inside you. He doesn’t move away. He just breathes there, face buried in your neck as you both try to remember how lungs are supposed to work.

You made it to bed after a couple glasses of wine, a grilled cheese, and teasing him some more, falling asleep on your stomach with him draped over you like the worlds warmest — and oldest — weighted blanket.

Whatever dream you were having, Bucky woke up to your ass rubbing against him like you were short on rent. He was still a little sensitive from the road you just had right before bed, and the clock on the nightstand on your side showed something along the lines of 2:43am.

He felt himself get hard and your body rubbed harder against him if that was even possible. He groaned quietly, and his hand went under the covers to find your bare pussy drooling, absolutely crying for him.

"Bucky..." The little breathless whimper you let out told him you were crying for him too.

He bit his lip and didn't have much ceremony. You were so wet anyway he'd probably slide right in. He pushed his boxers down, and up sprang his leaking cock.

He turned on his side, almost draped all the way over you, aligned himself, and pushed in.

The first thing you become aware of is the weight.

Heavy, solid, familiar — draped over your back like he promised he always would be. Bucky sleeps like a furnace, arm slung around your waist, leg hooked lazily over yours like he’s making sure you can’t vanish in the night.

You were dreaming something warm… fuzzy… something with his voice in your ear.

You breathed his name again, groggy and fluttering, barely louder than when you were fully asleep. “Bucky…?”

His breath catches like a snapped wire, hips momentarily freezing against you. For a second you think he’s going to stop. Then his forehead presses into your shoulder and he lets out a groan that sounds like a confession.

“Fuck—sorry—’m trying—trying to be good,” he mutters, voice thick, wrecked from sleep and need. “Woke up with you grinding against me—couldn’t stop thinking about…” His breath stutters as his hips twitch again helplessly. “...about how wet you get when I wake you like this.”

A memory echoes in your mind—your voice from weeks ago, breathless, whispering in the dark with saliva and cum dripping down your chin after he thoroughly bruised the back of your throat.

If you ever wake up like that again… you don’t have to wait for me to wake up.

“Bucky,” you murmur, fully awake now, voice softer but lower. You shift back into him, deliberately this time. “You’re not doing anything wrong.”

There's a soft schlick schlick schlick of his body driving itself into you that drives you crazy. It's muffled by the comforter like its dirty, naughty, something you shouldn't be doing.

Something hushed and feral and needy that is required to happen, otherwise you feel like you're gonna explode.

“Don’t hold back,” you whisper, voice trembling with something hungry. “Please.”

A low sound escapes him — half relief, half feral praise. “Yeah?” he breathes, moving again, more certain now. “You want it this bad, huh? Needed me even in your sleep?”

You bite back a soft whimper as your body reacts, your thighs pressing together instinctively even though his hand is between them. Every roll of his hips sends heat curling up your spine.

He hears the broken sound you make when you try to steady your breathing.

And that’s it. His restraint snaps.

His mouth crashes against your shoulder, open, desperate, needy, teeth scraping lightly as he moans into your skin.

“That’s it… fuck, that’s it. Push back on me, c’mon,” he urges, tone filthy, forehead pressing to your neck as his rhythm builds. “Grind on me, baby, just like you were when you were out.”

You follow instinct, rocking your hips back into him, dizzy with how much you suddenly need this, need him. The friction is rough and perfect and not nearly enough — but his voice makes it feel like everything.

“That’s my girl,” he growls. “Rubbin’ that perfect little ass on me like you’re starving for it. You tryin’ to make me lose my mind first thing in the morning?”

You gasp into the pillow, fingers gripping the sheet. “I—God—I missed you,” you breathe, shaky. “Missed how you make me feel—needed this—”

“That’s right,” he whispers, voice thick, rhythm steady and possessive, every grind punctuated by a breathy curse.

You’re nearly sobbing now, hips moving helplessly in sync with his. “Bucky… I’m gonna—”

“Do it,” he pants. “Do it for me—come on, pretty girl, let me feel it.”

You break.

The pleasure comes in waves that steal your breath, your sound, everything but his name. You’re trembling, clutching the sheets like they’re the only thing anchoring you. His arm wraps around you, holding you firmly against him as you shake, riding it out. He breathes through a deep groan into your shoulder, almost like your release drags him to the edge too, but he doesn’t let go—he just clings harder.

“Well damn,” he whispers after a few long, quiet seconds, still pressed tight against you. You're pliant and hazy, boneless against him. “That’s my good girl.”

Your breath is still uneven, but your eyes are heavy again. He kisses a slow, almost apologetic line along your shoulder blade.

“You okay?” he asks softly. You hum something that sounds like yes, still catching your breath.

He shifts just enough to pull the blanket up over both of you, but not an inch further. His hold doesn’t loosen, his arm tightens around your waist, like he’s anchoring himself there.

“Gonna stay here,” he mutters into your hair, voice thick and low. “Don’t want to leave you. Not even to move.”

You’re too tired to fully answer, but you thread your fingers through his where his hand rests on your stomach, lacing them together. He lets out a shaky, content exhale.

One last soft kiss to the back of your shoulder.

“Go back to sleep, baby. I’ll be right here.”

And he was.

Pressed close, breathing warm and steady against your neck, wrapped around you like a shield. You fell asleep again with a weak smile and his weight still holding you down in the safest way you’ve ever known.

A few hours later, you woke up sore. The sky was still a deep indigo outside, the sort of dark that doesn't feel terrifying, just comforting. Like the world was standing still just for a few moments, just for you.

You turned, whining at the loss of him, just to be met with the most beautiful sleeping face you've ever seen.

He always sleeps deeper after he’s completely spent. You know that. You also know he fades into that soft, vulnerable state only you get to see—jaw unclenched, lips parted, lashes dark against his cheeks, chest rising steady and warm under your ear.

And you love him so much in this quiet, unguarded moment… you almost want to cry.

Bucky's breaths came out in soft puffs out of his mouth, his conscience somewhere in a dream land far away. Your gaze dropped to his neck, a couple marks on there left by your teeth, but they'd fade before any questioning eyes back at the compound could ask any questions.

His chest was uncovered by the thick blanket, the quilt only covering up to his waist, and the unmistakable tent under it grabbing your attention immediately.

It would be so mean of you to not give him a hand... or a mouth.

Your fingers slide slowly down his stomach, barely brushing along defined muscle. He shifts slightly in his sleep, a soft breath escaping him. The kind that sounds like the beginning of a moan. So you slip under the blankets. Settle between his thighs. And lower your mouth to him.

He stiffens almost immediately, hips twitching subconsciously, a groan rumbling low in his chest as his hand spasms against the sheet. You keep going, slow and controlled, every motion soaked in a mix of reverence and filth.

“Jesus…” His voice is sleep-rough when it finally breaks out of him. His hips jerk once, a shocked gasp leaving him as his hand drops into your hair on instinct. “Oh my—baby—fuck, are you—”

You hummed around him in response, not stopping.

“Holy—shit—” His head falls back on the pillow, voice cracking, breath stuttering as consciousness snaps fully into place. “You—you waking me up like this?”

You squeeze his thigh gently in affirmation.

He lets out a helpless, needy groan, chest heaving as he pushes up on his elbows to watch you under the blanket.

“Look at you,” he pants, voice completely wrecked already. “So hungry you couldn’t even wait for me to wake up properly.”

You don’t stop. You can’t stop. The sounds he’s making are addicting—sharp intakes of air, shaky groans, words turning to curses. He drops one hand over his face like he can’t take it, then moves it to your hair again, fingers curling as his breathing gets frantic.

“Shit—slow down or I’m—I’m not gonna last,” he warns, but his hips are already moving, rolling unconsciously into your rhythm.

You grip his hip to steady him—not to stop him.

He gets the message. “Fuck,” he whispers, voice dropping dangerously low. “You wanna make me lose it in your mouth, huh?”

You hum again, hot and breathy.

He laughs once, broken and disbelieving. “God, I’m so fucked for you.”

His breathing turns ragged. His grip in your hair tightens. His voice goes soft and frantic. “Don’t stop—don’t stop—please, don’t stop—”

You don’t.

He swears louder, hips snapping once as he loses the battle for control entirely. “That’s it—oh God, baby—fuck—“

And then he comes apart with a groan so raw it shoots straight through you, his head tossing back, chest arching, thighs trembling as he curses your name like it breaks him.

You stay with him through it, easing him down gently with soft breath and steady hands until he collapses back onto the mattress, breathing like he ran miles.

“Holy shit,” he exhales shakily, dragging a hand over his face. He sounds totally, helplessly gone.

You crawl up his body, settling on laying completely on top of him with your hands under your chin and on his chest, still warm with aftershocks. He wraps his arms around you immediately, dragging you in and holding you there like you belong pressed against his heart.

When he catches your mouth in a kiss, he groans softly into it.

When you pull away, both of you were smiling like this was it. Like being tangled in a blanket in the middle of nowhere was what you were put on this earth to do.

You got up to make breakfast, or whatever you could call waffles and fruit and a snack here and there. And when Bucky found himself leaning on the doorway, looking at you humming the same tune from that first night he wondered if this was always where he was supposed to be.

If he was meant to fall from that train to do more than assassinations and intel, if he was meant to do more than keep Steve alive long enough to save the world a couple of times.

If he was meant to be tortured and picked apart for 70 years just to find himself wrapped in a sheet watching you steal chocolate chips from the brownie recipe you were making, moving around the kitchen enough that he saw when you winced the slightest bit when you leaned down.

He could accept that, if it meant he could have you.

“Okay, they look like bad cubism work, but i tried to make smiley faces with the chocolate chips and i think it could’ve been way worse.” Yeah, he was never letting you go.

The rest of the day unfolds like time has been loosened around the edges.

It starts with what was supposed to be breakfast dishes. You’re laughing while rinsing out a bowl when Bucky crowds you against the counter, kisses turning needy fast. One moment you’re teasing him for burning waffles, the next you’re bent over the counter with his breath hot against your ear and his hands firm around your hips, both of you too lost in each other to care about anything else.

A couple of hours later, you both manage to put on clothes long enough to walk into the nearby woods. The air is crisp, pine-scented, grounding. Your fingers stay laced with his the entire time. He doesn’t talk much — just keeps looking at you like the sunlight was invented specifically to bounce off your smile.

The shower afterward is meant to be recovery. It isn’t. He pins you lightly against the tiles, kissing the water from your lips and laughing when you nearly melt into the stream just from his hands on your waist.

After dinner, a very nice marry-me chicken recipe Bucky had to watch multiple TikToks of to master, you found yourself in the bedroom, with tear stained cheeks, sticky, marked thighs hanging spread off the bed, with a super soldier standing naked in between them.

The lights were all off aside from the gleaming firelight coming from the living room, barely making through the ajar door, moonlight catching on the wet tears on your cheek and the spit gleaming on your lips from having him in your mouth not too long ago.

Not many people would call Bucky a sap, but if they knew how his heart cracked open every time you looked at him like this, they might.

His hand came to cradle your face, and you nuzzled into it, looking at him with such sheer and unadulterated adoration in your eyes, it felt like you wanted him to pull you apart thread by thread just so he could be the one to stitch you back together.

A thumb traced the wetness on your lips and you engulfed it in between the plush flesh, earning a groan from deep inside of his chest. When you hummed around his digit, the vibration went straight to his cock, twitching in muscle memory.

“M’girl looks like she was made to be fucked open for me.” He moved his hand and grabbed your jaw, still sticky with saliva, a silent demand for you to open your mouth, which you gladly complied, sticking out your tongue.

The hot, wet feeling of his spit landing on your tastebuds came not long after, and you swallowed with a smirk.

Bucky pushed you down the bed with his body, tongue demanding against yours, while his hands gripped your thighs to scoot you up. He ground his hips against yours, coating him in more of your slick, before pushing in.

You gasped against his mouth, and he leaned down just slightly to get his arms under your legs and throw it over his shoulders, leaning in to press your knees out and as close to your chest as physically possible.

"Oh, God, Bucky..." Your eyes rolled back. "Fuck. You’re… you’re so big,” you breathe, voice shaky as your thighs tense reflexively, body already bracing around him even before anything more happens. “Always feels… like too much.”

He gives a quiet, devastatingly confident hum, like your overwhelmed confession is the sweetest thing he’s ever heard.

“Yeah?” His voice is low, warm, full of pride. “That right, baby?” His thumb strokes the inside of your leg in a slow, grounding sweep. “Thought you liked me being too much.”

Your breath catches when he presses his weight down just enough to make you feel it everywhere, the pressure firm and consuming. You whimper and nod, head tipping back against the pillow as your fingers curl around his arm.

“I do,” you whisper, nearly gasping, your voice cracking under the strain of how full his presence makes you feel. “Feels like you’re—stretching me out… every time.”

Your legs tremble in his grasp, but he holds them steady, firm but careful, folding you deeper into the bed, a breathy cry slips out when the pressure increases, not painful—just intense. Deep. Inescapable.

“Bucky—” it spills out in a shaken whisper, your chest rising in quick, unsteady pulls of air. “Feels like you’re… everywhere. I can’t—I can’t breathe when you’re this deep.”

His head dips, eyes locked on yours as his breathing grows heavier. “Yes, you can.” he says gently, firmly, "You love feeling this full. Admit it.”

You’re stuttering, already arching into him even as overwhelmed tears prick at your eyes. “I do,” you gasp. “God, I do—it’s so much—”

And he makes it be even more with a thumb on your clit as he drives into you like he wants the only thing inside of your veins to be him. He feels you clench so tight around him you swear your insides are embossed with the veins of his cock.

You come gasping his name with your bottom lip between his teeth, his cum leaking out of your thoroughly spent cunt.

"Mmm, I love you." It's said in a haze, with the room spinning around your lightheadedness, but he knows it doesn't make it any less true.

You woke up with his arm is still wrapped around your waist, hand spread low over your stomach like a claim he made in his sleep. His chest was pressed against your back, slow breaths brushing the nape of your neck. He didn’t move far — if he moved at all. It’s like even in dreams, he held on.

You shifted slightly and realized your body was sore in a way that felt like remembering. He was already hard against you, silent and steady, like his body woke up wanting before his mind did.

He made a quiet sound in his sleep when you curled back into him instinctively. When you rolled your hips just a little — not even on purpose — his breath stuttered.

“Don’t start somethin’ y'can’t finish,” he murmured, voice deep, rough with sleep.

“I’m not starting anything,” you whispered, but your voice gives you away.

His hand tightened on your waist. “Uh-huh.” Silence stretches — soft, warm, waiting.

“I don't wanna leave today,” you said eventually, voice quiet.

He exhaled slowly into your shoulder, like the thought physically ached. “I know. Let's not move. Not yet.”

He shifted behind you, pressing in closer, and you felt it — the way he wanted you, slow and unhurried, like he had all morning to remind you your body is his favorite place to be in.

When he moved inside of you, it was gentle at first — lazy, testing, his lips brushing your shoulder. You breathed out shakily, already melting, already arching back into him.

“Still sore?” he asked quietly against your skin, smug in a way that only an utterly in love James Barnes could be.

“Yeah,” you breathed. “Still want you.”

He groaned low, like that undoes something in him. He kept you on your side, drawn tight against his chest, his hand guiding your thigh to hook over his. The movement was slow, intimate — more about closeness than urgency. His breathing deepened behind you; you could feel each exhale between your shoulder and your neck.

There wasn't rush, no frantic pace this time. Just heavy warmth, quiet praise, his lips brushing your ear while your fingers clutch at his forearm and soft sounds slip from your throat.

It’s a claiming that feels less like breaking and more like sealing something in place. By the time you both went still again, breath uneven, bodies pressed close under the covers, neither of you spoke. Not right away.

He stays inside the circle of your body like he belongs there — not rushing to pull away, not shifting to leave. Like maybe, just maybe, if he doesn’t move, morning won’t happen.

Eventually, in a low voice that sounded almost reluctant, he murmured, “We should start getting ready in a few.”

You hummed, not agreeing. He pressed one last kiss to your shoulder, lingering there before adding, “Five more minutes.”

You don’t tell him you’re giving him ten.

You don’t make it very far once you’re out of the bedroom.

He had you on the couch next — laughter dissolving into breathy moans as he pulls you onto all fours and sinks into a rhythm that leaves you pressed against worn cushions, his voice low and praising in your ear as the old cabin furniture creaks beneath you, feeling him etch his name in every corner of your soul so good that you had to bite down on the couch cushions to not be too loud, a feat you were much too accustomed to in the confined of both of your rooms.

The drive back was colder than the drive to. Maybe because the heat of anticipation wasn't there anymore, and you were getting back to sneaking around and your sacred Thursdays.

You took a longer route, to pretend you had to wait at the airport. By the time you reached the garage, you saw his bike parked right next to your spot.

The common room was occupied by Nat, Steve, Yelena, and the redhead's eyes traced an invisible string between you and Bucky.

"So.. How was camping?"

"Good." Neither of you meant to respond at the same time.

"Too cold?"

"Warm in the morning, cold at ni-" You glared at him like he was solely to blame for you two absolutely getting caught red handed and sore right then and there.

Natasha smirked. "Welcome back, not-so-stelthy super spies."

At first, no one wants to assume anything when the noise starts. It’s 3:24 A.M. Maybe someone’s just doing an aggressive nighttime workout. Pushing a dresser around. Wrestling a demon. Practicing taekwondo on the wall.

But then the bedframe starts slamming rhythmically against the wall like it’s trying to communicate in Morse code.

And someone gasps way too high-pitched and breathless for this to be cardio-related.

Sam wakes up and pads down to the kitchen to find that he's been the last one to be pulled from his REM sleep by a horny centenarian and his insatiable, inappropriately young girlfriend.

Steve has his head in his hands like he's trying to muffle his ears, forehead resting on the cool table.

THUD. THUD. THUD.

They could hear Bucky's low "Sweetheart, fuck— keep—" followed by a grunt. And what sounded like some hard object dropping to the floor.

Yelena looked at the ceiling in horror when they heard your muffled whines, "Bucky—oh God!" pleading him not to stop.

Sam climbed on a countertop and got his mouth close to the vents. “WE KNOW IT’S BUCKY, WE KNOW, PLEASE.”

And in the symphony of your moans and his grunts, Natasha just piped up from behind her coffee mug. "Does anyone miss when they were sneaking around?"

Every single person in that room raised their hands.

a/n: this was fun to write, can you tell I went home last night and cracked my husband like a woman possessed?

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