the way I need him to make me make it up to him for taking a beating for me and it ends up with [redacted] [redacted] [severely redacted] [soooooooooooo redacted]
pairing: 1940s!bucky barnes x bakers daughter!reader
summary: james buchanan barnes has been a thorn in your side ever since you moved to brooklyn when you were eight. you refuse to let your guard down, no matter how much his stupid good looks & incessant flirting tear at your defences
warnings: 18+ MDNI, fluff, flirty!bucky, stubborn!reader, slow burn, teasing, overuse of 40s slang, lots of dialogue, probs not canon compliant, bucky is a ladies man 🙂↕️, 'doll' used a lot, reader wears a dress & heels, lil bit o' jealously, bucky is down bad, suggestive content at end, heavy making out, dry humping, not beta read, barely proofread, no use of y/n
word count: 7.8k
authors note: this one's for @phoenix-in-writing and my flirty 40s bucky peeps 🫶 post covid low has me doubting everythingggg, but i managed to birth this baby. i'm fragile so pls be kind. 40s slang meanings: necking - making out; cheesed off - annoyed; bird-dogging - trying to steal someone else's date/romantic partner.
song inspo: beware.. the south london lover boy. - raye
divider credits: line dividers by @/omi-resources, letter dividers by @/httpssturns
He's just so charismatic
And he talks as if he's doing road
And he says, "I'm too toxic for you, darling,
but when we kiss, it feels like home"
A rush of warm summer's air brushed the back of your neck, the bell above the bakery door jingling and alerting you of a new customer.
"I'll be with you in a minute," you exclaimed softly over your shoulder, your hands occupied with wrapping up the order of mixed berry mini tarts for Mrs. Johnson. She had come by the bakery a few days earlier to place a special order for her granddaughters birthday, and made you promise you would bake them and not your father—she swore your baking tasted sweeter than his, that you put in a 'dash of sunshine'.
A deep, raspy voice filled the small bakery. "Take your time, doll. I'm in no rush."
The light yellow ribbon trembled in your grip, your fingers tightening around the fabric for a split second. You swallowed back the annoyed sigh that worked it's way up your throat whenever you heard his voice.
You finished wrapping Mrs. Johnson's order in silence, not bothering with a reply. The less you spoke to him the better your chances were of leaving the bakery in a good mood.
"You're an angel," Mrs. Johnson smiled as you handed her the warm cloth parcel. "Here," she dug into her coin purse and placed a few dimes on the wooden counter between you, "something to thank you for your hard work." She gave you a small wink before making her way to the door, exchanging warm pleasantries with the only other customer in the bakery on her way out.
You grabbed the dimes and put them in the tip jar next to the register, turning back to the small work bench to wipe it down.
"What a big tip, angel. What ya gonna do with all your riches?" Came the deep voice again, layered thick with honey and much closer to you this time.
The sigh finally slipped out of you. "What are you doing here, James?" You asked exasperatedly, keeping your back turned to him.
"What will it take for you to call me Bucky, doll?" You could hear the faux pout in his tone. "I'll get on my hands and knees."
"Your ma didn't place any orders, so I'll ask again: what are you doing here?" You said in response, finally turning to the man who lived to annoy you with his presence.
James was leaning against the counter, his blue eyes bright with a smirk that was quirked to the left—his jaw moving as he chewed on gum.
"I wanted to come say hi to my favourite girl."
You ignored the thrill that his smoky rasp sent down your spine. "I am not your anything," you bit out, crossing your arms over your chest.
His smirk morphed into a shit-eating grin, "who said I was talking 'bout you?" His lips smacked obnoxiously. "Mrs. Johnson's always been a big fan of mine."
You moved from behind the counter, rolling your eyes at his arrogance. You made your way to the display in the window, moving around sweet bags that weren't out of place.
"She know you takin' Dot out dancing tonight?" The question slipped from your lips before you could stop it. You squeezed your eyes shut, your lips pressing into a thin line. You weren't supposed to know that.
James appeared at your side, nudging your rib with his elbow. "You keepin' tabs on me, doll?" He sounded ecstatic and your heart gave a traitorous flutter.
"No," you scoffed, "she came by yesterday and wouldn't stop gabbin' about it."
The oven timer went off in the kitchen, saving you from James seeing your trembling hands. When did they start shaking?
"Is that jealousy I hear?" He followed behind you, leaning against the small kitchen's doorframe. You busied yourself with taking the bread out of the oven, resisting the urge to look at how his shoulders made the room smaller—since when did he get so broad? "You know I've been askin' you to go dancing for years."
"And what? I just become another bird clinging to the James Buchanan Barnes' arm?" You asked in a sickly sweet, sarcastic tone. "I'd rather pluck my eyes out."
James staggered back dramatically, clutching his chest like he'd been shot. "You wound me, sweetheart. I don't know what I did to deserve this kinda treatment." The big grin on his face contradicted his words—he enjoyed this, whatever it was.
"You know what you did," you mumbled, swatting at his chest with a dish towel. “Now, are ya gonna buy something or continue being a pest?”
His hand shot up quickly, grabbing the end of the towel and pulling abruptly. You stumbled forward a few steps, his strength catching you off balance. You braced a hand on his chest on reflex, trying to stabilise yourself. His body was warm beneath your palm and the contact sent sizzling currents of electricity racing up your arm, travelling through your veins and making your heart beat faster.
His scent wrapped around you—minty freshness from his gum, a lingering hint of tobacco, something masculine and uniquely him. You inhaled instinctively, your mind going hazy. You briefly forgot you were meant to hate him.
"As long as I'm your pest."
All prior teasing and flirtation was gone from his voice, leaving behind a vulnerable sincerity you'd never heard from him before. His free hand came up slowly, resting on top of yours—your eyes latching on his thumb stroking the back of your hand softly. Your nerves lit up under his touch, and your breath hitched at how his hand completely swallowed yours.
You made the mistake of looking up at his face, catching his hooded eyes zeroed in on your lips. His head dipped lower, his minty breath caressing your face. The air around you thickened, your heart stuttering in your chest. You could see a faint scar on his nose, your hand hanging at your side twitching with the urge to trace it.
The service door behind you banged open with a loud force, breaking whatever spell James dragged you under. You jumped away from him like you had been burned, just in time to see your father's head pop out from over a stack of crates.
"Bucky, I'll have to put you on the payroll at this rate! Do ya mind helpin' an old man out?"
James was by your father's side before he even finished his question, lifting two crates off the trolley like they weighed nothing. His eyes met yours for a second, soft and open, before his signature smirk took over and one of his eyes twitched in a flirty wink.
Right. You hated James and his stupid, charming, handsome face.
Fifteen Years Earlier
The first thing you noticed was the air was thicker than your old neighbourhood, a hint of sot laced through the Brooklyn winds. The sidewalk was uneven beneath your shoes; a mix of dirt, harsh gravel, and cracked concrete taking your full attention—the last thing you wanted was to return home with a scraped knee after your ma's warning. Your parents were hesitant to let you wander the neighbourhood alone—they were busy unpacking from the move—but the adventurer in you couldn't sit still.
You rounded the corner, following the tinkling sounds of children's laughter. A smile bloomed across your face when you spotted a couple of kids a few houses down, jumping on the sidewalk as they played hopscotch. They looked to be around your age—a scrawny boy with blonde hair and a girl with dark hair pulled into braids. Your footsteps picked up as you eagerly approached the duo, missing the front door to your right opening and boots stomping down the steps.
Before you could greet the kids playing, your head snapped back—a harsh tug pulling at your pigtail and causing your scalp to flash with pain. The force threw you off balance and you fell to the side, your palms and knee hitting the rough ground—small stones embedding themselves in your flesh. You looked at your palms in shock, tiny dots of red surfacing and heating your skin. Your vision blurred as your eyes filled with tears, a small sniffle escaping you; your ma was going to be so disappointed. There was tiny flecks of blood smearing the hem of your dress where your scraped knee was starting to weep.
"I-I'm—" A small voice started behind you, making you whip your head back to your attacker. He was taller than the blonde boy, with floppy hair that was a matching brown to the girl with braids. His bright blue eyes were widened in panic with his pink mouth slightly agape, his hands hovering uselessly near your head. You would've thought he was cute, if he hadn't just injured you in lieu of a greeting.
Your voice was quiet, though laced with a small fire. "Why did you do that?" A silent tear streaked down your cheek, adding more warmth to the heat flushing your skin. You weren't embarrassed—no, you were something far more dangerous. You were angry.
"James Buchanan!" A woman yelled from the front porch on your right, her dress flowing behind her as she rushed down the wooden steps. "What are you doin' to that poor girl?!"
The scent of lavender engulfed you as she reached you two, her firm hands gripping the boy's—James—shoulders and pulling him away from you. She squatted down next to you with a gentle smile, her brows furrowing as she examined your bloody knee and hands. Long brown hair pinned away from her face and light blue eyes confirmed your suspicion—she was your assailants mother.
"Are you okay, sweetie? Can you stand?" She placed soft hands on your elbows, helping you to stand slowly. She moved a hand to your back, rubbing between your shoulders soothingly. "Let's get you cleaned up, that okay with you?" You responded with a small nod.
"M'sorry, ma. I just wanted to talk to her…" James mumbled guiltily. Your gaze snapped to him with a hardened glare. So he could apologise to his ma but not to you?
"Go play with Becca and Steve, I'll deal with you later." His mom said sternly, leading you away from him and to the porch steps. You kept your gaze on him, narrowing your eyes as he lingered next to the gravel now spotted with your blood.
"I won't forget this, James."
When your father first opened his bakery you and your mother didn't have much hope. It was a small store wedged between an abandoned butcher who had gone out of business and a bookstore that got new releases a year late and had rot lining the bookcases. There was hardly any foot traffic, and for the first few weeks after opening the only customers were dockworkers on their lunch break or tourists who had gotten lost.
One day your father decided to go door to door in your neighbourhood with boxes full of his—and your—baking, and the next day there was a line waiting outside the door before you opened. A month after that, your family's bakery had become the go to for Brooklyn's residents—despite your family being 'transplants'. From then on your life routine consisted of school, the bakery, and then home—sometimes the bakery before school, depending on how many special orders your father had.
It didn't take long for you to figure out that bakeries—like coffee shops—had an atmosphere that invited gossip. Something about the smell of caramelised sugar and freshly baked bread, the golden hues of sunlight that trickled through the large windows, the soft droning from the antique radio in the corner—it made people relax and let their guard down. And it made them forget that you were also there, standing behind the counter trying to tamp down your amused smile as you overheard conversations about overbearing mother-in-laws, school crushes, and illegitimate babies.
Unfortunately for you, that meant you heard the name "Bucky Barnes" fall from more girl's lips than you could count. From your fellow classmates giggling over how much of a 'dreamboat' he was, to the women who were lucky enough to go dancing with him, you heard more about him than you ever wanted to.
"He's a really good dancer," the redhead giggled to her friend, a slice of apple and rhubarb pie sitting between them on the window table.
"Oh, I'm sure," The friend replied in a dreamy voice. "You didn't stop at dancing though, did you?" She asked in a singsong tone, wiggling her eyebrows.
You pressed the roller harder into the flattened dough, rolling your eyes at their conversation. You had twenty minutes left before you needed to close shop, which meant you only had to wait ten more minutes before you could politely usher them out the door.
Dot sighed heavily, "we went back to mine and were necking for a bit, and then he just…stopped."
"I bet he was a good kisser, at least," the friend offered.
"Really good, which is why I'm so cheesed off!" Dot let out a huff. "He was even a gentleman as he turned me down, saying that it's nothin' to do with me—that his heart just 'wasn't in the right place'. That there's some special dame he can't get over."
A snort slipped out of you before you could stop it—James, only having eyes for one girl, really? Your hands froze on the roller as their heads whipped to you standing behind the counter.
Dot's eyes narrowed at you, her head tilting like she was trying to put a name to a face. Then the recognition hit her.
"You know him, don't you? You know Bucky?" She asked you, eagerly leaning over the back of her chair.
"Yeah, I guess. He lives 'round the corner from me," you offered with a small shrug. The last thing you wanted was to talk about James with his latest date.
She looked at you expectantly. "Well? Do you know if there is a special girl?"
Ever since his voice dropped in the seventh grade, James has had a new girl on his arm every week. Each week, he got caught playing footsie with a different girl under the school desks, received high fives from his fellow wolves for heavy petting a dilly at the pictures, and on multiple occasions sported a black eye from his attempts at bird-dogging. He was an incorrigible ladies man; there was nothing special about being his girl.
You rubbed a flour covered hand against your temple. "We don't talk 'bout that kinda stuff," you mumbled. "We're not that close."
Dot hummed, a perfectly plucked eyebrow raising on her forehead. "Really? Isn't he here, like, every day?"
Is that why they were still here? Were they waiting for James to turn up?
"I wouldn't say every day," you replied, wiping your hands on your apron. "His ma likes my focaccia and lemon bars." You started to loudly pack up the register and front counter, hoping they would get the hint to move on.
Dot's friend whispered something low to her, both their eyes trailing from the humid mess that was your hair down to the faded loafers on your feet. Your shoulders inched higher under their scrutinising stares, a string of sarcastic remarks loaded on the back of your tongue.
"Pie was good," was all Dot said, standing from her chair and gathering her bag, her friend following suit. They offered you a brief wave as they opened the door, the chime from the bell announcing their departure. The sound was like music to your ears—your shoulders dropping a fraction and a tired sigh leaving your lips.
What the hell was that?
You turned back to the raspberry tart you were working on, trying to immerse yourself in the new recipe you were testing out while the words "special girl" rang out in your head.
The bell sounded again, the jingle causing a sigh to escape you. You should've made sure to lock the door after them.
"Sorry, we're closed." You called out, your eyes not leaving the sticky red mess beneath your hands.
"Sign on the door says otherwise." Came the husky, low voice that haunted your dreams.
"Speak of the devil," you muttered under your breath. You turned your head over your shoulder, seeing James sauntering towards you with that stupid, roguish grin. "If you're looking for Dot, she left a few minutes ago."
"I know."
You squinted your eyes at him. "Did you wait until they left to come in?"
He shrugged sheepishly, rubbing a hand on the back of his neck. "Maybe."
You scoffed, resting a hip against the counter and throwing him a smug look. "Heard that you left her feeling…unsatisfied."
He met your look with an arrogant smile, his eyes flashing with interest."You talkin' about me again, doll?"
"Unwillingly."
He leaned both arms against the wooden counter in front of you, drawing your attention to his exposed forearms. Your eyes followed the line of a vein bulging through his skin, his rolled sleeve cutting off your view of it travelling up his bicep.
"She was just practice."
Your eyes snapped up to his glowing blue eyes, a flush creeping up your spine at being caught staring. The lust searing under your skin churned into disgust at his words. "Practice? That's all these girls are to you?"
He shrugged nonchalantly, "gotta keep my moves fresh for when you finally come to your senses."
You barked out a harsh laugh. "In your dreams, Barnes."
He stood to his full height, rounding the counter and trailing a hand along the wood grain as he stepped closer to you.
He cocked his head to the side. "How'd you know you're all I dream about?"
Your heart leaped into your throat and you scolded your body's reaction, reminding yourself he talks like this to every dame in a thirty mile radius.
"Don't you have anything better to do? Like finding some other girl to harass?" You turned back to the raspberry tart, taking a steadying breath and willing your heartbeat to slow.
"I'm right where I want to be."
His voice was right next to you now, low and raspy in your ear. A hint of smoke clung to his clothes, a smell that normally repulsed you but had you leaning closer to him.
A raspberry burst beneath your pinched fingers, drenching your skin in it's glistening juice.
"Look at the mess you've made, doll."
Before you could grab the rag sitting on the counter, slender fingers wrapped around your wrist. His thumb brushed against your racing pulse, dark eyes meeting yours as he slowly brought your stained fingers towards his mouth. Your breath caught in your throat, all coherent thoughts leaving your brain—everything in your body single-mindedly focused on where his skin was touching yours, on his breath ghosting the tips of your fingers. You watched, entranced, as his tongue peeked out to wet his lips, gliding along the plump flesh. You stepped forward instinctively, your body craving his warmth and your mind clouding with desire.
His lips are so pink.
He pressed a soft kiss to the tips of your fingers, a small gasp leaving you at the contact. A hum sounded from his chest, his lips vibrating faintly under your fingertips. A low buzz started to thrum throughout your body, tingles erupting from where your skin pressed against his soft lips.
"Sweet," he whispered low, heavy.
His eyes lifted to yours again, dilated pupils swallowing blue irises. He flashed you a wink before taking a small step back, his free hand grabbing the rag on the counter. He gently wiped the sticky berry off your fingers, taking more care than necessary for the simple task. He put the rag down, his hand moving from your wrist to clasp your fingers delicately. He brushed a lingering kiss against your knuckles, his fingers squeezing yours before he let go.
James' eyes traced over your face almost intricately, like he was committing your flustered expression to memory. His hand lifted slowly, his thumb brushing against your temple in a barely there touch—a light dusting of flour covering his skin once he pulled his hand away.
"Think I want to place a special order," he drawled, pink lips stretching into a lopsided smirk. "That's if you're on the menu, sweetheart."
He turned on his heel, strolling towards the door—pinching a bag of cookies on his way. "Don't miss me too much!" He hollered over his shoulder, flipping the sign on the door to 'closed' and leaving you with the sinking realisation that maybe it really is a thin line between love and hate.
The heels of your pumps clicked on the concrete sidewalk, the sound echoing through the still night air. The neighbourhood was unusually quiet for a Friday night, the impending storm encouraging your neighbours to stay inside and forgo their usual Friday plans. You envied them—staying inside with a glass of wine and your well worn copy of The Hobbit felt far more appealing than the date you had just left.
Your date was a nice enough guy—the son of one of your mom's friends—but he was…boring. Kind, but shy. A gentleman to a fault. The type of guy you wouldn't look twice at if he came into the bakery. You suppose he felt similarly to you, the date ending with not so much as a cheek kiss goodbye—hell, he let you walk home alone from the restaurant. Sure, it was barely a ten minute walk from your place, but it felt wrong. Was his chivalry just an act that he dropped once he realised the date was going nowhere?
The faint sound of deep, husky laughter interrupted your thoughts as you rounded the corner. Your heart rate picked up in anticipation, sweat starting to prickle your palms. Because there he was, the man whose face kept popping into your head—uninvited—all throughout your date. He was lazily strolling towards you, hands stuffed in his pant pockets and head tilted towards the smaller man next to him. Steve was rambling, his hands waving around energetically as he spoke. James threw his head back with a loud, unfiltered laugh; the sound sending a rush up your spine, even from twenty metres away. It didn't take a genius to know they had been out drinking, their movements languid and carefree.
Steve noticed you first, raising his hand with a wave and calling out your name in greeting. They were closer to your house than you were so there was no avoiding them—something you weren't even sure you wanted to do. You normally tried to limit your time spent interacting with James, but something had shifted—you felt your body, and mind, yearning to be near him.
James' head jerked towards you quickly, his body visibly stalling as he looked at you. You closed the distance, Steve meeting you halfway with a tipsy smile and a quick hug while James stayed a couple feet behind, looking momentarily stunned.
"Hi Steve," you greeted with a soft smile. You made eye contact with James once he reached you two, giving him a curt nod. "James."
"What, no hug for me, doll?" His signature smirk was back, although looking more like a dopey grin with the alcohol flowing through his system. His eyes were slightly glazed over, trailing from your head down your body to your heels—his gaze getting stuck on the formal dress you were wearing. It was a white dress with small, dainty flowers that you had worn only a handful of times—saved for the very rare occasion you had a date.
You gave him a once over, your sight catching on the chest hair peeking out where he had unbuttoned his shirt. Combined with the veins on his forearm you had admired before, you felt an unfamiliar warmth growing in the pit of your stomach.
You snapped your eyes back to his. "And end up smelling like a distillery? No thanks."
"Oh, Jesus," Steve mumbled, shaking his head. "Not this again."
James ignored both Steve and your jab at him. "You been out dancing? Without me?" His eyes wandered over your dress again, his bottom lip jutting in a pout. A shiver raced across your body as you remembered those inviting lips touching your fingers in the bakery.
You crossed your arms over your chest, pushing your chin up in faux confidence. "It's none of your business where I've been."
He took a step closer, tilting his head to the side—his eyes softening under the dim streetlight. You could smell the lingering scent of sweet whiskey and tobacco on him, clouding your head further.
"On the contrary, it is entirely my business." His voice was rough yet smooth, like honey drizzled over gravel.
You scoffed, trying to hide your nerves.
"O-kay," Steve dragged out. "I'm leaving you two to…whatever this is." He brushed past you, walking in the direction of his place—the same path James should be taking.
The both of you ignored him, stuck in a staring match—for what reason, you're not sure of.
You broke contact first, stepping around James and continuing your journey home. He was by your side in a second, humming a tune under his breath as you leisurely walked down the street.
"So, where were you?" All playfulness was gone from his tone, leaving behind genuine curiosity.
"Again, it's none of your business."
"Your safety is my business, doll." He said low, serious. You ignored the way your heart jumped in your chest at his concern.
You sighed, relenting. "If you must know, I was out for dinner."
He stopped abruptly, making you turn to him with raised eyebrows.
"Dinner, as in a date?" He asked, his features pulling down into a frown.
"Shocking, I know," you mumbled, kicking a loose stone with the toe of your shoe.
His head swivelled, looking down the street in the direction you came from. You watched his eyes squint and his jaw clench. "Well, where is he then? Your date?"
You shrugged, turning back to walk towards your place. "I don't know. I walked home from the restaurant."
James jogged to catch up to you, grasping your forearm gently. "Alone? Are you fucking serious?" He seethed through clenched teeth.
You ripped your arm out of his hold, continuing your walk. "Yes. I can take care of myself."
He shook his head at your stubbornness, a humourless laugh escaping him. "I'm pretty sure it's illegal to let a beautiful dame walk home alone at night." You scoffed at him, a flush rising under your skin at him calling you beautiful. "I'm serious, doll. That's no man."
You reached the small path leading to your porch steps, turning to him to say goodnight, finding him already looking at you with a hopeless look in his baby blues. "You're not seeing him again…are you?"
Inexplicably, your heart tugged towards him. Maybe it was due to his tipsy state, but his flirtiness was gone and your usual sass died on your tongue. You told him the truth, for once.
"No, he was boring."
His face lit up like a kid on Christmas morning. That dopey grin returned and his shoulders dropped, like he had been holding in a breath. "Good." His eyes flicked down to your dress again, his eyes twinkling.
Suddenly, a large hand palmed your waist and another clasped your hand, lifting it above your head before James clumsily spun you around on the uneven sidewalk.
"James! What are you doing?" You squealed as he continued to try dance with you, your free hand instinctively gripping his shoulder.
He spun you around once more, both hands moving to your upper back as he dipped you low. You let out a gasp, your shocked eyes meeting his shining ones. Even while tipsy and slightly uncoordinated, he really was a good dancer.
"There she is, there's that smile." He muttered softly, quietly, tenderly.
You didn't even realise you were grinning up at him.
Your hands rested on his shoulders as he brought you back up slowly, the two of you standing closer than before. The air went still around you, and you swayed closer to his warmth. His hands stayed on your upper back, gentle pressure holding you steady but not pulling you closer. Even with liquor running through his veins, he was a gentleman—his hands never straying and making you uncomfortable.
This wasn't the Bucky you heard stories of, copping a feel any chance he got. No, this was your James—unashamedly flirty but…respectful. And you hated it—hated the stupid flutter in your chest, hated your brain turning to mush. Hated the hitch in your breath as your eyes fell to his parted lips, hated the overwhelming urge to lean forward and finally get a taste of him.
You hated how despite everything, you wanted him. Badly.
"M'sorry," he mumbled low, whisper quiet. "Couldn't help myself, that dress is perfect for dancin'."
His head dipped lower, warm breath ghosting your lips and erupting tingles along the flesh. You held your breath, your eyelids drooping in anticipation. A soft chuckle escaped him, the whiskey laced exhale brushing your face. His lips settled oh so faintly on your right cheek, a tender touch you were not expecting. Your hands clutched his shoulders tighter, one of his thumbs caressing between your shoulder blades in a soothing motion.
He took a step back and your eyes fluttered open, darting around his face in confusion. His usual arrogance was gone, an expression you could only describe as affectionate taking it's place.
He turned his head towards your house, brows furrowing in an instant.
"Are your parents home?" He asked. You imagined it was a question he had asked girls dozens of times before, but this felt different—he sounded concerned, not suggestive.
You shook your head gently, trying to clear the fog he had clouded your mind with. You took a step back from him as your lungs filled with air again.
"Um—no, they're—they went to visit my aunt in Cape Cod." You replied, your voice small and airy.
He raised his eyebrows, a displeased grunt sounding from his chest. "With the incoming storm?" He shook his head, "they won't be back for days."
You walked up the path towards the porch, your legs feeling unsteady. Your house keys trembled in your hands as you grabbed them from your clutch. James followed closely behind you, a hand hovering over the small of your back as you climbed the steps.
"It's fine, we have supplies stocked up." You said with a shrug.
He let out a deep breath. "That's not what I'm worried about, sweetheart." His head whipped back to the street, his eyes scanning the dark neighbourhood. "You never know what beasts are lurking," he muttered, a tense edge to his voice.
You let out a snort as you put the key in the lock. "Yeah, like you're not the most dangerous thing lurking the streets."
His mouth quirked to the side, "you think I'm dangerous?" He stepped closer, the intoxicating scent of him wrapping around you. "Do I make your heart race, doll? Get your blood pumping, make you hot under the collar?"
You let out a stuttered breath before you could stop it, your body reacting to his proximity exactly as he suggested. You shouldered the door open with more force than necessary, needing an escape from him and his increasingly irresistible face.
James stepped through the door behind you, causing you to turn to him with your eyebrows raised. "…What are you doing?" You dragged out.
"Keeping you safe."
A shocked laugh sounded in your throat. "You can't stay with me, James, that's—people might get the wrong idea." Your hand clutched the door for support, your body half turned towards the man who you wanted to leave, and wanted to kiss until your lips were bruised.
He shrugged, taking a step back onto the porch. "Fine. I'll stay out here then."
"What? Don't be ridiculous, it's about to start pouring down." You could feel a headache forming at your temple—why must everything be so difficult with him?
"Well, I either get hypothermia or," his lips inched into that infuriating smirk, "our neighbours get the wrong idea." He tipped his head towards you, "it's your choice, doll."
A frustrated breath left you. "…Fine. But you're sleeping on the couch."
He gave you a mock salute. "As you wish."
You turned around, walking to your lounge and turning on the lamp in the corner by the couch—soft lamplight illuminating the room. You heard the front door softly click closed, the sound of James' boots scuffing faintly along the hardwood floors. You stood in the middle of the lounge, suddenly feeling awkward and shy in your own home.
"I'll get you a blanket," you mumbled to him, wringing your fingers together nervously. You went to the linen closet in the hallway, grabbing him a clean blanket and pillow. You took a second to breathe, trying not to focus on the fact that he was going to be in your home. With you. Alone.
You walked back into the lounge, seeing him sitting on the couch and untying his boots. You cleared your throat softly, gently placing the bedding on the cushion next to him. He looked up at you, the soft light making him look younger. You dragged your gaze away before you got caught staring at his lips, before you caved in and did something you'd regret.
"The bathroom is down the hall, second door on the left."
His lips lifted into a soft smile. "I know," he said. "I've been here before."
You let out a small, nervous laugh. "Right."
You turned to walk towards the stairs, towards your room. You stopped with a hand on the doorframe. "I'll see you in the morning, James."
"Good night, doll. Sweet dreams."
You woke to the faint smell of coffee trickling under your door and the soft drumming of rain against your window. For a few minutes you basked in that half awake state, where the world didn't exist outside of your warm sheets and you briefly forgot about everything that was waiting for you outside your door.
The sound of clanging pots stirred you from the dreamy in between, making you drag yourself out of bed with a groan. You threw a cardigan over your silk nightgown, your bare feet padding against the floor as you made your way downstairs.
Your brain was only half functioning as you walked into the kitchen, the memories from the night before only rushing back when you were met with the sight that was James' back covered in a white undershirt. You froze in your path, your wide eyes glued to his muscles shifting beneath the soft cotton. Your eyes trailed over the wide expanse of his back and shoulders, watching his biceps flex as he moved pots around on the stove. Heat blazed beneath your skin, simmering in the pit of your gut.
"Enjoying the show, doll?" His voice rasped out, thick and heavy with sleep. The sound alone had your body erupting in goosebumps.
You opened and closed your mouth like fish out of water. You tore your gaze away from his distracting frame to the kitchen counter where two plates of eggs and toast were sitting.
"Did you…make breakfast?" Disbelief dripped from your tone.
"Mhm. Coffee will be ready soon," he turned then, granting you with the sight of his sleep-ridden face. He nodded towards the kitchen table next to the window. "Sit, I'll bring it over."
You followed his instruction with no argument, feeling dazed. Had you hit your head and woken up in an alternate reality?
He brought the plates over, flashing you a soft smile before going to grab the coffee percolator and a couple of mugs. He poured both your cups of coffee, settling in the chair across from you like this was your normal routine. He dug in to his breakfast and you followed suit, albeit hesitantly—you weren't sure if this was real or if you were still dreaming.
"Sleep okay?" He asked before taking a sip of coffee, soft eyes meeting yours over the lip of his cup.
You nodded slowly. "Yeah, fine…you?
He shrugged lightheartedly, "not the worst couch I've slept on."
You both went back to eating before you couldn't hold your question in any longer. Your fork clanged noisily on the porcelain plate. "What are you doing here, James? Why…why did you make breakfast?"
He shrugged again. "'Cause."
You narrowed your eyes at him. "That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer you're going to get," he replied, mouth quirking to the side in barely contained amusement.
You let out an annoyed huff, leaning back in your chair and crossing your arms. James mirrored your posture, his eyes roaming across your face. Your eyes flicked down to his arms, thick biceps bulging against his chest.
"You look beautiful in the morning, doll." His tone was soft, borderline reverent—causing butterflies to unleash havoc in your stomach.
You scoffed. "Bet you say that to all the girls."
"I mean it when I say it to you."
You shot up from your chair, collecting the dirty dishes to give your nervous hands something to do. Your chest was feeling too tight, your skin too warm. You felt like you were going to combust under his gentle stare.
"You can go home now—I'm in no imminent danger." Your voice shook, your plates in your hands trembling as you walked towards the sink.
You heard the scrap of James' chair behind you, the creak of the floorboards beneath his feet as he made his way towards you.
He said your name softly. "Look at me, please."
Placing the dishes next to the sink, you turned towards him—against your better judgement. You rested your hands on the counter behind you, gripping it for support. You watched his adam's apple move as he swallowed, an almost hesitant look crossing his face. Was he…nervous?
He let out a breath, rubbing a hand against his day old stubble.
God, he looked unfairly handsome in the morning.
"Are you ever going to give me a chance?"
There was no teasing in his voice, no playful flirtation. He sounded sincere, and as if in despair.
"…What?"
He stepped forward, his eyes searching yours. "You're all I think about, and it's driving me crazy. It's been driving me crazy for the past fifteen years."
A small gasp escaped you, your hands clutching the counter tighter. "You're—you don't mean that."
He took another small step forward. "I do."
You shook your head, refusing to believe the words coming out of his mouth. "No, you don't. You like the chase, you like that I'm something you can't have."
He let out a breathy chuckle. "I'll admit our back and forth is fun, but it's not the sole reason I want you."
You pushed off the counter, darting past him and into the lounge—needing to put distance between you and the insufferable man who has been a thorn in your side for more than half your life. He didn't mean what he was saying, he was just taking advantage of your early morning vulnerability.
He followed behind you, calling your name out softly. You hated how it sounded falling from his lips.
"Just—listen to me."
You whipped back to him, fire blazing in your eyes. "No! I don't believe you!" You threw your hands up. "What about all the girls you've dated, huh? If you couldn't stop thinking about me like you claim, why have a new girl on your arm every week?"
He looked at you with wide eyes, a hand going up to tug his hair in frustration. "What else was I supposed to do? The girl I liked wouldn't give me the time of day!" He put his hands on his hips, his teeth chewing on his bottom lip. "And maybe…maybe I hoped it would make you jealous," he muttered low, sheepish.
You could feel your walls crumbling, your defences falling at the sincerity in his voice and face. In the fifteen years that you had known him, he had never said anything like this to you. Yeah, he was brazenly flirty, but he'd never said something so honest…so vulnerable.
"You never said sorry," you mumbled, staring down at your fidgeting hands.
"What?"
"For hurting me, the day I moved here. You never apologised to me." You hated how meek you sounded, how that day still affected you despite all the time that had passed.
He stepped forward slowly, gently grabbing your hands. You watched, stunned, as he lowered to one knee before you. He looked up at you with soft, pleading eyes. Your heart stumbled in your chest at the sight of him on his knees before you.
"Sweetheart, I am truly sorry for hurting you—for causing you pain at any point in your life." He took a breath, his hands squeezing yours. "This doesn't excuse what I did, but—I was so excited," a lovestruck smile took over his lips, "I just really wanted to talk to the new, pretty girl." He let out a small, self-deprecating chuckle. "Guess I came off a bit too strong."
Your eyes grew warm, your vision blurring with tears. This man just kept on surprising you, making you feel things for him you didn't think was possible.
"You don't have to forgive me, but please believe me when I say all I want is you." He stood to his full height, one hand dropping yours to cradle your jaw—his thumb brushing against your cheek tenderly. You looked into his eyes, seconds away from drowning in the pools of blue.
You swallowed through the lump in your throat. "But…Dot said, she said there was a special dame."
"For a smart girl, you can be real thick sometimes." His forehead dropped to yours. "You're the special dame, doll. Always have been."
You had gone speechless, not a single coherent thought running through your head. Your eyes darted across his face, scrutinising every flicker—trying to find any inkling that he was lying. All you could see was sincerity, hopefulness, and something frighteningly close to love.
"Bucky," you whispered, leaning your face into his hand.
His eyes flashed, a harsh exhale leaving his nose. His eyes flicked down to your lips, then back up to your eyes.
"You've never called me that before."
Then he was leaning down, his other hand dropping yours to cup the back of your neck, tilting your head back. His lips brushed against yours lightly, giving you the chance to pull away. Your hands came up to his chest, one palm laying flat against his racing heart and the other bunching the fabric of his undershirt. You pulled slightly, encouraging him to press his lips to yours harder.
His lips moved against yours slowly, languidly—like he was trying to savour the moment. He tasted like coffee with a faint hint of mint. You kissed him back eagerly, a small noise vibrating in your throat. The hand cradling your jaw moved down your back before resting on your waist, pulling you closer to his body. The kiss started to grow desperate, his lips sucking your bottom lip with a small nip from this teeth, drawing a gasp from you. You had been kissed before, but never like this—not like you were being consumed whole. His lips were even softer than you imagined.
He tilted his head, running his tongue along your lips. You opened for him willingly, feeling heat build in your core at the first touch of his tongue against yours. A whimper tore from your chest, a hand trailing up from his chest to the back of his head—your fingers tangling in his soft locks. He groaned into your mouth as you gave an experimental tug—the sound sending currents throughout your body. You broke away to gasp for air and his lips travelled along your jaw, his stubble scratching your skin deliciously.
"Kissin' you feels like home."
A breathy moan escaped you as his lips continued their journey, mouthing at your neck and drawing more needy noises from you. He tugged you closer to him, your hips pulled flush against his.
"You sound so sweet, doll." He muttered into your neck, his mouth latching to a spot below your ear and sucking gently. It sent shocks down your body and you gasped at the sensation.
"Taste sweet, too."
Your hips started to roll against his, instinctively seeking friction to quell the desire lighting up from his touch. He responded to your movements eagerly, both hands dripping your hips.
"You…you still owe me for—for the cookies you stole." You gasped out, his mouth on your neck unrelenting.
He pulled back with a wolfish grin, his lips spit slick and glistening. His eyes were dark and hooded as they met yours. "Think I have a few ways I can pay you back."
He spun you quickly, walking backwards until his legs hit the couch and he sat down—pulling you on top of his thighs. Your nightgown bunched around your knees as you straddled his lap, your hands resting atop his shoulders—your fingers digging in to the hard muscle. His mouth met yours again, devouring you like you were his first proper meal in days. His hands on your hips pushed down, encouraging you to settle your weight fully on top of him. His hips bucked up beneath yours, pulling a moan from both your throats.
You slowly rolled your hips back and forth, need clouding your thoughts as you felt a hard bulge press against you. You pulled back from his lips, desperately sucking in air. His head dropped to the crook of your neck, his breath ghosting your skin as moans slipped from his lips. Wetness pooled where your body was rocking against his, and your body started to shake as an unfamiliar pleasure started to build.
James' hands on your hips gripped tighter, stilling your urgent movements. His head lifted to look at you and he looked ruined—eyes glazed over, lips swollen, chest rising and falling rapidly. He pressed a kiss to your lips before moving to your cheek, then nose, then forehead—covering your face in soft pecks that had you giggling in his arms.
"It's 'bout time I took you out dancin', sweetheart."
I kiss you with all the innocence I posses, you kiss me back with all your sin.
Petal’s love notes: I love a good medieval fantasy story 😋 this was quite tricky to write, but I hope you enjoy!
Summary: You both knew the roles you were destined to play. Duty is an all-too-familiar word that has been ingrained in you since the moment you were born. So why is your appointed knight making responsibility so difficult?
Word count: 8.2k
Warnings: 18+ mdni / fluff / angst / unrequited / forbidden love / smut! / oral (both receiving), unprotected p in v / no use of y/n
He is written in winter ink.
He is the dark and shadowed corners of the night, the quiet warning before a storm.
You are written in sunbeams.
The warmth after the cold winter night, a breeze that gently kisses the flowers to open and bloom.
He is your knight, you are his princess.
The meadows were always so beautiful this time of the year.
Being sealed within the cold stones of your castle has always the most difficult part of the blue bloodline you were born with.
Hence, why the meadow at its most flourished state has always been one of your greatest joys. The warmth of the sun, the colors around you, the vastness of the sky, they all make up for the time you are spent locked away.
"Princess, its time to go."
A gruff voice cuts behind you, snapping you out of rapture.
It is your knight, the shadow that has been trailing behind you for the past five years like a moving fortress, unyielding and shielding you from harms way.
"Bucky," you reply with a gentle whine, tone eloquent and soft. "You can't possible ask me to go back now, its the first day of blooming season."
Bucky sighs at your stubbornness, eyes closed and head hung downwards. There is a furrow in his brows as he readies himself to do this all-too-familiar dance with you once again.
"Princess," he says sternly, yet not enough to overstep. "Must I remind you again to address me properly? I am on duty."
You huff at that, eyes still focused on the colorful petals scattered by your side.
"But you're always on duty."
He doesn't correct you because you're not wrong. Looking after the princess is an around the clock job that he has devoted his life to, but he does not answer to that.
"Come, now." Bucky says with firmer requisition. "Allow me to escort you home."
At the finality of his words, you decide to turn and look back at your knight.
He stands behind you only paces away, as usual, never any further nor any closer than that. Clad in silver armor which contrasts his dark hair and shadowed eyes which stare down deeply at you.
You shudder at the sight, not out of fear, but because of the familiar yet overwhelming sense of devotion your knight has for you. This man has been raised to be undeniably yours the moment he was born. His father was the devoted knight of your mother before he died in battle, hence his eagerness to follow in his footsteps.
The code of knights is one that you are no stranger to. Chivalry and duty to the crown, a recollection of their oath echoes in your memory. You've attended multiple knighting ceremonies to remember it by now.
Chivalry and duty to the crown.
It was a promise to bleed for you, to die for you.
But sometimes, you like to indulge yourself with the thought of Bucky's devotion extending beyond his code.
"Alright, alright." You say grumpily, getting up at dusting of flower petals from the expensive silk of your dress. "I'm coming, Sir James."
You finally comply with his request to be addressed formally, but not without an eyeroll and a tiny tantrum.
A ghost of a smile etches itself on Bucky's face that you think that you imagined it.
But the softening of his eyes on you is hard to miss.
Five years of being shadowed by Bucky has allowed you to study and understand him despite his preference for silence. You know that he finds irritation in royals who speak in loud and obnoxious volumes. You know that he finds amusement in your bratty nature that only seems to come out when you are alone with him.
You know that he finds peace and solace when he has to accompany you to the meadows that you frequent, that he doesn't want to leave this area yet, just as much as you do.
"Can we come back tomorrow?" There is a wishful tone to your voice that you know Bucky can't resist.
"Of course, Princess. Anything you want."
He says with promise. Bucky offers a hand out for you to take to guide you out of the flower patch, still maintaining his respectful distance from you.
"But for now we really need to go back. You're needed at the royal court." He reminds you.
"I hate those."
"I know."
₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚
"We have the Kingdom of Hydra knocking at our borders everyday, Your Majesty." a seasoned advisor preaches, looking up at your father who sits in the center throne beside you, while gesturing animatedly in the middle of the hall.
"They're after our Vibranium, just like everyone else." The King waves a hand at this. "How are our defenses fairing?"
Beside him, you and your mother listen to the exchange of power between the men. 'Let your father handle the war efforts,' she had taught you all those years ago, 'as women, our responsibility is to hold peace.'
You shift uncomfortably at the heated exchange, unsure what your role is in this hall except to sit down and live up to the vision of perfection the kingdom upholds you to.
In attempt to find comfort in your unease, your eyes drift to the side to find Bucky's. His broad figure is against the wall, in your corner of the room.
As if he immediately feels your gaze land on him, he shifts his eyes to meet yours and gives you a subtle nod of reassurance. A silent, secret language that has developed throughout the years you've spent together.
'You can do it, just a few minutes till court ends.' it's as if he tries to say.
'I know, but I can't take it anymore.' you blink up at him, absorbing his comforting gaze.
'I want to go back to the meadow with you.' is what you want to tell him, but there's only so much you can communicate with just a quick gaze.
"-should be time for the Princess to step up to her responsibility." the last bit of words coming out of the senior advisor's mouth snaps both you and Bucky out of the silent exhange.
You turn your attention back to the main hall in front of you, and are met with the full attention of the court. Beside you, your mother and father wear worried expressions.
"What?" Your small voice cuts through the heavy tension in the air.
The advisor sighs, obviously irked at your unreliability to focus on the court session. But why would you when these men never seem to care about the words of a woman?
"I was saying, Princess." His tone carries a hint of animosity in it. "That we can no longer keep up with protecting the borders from Hydra. It will end in blood bath with the way they are rapidly expanding their Kingdom."
Your father clenches his fists at this before speaking.
"They just want our resources, right? Why don't we open the trade routes for Vibranium-"
"The atrocious Kingdom of Hydra will not stop there, Your Majesty."
You continue to wear a confused expression on your face as your father slumps back into his throne. He has always been an excellent king, so seeing him look so defeated worries you.
"...Father?" You whisper out to him.
All he gives you is an apologetic look.
"The best course of action for this is to seal an alliance with them. As I was saying, this should be the perfect time for the Princess to step up to her role as our symbol of diplomacy and peace... by matrimony" The advisor continues.
What?
You tenses once you come into realization with wide eyes. Beside you, your parents' carry wistful expressions as they fall into acceptance at the advisor's suggestion.
On your opposite side, you hear armor clink as the body underneath it stiffens.
Anger floods your veins almost instantly at how okay everyone seems to be with this... outrageous solution.
"You can't be serious?" you stand up from your smaller throne. "I am not going to be a peace treaty for those... barbarians! Father, tell them!"
"With all due respect, Princess. Your duty is to secure alliances for the Kingdom." The advisor bites back at your sudden outburst.
"I know that!" You admit to the obligation you've grown to painfully accept years ago "But not to these... sadistic savages!"
"Their Grace, Duke Fisk, should make an available bachelor for the matrimony." He ignores your argument by continuing on with his proposal to the King.
"He- He's twice my age!" This is too much. You're spiraling as the situation continues to get worse and worse. "Father, please say something! Tell him you do not agree!"
Desperately, you come to your knees in front of him, begging to get you out of this.
The King stays silent for a moment and the whole court waits for his response. He was never a cruel father to you, but duty and obligation came first for your family. He was always the King first.
"We must keep our Kingdom safe. It is of upmost importance right now. Draft the proposal for union." Your father gets up from his throne to walk past you and exit the hall, signaling the dismissal of court.
You stay frozen in front of the empty spot of where he once was as the crowd disperses almost immediately to make the arrangements.
"Oh, honey." Your mother kneels down beside you. "It will get better as the days pass, you'll see. Think about how many lives you will be saving." She coos.
You ignore her, continuing to let out soft sobs as the emptiness and despair you feel inside eating up at you.
The sound of heavy armor walks toward your pathetic figure on the floor.
"I'll take her from here, Your Majesty."
"Yes, thank you Sir James. She listens to you more than me." She tells him knowingly. "Look after her, alright?"
The look your mother gives him is one of familiar fondness. He has the same eyes as the knight that once looked after her before he fell.
"I will." Bucky replies.
He waits for the hall to clear out completely before kneeling down to your level.
"Princess." His gruff voice tries to get your attention. He tries to hide the pity in his voice the best he can.
You ignore him, still wallowing in your own misery.
"There's still a bit of light out, Princess." The tone he uses with you tries to be gentler now, attempting to be what you need at the moment despite his naturally brooding manner. "I'll take you back to the meadow. We still have time."
"No," you manage sniffle a response, "I-I'd like to be escorted to my chambers, please."
He respects your wishes obediently, just like he's supposed to.
"Anything you want, Princess."
₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚
Bucky shuts your door gently, leaving you alone for now. Your soft cries muffled within the confines of your chambers.
He takes a step back from the barrier separating the both of you, and only then he finally lets his composure break.
He presses his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose and lets out a deep, shaky exhale that has been stuck in his throat since the announcement was made at court.
"...Time for the Princess to step up to her role as our symbol of diplomacy and peace... by matrimony" the cruel words of the royal advisor rings in his ears like venom. They play on loop in his head.
He can feel his regularly collected mind begin to spiral on the sixth replay of those words, causing him to lean suddenly on the cold stone wall next to your door just to keep himself upright.
There is definitely shame in the current state he finds himself in.
Shattered, lost, devastatingly heartbroken.
But he had played his role so perfectly for years now.
Been what you had needed him to be- your sword and shield, your protector, sworn to both death and devotion to you.
Chivalry and duty to the crown.
A good knight. He's acted exactly the way his father had taught him.
Doesn't he deserve this one moment to wallow in his feelings?
"Fuck," Bucky mutters, hitting a fist at the cold stone wall. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."
He can feel himself slipping. The cold mask that he's worn around you slipping more and more with every break of his heart.
"Bucky, when you become a knight you have to be ready to fight. You have to be ready to die." He remembers the words of his father when he was just a squire training under him.
He was just a boy then, with great admiration for the royal guard. His father, after all, is the appointed knight of the queen. Sworn to her protection and devotion to be by her side at all times.
"You must put your hand over your wound and hold it there. Keep walking and fighting until you can guarantee the crown's safety. That will be your duty."
True to his word, his father had taken a sword to the heart by the enemy kingdom just after Bucky was knighted and appointed to you. He was protecting the queen till his very last breath.
His father's advice had pulled him through every difficult battles without fail, until now.
How is he supposed to put a hand over his wound, when the wound is deep inside his heart? How is he to keep fighting... When he knows you will be taken away from him in the end?
There was never a word of advice for this kind of battle.
But he's seen it before. Once, twice, maybe a few too many times.
The way he looks at his Princess when no one is watching is a similar look to the way he would catch his father's gaze lingering longingly at the queen.
"You never taught me this..." He whispers to the air, as if his words would reach the grave his father is buried in. He's mastered every art of the sword and chivalrous act that could be passed down to him. But to deal with the pain of seeing his Princess be married off? He was clueless.
₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚
Getting out of bed the next day required the use of tremendous mental strength that you just didn't have. It's two clock strikes after breakfast, yet you lay still within you cocoon much to your lady-in-waiting's disapproval.
"Leave me alone, Nora! I told you I'm sick!" You feel a sense of guilt for yelling at the elderly maid for just doing her job.
Her kind eyes stare down at your sulking form buried under blankets and pillows with a pitiful expression. She has always been a mother figure to you, hence her ability to easily see through your white lies just to stay in bed longer.
Nora exits your chambers with a tired huff, greeting Bucky who's stationed outside your door.
"You get her up, Sir James. She'll listen to you." She lets out exhaustedly. "I'm getting too old to go back and forth with her now. You'll help an old woman out, won't you?"
That's exactly how you and Bucky find yourselves in your current predicament: blanket wrapped around you and clutched tightly into your fists, while he tugs at the other end with just enough force to nudge you.
"Come on, Princess-" He grunts, "quit giving Nora a hard time."
"I'm having a hard time." You bite back at him "Leave me alone, Bucky!"
It's almost comical, how his huge frame and otherwise terrifying demeanor looks like within the confines of your dainty and pink room.
You hear the sound of his metal arm shift, likely him running a hand through his hair in frustration. Both at your refusal to listen to him and your use of his nickname which is otherwise considered unprofessional.
"Come on," another irritating tug nudges you forward.
"You're being a brat."
At that comment, you peak up at your knight who looms over you with an irked expression. It's a sight that would probably make you feel intimidated if it weren't for the feeling of safety his presence brings you.
"Is that any way to speak to royalty, Sir James?" You challenge him from under your covers.
"No. But you wouldn't tell on me."
"Who says I wouldn't tell on you?"
"You've never told on me before, Princess."
The way Bucky points out your fondness for him makes you feel instant embarrassment, which you hide with a scowl and an eye roll, ducking yourself under the covers once again.
Suddenly, the tugging on your blanket stops. You hear Bucky let out a tired sigh.
"Hey," he says in a gentler tone this time, trying a different approach. "What about I take you to the meadow again today, Princess? It's a nice day out."
Apparently, this is all it takes for you to agree to get out of bed. A mention of the meadow that you love and some time alone with your knight.
Bucky delivers the news of victory to Nora, who reenters your chambers again with newfound delight.
"That knight of yours, really!" She exclaims amusedly while brushing your hair. "Quite scary, isn't he? I knew his father back then. He too had that same brooding expression that he carried around everywhere."
This earns a soft laugh from you.
"That's just how Bucky is, Nora." You tell her with a warm tone at the mention of his name. "He's actually very sweet once you get to know him. Funny too."
Nora stares at you with a look of skepticism through the mirror as your use of such affectionate adjectives for the otherwise frightening knight.
"I believe that's just your soft spot talking, Princess." She teases you knowingly.
"What?! Nora!" The maid laughs at your flustered expression as you begin rambling about how you see him as nothing more than a companion and a friend. But she knows better.
"He's just like his father, after all." She whispers to herself sadly, a comment that you do not completely understand just yet.
₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚
The shade of the tree covers the both of you as you sit amongst the brightly colored flowers. Pockets of sunbeam hit your skin through the little gaps of the foliage above.
A unfinished flower crown keeps your hands busy while Bucky lays against the bark of wood, maintaining his usual few paces of distance away from you.
"I could run away, you know?" You break the comfortable silence between the both of you with a ridiculous thought. "Run away and be rid of it all."
"Not happening, Princess."
Bucky remains unfazed by your words with a nonchalant expression. He's much too used to your outrageous thoughts by now.
He's learned the hard way that it's better to entertain and go along with your crazy ideas than to ignore them, as doing so earns him a pouting Princess muttering about how he's 'no fun' and how she wants 'a change of knights'.
The last comment rubs him the wrong way.
At his rebuttal, you turn your attention away from your flower crown to look up at him with a frown. You're surprised to see him already lookin gat you from the corner of his eye, a relaxed expression on his face.
"I can! I'll climb out my window and everything." You argue back. It's obviously a joke, but there is a hint of honesty in your tone.
"You're clumsy. I'll hear you while you're trying to sneak out." Another instant shut down.
"But if I do manage to make it out of the palace-"
"I'll find you." He says almost instantly.
There was no winning this argument with him, making you groan and slouch back defeatedly. A faint huff of laughter is heard as Bucky finds amusement in your surrender.
It's silent again for a beat, before you decide to break it again. Shifting a little bit closer to him before you do.
"You can always try to steal me away too, you know?" any trace of banter is suddenly erased as pure honesty slips out this time from your lips. Your voice is soft. He hears it loud and clear.
Bucky's freezes at your suggestion. Eyes going wide as he looks up at you with longing.
"I-I think I'd go anywhere with you." You tell him shyly. "Even if it's just a small town... I'll learn how to cook for you, o-or you can teach me how to tend to the fields, or-"
You catch yourself spewing out nonsense, stopping yourself before you could embarrass yourself further.
Beside you, Bucky's heart is pounding in his ears. It's beating so much that he thinks if you were to put a hand over his chest, you'd feel it over the Vibranium armor.
This is just one of your outrageous thoughts that you expect him to entertain. He thinks to himself. You don't mean that.
He clears his throat before indulging in your request.
"Sure, Princess." He says with quiet promise and a soft, loving tone that he only has for you. "Anything you want."
₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚
"Duke Fisk has agreed to the proposal" Your father tells you over dinner, making you tense.
It's been a few days since he sent out the proposal for union between your two Kingdoms. The news has finally sunk in, but has not gotten any easier to accept.
Your mother eyes you with a solemn expression. Day by day, the light has been dimming from your eyes as you grow closer to accepting your fate.
"I'm sorry, honey. We wish things could be different." She coos, sympathizing with you. "But you know our duty would never allow us to marry for love. This union is a necessity."
'Yes! Yes, I know that!' You want to scream at them. You've known this since you were a child. It's a fate that you've made peace with a long time ago.
'But why do I have to get married off to a tyrant!? I have the right to be angry!' Your brain continues to fight them for you, while you stay silent.
"We are taking care of the all arrangements as we speak." The royal herald speaks from his place next to the King. "The Duke Fisk will not be available until the day of the wedding, but he does want to know in advanced how the transportation of Vibranium will-"
You stand up abruptly at that.
Even your husband to be can't bother himself with meeting you before the wedding? The Duke does not even care to ask about you, and instead wants to discuss the Vibranium supply that he is marrying into.
The sudden action causes silence as all eyes turn towards you.
"I'm not hungry." You say bitterly, storming out of the dining hall and aggressively shoving the double doors leading towards the hallways.
The calls of your parents are left ignored as you keep your head down so that they don't see the angry tears rushing down your cheeks. You just needed to get away from everything.
Your violent exit is met with Bucky who was stationed right outside the door. Of course he's there, he always is. the presence that usually fills you with a sense of security is replaced by irritation.
"Don't follow me!" You order him just as he's about to walk towards you in concern.
"What?- Princess, wait." You hear his armor as he takes long strides to easily catch up with your brisk pace.
He continues following next to you despite your attempts to walk away from him. "I can't do that, Princess. You know I have to be with-"
"Leave me alone, Bucky!" you spin around to face him just as you make a turn towards an empty hallway.
He doesn't halt his steps in time. Your sudden movement causes him to crash into you accidentally.
The usual distance he tries so hard to place between you gets shortened into a breath. He stands so close now, that your chest nearly touches the suit of his armor.
Neither of you make an effort to correct the distance.
"Princess-" He breathes out.
"-Find her! King's orders!" You hear one of the palace guards command to his men.
The distraction is enough to make you jump, causing you to walk backwards away from Bucky in shock.
You don't get too far. Not when his cold metallic hand wraps around your waist, keeping you against him. Before you can question it, he's walking you backwards into a nearby alcove.
It's a dark and tight space. You're pressed between him and the wall as his dark armor makes the perfect camouflage for the both of you, shielding you from the passing guards.
You hear their footsteps come and go as they search the castle for the Princess who just stormed off.
"You'll get in trouble if they find out." You tell Bucky with a soft whisper. He's pressed up so close against you, that if he were to lean down just a bit, his lips would graze the crown of your head.
"Then we won't let them find out." He reassures you with a gruff whisper of his own. "You won't tell on me. Right?"
You look up to see him smiling fondly down at you. The distance doing nothing to calm your aching heart.
"I want to get out of here, please Bucky."
"Of course, Princess. Anything you want."
₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚
Bucky leads you through the night, passing through all the dark corners with such stealth and fluidity, that you don't realize where he ends up taking you.
You're met with a small wooden door. A very modest looking one that you easily could've missed due to how mundane it looks next to the much grandeur doors you're used to.
"It leads outside," Bucky tells you in a hushed tone, as his hand continues to gently guide you towards it by the small of your back. "They won't notice we're gone if we take this exit."
He pushes the door open for you and you're instantly met with cool fresh air. Your lungs take fuller breaths now, helping you calm down from the events of today.
"Further down, Princess. Let's keep going." The hand at the small of your back continues its gentle hold on you.
You try your best not to show him just how much this newfound touch is affecting you. The hammering of your heart is easy enough to hide, but the same cannot be said for the blush on your cheeks.
Straight ahead is one of the castle's cast iron gazebos. It's placed so distantly away from the castle grounds, just outside the perimeter, that you almost forget that it's there.
The domed roof is decorated with intricate patterns. Untouched flowers and foliage cover the architecture from floor to ceiling
"You calm down better when you're around nature." Bucky notes as he watches you observe the location with awe "they'd check the meadow, but not here. It's practically forgotten."
Turning your attention away from the flowers, you face him with a hint of surprise in your expression. "How did you find it? I didn't even know we had a gazebo like this here."
"I like to get away when the thinking gets too much."
You let the familiar silence comfortably envelop the both of you, finally finding it in you to relax and let the reality of the situation you're in consume you.
The thoughts of duty, marriage, and unspoken feelings for your knight make your heart feel heavy once again. Making your eyes well up in shimmers as you try to fight them from falling.
You refuse to cry over this any more. Tears feel pointless now.
Bucky easily reads your thoughts through your expression. He feels it all in that moment; anger, hurt, frustration, and that thread of tenderness that never seems to leave when he looks at you.
He looks away, turning his gaze heavenward with a clenched jaw as he tries to compartmentalize his own emotions.
"You're making it damn hard for me not to take you up on that offer." the rasp of his voice cracks through you.
"What?"
"Stealing you away, Princess. You have no idea how bad I want to get you out of this mess."
A melancholic chuckle makes its way out of your mouth at that. Your hands play with a loose thread of your silk dress.
"Don't joke around like that, Bucky. I just might get my hopes up." But when you look up at him with a crinkle in the corner of your eyes, you see that he's not wearing the same joking expression.
He looks at you with his forehead creased, eyes filled with longing and flickers of desperation before he just breaks.
"I can't pretend anymore."
Before you can question what he means, he takes a few strides closer to you. The distance between you closes once again just as it did earlier in the hallway.
"Bucky-"
"You need to know that I care for you, Princess. Deeply. It's not just about my code- it's never been about that."
His voice breaks halfway as he confesses what he's been too afraid to speak out loud all these years.
"We- We can't, Bucky. What are you doing?" You bring up a hand to his chest in attempt to push him away, but he takes it as an opportunity to grab your wrist and keep you in place.
"Please. Please just listen to me." He says with more determination now.
Your silence is all he needs to keep going. He takes a deep breath before he does.
"You're everything, Princess. Everything." A hand reaches up to caress your cheek, while the other pulls you closer by the waist. "and I ache for you. It hurts, but I can't stand to be anything else but in love with you."
Bucky's confession is every impossible dream you've ever had. But as he lays his heart out to you, you can't help but feel your own break.
"I love you too, Bucky." you tell him with your own loving eyes reflecting back at him, pained with the need to turn him down. It's the right thing to do. "...But we-"
"Don't finish that sentence." He cuts off your rejection quickly.
Your breath hitches as he rests his forehead on yours, leaning you back until you're almost seated at the built-in bench of the gazebo's infrastructure. The flowers frame you for him, and he stares at the picture it paints for him in admiration.
"Just for tonight." He says softly, tightening his grip on you and leaning down to press a chaste kiss on your cheek.
Warmth floods the area his lips meet. His lips trail lower to your jaw until his mouth closes around the pulse in your neck.
"We shouldn't, Bucky." but the words come out breathless as your head begins to spin from the pleasure. Actions don't match your resistance as you grant him more access to the column of your throat.
"Just for tonight," he repeats against your skin. "Let me pretend you're mine, Princess."
Your heart throbs at the word 'mine'. It's all you've ever wanted- but why does every kiss of his feel like he's letting you go?
Bucky's lips meet the corner of your mouth this time, getting so close to an actual kiss which makes you let out a gasp.
"I'll pretend you're mine as well." You answer back at him in a hushed whisper, expecting him to kiss you now at your compliance to his make-believe.
Instead, Bucky shakes his head in amusement at you.
"Princess, you don't need to pretend." His lips are inches away from you now. "I've always been yours."
The way Bucky kisses is not gentle. It's desperate and dangerous, a contrast to the way he takes care of you. There's absolutely nothing holding him back anymore from this moment that he has with you.
After all, you agreed to be his- even if it's just for tonight.
"You sure?" Bucky pulls away for a moment to ask you with a softness in his voice, as if he wasn't just kissing you like it was a lifeline.
"Yes. I'm sure." You tell him earnestly.
He wastes no time grabbing you by the nape of your neck to bring your lips back to his rougher this time.
Bucky is everywhere all at once.
HIs hands slip down to your ass, palming and groping, making you moan into his mouth. You're practically melting as all you can do is hold onto him and take it while he moves his lips down to your neck once again.
"Mine." He states with certainty. "You're mine. You love me."
"Yes, I'm yours. I love you." your hands glide up his hair as you're pushed further into the pillar of the gazebo, leaning all of your weight against it as he kisses lower and lower.
Your words make him moan into your skin, causing a shiver to course through you.
He's suddenly on his knees in front of you, tugging at his armor to let it fall down with a hard clank. You'd be worried about the noise it created, if it weren't for his hand suddenly trailing from your ankle to your knee, and back down again.
"I'm going to kiss you here, Princess. Are you okay with that?"
The small, shy nod of your head is enough for him to pull your dress up and to the side, making him groan at the bare sight of your slick before him.
Bucky's tongue runs up between your folds, circling your clit slowly. A loud, desperate moan comes out of you almost immediately at the contact.
You make contact with him as he stares up at you with affection from in between your thighs.
"You're doing so good, love... That's it." he praises you with a growl.
His fingers squeeze at your ass as he sucks your clit into his mouth. You feel how he envelops you with the warmth of his tongue pressing flat against it to flick up harshly, before sucking it once again.
The pattern continues until you're a wreck against him, whimpering and writhing. Bucky's metal arm holds you in place while the flesh of his other hand moves from your ass to push two fingers inside you.
It's amazing how he finds the spot you want him the most in almost instantly.
Bucky's pace increases as his fingers pump in and out of you, fucking you in perfect rhythm and coordination with his tongue. The feeling keeps building and building as you cry out, desperately tryin got chase more.
"O-oh, fuck. Bucky I'm-" you whimper, wound up so tightly that it feels hard to breathe. "I think I'm going to -"
The words never leave you as every part of you spasms. Your whole body is tingling and throbbing while Bucky continues to suck your clit deliciously, while his fingers continue to fuck into you.
You come with a scream of his name, a declaration of love, and a series of curses unfit for a princess.
Bucky cleans you diligently with his tongue patiently, coming up from his knees once he's sure he's collected every drop you gave him.
It takes you a few moments to recollect yourself from finishing on his tongue. Bucky is patient as he strokes your hair, waiting for me to calm down.
"Did so good for me, love." He whispers softly, "so beautiful, so fucking mine."
Once the aftershocks have passed, you decide to reach a hand down to palm him over his pants.
"Can I?" you ask Bucky shyly, worried about your lack of experience yet motivated by how much you want to return the favor.
He chuckles at your eagerness "No, we don't have to-"
"Please? I want to."
Before he can protest, you're already on your knees in front of him, eyeing the outline of his hardness through his pants. You can tell it's big, and the idea of his size makes you nevous.
"Y-you need to teach me, Bucky." you tell him timidly.
"Okay, Princess." he says with a gentle tone.
He takes himself out, tightening his fist around the base a few times and giving it a few pumps. He bends down to give you a kiss on your forehead "Tell me whenever you want to stop, alright?"
One hand positions itself at the back of your neck, while the other guides his dick to your mouth. "Stick your tongue out, baby."
You do as your told, and give the head of his dick some experimental licks before taking the tip into your mouth.
"Shiiiit" he moans. "Such a good girl, baby."
You continue to suck him off gently at first, while his hands find your hair as he continues to moan loudly. His reactions make you more confident in yourself as you take more of him in your mouth now, until he hits the back of your throat.
"Fuck yes, just like that." He groans.
You look up at him through your lashes as he makes experimental thrusts into your mouth. As you don't seem to object to this, he starts rutting into you now in rhythm. letting out satisfied grunts.
"Yes, god yes." He continues to chant, thrusting a few more times before pulling you up to your feet.
"I won't last if you keep that up." He pants. "I want to be inside you when I cum, Princess."
With one last check-in with you if you're sure, you feel him line himself up to your entrance.
"Gonna fuck this pussy like it's mine." he says as he puts the tip in, stretching you out as you feel the sudden weight of him inside you.
"F-fuck! Bucky!" You yelp at the foreign feeling.
"And you're gonna take it like a good girl. Won't you, Princess?" He asks before thrusting himself inside completely.
Bucky has left you both a panting mess within the confines of the gazebo, where anyone passing by the gardens will have an obvious view of what you're doing- but at that moment, lost in pleasure, neither of you seem to care.
You're soaking wet around him and squeezing him so tight, that it's hard for him to think about anything else but you.
Pulling back, Bucky thrusts forward with gentle rocks of his hips to help you get used to his size. Only then putting more force into his thrusts once he sees you moaning in pleasure.
"You feel so good, Princess. Such a perfect pussy." He pants in your ear as he fucks you deeper. "You like that, baby? You like getting fucked like this?"
"Oh my- it's so big, 'm full, Buck." you whisper as his cock brushes your sensitive spot over and over again "Right there!"
"Yeah, I'll fuck you right there baby. Don't you worry." Bucky moves a cold metal hand to your bundle of nerves, urging you to milk his cock tighter by pushing you to your orgasm.
"A-Ah! Bucky- wait, too much!-" But it's too late. You come on his cock in hot spurts, tightening around him so deliciously that he can't help but get pushed to the edge with you.
You collapse into each other, breathing heavily for a moment.
"I love you, Princes." he whispers as he cradles you in his arms.
₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚
For the next few days, you and Bucky are feral.
Years of sexual tension boiling down into moments.
He eats your cunt vigorously in your chambers, sneaking inside early in the morning before your ladies-in-waiting come to fetch you. You suck him off behind the tree in that meadow you both love, knees cushioned by the soft petals of flowers.
And of course, you both sneak away to the gazebo at night, so he can fuck you pressed up against the pillar just like before, or bent over one of the railings so that he can stretch his dick deeper inside you.
It's weeks of this. Neither of you want to rest, completely enamored by love and attraction for one another.
In every single way possible, you are aware of how Bucky is corrupting your innocence- your purity.
But you love it. If you were to give yourself to a man, you're glad its him. You're glad that he gets to touch you before the person you've been sold away to can lay his eyes on you.
It's a clear day when you meet your parents in the morning.
You've become less belligerent towards them about the situation, likely due to the way Bucky gets to make you forget about everything for a few moments when he gets you alone.
Before meeting them today, Bucky had snuck in your chambers again and that morning and ate your cunt so fucking good. He made you cum on his tongue twice then fucked you from behind with his dick before escorting you to the hall.
So it comes as quite a shock to you when your parents give you the updates on your marriage.
"We've scheduled the wedding. He's agreed to formalize the union by the end of this week." Your father tells you casually, finally coming into acceptance that him having to marry his daughter to a man such as Duke Fisk is for the betterment of the Kingdom and its people.
"T-this week?" You repeat in shock.
Your mother tries to be the voice of reason in this situation. "I know it's soon, but Duke Fisk needs the trade routes for the Vibranium secured, honey." she sighs.
Her worried eyes glance at your tensed up shoulders and clenched fist.
"I-I... I understand." is what you reply to her.
Your compliance shocks you, as a few weeks ago you would have fought and yelled despite knowing that there was nothing you could do to get out of it.
The facts outweighed every once of yearning you have in your heart. You were always going to be a princess first. Trapped into the responsibility forced upon you since birth.
When you get yourself alone with Bucky that night, you throw yourself onto him in desperate endeavor.
"What's gotten into you?" He had asked.
You form no explanation, but the worried look in your eyes is enough to make him understand.
"Make me forget. Please, Bucky."
He glances down at you sadly before pressing a kiss into the crease of your brows.
"Of course, Princess. Anything you want."
₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚
The day of your wedding comes in a blink, that you barely have time to mourn the life you're leaving behind.
Nora dresses you up in the white wedding dress that feels suffocating to be in. She tries to keep a chipper expression as she combs through your hair one last time, but the sadness is evident.
"It may not be so bad, dear. After all, It worked out for your mother." She tells you fondly.
But you don't listen. You don't care that its worked out for anyone else before, you only want Bucky.
You stay silent. Nora does not push.
When you're ready, Bucky is stationed outside your chambers as always, ready to escort you to your wedding ceremony.
It's a bitter ending for the both of you. He's there to guide you all the way up till the point where he has to give you away to a man that you have never even met, nor seen before.
He stares at you with a serious expression, trying not to break in front of you. You, on the other hand, are not fairing as well as he is.
Tears form almost instantly at the sight of him.
"I'll give you both some space." Nora says softly before exiting the hall of your chambers.
You're alone now, but the tension is thick. The extravagant bouquet in your hands aren't nearly as beautiful as the dainty little flowers in the meadow.
"I can still steal you away, Princess." Bucky says in a soft tone, just in case anyone else could hear. He's more serious than he's ever been when he brings it up. "Just say the word. There's an exit we can take. They won't find us if we leave now."
His words are quick and desperate, making your tears fall down harder at this. Bucky's hand catches them from falling, making you lean into his touch.
"Oh, Bucky." You say exhaustedly. It makes his heart break. "You know we can't"
He pulls his hand away, and steps back from you. Maintaining the familiar distance- just a few paces away from you.
"I know." He agrees with you solemnly. “But I’d let Kingdoms go to war if it meant keeping you, love.”
A sad smile forms on your face as you tell him. “You knew this was waiting for us at the end.”
The both of you make your painful walk towards the doors of the ceremony, where you're greeted by a grand ballroom filled with people. Your parents are waiting by the door to receive you.
"You look beautiful." Your mother compliments sadly. Next to her, your father looks tense, a cold expression on his face as he tries to act strong for the three of you.
"Remember," he says, "its for the Kingdom. You're doing your duty."
Duty.
The word echoes in your head like an insult.
Duty.
You feel your mother and father beside you, guiding you towards the end of the isle where your betrothed waits. You lock eyes with him for the first time.
Bucky stays in his place behind you. That's where he will always be, watching you create a new life with this stranger all for the sake of
Duty.
You freeze in the middle of the aisle, before slowly turning back. Your father looks at you with confusion, while your mother’s eyes widen with knowing realization.
Bucky watches you with wide eyes at your action. All these years of familiarizing himself with your unpredictability, but he does not expect what you do next.
You take a slow step back towards him. Towards your knight.
All eyes are on you, but you only look ahead.
"You can always try to steal me away too, you know?" any trace of banter is suddenly erased as pure honesty slips out this time from your lips. Your voice is soft. He hears it loud and clear.
The conversation in that meadow replays in your head.
“Bucky!” You call out to him desperately, a cry for you knight’s rescue.
"I-I think I'd go anywhere with you." You tell him shyly.
At your call, Bucky moves almost instinctively to fetch you in the middle of the aisle. His eyes never leave yours as he runs toward you before clasping your hand in his.
Around you, people are stunned to silence. Your father attempts to make the first move to react, but is stopped by your mother’s hand on his.
“Take care of her.” Your mother whispers to him, voice filled with emotion at the both of you.
She sees herself and her knight in you and Bucky, making her agreeable to letting you go.
Bucky offers her a curt nod, before quickly pulling you out the ballroom in haste before the order to go after you is issued.
₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚
It’s been a few years since the Princess disappeared. A forgotten story that people no longer pay attention to, as even bigger news circulated the Kingdoms.
Hydra has fallen. The small neighboring Kingdoms have banded together in war efforts that stopped them from their brutal expansion. A much more effective solution than what a marriage union could have done.
“Come one Princess, it’s time to go.” A gruff voice calls from behind you.
You smile at the sound of it, turning around to meet Bucky’s affectionate gaze.
“I told you not to call me that anymore.” You correct him lovingly.
“Habit, I guess. Can’t blame me.” He walks over to you to help you out of your spot on the soft dewy grass of the meadow.
Being 7 months pregnant has made movement all the more difficult from you. You’re gracious for Bucky’s assistance.
“Honestly,” he sighs, “if I knew you were going to spend all this time at the meadow, I would’ve built our house right here.”
You giggle at his absurdity. The house is just a few minutes away, isolated and quiet. Hidden away in a small hamlet just at the edge of the Kingdom that used to be yours.
“Oh, hush you. That’s no way to speak to your wife.” You slap his shoulder playfully. “Escort me back home, will you?”
Bucky presses a kiss to your temple as you finally manage to stand all the way up.
alright, i'll be the one to say it. ao3 and tumblr becoming "mainstream" did so much damage to the community and the writers. i have seen loads of videos and posts about:
1. people hating on writers and fics. writing is something we do for free and for fun. if you stumble upon a fanfic that isn't necessarily your cup of tea or you just don't like, scroll. dont read it. literally leave their page. you don't know if this could be the author's first work that they're so excited about, you dont know if the language they're writing in isn't their first language, you dont know that the writer could be a literal teen and loads of other reasons. fanfictions don't HAVE to be perfect. you write what you want to write because we do it for fun and enjoyment and we want to share that to the world. seriously, what is the wrong with that?..
2. x reader consumers getting WAY to entitled. the number of tiktoks i've seen that "i run a strict program when it comes to reading fanfics." girl you aint running shit. this is FAN FICTION you're reading. F A N F I C T I O N. there is no denying that most fanfiction writes are beyond talented but just because you read one fanfic that exceeds your expectations doesn't give you the right to talk down on others that don't. people have their own personal writing style, their way of doing things and you talking shit on that isn't right.
at the end of the day, we are all humans, reading and writing is what we do and what we're meant to do. and for you to talk shit about a person WRITING is so insane. we are humans. not some robots that you can tell what to do so you can consume it.
i've seen so so many authors take down their fanfics and losing all motivation to write because of a hate comment. DONT LIKE DONT READ‼️
and to every author reading this, this community values your work and your contribution. we love u and, please, never let anyone's negative words have an effect on you.
this!!! i completely forgot to mention this!!! so many anon bots have been treating authors like some robots who HAVE to post fanfics 24/7!! happened to my lovely talented mutuals too. you do nothing to contribute to the community or support the authors, you don't like, don't reblog, you don't leave a comment and then you think you get a say in what others will write or get mad that someone's writing style doesn't match the one you like.
get over urself girl omfg. you don't get a say in shit. ‼️‼️‼️
⤷ camstar!bucky x virgin!reader ▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။|||| | total wordcount: 17.6k
⭐︎ warnings: nsfw, smut, porn, masturbation, fleshlight, sex toys mentioned, p in v sex, innocence kink, sex recording, coercion, blowjobs, dirty talk, degrading, praising fingering, virginity loss, stalking, size difference kink, very cringe usernames. each fic will have their corresponding tags.
⭐︎a/n: months later i never expected to make this silly fic into a series, but after writing part two, and seeing how many of ya'll still like this guy, i feel a sudden burst of motivation. everyone say welcome back to your favorite obsessed and somewhat-toxic pornstar, bucky barnes! no posting date and i have no idea how many parts i want to write, but i will try my best <𝟑 .ᐟ
click for more bucky fics ↺
synopsis:
You’ve never had sex before, still untouched and completely inexperienced. But when you stumble across Bucky’s porn channel—you quickly become his number one fan. You’re always in his comments, always in his chats, and never expecting it to go anywhere beyond the screen. Luckily for Bucky, your social media is linked to your account, making it easy for him to find you.
I do not have a tag list. to get notified for fic updates, please follow @notify-superbassbuck and turn on notifications.
◁ video one ❚❚ video two ❚❚ video three (filming in progress) ▷
warnings: 18+ NSFW, smut, fluff, sexual tension, reader is a college student, age-gap (reader is early twenties, bucky is presumed mid 30s) voyeuristic and exhibitionism, homoeroticism, "slut" "good girl" "whore" public sex, fingering, dry humping, groping, dirty talk, degrading, size difference, mechanic!steve, slight steve x reader, reader is a pervert but bucky is too highkey, player!bucky, bisexual awakening!!!!
word count: 10.2k
main masterlist
a/n: happy pride month!!! if it wasn't obvious enough, yes, it is based on the song call me maybe by carly rae jepsen. real ones know the parodies to this song on youtube. wasabi productions ifykyk. gif by sebstangif
synopsis:
There’s a new guy who moved in right across from you. He’s a total mystery, but his looks certainly aren't. Since he's subtly trying to get your attention, how could you not entertain him? Especially when you have your best friend, Steve, in your ear telling you to go for it.
Hand washing the car on a hot summer’s day was something you would never normally do.
You always let your dad handle a job like that. He’d always tease you for being ‘spoiled,’ always hitting you with the typical line of, “What happens when I’m gone? How will you take care of yourself?”
And every time he hit you with that line, without fail, you would find yourself grabbing the plastic bucket, soap, and sponges out of spite, just to prove a point.
Now, you were outside, drenched in a mixture of sweat and water as the sun beamed down. You were splayed over the hood of the car in a way that looked anything but sexy. You had on a tank top and shorts—natural, given the heat—but despite the porn director approved outfit, you looked anything but pornographic.
Matter of fact, if someone were to come up to you now, they would probably lose interest instantly.
“Hey there,” a familiar, deep voice called from behind you. “Looking pretty hot.”
Normally, you would scramble to make yourself look at least somewhat decent for anyone who approached you in this state.
But it was your best friend—so who cares?
“Steve,” you huffed, raising a leg to balance yourself on the hood of your dad’s car. “Are you going to help me or just taunt me?”
Steve crossed his arms, watching you slip and slide all over the green station wagon that looked like it was ready to fall apart at any given moment.
“Has your dad seen you like this yet? I’m sure if he saw what a poor job you were doing, he wouldn’t ask you to clean it again.
You puffed a strand of hair out of your face. “The reason I’m cleaning in the first place is to prove to my dad that I’m perfectly capable.” You mumbled under your breath, “… He called me spoiled.”
Steve chuckled lightly. “Can’t say I disagree.”
Sneering, you spun around and hurled your wet, soapy sponge in his direction. It landed right in the center of his chest, dampening his snug t-shirt with a dark spot that began to spread. He laughed, catching the sponge before it hit the ground.
“Get off the hood before you hurt yourself,” he grinned, taking a step closer.
You grunted as you slid off the car. As you stood up, your eyes trailed past Steve’s shoulder—something unfamiliar catching your attention.
The house across from yours had been unoccupied for months, but someone had recently moved in. Days had passed, and you hadn’t seen the new neighbors yet. But for the first time since the ‘FOR SALE’ sign was removed, you were finally seeing the man who lived there.
He was tall—maybe around Steve’s height. He had dark hair that fluffed messily at the top, and he was covered in dirt, looking as though he’d been doing yard work all morning. The sun hit his eyes, and he squinted, shielding them with a large hand.
As he looked up, his gaze drifted across to your lawn, and his eyes met yours for a long moment.
A warm, friendly smile tugged at his lips, and he waved. You blinked, a light smile forming on your own face when you realized he was waving at you. You waved back shyly, and his smile grew wider.
“He waved at me,” you pointed out.
Steve, curious, glanced over his shoulder. When he caught the man’s eye, he gave a quick, short nod—a casual greeting between guys.
“He seems nice,” Steve shrugged. “Your new neighbor?”
You nodded, stealing a few more seconds to look at the man across the street. He bent over, his large traps tensing against his cotton tank top as he shoved a pair of gardening gloves over his rough hands. He crouched, his dirty boots and jeans digging into the soil as he began to pull at stubborn weeds.
A man. Hard at work.
The best kind of man.
“He is,” you breathed, looking back at Steve. “And he’s hot, too.”
Steve huffed a laugh, stepping out of your way and towards the car, sponge in hand. “You trying to make me jealous, sweetheart?”
You rolled your eyes, grabbing a spare sponge from the soapy tub. You stepped up to the opposite window from Steve and began to scrub.
“You know, I’ve seen this play out in movies and stuff—” Steve shouted from the other side of the car. “The girl who washes her car and catches the eye of the conveniently attractive neighbor across the street.”
You quirked a brow. “In movies, or in porn?”
Now, it was Steve’s turn to roll his eyes.
“Point aside, you should go for it.” He peeked at you over the roof and nodded in your neighbor’s direction. “You’ve been single for quite a while now. It wouldn’t hurt to dip your toes back in the dating scene.”
You snorted. “Whatever happened to you being jealous?”
Steve shook his head at your comment. “I’m just saying—you’re young and pretty. You could grab that guy’s attention if you really tried.”
Pausing your sponge, you glanced over your shoulder, catching your neighbor’s gaze again. He had been staring at you—for how long, you didn’t know. Either way, your heart did a little flutter in your chest, your face warming at the thought of him watching you.
“You really think so?”
Steve hummed. “Have I ever lied to you?”
Since that day, and with the help of Steve’s encouragement, you found yourself spending more time outside just to catch your neighbor’s eye.
Most mornings, he was already out there working on the front of his house—mowing the lawn, painting fences, or tending to the plants.
The job itself didn’t matter. It was the man behind it all who suddenly made this boring, textbook suburban neighborhood interesting.
Despite only a few days passing since you last washed the car, you miraculously decided to wash it up again the day Bucky was working on the front of his house. How convenient!
Grabbing your tools while wearing a tank top—thinner than the last one—and shorts that rode so far up they were bordering on a wedgie, you stepped out with a confident stride that immediately caught his attention.
He glanced at you from his spot on a ladder, squinting as he smiled.
“Good morning!” you chirped.
“Morning,” he shouted back, nodding to the same car parked on your driveway. “Cleaning again?”
“Oh, yeah,” you smirked, motioning to your bucket. “Just something I like to do every few days.”
If Steve or your dad were here, they would be laughing in your face.
The man’s eyes slowly raked over the car—taking mental note of just how pristine and shiny it already was—before trailing back to you. “Must be a high maintenance girl, huh?”
It was just something about the way he said it—his voice deep and textured with a rasp that made every syllable sound flirtatious. You chuckled softly, your face warming.
“Something like that.”
He chuckled in return before getting back to work.
You dunked the sponge into the bucket of soapy water and got to work. Most of your time was spent focusing more on suggestive poses than actually getting the car clean. You stretched your arms high to reach the roof so the hem of your tank top rode up, then leaned low over the hood, letting your short shorts ride up to reveal the curve of your ass.
It didn’t take long for your clothes and skin to be covered in soap and water. The sun was in your favor today, catching the water as it glistened on your skin and the soap as it trickled down your thighs.
One quick glance over your shoulder made your heart stutter.
You knew you were doing it right because he was looking right at you.
He slowly began to descend the ladder. Before you knew it, he was walking in your direction, crossing the street until he reached your driveway. You had to bite back a smile as the sound of his boots scuffed closer, stopping just behind you.
“I believe we haven’t properly introduced ourselves,” he called out to grab your attention.
You didn’t turn around right away, careful not to make it too obvious. You glanced over your shoulder first, your back arching in a way that felt a bit of a strain—thanks to your usually terrible posture—then slowly stood up, trying not to groan at the sudden soreness.
“I don’t believe we have,” you said, setting the sponge down and wiping your wet hand on your damp shorts. Good enough.
You extended your hand and gave him your name.
He returned the gesture with a smile, his grip warm and rough—the hands of a working man.
“It’s nice to meet you. I’m Bucky,” he huffed. “Bucky Barnes.”
He looked around, appearing almost skeptical to be standing in your driveway. “You look young,” he pointed out. “Are your parents home? I’d like to introduce myself, being new to the neighborhood and all.”
“They’re on vacation,” you explained. “I’m a student over at Jepsen University.”
“A student, huh?” He rubbed his chin with his left hand. No ring. “A pretty thing like you oughta’ be careful at Jepsen. There are a lot of nasty frat boys roaming around campus.”
You chuckled, a light sway in your movement. “You went there?”
He nodded. “Graduated top of my class.”
Even though there was no ring, you still needed verbal confirmation before throwing yourself at him.
“How are you and the family liking the neighborhood so far?” You tested.
Bucky took it upon himself to lean against your car, making the frame creak slightly. He didn’t seem to care about the soap dampening his jeans.
“Well, me and my girl are liking it so far,” Bucky said. “It’s quiet, and plus, I get a good view across the street.”
You made a face at his explanation. My girl. He had a wife? Or a daughter? He was deliberately flirting with you, wasn’t he?
Bucky caught your expression and laughed lightly, waving a hand dismissively.
“My girl Alpine,” he clarified. "She’s the cat loafing on the windowsill in my living room, always staring out.”
You felt your face warm, and your posture eased up instantly. Not only was your neighbor hot as hell, but he was single—and a cat dad! There was a bit of an age gap, but that wasn’t something you couldn’t handle.
You crossed your arms, the movement accentuating your breasts beneath the thin tank top, and jutted your hip out to emphasize your curves. You smiled pridefully, watching as Bucky’s gaze traced a slow path from your eyes down your body.
“Like father, like daughter, then.”
His grin widened handsomely. “What can I say? We like looking at pretty things.”
You smiled, biting the inside of your cheek. He was such a natural flirt—and despite all your attempts to grab his attention, your words suddenly failed you when the time came.
Bucky glanced around the driveway as if he were still searching for someone. Then, he asked, “That guy who usually comes over to help you out—” he brought up slyly, still looking around, “he your boyfriend?”
You blinked at his question. The way he was subtly trying to fish for information made your stomach do a flip in celebration.
“Steve?” you asked, your voice coming out breathier than intended. A small, teasing smile tugged at your lips. “No, he’s not my boyfriend.”
You noticed the way Bucky’s shoulders relaxed slightly at your words. He was jealous.
“He goes to Jepsen, too?” He questioned.
“Yeah, he’s my senior.”
“Ah,” Bucky drawled. “A frat boy, then?”
You couldn’t help but laugh at his endless questioning. “I wouldn’t call him that. He’s my best friend,” you reassured him, watching the way his blue eyes searched yours. “He just comes over sometimes to help out—or more like he comes over to make fun of me while I do all the work.”
Bucky chuckled a deep, gravelly sound that was effortlessly charming. “Best friend, huh?” He pushed himself off your car, taking a step closer to you. Fuck, he even smelled good. “Well, I can’t say I blame him for wanting to hang around. Though, if you ever need a man who’ll actually help instead of just laughing at you, you know where I live.”
He tilted his head toward the house across the street, his gaze dropping to your lips for a second before meeting your eyes again.
“You said your parents were away on vacation?” he asked.
You nodded.
“For how long?”
“Just for a couple of days,” you replied.
Bucky hummed, an amused smile playing on his face as he looked at you. He leaned in, his voice releasing a low murmur as his warm breath tickled your skin.
“A couple of days, huh?”
You caught his gaze tracing a path down your tank top before he met your eyes with a devastatingly slow smirk. If he had this much confidence at his big old age, he was definitely a troublemaker when he was in college, that’s for sure.
“Would you look at that? That’s plenty of time for us to get well-acquainted.”
He watched the way your breath hitched and smiled, looking satisfied. He pulled away and turned back towards his side of the street. If he didn’t know any better, he might have thought he heard a small whine escape you.
“See you around, neighbor,” he called over his shoulder with a charming smile, sauntering down your driveway and back towards his own.
As he walked off, your heart was beating with excitement—beating far too fast to keep up. And the only thing you could think about was how much you were going to gloat about this to Steve later.
You sat across from Steve at the same dingy diner where you two met every Thursday for brunch.
While you sat cross legged on one side of the booth, Steve sat opposite from you in a crisp navy blue collared shirt with a name tag that read HYDRA’S MECHANIC! and the name Steven on the top right.
“He has a cat, Steve. A cat!” You smiled, dipping your toast into a pool of egg yolk. “Her name is Alpine—and he called her ‘his girl.’ Isn’t that so sweet? I nearly had a heart attack right there in the driveway.”
Steve held a coffee mug in his hand, watching you. He was supposed to be heading into work in twenty minutes, but he was currently occupied with the girl in front of him—and her endless rambling.
“And he’s single,” you continued through a mouthful of toast. “No ring, no wife—just a gorgeous, ripped cat dad with a voice that sounds like it came straight out of a smutty audiobook.” You paused, taking a quick sip of your drink. “I mean, yeah, he’s definitely got a few years on me. He’s a little older, but honestly, it doesn’t matter. It just makes him more…” You sighed dreamily. “Capable.”
Steve didn’t say a word. He set his coffee cup down, picked up a fry, and dipped it slowly into a side of ranch with a lopsided smile.
“What?” you asked, your brow furrowing as you caught his grin.
“Nothing,” he said simply, the corners of his eyes crinkling.
“Steve. I know that face,” you pointed out. “That’s your ‘I’ve got something to say, but I won’t’ face mixed with something else. Come on, tell me! What are you thinking?”
Steve chuckled, wiping his hand on a napkin before leaning back in the booth. “I don’t know how I feel about you going after some guy who’s that much older than you. He seems like the type of guy you have fun with—not someone you bring home to your parents.”
Your eyes went wide. “What? You encouraged me to go for it!”
Steve held up his hands defensively. “I know, I know! It’s just… I don’t know. Can’t a guy worry?”
You couldn’t help but smile at his bashfulness. “Aw, you’re worried over little ol’ me, Stevie?” You tilted your head, taunting him.
He rolled his eyes. “You know what? Forget I even said anything—”
“No, no,” you leaned in, resting both arms on the table “Okay, fine. I’m hearing you. What can I do that’ll make you more comfortable in this situation?”
Steve shrugged, lifting the coffee cup and bringing it to his lips. “Could start by meeting the guy, I guess.”
“Okay,” you agreed casually. “He did mention you, actually.”
Steve quirked a brow, eyeing you over the rim of his mug. “Did he?”
You nodded. “He asked if you were my boyfriend.”
He scoffed a laugh. “Boyfriend? He’s already getting jealous? God—how old is he again?”
You gave him a look. “He was just curious, Steve.”
“Sure, and I’m a superhero fighting crime in New York.” Steve set his mug down, dipping another fry into ranch and plopping it into his mouth. He gathered his phone and wallet, quickly tucking them into his pockets. “I gotta go. Shift is starting soon.”
“Wait.” You sat up straight. “My dad won’t stop texting me asking if you can fix the wagon—it keeps making this weird noise and he won’t leave me alone until you look at it.”
“I’m free tomorrow after work. I’ll swing by then. I’ll consider this—” he motioned to the table, where the bill sat squarely in the middle with your name on it, “—payment for the repair.” Steve pushed himself out of the booth, licking the ranch off his thumb before pointing a finger at you. “I’ll text you. And don’t screw the guy ‘til I meet him.”
You couldn’t even get a word in before Steve was already rushing out the door, the bell jingling after him.
“Yeah. Okay, Dad.”
After paying for brunch, you drove home feeling giddy.
Turning the corner onto your street, you spotted Bucky right outside his house, mowing the lawn. This time, he was shirtless.
You purposefully slowed down to get a good look at him, but the moment he looked up and spotted your car pulling into the driveway, he smiled—aiming it right at you through your fishbowl wagon on wheels.
Parked in the driveway, you took a quick look at yourself in the pull down mirror, checking to make sure there weren’t any crumbs on your face or a stray strand of hair sticking out. Smoothing down your top and adjusting your shorts, you stepped out of the car—aiming for casual. But with the way your heart was beating, you were anything but.
Bucky had killed the mower engine and was wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead. He looked hypnotizing, his chest and stomach glistening in the afternoon sun.
“Eventful day, I take it?” He nodded towards your car. “Noticed your wagon was missing from the driveway this morning.”
He had noticed you were gone? You tried your best not to smile.
“Oh, yeah,” you leaned against trunk nonchalantly. “I went to have brunch with a friend.”
Bucky crossed his arms over his chest—a move that did very interesting things to his biceps that were hard to ignore—and leaned his weight back on one leg.
“Let me guess,” he said, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Steve?”
After Steve’s comment about Bucky being jealous, you couldn’t help but bask in confidence. You quirked a brow, a teasing smile playing on your lips. “Are you jealous?”
Bucky tilted his head, pretending to contemplate the question as he looked you up and down.
“Only a little,” he admitted with that handsome smile of his.
You grinned. “Well, there’s no need to be jealous, I assure you,” you explained, pushing yourself off the car.
Taking a step back, you gestured vaguely to his yard. “I’ll let you get back to it, though. You look pretty busy,” you said, despite how much you actually wanted to pull up a folding chair and just stare.
You turned to head towards your front door, but you didn’t get far before his voice stopped you.
“You know,” Bucky called out as he began crossing the street. “Your car is looking a little dirty.”
You stopped and turned back, your breath catching as you watched him make his way onto your driveway. Shirtless and confident, he looked even more imposing standing on your property than he had the other day. He came to a halt beside the green wagon, glancing at the circle of bird poop sitting right on the roof.
Then, he looked back at you with a smile—as if he already knew you wouldn’t say no.
“Need some help cleaning?”
“I…” Your eyes trailed to his bare chest slicked with sweat. You didn’t know how you were going to control yourself, but despite it all, you swallowed hard and said, “Yes.”
Minutes later, you found yourself grabbing all the supplies needed to get the car cleaned. Bucky stood by the bucket, holding the hose as the water filled the plastic. It took everything in you not to stare at the way the sun was shining down on his tanned skin, sweat and water glistening down the hard lines of his stomach.
His jeans sat dangerously low on his hips, the hem of his briefs peeking out over the top. He hadn’t even started cleaning the car yet, but he already looked hotter just standing there than you ever felt trying to look appealing while washing the wagon.
When the bucket was full, he lifted it by the handle without much struggle. You watched as his biceps and forearms flexed against the weight of it. His eyes caught yours, and you swallowed hard, quickly forcing your gaze away.
Bucky stepped to the passenger side, opposite where you were standing. He didn’t seem bothered by your staring.
Actually, he seemed to be feeding off the attention, especially after catching you several times.
“This is a nice car,” he commented, dunking a sponge into the soapy water. “Vintage. I’m surprised she’s still kicking around.”
While Bucky scrubbed down the passenger side, you kept trying to sneak glances through the untinted windows. From where you stood, you had a perfect view of his chest muscles and his stomach pressing against the glass as he worked.
“Uh—yeah,” you cleared your throat, forcing your focus back. “It’s from the sixties. It’s my dad’s, actually. Steve just helps me fix it up.”
“Your friend Steve,” Bucky mused, peeking at you over the roof. “He a mechanic?”
“Yup,” you nodded. “So if you hear loud car noises coming from across the street tomorrow when he fixes it, you can blame him.”
“This Steve guy sounds like a total catch,” Bucky said with a light laugh. “You sure you’re not dating him?”
You weren’t sure why Bucky was so insistent on you having a secret relationship with Steve. You had your fair share of insecure men who were jealous of you hanging around with someone like Steve Rogers, and you figured that habit died out once men hit the age of twenty five. But with Bucky standing across from you, poking at your relationship with Steve, you were starting to think that wasn’t the case.
“I swear, I’m not dating Steve.” You raised a pinky so he could see it over the roof. “Besides, he’s like an older brother to me.”
Bucky blew a raspberry.
“Poor kid,” he chuckled. “But really, I’m surprised he hasn’t made a move on you.” He bent down to clean the rim right above the tire, letting his eyes trail over your body through the window. “If I had a pretty girl like you in my life... we wouldn’t have been friends for long.”
You felt your heart stutter.
What did that even mean?
Did he mean he would make you his girlfriend?
You wanted to hear him say it—to blurt out the answer himself.
You dumped your sponge in your bucket, letting yourself get damp with the soapy water.
“Is that so?” you challenged, trying your best to play it cool. “And what would we be then?”
He stood up with a low groan, looking at you over the roof. He began making his way towards your side of the car, moving purposefully slow as he dragged his sponge across the hood—hardly even pretending to clean it anymore.
“After watching you wash this car—looking like a woman straight out of my dreams? We’d be a lot of things,” he said smoothly, locking eyes with you as he reached the corner of the bumper. “But ‘friends’ sure as hell isn’t one of them.”
You grinned, allowing him to be the one to approach you as you continued scrubbing.
“So,” you kept your voice playful, a little teasing. “You’ve been watching me?”
Bucky didn’t bother denying it.
He stopped just inches away from you. He let his tongue run slowly over his bottom lip, his eyes traveling shamelessly down your body. He was mesmerized with the path of the soap bubble trickling down your collarbone, sliding between the curve of your breasts before disappearing into the thin fabric of your tank top, where your perky nipples were poking right through.
It was hard for him to ignore. They were practically begging to be licked.
“Hard not to,” he rasped, stepping closer until he was standing directly behind you. He propped one strong arm against the roof of the wagon, locking you in. “Especially when you’re giving me a view like that from across the street.”
You let out a shaky breath—one that you hoped he didn’t catch, but he did. You stared at him through the reflection of the window, and his eyes were on you—tracing your face, leaning in to smell you.
It was this very moment that made you remember the age gap, because he was moving and talking so smoothly, like it was all natural to him. As if he had been swooning women like you for years.
But you weren’t going to let that shake you up.
You pushed your hips back subtly, letting your damp ass press against his hips. You tried not to gasp at the straining bulge that was waiting for you between his legs.
“Well, I’m right here,” you said quietly, staring at him in the reflection. “So, what then?”
Bucky looked around, his gaze sweeping across the street to make sure no one else was near.
With one hand still propped against the car, the other found your hip, giving it a firm squeeze to keep you right where you were with your ass pressed tight against his cock.
“Do you want to know what I love most about being in this neighborhood, aside from the fact that I have a super attractive neighbor living across from me?”
He rocked his hips forward, letting his hard bulge nestle perfectly between the curve of your bottom. His cock was fighting the restraint of his jeans, and just from that small movement alone, you could feel how big he was.
Bucky pressed his lips against your ear, murmuring low and tickling your skin with his warm breath. “I love how quiet it is. There’s rarely anyone outside, or even driving by... so when I touch you like this...” His hand slid up from your hip to cup your breast through your tank top. “No one will even notice.”
You gasped as he fondled your tits, his rough fingers flicking the sensitive peak of your nipple. As he dampened your shirt with his wet hands, the water seeped through the thin fabric, making every bit of friction feel even more sensitive than the last.
“Oh my god,” you gasped, your eyes fluttering shut.
“Oh,” he let out a low, rough breath. “You’re so reactive. I’m going to have so much fun with you.”
Bucky’s hand left the roof of the car to wrap around your eyes, pulling you even closer against him. He rocked his hips—back and forth, in a steady rhythm—dry humping you right there against the green wagon in your driveway where anyone could see.
The friction of his denim against your damp, thin shorts made a warm heat pool in your lower belly. Every grind of his hips was met with a hard twitch in his jeans, making your body ache for more.
His hands were everywhere. One hand gripped your hip, tickling the skin beneath the fabric as he gave your flesh a possessive squeeze.
The other continued to fondle your tits, tickling your nipple through the wet cotton. His thumb and forefinger would catch your nipple, rolling it until you were arching your back and whimpering his name.
“Cute noises coming out of you,” he murmured against the crook of your neck, his teeth grazing your skin. “I wonder what kind of noises you’ll make if someone were to drive by and see what I’m doing to you?”
You shuddered as his hands roamed lower, his fingers playing with the hem of your shorts. He undid the button with just one hand, letting his fingers trace the skin of your mound, grazing low until he found your clit—lightly rubbing the nub of his finger against it.
A moan left your lips as you arched your back deeper against him. He groaned as your ass rubbed against his throbbing cock.
While Bucky’s fingers toyed with your clit—rubbing in deep, circular motions—he rocked his hips, seeking pleasure of his own. You were moaning, breathing hard as you stared down at him playing with you.
“Bucky… I… mph—” you moaned, your voice pitched high. You ground your hips against his hand, fucking yourself onto his fingers.
With Bucky standing right behind you, he looked down at the soapy water trickling over your chest, his cock growing harder by the second.
He wasn’t lying when he said you looked like a woman straight out of a dream. He wanted nothing more than to tear your clothes apart—which he could do easily—and fuck you right on the hood of the car he’d been watching you parade yourself on for the past few days.
He was so horny, he needed to sink into you—fast.
But first, he needed to see how much of him you were willing to take, starting with his fingers.
“Gotta test you, baby,” Bucky rasped against your ear. “See how much your little pussy can take.”
His hand traced down from your clit to your folds. He groaned once his fingers made contact with your slick heat. You were so wet, so easily riled up, and so ripe for the taking, yet he wanted to make this last.
Bucky glanced around one more time—the coast was clear. He shoved your shorts down, exposing your ass to the cool air, and pushed your lace panties to the side. He probed his middle finger against your entrance, dancing his digit in a curling motion to prepare you.
“So wet,” he murmured, grinning at your little gasps and mewls. “Could easily slide my finger right in.”
His middle finger slowly eased into your pussy, the warm flesh of your entrance accommodating him smoothly. There was a bit of a stretch, sure, but he could easily finger fuck you right now with no struggle at all.
“How many can you take?” he asked.
You felt your face warm at his question. “… Two.”
He hummed against your ear. “Two, huh?”
Without warning, his ring finger took a quick drag against your entrance—already stuffed by his middle finger—and slid in slowly. Your mouth dropped as a broken gasp tore from your throat. The stretch was burning. His fingers were long and thick, and having two of them inside was enough to fill you completely.
“Fuck—Bucky!”
Bucky didn’t give you a chance to fully adjust to his two fingers before he started moving—thrusting in and out, curling deep inside you as he searched for every sensitive spot. With his free hand still clamped onto your hip, he humped you from behind, groaning as his denim jeans grew even tighter around his throbbing cock.
He was so hard it was painful.
His need to sink himself inside you was spiraling out of control as he felt his pre-cum soaking into his waistband. He gritted his teeth, his jaw clenching as he watched the way your ass bounced against his hand, swallowing his fingers with every move.
“Christ,” he hissed against your neck. He slowed his hand just enough to hook a third finger against your entrance, probing the tight and overtaxed muscle. “You’re squeezing my fingers so tight, baby.”
He looked at you through the reflection of the window, and you stared back, caught in his dark gaze. “It feels good, doesn’t it?”
You nodded with a whimper.
Bucky hummed in satisfaction, and without warning, he pressed the tip of his pointer finger against your stretched entrance.
Your eyes flew wide at the sensation as he slowly began sinking that third finger in, forcing you to press your tits and hands into the glass window for support.
“Bucky,” you gasped. “What are you—!”
“Think you can take three?”
He couldn’t even sink his third finger in all the way, your body simply wouldn’t allow it.
The stretch was a dizzying mix of burn and pleasure, your hips going stiff as you struggled to take him in. He was breathing hard against your ear, and you could feel every heavy throb of his cock right behind you.
“Oh my—fuck, Bucky! It’s too much, I can’t—”
He continued rutting his hips against yours, silently encouraging you to accommodate all three fingers. You could tell he was trying to hold back. His fingers stayed there, unmoving, while his hips did all the work.
“Shit,” Bucky cursed, his hand stilling completely inside you. “Three’s a little tight, huh? Come on, baby. Try for me. If you can take three, then you can take my cock with no problem.”
You let out a shaky breath, trying to relax the muscles that were fighting him.
Slowly, you began to push back, easing yourself onto those three thick fingers and sinking down until you felt the base of his hand press against your folds.
Bucky groaned, his head dropping onto your shoulder as he felt your tight cunt finally give way to accommodate him. He was hard as hell, his balls growing heavier and his cock thickening against your lower back with every heavy breath he took.
“Fuck. That’s a good fucking slut,” he hissed, his hips rutting in an uneven motion. “Taking all three fingers—God, you’re being so good for me.”
His teeth traced the column of your neck, biting gently to make you gasp. His lips closed against your skin, sucking and marking you as he murmured filth in your ear.
“So fucking tight,” he whispered. “Been watching you for days, thinking you were going to be untouchable—just eye candy for a man like me living across the street.” He curled his fingers, hitting your sensitive spot and making you cry out his name. “Who knew I’d have you right here, pinned against your daddy’s car, being stretched out in broad daylight.”
You watched him through the reflection, your pussy clenching around his fingers at the dark way he was staring at you.
“Oh, you’re such a little slut for your neighbor, aren’t you?”
Your cunt fluttered around him, his fingers fucking you so thoroughly you felt like you could cum.
“Bucky,” you whined, your hips twitching as you tried to clench your legs together. “I’m—I’m gonna—”
“No,” he grunted, his voice deep and rough. “Not yet.”
If he had fucked you for even a second longer, you would have cried out in pleasure and came right there in your driveway.
But instead, he abruptly yanked his fingers out, the vulgar squelch sound following after. You let out a cry of frustration, your body slumping against the window as he left you feeling cold and aching.
Behind you, Bucky’s eyes locked onto yours in the window’s reflection as he slowly licked your juices off his fingers. The act was so unapologetically filthy that your face burned with embarrassment.
“You even taste sweet, too,” he murmured.
He took a step back, his hands fumbling with the zipper of his jeans. He gave himself a quick squeeze through the denim before finally freeing himself.
You couldn’t help it. You looked over your shoulder and your breath hitched.
Now, you understood exactly why he wanted you to take three fingers first.
His cock was massive, thick and pulsing for you. He stepped back into the space between your legs and slapped his cock against your lower back. It was hot, hard, heavy, and already wet at the tip where he leaked pre-cum. His breathing was labored as he grabbed his shaft, rubbing the tip against your bare ass—smearing his slickness and marking you from behind.
Bucky moaned at the sight of his pre-cum glistening on your soft skin.
“What a pretty, pretty whore,” he cooed. He leaned over you, his thick arm hooking around your waist to bend you over while your hands pressed against the window.
He couldn’t wait any longer. He slapped his cock against your wet pussy, making you wince as your body hummed with anticipation.
“Your pussy’s all stretched out now, ready to take me.” He grabbed his shaft, positioning the head right at your entrance.
The tip of his cock nestled perfectly between your wet, aching folds. Just the sensation of it alone was enough to make him groan in pleasure.
It felt as if your entrance was giving him warm, wet kisses, welcoming him home.
“So, it should just slide right in,” he rasped, slowly drawing his hips forward and beginning to sink into you. “Fuck.”
He couldn’t even make it past the head because of how tight you were squeezing him. His face scrunched in a twist of pleasure and pain, his arm wrapping you tight as he fought for control. You mewled and whined so sweetly—the sound of it should have made him feel bad, but it only made him want to tear you apart more.
“Fuck—how the hell are you still so tight, even after everything?”
Every time he tried to draw his hips forward, your body buckled and clamped down, refusing to give an inch more than the head of him.
“God,” he hissed, forehead dropping to the back of your neck as he struggled to breathe. “What a tight pussy fuck.”
He tried to rock into you again—slow and agonizing. He was gritting his teeth until his jaw ached, his cock pulsing as your cunt fluttered around him, desperate to stretch around his size.
“F—fuck, Bucky, I’m trying—” you whimpered.
“Come on, baby,” he rasped, rocking his hips and trying to find pleasure from what little was already inside you. “I already stretched you out. I know you can take me. You’re just so fucking small.”
You looked at him over your shoulder, and your breath caught. His face was twisted. He looked almost angry—snarling from how difficult this was for him.
You tried pushing your hips back, wincing from the delicious stretch.
“Is this hurting you, Bucky?” you asked, your voice coming out more timid than you’d like. “Are you hurting because I’m so tight?”
A raspy, deep groan tore straight from his throat. You were asking out of genuine concern, but he took it as a challenge.
“God—you fucking—are you trying to test me?”
Bucky kicked your legs wider, his hands clamping down on your waist. He hauled your body back into his, then completely sheathed his cock into your tight pussy.
The air left your lungs the minute your ass pressed against his pelvis. His dark curls were hot against your skin as he finally, finally buried himself all the way inside you. He was in to the very hilt, but you were still so tight that moving was nearly impossible.
He stayed perfectly still for a moment, his forehead resting against your shoulder as he let the sensation of your tightness settle.
In the window’s reflection, it looked as filthy as it felt—a large, shirtless, and sweaty man mounting and rutting into you from behind like an animal, his broad shoulders swallowing your frame as his heavy arms circled you, keeping you pinned close and tight.
“Fuck,” he choked out. “There it is. There you are.”
After a moment of adjustment, he began to rock his hips. He drew in and out slowly, fucking you with deep, hard strokes that made the car creak.
“Christ, look at you,” he hissed, his eyes fixed on your reflection over your shoulder. “Stretched wide open—fucked like a whore for the whole neighborhood to see. You’re taking every goddamn inch of me, aren’t you, baby?”
Your face twisted in pleasure, your bottom lip hanging open as you moaned a litany of words. “Don’t stop... Please, Bucky, please.”
“This was why you were putting your body on display for me, huh? Hoping I’d finally cross the street one day and fuck you.” He fought for his breath as his hips increased the pace, his cock sliding in and out of you, relentlessly making you his. “You’re a smart cookie, too. Made sure your parents were out of town so you could act like a total slut.”
You moaned, eyes rolling back at his filthy words as your body clenched in reaction. “Yes! Yes, Bucky! I’m a slut for you!”
He groaned as he tilted his hips, forcing himself even deeper into your abused pussy.
“Squeezing me so tight... I can only imagine how you’d react if your parents were to drive down the street right now. Imagine them seeing their precious daughter getting split open by her older neighbor—a man they haven’t even met yet.”
He felt your body begin to tremor, your walls fluttering around his pulsing cock. He leaned in even closer, his hot, raspy breath dancing against the shell of your ear.
“Now, what would happen if your poor best friend—Steve, was it?—drove down here expecting to fix your car, only to find you with your tits pushed against the glass, stuffed full of my cock? How would you react then?”
Your knees wobbled and your eyes rolled back at the image. Your body convulsed, your pussy squeezing him impossibly tight at the filthy thought of it.
“Oh, my god—S-steve...!”
Bucky huffed a disbelieving laugh, followed immediately by a deep, guttural groan at the sensation of you clenching around him. He didn’t even care that you moaned another man’s name when he had you stuffed.
“Fuck, so goddamn tight,” he rasped, his arms wrapping around you tighter as you shook. “Shit, you like it, don’t you? The idea of getting caught by your best friend? Fuck—what a goddamn nasty whore you are.”
His hips began to blur against yours as he fucked you harder, the car creaking and groaning with every thrust.
“Bet he doesn’t even know how you’re clenching around me just at the thought of him. Bet he’d ask to join in, wouldn’t he? Would you let him?” He leaned over, biting your shoulder to stifle his own grunt. “Would you let your best friend watch me split you open like this?”
You nodded frantically, sweat beading at your temple from being used so thoroughly. The talk—the idea of it was filthy, a dream that you would’ve never considered doing, but Bucky was fucking you so good that anything he said at this point was hypnotic.
“Yes, yes, Bucky, please! You both can take turns using me!”
“Nasty little slut,” Bucky hissed, his teeth biting gently at your skin again. “Fuck. I’m getting close.”
You nodded hard again, your knees nearly giving out if it weren’t for his big hands holding you back. “Me—me too, shit—!”
Bucky’s grip on your body tightened, pulling you close against his bare and sweaty chest.
After three hard thrusts that bottomed out against your womb, he let out a deep grunt against your neck, his body going stiff as he finally came.
His cock pulsed as cum began to spill out of his tip, pumping you full of his seed and staying completely stuffed inside you until you were filled to the brim. Your head tossed back as a cry left your throat, your overworked pussy clamping down on him and pulsing in a way that milked every last drop out of him.
He held you tight, breathing deep into your back as you both fought for air. “Fuck—you’re draining my balls dry, sweetheart.”
You both started to laugh—deep, tired, and rumbling laughs at everything that had just transpired out in the open, right in your very driveway.
Bucky looked down, pulling out slightly and watching with blown out pupils as his cum trickled out of you and onto the concrete, where it mixed with the soapy water.
“Dirty, dirty girl.”
You spent the following afternoon in your room, going through lectures, though you were hardly paying attention to them. With your cheek resting on your palm, your eyes kept drifting to the open window that gave you a perfect, convenient view of the house right across the street.
Bucky’s house.
The driveway was empty, and the lights inside were off. The blinds were pulled open though, and you could see Alpine—the little cat he mentioned—loafing on the windowsill and staring back at you.
In that moment, the two of you were exactly the same.
Just waiting for Bucky to come home.
The silence of your bedroom was overtaken by the rumble of a truck engine. Sitting up and peeking out the window, you recognized Steve’s battered pickup truck turning into the driveway before the engine cut out.
Steve climbed out of the driver’s seat, looking as exhausted as ever, but he had still shown up for you.
You smiled, racing down the stairs to meet him outside. In the driveway, it was clear that his shift at Hydra’s mechanic shop had done a number on him. His navy blue collared shirt was stained with sweat and motor oil, with dark streaks smeared across his jaw and down the length of his thick forearms.
“Steve,” you breathed with a smile. “Thought you forgot about me.”
Steve shut the door, the truck shaking from the force. “Could never forget about you. Work was just running me late.” He reached for his tools in the flatbed with a tired groan. “How’s your car holding up? Been using it since we had lunch yesterday?”
Your face warmed at the question.
Using it wouldn’t be the right term for it, you thought.
“Not really,” you said, trying to hide the bashful expression on your face.
“Still making that weird creaking noise?” he asked, walking over to the front and popping the hood.
You bit your lip and nodded. “Yep.”
Steve stood over the engine, glancing at wires and mechanical parts that were completely foreign to you.
“How’s it looking?” you asked, hovering over his shoulder.
He didn’t look back as he lifted a straining wire with his pointer finger, examining it closely. “Looks like she’s been through it.”
You had to bite back a snort. You would’ve complimented him on his sense of humor—if only he had known any better.
“Thanks for doing this, Steve,” you said, giving him a pat on his sweaty back. “My dad’s going to be real grateful.”
Steve nodded. “How are you and that neighbor doing?” He still kept his focus on the wires, his voice casual and unassuming. “You two didn’t screw each other after my warning yesterday, right?”
You were so glad he was focused on the engine—the face you made would’ve given it all away.
“What kind of girl do you think I am?” you scoffed playfully, crossing your arms defensively.
Steve glanced up at you with a chuckle. “A good one, I hope.” He brought his tools to the edge of the car, rummaging through the kit. “You two exchanged numbers yet?”
“Do I have to?” you shrugged. “He lives right across the street.”
Steve tilted his head, agreeing. “You make a good point.” He looked back at the engine. “When are you going to introduce me to the guy?”
You leaned against the car with a roll of your eyes. “Steve, you’re sounding an awful lot like my dad. And why are you in such a rush to meet him, anyway?”
Steve shrugged, pulling a wire stripper out of his toolbox before setting it back down on the ground. “I’m your best friend, alright? It’d give any man peace of mind to know what kind of person you’re talking to. Hand me a wrench, would you?”
Crouching, you dug into his toolbox until you found something that resembled a wrench. You handed it to him.
“Thanks,” he mumbled, taking the tool from your hand. His brows furrowed as he wrestled with a stubborn bolt, the muscles in his forearms and biceps flexed hard, giving you an up close and personal view of a working man.
After the filthy things Bucky hissed in your ear yesterday, you couldn’t help but stare. Bet he’d ask to join in, wouldn’t he? Would you let him? Even worse was the memory of what you cried out in response. You both can take turns using me!
You wanted to slap yourself for the secondhand embarrassment you were giving yourself.
You wouldn’t consider it—no, you couldn’t. Steve was the person you grew up with, the one who fended off your bullies in kindergarten. Steve was the one who drove you to school every morning in high school. Steve was the one who took you to prom when no one else did.
Steve was family.
But as he stood there, covered in motor oil and sweat, you finally understood why a man like Bucky would be jealous over you hanging out with a man like Steve Rogers.
The wrench slipped, clattering against the frame of the car before hitting the driveway with a noise that made you flinch.
“Shit,” he cursed under his breath. He bent down to pick it up. He stood up straight—reminding you all over again of just how big he was compared to you—and wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.
While you were having filthy thoughts about your best friend, he was standing there in an increasingly sour mood. Between the long shift at Hydra’s and the oppressive heat of the bright afternoon sun, he looked completely spent.
You didn’t know the first thing about wire strippers or engine blocks, and you felt useless just hovering over his shoulder.
“I’m going to go make you a lemonade,” you said, giving his shoulder another supportive pat. “I’ll be back, okay?”
Steve didn’t say anything. He just gave a single, firm nod to let you know he heard you.
As you retreated inside, a car that Steve didn’t recognize pulled up to Bucky’s driveway.
It was a sleek, black convertible sports car. Steve couldn’t help but clench his jaw at the sight of it. Of course Bucky drove a sports car.
He stood no chance against his rundown pickup.
Bucky stepped out of the vehicle, running a hand through his hair. As he turned to glance at your driveway, expecting to see you, his blue eyes landed on Steve instead.
For all that talk about wanting to meet him, Steve really only cared to do it if you were there, bridging the gap. So for now, until you returned with his lemonade—which he was sure would make Bucky jealous—Steve tried to keep himself too occupied to notice him.
But he kept catching movement in his peripheral vision. Then another. Then another. A stupid, persistent movement that wouldn’t go away, like a goddamn fly.
Steve finally lifted his head and saw Bucky still in his driveway, waving.
Waving?
At what?
Steve turned around, expecting to see you standing right behind him with the lemonade, but you weren’t. The porch remained empty—meaning Bucky was waving at him.
“Need any help there?” Bucky called out from across the street, resting his hands on his hips.
Steve pressed his lips into a thin line and shook his head. “I’m good!” he called back. Short, straight to the point, and friendly enough.
He looked back down at the engine, but it didn’t take long before a bright spark jumped from the terminal with a loud popping sound. Steve jolted back with a hiss, snapping his hand away from the burn. “Shit!”
Across the street, Bucky was already making his way over with a smug grin that Steve caught—and one he especially wanted to wipe off.
Jesus. Where were you?
“Here,” Bucky finally reached him, occupying the small space between the car’s engine and where Steve was standing. “Let me help you with that.”
Before Steve could fight for his spot, Bucky was leaning over the hood, adjusting the wires in a way that made Steve—the man wearing an actual mechanic’s uniform—feel like a fool.
Steve stepped up to the hood, propping his arm against it as he looked the man over. “So, you’re the new neighbor that moved in not too long ago, right?” He already knew the answer, but this was at least him trying for short conversation.
Bucky looked up at Steve, his eyes slowly tracing over his uniform. Steve felt his eyebrow twitch.
Was Bucky silently insulting him?
“Yup,” Bucky drawled with the pop of the p. “And you must be my pretty neighbor’s best friend. The one she always talks about.”
It was getting harder by the second for Steve to go along with this. Bucky acted like the very frat boys at Jensen that Steve had warned you to avoid at all costs—and this man was in his mid-thirties, for crying out loud.
“Yeah. That’s me,” Steve mumbled.
Bucky stood up straight, extending his hand for a shake. “Bucky.”
Steve was wary, his eyes narrowing slightly as he looked at the offered hand before finally reaching out to take it.
“Steve,” he replied with a firm grip.
Bucky stared at Steve for a moment longer—as if studying him—before looking back down at the engine with a huff of laughter. “You know, for a guy who works at a mechanic shop, you’re struggling pretty bad with a simple alternator issue.” He bent over the engine again, examining it. “Are you trying to actually fix the car, or just trying to impress your lady friend?”
Steve let out a dry laugh as he pulled a rag from his back pocket to wipe his hands. “It’s been a long day, alright? I’ve been dealing with different cars all day, the sun is giving me a headache, and now I’ve got my best friend’s neighbor to worry about—”
He stopped himself before he could spill too much, but Bucky caught it anyway. He chuckled, the corners of his eyes wrinkling as he looked up at Steve from where he was bent over. “You’re worrying about me?”
Steve swallowed hard, trying to play it off. “I mean, I’m just looking out for her. New guy in the neighborhood, it’s just a habit.”
Bucky hummed, a small, knowing grin resting on his lips as he turned back to the engine block.
He leaned further under the hood of the old sixties station wagon, his fingers moving towards the distributor cap and the fraying ignition wire Steve had been struggling with. Bucky repositioned the stubborn ceramic boot, adjusting the distributor to ensure the connection wouldn’t spark again.
He wiped his hands on his thighs as he stood up straight.
“Since it’s an older model, you’re going to need to buy a specific point and condenser set for a sixties Ford wagon. But this should hold her over for now.” Bucky looked over at Steve. “You got a piece of paper so I can write down the part number you need?”
Steve blinked, surprised and undeniably impressed by how easily Bucky had handled it.
“Oh. Y-yeah, hold on—” He dug into his back pocket and pulled out a small, worn notepad and a pen, handing them over.
Bucky took them, resting the pad against the car’s fender as he scribbled down the specifications. Steve glanced up, watching you through the kitchen window where you were completely oblivious, still focused on making the lemonade.
Surprisingly, he actually liked the guy. Despite the age difference, he could see potential in Bucky. He was handsome, owned his own house, drove a nice car, and was clearly respectful and handy. He was exactly the type of man your parents wouldn’t pass out at the sight of.
He was a good man for you—regrettably so.
Bucky finished writing, flipping the notepad shut and handing it back to Steve along with the pen. “Here you go.”
Steve smiled, and this time it was polite and genuine.
“Thanks,” he muttered. “It was nice meeting you, Bucky.” He held up the notepad with a slight nod. “She’ll appreciate this. I’ll tell her you said hi.”
Bucky’s smile widened just slightly. He glanced over his shoulder, catching your silhouette through the kitchen window where you were still occupied with the lemons. His gaze lingered on you for a split second before he looked back at Steve, his expression unreadable.
“Don’t mention it,” Bucky said smoothly, giving Steve a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “Remember, I’m right across the street if you ever need help.”
He gave a parting nod before turning on his heel, brushing past Steve to head back to his side of the street.
Steve watched Bucky disappear past his front door. By the time the door clicked shut, you had finally stepped out onto the porch with two glasses of lemonade in your hands. Perfect timing.
“Sorry I took so long,” you said breathlessly, walking down the steps and handing him a glass. “It’s been a minute since I last made it from scratch, so…”
“You just missed him.”
You raised a brow in confusion. “Sorry?”
Steve brought the cold glass to his lips, taking a long sip of the tart drink before nodding towards the house across the road.
“Bucky.” He let out a satisfied exhale, wiping his mouth with the back of his arm. “He was just here—helping me with your car, actually.”
Your eyes went wide, your head snapping towards Bucky’s house—though he was nowhere to be found. You reached up, trying to smooth down your hair.
“He was? Is he coming back?” You asked, sounding too excited for your own good.
Steve shrugged, taking another sip. “Probably not. Seemed like he had other things to do.”
You looked at Steve, your eyes narrowing skeptically.
Steve caught your look and let out a soft laugh, adjusting the cold glass against his palm. “What?”
“So…” you teased, swaying back and forth subtly. “I assume you two talked for a bit then? How was he? What do you think of him?”
Steve shrugged again, a genuine smile breaking through the tired expression he had on before. “Alright, alright. You know what? He’s not a bad guy. He actually helped me fix your car. I like him.” He handed you back the empty glass, flipping through the crumpled pages to find the note Bucky had left. “He even told me what part we needed to order to get this thing fixed up and working again—”
He froze in the middle of his sentence. His eyes went wide, staring at the page as his words got lost in his mind.
You raised a brow, confused with Steve’s sudden change in demeanor. “Well? What part is it? Is it expensive?”
When he didn’t answer, you took it upon yourself to step closer and peek your head over his arm to look at the notepad. What you saw made your breath hitch, and your own eyes went wide.
There was no part number.
Written in bold handwriting, on the paper was a phone number, Bucky’s phone number, followed by a little message in black ink.
you’re gonna have to call me if you want that part number.
xoxo, buck.
Your jaw hung so loose, a fly could’ve flown in at any moment. Steve didn’t know what to say either—if anything, he was standing there frozen, waiting for you to say something first.
“Oh my god,” was all that managed to leave your mouth. You looked up at Steve, your wide eyes meeting his. “Is Bucky…?”
Steve, poor Steve, who remained completely oblivious to the fact that you and Bucky had fucked just yesterday on this very driveway, only felt confusion and secondhand guilt.
He glanced across the street at the sleek, clean Mazda resting in Bucky's driveway, specifically staring at the custom vanity license plate on the back that read ‘BIGBUCK.’
Steve swallowed hard, his cheeks flushing with a rosy shade of pink. Though, he could easily excuse it for the sun.
“Of course,” he mumbled to himself. “He drives a Miata.”
if you were curious to know why a mazda miata specifically, you can thank r/askgaybros for that when i was conducting my research.
if you've made it this far, as always thank you so much for taking the time to read my work. interactions are always appreciated, I love reading every bit of them!
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pairing: avenger!bucky barnes x avengers fem!reader | word count: 2.2k
warnings: none, this is pure fluff
summary: Bucky’s name’s been cleared for almost a year now, and you can’t help but notice that his room is completely bare, aside from the bed and desk that came with it, and you—being you—decide that this simply won’t do.
dt: my sweet, sexy, beautiful friend @heldbybarnes 🩷 all our talk of whimsy inspired this very random idea
masterlist
“Where is your whimsy Bucky? Where are your trinkets?”
“My what?” Bucky blinks up at you from his spot on the bed.
“Your whimsy!”
“Doll, I don’t—”
“You’re tellin’ me you don’t have ONE trinket? This is unacceptable.”
It’s the first time you’d seen Bucky’s room—having come to lend him a book when you noticed there was not a single sign that the room was occupied, aside from the slightly crumpled sheets and the wrappers from his protein bars in the bin beside him. You stand in the doorway with your hands on your hips, entirely exasperated at the sight before you.
In the year he'd known you, Bucky had become used to your dramatics—exclaiming like someone had taken the thing you love most when your favourite cereal was finished or groaning loudly like your whole day was ruined at the training time being moved by thirty minutes.
“Bucky, you don’t even have a lamp— what do you—?” You sigh, moving further into the room. His bed is pushed into one corner of the room and your eyes catch on the single blanket laid out on the floor. The walls are completely bare, the shelves sit empty and the overhead light casts a harsh glow over the room, making it look less like a bedroom and more like a lab.
Bucky tenses—a tiny shift that no-one else would have noticed but you’d spent every day with Bucky since he arrived at the tower. You’d taken the time to learn him. To understand him in a way no-one else did.
You knew the distant look he’d get when he was stuck in a memory. You knew when he needed space and when he needed you to push back. You knew the permanent crease he held between his brows, and you especially knew the way it’d soften and turn into smile lines when you’d make him laugh.
Your voice softens then.
“You don’t have anything to make the place yours?”
“M’used to it doll.”
Your heart tugs painfully at that. The thought of him alone and cold in a room—a cell more like, with nothing but his memories for company.
You look at him then, eyes focused on his—the soft, uncertain look peeking out between his usual stares. You move closer to him, taking his hand in yours and he pulls away slightly. You know the hesitation doesn’t mean he doesn’t want it—crave it really. Just that his body is still learning touch. Still learning what’s safe. Still learning you.
“Just because you’re used to it, doesn’t mean you have to be.”
Bucky inhales sharply, looking anywhere but you, getting uncomfortable in that way he usually does when you read him too easily, when you say things others are too afraid to.
You don’t let it throw you—instead tugging on his hand gently, bringing his focus back to you.
“Let’s go shopping. There’s a few thrift stores close to here I like to go to that I think you might like.”
“Doll, I really don’t want to…” His voice trails off as he notices the look on your face—soft and half-pleading, and he sighs, running a hand down his face before brushing his hair back and standing with a grumble.
“Fine, let’s go, you can take me to ONE thrift store and we’re just goin’ to have a quick—”
Bucky’s still rambling on but you’ve stopped listening, already jumping up and down in excitement, tugging at his hand and squealing.
“—and we’re not stoppin’ for coffee either.”
~ 25 mins later ~
You walk into the thrift store you frequent on your days off, hot coffee in hand, giving Bucky a small smirk as you sip. He shakes his head in disbelief.
God, the effect you have on him.
Bucky takes it all in—the vastness of the store taking him by surprise.
The sides of the store are lined in bookshelves, carrying everything from children’s books, knitting patterns, vintage magazines, novels with the covers worn back, old records, cds, dvds, cassettes and board games.
There’s rows and rows of old tables, scattered with various items—a doll from the 1950s, jewellery stands filled with bangles, necklaces and bracelets, the soft light from the various lamps around the room glinting off the jewels.
Bucky turns to you, brow furrowed.
“M’not buying anything, you know that right?”
“That’s okay, we can just have a look.” You shrug, moving further into the store, trying your best to not scare him off now that he’d agreed to come.
Bucky gives a solemn nod, like it’s decided, already zoning out as he carelessly rustles through the items on the table closest to him. You dawdle along the clothes racks, eyeing out a jacket that looks about your size.
Of course, you’re not in full thrifting mode, still carefully keeping an eye on Bucky as he takes maybe three more steps into the store—arms crossed over his chest, feigning disinterest as something on the shelf clearly catches his eye.
He looks over at you, and you give him a small smile, nodding towards the shelves with encouragement. He softens ever so slightly, arms uncrossing and wandering into the store. You smile into your coffee when you see him pick up an elephant carved from wood and place it back down.
“Doll, come over here.” Bucky’s a few tables down from you, gesturing you over to him.
He’s holding a brooch in his hand—nothing too fancy—a small blue and green floral thing. You raise your eyebrows at him, questioning.
“This brooch— it um—” Bucky looks at you, eyes welling with tears as he tries hard to control his wavering voice.
“—it looks exactly like one my ma used to wear. Same design. Same colors— I—”
He turns it over in his hand, studying every detail. The tiny glass beads, the tarnished gold metal, the pin slightly bent out of shape at the back. You place your hand on his upper arm, smiling up at him.
“Get it.”
Bucky turns to you, startled—almost like he forgot you were there—lost in the memory of his mother’s hands gently working the brooch, pinning it to her dress on Sunday mornings.
He shakes his head as if to shake off the memory, placing the pin back down and wiping his nose with the back of his sleeve.
“What? No—I don’t— I don’t need it, I was just saying—” He’s already turning away when you squeeze his arm, bringing his attention to you.
“Bucky listen to me. It’s okay to want things. It’s okay to find meaning in small things. You’re allowed to want Bucky.”
The words hit him somewhere deeper than just this moment.
He nods slowly before picking the brooch back up, flipping it in his metal hand a few more times, thumb brushing over the top and hands it to you wordlessly.
You smile, placing it gently into your basket, careful not to break it and give him a solemn nod.
He returns it with a smile.
It’s easier after that.
He notices a few old records with names he recognises and tucks them away with a smile. An old record player, a copy of The Hobbit, vintage magazines, knitting patterns that reminded him of his mom.
He calls you over to him again when he finds a lego set of a working helicopter and your heart warms at the excitement in his voice.
You pick up a couple things for him too—fairy lights, a desk lamp, another lego set and a couple more records you think he might like.
Bucky’s flipping through a photo album when you approach him. You can’t help but smile when you see the photo he’s looking at. It’s in black and white — two teenagers eating ice-cream, the boy smiling at the girl and tucking a piece of her hair behind her ear. It’s dated June 4th 1937.
“Do you think we would have been friends if we met back then?”
Bucky looks at you—really looks at you and you don’t fully understand the look in his eyes. But it’s the same one he gives you when you bring him coffee in the morning. Or the one he gives when you’re on a mission—loud bangs, debris flying and you turn to him before anyone else.
“I think—I think I’d be lucky to find you in any lifetime.”
Your heart skips a beat, face warming at his words and you have to bite down on your lip to stop your eyes from welling with tears.
“Me too Buck, me too.”
“Ready to go?” You swing your basket on your wrist, nodding your head in the direction of the checkout.
Bucky nods and follows, still looking back at the armchairs along the wall and you make a mental note to bring him back another time.
“What’s that book?”
“Oh I don’t know, some rom-com.”
You nod, tilting your head slightly, narrowing your eyes at the title.
The Love Hypothesis
Not something you thought he’d pick but you’re not about to question what he’s buying when he’s finally letting himself buy things.
He sighs before you get a chance to let a word out, opening the front cover of the book and showing you the small hand-written inscription.
Becca’s ♡
“Your sister?”
“I know it’s not hers but I—” He trails off, letting out a shaky breath.
“I know Buck.” You place your hand on his arm, warm and reassuring and he gives you a small smile before avoiding your eyes.
“Alright, let’s go pay for our stuff then.”
“You can just leave the bags there.” Bucky nods towards his desk, placing the record player and the burgers you’d picked up on the way on the table.
“Okay…orrr I could help you set everything up. We could have a movie night. Eat our burgers.” You suggest softly, not expecting the slow nod he gives.
You smile up at him, warmth blooming in your chest at the sight of him setting up the record player on his desk, moving it side to side until he’s happy with the positioning.
The two of you move around the room in perfect tandem—Bucky setting the books and records on the shelves, you making a small display of the lego sets and placing the brooch carefully in front.
You turn to ask Bucky how he likes it and stop mid-breath, biting your lip and trying not to laugh at the 6 foot super soldier fumbling with fairy lights—swearing under his breath, one end of the wire tangled around his metal arm.
“Here, let me.” You giggle softly, reaching for the wire, untangling it from his arm.
“Something funny?”
“No,” you lie, voice entirely too amused, still holding back a laugh.
You pull on the end, draping it across the back of his bed when Bucky lets out a frustrated huff and this time you can’t help the laugh that escapes.
Bucky turns to you, glaring, but there’s no real bite to it, and soon he’s laughing too, running a hand down his face like the day had worn him out.
He glances over at you—cross-legged on his bed, grinning up at him, the glow from the fairy lights framing your face.
Bucky thinks you’ve never looked more beautiful.
The air in the room grows thicker and you can almost hear your heartbeat outside of your chest—Bucky’s eyes boring into yours—so bright and blue and beautiful.
“Thank you for today doll, I’m—”
He pauses to look around the room, his heart so full it aches.
You care.
Not just about if he’s eaten or if he’s been keeping up with his medical checks and his therapy, not just about how he was on a mission or if he might be injured. But about him and whether or not he’s happy—if he feels at home.
Bucky hadn’t felt home in over 80 years, but here—with you smiling at him like there’s nowhere you’d rather be—he feels like maybe he could.
“Of course Buck.”
He’s still looking around the room in disbelief. It’s then you realise the reason he never put anything in his room. He didn’t believe he’d be staying here, that this would last, that he could have a home here—because when you’ve spent your life running, and all you’ve known is survival, how do you accept softness and stability without it feeling like a threat?
You stand slowly, taking his hand in yours and press your forehead to his gently. Bucky’s eyes flutter closed, taking a shaky breath.
“Doll, I don’t know if I’m—”
“S’okay Buck. Don’t need to be. M’not going anywhere.”
He gives you a soft look like he doesn’t fully believe it, but like he might start to soon.
You pull his arms around your waist, not breaking eye contact. His fingers flex against the small of your back, still unsure—almost like he’s expecting you to pull away. You wrap your arms gently around his shoulders, placing your head onto his shoulder. Softly but not hesitant—never hesitant. You feel his body shudder slightly, a subtle tense of muscles before he leans into it—into you.
And for the first time—in the softness of the fairy lights and the warmth of all the small things—Bucky Barnes lets himself be held.
taglist: @daydreamgoddess14 @matchaenthusiast1111 @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @skxawngg @heldbybarnes @epiphanyrogers @sassandscribbles @thisismysafeescape @mandoloriancookie @vmprektty @daddysbitchybaby @punkrockrr @buckysdecaflove @kileyking @singulartoast @love-stucky (if you'd like to be added, please leave a comment on this post)
blue i’m actually going to cry this is so so gorgeous and fluffy and everything i want for bucky like marvel why won’t you let this man be happy 😭😭😭
“You don’t have anything to make the place yours?”
“M’used to it doll.”
OH RIGHT OFF THE BAT YOUVE GOT ME ALREADY 🥺 all his years as tws soldier and probably everything he had before lost/given away when he was assumed kia AHHHHHHHHHH please i can’t do this rn it’s too early
You walk into the thrift store you frequent on your days off, hot coffee in hand, giving Bucky a small smirk as you sip. He shakes his head in disbelief.
hehehe this made me giggle oh that boy is sooooo down bad i knew we were gonna get that coffee.
“Bucky listen to me. It’s okay to want things. It’s okay to find meaning in small things. You’re allowed to want Bucky.”
STAHHPP i cant do this ohhhhh my shaylaaaa my 100yo baby boy he deserves to be told this everyday
And for the first time—in the softness of the fairy lights and the warmth of all the small things—Bucky Barnes lets himself be held.
how this fic left me /pos 😭 it was just the perfect fluff and seeing bucky have someone in his life that like you said looks out for him beyond that basics made me so so happy. you nailed this so bad blue, like you just get bucky bc yeah he would pretend he’s not interested thrifting and then actually have a whole haul by the end. 🥺 i’m emotional at 10am what am i supposed to do about this
Italian: [la ˈdoltʃe ˈviːta]; Italian for 'the sweet life' or 'the good life'
or...
A girl travels to Italy in search of relaxation, only to find something far sweeter and more complicated.
Last Updated: May 19, 2026 [ongoing]
Main Masterlist 𖤓 Taglist
𖤓 Pairing | Massage Therapist!Bucky Barnes x f!Reader
𖤓 Summary | A girls trip to Italy was just what you needed to cope with the classic corporate burnout. You just didn't think the way you coped would be the disarmingly charming massage therapist at the Amalfi Coast hotel.
𖤓 Warnings | Fluff + Smut, vacation fling, just two idiots infatuated with each other, banter, some angsty feels, Romanogers appearances, no reader descriptions, no use of y/n | each part will have more indepth warnings, please read at your own risk :)
𖤓 Word Count | 5.6k (so far)
𖤓 Chirps | So...what does one do when the deadline for a collab fic sneaks up on you and you leave the submission open ended? You turn the idea into a series of course! Literally the night before I was meant to post my fic I had a rather interesting discussion about the movie Monday with some friends, and then this was thought up in the aftermath.
── ⋆⋅𖤓 Part 1 | Earned It
While on vacation, your best friend books a spa day for you to loosen up. A luxury spa, the hottest masseuse you've ever laid eyes on, and the slip of a sound lead to a very not normal massage. But in your defense...he had very good hands and a flexible definition of tension relief.
word count | 12.3k words
summary | you suggest taking a break from your deeply attached boyfriend. he reacts poorly and things somehow get worse from there.
tags | 18+ (MDNI), Explicit Sexual Content, age gap relationship, clingy!bucky barnes, loser!bucky barnes, crack fic, major co-dependency, dark humour, SATIRE, oral sex (f!recieving), fingering, unprotected piv, pussy pronouns, tiny bit of noncon unprotected sex, noncon kiss, they’re both very physical, bucky is very touchy and grabby, lots of toxic behaviour, suicide threats, gun violence, manipulative bucky, toxic bucky, reader lowkey likes it, reader is toxic as well, mj, darcy and yelena cameo
a/n | yall this is a completely satirical and unserious fic, pls do not take anything that happens in here seriously. anyway i want to thank @superbassbuck @iamthatonefangirl @pinksplace and @houseofhyde for all being present and encouraging when i came up and spiraled with the concept of loser bucky threatening to kill himself to keep you. yall real asf for that, and especially paul for harassing me and lowkey motivating me to finish it. finally i am free from the shackles that bind me (this fuckass fic)
likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨
MASTERLIST
Dating an older man really did sound good in theory.
Everyone always said girls matured faster than boys, so you figured the math would math. Older boyfriend meant stable. A little boring, maybe. A little steadier. Someone who had already done the whole fuckboy lap around the block and come out the other side with a job, a routine, and the ability to go a few hours without needing proof you still liked him.
James Buchanan Barnes should have fit the brief.
He was older by ten years, and you’d been seeing him for seven months now. You were twenty-five. Your frontal lobe was fully developed. You liked to remind yourself of that whenever you did something questionable and then tried to justify it later, like, technically you were a grown woman with your own apartment and a 401(k). Technically you were not being preyed upon. Technically you made this choice with my eyes open.
Because you had.
You matched with him on Tinder on a bored Tuesday night, half in the mood to flirt, half in the mood to just entertain yourself with strangers, and there he was. Pretty eyes. Broad shoulders. Hot as hell, in this quiet, earnest way like he didn’t realise he was hot, which unfortunately made him hotter.
Even with his corny ass mustache.
It should have been a dealbreaker. It was not.
It was actually… kind of doing it for you, which was embarrassing, because you had a preference to maintain. You liked men clean-cut and put together. You liked men who looked like they knew how to order a drink without stuttering. You did not, in theory, like a man who looked like he’d tip his hat at you and call you “doll.”
Except Bucky did that sometimes, in this soft, old-fashioned way that made you feel simultaneously adored and slightly like you were being courted in 1945. He held doors. He walked on the outside of the sidewalk. He paid for dinners and surprised you with expensive gifts.
And you were pleasantly surprised by his big heart.
Even more so, his big dick.
If you were being honest, that was where half your patience came from. That and the way he acted like touching you was this privilege he didn’t want to take for granted. Like he could get needy and clingy, and still somehow turn around and treat you like you were precious. He overdid it, yes. He went too hard, yes. But he was sweet in a way that didn’t feel fake.
And, yes, there were red flags.
The texts, for one.
In the beginning you told yourself it was just excitement. He was older, he was awkward, he probably hadn’t dated much, and he definitely hadn’t dated someone like you. You were fun. You were pretty. You were not afraid to tell him “no” and then kiss him anyway. You made him feel brave.
He texted good morning. Then another good morning in case you missed the first. Then a third message that was just, “Hope your day is going okay.” Then, “No pressure to respond, I just like talking to you.” Then, “Sorry, that sounded weird. I’m not weird.” Then, somehow, you’d look down and realise he’d sent you five messages in a row and you’d been at work the whole time.
It was… a lot. But it was also weirdly flattering.
It wasn’t even love bombing in the normal slick, manipulative way. It was messy and unintentional. Like he didn’t understand the difference between affection and intensity yet, so he just threw it all at you and hoped you caught it. You could tell he wasn’t trying to impress you. He was trying to keep you.
And the clinginess didn’t exactly get better with time. It just got more comfortable. More familiar. Like a habit. Like you belonged to him now in the way he looked at you, in the way he reached for you in his sleep, in the way he convinced you to sleep over at his house numerous times a week.
You probably should have dumped him. You friends had already told you it wasn’t your job to manage a thirty-five-year-old man’s feelings.
Unfortunately, you didn’t give a fuck. And you told yourself you could handle the rest. That you could rein him in when you needed to. That you could keep the good parts, and teach him how to calm down.
You really, truly believed that.
And you tried to hold onto it while you were out with the girls at some new club opening up on the Lower East Side. Packed shoulder to shoulder, lights low and red, bass thumping through the floor like a second heartbeat.
You felt good. You looked good. You were supposed to be having a good time.
And like clockwork, every fifteen minutes, you felt your purse buzz.
You couldn’t even stay on the dance floor long without circling back to this little quiet corner by the bar or the wall, checking your phone like it was a habit you did not want your friends to notice. At first, it was manageable. Sweet. A check-in. The first hour was almost normal.
james barnes (bucky)
Are you having fun, beautiful? | 10:22pm
You
lots. music is peak. we got free drinks too | 10:37pm
james barnes (bucky)
Oh, really? From who? | 10:37pm
Was it the bartender or some random men? | 10:38pm
Doll? | 10:39pm
You stared at the screen, thumb hovering, letting the music wash over you while your brain did that stupid thing where it tried to decide the exact right balance of response. Too short and he’d spiral. Too detailed and you’d be feeding it.
You locked your phone, tossed it back into your purse, and went back to the girls like you didn’t just feel your mood get tugged sideways.
But it didn’t stop.
By the time you were heading to the bathroom, you were already sighing before you even unzipped your purse. You could see the stack of notifications lighting up the screen through the little transparent window of your purse, like your phone was trying to pre-warn you.
You slid into the closest open spot at the counter and swiped up.
More messages had piled in.
james barnes (bucky)
Where did you get the free drinks from? | 10:44pm
Who are you with right now? | 10:45pm
Just text me back for two seconds, doll. | 10:46pm
“Isn’t it past your grandpa’s bedtime?” Nicole said from your left, reapplying her cheap lip liner.
You didn’t look up right away. You kept your eyes on the screen, jaw tight, like you could will the irritation away by ignoring it.
“Don’t call him that,” you muttered. “And he’s not that old.”
“Yeah, and the sky isn’t blue, and my boobs are real.” Nicole snorted, still looking at herself. “Being paroled by an old ass man is crazy work. Could never be me.”
You knew she was being shady as fuck. And you knew your man was being annoying as hell. But you weren’t about to let this bitch act like she had moral high ground when her life was a revolving door of men who didn’t even like her.
“Come talk to me when you find a man who’ll eat your ass without having to ask,” you said lifting your eyes. “And not a baby daddy who thinks child support is optional.”
Nicole’s mouth snapped shut.
MJ and Darcy were behind you in the mirror, MJ adjusting her earrings, Darcy washing her hands, both of them watching you. They exchanged a quick look like they were sharing a thought without saying it out loud.
Nicole held your gaze for a second longer, nostrils flaring, then rolled her eyes like she hadn’t just gotten read.
“Whatever,” she muttered, tossing her lip liner back into her bag, and she pushed out of the bathroom without waiting for anyone.
You barely acknowledged it. You just looked back down at your phone, thumb resting over the keyboard again.
You
just the bartender. relax | 10:56pm
he was flirting w Darcy half the time anyway | 10:57pm
and you know im w MJ nd Darcy | 10:58pm
james barnes (bucky)
Right. I’m sorry, honey. | 10:59pm
I just don’t like the idea of anyone bothering you. | 11:00pm
You stared at that for a second, jaw working. It was always like this…. he’d pull, you’d give him an inch, and then he’d act grateful like you’d done him a favour by letting him breathe.
“Girl.” MJ’s voice cut through it.
You looked up and caught her in the mirror. She was standing a little behind you, brows raised, mouth twitching like she was trying not to laugh but couldn’t fully hide the exasperation either.
“Michelle,” you said back, tilting your head.
She shook her head, amused but pointed, and slid her hand over your shoulder as she brushed past you to the door.
“Just remember this is a girls’ night,” she said. “No hate. Just… saying.”
“Two minutes,” you muttered, eyes back on the screen.
Darcy, already halfway to the door, turned her head. “I’m timing it,” she announced. “Like, actually. One-twenty seconds. And if you’re still in here, I’m coming back and I’m flushing your fucking phone.”
MJ grabbed Darcy by the wrist and tugged her out, laughing under her breath as they disappeared back into the noise.
You exhaled, it came from deep down within your chest, and your screen lit again before you could even lock it.
james barnes (bucky)
When are you heading home? | 11:02pm
Do you want me to pick you up? You can stay at my place. | 11:03pm
It was honestly impressive how fast he typed. For a man who acted like technology was out to get him, he was weirdly efficient when it came to blowing up your phone. Full sentences, no typos, like he was sitting upright at his kitchen table drafting these messages like professional emails.
You
im sleeping over at MJs. girls night remember | 11:05pm
and i literally slept over the other day 😭 pls stop | 11:05pm
You knew exactly why you’d put that emoji. Not because it was funny, because it softened your words. Because it made it sound playful instead of like you were getting irritated.
You rolled your eyes and shoved your phone back in your purse before you could get sucked into another back-and-forth. You stepped out into the hallway, bass immediately swallowing you again, lights flashing harsh and bright as the crowd pressed past.
Your purse buzzed, faint against your hip. Again. You didn’t even look.
james barnes (bucky)
I will, sorry. | 11:06pm
Tomorrow night then? I miss you. | 11:06pm
Message me when you’re safe at Michelle’s please. | 11:07pm
You found MJ and Darcy posted at the bar the second you stepped out of the bathroom . Darcy was half-turned in her seat, pointing into the crowd and laughing so hard her shoulders were shaking. MJ was rolling her eyes at whatever Darcy was saying, but there was an unwilling little smile on her mouth like she didn’t even want to fight it.
The second you got close, MJ’s eyes slid right to you.
Darcy followed her gaze and started clapping softly. “Shame. Shame. Shame.”
You rolled your eyes so hard you saw your own brain for a second, but that just made them both worse. MJ started up too, syncing up with Darcy. “Shame, shame, shame.”
They were both snickering by the time you slid onto the barstool between them. Darcy didn’t even ask what you wanted, just shoved a cold glass of something colourful into your hand.
“Yeah, yeah,” you muttered, taking a sip. The drink was too sweet, too strong, exactly what you needed. “Laugh while you bitches can.”
You tried to get your head back into the night. The bass was steady, the lights were doing that neon blur thing, bodies moving around you like one big wave. For a couple seconds it worked. You let yourself sink into it, let the noise swallow your thoughts.
Then MJ, from your left, “You know I love you, right?”
You groaned into your drink on instinct. “MJ. Not right now.”
Darcy laughed beside you.
“I do,” MJ said anyway, undeterred. “I love you.”
“—Michelle, please.”
“Hey, I’m not trying to jump you. I’m just asking… what are we doing right now?”
You let out a slow breath and looked down at your glass. “We’re drinking right now.”
“Mm-hm.”
Darcy jumped in before MJ could keep going, because Darcy physically could not let a serious moment live longer than ten seconds.
“Sweetie, we’re not judging you,” Darcy said, talking with her hands. “But your man is on some serious Joe Goldberg crap.”
You couldn’t help the snort that came out of you.
Darcy took that as encouragement and leaned forward, eyes wide under her glasses like she was swearing on a Bible. “No, I’m serious. Like I would not be shocked in the slightest if he’s here right now. Somewhere we can’t see. Just… posted up in a corner and watching you.”
“Darcy,” MJ said, exasperated.
“What?” Darcy swung on her stool and started scanning the room, craning dramatically like she was about to catch him hiding behind a speaker. “Men do weird shit like that all the time.”
You laughed despite yourself, watching her spin like a damn security camera.
MJ pinched the bridge of her nose. “Darcy, please.”
You rolled your eyes, shaking your head as you took another sip. The alcohol was settling warm in your chest now, smoothing everything out around the edges. Megan was blasting through the speakers, bass vibrating up through the metal footrest of the stool, and for a minute the three of you just sat there listening to the music and watching people move around the packed dance floor.
Then your shoulders dropped a little.
You looked down at your glass, turning it slowly between your hands before speaking. “So what should I do?”
“Dump him.”
“Dump his old creepy ass.”
MJ and Darcy answered at the exact same time.
“Wow,” you said dryly. “Thank you two so much for helping me find a mature, adult solution for my boyfriend who I actually care about.”
Darcy, completely unfazed, took your empty glass out of your hand and replaced it with a fresh drink. “You asked,” she said.
MJ leaned against the bar, eyes still on you. “Then take a break.”
You turned your head slowly. “A break?”
“A break,” she repeated with a nod. Then she lifted a hand before you could interrupt. “Now hold on now. Not a breakup. I’m not saying dump him, block him and start the healing process. I’m saying… maybe spend some time apart so he can calm the hell down.”
You frowned faintly, listening.
“Because right now?” MJ continued, voice even, “that man wakes up, thinks about you. Goes to work, thinks about you. Eats, sleeps, breathes you. And I know you think it’s cute—”
You tilted your head. “It’s a little cute.”
“—but it’s not healthy,” she finished. “He needs to remember there’s a world around him that doesn’t revolve around you.”
Something in your expression shifted at that. You looked down at your drink again, thumb tracing the condensation on the glass. The idea rubbed you the wrong way immediately—the thought of him not orbiting you quite so hard. Which probably said something bad about you too.
Still… the rest of it sounded reasonable.
A break wasn’t a breakup. Just some distance. Some breathing room. Time for him to remember he was a grown man with a grown life and grown responsibilities outside of you.
“A break,” you repeated slowly, more thoughtful this time.
The conversation about a “break” had been looping in your head for some time, a persistent mental itch you couldn’t quite scratch.
You knew you had to do it—sooner or later—but as you let out a low, guttural moan, your back arching and sliding against the cool, expensive glide of Bucky’s Egyptian cotton sheets, the idea felt so far away.
It was hard to maintain a level head when your body was being systematically wrecked by the man beneath you.
The room was filled with the heavy, wet sound of unapologetic squelching that echoed in the quiet of his massive bedroom. You let out a sudden, sharp squeal, your hips jerking upward as you spared a glance down.
There he was.
Still in his slacks and that crisp button-down, his tie loosened and hanging haphazardly around his neck, looking every bit the stable, put-together man the world saw. But here, with your legs draped heavily over his broad shoulders and his face buried deep in your cunt, he was nothing but a starving man.
He had been at it for five minutes, meticulously edging you, driving you toward a peak he refused to let you hit.
He shifted, sucking your outer lips into his mouth one by one with this concentrated pressure, before sliding his tongue up your slit. He licked you from bottom to top, over and over, his tongue flat and insistent.
When he finally suctioned his lips over your clit, the vacuum was intense, pulling a loud, broken moan from your throat. You could feel the faint, rough scratch of his mustache against your mound, as he pushed his tongue inside you, humming low in his throat.
The vibration of that traveled straight through your nerves, making your walls clench tight around him. You collapsed back into the pillows, breathless and frustrated, your voice sounding strained.
“Bucky—please... just give it to me,” you whimpered.
He didn’t pull away. Instead, he let out a muffled, groan against your skin, his voice vibrating against your folds. He paused for just a second, glancing up at you with dark, blown-out pupils.
“I know, baby,” he rasped, his voice gravelly and thick that made you clench again. “But I’m just taking my time with her. Spent the whole damn day at the office thinkin’ about her...”
He leaned back in, his tongue swirling around your clit . “She’s so happy to see me, isn’t she? Look at her... just soaking wet for me.”
A broken, whiny sound escaped your throat as you felt the blunt pressure of one of Bucky’s thick fingers probing your entrance.
He didn’t rush; he sank in slowly, stretching you open, and the relief was so instantaneous that you instinctively arched your hips, pushing yourself hard against his hand to swallow him whole. Your fingers dove blindly into his hair, gripping the thick strands and scratching at his scalp.
Bucky let out a low hum, his body reacting to the touch like a devoted dog getting a scratch behind the ears.
“Another one,” you sighed, your voice breathless and strained, your head tossing back against the pillows. “Baby, please... another one.”
He paused, lifting his head just enough to look at you. His mouth was a glistening, wet mess, coated in your slick, his lips swollen from the suction. Bucky didn’t pull his finger out; instead, he kept it thrusting in a slow, rhythmic pace that made your toes curl.
“Another one?” he murmured.
He looked down at where he was joined with you, a smile playing on his lips. “Look at her... she’s greedy, isn’t she? Just begging for more.”
“Bucky, stop talking to my pussy and just do it,“ you whined.
He let out an amused, condescending huff, “I know, honey. I know you’re desperate.”
Without another word, he slid a second finger inside. The fullness made you gasp, your internal muscles clenching tight around him as he began to drive both fingers deep into you. His pace quickening as he found the exact spot that made your vision blur.
He shifted his weight, sliding upward until his heavy, broad frame blanketed your body.
He leaned down, pressing his chest against yours, until your noses were touching. His lips parted, hovering just a fraction of an inch from yours.
You clenched your eyes shut, your breath coming in shallow hitches. You were practically just moaning and breathing directly into his open mouth.
“Tell me how it feels,” he whispered, his breath hot against your lips. “Tell me how much you need me to fill you up.”
“I need... I need you,” you whimpered, your hips stuttering against his hand. “Please, Bucky, I can’t—I’m going to—”
“You’re going to do exactly what I tell you,” he said hoarsely.
He didn’t give you a moment to breathe, his fingers curling deep inside you, hooking upward to snag that hypersensitive sweet spot that made your brain short-circuit.
He trailed a line of searing kisses from your flushed cheek down to the sensitive curve of your neck.
“Uh-huh... okay,” you nodded insistently into the crook of his neck, your breath coming in jagged gasps. You could feel the heavy, rigid bulge of him through his slacks, grinding firmly into your stomach with every thrust of his fingers.
“Cum for me, baby. I wanna feel it,” he breathed against your lips. He nibbled at your bottom lip, teasing the skin before pulling it into his mouth, sucking on it. While his mouth claimed yours, his thumb found your clit, rubbing in fast, heavy circles.
“Bucky, please—”
“Look at me,” he insisted, his eyes locking onto yours. “Just let go for me.”
As he curled his fingers one last time, digging deep and applying a sudden, sharp pressure, you let out a loud, guttural moan. “Fuck, fuck, fuckkkk!”
An overwhelming volcano of pleasure surged through you, your pussy spasming violently around his fingers in tight contractions. Your back arched off the bed, your body straining upward, trying to push yourself even deeper into his touch as your orgasm rolled over you in waves.
As your peak subsided, you slumped back into this sheets, your chest heaving and your limbs feeling like lead.
Slowly, he slid his fingers out of you with a wet, suctioning sound. Without breaking eye contact, you watched through an amused, exhausted daze as he brought his hand up to his face, sliding his fingers into his mouth to taste the remnants of your orgasm.
He closed his eyes for a second, savouring the taste of you.
“God, you taste so good,” he hummed, his eyes snapping open to look at you.
You let out a weak, breathless laugh, reaching up to shove at his chest. “You are so weird.”
He leaned down, his lips brushing against yours. “You love it,” he murmured, his hand sliding down to grip your ass with a firm, possessive squeeze. “Now, tell me how much you missed me today.”
“Ha ha,” you mumbled sarcastically, rolling your eyes. You tried to maintain a shred of your composure as the heavy weight of him shifted off you.
Bucky loomed over your naked body, while he began to unbutton his shirt, the fabric straining against the breadth of his shoulders.
“How was your day, doll?” he asked casually.
Your mind was the furthest thing from a professional debrief. As the buttons gave way, revealing the expanse of his broad, muscular chest and the dusting of hair that trailed down toward his waistband, you felt a familiar, insistent tingle returning to your core.
“I really do not wanna talk about my day right now, Bucky. Thanks,” you breathed, your eyes locked on him.
You watched him like it was your own private strip show, your gaze tracing the line of his abs as his hands finally reached for his belt. The metallic clink of the buckle echoed in the quiet room.
Almost as a reflex, your thighs squeezed together, a subconscious attempt to soothe the ache building between them.
Bucky didn’t miss a thing. He let out an endearing, husky chuckle, “Still need me, huh? Good girl.”
With one fluid motion, he shoved his pants and boxers down to his ankles. His cock sprang free with a heavy thud, slapping against his stomach, bobbing up and down. It was thick, veiny, and the head was a deep, angry red, looking almost painfully engorged after how long he’d been eating you out.
“You ready for me?” he murmured.
You didn’t even use words. You nodded enthusiastically, your attitude completely gone. You swiftly turned away from him, shifting to your knees and arching your back in a deep curve as you wiggled your ass at him.
Behind you, he let out a jagged exhale, and before you could even blink, you felt one of his massive hands clamp onto your hip, his fingers digging into your skin, before both hands moved to spread your cheeks wide, exposing your still soaking pussy to the cool air.
You let out a small, pleased sigh, as you felt the scorching tip of him slide against your slit, teasing the entrance.
He didn’t go in yet; instead, he dragged the length of his cock slowly across your cheeks and through your slick, painting you in his pre-cum.
“So wet for me,” he murmured, almost fixated on the sight of his cock sliding between your cheeks. “Been thinkin’ about this all day. Just imagining me filling you up, stretching you out.”
“Just—fuck, put it in,” you whimpered impatiently, glancing back at him over your shoulder.
“Patience, sweetheart,” he whispered, his grip tightening on your hips. He pulled you back toward him until there was no space left between your skin and his, and then, without warning, your world shifted. With a sudden movement, he flipped you onto your back.
You let out a small, surprised squeak as he gripped your ankles, dragging you by your legs to the very edge of the bed. He hoisted your legs up, draping your feet over his broad shoulders, leaving you completely open for him.
“Need to see my baby’s face while I fuck her,” he rasped.
As you shifted your hips impatiently, trying to bridge the gap, he dragged the head of his cock over your slit one more time. The blunt tip caught your clit perfectly, sending a jolt of electricity through your spine that made you gasp.
He didn’t let the moment sit for too long; he nudged his tip against your entrance, popping the head in with a firm thrust that forced a loud, guttural moan from your throat.
Bucky’s brow furrowed, his jaw tightening as he felt the friction of your walls clamping down on him. He groaned, a sound of pure, agonized pleasure. “God, stretched you out so many times, but you’re still so tight for me... s’like you’re tryin’ to squeeze the life outta me.”
He paused for a second, buried just an inch deep, letting the pressure build. “You like feeling me in there, yeah? Like knowing I’m the only one who gets to do this to you.”
“Yes... please, baby, all the way,” you begged, your hands reaching up to clutch at his forearms.
“I got you, doll,” he whispered.
And just like that he drove the rest of his cock home, bottoming out with a heavy slap against your thighs that knocked the breath from your lungs.
You cried out, your eyes fluttering shut as he filled every available space inside you, the sensation of being completely stuffed making your mind go blank.
He stayed there for a moment, his chest heaving, a low groan rumbling from deep in his throat as he savoured the feeling of being completely encased in your pussy, your walls fluttering around him like they were trying to pull him deeper.
“Feel that, baby?” he rasped, his voice ragged and strained. “Feel how much I need to be inside you? You’re fuckin’ perfect... made for me.”
He began to move, starting with slow, agonizingly deep strokes that made you whimper with every pull. Each time he withdrew, he dragged the thick ridge of his crown against your inner walls, coaxing out a wet, obscene sound before he slammed back in.
Standing at the edge of the bed, he began to drive into you like a man possessed. The slaps of skin against skin was the only thing you could hear right now, alongside the wet squelch of your slick coating every inch of him.
His balls repeatedly slapped against your ass, and you could do nothing but dig your nails into the sheets, your body bouncing helplessly with every thrust.
Bucky’s eyes were locked on where your bodies met, his jaw slack, his lips parted as he watched his cock disappear into you over and over.
“Look at that,” he breathed, almost to himself. “Look how pretty she looks taking my cock, sweetheart. She’s so happy... she’s gripping me so fuckin’ tight, like she never wants me to leave.”
You tried to form a response, but all that came out was a broken moan as he angled his hips, finding that deep, sensitive spot that made your vision blur.
“You like being fucked like this?” he demanded, his voice dropping to a rough whisper. “You like knowing I can’t get enough of you? That I wake up every morning thinkin’ about burying myself inside you?”
“Yes... yes, Bucky...” you gasped, your voice barely audible over the sounds of your bodies colliding.
The frustration that had been simmering in Bucky’s chest finally boiled over—the desperate, gnawing need to be as close to you as humanly possible. His hips were already hammering into yours with a punishing rhythm, but it wasn’t enough.
He needed more.
Without breaking his pace, he hooked his hands under your knees and slid your legs from his shoulders, guiding them to wrap around his waist.
The shift in angle made him sink even deeper, and you let out a choked sob as he adjusted.
Then he leaned forward, his weight pressing you into the mattress as his hips continued their brutal assault, the force of his thrusts actually pushing your body up the bed. He crawled over you, his chest hovering just above yours, his breath ghosting hot and ragged across your face.
For a moment, his eyes dropped; fixated on the way your breasts bounced. His mouth twitched, the urge to lean down and suck one of those hard nipples between his lips almost overwhelming.
But he forced his gaze back up, traveling the line of your jaw, the curve of your neck, until he found your face. Your eyes were closed, your lips parted, your expression slack and utterly lost in the sensation of being fucked senseless.
He didn’t like that. He needed you with him.
He released your hips and reached for your hands, prying your fingers from the crumpled sheets you were gripping. He laced his fingers through yours, pressing your palms flat against the mattress on either side of your head.
Your eyes fluttered open meeting his. Those barely-blue irises were blown wide, dark with something raw and animalistic.
“This house is always so big and quiet, baby,” he breathed against your neck, his lips brushing the sensitive skin just below your ear before he nipped at your earlobe.
You could feel the thick ridge of him dragging against your inner walls, the friction building a pressure so intense it made your toes curl.
“I miss you when you’re not here,” he continued, as he buried his face in the crook of your neck, his words muffled against your skin. “I hate it. Hate coming home and not seeing you. Hate sleeping alone.”
You were barely coherent, lost in the haze of being absolutely pounded into the mattress. The world had narrowed to the sound of his grunts, the wet slap of skin against skin. You couldn’t form words, only broken moans and gasps.
Then his next sentence caught your attention.
“Think you should move in with me.”
He punctuated the words with little nibbles along your jaw, his teeth scraping against the tender skin before his tongue soothed the sting.
You were so dazed, your brain so thoroughly scrambled by the relentless fucking, that you didn’t even have the strength to turn your head and glare at him through half-lidded eyes.
He kept thrusting, kept spewing his nonsense into your ear like a prayer.
“I’ll fuck you every morning when we wake up—” He felt your walls flutter around him at the words, and mistook it for encouragement, his pace quickening. “—and every night before we go to sleep. You like that, huh? Wake up to me buried inside you, feel me stretching you out before you even open your eyes.”
He shifted his weight, pressing his chest flush against yours so that every inch of his sweat-slicked skin was molded to your own.
“And you can change anything in the house you want, doll. Paint the walls. Buy new furniture. I don’t care.” His voice dropped to a fevered whisper, his lips brushing against yours as he spoke. “Just come home to me. Let me take care of you.”
You finally managed to pry one eye open, staring at him through your lashes, your voice a breathless, broken mess. “Bucky, what the fuck are you talking abo—Oh fuck!”
He pulled back nearly all the way out, the thick, glistening head of his cock catching on your rim, and then drove back in with one devastating, deep thrust that hit the spot that made stars burst behind your eyes.
The sudden, blinding orgasm tore through you without warning, ripping a cry from your throat as your body arched beneath him, your inner walls clamping down on him in a vise-like grip that made him groan like a man possessed.
“Fuck, yes,” he hissed, his hips stuttering as he tried to keep thrusting through your climax, each movement sending fresh waves of pleasure through your oversensitive nerves. “That’s it, baby. Squeeze me just like that. Cum for me.”
The aftershocks of your orgasm were still rippling through you in waves, each clench of your inner walls drawing a deep grunt from deep in Bucky’s chest.
His hips never faltered driving into you, the loud, wet squelch of his cock pistoning in and out of your soaked pussy sounding obscene in the quiet room.
“Almost there, doll,” he rasped against your throat, the words barely intelligible through his heavy breathing. “So close. Fuck, you feel so good.”
You were still floating in the hazy aftermath of your orgasm, your limbs heavy and useless, but something nagged at the back of your hazy mind.
Something important.
It took you a second to remember it—the empty pack of birth control pills sitting on your nightstand. The new pack you hadn’t started yet. The four-day gap you were in the middle of… which Bucky knew.
Your eyes snapped open, clarity cutting through the fog like a blade.
“Baby,” you mumbled, your voice hoarse and breathless. “Remember to pull out.”
He didn’t seem to hear you. His hips kept hammering, his rhythm growing sloppier, more desperate. You could see the strain in his face, the pinch of his brows, the way his mouth hung open with broken, breathy groans.
He was seconds away, his cock twitching and throbbing inside you with every thrust.
“Bucky.” You managed to untangle one of your hands from his, slapping weakly at his shoulder. “Don’t cum in me.”
It barely fazed him. He caught your wrist and pressed it back into the mattress, his fingers lacing through yours again as he smashed his lips against yours in a bruising, desperate kiss.
His tongue thrust into your mouth in rhythm with his hips, and he spoke against your lips, his voice a low, pleading groan.
“She’s gripping me so tight, honey,” he breathed, his lips brushing yours with every word. “I don’t think I can pull out.”
Your eyes flew open, your words muffled against his mouth. “Don’t you fucking dare.”
“I can’t help it, doll.” His voice cracked. He pulled back just enough to look at you, his blue eyes blown wide and his face flushed red. “I’ll die if I don’t cum in her. Do you want me to die, doll? Do you?”
You could barely make sense of his absurd words, your brain still scrambled from the relentless fucking.
You tried to push at his shoulder again, but he was solid as a mountain. He captured your mouth in another searing kiss, swallowing your protests as his hips slammed forward one last time.
He stilled with a long, agonized groan that seemed to tear from the very depths of his chest. You gasped against his lips as you felt it—hot, thick jets of his cum flooding your insides, painting your walls with his release.
He pulsed inside you, his hips twitching through the aftershocks, holding himself buried so deep you could feel every spasm.
When he finally broke the kiss, he rested his forehead against yours, his breath coming in ragged, uneven pants. A low, satisfied hum rumbled in his chest as he slowly, almost lazily, rocked his hips, milking every last drop of his release into you.
“Fuck,” he whispered, his voice thick with post-orgasmic bliss. He pressed a soft, apologetic kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Couldn’t help it, sweetheart. She was begging for it.”
His hand slid down your sweat-slicked stomach, coming to rest on the soft swell just above where you were still joined. His palm pressed down, and you felt a fresh trickle of warmth as his cum began to leak around him.
“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he murmured against your skin, a lazy, satisfied smile spreading across his lips. “But what a way to g— ow!”
The smack echoed louder than it should have in the quiet room, connecting with the back of his skull with a satisfying crack that made him yelp.
His head snapped to the side, the lazy smile wiped clean off his face, replaced by a wide-eyed, dazed confusion that would’ve been almost endearing if you weren’t so overly irritated.
“Clean. Me.” Your glare could’ve curdled milk.
It took a full three seconds for the words to penetrate his post-coital fog. You watched the realization dawn slow, then all at once.
Bucky’s mouth opened and closed, a fish gasping for air, and you watched the guilt wash over his features; the sheepish crinkle of his brow, the way his gaze dropped to where you were still joined, a sticky mess of his cum leaking out around him.
He swallowed hard, and you felt the bastard twitch inside you at your smack, his half-hard cock giving an involuntary pulse that made your eye twitch.
“Right. ’Course. Yeah, I got it, doll.” He pulled out slowly, a wince crossing his face as he watched his release leak down your thigh. “Shit. Let me just—”
You said nothing.
Just stared at him until he scrambled off the bed, his softening cock bobbing between his thighs as his pale ass disappeared into the adjoining bathroom.
You heard water running, the rustle of a cloth, and then he was back, kneeling between your legs with the careful, contrite air of a man who knew he’d pissed you off.
You lay there stiff as a board, staring at the ceiling, refusing to give him the satisfaction of meeting his eyes. He worked in silence, dabbing at the mess he’d made, pressing kisses to your inner thighs when he was done.
You yanked the sheet up over yourself and turned onto your side, your back firmly to him as you reached for the remote on the nightstand.
And so began the silent treatment.
Bucky, to his credit, seemed to understand the gravity of his transgression. He shuffled around the room, pulling on a pair of sweatpants, and disappeared into the kitchen.
Ten minutes later, he reappeared with a plate bearing a warm brownie, a generous dollop of whipped cream melting on top, and a glass of ice water.
He set it on the nightstand beside you, then climbed onto the bed, his weight dipping the mattress as he slid up behind you. His arm snaked around your waist, pulling you back against his chest, and he pressed his lips to the curve of your shoulder.
You ignored him, reaching for the brownie.
He kissed your shoulder again. Then your neck. Then the shell of your ear. You ignored him like a persistent mosquito, taking a bite, letting the silence stretch.
“You know I love you, yeah?”
You paused mid-chew, turning your head just enough to glance at him from the corner of your eye. You hummed, a noncommittal and flat sound, and went back to your brownie.
His arm tightened around your midsection, pulling you closer, his lips finding the curve of your neck in a series of featherlight kisses. “But you know, sweetheart... if you hadn’t been squeezing me so tight, I might’ve had a fighting chance. How’s a guy supposed to think straight when you’re milking him like that?
You set your fork down, turned your head just enough to fix him with a deadpan stare. “Are you seriously trying to blame your cumming inside me on my pussy?”
He had the decency to look caught, his blue eyes wide and innocent in a way that was utterly unconvincing. “No, no—I’m just saying—”
“Uh-huh.” You hummed, turning back to the TV.
He sighed against your neck, his arm tightening around your waist. “I love you,” he murmured, trying a different angle. “You know I’d do anything for you.”
You took another bite, pointedly ignoring him.
At least the fool had enough sense not to bring up that moving in, living with him bullshit he’d been spewing while he was balls-deep inside you.
You had no idea where that came from.
His hand slid up to rest over your heart, his thumb tracing a soft circle over your collarbone. “And you know you love me too. Even when you’re mad. Even when you’re giving me the silent treatment like a brat.”
Your jaw tightened, but you didn’t rise to the bait.
You felt his lips press a lingering kiss to the crown of your head. His hand moving down to rub slow circles on your stomach, the gesture soothing, possessive.
Yeah, you thought, staring at the flickering TV screen, a break is definitely needed.
But even as you thought it, you leaned back into his chest, just a fraction, and felt him exhale against your neck. The idiot thought he was winning you over.
Let him think that.
“A break?”
The word hung in the air like a bad smell neither of you wanted to acknowledge. You stood awkwardly in his living room, your jacket still on, keys clutched in your hand, a clear signal that you weren’t staying, despite the way he’d lit up when you walked through the door.
Bucky was frozen across the room, a bowl of popcorn balanced in his hands. He’d made it fresh, the buttery smell still wafting through the air, probably with that hopeful little grin on his face when he’d heard your knock.
Perfect timing, doll, I just—
Except you’d cut him off before he could finish. Told him you couldn’t stay long. Watched his face cycle through confusion, hurt, and now this—a weird, controlled stillness that felt more unsettling than if he’d just thrown the bowl at the wall.
He set the popcorn down on the coffee table with exaggerated care as he rubbed his forehead.
“I don’t understand,” he said, his voice low and carefully measured. “What—what does that mean?”
You let out a long exhale, shifting your weight from one heel to the other. “Time to spend away from each other while we—”
“—so you’re breaking up with me.”
It wasn’t a question. It was a statement, flat and accusing, like you’d already handed him the pink slip.
“No, I’m not breaking up with you, I’m—”
“—then what are you saying?” His voice became rougher. He gestured vaguely, a jerky motion that nearly sent a lamp flying off the end table.
He caught it at the last second, fumbling it back into place, and the near-miss only seemed to rattle him more, “Because it sounds like you’re saying you wanna leave me. Like you’re done. Like I’m—”
“If you let me speak, then maybe I can fucking explain!”
You snapped it before you could stop yourself, the words sharp and loud enough to make him blink. His mouth snapped shut. His eyes went wide, completely startled.
The silence that followed was thick, heavy, and incredibly awkward.
You squeezed your eyes shut, took a long breath, and counted to four in your head. One. Two. Three. Four.
When you opened your eyes, you plastered on your sunniest customer-service smile, the one you reserved for difficult clients and, apparently, emotionally unstable boyfriends.
“A break,” you repeated, infusing the word with forced cheerfulness, “means we take some time apart. Space from one another. Time for ourselves. To breathe.”
Bucky’s jaw tightened. He was trying to stay calm, you could see it in the way his hands curled and uncurled at his sides, in the way he kept swallowing like he was forcing down words he wanted to say.
His eyes stayed fixed on you, searching, and the longer you stared back, the more he started shaking his head.
“Why?” His voice cracked on the single syllable. “Why do we need that?”
You opened your mouth, then paused. The truth was, you’d rehearsed this conversation about six different ways and still hadn’t landed on a script that didn’t make you sound like an asshole. So you winged it.
“To... grow as separate people. Become less... dependent on each other.” The words tasted like bullshit coming out.
He stared at you like you’d just started speaking in tongues. His brows furrowed, that deep V forming between them. “But we’re not dependent on each other.”
You bit the inside of your cheek.
No, you thought. I’m not. But you sure as hell are.
You let out a small, exasperated sigh. The popcorn on the coffee table was definitely cold now. The lamp he’d nearly knocked over had stopped swaying. And you were this close to just walking out the door.
“I mean, sweetie, c’mon. Let’s be honest with ourselves right now.”
You were dumb enough to take your eyes off him for just a second, glancing toward the hallway, mentally calculating the escape route, and that’s when you heard the shift of his weight, the quick, determined stride of his boots on the hardwood.
“Bucky, what are—hmph—”
Before you could finish, his hands were on your face. Not gently. Gripping. His palms cupped your cheeks like you were a football he was about to punt, and then his mouth was on yours.
His tongue pushed past your lips before you could even register what was happening, and for a solid three seconds, you just stood there, frozen, letting him practically molest your mouth with the enthusiasm of a man trying to kiss the words right out of your brain.
What the fuck.
He broke the kiss with a wet smack, but before you could say anything—before you could even catch your breath—his fingers squeezed your cheeks together, forcing your mouth into a fish-like pout. Your lips puckered involuntarily. Your words came out garbled.
“Mmph—Bucky—”
“I love you,” he emphasised.
Kiss. Another one, quick and frantic, against your squished lips.
“And you love me.”
Kiss. This one lingered half a second longer, like he was trying to imprint the words onto your mouth.
“I need you, doll.”
And then he went in for a fourth kiss; longer, deeper, his tongue sliding back into your mouth while his fingers still kept your face hostage. You couldn’t breathe. Could only make muffled, indignant noises against his lips and slap at his chest with increasing urgency.
Slap. Slap. SLAP.
Finally, he pulled back, breathing hard, a thin string of saliva connecting your lips before it snapped. His pupils were blown wide. His cheeks were flushed.
You gasped for air, wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, and stared at him in disbelief.
“What is wrong with you!” you said incredulously, shoving him back with both hands against his chest.
It was like pushing against a brick wall wrapped in an old knitted sweater. He barely budged, then tried to grab your wrists, those big, warm hands reaching for you like magnetic force,but you were faster. You dodged left, put the coffee table between you, and held up a warning finger.
“Don’t.”
The look on his face shifted from desperate to wounded to frustrated in about 0.3 seconds. He rubbed his eye with the heel of his palm. That was his tell. The impending headache was already setting up camp behind his temples. His mouth set into a firm line, barely visible under that stupidly attractive mustache.
Then he started pacing. Back and forth across the living room rug.
“I don’t understand where this is coming from,” he said, and the laugh that followed wasn’t a laugh at all, more a cynical huff of air. “I’ve done everything for you. Everything.”
You froze. There was an edge to his voice now, a sharpness you hadn’t heard before. He wasn’t looking at you anymore. He was staring at the wall, at the floor, at the ceiling, anywhere but your face.
“I buy you clothes.” Thud. Thud. “I pay for dinners.” Thud. “For hair appointments. For nails—”
Nails. Shit. You had an appointment with Yelena in thirty minutes.
“—I’ve been attentive. And supportive. And loyal.” His voice was rising, cracking with disbelief. “I don’t look at other women. I don’t think about other women. I don’t even notice other women exist unless they’re blocking my view of you. So what the fuck did I do wrong for you to break up with me?”
His eyes snapped back to yours, wounded and accusatory.
You opened your mouth to correct him—it’s a break, Bucky, a break, not a breakup—but he bulldozed right over you.
“Tell me.” He stepped closer. “What did I do?”
You scoffed.
Because suddenly every legitimate reason you had poofed right out of your head like smoke.
And still, despite the fact that he was standing there yelling at you like a madman, you had the decency to not want to hurt his feelings by calling him a clingy, obsessed loser.
You lifted a hand like it was obvious. “The texts,” you said, flat.
His eyes narrowed. Genuinely confused. Confused, like you’d just accused him of a crime he had no memory of committing. “What texts?”
You waved your hands around like you were crazy… because you felt it, the absurdity of having to explain this.
“The gazillion texts I get throughout the day from you. On the hour. Every hour. ‘Good morning, doll.’ ‘What are you eating for lunch, doll?’ ‘Did you see the sunset, doll?’ ‘Thinking about you, doll.’” You dropped your hands. “It’s a lot.”
He let out a disbelieving scoff, his head tilting back like he was seeking divine intervention. “You’re breaking up with me because I text too much?”
Your jaw dropped. There was no way this bastard was making you seem like the irrational one here.
“Okay, then how about asking me to move in with you during sex?” You crossed your arms, lifting your chin. “When I’m—when I’m literally so distracted and can’t form a coherent sentence?”
“Sue me for getting lost in the moment,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest. The movement pulled his sweater tight across his shoulders, and you hated that you noticed. “I don’t hear you ever complain when I say I’m gonna breed you. Or fuck you through the mattress. You seem pretty into it then.”
“Oh my God.” You covered your face with both hands, pressing your palms into your eye sockets like you could physically block out the absurdity of this conversation. The pressure made little pinpricks of light dance behind your lids.
Bucky sighed, as if he genuinely believed he was the victim here. He rubbed a hand over his jaw, then dragged it up through his hair. “I can’t believe you’re breaking up with me.”
And then he turned and walked away, heading toward the foyer.
Your heart did that stupid thing it always did, lurched and twisted. Because the sadness in his voice was real. And you, absolute fool that you were, hurried after him, your heels clicking sharp and fast against the hardwood.
“For the last time, it’s a break, Bucky,” you said for what felt like the hundredth time that day. “It’s not forever. Just a few weeks… maybe a month or two… I don’t know, we’ll see.”
He was already at the entryway cabinet, the antique one with the brass handles that you’d helped him refinish last spring. He yanked open the drawers, rummaging through it with this kind of frantic energy that you did not notice at all.
“It doesn’t have to be this big dramatic thing. I just need—I dunno, space. To breathe without your texts vibrating in my pocket every forty-five minutes. To go a full day without you asking if I’ve eaten or if I’m still mad or what I’m wearing.” You waved a hand at his back. “Lots of couples do breaks, it strengthens the relationship.”
He shook his head, and you heard the soft click of his tongue against his teeth. “Can’t do a break, doll.”
You scoffed, irritation flaring hot again. “Well, that’s not really your choice to—”
He turned around.
And you stopped mid-sentence because he was holding a whole-ass gun in his hand.
You didn’t even register it at first, just a blur of metal and movement, but then he swung it, sweeping it in an arc like he was gesturing with it, and you ducked out of pure instinct, your shoulders hunching, your hands flying up.
“What the fuck!”
But Bucky didn’t look at you. He looked at the gun, turning it over in his hand like he was examining it for the first time. And then, without hesitation, he pressed the muzzle against his own temple.
“Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God.” Your hand clamped over your mouth, fingers pressing into your lips, “Why do you have that right by the door?”
He ignored you.
“You can’t leave me if I’m dead.” He said it like it was the most logical thing in the world.
You just stared at him, mouth hanging open. The seconds stretched, and somewhere in the back of your mind, you realized you should probably be scared. Worried. Calling 911. But instead, all that came out was a long, exhausted sigh.
“Bucky. Oh my God.” You rubbed your forehead. “Put that down!”
“No.” His voice was firm. Petulant. The no of a toddler who’d decided he was done with vegetables.
And because you had apparently lost every shred of self-preservation instinct you’d ever possessed, you took a step forward, hand reaching out like you were just going to snatch the loaded revolver from this six-foot man.
He backed up immediately, the muzzle digging deeper into his temple, the skin whitening around the metal. “I swear I’ll kill myself. I will. Don’t test me, doll.”
“Oh my God.”
“I love you so much. I can’t live without you.” He shifted the gun down, pressing it under his chin, tilting his head back so he was looking down the barrel of his own mortality. “I can’t live without you. You know that. You’ve always known that.”
You stood there, frozen, arms hanging limp at your sides. And because your mouth had no filter, you heard yourself murmur, “We’ve only been dating for seven months.”
Bucky’s eyes widened, just a fraction. The gun wavered. And for a split second, you could have sworn you saw a flicker of embarrassment cross his face.
But then he recovered, pressing the barrel harder against the soft flesh beneath his jaw. “Seven months and twenty-five days.”
“You counted?”
“I know what I’ve got, sweetheart. And I’m not letting it go.” His voice dropped, low and serious, “Not even if it kills me.”
You could only stare at this fool for so long before your head dropped to your chest, a small, disbelieving chuckle slipping past your lips.
His brow furrowed. The gun stayed pressed under his chin, but his eyes narrowed, “I’m about to put a bullet through my skull and you’re laughing?”
You pursed your lips, trying to smother your smile, and let out a long exhale, tilting your head as you looked up at him, “I wanna say I’m too old for this shit,” you said dryly, “but you’re a hell of a lot older than me, so… what do we do now?”
“I—” He faltered. Adjusted his grip on the revolver. “That’s not how you’re supposed to talk to me.”
Your brows knit together. “How am I supposed to talk to you, then?”
The more unaffected you seemed, the more his frustration bled through. The barrel shifted slightly, a tiny wobble, and he reset it against the soft skin under his chin. His jaw tightened. He looked at you like you were the unreasonable one.
“You’re supposed to be begging me to stop. Crying. Telling me you love me.” He gestured with his free hand, the motion jerky, like he was trying to reassert control over the situation. “That’s how this works.”
You stared at him for a long moment after that, not really knowing what else to say anymore.
Instead you clapped your hands together, and sighed, “Well. I gotta go.”
“Wait—what?”
You started edging toward the door, slow and casual, like you were just stretching your legs. Your eyes never left his face, but your hand was already reaching behind you, fingers searching for the doorknob. “I’ve got a nail appointment in, like, ten minutes that I’m probably gonna be late for.”
His eye twitched. A micro-spasm of disbelief. The gun rotated in his grip, not raising, just… shifting.
“I’m about to kill myself,” he said, each word enunciated like he was speaking to a child, “and you’re leaving for a nail appointment.”
“Yeah,” you said flatly, your fingers brushing the brass knob. “And you know how expensive Yelena’s late fee is.”
“You can’t be serious.” His voice dropped, softer now, almost reasonable. “I’m standing here with a gun to my head, begging you not to leave me, and you’re worried about a late fee? Is that really what our relationship means to you?”
“I am completely serious,” you said, ignoring the barb.
Before he could retort, your hand finally found the doorknob. You turned it, yanked the door open.
Late afternoon air hit your face, and then you were moving, sliding through the gap, your heels clicking on the hardwood of the foyer onto the worn birch of his porch.
“For fuck’s sake—”
He yelled your name, the sound bouncing off the walls and chasing you down the steps. Behind you, you heard the heavy thunk of the gun hitting the floor and then the heavy thud of his shoes on the porch, scrambling after you.
You had a head start. By the time you reached your car, you could hear him gaining, swearing under his breath, probably calculating how much force it would take to haul you back inside.
Your key found the lock on the first try. You slid into the driver’s seat, slammed the door, and had the engine roaring to life before he reached the bumper.
He stopped at the end of the driveway, hands on his hips, chest heaving.
You rolled down the window. just an inch, just enough for your voice to carry.
“I’ll be back in a few hours.” Your tone was calm, almost kind. “We’ll try and have this conversation again. Try not to do anything stupid while I’m gone. And please, for the love of god Bucky, throw that thing away.”
His jaw tightened. His mouth opened, a cutting retort forming, something designed to burrow under your skin and make you feel guilty for walking out on a man who’d just threatened to blow his brains out—
But you were already pulling away from the curb, your taillights the only answer he got.
In your rearview mirror, you watched him stand there, frozen at the edge of the driveway, watching you disappear around the corner.
Let him stew, you thought, gunning the engine toward the salon. He’ll be fine. He always is.
“He pulled out a gun?”
Yelena didn’t look up from your hand, her focus razor-sharp as she filed the edge of your nail into a perfect almond shape.
The salon smelled like acetone and rose-scented hand cream, a combination that had become oddly comforting over the months you’d been coming here. Rows of pink-lit mirrors lined the walls, reflecting the quiet hum of drill bits and the occasional burst of Russian pop music from the speakers.
Yelena’s station was in the back corner, the one with the good lighting and the jar of complimentary vodka shots she kept under the counter for “loyal customers only.”
“Yeah,” you muttered dryly, adjusting your lashes as she moved to your left hand. “I won’t lie—for a moment there, I thought it was about to become a murder-suicide type of situation.”
Yelena pointed the file at you, nodding. “I see a lot of white American men do that on the news.” She tapped the file against her chin, thoughtful. “Where do they get such easy access to guns?”
You could only shrug, the movement pulling at the foil wraps on your other hand. “When you figure that out, please let me know.”
She made a noncommittal hum and returned to work, picking up a tube of gel glue and a single extension.
“So,” she said, not looking up, “you are done with this mad man, da?”
You opened your mouth to answer. Then you closed it. Then you opened it again, but nothing came out. Your face must have done something odd, because Yelena’s eyes snapped to yours.
“Girl.”
“What?” you said defensively.
“You have that look,” she said, pressing the extension into place with practiced care. “That look where normal, beautiful women stay with ugly loser men.”
You pointed a finger at her. “He’s not ugly.”
Yelena just stared at you. Three full seconds of that unblinking Russian gaze. Then she shook her head slowly, “Da. Is confirmed. You are hopeless.”
“It is not that simple,” you said a bit hopelessly.
“Then make it simple so I understand,” she said bluntly. She picked up the UV lamp and slid your hand under it, the blue light casting a sterile glow across your fingers. “Explain to me like I am child.”
You let out a long exhale, slumping back into the chair. The cushion squeaked beneath you. Where to even start? How to explain the gravitational pull of a man who was equal parts sweet and suffocating?
“See, being with a man—it’s like... taking the time to invest in him so it can benefit you a lot. And with James, I’ve invested a lot.” You gestured vaguely. “Time. Energy. Emotional labour. I know his routines, his moods, the way he takes his coffee. I’ve memorised which arguments get him to back down and which ones make him double down. That’s work, Yelena. That’s equity. And as a result I’ve grown very comfortable with him.”
She pulled your hand out of the lamp, inspected the nail, and grunted. “And you are still comfortable with the man even after he kept you hostage, threatening you with a gun?”
“But he wasn’t threatening me,” you emphasised, straightening up. “He threatened himself to keep me. There’s a difference.”
Yelena stopped. Set down the glue. Turned to face you fully, both hands flat on the table in front of her.
“There is no difference,” she said flatly. “Gun is gun. Threat is threat. Man who points gun at himself to make you stay is still pointing gun at you. You are just standing behind bullet path.”
“I probably sounds insane.”
“It is insane,” she corrected, picking up the glue again. “But I am not your mother. I am your friend, more importantly, nail technician. So I will make your nails beautiful, and you will go home to your crazy gun man, and maybe one day you will learn.”
She pressed another extension into place with a decisive click. “Or maybe you will be on news. I will watch and say, ‘I told her.’”
You stared at her.
“That’s a bit dramatic, don’t you think?” you finally said, your voice dry as the cotton balls in the jar beside you.
Yelena just lifted one sleek blonde brow, her expression flat as a frozen lake. She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she picked up your right hand, examined your natural nails, and then looked you dead in the eye.
“He must have a big dick, huh?”
The question came out flat, like she was asking about the weather or the price of gel. No judgment. Just pure, clinical curiosity.
You felt your cheeks warm despite yourself. “Yes he does.”
“Of course. Is always the way. Beautiful women stay with crazy men for one of two reasons; money or dick.” She picked up a file, examining the edge of your nail with a critical eye. “Big dick explains many things. The gun. The madness. The way you keep going back like a moth to flame. Is biological. Men with big dicks and small brains create chemical dependency in women. Very common in America.”
“But he’s kind,” you said, holding up your hand to count on your fingers. “And thoughtful. And attentive—”
“And crazy, and pathetic, and clingy,” she interrupted, picking up a new extension, examined it against your nail.
You rolled your eyes, actually rolled them, like a teenager being lectured.
She lifted her green eyes to yours, and there was something almost fond in them. “You are just as crazy as him.”
“Excuse me?”
“You are,” she repeated, “You like his craziness. And his clingyness. And even when you complain about it, it makes you feel special.” She paused, her gaze flicking to yours. “And horny.”
You opened your mouth to protest. Closed it.
You thought about the way Bucky’s texts made your stomach flip; equal parts annoyance and that warm, someone wants me satisfaction. The way his desperation and dominance in bed made you feel like the center of his entire universe.
“Oh fuck,” you said, the realization settling over you, “I’m a cliché.”
Yelena shrugged, reaching for the topcoat. “Da. But you are cliché with very nice nails. So at least you look good while being pathetic.”
“… Thanks,” you muttered dryly.
Then your phone rang.
You reached for it automatically, half expecting Bucky’s name to light up the screen with another round of I miss you texts. But instead, an unknown number stared back at you,a New York area code you didn’t recognize.
You frowned, swiped to answer, and pressed the phone to your ear.
“Hello?”
Yelena pretended not to watch. She busied herself with oiling your cuticles, her blonde head bowed, her movements steady. But her eyes kept flicking up to you.
“He what?!”
The shriek tore out of you before you could stop it. The sound bounced off the salon’s white walls, and every head in the place swiveled toward you. You felt the weight of fifteen pairs of eyes on your back, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care.
You listened. Nodded. Your eyes stayed fixed on a spot on the wall where a poster advertised acrylics with a woman’s perfectly manicured hand draped across her face.
“Uh huh. Mhm-mhm.”
Your face scrunched. Then, slowly, your shoulders relaxed, the tension bleeding out of them as you let out a breath you didn’t realise you’d been holding.
“Seriously? Okay. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes, thank you.”
You hung up and turned to Yelena, who had stopped pretending to be disinterested. Her eyebrows were raised, as she tilted her head. “What was that?”
You let out a long, slow sigh and held up your freshly done nails, admiring the pink gloss under the neon light.
“Fool shot himself in the foot. Literally. And guess who was listed as his emergency contact?”
Yelena let out a low whistle and shook her head, her lips pressing into a thin line of amused disbelief. She took the cash you dug out of your purse, counted it without looking, and tucked it into the pocket of her apron.
“That is a level of pathetic that has never been reached before,” she said. “Not even in my country.”
“Tell me about it.”
Your shoes clicked against the polished linoleum as you followed the signs to the orthopedics wing.
You still didn’t know what you were going to say to him. Every option cycled through your head—swearing him out, dumping him right there in the hospital bed, maybe throwing your heel at his head for good measure.
The words break up had been sitting on your tongue since you left the salon, a clean cut to end this unnecessary nonsense for good.
But then you rounded the corner to his floor, and your feet slowed without permission.
The door to his room was partially visible through the slatted blinds, and you slowed as you approached, your heels clicking to a stop on the linoleum. Through the narrow gaps, you could see him.
Bucky sat propped against the pillows, his right foot elevated in a crisp white cast that ran from mid-calf to his toes, the edges already starting to scuff from the hospital sheets.
He was still wearing that blue knitted sweater from earlier. It pulled tight across his chest as he sat up straight, hands resting on his thighs, nodding slowly at something the doctor was saying.
His jaw was set, brows furrowed in that serious, focused expression he used whenever he wasn’t speaking to someone other than you, the one that made him look very stoic and grouchy. A stark contrast to the disheveled, manic mess he’d been a few hours ago.
Bucky listened, his eyes fixed on her, the picture of a composed, well-adjusted adult. He didn’t look like a man who had accidentally shot himself in the foot.
And as you stood there, in the harsh fluorescent light of a hospital corridor, realized that you really did love him.
There was no way you were breaking up with him. Unfortunately, you were stuck with this idiot. This beautiful, emotionally unstable, big-hearted fool who couldn’t even orchestrate a proper suicide threat without maiming himself in the process.
The doctor finished her spiel, gave a polite nod, and turned to leave. You stepped back, plastering a courteous smile on your face as she passed, her heels clicking in a rhythm that matched your own. Then you pushed the door open.
Bucky’s head snapped up, and his blue eyes found you instantly.
The guarded, stoic mask crumbled replaced by something embarrassed, a flush creeping up his neck, his lips parting as if to speak but hesitating.
“Now before you say anything,” he started. “I really was planning on getting rid of it. And I did not plan on shooting myself in the foot. It was an accident. I was moving it, and I—”
You didn’t let him finish. You crossed the room in two strides, grabbed the collar of the blue sweater, and pressed your lips to his.
He made a surprised sound—a muffled mmph—but it melted into something softer, his hands finding your waist almost instinctively, pulling you closer until your knees bumped the edge of the bed.
The kiss was warm, tasting faintly of hospital coffee and mint. His fingers curled into the fabric of your jacket, and you felt the tension drain out of his shoulders, his whole body sagging into you.
When you finally broke away, you were both breathing a little heavier. You stayed close, your forehead resting against his, your lips brushing his as you murmured, “No break.”
His eyes fluttered open, and the look on his face was something else entirely. You’d never seen a man who accidentally shot himself in the foot look so happy. The corners of his mouth twitched, then spread into a slow, boyish grin that softened all the hard edges of his face.
And that’s how you ended up sprawled sideways across the narrow hospital bed, one leg dangling off the edge, clipboard balanced on your knee as you scribbled through the stack of discharge paperwork.
Bucky was propped beside you, his shoulder pressed into your side, his arm looping around your waist. Every few minutes, he’d shift, his lips brushing against your shoulder through the thin cotton of your top.
You were halfway through entering his insurance information when he lifted your free hand, and brought it to his mouth. His lips pressed against your knuckles, before he turned your hand over and examined the nails.
“Pretty,” he murmured, his thumb tracing the glossy edge.
You hummed, not looking up from the paperwork. “Yelena had a lot to say about us.”
“Yeah?” He shifted slightly, his interest piqued. “Like what?”
You shrugged, the motion jostling his head gently. “Just very true things.”
“Such as?” he pressed, his lips brushing your jaw, a gentle nudge.
You turned your face toward him, and he met you halfway. The kiss was brief and soft, your lips lingered just long enough for you to feel the warmth of his breath, the slight curve of a smile forming against yours.
“That we’re both crazy,” you said, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes, “And i agree.”
A beat of silence.
Then he let out a low chuckle, before settling his head back against your shoulder. “Whatever you say, doll.”
ROUGH HANDS, STRAWBERRY KISSES & OTHER SOFT THINGS [masterlist]
farmer!bucky barnes x teacher!reader
SUMMARY: navigating your first relationship feels overwhelming at times; every touch, every question, every new feeling makes you wonder if you’re doing things right. thankfully, bucky loves you with enough patience and gentleness to turn every new experience into a reason to hold you a little closer. or, a collection of moments in which your boyfriend teaches you that love was never supposed to feel frightening—not when it’s held in careful hands like his.
GENERAL WARNINGS: 18+ MDNI. each part has its own specific warnings.
A/N: what started as a single one-shot somehow turned into a whole universe I can’t quite let go of. I decided to create a masterlist post where you can find the main one-shot along with all the extra moments and deleted scenes I had to remove because of tumblr’s 1000 blocks limit 😩 honestly, I’ve even been considering permanently opening requests for this universe to see what little moments and ideas other people would want to explore with them too, but I’m still a little unsure about it. if that’s something you’d be interested in, I’d really love to hear your thoughts 🤍
⤷ PARTS
♡ rough hands, strawberry kisses & other soft things (main)
♡ deleted scenes
Pairing: Taxi/Cab Driver!Bucky Barnes x Passenger!Female Reader
Summary: You’re Bucky’s favorite passenger. He knows your schedule by heart. The same day, time, and location. You’re kind. You talk to him like he’s more than just the man behind the wheel. You always tip well.
He can’t help but fall for you.
But he’s just a cab driver. You deserve better than that. Better than him. So, he keeps things professional… until you lean on him one fateful night when the world feels too heavy.
He doesn’t just want to drive you home anymore.
He wants to be someone you can come home to.
Word Count: Over 12.2k
Warnings: Pining, mutual pining, slow(ish) burn, a bit of idiots in love, hurt/comfort, angst with comfort, slight jealousy, flirting, emotional breakdown, crying, insecurities, sick family member, Bucky Barnes (his POV and he's a warning, okay?)
A/N: @tavners suggested Bucky as a cab driver ages ago and the Barbie Dreamhouse helped bring him to life. Huge thanks to @miraclediviner for putting it together and for being patient and letting me submit this late and @stantastic-association for letting me participate. ❤️ Beta read by the lovely @mumbles411, but any and all mistakes are my own. Dividers by the talented @saradika-graphics. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!
The city sky was still light as Bucky pulled onto your street, a smile touching his lips briefly. Every week for the last three months he picked you up to take you to your brother’s apartment. Same time, same day without fail. He knew the route by heart. Could do it in his sleep.
Thursday had become his favorite day of the week thanks to you.
His favorite passenger.
Someone bright and soft during his long shifts and rough nights.
He came to a stop in front of your building, making sure he adjusted the heat so you wouldn’t be too cold. There was a blanket in the back just in case it wasn’t enough. He also changed the radio station to something he knew you’d enjoy but kept it low enough in case you wanted to talk.
He liked it when you talked to him.
“Do I look okay?” he asked himself, checking his hair in the mirror before he chuckled.
Bucky didn’t dress up a lot since he drove a cab for a living, but he tried to take a bit of pride in his appearance. Clean clothes and a subtle amount of cologne. Beard and hair kept neat, too, even with the bit of gray showing more in his chestnut strands these days.
He liked to think it gave him a refined look.
Something you might notice.
The steady hum of the engine grounded him as he looked at the door, his breath catching when you stepped outside. You paused on the top step, your gaze sweeping along the street as you adjusted the bag on your shoulder. Something warm bloomed in his chest when you spotted him and gave him that familiar soft wave and smile. He wanted to believe that smile was reserved just for him.
Get it together. You’re just her driver. Nothing more.
It didn’t stop him from hoping.
He straightened up when you made your way to the car and opened the door.
“Happy Friday Eve, Buck,” you said, sliding into the backseat.
The corner of his lips twitched at the familiar greeting. Not “driver” or “sir” or anything like that. Just Buck. Steve was the only other person who called him that.
It sounded right coming from you.
“You mean Friday Junior,” he teased, trying hard not to make a show of breathing in your scent.
There were plenty of passengers who practically bathed themselves in colognes and perfumes. It was enough to choke on before he aired out the cab. But not you. You always smelled so nice. So sweet.
Jesus fucking Christ. Get a grip.
“Same thing,” you teased back, slipping your shoes off and tucking your legs beneath you.
The first time you asked if it was okay for you to take your shoes off, he almost laughed. It surprised him more than anything that you cared enough to ask. Like you cared about his space and him. He didn’t mind as long as you were comfortable.
He always wanted you to feel comfortable and safe in his presence.
“We made it through another day,” you sighed.
“And your prize for making it through another day is spending time with me,” he joked.
You laughed, a soft sound like music to his ears. “Lucky me,” you said without a hint of sarcasm.
He cleared his throat, his heart skipping a beat. “Blanket back there and the heat’s on.”
“Thanks,” you said, adding above a whisper, “You’re so good to me.”
Bucky opened his mouth and closed it. “Just doing my job,” he said, the words bittersweet on his tongue.
“Well, I appreciate it.” You hummed a little as you dug through your bag. “And… I got something for you.”
He already knew what it was.
“Protein bar?”
“Protein bar,” you confirmed.
He made an offhand comment in the beginning about his favorite brand.
You surprised him by giving one the following week, and you have brought him one every week since then.
Part of him wanted to save the wrappers, but Sam shut that down by saying it was serial killer behavior.
Your fingers brushed his when he reached back to grab, a jolt running through his body and settling deep in his chest. “I think you’re too good to me,” he said.
It was a thoughtful thing for you to do.
“Just being a good passenger,” you said casually, but he caught the hint of affection there.
Something soft… and real.
Bucky glanced at you in the mirror, his gaze lingering longer than it should’ve when you covered yourself with the blanket and settled into the leather with a sigh. His chest puffed out a little, a sense of pride filling him since you used the blanket. He picked the softest and warmest one he had.
You looked completely at ease, like you belonged there.
“Heading to your brother’s place, or you gonna switch it up on me?”
“Same trip as always,” you replied.
Of course.
A visit to your older brother’s place on the other side of the city. Dinner. Helping your sister-in-law with some chores. Spending quality time with your niece and nephew.
Every Thursday.
He knew about your routine more than he probably should, but he couldn’t help but pay attention. It was nice knowing that you had family close by. Nice that you got to spend time with them.
Some nights though, you looked a little worn down by the time he brought you home.
He carefully pulled away from the curb and glanced in the mirror again, catching your eye. “How was your day?”
Bucky was polite to his passengers, but didn’t typically initiate small talk. It wasn’t that he didn’t care about the people he transported. He did. But his job was to get people where they needed to go, not force them into conversations to fill the silence. If he sensed that they wanted to talk, he’d engage. Most were glued to their phones anyway. But not you.
Never you.
You groaned, your head falling back against the seat. “Work was a pain today. Short-staffed. Didn’t really get a full break. You know how that goes.”
He hummed sympathetically. “Sorry you had to deal with that.”
“Don’t be. Not your fault,” you said with a small shrug. “On the plus side, we’re close to the weekend, and I can relax once I get home.”
“Glad you can still see the bright side,” he said.
It wasn’t always easy to do that.
“I try.” You lifted your head with a soft smile. “How are you?”
He swallowed hard. It was nice to have someone outside of his normal circle ask him sincerely how he was doing. “Not too bad. Some guy tried to correct my driving.”
You sat up straighter. “Are you kidding me? You’re the best driver in the city.”
Warmth bloomed in his chest from how fiercely you defended him. You stated it like it was a fact. He wasn’t one to brag, but he was an excellent driver.
“I want his name,” you added, narrowing your eyes. “I’ll handle him.”
He laughed. “Oh, you’ll handle him, huh?” he asked, turning his blinker on.
“Oh, yeah,” you answered, his heart racing faster.
“I appreciate that,” he said above a whisper.
You really were something.
“And if I can’t, Alpine can scratch him up for me,” you mused lightly.
A wide smile broke out on his face. “Al’d make sure he never messed with anyone ever again.”
Alpine, his beautiful white cat. He found her in an alley when she was just a kitten, trying to stay warm on a chilly day. One look in her blue eyes and he knew he couldn’t leave her there.
“My place isn’t much,” he warned her when he crouched down. “But it’s warm and I have milk.”
She curled right in his arms and tried to burrow her face in his leather jacket.
She became his partner-in-crime from that day forward.
The feline flourished in his apartment, making herself right at home and sticking by his side whenever he was around. He admittedly spoiled her with toys and such, but she deserved it. She was also protective of him, quick to hiss at anyone who got too close, and could imitate his grumpy stare well. He knew she’d adore you.
He certainly talked about you enough to her.
He talked about you with his younger sister, too.
“Becca messaged me a bit ago, too,” he said, smiling a little. “You know how she likes to check in and make sure I’m not living off just protein bars and stubbornness.”
Becca didn’t live as close as your brother did, but he visited when he could. She visited, too, between work and her new boyfriend. She seemed happy, and that made him happy.
“And here I am giving you protein bars. I hope she doesn’t mind.”
“Not at all,” he promised. “She knows one extra bar a week won’t hurt.”
You smiled softly. “She cares a lot about you, doesn’t she?”
“Yeah,” he said warmly. “She does.”
And she liked that he had someone like you who cared, even when he tried to argue that you were just being nice.
“She isn’t just being nice, big brother. She cares.”
He liked to think so.
“Hey!” you said suddenly, leaning forward in your seat. “You know what I just realized?”
“What?”
“This is the thirteenth Thursday that you’ve driven me around.”
“Is that right?” he asked softly, knowing full well exactly how many Thursdays he had seen you.
Because he had been counting.
“That is right.” You settled back into your seat with a smile. “Feels like ages… and not long at all.”
It seemed like only yesterday to him.
He remembered the exact shade of blue you wore on the first ride, something pleasant against the harsh city lights. How you shivered when you slid into the car, and the smile you gave him when he turned the heat on. You were so beautiful. And kind.
The kindest passenger he had that day.
“Thanks for getting me here safely, Bucky! Happy Friday Eve!”
“Friday Junior,” he’d called after you like an idiot.
“Same thing!”
He was a goner.
Every week his crush grew stronger.
But every week he told himself he was just your cab driver and nothing more.
“Thirteen Thursdays,” he said. “That why you look so nice today?”
Your gaze flickered to your lap, smiling. “You think I look nice?” you asked gently.
His heart hammered in his chest. “Yeah. You always do,” he said honestly, willing himself to concentrate on the road.
Don’t make it weird. Don’t make her uncomfortable.
“Thanks, Buck,” you whispered.
He should’ve left it at that, but he didn’t.
“You sure I’m taking you to your brother’s and not some date?” he blurted out.
The air thickened in the cab, his grip tightening on the steering wheel. Something uncomfortable twisted in his gut. He paid enough attention to know that there wasn’t a ring on your finger, and you hadn’t mentioned having a boyfriend.
Not once.
But what if there was someone? What if one day you dressed up for someone else? What if you gave some other man that soft smile you always gave him?
His jaw clenched and he was thankful you couldn’t see his expression.
I have no reason to be jealous. She isn’t my girl. She can see whoever she wants.
I just wish it was me.
“A date?” Your laughter made its way to his ears. “Please. I’m very single.”
For a moment, all Bucky could hear was the sound of his heart slowing to a steady rhythm, effectively blocking out the moving vehicles around him. His next breath was easier, his grip loosening. It shouldn’t have been such a relief to hear that, but it was.
Single. Good. That’s good. Stay single. Stay away from bad guys. Stay… here. With me.
…I’m in deep.
“Haven’t dated in months,” you added.
That made him pause.
“Months?” he repeated. “I find that hard to believe.”
“Well, it’s true,” you said, quieter than before and gazing out the window. “Guess I haven’t caught anyone’s eye.”
Your words wiped out his relief. You didn’t have to say out loud that you were lonely. He sensed it. Recognized it.
It just didn’t make sense to him that you were alone. You were a catch. How were guys not lining up down the block to ask you out?
Your words also weren’t true. Because he was there and he saw you. Wanted you.
“Or… maybe you have,” he said carefully. “And they just haven’t said anything yet.”
A beat passed. “Maybe,” you said.
He tapped the wheel when he stopped at a red light.
Say it. Tell her. Tell her that she caught my eye. Tell her that she’s…
He sighed to himself, the cab feeling smaller than usual. He wanted to admit how he felt, but he couldn’t like this. It wasn’t right when he was in the driver’s seat and you were back there.
“And what about you?” you asked, turning away from the window. “You seeing anyone?”
He huffed out a laugh. “No.”
Women weren’t exactly fighting to date a cab driver.
“My ‘date’ nights are me, a book or a movie, and Al,” he told you. “That or kicking the guys out of my place once the pizza and beer are gone.”
You smiled. “Those sound like good nights to me.”
“They’re not bad,” he said casually.
As if the idea of a date night with you wasn’t painting a picture in his mind.
“You know,” you said, snuggling into the blanket more. “If you ever need anyone to critique your book or movie choices, I’m available.”
He didn’t think it was possible for his heart to trip over itself, but it did. “Yeah?” he asked, keeping his voice even.
“Yeah,” you said casually, but your eyes flicked to the mirror. “I mean, I’m sure you have great taste, but it doesn’t hurt to get my own confirmation.”
Bucky swallowed hard. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
You smiled. “You better.”
The cab fell into a comfortable silence after that, but something shifted. You had given him an opening that would’ve been easy to take. But maybe you were just being nice. Maybe it didn’t mean anything at all.
Or it might mean everything.
He eased the car to a stop at your brother’s building minutes later. “Here we are.”
You slipped your shoes on and folded the blanket as best as you could. “Thanks,” you said, holding out the cash for him.
He reached back automatically to grab it, feeling that spark again when your fingers touched. He didn’t need to count it to know it was all there, along with a nice tip. You were generous.
Always.
“Anytime.”
You lingered when you opened the door. “Hey, Buck?”
“Yeah?”
“You look nice today, too,” you said.
It was a simple compliment, but it hit him square in the chest.
“Yeah?” he managed to ask.
“Yeah,” you said, smiling softly. “You always do.”
It was an echo of his own words to you.
Before he could respond, you slipped out and tapped the roof twice. “See you later. Drive safe.”
“See ya,” he whispered.
He didn’t leave right away. He watched as you made your way inside safely, his hand still clutching the cash. Glancing at the protein bar on the seat beside him, he exhaled.
You said he looked nice. Offered to watch a movie with him. Kind of.
But he was just your driver.
Nothing more.
“I’m in trouble,” he muttered.
By the time Bucky pulled back up to your brother’s building later that night, things felt quieter. But his mind didn’t. It was too busy racing with thoughts of you and wondering how long he could keep his line drawn in the sand.
You waved to him when you stepped outside, your steps a little slower. Your smile wasn’t as bright as earlier, but it was still soft and easy. It made sense. Family time after a long work day was tiring, even if it was nice.
“Hey,” he said once you got in.
“Hey,” you echoed, settling in.
“Good night?” he asked, easing back into the road.
“It was,” you replied, laughing a little. “But those kids wear me out.”
He smiled to himself. No way they didn’t adore spending time with you. “Sounds about right.”
“Did you have a good night?”
It was the best night because he got to see you again.
“Not too bad,” he answered.
You checked something on your phone and put it away. “Random, but I have a few extra dollars in my account, so I may do takeout for dinner tomorrow as an end of the week treat for myself.”
You could have takeout with me.
“Get those noodles from the place you like on 5th,” he suggested instead. “The number seven, right?”
Why did I say that?
“That’s right.” You giggled. “Am I that predictable?”
He almost said, “I notice everything about you.”
“You’re not predictable,” he replied instead, easing his foot off the gas. “I just… pay attention.”
Because you’re… you.
It was quiet for the rest of the ride.
He glanced back a few times and saw that your eyes were heavy. He hoped you were able to relax more when you got back to your place. You deserved the rest.
A pang of disappointment hit him when he got to your place, the drive seeming quicker than normal. “Here we are.”
You stifled a yawn. “Thanks.”
“Anytime.”
“Oh. I almost forgot.” You sat up, seemingly more awake now. “I have something for you.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You already gave me a protein bar.”
“Well, this isn’t from me,” you said, handing him a folded piece of construction paper along with the cash. “It’s from my niece and nephew.”
He opened it carefully, his heart melting on the spot.
A drawing of a car stretched across the sheet. It was lopsided with uneven wheels and windows that were too big. There were two stick figures inside. One in the back with a large smile that was clearly you. And one in the front with brown hair, blue eyes, and a small smile.
It was him.
There was a message in crooked letters above the car, surrounded by glitter glue.
BUCKY DRIVING AUNTIE! YAY!
His throat tightened unexpectedly. “That’s us?” he asked with a hint of disbelief.
You mentioned him to your family?
“That’s us,” you said affectionately, making him wonder if that was for him or your niece and nephew. “They wanted to thank you for always getting me there and back every week.”
He swallowed, his throat dry. “You… talk about me?”
“Of course, I do,” you said like it was obvious. “You’re part of my week.”
He folded it back up like it was something fragile, your words slowly sinking in.
You talked about him. Your family knew he existed. Your niece and nephew had never met him, but still made him a card like he mattered.
His heart felt full.
And he didn’t know what to do with that feeling.
“Tell ‘em I said thanks,” he said quietly. “Really.”
“I will,” you promised, hesitating when you reached for the door handle.
You waited long enough for him to look at you over his shoulder. Long enough that his heart thudded. Hope flickered deep within.
She feels something, right? It can’t just be me.
Your fingers tightened around the strap of your bag, but your eyes were soft. “I…” Your gaze flickered down before looking back at him, sighing a little. “I’ll see you next week, Buck.”
He exhaled, trying not to let disappointment show. Something passed between you. He felt it. It was real.
Or… maybe he just imagined it.
“Yeah,” he said, offering you a small smile. “Next week.”
“Good night.”
“Good night,” he repeated. “And thanks again for the card and tip.”
You smiled softly before you got out.
He leaned against his seat and once again stayed to make sure you got inside safely. You didn’t rush inside when you got to the door. You paused instead and glanced over your shoulder at the door, like you were waiting for him. It was an opening. Maybe.
But he didn’t take it.
He kept that line drawn.
You waved before you went inside, and he closed his eyes, the quiet surrounding him once again.
His fingers brushed the construction paper in his lap.
Steve and Sam would flip when he told them about it. Hell, they already did whenever he talked about you. He could practically hear them now once he gave them the recap of tonight’s events.
Sam shaking his head and saying, “She gives you protein bars, offers to watch movies with you, her family knows about you, her niece and nephew made you a card, and you didn’t ask for her number?”
Steve, a little quieter but no less insistent, with, “Buck… you’re allowed to want something.”
Bucky’s jaw clenched. They acted like it was simple, like he could just ask and it wouldn’t change a thing. It would change everything.
He didn’t want to risk losing you or holding you back when he didn’t have you to begin with.
For now, he’d continue driving you where you needed to go and leave it at that.
Coward. Life’s too short.
He set the card aside and took one last look at your building.
“Yeah,” he sighed. “I’m in big trouble.”
Bucky arrived a couple of minutes early the following Thursday.
He told himself it was habit. Being mindful of traffic. Not because he was eagerly waiting for you.
Not at all.
And you also weren’t the reason he spent ten extra minutes picking out a shirt.
Just because she said I look nice…
He made a mistake of checking the group chat he had with Steve and Sam while he waited.
Sam: “Be a man and get her number.”
He gritted his teeth, quickly typing. He almost regretted confiding in them about you. It would’ve been easier to keep his mouth shut.
“Fuck off, Samuel. I am a man.”
The dots appeared with both of his friends writing something back.
Sam: “OOH. Samuel. My full name. Hit a sore spot, huh?”
Maybe he did.
Stevie: “Just go at your pace, jerk. We got your back.”
Some of the tension left his shoulders.
“Thanks, punk.”
He put his phone away and smiled just a little. They were good guys. Had been with him through thick and thin. Brothers.
Sam definitely acted like an annoying brother in the most supportive way.
And as much as he adored Becca, he didn’t want to bother his little sister with his lack-of-relationship woes. She had enough on her plate. He’d be just fine.
Eventually.
His attention snapped in your direction when you left your building and everything else faded away.
There you were again.
The same familiar sweep of your eyes along the street before you found him. The soft smile. The small wave. How you always looked incredible no matter if you dressed up or down.
Like tonight, you had on the same soft sweater you wore last month. It reminded him of comfort. It also made you look gentle in a way that made him want to take care of you.
The instinct hit him harder than before.
Yeah. I’m royally fucked.
He straightened up as you walked closer, his brows furrowing. You were still smiling at him, but your steps didn’t look as light as normal. There was tension in your shoulders.
“Happy Friday Eve, Buck,” you said, unfolding the blanket with extra care.
There was a touch of weariness in your tone under the warmth.
It would’ve been easy to miss if he wasn’t paying attention.
“You mean Friday Junior,” he said automatically.
“Same thing,” you murmured.
“Your brother’s place?” he asked gently.
“Same trip as always,” you replied just as gently.
He looked at you in the mirror after pulling away from the curb. You were already gazing out the window, relaxed but not completely. His chest tightened when he spotted the slightest frown on your face.
It didn’t belong there.
Is she okay? Was work extra rough?
He waited a couple of blocks before he asked, “Long day?”
Bucky didn’t want to push if you didn’t want to talk, but he did want to make sure you were okay. If something upset you, he wanted to fix it. If someone upset you, he wanted to handle it.
Let me help however I can.
“Yeah,” you replied after a second. “Long week, actually.”
“Those are the worst.” He tapped a finger on the wheel. “Becca always tells me to take a breath and not let the week eat me alive.”
“That’s good advice.” Something soft and a little sad flickered in your eyes. He didn’t know if his words triggered a memory, but it felt important. “Especially coming from a sibling.”
“It is,” he replied. “Siblings just get it some days.”
You hummed in agreement, but didn’t say anything else.
He bit his tongue. It was times like this when he wished he wasn’t driving. He wanted to turn around and give you his attention. You deserved it.
“Would it make you feel any better if I said you look nice today?” he asked, hoping he didn’t sound as desperate as he felt.
That brought a smile to your face. “It does make me feel better,” you said, your tone almost back to normal. “Thank you.”
He smiled back gently, the sound of the engine and low music filling the space for a moment. It didn’t fix your long week, but he was glad the compliment helped. He’d consider that a win.
“You look nice, too.” You craned your head to look at him. “I really like that color on you.”
His pulse jumped. The usual ease was coming back, the cab lighter. And you noticed his shirt.
I chose well.
“Oh, this old thing?” he teased, like it wasn’t a big deal. “Really brings out my eyes.”
You giggled. “It sure does.”
He stole another glance at you when you looked out the window again. You were tired, but you were okay. Still warm. Still you.
He felt like he could breathe again.
“Hey,” he said after another block, reaching into the console. “I, uh… made you a list.”
“A list?” Your eyebrows went up. “What kind of list?”
“Movies. Some I like. Some I think you’d like,” he clarified, passing it back to you before he could change his mind. “You did offer to critique them.”
“And you’re taking me up on it?” You gasped, putting a hand to your chest. “I’m both shocked and flattered.”
“You should be,” he deadpanned before grinning.
You smiled, a little tired but genuine. “The first title has a star next to it.”
“Because it’s my favorite and a good one to start with.”
“Did you get Steve and Sam’s seal of approval?”
He scoffed. “They’d like it. Enough oldies for Steve, and Sam has somewhat decent taste in recent stuff… but he’ll never know I said that.” He coughed into his hand and added, “They’ve heard about you.”
You smiled. “Is that right?”
“Yeah, I talk about more than I probably should.” He shrugged, but his left foot lightly tapped. “You’re a good passenger.”
And I’m just your driver.
Your smile faltered, just for a second, before you smoothed it over with a laugh. “And you’re a good driver.” You scanned the small piece of paper once more. “You put a lot of thought into this, didn’t you?”
Warmth rushed to his cheeks. “You should see the book list I’m making for you,” he muttered.
He valued your opinion, and the lists were a way for you to think of him between rides. A way to keep you two connected. Maybe it was selfish that he wanted you to have him on your mind.
But maybe it wasn’t.
“You’re making me a book list, too? Oh, I can’t wait for that.” You folded it neatly and put it in your bag. “I’ll watch the first movie tomorrow night.”
Another Friday night with no date? I wish I could man up and change that.
“I expect a full report next week,” he teased.
“You got it, Sarge,” you teased back.
His breath caught. “Sarge?” he repeated. “You remember my military ranking?”
Sergeant Barnes.
It was mentioned only once, just like the protein bars. A passing comment and nothing more. But you listened.
You remembered.
“Of course, I do.”
The same thing you said about mentioning him to your family.
He blinked rapidly, trying to steady the emotions stirring inside him as he drove. You continued to surprise him with your soft words and smiles, making him feel special in your eyes. You undid him in ways nothing or no one else could.
“Here we are,” he said minutes later.
“Thanks, Buck.” You gathered your things before you stopped, your inhale sharp. “Oh… you kept it.”
He followed your gaze to the dashboard. Your niece and nephew’s card was proudly on display. It was a beautiful reminder of you.
“Of course, I did,” he said, trying to play it cool. “It’s a nice drawing.”
“That’s really sweet, Buck.”
He shrugged a little, but heat crept up his neck. “It deserved a front and center spot.”
Your gaze softened more. “They’ll think you’re the coolest guy ever when I tell them.”
They made him feel cool by giving him the card.
“Guess I’ll have to try to live up to that.”
“You already are,” you said without missing a beat, passing him a protein bar with the cash.
His heart pounded in his chest. Another thoughtful gesture. More words that made him feel good.
Say something. Do something.
But he didn’t.
There was a small pause before you sighed and got out, the door gently closing behind you. Tap. Tap. The familiar rhythm against the roof should’ve felt normal and comforting.
But why did it feel like you were disappointed?
“See you later,” you said. “Drive safe.”
“See ya,” he exhaled.
He watched until you went inside, half tempted to hit the dashboard since he chickened out. He held himself back. There was no sense in taking his frustration out on the car. He could hit a punching bag later.
Maybe he could knock some sense into himself, too, and man up.
“Should’ve said something,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair.
Some of the frustration at himself faded when he looked at the card. He imagined your niece and nephew were the kind of kids who loved when the garbage men came by every week or drivers dropped off packages. They’d probably have a blast riding around in his cab, cheering him on for driving you around. If Becca ever had kids, they’d likely be the same way.
He wondered, briefly, if you’d ever meet her, and the thought didn’t scare him the way it should.
But what would your brother think of me? Would he think I’m good enough?
At the end of the day, didn’t it matter only what you thought and saw in him?
His phone buzzed.
Sam: “Well??? We’re waiting.”
Bucky stared at the message before typing back. “Dropped her off. Didn’t ask.”
Three dots appeared immediately. He didn’t want to look. Didn’t need the additional salt on the open wound of his self-doubt.
But he looked since he was a glutton for punishment.
Sam: “Man, if we can even call you that, you're killing me! I’m gonna lose the bet.”
Bet? What fucking bet?
Stevie: “There’s no bet. You’ll do it when it’s right.”
Sam: “Don’t make me get Becca and Sarah involved. I’ll do it.”
He tucked his phone away and shook his head. Tough and gentle love. He needed both.
And he needed just a little more time to convince himself to erase the line he had drawn.
The next passenger he picked up, a man complaining about the state of the economy, didn’t shift his focus fully away from you. The restaurant he dropped him at seemed like a nice one to take you to, something quiet and romantic. A couple of women he drove after that mentioned an acoustic concert in the park, which made him picture you leaning your head on his shoulder while listening to music together. Every passenger was like that, managing to tie something back to you.
He still got everyone where they needed to go safely since that was the job.
He just couldn’t stop thinking about you.
By the time he arrived to pick you up again, the city lights had taken over the streets. He spotted you immediately, your arms wrapped around yourself to keep warm. You looked about the same as when you went in. A little more tired, but okay.
And you still gave him a smile when you got in.
Smiling like she’s happy to see me.
“Hey.”
“Hey,” he replied, double checking the heat. “Kids wear you out again?”
“You know it. They had so much energy tonight, and I almost stepped on a lego when I was chasing them around.”
“Occupational hazard of being a great aunt.”
“You know it.” You laughed a little. “They were also thrilled that you have their card up.”
That warmed his heart. “So, they think I’m cool?”
“The coolest.”
He smiled at the sincerity. He believed that they believed that. It was a feeling he needed to lean into more.
“Did you have a good night?”
“Yep. Just driving. Getting everyone where they need to go,” he answered.
And thinking of you. Always thinking about you.
He turned the radio up a notch after that instead of trying to fill the silence, letting you relax. For a moment, he pictured swaying with you. Minus the quick brush of your fingers, he hadn’t touched you in any way.
To hold you would be a gift.
“Hey, Buck?” you asked once he pulled up to your place.
“Yeah?”
You bit your lip. “I wanted to give you something.”
“Yeah?” he asked, his chest tightening in anticipation as you reached into your bag.
You hesitated before you nodded. “Yeah.”
Your hand shook a little when you passed him a small slip of paper with the cash. He unfolded it, blinking hard to make sure he was reading it correctly. He turned it over, too.
It was your handwriting. Your name. Your number.
You gave him your phone number.
His heart forgot how to beat before it thundered. He imagined this scenario for weeks, but he hadn’t prepared himself for the reality of it. He didn’t think the universe would be that kind to him.
“I just figured, this way you don’t have to wait until next week for my report on the movie. You could just text me and see what I think,” you explained, trying to play it off casually. “Or if you ever want to send me pictures of Alpine. Or you’re just… bored.”
His pulse roared in his ears. You wanted to hear from him. You gave him another opening while he kept mentally blocking the door with his foot.
You trusted him enough to want a connection outside of the cab and the rules he internally created and enforced.
“But you don’t have to,” you added quickly, reaching for the door handle. “I can wait until next week to talk to you and-”
“Wait,” he begged, trying not to panic. The last thing he wanted was for you to think he didn’t want to reach out. “I’ll, um… give you mine, too.”
You met his gaze in the mirror. He wanted to memorize how you looked at this moment. Hopeful. Beautiful.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” he whispered.
He found a pen and a receipt, making sure his writing was legible as he jotted it down. Your smile when he handed it over soothed his nerves. The smooth thing to do would’ve been to put his phone number on the movie list when he gave it to you earlier. But this was better.
This felt more right.
“Thanks.” You tucked it away like it was something sacred. “I’ll text you.”
He nodded, his throat tight. “I’d like that.”
You stepped out into the cool air, glancing back at him. The tension was almost completely gone from your shoulders. The glow from the street lamps made your eyes sparkle.
He couldn’t look away from you if he tried.
“Good night, Buck.”
“Good night.”
Once you were inside, he glanced at your number again, reading it until the numbers ran together. He reached for the phone to message the guys and Becca before deciding against it. Sam would lose his mind. Steve would tell him not to overthink it. Becca would be somewhere in the middle. He didn’t need that tonight.
He wanted to hang onto this just a little longer and let it sink in that it was real.
Besides, it was just an exchange of phone numbers. You didn’t ask him out. He didn’t ask you out. He was still being professional.
But he did check his phone immediately when a new message popped up.
“Happy fourteenth Thursday. Thanks again for the ride.”
Still counting like me.
“Anytime. Get some rest. And let me know when you watch the first movie.”
A neutral message. Polite. Professional.
“I’m still in trouble.”
And he grinned like an idiot because of it.
You messaged him on Friday night.
He saved you under his contacts as MFP, my favorite passenger.
MFP: “Halfway through the movie.”
His fingers hovered over the screen. If he typed back too quickly, he’d look desperate. If he waited too long, he’d look aloof.
A full minute was enough time.
“And?”
He winced at himself. That was too short. Too blunt.
MFP: “They switched part of what happened in the book. Trying to reserve my judgement until the end.”
A sense of awe filled him. You read the book. Of course, you did. That made him want you even more.
But he couldn’t say that.
“I didn’t like the switch at first either, but keep watching. Trust me.”
MFP: “I trust you.”
That made his breath catch.
He scratched behind Alpine’s ear, smiling when she purred. “She’s watching it and texting me. That’s good, right?”
She meowed happily.
He put the movie on, too, in the hopes that he wouldn’t keep checking his phone.
You messaged him again an hour later.
MFP: “My score: 8/10. Adventurous, heartwarming, and visually stunning. I see why it’s your favorite.”
He smiled, typing out, “Dinner and tell me more?”
He deleted it and started over.
“8/10? I’ll take it. What didn’t you like besides the book switch?”
MFP: “A one point deduction was for the book switch. Another deduction for the bad wig. I mean, a huge budget like that and they couldn’t give the lead some good hair? Tragic.”
Bucky chuckled. “You make a good point. It was pretty bad.”
MFP: “But movie wise? So far, so good for your taste.”
That was a win in his book.
You didn’t message him again until Saturday night.
MFP: “Is brinner an acceptable choice on a Saturday night?”
He smiled immediately.
“Brinner is an acceptable choice every night.”
MFP: “I knew you’d understand. I can eat while I watch the second movie on the list.”
“I bet you’ll give it a 7/10.”
MFP: “We’ll see if you’re right. Hope you're having a good weekend.”
He reread that statement twice. It felt measured. Careful.
“You, too.”
He read the message again after sending it.
Maybe it was another message that was too short.
And it was too late to erase it.
You sent him a photo of a white cat on Sunday.
MFP: “Is this Alpine’s doppelganger?”
He chuckled. The image wasn’t too far off but Alpine was prettier. He was a bit biased when it came to his feline.
“There’s no cat like Al.”
MFP: “I believe it. And you were right, but the way. 7/10. I deducted two points for the one terrible accent.”
He tilted his head and laughed again. He had almost forgotten about the bad accent. It was amazing how one actor or actress could throw off an entire scene.
“Much deserved deduction. Al would approve.”
MFP: “I’m honored.”
He didn’t hear from you for the rest of the day.
It was his turn to message you first.
“Hope you have water and caffeine to get you through Monday.”
He stared at it after sending. Maybe that too personal. Maybe it wasn’t enough.
MFP: “Do I have to have water?”
He laughed, picturing you scrunching up your face.
“Need you to stay hydrated.”
Because he cared.
MFP: “But what if I try to live on stubbornness like you?”
You’re too good to live on stubbornness.
“Still need water.”
MFP: “Yes, Sarge.”
Oh, that did something to him.
MFP: “But only if you drink some water, too.”
“I will.”
He would for you.
He didn’t hear from you on Tuesday.
That was fine. You were busy. You had a life outside of him. And he didn’t want to bother you.
But he checked his phone more than he should have.
You messaged him first thing on Wednesday.
MFP: “Is it Friday Eve yet?”
Relief hit him faster than he expected.
“Almost. You surviving?”
There was a delay this time. Long enough for him to notice.
MFP: “Barely, but I’m trying.”
He frowned a little.
“Hang in there.”
He hesitated before adding another message.
“I’ll see you tomorrow.”
There was another pause.
MFP: “Yeah. See you tomorrow.”
He stared at it longer than he meant to.
Something about it felt different. Quieter. He could’ve been imagining it.
He sent one more message before he could stop himself.
“Can’t wait.”
He meant it.
Even if something told him tomorrow would feel different.
Bucky waited at the curb as patiently as he could, checking his hair three times. Just like every week before, he looked forward to seeing you. But this felt different because the texts had been good overall. Almost effortless.
Almost.
Tonight could be a turning point.
Bucky checked his phone again, even though he told himself he wouldn’t.
Sam: “You better not fumble this now that you got her number.”
Stevie: “Ignore him. Just be yourself.”
He huffed under his breath, locking the screen.
Like it’s that easy.
He turned his attention back to your building, his heart sinking the moment you stepped outside.
The usual sweep of your gaze didn’t happen since you were looking at your feet. You hardly seem to notice or care that your bag slipped from your shoulder. When you finally lifted your gaze, you looked worn out in a way he had never seen before.
It was like someone took the light inside you and dialed it down.
Everyone had bad days. That was a normal part of life. But this was you.
It didn’t sit right with him at all.
“Happy Friday Eve,” you stated with a dim smile, hugging the blanket against your chest like a pillow. Your fingers trembled just enough that he spotted it.
“Friday Junior,” he said because that’s what he was supposed to say.
Same thing.
You didn’t say it.
You looked out the window, your jaw tight enough that he could see the tension in your neck. There was no teasing either as he drove. No references to any of the messages between you, like brinner or the bad wig or accent from the movies. No jokes about staying hydrated or calling him Sarge.
There were no comments on anything.
Just the kind of silence that for the first time felt off between you two.
Something was wrong.
I fucked this up, didn’t I?
He thought back to every message he sent like he could figure out the exact moment things flipped.
He responded in a timely manner. He initiated at times so it wouldn’t all fall on you. They weren’t overly flirty but they weren’t cold either.
Maybe you expected more and he let you down.
Or maybe he leaned in too far with the “can’t wait” message and now you were pulling back.
“Hey, um…” He cleared his throat, his grip shifting on the wheel. “If I said something wrong, or if I upset you with one of my texts…”
“What?” Your head snapped toward him, your brows pinching. “Buck, no.”
He blinked, surprised at how quickly you shut that down when his mind was screaming at him. “You sure?” He bit the inside of his cheek. “You just seem off, and I didn’t want it to be because of me.”
He was sure he could handle just about anything but that.
He didn’t want to lose the one bright part of his week because he misread a moment or sent the wrong text.
“Buck,” you said, even gentler this time. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
His shoulders dropped. “Really?” he pressed, needing to be absolutely certain.
“Really. I like talking with you… a lot,” you promised, a shallow breath leaving your lungs. “I swear, it isn’t you.”
The weight in his chest eased enough for him to breathe but not enough to feel okay since your voice cracked. You liked talking to him, which was good. Better than good. But if he wasn’t the issue, it was something else. Something you weren’t telling him.
It worried him.
“Can I ask you something?” you asked softly.
“Yeah. Anything,” he said honestly.
“I don’t think I’ve ever asked you this.” You paused to consider your words. “Why do you drive?”
He inhaled. It wasn’t unusual for you to ask about him. But most people didn’t care enough to ask why he did this job.
You weren’t most people there, were you?
Your gaze was back on him instead of looking out the window, waiting patiently for his answer because you wanted to know.
Like Becca said… you care.
“I guess the easy answer is having a flexible schedule, getting decent money on the right nights, and it beats being in an office with some boss hounding me.”
You gave him a knowing, very small smile. “And what’s the real answer?”
He took a breath. “You remember I served in the army.” You nodded in acknowledgement. “When I got out… there was no clear objective. No structure.” His voice stayed even, but quieter. “It was just… a lot of noise.”
He stared at the taillights in front of him, lost for a moment.
His smile had been wrong for days when he got out. Everything seemed like too much or not enough. And the world didn’t slow down just because people couldn’t keep up.
“I had my friends. My sister. I wasn’t alone,” he said like it mattered because it did. Not everyone had that support. “But it still felt like I was supposed to be doing something… and I didn’t know what that was.”
You didn’t interrupt or rush him, so he continued.
“But this?” He gestured around the cab. “It gave me something again.”
A sense of purpose. A mission.
“I have an objective… orders,” he explained, tapping the dashboard. “I pick a passenger up and I get them from point A to point B. That’s the job.”
You nodded slowly. “That makes sense.”
“And how I get you there? That’s on me.” He tapped his chest. “If the weather’s bad, I take it into account. If there’s awful traffic, I adjust. If my usual route is blocked, I find another way.”
“So, it gives you a sense of control,” you mused. “You know what you have to do, but you choose how you execute it.”
He nodded. You seemed to understand. Not everyone did.
“It’s simple in a good way. Discipline and structure with adaptability.” He ran a hand along the wheel, smiling to himself. “I know what I’m supposed to do. I know I can do it well.”
He glanced at you in the mirror, vulnerability shining in his eyes.
“And at the end of the ride… I get someone where they need to go. Safely.”
He paused, the sounds of honking horns and engines surrounding him. It was strangely comforting. But the most comforting thing was your presence and tender expression.
“And sometimes… that’s enough,” he finished.
“It is. It matters,” you insisted, gently but firmly. “More than you think.”
You make me feel like I matter.
“I do my best.” The words came out nonchalantly but he meant it. “I can’t control what others do when they’re on the road, just like they can’t control me. But if something does happen, I fix it.”
Your expression shifted. “And if there’s a time that you can’t fix it? You can’t control what’s happening?”
Bucky stilled before he realized it. That didn’t sound like you were talking about driving. He had a good read on people, but he couldn’t read between the lines of this. Couldn’t figure out why you were asking that.
What needs fixing?
“I just keep driving,” he finally answered. “Like Steve always says… We have to move forward.”
You shifted in your seat. “I guess it’s all we can do,” you said more to yourself than him. “And for what it’s worth, you really are doing a great job,” you added.
He inhaled sharply. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. You help people every time you drive. You don’t just drive well. You do it safely, like you said,” you pointed out, giving him a small smile. “I always feel safe when I’m with you.”
Those words landed in the middle of his doubt in himself, threatening to tear it apart. There was trust within your compliment. It was pure in an impure world.
“Good.” He had to swallow to keep his voice steady. “I’m glad you feel that way.”
You smiled again, but it didn’t reach your eyes.
His chest ached. Every smile seemed to take more effort than it should, like you were chipping away little pieces of yourself. He hated that.
He hated that he couldn’t shoulder the weight still pushing you down, even just a little.
“Here we are,” he said once he stopped, quieter than before.
“Thanks, Buck,” you said, handing over a protein bar with the cash. “And I’m sorry if I made you think that you upset me.”
“Don’t apologize,” he said quickly, turning around as best as he could so he could see you. “You don’t have to do that with me.”
There was no reason for you to apologize when he was the one overthinking.
“But are you sure you’re alright?” he asked, searching your face for the answer your lips may not say.
Lean on me if you aren’t.
Something passed in your eyes and then it was gone. “I will be,” you assured him.
His stomach dropped when you took the blanket with you, like you forgot you were holding it. You clutched it like a lifeline as you walked away from the cab. He watched you go, reaching for the door handle. You disappeared into the building before he could follow, which he had never done before.
You weren’t okay.
For the first time since he met you, he had no idea how to fix it.
But something told him he was about to find out.
By the time he came back, he was tense. He told himself you just needed time with your family tonight. That whatever was on your mind eased with some laughter and familiar warmth.
It had to have helped.
…Right?
His heart didn’t sink when he saw you.
It cracked.
You had the blanket around your shoulders, trying to hold yourself together as you put one foot in front of the other. The look of sadness on your face wasn’t fleeting or light. It was the kind that settled in your bones.
What the hell happened?
You forced a smile when you met his eye and it twisted something inside him painfully.
Don’t do that. Please, don’t do that.
“Hey.”
“Hey,” you replied, your voice thin.
He didn’t drive off right away, giving you a moment to get your bearings.
But you didn’t.
You didn’t slip your shoes off or tuck yourself in. The blanket stayed around your shoulders like an afterthought. Your breaths were too measured. Too careful.
He held the wheel so tight that his fingers ached.
You were a heartbeat away from unraveling.
“Ready?”
“Yeah.”
The city bustled around like normal, but nothing inside the cab felt the same.
The air felt even heavier than earlier. The silence was too loud.. Louder than any word you ever spoke.
And you simply stared ahead like you were bracing yourself for impact.
His teeth snapped together, trying hard to keep himself in check. His job was to get you home safely. If you wanted to confide in him, he’d listen. But you didn’t have to lean on him.
He was just…
Your breath hitched on the next turn.
He made it three more blocks before he couldn’t take it anymore.
Fuck this. I’m not just your driver.
He switched lanes and turned down a road he had never taken on your route before. It was familiar to him, of course. Away from some of the noise. It had a soothing view, too.
Exhaling through his nose, he stopped the car and turned to look at you.
He recognized pain when he saw it. Had lived through it. He couldn’t recall ever seeing you look so fragile.
It’s okay to break with me.
“Hey,” he said carefully because you needed something gentle. “I know you said you’ll be alright… but you’re not.”
“I will be,” you said quickly, your lower lip trembling. “I have to be.”
“Hey…” he whispered again.
You don’t need to be strong tonight.
You shook your head automatically, your next breath shaky. “I don’t want to dump this on you.”
“You’re not dumping anything on me,” he promised, needing you to believe him. “You’re hurting.”
Your eyes filled and you tried to blink the moisture away.
He didn’t think when he got out of the cab, his body moving on instinct at the sight of your tears. He got in the back with you, leaving you enough space so you wouldn’t feel cornered. His hands rested on his knees, making sure not to touch you since he didn’t know if that would help or make things worse.
But he wanted to be there for you.
“Please, let me help,” he begged, his voice thick. “Even just a little.”
That did it.
A sob burst from your chest, your hand coming up to cover your mouth and failing to keep it in.
His heart stopped, his fingers curling to hold himself back from hauling you into his arms.
You hastily wiped your tears away that fell, like it would hide them. Your shoulders shook the more you tried to hold them in. Another broken sound escaped, the threads inside you slowly pulling apart.
“He’s sick,” you whimpered. “My brother…”
Your words were like a punch to the gut.
Oh, no…
“He has been for a while. They thought he was getting better, but the last couple of weeks have been bad,” you admitted, your face crumbling. “He barely made it through dinner tonight before he had to lay down.”
His jaw tightened in that helpless way when grief felt too close and overpowering.
“And the kids… They don’t get why their dad is so tired or why their mom looks so sad when she thinks no one’s looking.” You hiccuped, the sound raw. “And I’m trying to help when I can. I’m trying to be strong for everyone, but I’m scared and… I can’t fix this.”
His throat went tight.
“And if there’s a time that you can’t fix it? You can’t control what’s happening?”
It all made sense now.
The nights where you looked a little worn down. Your smiles that didn’t reach your eyes. Your light dimming. The talk earlier tonight.
While he had been overanalyzing his interactions with you, you were carrying this.
Alone.
And he couldn’t fix it for you.
“I help cook, clean, make the kids smile, but I don’t know what to do anymore,” you whimpered, looking at him with teary eyes. “It hurt for me to smile tonight.”
Trying to smile through pain was one of the hardest things a person could do.
“I’ve been holding this in and I… can’t anymore.”
Bucky couldn’t keep staying behind the line he drew.
Not anymore.
His arms went around you without another thought, strong and steady, pulling you in like it was the most natural thing in the world. You clung to him, your fingers curling in his shirt as you sobbed painfully into his neck. He closed his eyes, willing whatever being was watching over them to feed some of your pain into him.
Don’t do this to her. Give it to me. I can take it.
“I’ve got you,” he murmured, cradling the back of your head as your cries continued. “I’ve got you.”
He didn’t say it was okay because it wasn’t. But he was there. Solid and real. Nothing else mattered except you.
“He’s my big brother. He’s a good guy. He’s supposed to be okay,” you choked out between sobs. “But he isn’t, and I can’t make it any better.”
He pressed his cheek to your temple. He knew how afraid Becca had been when he served and how relieved she was when he came back. If he were to get sick now… If anything happened to him…
“You just need to love him,” he whispered against your ear. “And you do. You have such a big heart.”
You cried harder, making him hold you closer.
“Just let it out,” he urged, rubbing your shaking back.
Minutes passed before your cries eventually slowed to small sniffles. Your body slumped against his, the tears wearing you out. And he held you through it all, letting you feel his warmth and comfort.
You lifted your head slowly, your cheeks wet. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.”
“Don’t you dare apologize for that,” he said, wiping a stray tear away with his thumb. “Sometimes saying it out loud makes it more real and it opens up the floodgates before you’re ready.”
Like me being a coward about my feelings for you.
You leaned into his touch briefly. “I didn’t want to be a burden,” you said, your voice wrecked.
“You’re not.” He pulled back enough to really look at you. “You never could be.”
You searched his face, your lip trembling again. “Am I doing enough?”
Your grief already cut open his heart, but your question made him feel the blade all over again.
“You’re doing more than enough. You’re showing up for everyone. That matters,” he swore to you, echoing some of your earlier words as he held you tighter. “More than you know.”
Your eyes shimmered again, but the tears didn’t fall.
“And you can lean on me whenever you need to,” he added, giving you a tender smile. “You don’t have to do this alone.”
You smiled back faintly. “Thanks, Buck.”
“Yeah,” he whispered. “Anytime.”
You let go of his shirt, but didn’t make an effort to move out of his arms. He didn’t move either, taking a second to breathe with you and memorize how it felt to hold you. He’d keep you in his embrace all night if he could.
“Can I just...” You glanced down, your fingers absentmindedly tracing a pattern on your thigh. “Can I say something?”
“Anything,” he answered, adjusting the blanket around your shoulders.
Say whatever you need to. I got you.
“Seeing you… talking to you,” you began. “I always look forward to it.”
You lifted your gaze, somehow more exposed and vulnerable than your earlier tears.
“It’s the best part of my week,” you admitted.
Bucky froze completely.
You exhaled shakily, like you said too much.
“I didn’t want to fall apart in front of you,” you went on while his brain was scrambling to catch up. “But everything felt heavy and I just… I felt safe enough that I could. So… thank you. For that.”
He didn’t speak. He couldn’t. Your words flowed through him, filing every crack he couldn’t seal shut himself.
I’m the best part of your week?
Not work, your friends, or even your family?
Me?
Since the beginning, he told himself to stay in his lane and keep things simple. To be professional. Driver and passenger. That was it.
But you were here in his arms, trusting him enough with something so raw and admitting that he was the one thing that made your week a little lighter.
Him.
And he was still acting as if there was a line he shouldn’t cross?
His thumb brushed your shoulder. You looked to him for comfort tonight. You needed him in a way.
Maybe you wanted him, too.
If that were true, what the hell was he waiting for?
Don’t rush her. Don’t make this about me.
“I appreciate you telling me that,” he whispered once he found his voice. “Let’s get you home, okay?”
You nodded, your energy spent as you shifted from his hold. He felt the loss immediately, the cab feeling colder. But he didn’t linger, as much as he wanted to.
He moved back to the driver seat grudgingly and started the engine.
You weren’t too far from your place, but he drove a bit slower and checked the mirror more than he needed to. You had your legs curled up now, your eyes heavy but open. Not distant or shut down. Just tired.
You had a good reason to feel tired.
But you also gave him a smile when you caught him looking the last time. A small, real one. Because you felt safe.
You’re safe with me.
The lights didn’t seem as harsh when he turned onto your street. The breeze wasn’t as strong. The world seemed to realize you needed little wins after breaking down.
Neither of you moved right away when he parked.
“Hey.” He turned slightly in his seat, your expression glassy but more clear when you handed him the money. “I’m gonna walk you to your building tonight.”
It wasn’t a question or suggestion.
Should’ve been doing that since the first night.
“I’d like that,” you uttered.
“And you can take the blanket,” he offered when you started to fold it. “If you want.”
“Really?” Your eyes widened in realization. “Oh, my God. I took it with me earlier. I’m so sorry.”
Bucky had to smile at the way you looked genuinely distressed, like you had done something unforgivable.
“It’s okay,” he said gently. “You had a lot on your mind.”
You hesitated, but didn’t set it down. “Are you sure I can take it with me?”
“Yeah.” His gaze softened. “I put it back there so you’d be comfortable, and it kinda defeats the purpose if you don’t use it.”
He wouldn’t be there to hold you tonight if you cried again, so the blanket would have to do. It was a small piece of comfort. A small piece of him.
Warmth filled your eyes. “Thank you.”
“Anytime,” he replied, meaning it in more ways than one.
He stepped out first, going to your door to open it. He didn’t rush you as you gathered your things, letting you go at your pace. He understood how the body lagged sometimes after everything spilled over.
And his hand was already outstretched to help you out if you wanted it.
You took it.
Instead of the usual spark when your fingers touched, something steadier and grounding moved between you both.
It felt like your hand belonged with his.
It feels right.
He helped you out and fell in step beside you, matching your pace without thinking. Your thumb brushed his skin, making his grip tighten a fraction when he glanced at you. Faint exhaustion lingered in your body, but you weren’t as tense. Your breathing had evened out.
The hurt was still there, but you were safe.
You made it to the door, the light above it casting a glow over you, but you didn’t reach for the handle or let go of his hand.
The soft good nights usually happened at the car, but not tonight.
“Thank you for tonight,” you said above a whisper.
He nodded, everything from the last few weeks pressing into his mind.
Sam on one shoulder. “Be a man and get her number.
Steve on the other. “You’re allowed to want something.”
The teasing. The smiles. The protein bars. The card your niece and nephew made. The movie list.
How you quietly gave him your number. The careful texts. The deeper talks.
The way you trusted him and broke in his arms tonight.
The way you said he’s the best part of your week.
The way he was done pretending that there wasn’t something there between you.
Time to erase the line for good.
He kept your hand in his, refusing to retreat into neutral territory. “I, uh…” He rubbed the back of his neck and exhaled. “I was thinking.”
You gazed at him expectantly.
“I know things are… a lot right now,” he said, trying to be careful and not add pressure when you had so much on your mind. “With your brother and everything.”
Your grip tightened on the blanket, but you nodded for him to continue.
“And I’m not trying to…” He huffed a little, almost frustrated with himself. “I’m not trying to make things harder for you.”
That was the last thing he wanted to do.
“You’re not,” you said, stepping closer. “You never could.”
That gave him just enough courage to keep going, taking one last deep breath.
Just say it.
“I just… I don’t want to keep pretending that I’m just your cab driver anymore. Not after tonight,” he said, his forehead almost touching yours. “Because you’re the best part of my week, too.”
Your breath caught enough that he felt it.
“So. When things feel less heavy, or you just need a break…” His heart was pounding now. “Would you like to have dinner with me?”
He didn’t breathe as the question hung in the air.
Opening up and asking you out wasn’t going to magically erase the pain or worry you felt. It wouldn’t fix what was happening with your brother. But you didn’t need to go it alone.
You stared at him, almost like you were afraid he’d take the offer back. “Dinner?” you echoed.
“Yeah. Dinner. With me,” he said, his voice low. “No meter running or route. Just… us.”
Just the two of you enjoying each other’s company.
“Because I want to see you outside of the cab.” His thumb brushed your knuckles. “I want to critique movies and books with you and eat pizza or noodles or brinner and just talk. I want Al to finally see my favorite passenger in person.”
A small laugh escaped you, the sound like sunlight appearing after a storm.
“But only if you want, and only when you’re ready.”
You stared at him for a long moment before you smiled, one that reached your eyes for the first time tonight.
“I’d like that,” you said
The rush of relief hit him so fast it almost made him lightheaded. You wanted to have dinner with him. You wanted to see him outside of the weekly routine.
“Yeah?” he asked, just to be sure.
“Yeah,” you replied, tender and certain. “Is… tomorrow too soon?”
Bucky blinked, genuinely thinking he misheard you.
Tomorrow?
His heart stuttered. He expected an offer to check your schedule or something weeks down the line. But not this.
“Tomorrow?” he repeated breathlessly.
You nodded, a tad shy. “Yeah. I mean, if you’re free… and it’s not too fast or anything?”
Too fast?
I’ve been waiting fifteen Thursdays now for this.
“It’s not too fast.” He shook his head, a faint, disbelieving smile tugging at his lips. “It’s actually kinda perfect.”
“It is?”
“It is,” he said, more certain. “Tomorrow’s great.”
Tomorrow meant you wanted this. Not just someday down the line, but now. Even with everything going on.
“We can keep it easy,” he said, his thumb moving over your knuckles again. “Whatever you’re up for.”
“Movie?” you suggested, a small hint of your usual warmth slipping back in. “And noodles?”
He laughed. “Number seven?”
“Number seven,” you confirmed, your smile widening.
“Alright. Noodles and a movie at my place.”
“It’s a date,” you whispered.
A date.
You were still standing close. Close enough that if he leaned in just a fraction… God, he wanted to kiss you. More than anything.
The two of you took an important step. He finally stopped being a coward. You didn’t hold everything in.
But he didn’t kiss you.
Tonight wasn’t about that.
His forehead, however, did intentionally brush yours this time.
“I’ll text you,” he murmured.
“I’ll be waiting.”
And I’ll be counting down the minutes.
You squeezed his hand before finally stepping back, his blanket tucked against your chest. “Good night, Buck.”
He memorized the way you gazed at him, basking in that glow. “Good night.”
You slipped inside, the door clicking shut behind you. There was no drop in his stomach. No nerves.
He didn’t have to wait for another Thursday to see you again.
He finally turned back toward the cab, running a hand through his hair like he was trying to physically process what just happened.
Dinner and a movie.
You wanted to spend time with him.
“Jesus,” he muttered happily under his breath as he slid back into the driver’s seat.
His gaze drifted to the backseat, landing on the empty space where you had been curled up just minutes ago, his blanket wrapped around you, trusting him with something rough and fragile.
When he picked you up tomorrow, you could sit in the front beside him.
His phone buzzed, his heart picking up before he even saw your message.
Of course, it was you.
MFP: “Curled up on the couch with your blanket. Thanks again. For everything.”
It gave him peace of mind knowing you made it into your place safe and sound since he only walked you to the building door.
“Thanks for letting me help.”
He made a difference tonight.
He almost set the phone down when another message popped up.
MFP: “My brother was awake when I reached out.”
He held his breath. Was he okay? Did something happen?
“Yeah?”
Three dots appeared long enough that he sat up straighter.
MFP: “I told him we’re having dinner tomorrow, and he said he’s looking forward to meeting the guy who keeps me safe every week.”
He reread the message until the screen went dark.
Your brother, the one you were terrified for, wanted to meet him.
Becca would want to meet you.
He rubbed a hand over his mouth, trying to ground himself. Something earnest and dangerously close to overwhelming spread from his chest, the card on the dashboard staring at him. It brought a smile to his face.
“I’d be honored to meet him. I’ll have to make a good first impression.”
As a big brother, Bucky sensed and respected that he would be a bit protective of you.
MFP: “You already have.”
The additional layer of assurance did wonders.
MFP: “Get some rest tonight, okay? Happy Friday Eve.”
There it was.
Soft, familiar, and you.
“You, too. And it’s Friday Junior.”
MFP: “Same thing. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow,” he whispered, happiness filling him to the point where he thought he’d float away.
He shot off a quick message to the guys and Becca. “Got a date tomorrow night. I’ll let you know how it goes.”
With a smile, he put the phone away. He could already see Sam losing his mind and Steve would try and fail to act subtle about it. Becca would demand every detail after. He’d wait until later to see and hear their stunned reactions.
For now, he was going to drive and get a few more people where they needed to go.
But not before taking one last look at your building and picturing you curled up with his blanket.
Fifteen Thursdays.
Fifteen weeks of watching you slip into his cab with tired eyes, soft smiles, and sweetness that made a difference in his day. Fifteen weeks of falling for you in steady increments. Fifteen weeks of chances he almost let slip by because it took him some time to feel brave.
And tonight he erased the line he drew in the sand for good because you mattered more.
You let him see you and it was a beautiful thing.
“Tomorrow,” he said again like a promise, starting the car and pulling away from the curb.
Tomorrow there wouldn’t be a meter running or rearview mirror glances. No pretending it was just another ride. It would just be you and him.
He was counting down the minutes.
And for once, he didn’t feel like he needed to second guess any of it.
Whew! Did we make it? This isn't the end for these two. It's very much a beginning. Would love to hear your thoughts!
warnings ۶ৎ 18+ mdni. modern au. explicit smut, body insecurity/body image thoughts, jealousy, miscommunication, pool party tension, wet swimsuit, oral sex, fingering, multiple orgasms, protected piv, dirty talk, praise, possessive bucky, semi-public tension, soft aftercare.
synopsis ۶ৎ bucky spends the whole pool party trying not to stare. you spend the whole pool party thinking he can barely stand to look at you.
a slippery pool step, one bitter comment, and tony stark’s guest room fix that problem rather loudly.
evie’s input ۶ৎ not beta read. tumblr is a bitch for making my format go to shit. but please enjoy folks. dividers by @/cursed-carmine
you bought the swimsuit out of pure delusion. pure, bright, sun-drunk delusion, the sort that made sense at two in the morning with your laptop glowing against your face and natasha sitting beside you on the bed, eating chips directly from the bag while telling you that black one-pieces were for women hiding from federal charges or their own thighs. she had said that with such calm authority, such casual violence, that you had clicked away from the perfectly safe black one-piece and ended up on a page full of colors that made you feel personally attacked. cherry red. powder blue. white, which felt like an invitation for god to humiliate you. green, which nat said would look pretty on your skin and you said would make you look like a decorative salad, and then she had hit you with a pillow hard enough to send two chips flying into your blanket.
so you picked the dark blue one.
dark blue seemed mature. forgiving. almost responsible, if swimwear could be responsible. it had a low back that made you sit up straighter just looking at the model, and the top had little gold rings at the straps, small enough to pretend they were classy instead of slutty. the bottoms sat high on the hips, which nat called flattering and you called invasive. still, you ordered it. you even paid for express shipping, which felt like signing a contract with your own downfall.
now, standing in tony stark’s guest bathroom with the swimsuit cutting into places you had never invited fabric to develop an opinion about, the delusion had fully left your body. “this is a hate crime,” you mutter at your reflection, tugging the side higher, then lower, then higher again, like one of those positions will suddenly unlock a new body. “against me, specifically.”
the mirror gives you no sympathy. it just shows you exactly what you are trying very hard to survive. thighs. hips. stomach. skin. actual human flesh, very rude of it. you turn slightly, regret it, turn back, regret that too. the swimsuit is pretty. that may be the worst part. if it were ugly, you could blame the swimsuit. but it is pretty and soft and fitted, which means the problem is clearly you, and that feels legally actionable.
natasha knocks twice, then opens the door like locks are a decorative suggestion. she is wearing a black bikini and a loose white shirt, hair braided back, sunglasses resting on her head. she looks like she has never feared a changing room mirror in her life. maybe she killed that fear at sixteen and buried it in a forest. “if you’re dead in there, say something,” she says, leaning against the doorframe with a drink already in hand.
you glare at her through the mirror. “i’m suing you.”
“for making you look hot?”
“for elder abuse.”
“you’re younger than me.”
“for emotional elder abuse.”
her mouth twitches. she steps inside, closes the door with her heel, and turns you by the shoulders before you can protest. the inspection is quick and blunt, clinical in the scariest possible way, then her brows lift. “yeah. you’re wearing it.”
“you didn’t even pretend to think.”
“i did think. silently. very sexy of me.”
you pull at the bottom again, mostly so your hands have a job. it feels safer when your hands have a job. otherwise they might wander up and cover your stomach or your chest or your face, and then nat would make one of those sounds. a small sound, barely a sound, the kind that says she loves you and also wants to shake you until your bones make music. “it’s too much,” you say, quieter.
“it’s a pool party.”
“exactly. people will be near pools. with eyes.”
“tragic.” nat takes another sip. “people might also have necks. horrifying world.”
you make a face at her, but your fingers have started twisting the hem of the towel around your shoulders. the towel is the only thing keeping you from turning around, putting your shorts back on, and telling everyone you’ve developed a sudden aquatic allergy. chlorine intolerance. water-related moral conflict. any excuse with a medical-sounding word might work on steve. sam would ask questions. tony would ask if the water offended you personally, then offer to replace it with imported glacier melt.
bucky would look at you. that thought is the whole disease. bucky barnes looking at you in this swimsuit is either going to kill you outright or make you wish it had. he is already too much in normal clothes. jeans, shirts, those stupid henleys that cling to his shoulders with religious devotion. shirts in general seem desperate around him. fabric has never looked more underpaid. and now there is a very real chance that you will walk outside and find him shirtless by the pool, all broad chest and sun-warmed skin and dark hair falling around his face, and you’ll have to behave like someone who pays taxes and owns a toothbrush. impossible.
even worse, he may look at you and then look away. the thought is small. mean. familiar. he does that sometimes. looks away when you enter the room like your presence is a lamp turned directly into his eyes. you’ve built a whole religion around it. bucky finds you irritating. bucky tolerates you for nat’s sake. bucky can flirt with cashiers, grandmothers, dogs, possibly dangerous machinery, but when it comes to you, he either teases until you want to bite him or turns cold like you spilled something on his favorite memory.
“he’s already here,” nat says.
you blink at her. horrible woman. witch. spy. roommate. “who?”
“the pool boy.”
“tony has a pool boy?”
“no, but if he did, i’d respect his commitment to the theme.” nat watches you through the mirror. “barnes. he’s outside with steve and sam.”
your mouth goes dry. very mature reaction. very dignified. you deserve an award for remaining upright. “thrilling.”
“he asked where you were.”
“to insult me?”
“probably to write a poem.”
you snort despite yourself, then hate the sound for being too fond. bucky inspires many feelings in you, most of them medically confusing. rage, attraction, pettiness, fondness, the strange urge to press your face into his chest and stand there until society collapses. you used to think crushes were supposed to be fun. light. giggly. yours feels like chewing glass while a beautiful man laughs in another room. “i’m putting clothes on,” you announce, turning toward the pile you abandoned on the sink.
natasha catches the towel before you can turn it into armor. her face softens, which is alarming. she is much easier to handle when she is threatening people or calling men idiots. tenderness from nat tends to make you confess things. “you can wear whatever you want. but if you’re changing because barnes might see you, i’m going to be annoying.”
“you’re already annoying.”
“i have levels.” her hand squeezes your shoulder once. “he’s one guy.”
“he’s a large guy.”
“still one.”
“that’s debatable. he has the surface area of three men.”
she smiles into her glass. “come outside.”
you stare at yourself again. the gold rings at your shoulders glint under the bathroom lights. a soft breath leaves you, slow and unwilling. the girl in the mirror looks terrified, which is rude, because you were aiming for bored. maybe indifferent. possibly mysterious. something with less of a wet-cat energy.
bucky is one guy. one guy with eyes. one guy who probably won’t even look long enough to form an opinion. that is worse. “fine,” you say, grabbing the towel and wrapping it around your shoulders instead of your body. “but if i cry, i’m pushing you into the pool.”
nat opens the door, smug and fond. “deal. i swim beautifully.” you hate her. you follow her anyway.
sunlight hits you like a personal accusation. tony’s summer house is all glass, white stone, obnoxious wealth, and views so good they make you suspicious. the pool stretches across the back patio in a ridiculous blue sheet, bright enough to look fake, with lounge chairs lined along one side and a shaded outdoor kitchen on the other. music plays from speakers hidden somewhere in the landscaping, low and expensive. the air smells like sunscreen, grilled pineapple, chlorine, and the rosemary bushes tony probably paid someone to make look effortless.
everyone is already there. wanda is stretched on a lounger with sunglasses over her eyes, red hair spilling over one shoulder. vision sits beside her reading a book in the sun like a man who has never sweated once in his life. steve is by the grill, wearing swim trunks and a white shirt he left open, looking like a recruitment poster for sunscreen safety. sam is in the pool, arguing with clint over a foam football. tony is wearing sunglasses indoors, technically outdoors, but under the shaded bar, so spiritually indoors. bruce is speaking to pepper near a bowl of fruit like he has been assigned fruit diplomacy.
and bucky. bucky is near the far side of the pool, one foot up on the lower rung of a lounger, laughing at something steve says across the patio. shirtless, obviously. cruelly. swim trunks low on his hips, hair tied back in a loose half-bun, a pair of sunglasses hanging from the collar of the shirt he has abandoned on a chair. his skin is already touched by sun, golden at the shoulders, marked with faint scars and old history, and your brain takes one look at him and files for retirement.
of course. of course he gets to look like that near water. like some mythological punishment. like a sailor’s bad decision. like if marble got warm and developed a bad personality.
you stop near the sliding door. nat keeps walking. traitor. sam sees you first. “hey, finally! we were about to send a search party.”
“i was in the bathroom for seven minutes,” you call back, which is mostly true if you ignore the years spent negotiating with your own reflection.
“seven minutes in woman time,” tony says, lifting his drink. “so either twelve seconds or a fiscal quarter.”
“rich men shouldn’t speak,” you say, and tony points at you like you’ve wounded him.
“see, this is why i invite you. keeps the ego limber.”
that gets a few laughs, easy and warm. you can handle them. most of them. everyone here has seen you in pajamas, sick, angry, half asleep, and once crying over a video of a dog getting prosthetic legs. skin should be nothing. thighs should be nothing. a stomach should be nothing. human bodies have been happening for ages. terribly common things.
then bucky turns. it is fast. too fast. his smile is still there from whatever steve said, wide and relaxed, and then his eyes find you and the smile fades in pieces.
you go so still the towel slips down one shoulder.
he looks at your face first, then lower. hardly a second, maybe less, barely enough to count, but your body counts it. the line of his gaze touches your swimsuit, the bare places around it, the curve you have spent twenty minutes trying to negotiate with, and then he looks away.
just like that. his jaw tightens. his hand curls around the back of the lounger. his attention swings back to steve with such sudden force that you almost laugh. there it is. there it fucking is.
you knew this would happen. stupid, stupid girl. standing in a bathroom telling yourself he was only one guy when that one guy apparently needs to look anywhere else the second you show too much skin. amazing. beautiful. maybe you can walk straight into the pool and keep going until you reach a new continent. the patio sounds louder now. sam’s laughter, clint yelling about cheating, ice clinking in tony’s glass. everything keeps moving around you with obscene casualness. no one else saw it. no one else felt the tiny, sharp slice of it. bucky looked at you and looked away, and everyone else gets to continue eating fruit.
natasha glances back. you arrange your face into something flat and vaguely hostile. a familiar costume. better than the swimsuit.“drink?” she asks.
“yes.”
“alcoholic?”
“aggressively.”
tony hears that and brightens. “finally, someone with taste.”
you make your way toward the bar, aware of every step. the swimsuit feels too tight and too revealing and somehow too loud. bucky is across the patio, speaking to steve. he does not look again. that is fine. excellent. merciful, even. you hope he develops hiccups. tony slides a drink toward you. “for the lady with the aggressive liver.”
“thank you. sorry about your personality.”
“accepted. i bought another one.”
sam hoists himself out of the pool with a dramatic groan, water streaming down his shoulders. He grabs a towel, wiping his face, and his gaze flicks over your swimsuit without the weirdness men can sometimes bring to it. Just appreciative, warm, and easy. “Damn. Look at you.”
your fingers tighten around the glass. for one stupid second, praise lands in a place that has been sitting empty for too long. you lift your brows, aiming for casual. “is that surprise?”
“that’s respect,” sam says, pointing at the gold ring on your strap. “little fancy thing going on. i see you.”
“it’s swimsuit technology.”
“no, that’s a whole look. hey, buck.” sam turns his head before you can stop him. “you seeing this?”
murder becomes briefly understandable.
bucky’s shoulders go rigid. Steve looks between sam and bucky with the pained expression of a man witnessing a grenade roll under a picnic table. the second stretches. maybe two. your drink sweats against your palm. bucky does turn, but his eyes barely make it to your shoulder before skating away again. “yeah,” he says, voice rough enough that it sounds dragged from his throat. “i see it.”
that is worse than silence. you swallow. “fantastic. all votes counted.”
sam squints, sensing something in the air with the survival instincts of a man who has chosen chaos as a hobby. “you okay over there, terminator?”
bucky’s mouth moves into something that could pass for a smile in poor lighting. “fine.”
“sounds painful.”
“sam.”
“what? i’m checking on my friend.”
“check quieter.”
you take a long sip. It is sweet, cold, and strong enough to make your teeth feel clean. Wonderful. Tony Stark may be a public hazard, but the man stocks good alcohol. You let the burn settle on your tongue and decide, with the private little click of a door closing, that this is fine. Bucky can avoid looking at you. Great. Wonderful. Plenty of people have eyes.
Sam, for instance. Sam is grinning at you, towel around his neck, eyebrows lifted. He is handsome and safe and not Bucky, which immediately lowers his value in the ugliest part of your brain. But he complimented you. He looked at you without flinching. That counts for something. “you getting in?” sam asks, jerking his chin toward the pool. “or did you dress up to intimidate the tiles?”
“both can be true.”
“come on. clint’s cheating and i need a witness.”
you glance toward the water, then toward nat, who has settled beside wanda. Then, against all better judgment, toward bucky. He is looking at his drink. Very invested in it. Possibly falling in love with it. Good for them. your drink goes onto the counter. the towel slides off your shoulders and onto a chair before you can give yourself time to become normal again. Cool air brushes over your bare back. Too many places. Too much skin. Your arms fight the urge to cross over your middle.
Bucky’s head turns a fraction. You see it. You hate that you see it. The movement is so tiny anyone else would miss it, but you have a tragic little doctorate in James Barnes pretending indifference. His eyes make it to your legs this time. Then his mouth presses flat, and he turns away again.
Fine. Your chin lifts. “i’m a terrible witness,” you tell sam, stepping toward the pool. “i lie under pressure.”
Sam laughs and offers his hand from the water like he is helping royalty down from a carriage. “perfect. we’ll frame clint together.”
The pool is cold at first, a shock around your calves as you sit on the edge and lower yourself in. You bite back the sound that tries to escape, mostly out of pride. The water closes around your waist, then your ribs, and for a second the swimsuit stops feeling like a spotlight. Underwater, everything blurs kinder. Your hips, stomach, thighs. The body becomes a body again. Less evidence. Less argument. Sam tosses you the foam football. You catch it against your chest with both hands, splashing yourself in the face. “very athletic,” clint calls.
you wipe water from your eyes. “i’m preserving my mystery.”
“your mystery is that you suck at catch.”
“my mystery is that i haven’t drowned you.”
That gets a laugh from wanda. Nat smiles behind her sunglasses, proud and terrible. You start to loosen after that. The water helps. The drink helps. Sam helps too, in his loud, easy way, making you feel included without making you feel studied. He shouts fake strategies, accuses clint of crimes against recreational sport, and once spins you by the shoulders to aim your throw while you laugh so hard pool water gets in your mouth.
It should be enough. It almost is. Then you glance over and see Bucky watching. He is no longer pretending to listen to Steve. His sunglasses are on now, hiding his eyes, but his head is angled toward you. His arms are crossed over his chest, one shoulder leaning against a patio pillar, sun catching along the metal of his left hand where it grips his own bicep. There is nothing soft in his posture. Nothing open. He looks carved into place.
Caught, he turns his head slightly. Of course. Your laugh thins. Sam says something, but you miss it. Maybe your name. Maybe a joke. The pool sounds muffle, slipping in and out around your ears. Bucky can look from far away, apparently. From behind sunglasses. From a place where you cannot look back properly. The second you are close enough for him to have to acknowledge you as a body with feelings, he finds the nearest wall or drink or horizon.
There’s a special sort of humiliation in wanting someone who seems vaguely offended by the evidence of you. “you alive?” sam asks, splashing water near your arm.
You blink back to him. “unfortunately.”
“you looked like you were plotting.”
“I plot as cardio.”
“that explains the stamina.”
Bucky’s jaw moves across the patio. You see that too. Tiny. Annoying. Delicious, if you were a healthier person. A reckless little thing uncurls in your chest. It is petty and hot and stupid, so naturally it feels almost holy. You turn back to sam with a brighter smile, the sort that probably looks normal to everyone else and insane to Nat. Sam raises his eyebrows. Brave man. “teach me to throw better,” you say.
He narrows his eyes. “this a trick?”
“i’m asking for athletic help. cherish the moment.”
Sam laughs, then shifts behind you in the water, hands hovering over your elbows before settling lightly when you nod. It is friendly. It is nothing. It is two people in a pool with a foam football and a crowd of friends around them. But you feel Bucky before you see him. His attention has weight. A dark little weather system rolling over the patio. Sam adjusts your arm. “okay, elbow up. no, less like you’re threatening the ball’s family.”
“I am threatening its family.”
“gentle. release here.” His hand taps your wrist.
Across the patio, Steve says something to Bucky. Bucky does not answer. You throw. The ball arcs beautifully for half a second, then smacks clint square in the forehead. The silence is immediate. Then clint sinks under the water like a betrayed submarine. You clap both hands over your mouth. Sam loses his mind laughing, one hand braced on your shoulder as he folds forward. Wanda sits up. Tony lowers his sunglasses. Steve looks concerned. Nat looks delighted. Clint resurfaces, hair plastered over his face. “attempted murder.”
“self-defense,” you gasp, still half laughing, half horrified. “you had criminal energy.”
“You hit me in my innocent head.”
“no jury would convict her,” sam says, wiping his eyes. “that was art.”
A sound comes from the patio. Low. Short. You look before you can stop yourself.
Bucky is laughing. Not loud. Not like sam. Barely more than a breath, but his mouth has curved despite whatever terrible thing he has been doing with his face all afternoon. He is looking at you now. Fully. Sunglasses pushed up into his hair, blue eyes narrowed against the sun, and for one ridiculous moment, all the air in the day seems to gather in your throat.
Then he catches himself. The smile fades. His gaze drops to the water near your waist, moves away, and he reaches for his drink. It is a slap with no hand.
Your smile goes with it. The water suddenly feels too cold. “i need another drink,” you announce, heading for the stairs before anyone can see your face arrange itself badly.
Sam calls after you, still laughing about clint’s tragic head injury. Nat’s sunglasses follow you from the lounger. Bucky stays by the pillar, but the closer you get to the edge, the more you feel him there. A terrible awareness. Like walking past a stove you know is on. Your hands grip the metal rail as you climb the pool steps. Water streams down your body, cooler where the breeze hits. The swimsuit clings hard now, slick to your skin, making every curve more obvious instead of less. Wonderful design choice. Truly innovative cruelty. You reach for the towel on the chair, but it is farther than you thought, and the stone under your wet feet is slippery.
Your heel slides. For one bright, stupid second, you are suspended in pure indignity. Then a hand clamps around your upper arm. Not sam. Not nat. Not anyone safe enough to survive.
Bucky. His other hand catches your waist, broad palm spreading over wet skin, fingers pressing into the soft give above your hip. The contact goes straight through you with such force that your brain empties. Chlorine, sun, his skin, the faint spice of whatever soap he uses, all of it crowds too close. Your hand lands on his chest to steady yourself, and he is warm. Warm and solid and right there, which is deeply unfair for a man who has spent the afternoon treating eye contact like a hostage negotiation.
“careful,” he says.
One word. Low. Rough. Stupid. Your embarrassment catches fire. You laugh. It comes out bitter, thin at the edges, nothing like the easy laugh you gave sam. Bucky’s fingers tighten once at your waist, and that little pressure makes the whole thing worse. “relax, barnes.” You pull your hand from his chest, hating the wet print your palm leaves behind. “you don’t have to touch me longer than necessary.”
The whole patio seems to keep making noise, but in your little corner, the sentence has teeth. Bucky goes still. His hand stays on your waist for half a second too long, then leaves like he has been burned. The absence is immediate and awful. You hate him for touching you. You hate him more for stopping. His face has changed, though you refuse to name the change. His brows draw together, mouth parting slightly as if he has lost the next line. Good. Let him lose something. “What?” he says, quiet.
You grab the towel and pull it around yourself, too late to feel covered. “Nothing.”
His eyes narrow at that, and for once he does not look away. “That didn’t sound like nothing.”
“You’re very observant.”
“Don’t do that.”
A laugh tries to crawl out of you and dies ugly. “Do what?”
“Act like I did something to you when all I did was catch you.”
You look at him then. Really, probably too much. Big mistake. His skin is still damp at the temples from sweat or the pool water someone splashed earlier, and the sun catches the blue of his eyes so sharply you want to be mad at nature. His chest rises under your gaze. Your palm still remembers him, every warm inch. A handprint in reverse. “you looked away,” you say, and the words escape before pride can shoot them down.
Bucky’s face tightens. “When?”
You hate him. You hate him so much you could kiss him until both of you forget language. “Forget it.”
You turn away, but he catches the edge of the towel. Not enough to pull you back, only enough to stop the escape from being clean. “When?” he repeats, and the softness in his voice is so much worse than anger.
You should have kept your mouth shut. You should have stayed in the bathroom and sued Natasha from there. Instead you’re wet, half naked, humiliated, and Bucky Barnes is holding your towel like it matters. “When I came out,” you say, staring hard at the bar instead of him. “When sam called you. When I got in the pool. Pick one, you’ve been consistent.”
His grip loosens. For a second you think he will explain. He might laugh. He might say you’re imagining things. He might finally cut the whole sickness open and tell you he does not want to look, and then maybe you can be free through the healing power of public devastation. But he says nothing. Of course he says nothing.
Your eyes sting, which is unacceptable. Chlorine. Obviously chlorine. You pull the towel free and walk toward the bar with as much dignity as a woman can manage while dripping on expensive stone. Behind you, Steve says Bucky’s name. Low. Warning. Or concerned. You do not turn around. Tony is pretending very hard to examine a lime. “Drink,” you say, dropping onto a stool.
He pushes one over without commentary for maybe the first time in his life. “Hydration adjacent.”
“your discretion is unsettling.”
“i’m multifaceted.”
You take the glass. Your hand shakes once, barely. You curl it tighter until it stops.
Across the patio, Bucky remains near the pool steps, one hand low on his hip, the other rubbing over his mouth. Steve stands near him now, speaking quietly. Bucky shakes his head. His eyes cut toward you. This time, you look away first.
Pool parties become less fun once you have emotionally exposed yourself near a wet staircase. A tragic discovery. Someone should tell the youth. The afternoon drags onward with the mean persistence of a song you cannot skip. People eat. People drink. Sam retells the clint football incident with increasing betrayal of facts, making himself sound like a coach and you sound like a trained assassin. Clint claims he can see sounds now. Wanda orders him to stop making it tempting to hit him again. Tony brings out enough food for a wedding and calls it “light snacks,” which makes you wonder if billionaires understand hunger as a concept or merely as a branding opportunity. You sit with nat under the shade, towel around your shoulders, swimsuit drying tight against your skin. The drink has made you warmer, loose at the edges, but not enough to soften the place Bucky opened and then abandoned. He has stayed away. Not dramatically. Not in a way anyone could call obvious. He helps Steve with the grill, talks to Sam, lets Tony make jokes at his expense. He is normal.
That might be the ugliest part. You are sitting here with your nerves scraped raw, and he gets to hold a plate of grilled chicken. Do you want to talk about it?” nat asks.
“No.”
She hums, sipping from her straw. “Do you want to lie about it?”
“Desperately.”
“Go ahead.”
You stare at the water. Sam is trying to shove clint off a float. Clint has accepted death with more grace than expected. “I’m having a nice time.”
“Terrible lie. Try again.”
“I enjoy sunlight.”
“Worse.”
“Bucky Barnes is a normal man whose opinion does nothing to my blood pressure.”
Natasha’s mouth curves. “Almost funny enough to pass.”
You pick at a loose thread on the towel. The fibers are soft, expensive, probably worth more than half your closet. Tony’s towels have better career prospects than you. “He looked at me like he wished I’d worn a tarp.”
Nat says nothing for a second. Her silence is rarely empty. It moves around, checks exits, evaluates weak spots. “That’s what you saw?”
You glance at her, defensive already. “I have eyes.”
“Unfortunately, yes. Dramatic ones.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.” She turns her head a little, and you follow her gaze against your will.
Bucky is standing at the grill beside Steve. His posture is casual enough for a stranger. Not for you. You know his casual. This is held too tight at the edges. His shoulders are set, left hand curled around a bottle of beer he has barely touched, eyes trained on the pool with such grim commitment that the pool may owe him money. “He’s been weird all day,” nat says.
“He’s always weird.”
“With you, yes.”
“That’s very comforting.”
She nudges your knee with hers. “You two are exhausting.”
“There is no two. There’s me, suffering heroically, and him, being confusing and broad.”
“Broad?”
“Don’t make me defend my vocabulary. I’m injured.”
“You slipped.”
“Emotionally.”
Natasha laughs softly, then reaches over and plucks the drink from your hand. “Slow down.”
You glare. “This is theft.”
“This is friendship.”
“Friendship would let me make poor choices.”
“I let you buy the swimsuit.”
“That was attempted murder.”
Her hand squeezes your knee once. “He’s looking again.”
Your entire body betrays you. It wants to turn. It wants to pretend it has not been starving for that exact sentence. You hold still with the grim focus of someone defusing a bomb under poor lighting. “Good for him,” you say.
Nat’s smile turns small and unbearable. “You’re allowed to like being looked at.”
“By normal people, maybe.”
“Barnes is many things.”
“Normal does seem optimistic.” The words come out light enough. The thought under them sits heavy. Bucky looking at you feels dangerous because you cannot tell what he sees. All day, you have been trapped between wanting his attention and being wounded by how he spends it. Too quick, too hidden, too late. You want him to look in a way that lets you rest, which is insane. A person should not need another person’s eyes to feel real in their own skin. There are self-help books about that, probably. You have not read them because they would tell you to journal and you would rather eat sand.
Tony calls everyone for food, and the shift saves you from Nat’s terrifying accuracy. Chairs scrape. People gather around the long outdoor table. You end up between wanda and sam, safe enough, with nat across from you and Bucky diagonally down the table beside Steve. Diagonally is awful. Diagonally means accidental glances. Diagonally means you can pretend to look at the salad and still see his hands. Diagonally means his knee might bump yours if the table were smaller, which it is not, thank God, or no thanks to God, depending on where you are in your moral development.
Food helps. A little. Grilled corn, charred sweet at the edges. Watermelon with feta. Skewers. Tony’s obscene little sliders made with buns so soft you briefly understand wealth. You eat more than you expected, mostly to give your mouth a reason to stay busy. Sam leans closer while reaching for the corn. “You ever think about joining a league?”
You stare at him. “For what, pool homicide?”
“Foam football. You’ve got raw talent.”
“I injured one man.”
“That’s how legends start.”
You laugh, easier this time. Sam is lovely. Sam is safe. Sam has never once made you feel like a bug under glass or a prayer no one taught you how to say. His attention is warm and uncomplicated, and maybe that is why it fails to do the thing you wish it would. You want it to. That would be convenient. You could turn your head and smile at the man making you laugh, and your body could decide to be sensible for once. Across the table, Bucky’s fork scrapes softly against his plate.
You glance up. His eyes are on Sam’s shoulder, where it nearly touches yours. His mouth has gone flat again. When his gaze shifts to yours, it stays. No sunglasses now. No immediate retreat. You should feel triumphant. You feel pinned and furious and too warm under the towel.
Sam keeps talking. You answer. Probably. Words happen from your side of the table. Bucky looks away first, but slower this time, and that almost makes you angrier.
After food, Tony declares a mandatory sunset swim like a man whose money has left him unfamiliar with the word optional. Wanda declines by pretending to sleep. Vision declines with such politeness that Tony thanks him. Steve gets dragged in by Sam. Clint goes willingly after shouting that the water may heal his head trauma. Natasha sheds her shirt and dives so cleanly that half the patio claps.
You mean to stay on the lounger. You really do. Then Bucky sits on the chair two spaces away with a beer and no intention of swimming.
You stand.
“Coming in?” sam calls from the pool.
“Apparently.”
Bucky’s head lifts. There. There it is again. That first startled drag of his eyes as your towel drops onto the lounger. This time you catch all of it. He looks at your shoulders, your chest, your waist, the high cut at your hips, the damp lines where the swimsuit still clings from earlier. His throat moves. His fingers tighten around the beer bottle.
Then he looks away. Again. The hurt comes faster now, less sharp and more tired. You have run out of ways to be surprised by it. “You coming?” you ask before you can stop yourself.
Bucky looks back. “What?”
“In the pool.” You gesture toward everyone else, voice mild enough to deserve applause. “That large wet rectangle behind you.”
Sam laughs from the water. Steve watches Bucky with the concerned patience of someone looking at a friend about to step on a rake. Bucky’s eyes flick toward the pool, then to you. “I’m fine here.”
“Tragic. We’ll notify the rectangle.”
That gets a laugh from Tony. Even Bucky’s mouth twitches, but it dies before it becomes anything useful. “You scared?” you ask.
The words are easy. The ache under them is less so. You want him to rise. You want him to refuse. You want him to look. You want him to leave. You want so many impossible things at once that your own skin feels crowded. Bucky leans back in the chair, jaw set. “Of you?”
“Of fun.”
“Terrified.”
“Figures.” You turn before he can answer, stepping into the pool with all the dignity you can scrape together. The water feels warmer now after the heat of the day, soft around your knees, your waist, your ribs. Sam splashes near you, and you splash him back half-heartedly. The game restarts in some altered form. Someone throws a beach ball. Tony judges from the side with a drink, claiming he is “morally participating.” The sky slowly bruises pink and gold over the trees.
You laugh again. You even mean some of it. But Bucky stays on the chair. He stays dry and distant, one elbow on the armrest, beer untouched, gaze roaming everywhere except you until it does not. Then you feel it between your shoulder blades, across the back of your neck, sliding down where the swimsuit reveals more than it hides. If he is disgusted, he has a strange way of torturing himself with it.
Maybe he is bored. Maybe he is judging. Maybe he is thinking about someone else. Maybe you are pathetic. That last thought arrives with such calm familiarity that you almost miss the ball flying toward your face.
“Duck!” Sam shouts.
You duck too late. The beach ball clips the side of your head, harmless but startling, and you stumble back with a laugh that turns into a yelp when your foot misses the pool step under the water. This time, you do not fall. This time, Bucky is already there.
The splash of him entering the pool sends water up over your arms. You barely process the movement before his hand catches your waist under the water, bare palm meeting bare skin, fingers firm enough to halt every thought you were trying to have. His other hand closes around your wrist, anchoring you while your toes find the step.
The whole pool erupts around you. Sam says something. Tony whistles. Clint declares another murder attempt. None of it matters.
Bucky is in the water. Bucky is touching you.
Bucky’s hair is wet now, loose strands clinging near his jaw. His chest is inches from yours, water beading on his collarbones, eyes fixed on your face with the sort of focus that makes you feel both held and dissected. The metal hand around your wrist is cool. The flesh hand at your waist is warm even underwater. Your body, treacherous little idiot, forgets every insult it has been rehearsing and leans a fraction closer. “Careful,” he says again.
The same word. Same roughness. Less distance. Your laugh barely works this time. It leaves your mouth thin and tired. “You need a new line.”
His eyes drop to your mouth. Stay there. Move back up. “You need to stop slipping.”
“I’m sure the tiles are honored you blame me.”
“Wasn’t blaming you.”
“No, you’re just leaping into pools now. Very casual.”
His hand slides half an inch on your waist as someone’s wave rolls against you both. The movement is tiny and devastating. Your stomach pulls in under his palm before you can control it, and his fingers flex like he felt the reaction and had to restrain his own. Sam clears his throat loudly. “Everybody alive?”
Bucky does not look away from you. “Yeah.”
“You sure? That looked like a rescue.”
“Wilson,” Steve says, warning plain in his voice.
“What? I’m just asking. Man moved like a torpedo.”
Your face heats, and that saves you. Embarrassment brings language back. “I’m fine,” you say, trying to step back.
Bucky lets go of your wrist. His hand at your waist lingers. You glance down at it. He follows your gaze and releases you, slow enough to feel intentional, quick enough to hurt. “Fine,” he repeats, almost to himself.
You step away, wrapping your arms around your middle under the water. The swimsuit feels nonexistent now, yet somehow everyone can see the exact place his hand had been. Maybe there is a mark. Maybe your skin has announced it to the patio in bright letters. “I’m getting out,” you say, mostly to the water.
Bucky’s brows pull together. “Again?”
“Try to survive it.”
Sam says your name softly as you pass him, but you keep moving. The pool steps are kinder this time. You grip the rail, climb carefully, and grab your towel with wet hands. The sky has gone warmer, streaked with orange, and the air makes goosebumps rise along your arms. You head toward the house before anyone can ask.
The sliding door is blessedly close. The kitchen inside is cooler, dimmer, quiet except for the hum of Tony’s expensive refrigerator and the muted thump of music through glass. You leave wet footprints across the tile and feel guilty for half a second before remembering Tony could probably buy new tile by blinking. The towel goes tighter around you. Your face feels too hot. Your chest feels worse. Everything is tangled. Bucky looked away. Bucky watched. Bucky refused to get in. Bucky jumped in without thinking. Bucky touched you like instinct. Bucky let go like regret.
A normal person would accept complexity. You prefer suffering. The kitchen island has a bowl of cut limes, a bottle of tequila, and a tray of tiny desserts covered in plastic wrap. You peel one back and take a mini tart just to have something to destroy. It tastes like lemon and butter and wealth. You chew angrily. “stealing dessert before dinner’s fully over?”
You close your eyes. No. Absolutely no. The universe can go bother someone else.
Bucky’s voice comes from the doorway behind you, lower after the pool, rougher around the edges. You keep chewing. Swallow. Pick up another tart because dignity left hours ago and dessert is here now.
“Tell tony,” you say. “He’ll have me arrested by the pastry police.”
Wet footsteps cross the tile. He has followed you in dripping too, which should make him less intimidating. It does not. The room fills with him, chlorine and sun and that clean masculine smell under it, the one that has ruined many evenings and one perfectly decent pillow you once pressed your face into after he left it on your couch. He stops on the other side of the island. You look at the tart tray instead of him.
“I was checking on you.”
“Very heroic. I’m eating a tart.”
“So I see.”
“Then your work here is done.”
The old rhythm tries to come back. Snap, deflect, survive. Usually he takes the bait. Usually he smiles or scoffs or says something that makes you want to throw a household object. This time he stays quiet, and the quiet crawls right under your towel. You reach for a third tart. His hand covers the tray.
You stare at his fingers. Human hand. Calloused. Thick. The same hand that had been on your waist in the pool, warm through the water, possessive for one second before he remembered he did not want to be. Your own hand hovers uselessly near his. Lemon sugar sticks to your thumb. “Move,” you say.
“Talk to me.”
Your laugh is small and mean. “About dessert?”
“About what you said outside.”
“I’ve said many beautiful things today.”
His fingers press lightly against the plastic wrap, making it crinkle. “At the pool steps.”
The room cools further. Somewhere outside, Sam laughs. The sound reaches the kitchen thin and far away, like it belongs to another life where people can swim and flirt and enjoy fruit without turning into an open wound near a marble island. “I said you didn’t have to touch me.” You lift one shoulder. The towel slips a little. His eyes move to fix on your face with almost painful discipline. “Seems clear.”
“No.” His jaw tightens around the word. “It doesn’t.”
“It really does.”
“Is that what you think I’m doing?”
There it is. Softer than you expected. Worse, somehow. He sounds angry, but the anger has nowhere clean to go. It sits between you, wet-haired and broad-shouldered and too close. You pick at the sugar on your thumb. “Standing in a kitchen?”
“Trying to stop touching you.”
A humorless sound leaves you. “Aren’t you?”
Bucky’s hand slowly leaves the tray. He comes around the island, and you hate yourself for how fast your body registers each step. Wet tile under his bare feet. The shift of muscle in his thighs. Water slipping from his hair to his neck. He stops beside you, close enough that you can see tiny droplets on his lashes. “You think that’s why I looked away?”
Your fingers curl into the towel at your chest. “I’m very tired of talking about where your eyes go.”
“I’m not.”
“Congratulations.”
His voice lowers. “Look at me.”
“No.”
He breathes out through his nose. A patient sound. Not gentle. Not quite. “Please.”
That word does the damage anger could never do. You look up, furious with him for asking nicely. His face is tense, mouth set, eyes darker in the dim kitchen. He looks too serious for a pool party. Too serious for you standing here in a damp swimsuit and a towel, lemon sugar on your thumb, embarrassment turning your throat tight. “Happy?” you ask.
His gaze moves over your face like he is trying to read something written under your skin. “No.”
That almost gets you. Simple answer. No joke. No little smirk to save either of you. Your own mouth opens, then closes again.
Bucky glances toward the patio doors. Outside, the others are loud and bright and drunk on summer. In here, the air holds still around the refrigerator hum and your wet footprints. “I looked away,” he says, each word measured like it costs him, “because if I kept looking, everybody out there was gonna know.”
You stare at him. It takes a second. Maybe more. Your brain receives the sentence, turns it over, rejects it, picks it up again, then shakes it until meaning falls out. “Know what?”
His laugh is almost silent, rough at the bottom. “Don’t do that.”
“I’m asking.”
“You know what.”
“I really don’t.”
His hand lifts, then stops before touching you. That restraint again. Always that. A hand held back like your skin has rules written over it. You hate it more than anything, and maybe you have loved it too, which is inconvenient and humiliating. His fingers curl into his palm. “That I wanted you.”
The fridge hums. Music thuds through glass. Someone outside yells for Tony to stop cheating at whatever stupid rich-man game he has invented. Your towel slips another inch down your shoulder. Bucky notices. This time, he does not look away fast enough.
Wanted. Past tense? Present tense? A cruel grammar question at the worst possible time.
“You’ve been acting like looking at me causes physical pain,” you say, and it comes out less sharp than you need. More wounded. Awful.
His eyes cut back to yours. “It does.”
You blink. Bucky looks almost mad at himself now, which is satisfying for one brief second before it becomes sad. “You walked out in that thing and I had two choices. Look away, or sit there with everyone watching me stare at you like I’d lost my damn mind.”
“That thing?”
His gaze dips. Brief. Hungry. No disgust in it. None. The realization makes your stomach hollow out and fill at once. “The swimsuit.”
“You hate it.”
His mouth parts, then closes. His brows draw down. “I hate that Sam got to tell you first.”
That sentence finds a deep, stupid place in you and presses there. You hate that place. It has no pride. “He was being nice,” you say.
“I know.” in his mouth, right now, it is not reassurance. It is surrender. It is a man admitting something he does not want to resent and resenting it anyway.
“He looked at you like a friend,” Bucky says. “That made it worse.”
You set the tart down slowly, afraid any sudden movement might shatter the room. “Why?”
His eyes come back to yours. “Because I didn’t.”
The answer moves through you like a slow spill. Outside, someone opens the patio door. You both turn your heads at once. Tony leans in halfway, sunglasses still on though the sun is dying. His gaze takes in the water on the floor, your towel, Bucky’s expression, the tray of tarts, and he immediately lifts both hands.
“Fantastic. Haunted kitchen. Love that for us.” He reaches blindly for a bottle near the door. “Pretend I’m rich furniture.”
“Tony,” Bucky says, voice tight.
“Gone. Emotionally, spiritually, legally.” Tony backs out with the bottle and slides the door shut.
The interruption should break the tension. It does not. It makes it worse. Now the world has peeked in and retreated. Now privacy feels chosen. You wipe your sticky thumb against the towel, then regret it. “People are going to come looking.”
“Let them.”
Your eyes flick to his. “That’s a bad idea.”
“Yeah.”
“You’re agreeing?”
“Trying something new.”
Despite everything, a tiny laugh escapes you. Bucky’s face shifts at the sound. Not a smile, exactly. More dangerous than that. Like the laugh handed him proof he had been starving for and now he is trying to keep from grabbing.
“I thought you were embarrassed,” you say, quieter. The words scrape more than they should. “Of looking. Of me.”
His whole body seems to pull toward you without moving. “Jesus.”
You flinch at the roughness, and he sees it.
“Hey.” His hand finally touches your arm, just above the towel’s edge. Warm, careful, barely there. Still enough to ruin you. “No. I’m angry at myself. Not you.”
“You keep looking away.”
“I was trying to be decent.”
“That felt awful.”
His thumb moves once over your damp skin. You wish it did less. You wish it did more. “I see that now.”
“Great. Character development.”
He huffs, but there’s no real humor in it. His eyes have gone to the place his thumb touches your arm. “I’m sorry.”
You blink again. Bucky apologizes sometimes. To other people. Usually with grumbles and half-smiles and enough charm to make forgiveness feel inevitable. With you, apologies are rarer. Maybe because both of you prefer biting to bleeding. Maybe because he never seems to understand where the wound is.
This one is plain. You have no idea what to do with it. “I don’t want your pity apology,” you say.
His thumb stops. “Pity?”
“Yes.”
“You think I’m standing here half naked in Stark’s kitchen, dripping on a floor that costs more than my first apartment, apologizing out of pity?”
“When you put it like that, it sounds stupid.”
“It sounded stupid before.”
You glare up at him, relieved by the spark of irritation because anger is easier to hold. “Careful.”
That word. His word. It changes something in his face, turns his attention heavier. Your mouth goes dry. Bucky’s hand slides down your arm, slow enough that you could move away. You do not. His fingers find your wrist, then your hand, lifting it between you. Lemon sugar still clings faintly near your thumb. His eyes meet yours, asking nothing aloud, and maybe you nod. Maybe your hand simply gives up and lets him.
He brings your thumb to his mouth. The first touch of his tongue is warm and wet and obscene in its quietness. He licks the sugar from your skin like he has all the time in the world, lips closing around the tip of your thumb for half a second before he lets it go. Your knees forget their duties. The island is behind you, so you lean back against it before your body can embarrass you further.
Bucky watches the movement. “There,” he says, voice rougher. “No pity.”
You breathe through your nose, which is impressive since your lungs appear to have resigned. “That was unsanitary.”
“Pool water’s worse.”
“Comforting.”
His hand stays around yours. “You always do that.”
“What?”
“Make a joke when you’re shaking.”
You glance down. Your fingers are trembling in his grip. Treacherous little things. You consider cutting them off. Too messy for tony’s floor.
“I’m cold,” you say.
Bucky’s eyes drop to the towel, the damp swimsuit, the little bumps risen along your arms. “Yeah?”
“Yes.”
“Want me to get you dry?”
There is nothing clean in that question. Maybe there could have been, from someone else. From him, with his mouth still wet from your thumb and his hand around yours, the words turn thick. You pull your hand back, mostly so you can breathe. “I can manage a towel.”
“I saw.”
“You saw me almost fall.”
“I saw a lot today.”
A pulse starts low in your body, slow and hot and deeply inconvenient. “You looked away for most of it.”
“I looked back.”
That shuts you up. His hand goes to the edge of the towel. He does not pull. Just touches the cotton near your collarbone, where it has started to sag from water and poor decision-making. “I looked back all damn day.”
You try to swallow. It takes effort. “Bucky…”
The patio door opens again. This time it is Nat. She takes one look at you, one look at Bucky, then at the wet floor. Her face gives away nothing, which means she has figured out everything.
“People are asking about dessert,” she says.
You stare at her helplessly. Bucky’s hand drops from the towel. He turns his head, expression suddenly murderous in a very contained, socially inconvenient way. “They can wait.”
Natasha’s brows rise. “Can they?”
“Yes,” he says.
Something about that single word, the calm certainty of it, makes your thighs press together under the towel. Nat’s eyes flick down for barely a second, then back up. You want the tile to open and swallow you. Preferably gently. With snacks. “Right,” she says. “I’ll tell them the kitchen is occupied.”
“Nat,” you hiss.
Her mouth curves. “What? By wet people.”
Bucky sighs like he is in physical pain. “Romanoff.”
“Relax, Barnes. I’m leaving.” She reaches for the tray of tarts, slides it away from you both, and pauses at the door. “Use one of the guest rooms. Tony has cameras in weird places.”
Your soul leaves your body. “What?” you choke.
Tony’s voice carries from outside. “I do not have cameras in weird places. I have cameras in strategic places.”
Natasha closes the door again. The silence after that is different. Less fragile. More aware of its own stupidity. You cover your face with one hand. “I’m moving.”
Bucky makes a sound that might be a laugh if he were less ruined. “Where?”
“Into the ocean.”
“Pool’s closer.”
“Too many witnesses.”
His hand returns to your waist, over the towel this time, and the casual possession of it melts the last few scraps of your brain. “Guest room’s closer too.”
You lower your hand. He is looking at you now. No retreat. No disgust. No careful sideways glance. He looks exactly how you had feared wishing for. Hungry and unsure and trying to make himself stand still. “This is a terrible idea,” you whisper.
“Probably.”
“People are outside.”
“Yep.”
“You were ignoring me two hours ago.”
His mouth tightens. “I was trying to keep my hands off you two hours ago.”
“And now?”
His fingers press into your waist, pulling you one inch closer. Not enough. Enough to make you greedy. “Now I heard what you thought.”
Your chest aches. “And?”
He leans in, slow. Gives you time. Too much time. Your eyes dip to his mouth, and he sees that too. Of course he sees that, the bastard. His lips brush the corner of yours, barely a touch, more breath than kiss, and your entire body answers like it has been waiting years for a command. “And I’m done letting you think it.”
The first kiss is almost gentle. Almost. That is what ruins it. Bucky’s mouth touches yours with restraint at first, warm and careful, and you stand there stupidly with your hand hovering near his chest. It has taken so long to get here that your body does not trust it. He kisses you once, then draws back just enough to look at your face, and something in that tiny pause makes you angry. “No,” you breathe, grabbing the wet hair at the nape of his neck.
His eyes darken. “No?”
“You don’t get to kiss me like I’m fragile after making me feel insane all day.”
The words are barely out before his hand slides behind your head and his mouth comes back harder. This kiss has teeth in it. Not cruel, not careless, but hungry enough to make your fingers tighten in his hair. He tastes like beer and lemon sugar from your skin. His other arm wraps around your waist, pulling you in until the towel is crushed between you and his damp chest, and you make a sound into his mouth that you would deny in court. Bucky answers with a low groan, and the sound breaks something open. The kiss turns messy fast. Your feet slip a little on the wet tile, and he catches you without breaking away, almost lifting you onto your toes. The island edge presses into your back. His hand spreads wide between your shoulder blades, then drags down over the towel, as if he hates every layer between his palm and the body he kept refusing to look at.
Outside, laughter rises. You jerk back. “Guest room.”
Bucky’s forehead touches yours for one second. His breathing is rough, uneven, gratifyingly ruined. “Yeah.”
He takes your hand. That simple thing nearly undoes you. His fingers lace through yours, warm and firm, and he leads you through Tony’s absurd house with far more purpose than a man dripping pool water should have. The hallway is cool and dim, lined with art that probably costs enough to rescue a small nation. You barely see it. You see his back, the muscles shifting under wet skin, the dark hair curling at his neck, your hand held in his like something he does not plan to misplace. A laugh bursts from the patio behind you, then the sound dulls as the hallway turns. Your pulse beats everywhere. Mouth, wrists, thighs, the places the swimsuit rubs too tight. You have spent hours wishing he would look, and now he is taking you somewhere private to do more than that, which means panic arrives right on schedule, prim little nightmare clipboard in hand.
What if he changes his mind when the door closes? What if this is heat and misunderstanding and chlorine? What if he touches you and finds every soft place you spent the day trying to hide? Bucky stops at the first guest room and opens the door. The room is airy, pale, ridiculous, with a king bed dressed in white and a view of the trees beyond the windows. Too pretty. Too clean. A room for people who have sex beautifully, probably, with matching underwear and no body anxiety.
You hover at the threshold. Bucky turns. His gaze drops to your face, then your hand still in his. “What?”
You hate the gentleness. You might start wanting it everywhere. “Nothing.”
He steps closer, slowly enough to make the hallway feel narrower. “Try again.”
Your fingers tighten around his. “I’m wet.”
His brows lift a fraction. “From the pool,” you snap, heat flooding your face. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Your face did.”
“My face is having a day.”
Despite yourself, a laugh slips out, small and anxious. His thumb strokes over your knuckles, and the laugh fades into something softer. God, this is bad. This is tender now, and tender is much more dangerous than horny. Horny you understand. Horny has a beginning and an end and terrible decision-making in the middle. Tender grows roots. Bucky steps into the room and draws you with him.
The door closes behind you with a quiet click. For one second, neither of you speaks. The silence fills with water dripping from both of you onto the floor, distant music, your own uneven breathing. His hand leaves yours. You miss it immediately, which is humiliating.
Then he reaches for the towel. “Can I?”
You want to say something sharp. Something clever. Something that protects the swollen, nervous thing in your chest. Instead, you nod.
He unwraps you slowly. Not theatrically. Not like some polished movie scene. His fingers fumble once at the tucked corner, and that fumble does more to you than smooth confidence ever could. The towel loosens, slipping from your shoulders, down your arms, catching at your elbows before he pulls it free and drops it onto a chair.
Cool air touches your damp skin. Your hands twitch toward your stomach. Bucky catches them. The movement is fast, but his hold is gentle. Both wrists in his hands, lifted slightly away from your body. His eyes stay on yours. “Don’t hide from me.” The words are low, quiet, and absolutely devastating.
You try to laugh. It barely forms. “That’s ambitious.”
“I can be patient.”
“You? Since when?”
His mouth twitches. “Since about three seconds ago.”
You breathe out, shaky but almost amused. He lifts your hands and kisses the inside of one wrist. Then the other. Your throat tightens. It is so stupid, how much that gets to you. A kiss there. Not your mouth. Not your chest. Just the soft skin where your pulse is making an idiot of itself. “I’m going to look at you,” he says.
Your face burns. “That sounds like a threat.”
“It’s a warning.” His thumb moves over your wrist. “A fair one.”
“Very gentlemanly.”
“Trying.”
You swallow. “Don’t try too hard.”
His eyes darken. The shift is immediate, and you feel it under your skin. The little softness remains, but something hotter moves through it, something less careful. His hands lower yours to your sides. He waits. Gives you the chance to lift them again.
You don’t. Bucky looks. This time, he lets himself. His gaze starts at your face, maybe for mercy, then slips down your throat, over the thin straps, the gold rings, the wet fabric clinging to your breasts. You feel each inch like touch. He looks at the curve of your waist, the high cut at your hips, the soft places you wanted to fold away. His jaw sets hard. A slow breath leaves him, and the sound is not disgust. Not even close. It is almost anger, but turned inward, like he cannot believe he denied himself this all afternoon.
Your eyes sting again. “Oh,” you whisper, then immediately want to slap a hand over your mouth. Not a standalone reaction, you tell yourself absurdly. Put it in a sentence, idiot. “You actually…”
Bucky’s gaze snaps back to your face. “Yeah.”
“You looked away.”
“I was an idiot.”
“That’s established.”
His smile is brief and strained. “Fair.”
His hands come to your hips, bare now, no towel, no water softening the contact. Skin to skin. You inhale too sharply and his grip steadies, thumbs pressing near the swimsuit’s edge. “You thought I didn’t like this?” he asks, voice dragging lower.
Your eyes drop to his chest, safer than his face by maybe half a degree. “You looked like you were suffering.”
“I was.” His fingers slide along the high curve of your hip, then stop there, squeezing once. “Sweetheart, I saw you come out in this and forgot what language I spoke.”
That sounds impossible. It also sounds like him. Rough, a little annoyed, painfully sincere under all that heat. “You recovered fast.”
“I didn’t recover. I panicked.”
The laugh that leaves you is shaky and wet at the edges. “That was panic?”
“Steve asked if I was having a stroke.”
Your mouth opens. “He did not.”
“He did.”
“Was he concerned?”
“Very.”
You laugh fully this time, and Bucky’s hands tighten like he wants to hold the sound against you. The laugh fades when he steps closer. His wet chest brushes the front of your swimsuit. Barely. Your nipples tighten under the damp fabric, and his eyes drop just long enough to notice before returning to your face. The restraint almost kills you. “Sam complimented you,” he says.
You blink, following the turn. “Yes.”
“You smiled.”
“He was nice.”
“I know.”
There it is again. Acknowledgment. His thumbs move, small circles over your hips that turn thought into warm static. “You hated that?”
“I hated how easy it was for him.” Bucky’s voice goes rougher. “He could just say it. Stand there in front of everyone and tell you that you looked good. I stood ten feet away acting like looking at you too long was gonna put me in the ground.”
You study him, the damp hair, the tense mouth, the eyes that keep trying to fall and climb back up. “Would it?”
“Yeah,” he says, and this time he does smile. Small, wrecked, honest enough to hurt. “Maybe.”
That does something worse than praise. Makes you ache. Makes you stupid. Makes you lift your hand to his chest, pressing your fingers over the warm skin where your palm had landed earlier. He looks down at your hand like he wants to thank it. “You could’ve said something,” you murmur.
“I thought I had time to figure out how.”
“Figure out how to say you liked a swimsuit?”
“How to say I wanted to peel it off with my teeth without getting slapped in front of Steve.”
Your fingers curl against his chest. He watches your face. “Too much?”
The question is sincere, but barely. Mostly he is reading you now, and whatever he sees in your expression pulls his mouth into something darker. “No,” you say, and your voice sounds smaller than you want. “Continue.”
His laugh is quiet. “Continue?”
“You heard me.”
“I did.” One hand leaves your hip and comes up to your jaw, thumb brushing near the corner of your mouth. “Trying to decide if I wanna continue with my mouth or my hands.”
Your knees feel untrustworthy. “You’re taking suggestions?”
“From you?” He leans in, lips grazing your cheek, not quite kissing. “Always.”
The word slides down your body and settles low, hot, awful. You press your thighs together, barely, but he is too close to miss it. “Yeah?” His lips brush your ear now. “That where it goes when I say that?”
“Shut up.”
“Been trying all day.”
“To shut up?”
“To keep from saying worse.”
His mouth touches your neck. Your eyes close before you can pretend dignity. It is only one kiss at first, warm and damp from pool water, placed under your jaw with almost unbearable care. Then another, lower. His fingers at your jaw angle your face up, and the little stretch of your throat makes the room tilt through your body without the phrase in your head. You grip his shoulder, nails pressing into skin.
“Bucky,” you whisper.
He hums against your neck. “That sounded nice.”
“Don’t get smug.”
“Too late.”
You would scold him, but his teeth scrape lightly over your pulse and the scolding falls apart into a weak sound. He hears it. Of course he hears it. His hand on your hip slides around to the small of your back, pressing you closer, and the hard line of him through his swim trunks meets your lower stomach.
Your entire body pauses.
Bucky goes still too, but only to let you register it.
“Oh,” you breathe, then rush to fix it, face flaming. “That’s, um. That’s there.”
He pulls back enough to look at you. His eyes are nearly black. “Yeah. It’s been there.”
Your mouth parts.
“All day,” he adds, almost cruel now, and the hand at your jaw keeps your face tipped up. “You want the truth? I had to sit down after you got in the pool.”
A tiny, helpless sound leaves you.
His thumb strokes your cheek. “No. Look at me.”
You do, barely.
“I’m gonna say things,” he says, voice softer but dirtier somehow, stripped of performance. “And you’re gonna believe me this time.”
Your throat works around nothing. “That’s demanding.”
“Yeah.”
“Usually people ask.”
“I spent all day asking myself if I was allowed to want you.” His hand slides from your jaw to the back of your neck, fingers sinking into damp hair. “I’m done asking me.”
That should terrify you. It does, maybe. But it terrifies the part of you that has been begging for exactly this.
His mouth comes back to yours, and this time neither of you pretend at gentleness for long. You open for him almost immediately, and he groans into the kiss, the sound vibrating through his chest under your hand. His tongue slides against yours, slow at first, then deeper when your fingers dig into his shoulders. The kiss turns wet, hungry, breathing ruined between mouths. He walks you backward without breaking it, guiding rather than pushing, until your calves hit the bed.
The bed. White sheets. Guest room. Pool party outside. Bucky’s hands on you.
Your brain tries one last heroic effort at thought.
What if someone comes in?
Bucky’s hands move to your hips.
What if the door isn’t locked?
He turns you, sits on the edge of the bed, and pulls you between his thighs.
What if this changes everything?
His mouth leaves yours and moves down your throat, and your remaining thoughts scatter like birds.
He is sitting now, which makes him lower, makes your body the thing above him for once. It should help. It does not. His hands spread over your thighs, thumbs running along the place where the swimsuit cuts high, and he looks up at you with damp hair falling around his face. He looks wrecked. Actually wrecked. Like the sight of you standing between his legs has finished what the swimsuit started.
“You were hiding under that towel,” he murmurs, tracing the edge of the fabric at your hip.
You swallow. “It was cold.”
“Liar.”
Your face heats, but his mouth presses to your stomach before you can answer. Right over the swimsuit. Soft. Deliberate. You freeze.
He does it again.
Lower this time.
Your hands hover over his shoulders. You do not know what to do with them. Push him away? Pull him closer? Applaud? Cry? Move to Romania?
“Bucky…”
His eyes lift. His lips remain near your stomach. “Yeah?”
You hate the question. Hate how much room it gives you to stop him. Hate how badly you want him to keep going without making you beg for it. “That’s…”
“What?”
You glance away. “You don’t have to…”
He sits back so fast you regret speaking. His hands remain on your thighs, but the warmth of his mouth is gone. “Don’t.”
The single word is sharp enough to bring your eyes back.
His expression is serious again. “Don’t say I don’t have to. I know I don’t have to.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“I want to.” His fingers press into your thighs, almost too tight, then ease as he notices. “I have wanted to put my mouth on you since you walked outside.”
Your body responds so hard it feels unfair.
His eyes lower, following the tiny shift of your thighs. His jaw tightens. “Since before that.”
The room has become too warm. Your swimsuit is drying in patches, damp fabric clinging between your legs, and every tiny movement makes you aware of how wet you are under the pool water. Not just pool water anymore. Maybe not for a while. Horrible. Amazing. You may need medical attention. Or less medical attention and more of his mouth.
Bucky’s thumb slides along your inner thigh.
“You thought I didn’t wanna look.” He says it quietly, but the words carry a rough little bite. “You thought I looked away because I didn’t like your body.”
Your fingers curl into his hair. You do not answer.
He leans forward and kisses the inside of your thigh, just below the swimsuit’s edge.
Your breath leaves in a broken little rush.
His mouth lingers there. “I looked away because I wanted to do this in front of everybody.”
“Bucky,” you whisper, scandalized and so turned on you can barely feel your feet.
His lips move higher, still over skin, slow and warm. “Wanted to drag you out of that pool when Wilson had his hands on you.”
“He was helping.”
“I know.” His teeth graze your thigh. “Still wanted to.”
“You’re terrible.”
“Today?” His eyes flick up. “Yeah.”
His fingers hook under the swimsuit at your hips, then stop. The pause makes your skin prickle. He is waiting. Again. That careful, maddening decency under all the dirty want.
You nod, too fast.
His mouth curves, but it is not teasing. More relief than anything. “Words, baby.”
That name hits deep. Worse after the whole day of being looked away from. Baby means wanted. Baby means chosen. Baby means the towel can stay on the chair and the body you were trying to hide is now the only thing he seems able to focus on.
“Take it off,” you say.
Bucky closes his eyes for a second.
You almost laugh. Almost. Instead your fingers tighten in his hair, and that ruins him faster. His eyes open, and the polite thread in him snaps.
The swimsuit comes down slowly at first, peeled over your hips with such careful attention that you want to crawl out of your skin. The damp fabric resists, clinging where it can, and Bucky seems almost personally offended by it. He leans forward, mouth brushing your hip as he works it lower, then your lower stomach, then the soft skin above your mound. Every kiss makes the wait worse. Every inch exposed feels like a confession.
You expect him to look up at your face once you are bare.
He does not.
His gaze fixes between your thighs, and the sound he makes is quiet, dragged deep from his chest, almost pained. You try to close your legs on instinct, but his hands are already there, spreading warm over your thighs.
“Don’t hide,” he says again, rougher now.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“You’re staring.”
“Yeah.” His thumbs slide higher. “I missed a lot today.”
Your face burns so hot it almost hurts. “You can’t just say that.”
“I can.” He kisses the crease of your thigh, eyes still on you. “I am.”
The swimsuit slips lower, down your thighs, then to your knees. You lift one foot, then the other, and he drops the ruined damp thing somewhere on the floor. A wildly expensive room, white sheets, your swimsuit abandoned in a wet little heap. It should feel humiliating.
It does.
It also makes you throb.
Bucky’s hands return to your thighs. He sits there on the bed, still in his wet trunks, and looks at you like this is the first quiet moment he has had all day and he plans to spend it badly. Your arms cross over your chest, but he catches the movement at once.
“Hey.”
You glare, but there is no force behind it. “What?”
His hands slide around to the backs of your thighs. “Come here.”
“I am here.”
“Closer.”
“There is physically no closer unless I climb you.”
His expression changes.
Ah. Idiot mouth. Treacherous mouth. Mouth with no survival instincts.
Bucky leans back slightly, spreading his thighs more. “Then climb.”
Your body gives an almost embarrassing pulse at the command. “You’re very comfortable giving orders for someone who spent half the day staring at landscaping.”
“I had a hard day.”
“You had a chair.”
“I had you in that swimsuit ten feet away from me.”
“That must have been so difficult.”
He pulls you forward by the backs of your thighs, and the sudden movement makes your hands land on his shoulders. “It was.”
There is no joke in his voice now.
Your knees go onto the mattress on either side of him before you fully decide to move. Straddling his lap like this, bare while he is still partly clothed, feels obscene in a way full nudity might not have. His trunks are wet beneath you. The hard length of him presses up between your thighs, thick and hot even through fabric. Your hips jerk before you can stop them, and his hands clamp around you with a groan.
“Shit.” His forehead drops to your collarbone. “Do that again and I’m gonna embarrass myself.”
That should make you smug. Powerful. Instead it makes you needy in a way you did not agree to. You roll your hips again, smaller this time, dragging your bare pussy over the soaked fabric of his trunks. The friction is rough enough to make your mouth fall open. His hands grip your ass, helping and stopping at once, torn between instincts.
“Baby,” he says, warning and pleading in the same breath.
The word feeds something awful in you. You do it again.
Bucky’s head tips back, throat working, eyes squeezed shut for half a second. This beautiful, irritating man who looked away all day now looks as if your body might actually kill him. Good. Maybe balance exists.
“You like this?” you ask, and your voice is shaky, but the question still has a little bite. “Or are you going to look at the curtains?”
His eyes open.
You may have gone too far.
His hand comes up and catches your jaw, not hard, but certain enough that your hips still. “Say it again.”
Your lips part. “What?”
“What you said outside.”
The pool steps return all at once. Wet stone. His hand at your waist. Your own stupid voice, bitter and wounded.
“You don’t have to touch me longer than necessary,” you murmur, quieter now.
Bucky’s jaw flexes. His thumb strokes once along your lower lip, and the tenderness of it makes the shame worse somehow. “That.” His other hand presses at your lower back, bringing you down against him again. “Every time you thought that today, I want it back.”
You have no idea what that means until he kisses you.
It is not careful now. It is deep, claiming, his tongue sliding into your mouth as his hand guides your hips over him. The wet fabric drags against your clit, and you whimper into the kiss, the sound swallowed by him immediately. He does it again, rolls you down, grinds you over the hard shape of his cock, and the pleasure is dirty and sharp, mixed with the faint scratch of his trunks and the slickness between your thighs.
“Long enough?” he mutters against your mouth.
You clutch at him, face burning. “Shut up.”
His hand slips between your bodies, fingers finding your clit with such sudden precision that your whole body jerks. He rubs slow, tight circles, using your wetness and the water still on your skin, watching your face from inches away.
“Answer me.”
You shake your head, pride making a brave final appearance before dying in combat. “No.”
“No?” His mouth brushes yours, and his fingers press a little harder. Your hips chase the touch, humiliating you on contact. “Still not long enough?”
You hate him. You love him. You want to bite his shoulder until he says your name wrong. “Bucky…”
“That’s not an answer.”
His fingers dip lower, sliding through your folds, and his eyes go heavy at what he finds. “Fuck, sweetheart.” His voice drops into something rough and almost disbelieving. “You’re soaked.”
“Pool,” you manage, immediately ashamed of yourself.
He laughs then, a low sound against your mouth. “Yeah? Pool did this?”
His fingers push inside you, two at once, thick enough that your head drops forward to his shoulder. The stretch steals whatever joke you had left. Your hands claw at his back, and he groans like that hurts in the best possible way.
“Guess I owe the pool an apology,” he murmurs, pumping his fingers slowly. “Been mad at it all day for touching you more than I got to.”
Your laugh breaks into a moan. The sound is embarrassing, open, too needy, and he reacts to it with a thrust of his hips up against your bare thigh, his cock hard and trapped in wet fabric.
“Bucky,” you whimper, turning your face into his neck.
His fingers curl.
Your body goes liquid.
“There,” he breathes, and then seems to remember himself. “Yeah, right there?”
You nod into his skin, too far gone to be difficult.
“Use words.”
A sharp little pulse goes through you. He feels it. His laugh is quieter this time, almost awed.
“Oh, you like that.” His fingers press the same spot again, slow and deliberate, and his thumb finds your clit. “All that mouth at the pool, and now look at you.”
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.” His mouth moves to your ear, breath hot over wet skin. “You hated thinking I didn’t want you.”
That one splits you open more than his fingers.
You try to lift your head, but he holds you where you are, face tucked into his neck, body in his lap, nowhere to go but the truth.
“You hated me looking away,” he continues, quieter, filthy and tender in equal measure. “Hated Wilson saying you looked good because you wanted it from me. Hated that I sat there like an idiot when all you wanted was for me to come over and put my hands on you.”
Your thighs shake around his. The pleasure is building faster than you expected, pulled tighter by every word. He is too accurate. Too close. Too deep, and it is only his fingers, which makes you dizzy with terror over what the rest of him will do.
“I didn’t…” You try. Fail. “I didn’t want…”
He kisses under your ear. “Liar.”
“Bucky.”
“You did.” His hand around your waist slides up your back, holding you as his fingers fuck into you a little harder. “You wanted me jealous. You wanted me to see you. You wanted me to stop acting like a saint and do something about it.”
Your nails dig into him.
“There,” he says, sounding pleased and ruined all at once. “That one.”
You are close. Horribly close. Hips rocking into his hand now, your body making choices your pride would never sign off on. His thumb rubs your clit steadily, and his fingers hit that same spot until your vision goes soft at the edges. You bite down on his shoulder to keep from being too loud, and he makes a strangled sound, hips bucking under you.
“God, do that again.”
You do. Harder.
His fingers slip out of rhythm for one second, and that small loss almost makes you sob. “No, no, no, don’t stop.”
Bucky’s hand tightens at your back. “I’ve got you.”
“You keep saying things like that,” you gasp, words breaking as he finds the rhythm again.
“Yeah?”
“It’s annoying.”
He kisses your temple, and the sweetness of it almost tips you over. “Cum, then complain.”
That should not work.
It works.
The orgasm rolls through you hard enough to make your mouth open against his shoulder without sound at first. Then the sound comes, muffled into his skin, high and wrecked. Your hips grind down on his fingers, chasing every last pull of it, and Bucky talks you through it in a rough whisper that barely sounds like him anymore.
“That’s it, baby. Fuck, there you go. Just needed someone to touch you right, huh? Needed me to stop being stupid and put my hands on you.”
Your body shakes in his lap, every muscle loose and trembling. His fingers slow but do not leave right away. He lets you ride the last of it, forehead pressed to the side of your head, breath rough in your ear. The patio music is still going somewhere far away. Someone outside cheers. Maybe a game. Maybe a toast. The world is criminally unaware that you have just collapsed into a man you were pretending to hate this morning.
Then Bucky starts to pull his fingers free.
You whine.
The sound is pathetic. Immediate. You wish to file a complaint against yourself.
Bucky freezes, then laughs under his breath. “Greedy.”
“Shut up.”
His fingers slide out fully, wet and obscene between you. You mean to look away. You fail. He watches your face as he brings them to his mouth, licking them clean with a slow, dirty satisfaction that makes your cunt clench around nothing.
His eyes darken. “Saw that.”
“You see too much.”
“Not enough.” His hands go to your hips again, turning you carefully and laying you back on the bed before you can protest. The white sheets are instantly doomed, damp under your body, but Tony’s laundry issues are not your ministry. Bucky kneels between your thighs, still in his trunks, cock straining hard beneath the clinging fabric. “I’m making up for it.”
A nervous laugh leaves you as your head sinks into the pillows. “By staring at my vagina?”
His brows lift.
Your face burns. “Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Your face again.”
“My face likes you.”
“Your face is an idiot.”
“Yeah.” He presses a kiss to your knee, then lower, then lower again, hands sliding under your thighs to open you wider. “It’s got company.”
The first touch of his mouth between your legs almost makes you levitate.
He does not ease in. Not really. Maybe he means to, maybe he has some beautiful plan involving patience, but the second his tongue parts you, his control seems to go with it. His hands hook around your thighs, dragging you closer to his mouth, and the sound he makes against your pussy is so filthy you cover your mouth with one hand.
Bucky stops.
Your eyes fly open.
He lifts his head, mouth wet, eyes furious in the best way. “Move your hand.”
Your fingers loosen over your lips. “They’ll hear.”
“Let them hear the pool wasn’t the reason you left.”
Your whole body clenches. He sees that too. Obviously. Curse him and his newly unleashed observational skills.
“Bucky,” you whisper, scandalized.
He kisses your inner thigh, close enough to make you twitch. “Move it, baby.”
Slowly, your hand drops to the sheets.
He smiles against your skin. “Thank you.”
Then his mouth is back on you, and gratitude becomes a weapon. He licks into you with slow, messy strokes at first, tasting you like he has been denied water and blames you personally. His tongue drags from your entrance to your clit, lingering there until your thighs tense around his head. Then he does it again. Again. Learning with horrifying speed what makes your hips jerk, what makes your fingers twist in the sheets, what makes your mouth form his name without quite saying it.
You understand, distantly, that he is good at this.
Of course he is. Of course Bucky Barnes eats pussy like he has a vendetta against sanity. Of course the man who looked away all afternoon now has his face buried between your thighs with a concentration that feels almost insulting. Like he is determined to win an argument you did not realize your body had started.
His metal hand slides up your stomach, cool against heated skin, holding you down when your hips lift. The contrast makes you moan. His eyes flick up. He does it again, palm pressing lightly between your ribs as his tongue circles your clit.
“Please,” you breathe, though you have no idea what you are asking for.
Bucky hums into you.
Your back arches. The hum vibrates through every over-sensitive nerve he has already ruined, and your hands shoot to his hair. He lets you pull. Encourages it, maybe, with another wet, open-mouthed suck that makes your thighs clamp around his ears.
“Sorry,” you gasp, trying to loosen your grip.
He pulls back just enough to speak, lips shining. “Do it again.”
“What?”
His teeth scrape your thigh. “Pull my hair again.”
You stare at him, then obey with trembling fingers.
His eyes close for a second, and the expression on his face is so openly pleased that something inside you folds. This is him. Not the cold look-away version from the patio. Not the teasing version with everyone watching. This man, wet-haired and greedy, kneeling between your legs like he has found religion and plans to be terrible about it.
He lowers his mouth again, and this time you pull when his tongue presses inside you.
Bucky groans into your cunt.
The sound is enough to make your hips jerk up against his mouth. He holds you down, but barely. Like he wants the fight. Like every needy movement makes him worse. His tongue fucks into you, then slips back to your clit, alternating until you cannot predict anything except pleasure. It grows too quickly. Your last orgasm has left you sensitive, swollen, every touch brighter than it should be.
“Bucky, I can’t,” you gasp, then hate yourself because you absolutely can and probably will.
He lifts his head, but keeps his thumb moving over your clit in lazy, devastating circles. “Can’t what?”
“Again. I can’t…”
His mouth curves, wet and wicked. “You can.”
“You have too much confidence.”
“I have evidence.” His thumb presses a little harder, and your legs shake. “Look at you.”
“No.”
“Yeah.” He leans up over you, thumb still moving, mouth hovering above yours. You can smell yourself on him. The realization makes you clench so hard his eyes drop. “You gonna get shy now? After soaking my fingers? After grinding all over me like you were trying to ruin my life?”
“I was making a point.”
“You made it.” His lips brush yours. “Very persuasive.”
You mean to roll your eyes. He kisses you before you can, pushing the taste of yourself into your mouth while his thumb keeps working your clit. The kiss makes it dirtier. More intimate. Your hand wraps around his wrist, but you don’t pull him away. You hold him there, grinding up in tiny helpless motions as the pressure builds again.
Bucky’s mouth leaves yours only to speak against it. “You’re gonna cum on my hand, then I’m gonna fuck you. If that’s what you want.”
If. Somehow that word remains. A door, not a trap. It makes your eyes sting again, which is so deeply inconvenient while naked with a man’s hand between your legs.
“I want it,” you say, voice shaking.
His forehead touches yours. “Yeah?”
“Yes.” Your grip tightens around his wrist. “I want you. I wanted you all day. I wanted you before today, and you were horrible and confusing and shirtless, which was unnecessary, and I hate that you looked away, and I hate that I cared, and I want you to fuck me so badly I can’t think about any of it.”
Bucky stares at you.
For a moment you regret speaking. Then his mouth crashes into yours, and regret becomes impractical.
His fingers replace his thumb, sliding down and pushing into you again, three this time, the stretch sharper after his mouth. You gasp into the kiss. He swallows it, pumps his fingers deep, heel of his hand grinding against your clit. The pleasure turns immediate and rough, your body already primed by his mouth and his words and the unbearable fact of being wanted after hours of believing the opposite.
“That’s it,” he mutters against your cheek. “There’s my mean girl. Thought I lost you under all that pouting.”
You whimper and slap weakly at his shoulder. “I was wounded.”
“You were jealous.”
“You were avoidant.”
“I was hard enough to see God.”
A shocked laugh bursts out of you, then breaks as his fingers curl. “That’s vulgar.”
“You asked for honesty.”
“I did not ask for theology.”
He laughs into your neck, and somehow the warm sound mixed with the filthy rhythm of his hand tips you closer. You clutch at his shoulders, then his hair, then the sheets. Nothing helps. The orgasm comes slower this time, dragged out of you with cruel patience. Your thighs tense, stomach pulling tight, and Bucky feels the change before you can warn him.
“Yeah, baby. Give me that one too.” His mouth presses near your ear, voice a wrecked whisper. “Need it. Need to feel you cum before I get inside you.”
Need. From him. Bucky Barnes needing anything from you.
Your body gives in.
The second orgasm is messier, wetter, less contained. You cry out before you can bite it back, hips bucking into his hand, and Bucky groans like the sound goes straight through him. His fingers keep moving, slower but deep, dragging the pleasure until you are shaking and trying to push at his wrist.
“Too much,” you gasp.
He stops at once.
The loss makes you whine again, and he laughs softly, kissing your cheek, then your jaw, then your mouth with absurd sweetness for someone who just fingered you into temporary stupidity.
“You’re impossible,” he murmurs.
“Your fault.”
“Yeah.” His hand smooths over your thigh, gentle now. “I’m starting to like that answer.”
You open your eyes. He is above you, wet hair falling forward, mouth swollen from kissing and eating you, eyes on your face with such naked affection that it scares you more than the hunger did.
Affection is hard. Desire has a script. Affection looks at you afterward.
Your hand lifts before you can stop it, touching his cheek. He turns slightly into your palm. That tiny movement ruins you.
“You really wanted me?” you ask, hating the softness in your voice.
His expression tightens. “All day.”
“Before today?”
He presses a kiss to your palm. “Yeah.”
“How long?”
A pause.
The room becomes too quiet again, but this silence is not empty. It is full of him deciding whether to lie. He does not.
“Long enough to act stupid about it.”
“That could be any amount of time.”
“Months.”
Your chest squeezes. “Months?”
“Maybe longer.”
“You’re terrible at flirting.”
“I panicked,” he says again, like that explains the whole tragedy of him. Maybe it does.
You laugh softly. He smiles this time, real and quick, then kisses you. The kiss starts gentle, then deepens when your legs wrap around his waist. His cock presses against you through his trunks, and the teasing drag makes both of you go still.
He looks down between your bodies. “I need these off.”
“Finally, a smart idea.”
His hands go to the waistband, then pause. “Condom?”
Reality returns in a less catastrophic way. Important. Practical. You gesture vaguely toward the side table, then remember this is Tony’s guest room, not a hotel minibar for sex supplies. “Unless Tony keeps them next to the complimentary existential dread, I don’t…”
Bucky drops his forehead to your shoulder with a pained groan.
A laugh bubbles out of you, helpless and mean. “Very prepared seduction, Barnes.”
“I was supposed to be ignoring you by the pool.”
“You did great.”
He bites your shoulder lightly. You yelp, then laugh harder. His own laugh shakes against you, warm and frustrated, and the absurdity of it makes the room feel human again.
Then he lifts his head. “I have one in my wallet.”
You stop laughing.
His brows draw together. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re judging.”
“I am judging.”
“I’m a grown man.”
“With pool-party condoms?”
“One condom. Singular. Emergency.”
“What emergency did you anticipate?”
He gives you a look. “Apparently this one.”
You should make another joke. You truly should. But the thought of him having one, of this actually happening, drains humor out of you and leaves want in its place. “Wallet,” you say.
Bucky’s eyes darken again.
He climbs off the bed, and the loss of his body makes you cold for exactly three seconds before he turns toward the chair where his discarded shirt must be absent, then remembers his wallet is out by the pool with his things. His face changes into genuine despair.
You clap a hand over your mouth.
“Don’t,” he warns.
“You left your emergency outside?”
“I didn’t plan to need it indoors.”
You dissolve into laughter. It is quiet, desperate, half muffled, but laughter all the same. Bucky stares at you, then shakes his head, smiling despite himself. He looks younger like this. Less impossible. Still shirtless and wet and hard in his swim trunks, which does complicate the innocence.
“I’ll go,” he says.
“You are not going outside like that.”
His gaze drops to the obvious tent in his trunks. “Fair.”
You look around the room and spot a folded robe near the bathroom door, white and plush. Perfectly Tony. “Robe.”
“I’m not wearing Stark’s sex robe.”
“Guest robe.”
“Same thing.”
“You want the condom or a philosophical debate?”
Bucky points at you. “Stay there.”
You sink back into the pillows, naked and grinning like an idiot. “Where would I go?”
“Knowing you? Window.”
“Only if things get worse.”
He grabs the robe, pulls it on with visible resentment, and the sight of Bucky Barnes in a plush white guest robe with wet hair and a furious erection is so absurdly beautiful that you almost cry. He catches your face and pauses at the door.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
He narrows his eyes. “That smile says something.”
“It says hurry.”
That works. He leaves, closing the door behind him.
The second he is gone, you become aware of yourself again. Naked on white sheets. Swimsuit on the floor. Body cooling, thighs damp, mouth swollen. The laughter fades slowly, leaving a trembling little silence behind it.
This is real.
Bucky wanted you. Bucky is coming back. Bucky went to fetch a condom wearing Tony’s guest robe like some obscene, damp ghost of poor planning.
Your hand presses over your stomach. Not hiding now. Just grounding. It feels different under your own palm after his mouth, his hands, his eyes. Still yours. Still soft in places. Still carrying every insecurity from the bathroom mirror. But his wanting has touched it now, and you hate how much that helps. Hate how badly you needed someone else’s hunger to quiet the awful little voice in your head. Maybe you can work on that later. Maybe growth can wait until after orgasms.
Voices rise in the hall.
You freeze.
Sam: “Barnes, why the hell are you wearing a robe?”
Bucky, low and deadly: “Move.”
Tony, delighted somewhere farther away: “That is Egyptian cotton, by the way.”
Natasha laughs. “Let him live.”
Sam again, audibly grinning: “Is there a fire?”
Bucky says something too low to hear.
A beat of silence.
Then Sam barks out, “Oh my god.”
Your soul exits again, does a lap, returns out of morbid curiosity.
The door opens. Bucky steps in, face red, jaw tight, wallet in hand, robe still tied around him. He closes the door and locks it this time.
You stare.
He points at you again. “Don’t.”
“I said nothing.”
“You’re laughing with your whole face.”
“I would never.”
He stalks back toward the bed, tugging at the robe tie with enough aggression to threaten the cotton’s lineage. “Wilson knows.”
“Oh no.”
“Tony knows.”
“Tony knew before we did.”
“Steve looked proud.”
That breaks you. You roll onto your side, laughing into the pillow. Bucky tosses the wallet onto the bed and grabs your ankle, pulling you back toward him. The movement turns your laughter into a gasp. The robe falls open as he kneels on the mattress, and there he is, absurdity gone in a single second, his body over yours again, desire returning like a hand around your throat.
“Laughing at me?” he asks.
“Yes.”
His hand slides up your calf, over your knee, spreading your leg aside. “That’s brave.”
“I’m very brave.”
“You slipped twice today.”
“Physically brave and spatially cursed.”
His mouth twitches. He bends down and kisses the inside of your knee, then the thigh, and the laughter fades into a softer sound. “You okay?”
The question is quiet. It stops the teasing better than any command could. You look down at him, fingers resting in his wet hair.
“Yes,” you say. Then, more honest, “Nervous.”
His hand stills on your thigh. “About me?”
“About you seeing me.”
His face changes again, but he does not use any of the easy lines. No polished praise. No smooth answer. He moves up your body instead, covering you with his warmth, bracing one arm beside your head. His other hand cups your cheek, thumb damp against your skin.
“I see you,” he says. “I want you. Same sentence.”
Your throat tightens. “That’s unfairly effective.”
“Trying to be clear.”
“Terrible habit.”
His mouth brushes yours. “Can I keep seeing you?”
You nod. “Yeah.”
His lips press to your cheek, your jaw, your neck. “Can I keep touching you?”
Your legs part wider around him. “Yeah.”
His hand slides down between your bodies, and your hips lift when his fingers stroke through your folds again, gentle now, checking. Teasing. Both. “Can I fuck you?”
The bluntness sends a hot pulse through you. Your fingers tighten on his shoulders.
“Yes,” you breathe. “Please.”
Bucky’s eyes close for a beat, and when they open, patience is hanging by a thread.
The robe is shoved away. His trunks follow, dragged down his hips with a wet, clinging sound that would be funny if you had enough brain left. You do not. You are too busy staring. He is thick, heavy in his hand, flushed at the tip, and your mouth goes dry so fast it is almost comic.
Bucky notices. Naturally.
“Still judging my emergency condom?” he asks, tearing the foil with his teeth.
You look up at him. “Less now.”
“Thought so.”
The condom rolls on. His hand pumps once, twice, and your thighs press together around empty air. He sees that too, then settles between your legs and guides them open again. The head of his cock drags through your wetness, and both of you go quiet.
The first press against your entrance is almost too much.
He pauses there, forehead lowering to yours. “Tell me if you need slow.”
You hate that. You love that. You want to ruin him for it.
“I need you to stop talking like a responsible adult,” you whisper.
A short laugh leaves him, strained. “Sweetheart, I am hanging on by a thread.”
“Then stop hanging.”
His hips push forward.
The stretch is slow and full and immediate enough to make your mouth fall open. Bucky watches your face as he enters you, jaw clenched, breath breaking through his nose. He gives you the first inch, then another, then stops when your nails dig into his arms.
“Okay?”
You nod too quickly, body caught between ache and hunger. “More.”
His control slips for half a second. His hips roll deeper, and the sound that leaves both of you is ugly and perfect. He is bigger than his fingers, thicker than your imagination had kindly prepared you for, filling you in a way that makes thought stagger. Your legs wrap around his waist. His hand grips the sheet beside your head.
“Fuck,” he breathes, almost helpless. “You feel…”
You wait for the line. Pretty. Tight. Perfect. Something dirty and easy.
He lowers his face to your neck. “I’m gonna lose my mind.”
That is better.
You clench around him, and his hips jerk. His teeth press into your shoulder. “Do that again and this ends fast.”
“Maybe I want that.”
He lifts his head, eyes dark. “No, you don’t.”
Your body gives you away, warmth spreading under your skin. “Annoying.”
“You want me to take my time now.” He pulls out slightly, then pushes back in, slow enough that you feel every inch. “You wanted me to look, right? Wanted me to stop looking away?”
Your hands twist in the sheets.
He does it again, dragging the pleasure into something deep and almost unbearable. “I’m looking.”
You cannot answer. There is no room. He fills too much of you, his body heavy over yours, wet hair brushing your cheek, the scent of chlorine and him wrapped around every breath. His eyes hold your face as he starts a slow rhythm, each thrust smooth and deep, his mouth parting when you tighten around him.
“Bucky,” you moan, and his name sounds ruined.
His hand slips under your knee, hitching your leg higher. The angle changes, and his next thrust hits so deep your back bows off the bed. He groans, dropping his head to your shoulder.
“There?” he asks, already doing it again.
You nod, frantic. “There, please, there.”
“Yeah, baby.” His pace picks up, still controlled but rougher now, bed shifting under both of you. “Knew you’d sound pretty begging.”
Your face burns. “I’m not begging.”
He thrusts harder.
The words vanish.
“That sounded like begging.” His mouth presses to your cheek, deceptively sweet while his hips drive into you with enough force to make your fingers claw at his back. “Pool made you mouthy. My cock’s fixing it.”
The filth of it makes you clench.
Bucky laughs, but it breaks halfway into a groan. “Shit, you like that.”
“You’re so smug.”
“I’m inside you,” he says, breath hot against your mouth. “I earned a little.”
You would argue, but his hand slides between you and finds your clit. The first touch makes you jolt. After his mouth and his fingers, you are too sensitive, every nerve overfed and greedy. He rubs tight circles as he fucks you, watching your expression collapse.
“Oh, that’s it.” His voice turns thick, affectionate in the dirtiest possible way. “There’s my girl.”
My girl.
You fall apart a little just hearing it.
His eyes sharpen. “Yeah? That one?”
“Bucky…”
“My girl,” he repeats, and his hips hit deeper, harder. “Mine to look at. Mine to touch. Mine to pull out of the pool when she’s trying to make me jealous.”
You shake your head, but your body is a liar and both of you know it.
“No?” His thumb presses harder on your clit. “You didn’t like me jumping in after you?”
“You looked ridiculous,” you gasp.
“Yeah, well. You looked wet and half naked and mad at me. I wasn’t thinking clearly.”
A laugh escapes you, then turns into a moan when he rolls his hips. He smiles against your mouth, kissing the sound away, and for a few seconds the rhythm becomes messy. Kissing, thrusting, breathing into each other, his hand working between you, your nails leaving half-moon marks in his shoulders. No clean choreography. No grace. Just damp skin, white sheets, the slap of his hips against yours growing louder, the ridiculous fear that someone outside might hear and the worse realization that you want them to know he came after you.
You turn your face into the pillow to muffle yourself.
Bucky catches your jaw and pulls you back. “No.”
“They’ll hear.”
“Good.”
“Bucky.”
His eyes are dark, almost feverish. “Spent all day watching you think I didn’t want you. Let them hear me prove it.”
Your orgasm rises so fast it scares you. It starts low, tightening through your stomach, then spreads until your thighs tremble around his waist. He feels it. His thrusts lose some smoothness, turning heavier, more desperate.
“You close?”
You nod, helpless.
“Say it.”
“I’m close.”
His mouth brushes yours. “Ask me.”
Your eyes open. “What?”
“Ask me to make you cum.”
The request should annoy you. It does. It also sends pleasure twisting sharply through your body, so your irritation lacks credibility.
“You’re impossible,” you whimper.
“Ask.”
His hips slow.
That is evil.
You grab at his shoulders. “Don’t slow down.”
“Ask me, baby.”
A second passes, filled with the obscene pressure of him buried deep and almost still, his thumb barely moving over your clit. You glare at him with whatever strength remains.
“Please,” you say, hating how breathless it is. Loving how his face changes. “Please make me cum.”
Bucky groans, and the restraint goes.
His hips drive into you hard enough to shove you up the bed, one arm hooking under your back to keep you close. His thumb works your clit faster, and his mouth moves over your jaw, your cheek, your lips, wherever he can reach while he fucks you. He is talking now, rough and uneven, less like performance and more like words escaping under pressure.
“Wanted this so bad. Wanted you so bad, sweetheart. Sitting out there in that fucking swimsuit, looking at me like you wanted to scratch my eyes out. Thought I was gonna snap when you smiled at Sam. Thought I was gonna drag you inside when you said I didn’t have to touch you. Stupid thing to say to me. Like I haven’t been thinking about putting my hands on you for months.”
Months. Again. The word breaks over you with the thrusts, with the pressure, with the hard heat of him inside you.
Your orgasm hits with his name in your mouth.
It is bigger this time, deeper, pulled from every place he touched and every place he looked. You cry out, hips lifting into him, cunt clenching around his cock so hard his rhythm stutters. Bucky curses against your throat, fucking you through it with short, rough thrusts that make the pleasure keep sparking long after the first wave should have ended.
“That’s it,” he groans. “That’s it, baby. Fuck, you feel so good when you cum.”
You cannot answer. Your body is trembling too hard, arms wrapped around him, face pressed into his neck as he loses the last of his rhythm. His thrusts turn desperate, deeper and less controlled, and something about that undoes you almost as much as your own release. Bucky, who spent all day looking away, is now buried inside you and shaking apart over it.
“Where?” he rasps.
The condom. Practicality. Again, somehow.
“Inside,” you breathe. “You have the condom, inside, please.”
He makes a sound against your skin, broken and almost grateful. His hips slam once, twice, then bury deep as he comes. His whole body tenses over yours, breath caught against your shoulder, hands gripping you like he needs somewhere to put the force of it. You feel the pulse of him through the condom, feel the weight of him, the shudder that runs across his back under your hands.
Then he softens by degrees.
His forehead rests against your shoulder. His breathing is rough, warm, damp over your skin. Your own body feels boneless, wrung out and too sensitive, thighs still locked around his waist like they have not received news of the ending.
Outside, someone cheers again.
Bucky huffs a laugh into your neck. “If that’s about us, I’m moving to Siberia.”
You laugh weakly, fingers combing through the wet hair at his nape. “That was my plan.”
“We can carpool.”
“After you get off me. You’re heavy.”
He lifts his head, affronted and beautiful. “You wound me.”
“You crushed me.”
“You wrapped around me.”
“You were available.”
His smile comes slowly this time, soft and disbelieving, and the sight hurts in a new way. Not bad. Just big. Too big for a guest room during a pool party. Too big for a body still buzzing from sex.
He kisses you once, gentle and quick. “I’m gonna move.”
You make a deeply embarrassing sound of protest before you can stop it.
Bucky pauses. The smugness returns in miniature. “Yeah?”
“Don’t start.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Your face is speaking.”
“My face has been through a lot today.”
He eases out carefully, and even that makes you wince. His hand strokes your thigh in apology, and the tenderness of it makes you look away. He handles the condom, ties it off, finds a trash bin in the bathroom, washes his hands. Normal things. Human things. Meanwhile you lie in Tony Stark’s guest bed naked, damp, and fucked so thoroughly that your bones feel rearranged.
When Bucky returns, he grabs the towel from the chair and wipes gently at the wetness on your thighs. The care makes your throat tighten.
“You don’t have to do that,” you murmur, then immediately regret the phrasing.
His eyes lift.
Right.
You both hear the echo.
This time, he does not get angry. He leans down and kisses the inside of your knee. “I want to.”
The answer settles over the old wound quietly.
You nod, unable to make a joke fast enough.
He cleans you with warm water from the bathroom after that, careful between your legs while you try not to squirm from sensitivity. Then he finds another towel, pats the sheets around you with the resigned air of a man who knows Tony will make comments for the rest of his life. Your swimsuit remains on the floor. He picks it up, holds it between two fingers, and gives it an unreadable look.
You lift your head. “Don’t insult it. We’ve all grown.”
Bucky’s mouth twitches. “I owe it an apology.”
“You owe me an apology.”
“I gave you one.”
“I want another.”
He climbs back onto the bed beside you, still naked, shameless in a way that should be illegal. The mattress dips under his weight. “For what?”
“For being weird at the pool.”
“I’m sorry.”
“For looking away.”
“I’m sorry.”
“For making me think you hated it.”
His face softens in that unbearable way again. He reaches for you, then pauses until you shift closer yourself. Once you do, his arm slides around you, pulling you against his chest. His skin is warm now, less wet, still smelling faintly of chlorine. “I’m sorry.”
You rest your cheek against him, listening to his heart. It is beating fast. Not hammering. You refuse to give it dramatic language. Just fast enough to comfort you.
“And for making me feel like I needed sam to tell me I looked nice,” you add, quieter.
His arm tightens.
A few seconds pass. Not empty. Not awkward. Full of that sentence sitting between you and breathing.
“You looked beautiful,” he says, voice low. “You looked so good I forgot how to act like a person. And that’s on me, not you.”
Your eyes sting again, which is becoming repetitive and rude. “You need to stop saying decent things after sex. It’s confusing.”
His lips press to your hair. “Would it help if I said something indecent?”
“Yes.”
“Your thighs almost killed me.”
A laugh bursts out of you, wet and startled. “Bucky.”
“I’m serious. National threat.”
“You’re so stupid.”
He kisses your forehead, smiling against your skin. “Yeah, but you like me.”
You go still for half a second.
He feels it.
The words sit there, too close to another word neither of you has touched yet. Like. Want. Months. My girl. All safer than the one with teeth. Bucky’s hand moves slowly over your back, giving you somewhere to put the panic.
“You like me too,” he says, softer, almost cautious beneath the tease.
You close your eyes. “Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
“Don’t get greedy.”
His chest moves under your cheek with a quiet laugh. “Too late.”
A knock hits the door.
Both of you freeze.
Tony’s voice comes through the wood, bright with theatrical politeness. “As the owner of this house, its Egyptian cotton robe, and several traumatized guests, I would like to announce that dinner part two is happening in twenty minutes. Clothing encouraged. Applause optional.”
You bury your face in Bucky’s chest.
Bucky sighs. “Go away, Stark.”
“Gladly. Also, Wilson owes me fifty dollars. Carry on.”
Footsteps retreat.
Your face is burning so badly it may light the bed on fire. “I hate everyone.”
Bucky’s hand slides possessively over your hip. “Want me to get your clothes?”
The thought of walking back outside in the swimsuit after everything makes you want to dissolve. But then again, the old shame does not bite quite the same now. The swimsuit is still a damp heap on the floor. Your body is still your body. Your friends are still awful. Bucky is still a confusing, broad disaster.
Only now he has seen you. Touched you. Wanted you. Said it clearly enough that even your mean little brain has to work harder to ruin it.
“Eventually,” you say.
He hums. “Eventually sounds good.”
“You can’t keep me in Tony’s guest room forever.”
“No,” he agrees, hand moving lazily over your side. “But I can try for another ten minutes.”
“That’s ambitious.”
His mouth finds your neck, and the smile against your skin is warm enough to melt whatever was left of you. “I can be patient.”
“You said that before.”
“I lied.”
You laugh, and he kisses the sound before it can get away.
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