when he’s miles away on tour, you send each other texts when you can. it’s mainly photos of what you’re both doing: you’re making dinner, he’s doing soundcheck for a show in another country.
you swap songs all the time. it’s become a tradition for you both, sending songs back and forth over text or playing a song you think the other will like when you’re hanging out together.
luke is the person you go to when you’ve got a problem or are going through something heavy. you know you can rely on him during a tough time and you’ll be met with whatever comfort you need.
“y’know, i think we’ve perfected the art of netflix and chill.” / “…there’s an art to it?”
you send him memes of himself and while he acts like it annoys him, he actually finds it amusing. one of your favorite qualities about luke is that he’s able to laugh at himself.
“you just sent me that meme.” / “IT’S TOO FUNNY NOT TO SEND TWICE.”
you don’t really call each other pet-names or nicknames a whole lot, but “cutie” and “lu” have made a permanent home in your vocabularies when addressing each other.
you have audios of each other moaning and talking dirty saved to your phone. you only really use them when he’s away on tour and you don’t have any physical access to each other.
you’ve made it a tradition to get take-out every other friday. it started when you were just in a platonic friendship, but you’ve added it to your current dynamic.
“fuck, cutie… you suck my cock so well.”
you jokingly insult/roast each other all the time.
you steal his clothes a lot, specifically his band t-shirts or leather jackets. he doesn’t realize the pieces have gone missing from his closet until he sees you wearing them.
“is that… is that my rolling stones shirt?” / “i… have no idea what you’re talking about, lu. pass me the ketchup?”
people mistake you for a couple all the time, but that’s simply due to the fact that you’re both so comfortable with each other.
you rarely post about your time together, but when you do? fans go berserk. they think you’re his new significant other. of course, you both know the truth.
“oh, luke, please don’t stop— it feels so good.” / “i won’t stop until i make you cum.”
“did you listen to that song i sent you?” / “yeah, it was really good… but, it isn’t as good as this song..”
luke will invite you to 5sos’ studio sessions sometimes. he likes having your input on different tracks.
you’ve got really stupid, really silly videos of each other when either of you are drunk. you’ll watch them the next morning after a night of drinking at his place and laugh until you cry.
you kiss sometimes; mainly kisses on the cheek or head. you reserve making out for sex or foreplay.
The red lights of the emergency panel flare brighter and flicker more intensely, slicing through the darkness and illuminating his silhouette with sharp flashes. She slowly turns from her knees, sees the metal hand of the Soldier barely twitch. The muscles beneath the skin of his living limb contract. The bullet he just fired has only just settled in the body, but his finger is already ready to pull the trigger again.
— “Order: protect the target at all costs. Object’s date of birth: 2000… Project — Adam's Death. The Moth — priority. She is important to us, Soldier. Avelina Stark — your mission.”
The plane shudders, tilts to the side. Screeches of metal, warning signals, harsh impacts — the plane is losing control. The Asset’s eyes flare as they catch sight of his target. In them, for one fleeting instant, appears a vague, unsettling shadow — a faint echo of something that might once have been a memory.
And then — crashes and clicks...
Summary: After the catastrophe in the Siberian wilderness, only two survivors remain. The final order — return the Moth to her homeland, but the program malfunctions. The Winter Soldier initiates a new mission objective: protect the asset to the very end.
Avelina — a failed resurrection experiment, a child of the thirties, daughter of Howard Stark’s laboratory, and a moth lost in Hydra’s captivity. But now, it is time for her to go home.
Warnings: Angst, Drama, Blood and Violence, Jealousy, Love, Age Difference, Bucky Barnes Has PTSD, Slow Burn, Suicide, 1930s, 1940s, Reincarnation, Unrequited Love, War, Sexual Content, Miscarriage, Complicated Relationships, Friends to Lovers, Sexism, Child Soldiers, Love/Hate, Blood, Trauma, Psychological Torture, Grief/Mourning, First Time, Developing Relationship, Cruelty, Sexual Inexperience, Masturbation, Character Death, Feelings.
Record: 2018. Siberia.
Does death ever come on time? The end is always silent, quiet, ordinary and careless, hopeless. It always comes unexpectedly.
Snow crunches under her boots thickly, reluctantly, as if it doesn’t want to let her back. The forest, bound by frost, is silent. The trees, black, gnarled, stretch upward like the hands of the dying, frozen in a plea to God. The air tears at her lungs, her breath escapes in white steam, as if her soul is leaving in parts.
What will remain after? And what will vanish before? Why do the first steps, the first fears not linger in memory, and just as easily slip away the last glances, the last memories and words?
Step by step along the sticky trail. Each snowdrift seems to hold her by the ankles. Her fingers long since numb, tapping against each other. The fabric of her sleeves at the wrists is covered in frost, her face tightened by wind and the salt of tears dried on her skin. The air crackles in her lungs. Blood trickles along her fingers. The night seems endless, like the road back.
Why are you returning?
It seems she will never find the answer to that question.
Each step is like betrayal. The body knows where it is going, and tries to resist—with a spasm in the stomach, a trembling in the knees, that very emptiness that makes you want to curl up in a ball and fall asleep among the spruces. But back is impossible. She has already learned this lesson.
She had always thought that the finish was a period. But only now came the understanding that it is always just a comma. The sentence continues. Only the narrator has long been silent.
Why return to where she had tried for so long to escape? Where dark walls tasted like fear, where her own name had no meaning, and agony was part of the routine? Where they broke you, put you back together, broke you again—until you became suitable in every requirement.
She chooses this path for the first time voluntarily.
Her gaze shifts sideways—between the trees, in the clearing, stands a fawn. Not quite a baby anymore: thin legs, muzzle slightly lifted, fur dark against the light background of snow. He stands half-turned, looking straight at her, as if knowing he has been noticed.
She doesn’t stop, just looks at him as she walks, and in this brief moment it seems that something important is about to surface from her memory. The next step—and the silhouette disappears, dissolves among the trees, as if it had never been there.
The forest ends unexpectedly. The trunks part, and ahead rises a hill, snowy and open to the wind. It grows lighter and more frightening. Shards of ice strike her face. The fabric on her shoulders flaps like wings that have been torn out, guts and all.
She climbs.
She had once thought that at the moment of death a person simply falls asleep. A gentle fading—without a scream, without a plea, without resistance, like the flame of a candle going out in the morning breeze. You don’t fight—you float. Not because you want to leave, but because you cannot stay.
She was seven when the light left forever. But darkness remained. Gloom, stillness. Fear and tears. Pain. And the conviction that she would never return home. This belief as strong as the feeling of needles entering the crook of her arm, the feeling of the metal table under her shoulder blades.
Fear is normal. Desire is weakness.
She freezes at the summit. Stops.
"Now it’s time." a hoarse whisper.
She had always wondered what a person hopes for when they close their eyes and release the last air from their lungs. What they pray for in the last seconds—if, of course, they still believe in God. But she already knows that everything is forgotten just as easily as you fall asleep: without struggle or awareness. You leave in peace—even if afraid. Even if you don’t want to. Simply because it must be so.
Below is a valley, opened by darkness like a maw. But among this gloom are geometrically precise lines of light. Old searchlights sweep the perimeter of concrete walls. The concrete roofs of the buildings shine with snow. Straight rows of lights stretch in a circle. Guard posts. Several military vehicles. Along the central road a truck moves. Any moment now a siren will wail and they will start searching for her.
When she was there, she never prayed to God. It seemed He had rejected her. And to whom else could a little girl pray—she didn’t know. She had not been taught to believe in a non-existent entity, but some there did believe in God. Though His presence was highly questionable.
In Hydra she never had belongings—except for a button. No toys, no clothes, no hope. Only a name. But even that they tried to take away. And she repeated it to herself again and again, until she lost count of how many years she had spent there.
Down below is the system. Organized, alienated, and soulless. And she—a part of that system. Was. Until recently just a corpse inside the mechanism. And now she is returning.
Everything is as it should be. This is right.
Death, in essence, is neither evil nor deliverance. Death is a choice. Logical, inevitable, accounted for. To wait for the end is logical. To survive it is impossible.
Her stomach tightens. Not from cold, but from the feeling that you know you will return to the cage of your own free will. That you will take a step forward and not stop. This is not courage. This is submission. The kind that comes when faith no longer holds you, and escape no longer has a purpose.
She had been taught to be unquestioning. Precise. Fast. Given a new name. A goal. The desire not to live, but to survive. Trained so she could take away. To be envious and greedy for anything that radiates warmth. Every day. Every night. So long that one day she stopped knowing herself as human. She just performed.
She lived—conditionally by fleeing.
Slowly she lowers her gaze. Nothing trembles. Not her hands, not her knees, not her lips. But inside—like an empty bell that will never ring. Everything hums. Everything responds. She goes where she broke free from. To become a prisoner again. So maybe this is how it should be? Maybe it was all in vain?
The attempt to live—is licensed by error. Yuri was right.
For many years she had asked herself: if it were possible to forget… how easy would breathing become? How simple to live without carrying the burden that can neither be shared nor discarded. But she remembers. Remembers enough to hate. And enough to still walk forward.
Where does freedom end and necessity begin? When you make a choice—do you do it yourself, or because you can no longer do otherwise? For submission is not acceptance. It’s just a way to save strength when faith begins to demand too much energy.
Temptation.
She had long since stopped hoping. She had been nine or ten—she doesn’t remember. She only knew that her father did not come. Did not take her. Did not save her. Probably forgot. Probably understood that it was easier not to search. She no longer waited. Even inside. No longer hoped—no matter how much it hurt.
And then they covered her eyes with dirty gauze, cut off her hair.
If only it were possible to forget… everything. Who you are. What you felt, whose hand you held. Everything that was then taken away. Everything you took yourself. Memory is the thinnest torture.
From afar, the lights seem almost beautiful. A warm flicker, as if someone had forgotten a Christmas garland in the window. But the longer you look—the more you want to turn away.
No one will be able to put you back together again. Even if they truly wish to. After your death there will remain only strangers’ speeches at the funeral, where even the tears will sound strained. For truth always gives way to comforting lies.
Isn’t that easier?
You will never know the truth. Perhaps you never deserved it.
Inside—empty. Not painful, not frightening. Just empty. You remember that it should hurt. You remember that you should feel. But you don’t. And even that frightens less than it should.
But… what if there really is no end? What if beyond the last breath there is not emptiness, but a new door? You walk into it, remembering nothing. Your name, your face, your voice erased. Is anything left at all of who you were? What if you are given another chance—without the right to look back?
You want to step back. For a second. Take a step back, dissolve into the trees, become a shadow. Disappear. Hide. Return home. To him. But he no longer waits. No longer can. For her feet stand firmly. Above, only the sky. No salvation, no miracle. Only regret, snow, and the path down. But the trail is not yet trodden…
She must do this.
And yet, it is not the possibility of dying that frightens her. What frightens is that one day, opening her eyes in a new body—she will never again be herself.
When picking flowers, always choose the ones no one touches. Fragile, ugly, dried up. For if you don’t take them, no one will love them. You should pity them.
She does. She really does.
The wind touches her face. Dry. Biting. It passes through the fabric like through bars. Below, a flash blinks. Dogs bark. Wolves howl. Somewhere among the trees another silhouette flickers. But that is certainly not him.
Happiness and laughter remain sounding in the house whose road she will never find again. In which it will always be empty and lonely.
The thoughts won’t let go: “And even if I live another fate, will I still be the same person?” In the silence she knows: with every return something leaves that will never come back. And even if she is called by her name again, she will no longer be herself.
Something stirs in her chest. The wind is familiar. She remembers how her father, her real father, when he looked at her still alive, with graying temples, searched in her for someone else. Someone long lost, whom he could never find.
Was this what he waited for?
From this height everything is visible. The snow glitters. Falls slowly, in thin stripes. The sky black-black, deaf, starless—as if closed with a lid. It hasn’t been like this for a long time.
But what if she still returns—with the same name, the same gaze, but with a different heart? What then? What will happen to her, if all the outward remains, but the inside becomes foreign? Will she be the same person if she makes different choices, loves other people, lives someone else’s pain? Or will she have to be ripped open and sewn back together again?
Sometimes, for someone to survive, you have to take away the most precious thing.
"This will be right."
She leaves quietly. Without explanations, without a promise to return. Because otherwise he would have followed her—even to death. Because some people are so loyal they cannot live otherwise.
Now he is safe. And she is empty. More has gone than she has taken. And still it was right.
Probably. Maybe she is mistaken. She often has to regret.
She leaves, taking with her what could have been light. Leaves only darkness. Because sometimes love is to disappear so that no one looks for you.
A step forward. Snow treacherously crunches under her boots.
She is returning to save him. Let him at least be free. Let him, without her, be happy. For memory is not a gift. It is a knife you must carry with you. Sometimes with the edge toward yourself. Because if you pull it out, you will die. Sometimes with the edge toward others. Because if you don’t, you will lose those closest to you.
The scariest memories are the ones where it was good. Because they can never be brought back. And they hurt quieter, but longer. Ache like a crumbled tooth that should be pulled out, but you pity it.
She had to play too many roles. Forgotten by people—the sister of America’s hero. Because she was unworthy. A daughter doomed to fight what her father had created. Because retribution reaches everyone. A weapon of Hydra, from which you cannot be freed even after death. Because she will inevitably return. But Avelina never had happiness for too long. It was never meant for her personally. But perhaps returning to her homeland will give her a chance at redemption.
So she takes the third step. And the tears do not stop streaming down her cheeks…
English is not my native language! Maybe there are a lot of mistakes. ♡♡♡
PAIRINGS! Racer!Dayton White × Photojournalist!FemReader
PLOT! You were assigned to document the race happening today when someone caught your attention. Deeply. Then you were invited backstage to meet all of them. When the infamous Dayton White arrived, drenched in sweat, you felt your world crumble. He made a move that definitely changed your life.
WORD COUNT! 2.6k
WARNINGS! Fluff, profanities, no use of Y/N. SMUT! MDNI! Mention of birth control pills, kissing, all consensual, terms of endearment, phone sex (just for a bit though), masturbation, nipple sucking, unprotected sex, oral (m. rec!), crying, overstimulation, multiple rounds, creampies, rough sex, praise kink, spanking (once), marking, pussy worshipping, aftercare, reassurance.
A/N: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAA let's go dayton ughhh 😫 this is genuinely SO LONG like really long you can skip to the good parts if you'd like hsjdhajfjs THIS IS MY FIRST SMUT FIC BTW my specialty is more fluff or crack so... just enjoy reading 🙏
"We're assigned at the Nascar Race next week. Writers, prepare an article, while photojournalists, be sure to make it clear." Your manager announces.
You sighed and turned to your bestfriend, Celeste. "Nascar, huh?" She smirks. "Why? It's not like I'm interested in racing, Cel," you replied, rolling your eyes.
"Oh come on, we all know your type is White." Celeste gathers her papers, since she is a news writer. You scoff, "Dayton? Really? He looks... weird."
Celeste laughs. "Whatever."
Once you got home, you immediately checked everything about Nascar—the cars, the racers, including the Dayton White.
You sighed and stretched before standing up to head to your room and grab your camera. It was a professional mirrorless camera. You adjust the settings and change the lens before testing it out.
Looking out the window, you test out variety of subjects—birds flying, leaves falling from trees, and cars passing by. You felt safe with photography. It felt like home. You felt satisfied after.
Took a long shower after a long day, started sorting out the pictures you took, and then did your own thing.
The whole week was the same—sorting and editing pictures in the office, journaling, and captioninng every news. Until the race was now happening on that day.
You arrived at the track, taking pictures of the practicing racing cars and the racers having small talk. You turn to Celeste, who was being an amazing news writer. You smiled at her before approaching closer to the racers to take a close shot.
As you were taking pictures, your eyes then saw someone. Someone you would call your type. You choked in your own spit when you saw... him.
The guy you researched about the most.
The guy Celeste kept shipping you to.
Dayton White.
You lowered your camera, eyes now focused on him. You convinced yourself that he isn't your type, but now that you're seeing him up-close? He seems so unreal. You cleared your throat and continued to take pictures of them—mostly taking pictures of Dayton now.
Then after Celeste made a news report, she noticed you focused on Dayton. She laughs and swats your arm, "What happened to 'he's not my type,' huh?"
You softly gasp in shock and immediately turn to her, realizing it was Celeste. You calm down and groan. "Cel! Jeez... no, he's not my type at all."
Until a voice perks up from in front of her.
"Hey, do you mind taking a pic of me and my friends? Like close up?"
Your heart stops. Celeste sighs and turns to Dayton, who was now in front of them. "Hi! Yes, of course." She elbows you towards Dayton.
Stumbling towards him, you hit his chest. You clear your throat and nodded, putting your camera up as you tremble softly.
Dayton notices and chuckles, helping her out by tilting the camera towards them properly. "You good, darling?" He softly smiles.
You gulped and nodded. "Yeah! Yeah... please stay put." You smile before letting them pose, taking the picture.
You let them see the picture and Dayton nods. "Nice. Thanks, pretty. See you later." He winks, clicking his tongue before getting ready. Goosebumps hit you hard, eyes widen, and hands sweaty. "Oh my god..."
The race starts and you felt this really weird heat coiling at your lower stomach as you watched Dayton drift from side to side, corner to corner. You clenched your thighs together and sighs, trying to keep yourself together.
Hours later, you were now sitting on the bench, eating a burger peacefully as everyone finally finished the race. You sighed and wiped your sweat before one of the event managers invites you backstage.
Usually, you'd decline but when she mentions free food and everything comforting for you, you couldn't help but say yes.
You then enter to see them, greeting you nicely and smiling politely. They requested you to take pictures and even offered you the food prepared there.
You smile and nod until a familiar figure enters—all sweaty and shirtless. You turn to see Dayton White. Your eyes widen, gulping. "H-Hi! You must be Dayton?"
He nods and smirks. "And you are?" You mention your name with a polite yet nervous smile. He nods once again and smiles. "Pretty name. Nice to meet you." His eyes roam around you, eyes lingering too long on your thighs.
You notice his eyes and gulp. "So... uh... how long have you been racing for?" You mention. Dayton's eyes immediately focuses back to your face and smiles as if noticing happened.
"Oh, me? It's been a while. Winning this and that." Dayton chuckles. You nod and smile, "Oh, by the way, congrats on winning 2nd place!" You chuckle.
Dayton's right hand rests on his left chest, indicating that he feels grateful. "Thank you. I appreciate that." He giggles.
Your eyes linger down to his whole body—his chest, his abs, as well as his visible v-line. You felt your throat dry up.
Dayton then realizes they've been talking for a while now and clears his throat. "You... ate yet? I haven't." He chuckles as you shook your head 'no.' "Wanna eat with me, perhaps?"
You accept his offer and smile before eating with him.
The day passes by and they were now ready to leave. You grab your things and gets ready to head home when Dayton stops you from taking another step. "Uh, hey... I'd like to ask." He awkwardly chuckles as you turn to him. "C-can I... at least, have your number?"
Your eyes shine, a soft smile rising from your lips. "Yeah, yeah. Of course, I'd love to talk to you more." You chuckle.
Dayton softly chuckles back and nods before you give your number. "You got a ride?" He asks, eyes looking at you with obvious affection. You shook your head and he smiles. "Come on, join me." He offers.
Holy shit, I'm with... Dayton White?
The ride on the way to your house was chill and fun; you laughed, sang along, and even ranted to each other about stupid stuff. Once you arrive at your place, you turn to him and smile. "Thank you, Dayton, really. I enjoyed this."
Dayton smiles and chuckles. "Anytime."
Then the atmosphere shifts as you two just stared at each other, as if you two were piercing through one another's soul. Unconsciously, you felt like leaning over, and so did Dayton.
You two continued to lean over until your faces were less than an inch away from each other. Dayton looks at your lips, and you looked at his eyes. "Dayton-" and without warning, he completes the kiss.
Your eyes widen but you accepted it, closing your eyes as you softly kiss him back. After a bit, you felt him deepen the kiss, which made you pull him closer. Pulling away, you pant and he breathes heavily. "Damn... I'm so... sorry." Dayton gulps.
You nod and chuckles breathlessly. "You're okay, it's all good." You smile. "Thank you. Really." You then exit the car and start walking to your front door. You look back and waves goodbye before unlocking the door and heading inside.
The night felt so long as you sort out the pictures you took at the race. You organized it, folder by folder. You then notice an unknown dialer calling you. You grab your phone and answer, "Hello?"
"Hey, it's Dayton." Your eyes lit up and you felt your heart beat faster. "Dayton! Hi!" You chuckle.
He opens his camera, fresh from the shower. Your eyes then lingers once again, thighs pressing together again. "What you up to?" He mentions, putting down his phone and doing his night routine.
You shrug and smile. "Just... doing photojournalist things." You responded, taking your sweater off since it felt hot in your room. You were now wearing a lace tank top.
Then he had this weird darkness in his eyes. He smirks and nods. "Right." He sighs. The way he looks at you made you feel some sort of way too, but deep inside, it's impossible for him to say yes to it.
You both continued talking, just having fun getting to know each other even more. But Dayton kept looking at you weirdly, smirking as if he had an idea. You had a clue on what the idea is, but didn't want to put a finger on it, until...
"I know you know what I'm thinking 'bout," he whispers, "and I hope you know that I'm down." Your heart sank. "What?" You acted innocent. He laughs, "Stop lying. Be honest, darling. You'll receive what you deserve anyway."
You groan internally and gulp. "You're cute. Tell me everything in that pretty head of yours." Dayton hums. "I..." Fuck.
What to do, what to do, what to do? You thought. Then... Fuck it. "I-I've been eyeing you since earlier and I just can't get enough of you..." Your hand was now travelling down to your clothed core. "I think I... need you badly."
Dayton chuckles before taking off his shorts and boxers halfway, turning the camera to his long, hard cock, swinging around. "So, I guess you're craving this?" Your eyes widen and your mouth salivates.
"Fuck..." You mumble, now rubbing yourself through the fabric. You groan. "Dayton, I..." You seemed so scared but... the feeling was just too hard to resist.
You sigh and turns the camera to her hand. "You're fucking responsible for this, by the way," you murmur before hooking your underwear and shorts to reveal your pussy. You then slipped your fingers under your underwear and started fingering yourself.
Dayton's eyes glimmer in lust and grunts, starting to pumping his own length as he watches you pleasure yourself. "God, you're so... fucking wet..." He moans out. "Can't wait to hear you moan in person."
You giggle menacingly. "Come on over. I'll make you hear it in person." He licks his lips and nods. Then without warning, he ended the call. You bit your bottom lip, head spiraling in thoughts about what's to come.
You overthink about it until you remembered you have pills. Ever since you last broke up with your stupid ex-boyfriend, those pills remained unopened. Maybe now's the time to use them, so you did.
A few minutes later, a knock on your front door was audible. Yep, he rushed his way here—he is a racer, so driving fast isn't new to him. You opened the door and he didn't even greet you. Instead, he crashed his lips onto yours, locking the door immediately and pushing you to the couch, not breaking the kiss.
You giggle and pulls away for a moment, "not even a 'hi' or a 'hello?'" Dayton laughs breathlessly and starts marking up your chest and neck. You gasp and your fingers tangle in his hair. "Hello, good evening." He jokingly mutters as he grazes his teeth across your skin.
Dayton then takes off your tank top and unclasps your bra, obvious that he was needy and filled with want. His eyes widen at the sight, "Fuck..." he whispers. He leans down and starts to lick and suck a nub while flicking the other. You gasp and moan out. "Oh, that's good..."
"Yeah, you like that?" He teases. His fingers then slips her shorts and panties off, rubbing her clit as he sucks her. You moan softly and sees him standing up and taking his clothes off. You watch him, whimpering at the sight. "Dayton, oh my god."
You reach out to pull him for a soft kiss, smiling softly. He then helps you kneel down in front of his dick and smiles. "Open your mouth," and you did. He knocks his length on your tongue before making you suck it deep into your throat. Tears build up in your eyes, making you gag and choke on his man-flesh.
He grunts at every vibration you make, his grip on your hair tightening. "So good, taking me so good..." He moans out, staring at you. He pulls out, watching you gasp out for air. He caresses your cheek and smiles reassuringly, "Ah... you're so doing well, princess."
You smile and pulls away, using both hands to pump his cock and making him buck his hips. "Damn it..." He grunts out before flipping you over and pulling you close to him. He then feels your wet pussy with his fingers, making him chuckle. "So excited, huh? I wonder what could happen if I just..." He slips a finger in you, making you yelp.
"Oh, shit..." You whine. He adds another finger and starts fingering you slowly until you adjust to his fingers. "Good girl," he spits on his cock, using it as lube before rubbing the tip on your clit.
You gasp and grip the couch, trembling. "Ready?" He caresses your ass. You gather the courage amd huffs. "Wait..." He lets you have some time before you nod and then he enters you slowly, making sure you adjust to his length and girth. "Ah..." You whimper.
Dayton hears your whimper, making him stop mid-way. "Breathe, baby," and you did. You take deep breaths as he pushes in, eyes completely shut close.
After a bit, you finally nodded and he wasted no time and starting ramming in you, hard and deep. You gasp again and moaned loudly, eyes rolling back. "Dayton!" You shouted out. Dayton groans and squeezes your ass as he thrusts into you, a menacing smile on his face.
You groan and grips the pillows even more, burying your face into it too. "You feel so good around me, taking it like a good girl..." He moans out, spanking you and caressing it after.
Dayton then flips you over again, missionary this time. He continues ramming inside of you and you can't help but touch yourself while he's at it. "You like that, don't you? You don't want me to stop, huh?" He holds on to your waist and you start moving with him.
You start to clench around him and he groans loudly. "Fuck, you're so goddamn tight..." Dayton gasps out, feeling the warmth of dripping pre-cum.
"I-I think I'm close, Dayton..." You whisper out. "Wait for me." He caresses your cheek and smiles reassuringly before continuing. After minutes, you felt him twitch inside of you and his thrusts started getting sloppier.
"Oh... my..." He grips your hips, eyes slightly rolling back as both of you moan loudly and release together.
Dayton grunts and shuts his eyes close, while you shake and breathe heavily. He pulls out and watches the liquids drip out your pussy. "Like that?" He gently slaps your clit, splashing the releases everywhere and lays down, carrying you and making you straddle him.
You collapse on his chest, giggling breathlessly and tiredly. "Hmm... so good, Dayton." He then enters you again making you feel full. "Ride me, come on." He hums.
You sit up, feeling quite limp before moving your hips slowly. You groan as he bucks his hips up, making it feel deeper in you. "Oh my god..." You whimper.
Then you started riding him faster with him thrusting up inside you. You then hold on to his chest and whines. You felt close to being overstimulated and it made you wanna tear up.
After minutes of riding him, "I'm gonna... c-cum-!" You moaned loudly, cumming again, but that didn't stop Dayton from ruining you. He continued, making you feel completely overstimulated. You tremble and collapse on his chest, whining as he fucks you hard. "Dayton~" You shiver. "T-too much! Fuck... t-too good to... stop..."
You were senseless. You had no other thoughts, just him and his huge dick only. Dayton smirks and growls, "So... good. You're such a sweetheart, baby..." You shiver again.
Then he groans. "Oh, fuck... I-I'm close, baby..." You move your hips even just a bit to help him. He huffs, teeth gritting as he growled and then, "fuck!" He twitches inside of you again and spilled inside of you, your mixed release oozing out of you.
You whimper, eyes shut and mouth open as his warmth fills you up. Dayton closes his eyes, feeling his cock softening inside of you while resting a bit before looking at the sleepy and flushed woman on his chest with half-opened eyes. "Darling?"
Your ears perk up and turn to him. "D-Dayton..." You flash a tired smile. He chuckles and caresses your cheek, "You good?" He laughs breathlessly. You rolled your eyes and snuggles closer. "Fuck you." You mumble against his chest.
"You just did." He shrugs, making you stifle a laugh. "That was... the best performance I've had." He jokes again, making you laugh. "Best race ever, huh?" You replied with Dayton nodding in response.
"You did so well, I'm proud of you." He chuckles, caressing her marks, body, and everything, really. "Rest on me. You had a long day today." He softly whispers, kissing the top of her head. "I love you."
You simply hum in satisfaction, responding with a soft whisper, "I love you too."
PLOT! You and your husband, Bucky, felt bored and decided to adopt a chonky orange cat. After adopting him, you two felt like this was a practice for a baby—a damn handful, even on the first days.
WARNINGS! Fluff, crack, profanities, no use of Y/N, established relationship, grumpy x sunshine, fur dad!Bucky, soft kissing
A/N: first fluff fic on this app ... 🧍♀️ ITS GENUINELY BAD (but since it's quite rushed maybe thats why) BUT I'M WORKING ON IT 😭 give me a moment to adjust hshwjwjdjwjssjajs :( ANYWAY enjoy reading hwheheheh
Bored at your own goddamn mind, you and your husband, Bucky, decided to do something stupid.
Now, you might be thinking they'll adopt a kid after 3 years of being married... but instead, they adopted a chunky orange cat. "What should we name him?" You smiled at the sight of the cat.
He purred, eyes pleading. Bucky smiles and turns to you, confidently responding with a name,
"Beans."
You blinked.
He smiled stupidly, turning to you.
"Beans...?" You asked and he nodded.
The day passes and you were now carrying Beans. Weird name... but whatever. "Beans? Really?" You roll your eyes at Bucky. He giggles, "It's cute!"
You shook your head, "Whatever." Beans meowed and snuggles his head on your chest making your heart flutter.
Bucky prepares his food and you place him down to eat. "Eat well, little Beans." You chuckle.
It all seems soooooo easy. But in reality...
It is most definitely not.
You wake up in the middle of the night—3 am, to go to the bathroom only to encounter see Beans hanging on the curtains, leaving a ripped portion. "Beans–!" You groaned and puts him down, letting him run out the bedroom. "Oh my god..."
Bucky stirs in his sleep and then wakes up, his metal arm whirring. "Baby... it's 3 am..." He rasps out, eyes half-opened.
You sigh. "Hmm... Beans was just annoyi–" Then clanking was heard from the kitchen. "Jesus Christ..." You groan and goes to the bathroom real quick. Bucky stands up and rushes to the kitchen to grab Beans.
Hearing Bucky from the kitchen, fighting Beans, was amusing but when you saw everything, you burst out laughing, seeing Beans hanging on to Bucky's vibranium limb. He tries to shake him off but... he just won't let go. "Beans– goddammit..." He groans and pushes him down, making him do a flip.
You were laughing at their cute little 3 am interaction. Bucky groans, obviously restless. "Okay, Beans. You've had your time." Bucky whines and picks you up, placing you down on the bed.
Bucky smiles and climbs on top of you to cuddle. "God, I hope Beans finally stay put..." You stifle a laugh. "Baby–" Bucky places a finger on her lips, making her shut up.
"He has shut up now. Let's sleep." He groans and goes to sleep. You sighed and kisses the top of his head before drifting to sleep.
The next day, you went out to meet Bucky at his office at the Avengers Tower—he is a congressman, so he has to go to the tower much earlier than anyone else. Once you open the door, you catch him baby-talking with Beans.
"Who's a good kitty?" He smiles, rubbing Beans' tummy. "You are–" Then he catches you, leaned against the doorframe. He straightens his posture and clears his throat, "Good morning, baby."
You laugh softly. "I see you're... enjoying with Beans." You giggle out. Soon, you notice the cat tower in his office and the various cat toys and foods... and equipment... and a lot more.
"Jeez, you're really... taking this fur-dad thing seriously?" You chuckle and pats Beans' head, "You're overly spoiling this... bean." You cackle, obviously pun intended.
Bucky huffs and reaches out to kiss you softly. "Coming from you—the most high maintenance girl in my whole life?" He teases, a light smirk on his face.
Then a thud was heard from beside them.
You blinked and Bucky sighed. You both slowly turn to Beans, who was now licking himself clean and glaring at you two. "Oh, Beans, shut up." Bucky dismisses him and continues caressing your cheek, acting all lovey-dovey.
He then purred—not an affectionate purr, nope. Instead, it was a purr with mixed disgust. "Oh, you little–" You shush Bucky and chuckles. You lean close to softly kiss him again.
Beans meowed and rushes to Yelena's boots, settling beside it and finally resting. Can't take a break from this walking fur-ball. You thought.
Bucky notices her tired expression. "Baby, you have to get used to it already. Beans is our child." He jokes, smiling softly. "Kidding. Jokes aside, you can rest. I'll take care of him." He leans in closer to kiss her cheek.
You then head to the living room area to rest for a bit, plopping down and sighing in contentment.
"I fucking love this man." You mutter to yourself at the thought of Bucky before slowly closing her eyes, taking a nap.
do you have any plans on making any wlw fics? and do you also plan on making a yelena rpa? 🙏
FIRST QUESTION WHAT WHAT WHAT.
to answer the first question, yes!!! i plan on making mlm and wlw fics (some are already drafted hehehe) and the 2nd question 🤕 nooo im so sorry hajhajdh
ALTHOUGH i am planning to make a natasha rpa on twt (strictly in character nd the only nsfw part is the slightly heavy profanities) 😋 SOOOOO stay tuned for that ermmrmrmr
PAIRINGS! Racer!Dayton White × Photojournalist!FemReader
PLOT! You were assigned to document the race happening today when someone caught your attention. Deeply. Then you were invited backstage to meet all of them. When the infamous Dayton White arrived, drenched in sweat, you felt your world crumble. He made a move that definitely changed your life.
WORD COUNT! 2.6k
WARNINGS! Fluff, profanities, no use of Y/N. SMUT! MDNI! Mention of birth control pills, kissing, all consensual, terms of endearment, phone sex (just for a bit though), masturbation, nipple sucking, unprotected sex, oral (m. rec!), crying, overstimulation, multiple rounds, creampies, rough sex, praise kink, spanking (once), marking, pussy worshipping, aftercare, reassurance.
A/N: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAA let's go dayton ughhh 😫 this is genuinely SO LONG like really long you can skip to the good parts if you'd like hsjdhajfjs THIS IS MY FIRST SMUT FIC BTW my specialty is more fluff or crack so... just enjoy reading 🙏
"We're assigned at the Nascar Race next week. Writers, prepare an article, while photojournalists, be sure to make it clear." Your manager announces.
You sighed and turned to your bestfriend, Celeste. "Nascar, huh?" She smirks. "Why? It's not like I'm interested in racing, Cel," you replied, rolling your eyes.
"Oh come on, we all know your type is White." Celeste gathers her papers, since she is a news writer. You scoff, "Dayton? Really? He looks... weird."
Celeste laughs. "Whatever."
Once you got home, you immediately checked everything about Nascar—the cars, the racers, including the Dayton White.
You sighed and stretched before standing up to head to your room and grab your camera. It was a professional mirrorless camera. You adjust the settings and change the lens before testing it out.
Looking out the window, you test out variety of subjects—birds flying, leaves falling from trees, and cars passing by. You felt safe with photography. It felt like home. You felt satisfied after.
Took a long shower after a long day, started sorting out the pictures you took, and then did your own thing.
The whole week was the same—sorting and editing pictures in the office, journaling, and captioninng every news. Until the race was now happening on that day.
You arrived at the track, taking pictures of the practicing racing cars and the racers having small talk. You turn to Celeste, who was being an amazing news writer. You smiled at her before approaching closer to the racers to take a close shot.
As you were taking pictures, your eyes then saw someone. Someone you would call your type. You choked in your own spit when you saw... him.
The guy you researched about the most.
The guy Celeste kept shipping you to.
Dayton White.
You lowered your camera, eyes now focused on him. You convinced yourself that he isn't your type, but now that you're seeing him up-close? He seems so unreal. You cleared your throat and continued to take pictures of them—mostly taking pictures of Dayton now.
Then after Celeste made a news report, she noticed you focused on Dayton. She laughs and swats your arm, "What happened to 'he's not my type,' huh?"
You softly gasp in shock and immediately turn to her, realizing it was Celeste. You calm down and groan. "Cel! Jeez... no, he's not my type at all."
Until a voice perks up from in front of her.
"Hey, do you mind taking a pic of me and my friends? Like close up?"
Your heart stops. Celeste sighs and turns to Dayton, who was now in front of them. "Hi! Yes, of course." She elbows you towards Dayton.
Stumbling towards him, you hit his chest. You clear your throat and nodded, putting your camera up as you tremble softly.
Dayton notices and chuckles, helping her out by tilting the camera towards them properly. "You good, darling?" He softly smiles.
You gulped and nodded. "Yeah! Yeah... please stay put." You smile before letting them pose, taking the picture.
You let them see the picture and Dayton nods. "Nice. Thanks, pretty. See you later." He winks, clicking his tongue before getting ready. Goosebumps hit you hard, eyes widen, and hands sweaty. "Oh my god..."
The race starts and you felt this really weird heat coiling at your lower stomach as you watched Dayton drift from side to side, corner to corner. You clenched your thighs together and sighs, trying to keep yourself together.
Hours later, you were now sitting on the bench, eating a burger peacefully as everyone finally finished the race. You sighed and wiped your sweat before one of the event managers invites you backstage.
Usually, you'd decline but when she mentions free food and everything comforting for you, you couldn't help but say yes.
You then enter to see them, greeting you nicely and smiling politely. They requested you to take pictures and even offered you the food prepared there.
You smile and nod until a familiar figure enters—all sweaty and shirtless. You turn to see Dayton White. Your eyes widen, gulping. "H-Hi! You must be Dayton?"
He nods and smirks. "And you are?" You mention your name with a polite yet nervous smile. He nods once again and smiles. "Pretty name. Nice to meet you." His eyes roam around you, eyes lingering too long on your thighs.
You notice his eyes and gulp. "So... uh... how long have you been racing for?" You mention. Dayton's eyes immediately focuses back to your face and smiles as if noticing happened.
"Oh, me? It's been a while. Winning this and that." Dayton chuckles. You nod and smile, "Oh, by the way, congrats on winning 2nd place!" You chuckle.
Dayton's right hand rests on his left chest, indicating that he feels grateful. "Thank you. I appreciate that." He giggles.
Your eyes linger down to his whole body—his chest, his abs, as well as his visible v-line. You felt your throat dry up.
Dayton then realizes they've been talking for a while now and clears his throat. "You... ate yet? I haven't." He chuckles as you shook your head 'no.' "Wanna eat with me, perhaps?"
You accept his offer and smile before eating with him.
The day passes by and they were now ready to leave. You grab your things and gets ready to head home when Dayton stops you from taking another step. "Uh, hey... I'd like to ask." He awkwardly chuckles as you turn to him. "C-can I... at least, have your number?"
Your eyes shine, a soft smile rising from your lips. "Yeah, yeah. Of course, I'd love to talk to you more." You chuckle.
Dayton softly chuckles back and nods before you give your number. "You got a ride?" He asks, eyes looking at you with obvious affection. You shook your head and he smiles. "Come on, join me." He offers.
Holy shit, I'm with... Dayton White?
The ride on the way to your house was chill and fun; you laughed, sang along, and even ranted to each other about stupid stuff. Once you arrive at your place, you turn to him and smile. "Thank you, Dayton, really. I enjoyed this."
Dayton smiles and chuckles. "Anytime."
Then the atmosphere shifts as you two just stared at each other, as if you two were piercing through one another's soul. Unconsciously, you felt like leaning over, and so did Dayton.
You two continued to lean over until your faces were less than an inch away from each other. Dayton looks at your lips, and you looked at his eyes. "Dayton-" and without warning, he completes the kiss.
Your eyes widen but you accepted it, closing your eyes as you softly kiss him back. After a bit, you felt him deepen the kiss, which made you pull him closer. Pulling away, you pant and he breathes heavily. "Damn... I'm so... sorry." Dayton gulps.
You nod and chuckles breathlessly. "You're okay, it's all good." You smile. "Thank you. Really." You then exit the car and start walking to your front door. You look back and waves goodbye before unlocking the door and heading inside.
The night felt so long as you sort out the pictures you took at the race. You organized it, folder by folder. You then notice an unknown dialer calling you. You grab your phone and answer, "Hello?"
"Hey, it's Dayton." Your eyes lit up and you felt your heart beat faster. "Dayton! Hi!" You chuckle.
He opens his camera, fresh from the shower. Your eyes then lingers once again, thighs pressing together again. "What you up to?" He mentions, putting down his phone and doing his night routine.
You shrug and smile. "Just... doing photojournalist things." You responded, taking your sweater off since it felt hot in your room. You were now wearing a lace tank top.
Then he had this weird darkness in his eyes. He smirks and nods. "Right." He sighs. The way he looks at you made you feel some sort of way too, but deep inside, it's impossible for him to say yes to it.
You both continued talking, just having fun getting to know each other even more. But Dayton kept looking at you weirdly, smirking as if he had an idea. You had a clue on what the idea is, but didn't want to put a finger on it, until...
"I know you know what I'm thinking 'bout," he whispers, "and I hope you know that I'm down." Your heart sank. "What?" You acted innocent. He laughs, "Stop lying. Be honest, darling. You'll receive what you deserve anyway."
You groan internally and gulp. "You're cute. Tell me everything in that pretty head of yours." Dayton hums. "I..." Fuck.
What to do, what to do, what to do? You thought. Then... Fuck it. "I-I've been eyeing you since earlier and I just can't get enough of you..." Your hand was now travelling down to your clothed core. "I think I... need you badly."
Dayton chuckles before taking off his shorts and boxers halfway, turning the camera to his long, hard cock, swinging around. "So, I guess you're craving this?" Your eyes widen and your mouth salivates.
"Fuck..." You mumble, now rubbing yourself through the fabric. You groan. "Dayton, I..." You seemed so scared but... the feeling was just too hard to resist.
You sigh and turns the camera to her hand. "You're fucking responsible for this, by the way," you murmur before hooking your underwear and shorts to reveal your pussy. You then slipped your fingers under your underwear and started fingering yourself.
Dayton's eyes glimmer in lust and grunts, starting to pumping his own length as he watches you pleasure yourself. "God, you're so... fucking wet..." He moans out. "Can't wait to hear you moan in person."
You giggle menacingly. "Come on over. I'll make you hear it in person." He licks his lips and nods. Then without warning, he ended the call. You bit your bottom lip, head spiraling in thoughts about what's to come.
You overthink about it until you remembered you have pills. Ever since you last broke up with your stupid ex-boyfriend, those pills remained unopened. Maybe now's the time to use them, so you did.
A few minutes later, a knock on your front door was audible. Yep, he rushed his way here—he is a racer, so driving fast isn't new to him. You opened the door and he didn't even greet you. Instead, he crashed his lips onto yours, locking the door immediately and pushing you to the couch, not breaking the kiss.
You giggle and pulls away for a moment, "not even a 'hi' or a 'hello?'" Dayton laughs breathlessly and starts marking up your chest and neck. You gasp and your fingers tangle in his hair. "Hello, good evening." He jokingly mutters as he grazes his teeth across your skin.
Dayton then takes off your tank top and unclasps your bra, obvious that he was needy and filled with want. His eyes widen at the sight, "Fuck..." he whispers. He leans down and starts to lick and suck a nub while flicking the other. You gasp and moan out. "Oh, that's good..."
"Yeah, you like that?" He teases. His fingers then slips her shorts and panties off, rubbing her clit as he sucks her. You moan softly and sees him standing up and taking his clothes off. You watch him, whimpering at the sight. "Dayton, oh my god."
You reach out to pull him for a soft kiss, smiling softly. He then helps you kneel down in front of his dick and smiles. "Open your mouth," and you did. He knocks his length on your tongue before making you suck it deep into your throat. Tears build up in your eyes, making you gag and choke on his man-flesh.
He grunts at every vibration you make, his grip on your hair tightening. "So good, taking me so good..." He moans out, staring at you. He pulls out, watching you gasp out for air. He caresses your cheek and smiles reassuringly, "Ah... you're so doing well, princess."
You smile and pulls away, using both hands to pump his cock and making him buck his hips. "Damn it..." He grunts out before flipping you over and pulling you close to him. He then feels your wet pussy with his fingers, making him chuckle. "So excited, huh? I wonder what could happen if I just..." He slips a finger in you, making you yelp.
"Oh, shit..." You whine. He adds another finger and starts fingering you slowly until you adjust to his fingers. "Good girl," he spits on his cock, using it as lube before rubbing the tip on your clit.
You gasp and grip the couch, trembling. "Ready?" He caresses your ass. You gather the courage amd huffs. "Wait..." He lets you have some time before you nod and then he enters you slowly, making sure you adjust to his length and girth. "Ah..." You whimper.
Dayton hears your whimper, making him stop mid-way. "Breathe, baby," and you did. You take deep breaths as he pushes in, eyes completely shut close.
After a bit, you finally nodded and he wasted no time and starting ramming in you, hard and deep. You gasp again and moaned loudly, eyes rolling back. "Dayton!" You shouted out. Dayton groans and squeezes your ass as he thrusts into you, a menacing smile on his face.
You groan and grips the pillows even more, burying your face into it too. "You feel so good around me, taking it like a good girl..." He moans out, spanking you and caressing it after.
Dayton then flips you over again, missionary this time. He continues ramming inside of you and you can't help but touch yourself while he's at it. "You like that, don't you? You don't want me to stop, huh?" He holds on to your waist and you start moving with him.
You start to clench around him and he groans loudly. "Fuck, you're so goddamn tight..." Dayton gasps out, feeling the warmth of dripping pre-cum.
"I-I think I'm close, Dayton..." You whisper out. "Wait for me." He caresses your cheek and smiles reassuringly before continuing. After minutes, you felt him twitch inside of you and his thrusts started getting sloppier.
"Oh... my..." He grips your hips, eyes slightly rolling back as both of you moan loudly and release together.
Dayton grunts and shuts his eyes close, while you shake and breathe heavily. He pulls out and watches the liquids drip out your pussy. "Like that?" He gently slaps your clit, splashing the releases everywhere and lays down, carrying you and making you straddle him.
You collapse on his chest, giggling breathlessly and tiredly. "Hmm... so good, Dayton." He then enters you again making you feel full. "Ride me, come on." He hums.
You sit up, feeling quite limp before moving your hips slowly. You groan as he bucks his hips up, making it feel deeper in you. "Oh my god..." You whimper.
Then you started riding him faster with him thrusting up inside you. You then hold on to his chest and whines. You felt close to being overstimulated and it made you wanna tear up.
After minutes of riding him, "I'm gonna... c-cum-!" You moaned loudly, cumming again, but that didn't stop Dayton from ruining you. He continued, making you feel completely overstimulated. You tremble and collapse on his chest, whining as he fucks you hard. "Dayton~" You shiver. "T-too much! Fuck... t-too good to... stop..."
You were senseless. You had no other thoughts, just him and his huge dick only. Dayton smirks and growls, "So... good. You're such a sweetheart, baby..." You shiver again.
Then he groans. "Oh, fuck... I-I'm close, baby..." You move your hips even just a bit to help him. He huffs, teeth gritting as he growled and then, "fuck!" He twitches inside of you again and spilled inside of you, your mixed release oozing out of you.
You whimper, eyes shut and mouth open as his warmth fills you up. Dayton closes his eyes, feeling his cock softening inside of you while resting a bit before looking at the sleepy and flushed woman on his chest with half-opened eyes. "Darling?"
Your ears perk up and turn to him. "D-Dayton..." You flash a tired smile. He chuckles and caresses your cheek, "You good?" He laughs breathlessly. You rolled your eyes and snuggles closer. "Fuck you." You mumble against his chest.
"You just did." He shrugs, making you stifle a laugh. "That was... the best performance I've had." He jokes again, making you laugh. "Best race ever, huh?" You replied with Dayton nodding in response.
"You did so well, I'm proud of you." He chuckles, caressing her marks, body, and everything, really. "Rest on me. You had a long day today." He softly whispers, kissing the top of her head. "I love you."
You simply hum in satisfaction, responding with a soft whisper, "I love you too."
Pairing College Hockey!Bucky x Volleyball player!Reader
Synopsis He’s the campus hockey throb with a bruised heart and a bad habit of falling too fast. You’re the volleyball captain who speaks in metaphors and doesn’t take any of his charm.
You were the one person he couldn’t win over.
He was the one person you didn’t want to need.
Word Count 12.9K
Themes + Warnings SLOW BURN , angst with happy ending , MISCOMMUNICATION , mutual pinning , reader uses metaphors as a self-defense (OKAYY AMAYA PAPAYA) , Suppressed feelings / self-sabotage , LOYALTY VS LOVE , SPORTS AU , COLLEGE AU , (i made you have a nose ring sorry not sorry)
— It could all be so simple Metaphor Girl and the Boy Who Waited
The gym is hot.
Sweat clings to the back of your neck, your braid heavy down your spine, the flyaways at your temple damp and curling. Your legs are burning from the constant dives and shifts, but your focus is razor-sharp. You don’t notice the crowd, don’t care about the cheers. You’re locked in — libero mode activated.
You’ve been everywhere this game. Scrappy saves, last-minute digs, screaming plays across the court. Your team is up by three, and the opposing team is cracking. You feel it in your bones — you’ve got this.
The whistle blows. Match point.
Game: won. Focus: sharp.
But as your teammates cheer and rush together into a tangled hug at mid-court, your eyes wander — just for a second.
And that’s when you see him.
James Buchanan Barnes. Bucky. #17 on the hockey team. Campus problem. Walking sin. Steve’s best friend. Wanda’s forever headache.
He’s sitting high up in the bleachers, next to Steve, with that lazy smirk on his face and his arms spread out on the seat behind him like he owns the whole damn gym.
His eyes?
Locked. On. You.
You swear you see his jaw clench a little when you tug your jersey down, the fabric clinging to your sweat-slicked skin. His eyes trace your legs, the way your spandex hug you like a second skin.
And then he grins.
You look away.
Locker room is chaos.
Your team is loud, hyped, joking around. Jordyn — your setter, co-captain, and unfortunately part of Bucky’s past — is playfully yelling about “someone better take me out for saving your asses!” and you roll your eyes as you untie your shoes.
You pretend you don’t hear her mention that Bucky’s in the crowd.
You pretend it doesn’t twist something in your gut.
You take longer than necessary changing — cooling off, resetting your brain. You know how this works. He’s flirted with half your team. He’s been with Jordyn. You’ve seen his track record.
You’re not interested.
You won’t be.
You shoulder your duffel and push through the gym doors into the humid night air — and of course, because the universe hates you…
He’s waiting.
Leaning casually against the wall outside the gym, hoodie pushed up to his elbows, that goddamn smirk still on his face like it was carved there by sin itself.
“Hell of a game,” he says.
You don’t stop walking.
“Thanks,” you mutter, eyes straight ahead.
He falls into step next to you like he was invited. “You’re fast. Like freakishly fast. Thought you were gonna break something with that last dive.”
You glance at him once. “Is this your strategy? Compliment a girl until she trips and falls into your bed?”
He grins wider. “You think it’s working?”
You stop walking. Turn to him, one brow raised, voice cool.
“Don’t even start with me, Barnes. I know your whole routine. You flirt, you charm, you hook up, and then you disappear. That might work on other girls — hell, it worked on Jordyn — but it’s not gonna work on me.”
He doesn’t blink. “Didn’t realize I had a reputation.”
You give him a tight, unimpressed smile. “Oh, you do. And I’m not interested in adding to it.”
Then, just like that, you turn and walk off toward the parking lot, keys in hand, braid swinging behind you.
You don’t see the way he watches you go — not just interested, but intrigued.
He’s used to girls melting at the first wink. The first smile.
But you?
You burned him down to ash and didn’t even look back.
And damn it if that didn’t just make him want you more.
The locker room smells like sweat and cheap body spray, the usual post-game chaos still buzzing in the air. You’ve got one knee up on the bench, tying off your braid with a fresh hair tie, trying to ignore the squeals and victory chants echoing around you.
Jordyn’s bouncing on her toes in front of her locker, towel around her neck, cheeks still flushed from the win. She catches your eye in the mirror.
“So,” she says, dragging the word out like it’s dripping with secrets,
“Guess who asked about you?”
You don’t look up.
“Let me guess,” you mutter. “Coach wants me to run more conditioning.”
“Close,” Jordyn grins. “Bucky Barnes.”
You freeze.
Just for a second.
Long enough for her to catch it.
“Don’t start,” you say, voice cool, tucking your phone into your duffel like it suddenly became the most important object in the world.
“Oh, come on, it wasn’t like that. He was just asking what your name was. Said something about you being ‘insanely fast’ and having a ‘cute nose ring.’”
She does finger quotes. You resist the urge to throw your water bottle at her.
“You’re not funny.”
“I’m hilarious,” she shrugs, flopping down on the bench beside you. “And also, not blind. The boy was staring.”
“And you think that’s a good thing?”
“I mean… it’s Bucky Barnes. Most girls would kill to have him look at them the way he looked at you tonight.”
You zip your bag, sharper than necessary. “Yeah. That’s the problem.”
Across the room, Nat lets out a little hmm like she’s been eavesdropping — because of course she has.
“Just saying,” she calls from her locker, “if Barnes is circling, maybe it's because he’s looking for something different. You’ve seen the kind of girls he usually goes for. You’re not that.”
“Thanks?”
“It was a compliment, babe.”
You roll your eyes.
But your stomach twists a little anyway.
FLASHBACK – ONE MONTH AGO
The first time you saw Bucky Barnes in his element, it was from the stands of a hockey game you didn’t even want to attend. Nat dragged you, citing “roommate bonding” and “Steve’s hot in pads, you’ll survive.”
He was all ego and speed, hair sweaty under his helmet, grinning like the ice was his stage.
And after the win? He was a nightmare of charm — shirtless, cocky. Jordyn had barely introduced herself before she was giggling against the wall, his mouth pressed to her neck, his hands not subtle in the slightest.
You left early.
Didn’t even say goodbye.
The next morning? Jordyn had shrugged it off. “It was fun.”
You didn’t judge her.
But you did start avoiding hockey players like they were contagious.
Especially him.
Back in the locker room, you sling your bag over your shoulder.
“Tell Bucky,” you say as you pass Jordyn, “if he asks again — I’m not interested.”
Jordyn smirks. “He’ll just hear that as a challenge.”
You glance back, eyes sharp. “Then he’s not as smart as he thinks.”
Jordyn’s still going.
Still talking about Bucky.
And you’ve been nodding politely, giving her little hums of “oh” and “uh-huh,” trying to pretend it’s not making your skin itch.
“I’m just saying,” she says with a giggle, “he was totally staring again. Like full-on eye-fucking. I think he actually asked Steve about you. He’s definitely interested.”
You drop your water bottle into your bag a little too hard.
“Jordyn.”
She blinks. “What?”
You take a breath. Try to be gentle. Really, you do.
“I love you. I love you off the court and on the court. As my setter. As my friend.”
Your voice tightens.
“But please, for the love of God, stop talking about me like I’m some… bird food. Some worm or fish or shiny lure for that man to circle around and swoop in for — just to fly off once he’s done. Like I’m bait.”
Jordyn blinks. “I… didn’t mean it like—”
“No, I know. I know,” you rush out, hands up. “But I’m not some goddamn… I’m not a car wash, either!”
Nat snorts across the room. You whirl around. “Don’t laugh, I’m serious!”
“I’m not a car wash that he just parks his stupid ass in for five minutes, gets what he wants, and then disappears for weeks until he needs another quick rinse!”
There’s silence.
So you keep going.
Because of course you do.
“I’m not a worm, or a fish, or a fucking car wash — I’m a whole-ass meal, okay? I’m a person. With thoughts. And boundaries. And dignity.”
You pause. Then wince.
“…but you get what I mean.”
Nat’s trying very, very hard not to laugh. Jordyn just stares at you like you’ve grown three heads.
You groan into your hands.
“God, I’m so tired. I haven’t eaten. That made so much more sense in my head.”
Jordyn finally cracks a smile. “So… you’re not into him, then?”
You whip around. “JORDYN.”
Across Campus – That Night
Bucky’s got a Gatorade in hand and an elbow propped on Steve’s shoulder as they leave the gym.
“You ever seen a girl move like that?” he asks, almost to himself.
Steve raises a brow. “You mean Y/N?”
“Yeah. Y/N.” Bucky says it like he’s testing the sound of it. “She’s good. Like… scary good.”
“She’s also like Pietro’s sister,” Steve adds casually.
“I know.”
“And she’s roommates with Nat.”
“Also aware.”
Steve pauses. “You’re not gonna try anything, right?”
Bucky doesn’t answer.
Which is, of course, an answer.
Bucky just sips his Gatorade, eyes flicking up toward the volleyball court windows.
Where you had been.
Where you always are.
It’s one of those house parties that smells like sweat, cheap tequila, and someone’s citrus body spray that’s doing way too much. The kitchen’s too crowded, the living room’s pulsing with bass, and there’s a stack of half-collapsed red cups in the sink like a modern art tragedy.
You weren’t supposed to be here.
You told Nat you’d show up for twenty minutes max, grab her from whatever dark corner she was pressed against Steve in, and go home.
But then the music hit just right. And you looked good. Really good.
You didn’t do it for anyone.
But damn if you don’t feel good.
Which is exactly when you hear:
“Didn’t expect you here.”
You don’t have to turn to know who it is.
But you do anyway. Slowly. Like this is a movie and the director told you, "Make it count."
He’s standing there with a drink in hand, jeans low on his hips, plain black t-shirt doing all kinds of damage. He looks calm, collected — but his eyes? They're giving him away. They sweep over you, just a second too long, before he catches himself and meets your gaze like he’s not spiraling.
“Or to look like that,” he adds, trying to smile.
You tilt your head.
“You mean human? Out of spandex? Shocking, I know.”
He huffs a laugh. “You know what I meant.”
You take another sip of your drink. “Do I?”
“You look good.”
You raise a brow. “Thanks. I put this on all by myself.”
His smile falters.
Touché.
The party keeps moving.
People are dancing. Laughing. Drunk off their asses. You drift through the crowd, making your rounds, and you feel him watching you more than once — that hot stare on the back of your neck.
Eventually, it happens.
A song hits.
The kind that makes the whole room sway, the bass thick in your ribs. Someone grabs your hand, pulls you into the center. You laugh. Dance. Your hips move with muscle memory and mischief, and—
You feel him behind you.
Not touching.
Just close.
The air shifts. The bass crawls up your spine. You look over your shoulder and meet his eyes.
He’s trying to play it cool. But his jaw’s tight, his hands twitch like he’s resisting the urge to reach for you.
“One dance,” you say, your voice low. “No hands.”
“Scout’s honor,” he murmurs.
So you dance.
Not even touching — not really. Just bodies moving near each other, orbiting with tension so thick it hums.
Your arm brushes his once.
Your hair catches against his chest.
He doesn’t touch you.
But it feels like a crime scene anyway.
After maybe thirty seconds, you step back. Breathless. But in control.
“That’s it,” you say. “I don’t do encores.”
“You’re killing me,” he says, and he means it.
You flash him a grin. “That’s the goal.”
Then you walk away.
And leave him standing there like a man who just got handed a single fry after asking for the combo meal.
Outside – Later
You lean against the porch railing, letting the air hit your skin, still warm from the crowd. Nat slides up next to you, sipping something pink.
“Bucky Barnes looks like he’s going through five stages of grief inside,” she says without looking.
You don’t respond right away.
Just sigh.
“I’m ten toes deep in being unavailable,” you say. “Don’t start with me.”
“Didn’t say a word.”
She smirks.
And inside, through the haze of flashing lights and too-loud music, you catch Bucky’s eyes through the window.
Still watching.
Still wanting.
And he hasn't even touched you.
Bucky’s POV
The music’s too loud. The girl in front of him is laughing at something he didn’t say, her hands on his waist, swaying a little too deliberately against him.
Her perfume’s strong — something fruity. Sugary. Manufactured.
It doesn’t smell like you.
She leans back into him, one hand sliding up his arm, nails trailing like she’s trying to drag attention out of him with her fingertips.
He gives her a half-smile.
A polite one.
One he’s used a thousand times.
“You wanna go somewhere quieter?” she asks, lips brushing his ear.
He doesn’t answer right away. His eyes are over her shoulder, scanning the crowd, searching for something he knows damn well he shouldn’t be looking for.
But he can’t help it.
You’re not on the dance floor anymore.
Dancing with him just long enough to ruin his night.
You knew what you were doing. You dropped one taste of that fire and walked away like he was nothing but smoke.
Now?
Now you’re gone.
And suddenly everyone else feels like a distraction he doesn’t want.
The girl presses a kiss to his jaw. He doesn’t stop her — doesn’t encourage her either.
He catches a flash of movement out the window.
Outside.
White sneakers.
That goddamn nose ring catching the porch light.
You.
Leaning against the railing with Nat beside you, head tilted back like the sky told you a secret. Laughing at something, eyes squinted in that crinkle-eyed way that makes his chest do something weird and unfamiliar.
Something warm.
Something dangerous.
Then — he sees them.
Pietro. Wanda.
He knows the Maximoffs aren’t your blood siblings. But the way you are with them? Might as well be.
Wanda’s got her arm linked in yours now. Pietro's walking up from the lawn, brushing something off his shirt like he fought a bush for fun. Typical.
But when Pietro turns — when he sees Bucky staring through the window?
His whole face shifts.
He slows.
Looks straight at him.
Tilts his head.
And says one word.
No sound.
Just mouth.
“No.”
Like a warning.
Like a dare.
Like the kind of family that doesn’t need blood to make a threat land.
Bucky swears his drink goes warm in his hand.
The girl in front of him is still moving, still saying something, still laughing.
He doesn’t hear a word of it.
His eyes are glued to you.
You — leaning your head against Pietro’s shoulder now, Wanda nudging your side, the three of you tangled up in the kind of comfort Bucky hasn’t felt in years.
You don’t even look at him.
Don’t even acknowledge him.
It shouldn’t get under his skin.
But it does.
Because Bucky’s danced with a lot of girls.
Hell, he’s had half the volleyball team wrapped around his fingers at one point or another — and he knows it.
But you?
You dance with him once and don’t even flinch when you walk away.
You don’t ask for attention.
You don’t fall for the act.
You’re not a game he knows how to win.
And now?
Now, Bucky Barnes is spiraling.
Over a girl who’s not his.
Not yet.
Not tonight.
–
The gym smells like sweat and rubber and frustration. Your ankle throbs.
You’re gripping the bleachers with one hand, trying not to cry from the dull, cruel pain creeping up your leg.
Practice had been going fine — more than fine — until you went up to save a brutal spike and landed just wrong. A sharp twist. A shock up your calf. And suddenly your world narrowed to the ache in your joint and the panic in your chest.
You can’t be injured.
Not now. Not mid-season. Not when the team needs you.
You’d tried to walk it off. You’re stubborn like that.
But Nat was waiting out front — surprise matcha run — and the second she saw you limping, she was on FaceTime with Steve.
You were too annoyed to notice she’d mentioned your name.
Too annoyed to know who Steve was with.
The doors bang open fifteen minutes later, and suddenly Steve Rogers is crouching beside you, his brow creased, his voice low.
“Looks like a mild sprain. You need ice, compression, elevation. I’ve got a wrap in my truck.”
You nod, trying to breathe through the discomfort.
And then you hear his voice.
“I’ll get it. Be right back.”
Your head jerks up.
Bucky Barnes. Baseball cap. Grey hoodie. Rings on his fingers. That stupid silver chain he knows gets attention.
You blink.
“Why are you here?”
“Was with Steve. Nat didn’t know.” He shrugs. “Calm down, I’m not here to flirt.”
You blink again.
And then, just like that, he’s gone, jogging across the parking lot.
You stare after him, dumbfounded.
He didn’t wink.
Didn’t smirk.
Didn’t even look smug.
When he comes back, he doesn’t say much. Just kneels in front of you, careful and quiet, and wraps your ankle with practiced hands.
“Did this a lot for Yelena back in the day,” he mutters. “Soccer injuries.”
You hum in acknowledgment, studying him.
He’s gentle. Precise.
His touch is warm, but not lingering.
There’s a soft furrow between his brows — concentration, not charm.
And suddenly, there’s this weird twist in your chest, one that’s not your ankle. Something you don’t want to name.
He’s not who you thought he was.
You sit in stunned silence, ankle elevated, staring at the guy you’ve painted as a smooth-talking himbo menace for months — and now?
Now he looks like a guy who’d carry someone off a battlefield, not just out of a bar.
It would almost be… endearing.
If he didn't immediately open his mouth again.
“You know, if you wanted me on my knees in front of you, doll, you could’ve just asked.”
You freeze.
The whiplash hits so hard you nearly bite your tongue.
The warmth in your chest extinguishes instantly.
“Wow,” you say, deadpan. “You made it twenty whole minutes before saying something profoundly stupid. A new record.”
“I was joking—”
“So was I, when I told Nat you might actually be capable of growth.”
He stares at you.
You don’t even look at him as you grab your water bottle.
“Thanks for the wrap,” you mutter. “You can go now.”
“Doll—”
“Seriously. Go.”
You can hear the silence he leaves behind when he stands.
But you don’t look back.
You don’t need to see the flash of bruised pride in his eyes — the ego chipped, the confusion blooming.
You’re pissed. Not because of the flirt.
But because he was doing so well.
The second the door clicks shut behind you, you’re already scowling.
Nat throws her phone onto the futon like it personally offended her.
Wanda’s legs are tucked under her as she sips a tea that smells like judgment.
“Steve said Bucky’s all messed up,” Nat announces, like it’s gossip you should care about.
You say nothing as you limp past them, tossing your gym bag to the side like it owes you money.
Nat doesn’t give up.
She plucks the ice pack from the mini freezer, under three frozen Trader Joe’s dumpling bags, and hurls it at you without looking.
You catch it, barely. Slap it against your ankle like it insulted your ancestors.
“Good,” you say flatly. “He deserves to spiral.”
Wanda, ever the composed twin, tilts her head. Her tone is gentle. Disarming.
A warning disguised as concern.
“Didn’t you say he was sweet today?”
You glare at the ceiling like it holds the answers.
“He was.”
Beat. “Then he talked.”
Nat snorts. “Tragic.”
You throw yourself onto your bed, ankle elevated on a pillow, the sting of your wrapped joint dulling beneath the ice and residual rage.
“He had me thinking—”
You cut yourself off.
Clench your jaw.
Try again.
“I thought maybe I was wrong about him. Just for a second. Like—he was calm. He didn’t hit on me. He helped. He actually… looked like he gave a shit.”
Wanda glances up from her book. “He probably did.”
You huff a laugh. It sounds hollow.
“And then he goes full Bucky Barnes™ in the last five seconds like it was a timed challenge.”
Nat flops next to you on the bed, arms crossed. “What’d he say?”
“Something about being on his knees for me.”
You pause.
“Which, fine. Accurate. But not the time.”
Wanda tries to cover her smile. Nat does not.
“God,” you mutter, pressing the ice down harder. “Do you know how jarring it is to be helped like an actual human being and then immediately reduced to a setup for a horny punchline?”
Nat shrugs. “To be fair, I think that’s the only language Bucky speaks. Dirty setup, dumb grin, accidental trauma.”
You groan into your pillow.
“He’s lucky I didn’t twist the other ankle kicking him in the throat.”
Wanda: “You sound mad.”
“I am mad! Because for two full seconds, I thought maybe I’d misjudged him. Like maybe he was just misunderstood and secretly soft and emotionally literate and—ugh.”
“And then bam — ‘if you wanted me on my knees, doll, just say so.’”
Wanda: “So the problem wasn’t the help, it was the hope.”
You go dead silent.
And that shuts the room up.
Because you didn’t mean to admit that.
But now it’s out there.
Nat leans her head against yours and sighs.
“You’re so emotionally evolved it’s gross.”
“Thanks,” you whisper. “I try.”
Meanwhile — Steve’s Truck
Bucky’s chewing the skin off his thumb knuckle like it’s penance.
Steve’s driving like he’s a dad picking his kid up from detention.
“She’s different,” Bucky mutters.
Steve makes a noise halfway between a sigh and a growl. “Yeah. No shit.”
“I wrapped her ankle. Helped her out. Didn’t even flirt. Not until the end.”
Steve doesn’t even look at him.
“You really said that line?”
“What?” Bucky shrugs, a little defensive. “It was a joke. She smirks at me like that and expects me not to say anything?”
Steve finally turns. Side-eyes him so hard Bucky physically leans back.
“You had her,” Steve says, low. “Had her. She looked at you like maybe… maybe she saw something real. And then you had to go full Bucky-mode.”
“It was muscle memory!”
Steve slams the heel of his hand on the wheel.
“Your muscle memory needs therapy.”
Bucky doesn’t answer.
He’s too busy replaying the look on your face.
That shift — the soft surprise when he wrapped your ankle like he knew what he was doing. The way your eyes lingered on his hands. The way your voice almost dropped when you thanked him.
Then? Gone.
The ice in your stare when he slipped back into the version of himself he thought you expected.
You didn’t laugh.
You shut down.
That stung more than it should’ve.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” Bucky mutters.
“Doesn’t matter how you meant it,” Steve says. “Matters how she heard it.”
Bucky leans his head against the window and groans.
“I’m so bad at this.”
Steve chuckles under his breath.
“Yeah. But maybe that’s the first thing you’ve said tonight that sounded real.”
Event: “Athletes for a Cause”
A campus-wide charity fundraiser co-hosted by the university's hockey and volleyball programs.
There’s t-shirts, team games, water balloon tosses, merch booths, food trucks — and you?
You’re in hell.
Because you’d planned to coast under the radar, help run a merch tent, make a few sarcastic comments, take photos with Wanda and Nat, and — most importantly — stay glued to Pietro, who’s usually your emotional buffer and partner-in-chaos.
But then your coach made a last-minute switch.
“You’re paired with Barnes,” she says, handing you a clipboard like a death sentence.
“What?” you say, deadpan. “No. No, no, no. I call veto.”
“No vetoes,” she replies, clearly over your shit. “I need someone who’ll keep him in check.”
You gape. “Why is that my job?”
“Because you terrify him.”
She walks off.
He’s dragging a cooler full of whipped cream pies while you aggressively arrange tablecloths like they owe you rent.
Neither of you speak at first. You look unbothered.
You are absolutely bothered.
Bucky watches you tape down the table’s corner like you’re preparing for war.
“You always this hostile or is it just me?” he asks finally.
You don't even look up.
“Only when I’m being punished by God.”
He smiles, but it falters when you don’t laugh.
A kid pies Steve in the face two booths over and you do laugh.
“See?” Bucky says softly. “That. That laugh. That’s the one I wanted to hear.”
Your head whips toward him.
“Don’t,” you say. Voice low. Tired.
He blinks. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t say stuff like that. Like you’re entitled to pieces of me.”
Bucky’s eyes narrow. Not angry — just focused.
“I’m not,” he says. “I just… I notice things. That’s all.”
“Try un-noticing.”
You both get roped into running the dunk tank.
One of the hockey players volunteers to sit in the chair.
Wanda joins the line to dunk him.
Nat’s filming on her phone.
Amber and Pietro are laughing in the background.
You watch it all like you’re underwater. Detached.
Then Bucky leans in, his voice quieter than before.
“You really don’t think I can change, do you?”
You turn to him slowly.
“I think you’re used to being adored for very little effort. I think you say the right thing when it’s easy, and the wrong thing when it counts. And I think you like the idea of me — not me.”
The words cut even as you say them. Because part of you wants to be wrong.
Bucky looks down. Rubs the back of his neck.
“You might be the first person who’s ever told me that.”
“You said I see the idea of you,” Bucky mutters, voice low. “But I don’t think that’s true. I see you.”
You freeze.
“And what do you see?”
He looks at you. Really looks.
“Someone who doesn’t let people in easy. Who protects her people like it’s religion. Who makes metaphors about car washes and birds because she’s too proud to say she’s scared of getting hurt.”
Your heart does a violent, stupid lurch.
But you don’t let it show.
“Still not gonna fall for you, Barnes.”
He smiles. Small. Honest.
“Didn’t say you would.”
Beat.
“Just hoping you’d stop hating me.”
You stare at him.
Still silent.
Then you walk away.
Pietro finds you later.
“You okay?”
You nod. “Yeah.”
“He get to you?”
“No,” you lie. “Just needed some air.”
But your hands are shaking.
And you still feel the way he looked at you.
Like you weren’t a challenge.
Like you were a person.
The fundraiser’s over.
Your back hurts. Your throat’s dry. Your hands are sticky with whatever juice someone spilled on you during clean-up.
You're standing just outside the gym, pulling your hoodie over your head when you hear:
“Wait.”
You turn.
Bucky’s jogging up. Not cocky — cautious.
“What now?” you sigh, exhausted.
“Can I—”
He pauses. Swallows.
“Can I walk you to your dorm?”
You blink. “Seriously?”
“I don’t want to bother you. Just… make sure you get back safe.”
You pause. Your dorm is off-campus. Quiet street. Not far, but still a walk. He could be trying something. You know that. You’ve heard everything.
The hookups. The game. The patterns.
But he’s looking at you like he’s trying not to be seen as a threat.
Like he wants the version of you that calls herself a whole-ass meal and means it.
“Fine,” you mutter. “Whatever.”
It’s silent at first.
You cross the quad. Your sneakers crunching leaves. His hands stuffed in his hoodie pocket.
“You were really good today,” he says eventually.
You snort. “I stacked boxes and yelled at three freshmen.”
“Exactly.”
You fight a smile. Barely.
He doesn’t flirt. Doesn’t even try.
He’s just… there.
When you reach the edge of the quieter streets — that stretch between campus and the upperclassman dorms — he finally says:
“You asked me earlier why I flirt. Why I say the wrong thing.”
You nod slowly. “Yeah. And?”
“I don’t know. Maybe it’s easier than being seen.”
You glance over.
“You mean seeing others,” you correct.
But he shakes his head.
“No. Being seen. For real. Because once someone sees you — they get to decide. If you’re worth it.”
You blink.
“That’s deep for someone who once called me spicy because I rolled my eyes.”
He laughs. Quiet. “That was before I realized your eye rolls might be the only affection I ever earn.”
“That’s tragic.”
“Yeah.”
You’re two blocks from your building now.
And something in you cracks — not open, but sideways. Just enough for the truth to slip through.
“You asked me why I don’t trust you,” you say.
“It’s because I’ve heard the stories. You flirt. You sleep around. You ghost. You don’t stay. And I don’t want to be another chapter in your book that ends with you bragging.”
You stop walking.
“I’m not scared of being hurt. I’m scared of being disposable.”
Bucky’s frozen. Like you hit him with a stun grenade.
“I wouldn’t—” he starts, but you cut him off.
“Don’t make promises you’re not ready to keep. You asked what you could do?”
Beat.
“You can keep showing up. Without an angle. Without a punchline. Without needing something in return.”
He nods. Swallows hard.
His voice, when he finally speaks, is hoarse.
“Then I will.”
You nod once. Turn toward your dorm steps.
“Good. We’ll see.”
“Can I—?”
“No,” you say over your shoulder. “You can’t come in.”
He lifts his hands. “Didn’t ask.”
“Didn’t have to. Your face did.”
You unlock the door, and just before you slip inside, you glance back.
He’s still standing there.
Watching.
Not leaving yet.
Like he's waiting to be sure you’re safe.
You close the door gently.
Wanda’s on the couch with her laptop.
She looks up when she sees your face.
“So…” she says, “Did you kill him?”
You don’t answer right away.
You drop your bag, sit on the edge of the couch, and pull your knees up to your chest.
“No,” you say eventually.
“But I think he saw me. And I think I hated how much I wanted to be seen.”
Wanda nods.
“That’s how it starts.”
The first time, it’s after practice.
A brown paper bag with “From Nat :)” scribbled on it shows up in the locker room cubby you always toss your jacket into. Inside? One of those protein granola bars you eat when you’re too tired to function. Your favorite flavor.
You squint at the handwriting.
It’s not Nat’s.
But you say nothing.
You toss the bag into your backpack and walk out like your heartbeat isn’t already louder than your footsteps.
Then it happens again.
He shows up at a game. Stays the whole time. Doesn’t talk to anyone.
Just leans against the railing in the upper bleachers, hoodie over his head, watching.
You don’t look. Not once.
But you know he’s there.
Your teammates giggle. Jordyn nudges your shoulder.
“Don’t even start,” you mumble, tugging on your knee pads.
But the flush on your neck? It betrays you.
Practice ran late. You’re still in your spandex and volleyball crewneck, hair frizzy from sweat, braid messier than usual. You’re just here to grab Pietro — his skate bag’s a black blob in your periphery.
It’s freezing inside. Your legs scream at the cold.
You text Pietro to hurry. He texts back “coming” with nine different emojis.
You roll your eyes and glance around the empty rink entrance, rubbing your arms to stay warm.
“Hey.”
The voice is soft. Familiar. You already know who it is before you turn.
Bucky stands a few feet away, a hockey stick balanced in one hand, his helmet tucked under the other arm.
He looks… normal. Not cocky. Not smug. Just him. Hoodie pulled over his beanie, skates undone, cheeks still flushed from the ice.
You give him a quick nod. “Hey.”
He clears his throat. “Saw the game last week. You were… insane.”
You shrug. “It’s kind of the job.”
He smiles a little. Doesn’t push it.
“You always that fast on the floor?”
You blink. “Only when people are watching and I’m trying to impress.”
His smile turns into a real one then — a little stunned, like he didn’t expect you to give him that. But before he can say anything else—
“Oh wow,” Pietro’s voice cuts in, layered with dramatic timing, “what a shocking coincidence.”
You shoot your fake-brother a glare as he slides next to you in sweatpants and damp curls, eyeing Bucky with suspicion that’s so obvious it might as well be blinking in neon.
“Barnes,” Pietro says flatly.
“Maximoff,” Bucky returns, matching the tone but with a twitch at the corner of his mouth.
You sigh. “Okay, enough testosterone. I want a smoothie and my legs hurt.”
You turn to Bucky. “See you.”
“Yeah,” he says softly. “See you.”
And for the first time, you realize you kind of want to.
The wind is sharp, but you’re used to it.
You and Pietro walk side-by-side down the sloped sidewalk into town, his skate bag over one shoulder.
“Okay,” Pietro says, finally. “Spill.”
You side-eye him. “Spill what.”
“Don’t do that. I know that face. That’s your I’m-spiraling-quietly-and-refusing-to-tell-anyone face.”
You groan.
“It’s not a thing.”
“It’s a thing. I just watched a man who’s made out with half the campus talk to you like he was worried you’d vanish into thin air.”
You sigh, long and dramatic. “I like him. Okay? I do.”
Pietro grins.
“You don’t say.”
“But I also know better. And that’s the problem.”
He snorts. “You always know better. That’s your thing.”
You both stop at the cafe door.
You pull it open, and the bell overhead jingles. The smell of espresso and teen regret hits instantly.
As you order, Pietro slaps his card down before you can protest.
You raise an eyebrow. “You didn’t even want a smoothie.”
“I just wanted to hear you admit it.”
He grins as you both sit on the curb outside with your drinks, sipping quietly.
Then, without looking at you:
“If he hurts you,” Pietro says, voice even, “I’m not responsible for the brother I’ll be after that.”
You glance over.
He doesn’t say it dramatically. No big brother posturing. No teasing.
Just truth.
And it hits something in you.
You rest your head on his shoulder, smoothie in hand.
“He’s trying.”
“Good,” Pietro mutters. “He better.”
Practice ends later than usual — the gym lights buzz, the hardwood sticky under your shoes as you untie them, lingering just long enough to stall walking out.
Jordyn’s hovering.
She’s twisting her water bottle in her hands like it holds answers.
“Hey,” she says, soft.
You look up, knowing immediately. You’ve known her long enough to read the cracks before the words come out.
“Can we talk?”
You nod. Of course you do.
You’re captains. You’re friends. You’re tethered.
The hallway outside the locker room smells like cheap soap and hard work.
You lean against the wall. Jordyn doesn’t sit, doesn’t look at you at first. Just stares at the floor.
“I’ve been thinking about him again.”
Your stomach drops. A clean, sharp lurch.
“Bucky.”
The name comes out like a confession. Like she hates even saying it.
“I think I still have feelings for him.”
And there it is.
The sentence that slices you in half.
Because she’s looking at you like she trusts you with it — like it’s sacred.
You swallow, hard.
She keeps going.
“I don’t know. I thought it was nothing. But he’s been around again and I—”
“—I guess I never stopped thinking about him.”
You say nothing at first. You can’t. You’re too busy pretending your heart isn’t clawing at your ribs.
“We never really talked after that night,” she says. “I thought it meant more, but it didn’t. Or maybe it did and he just didn’t say anything. Either way... I guess it’s not over for me.”
She finally looks at you.
Eyes big. Honest. Hopeful.
“You think I should talk to him?”
And you nod.
Even though it guts you. Even though everything in you is begging to scream no.
But you nod.
“If it’s what you want… then talk to him.”
Your voice is steady, too steady.
She smiles. Smiles. Like you just gave her permission to breathe again.
You want to vomit.
“Would you come with me? To the next hockey game?”
You hesitate for a second too long.
“To support him,” she adds quickly. “And… me. I just don’t want to go alone.”
You force a smile. It's soft. Real enough to pass.
“Yeah. Of course.”
And with that, she hugs you — her chin tucked on your shoulder like she doesn’t feel the way your body stiffens.
“You’re the best,” she says.
You almost laugh.
Because you feel like the worst.
Everyone’s gone. Even the lights are starting to dim.
You sit on the bench, your hands pressed to your thighs, still in your practice gear, still sweating — but not from drills.
“We’re a team first,” you whisper to yourself.
That’s the rule. That’s the promise.
You’re her teammate. Her captain. Her friend.
And if there’s one thing you’ve always been good at — it’s doing the right thing.
Even when it feels so damn wrong.
Your dorm is dim, lights low, the room unusually quiet except for the soft hum of Wanda’s music playing from her phone.
You’re curled up in bed in the hoodie Pietro lent you last week, sleeves too long, the material swallowing your hands. Wanda’s at your desk, fingers brushing through your still-damp hair. Pietro’s sitting on the floor, back against the wall, long legs stretched out, chewing on a Twizzler with a furrowed brow that’s way too protective for someone who isn’t your actual brother.
“Okay,” Wanda says gently. “What happened?”
You try to talk.
Nothing comes out.
Not at first.
You stare up at the ceiling, blinking fast, lips pressed tight, trying to keep it together. But it hurts. It aches in this slow, echoing way. And once you start, you can’t stop.
“I like him.”
Your voice cracks on it. Like the confession is too heavy to carry.
Wanda pauses.
Pietro shifts.
“Like… like him?” Wanda asks carefully. “Or like like him?”
You laugh, bitter and soft.
“Like I saw him in a hallway and forgot how to speak.”
“Like I’ve been building walls made of steel and metaphors and I still can’t keep him out of my head.”
“Like I keep pretending I don’t see him — but I do. Every time. Always.”
You rub your hands over your face, trying to force the words to make sense.
“I didn’t mean to like him. I didn’t want to.”
Pietro’s chewing has stopped.
You glance at him. He’s watching you closely now. More brother than boy.
“You fell,” he says, simple. Quiet.
“I fell. And it feels like the ground was pulled out from under me the moment Jordyn said his name like it still belonged to her.”
Wanda’s hand finds yours.
“You’re allowed to feel this,” she says.
“But I can’t do anything about it,” you whisper. “She’s my teammate. My setter. We’re a system. If that falls apart—”
“Then the team falls apart,” Pietro finishes.
You glance at him again.
He shrugs. “I get it.”
And then…
He scoots closer to the bed. Looks up at you with that big brother expression he saves for only you.
“But you don’t have to destroy you just to keep the system running. You know that, right?”
“If he’s worth even half of what I think he might be… he wouldn’t want you to.”
Your voice is barely a whisper:
“What if he’s not?”
Pietro just sighs. Leaning his head back against the wall.
“Then I stop being nice, and I stop being your fake brother. I go full older-sibling-mode and ruin his life. You know the drill.”
You laugh. You sniffle.
Wanda passes you a tissue.
“He better be worth it,” she says softly.
And all you can do is nod. Because you don’t know yet.
But the worst part?
You hope he is.
The air in the hockey arena is thick with sweat, victory, and adrenaline.
The boys win
You clap when Bucky scores. Once.
A polite, stiff, “I’m a captain supporting school athletics” kind of clap.
You don’t even glance toward the rink after.
Not once.
Jordyn beside you is buzzing with energy, cheeks flushed, voice bright.
“God, did you see that move? He’s actually insane.”
You hum. Neutral.
“I think I’m gonna go find him. Say congrats.”
You nod. “Yeah, go.”
Your voice is too even. Too clean.
Like you’re begging your chest not to cave in.
You stay seated for a beat, watching the arena clear out — students, parents, staff — and then finally stand. You make your way out the side tunnel, the one that leads around the locker rooms. Not toward anyone.
Just… away.
You need air.
The hallway is empty when you first turn the corner. Quiet.
Until it isn’t.
Two familiar voices echo off the concrete walls — low, casual, unguarded.
Steve. And Bucky.
Your body goes still like it’s muscle memory to brace around his name.
You don’t mean to stop.
You don’t mean to listen.
But then you hear your own name.
“She’s different, man. I can’t explain it.”
“You don’t have to,” Steve says. “I saw the way you looked at her.”
A beat.
Then: “Jordyn’s still sweet on me. I’m not trying to hurt anyone.”
Your heart twists.
Jordyn. Sweet on him.
You.
Just another road he never meant to turn down.
You press your back against the cool concrete wall. Eyes closed. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
You walk away before you hear the rest. Before you can.
Your legs carry you to the women’s bathroom two halls down, the tile freezing under your soles.
You grip the sink. Stare at yourself in the mirror.
Your braid is loose. Your lips are dry. Your lashes are wet — when did that happen?
You’re shaking. Not out of anger. Not even heartbreak.
Embarrassment.
“You’re not even together,” you mutter.
“He’s not yours.”
But you hate how much it feels like he is.
How deep it’s buried.
How real it became — without permission.
You splash cold water on your face. Try to even your breath. You know what you’re going to do:
Smile.
Walk Jordyn to the car.
Go home.
Captain. Teammate. Friend.
That’s what you do.
That’s what you always do.
You exit the bathroom. Turn the corner—
—and stop.
Your heart slams into your ribs.
Down the hallway, just past the benches, you see them.
Jordyn. Bucky. His hands on her hips.
Her laughter is soft. His grin is lopsided.
They’re close. Too close.
It’s a pose you’ve seen before — a scene recycled.
You’ve seen him do this with three different girls on your team.
You just never thought you’d see it again after all this.
After you.
You force your voice to work.
“Still need a ride home?”
It cuts through the hallway like a blade.
They break apart like static snapping.
Jordyn turns first — startled, cheeks pink.
Bucky’s eyes find you.
They widen.
He looks like he just got punched in the chest.
“Oh,” Jordyn stammers. “Um. No. Bucky’s gonna take me.”
You nod once.
Your smile is polite. Light. Hollow.
“Cool. See you Monday.”
You walk away.
And you don’t look back.
But if you had…
You would’ve seen him still staring after you.
Mouth parted.
Fingers twitching at his sides like he’d messed up everything again without knowing how.
The second your door closes, you fall apart.
You don’t even bother with the light. You just toss your bag down, kick off your sneakers with one sharp motion, and collapse onto your bed, hoodie still zipped, keys still in your hand.
Wanda’s sitting cross-legged at your desk, watching a muted K-drama on her laptop.
She turns instantly.
“Hey—”
She stops when she sees your face.
“Oh.”
You don’t say anything. You can’t.
You climb under the covers like it’ll protect you.
Bury your face in your pillow and let the pain settle in your chest like static. Dull and relentless.
Wanda doesn’t press. She just sits beside you on the edge of the bed, hand resting between your shoulder blades.
Gentle. Quiet. Warm.
“You wanna talk about it?”
You shake your head.
Your voice is muffled.
“No.”
You feel her nod. The room is still for a moment.
“Pietro’s on his way. You want me to stall him?”
Another nod.
You can’t let him see you like this.
Not when you swore it wouldn’t happen.
Not when you promised yourself you’d never feel this much for someone like him.
Not when the one time you do — it feels like you lost something you never even had.
Outside the room, you hear Nat’s voice. She’s on the other side of the door. Unsure if she should come in.
“You okay?”
No answer.
You’re still in bed. Still fully dressed. Still pretending you don’t care.
Inside, you’re screaming.
Outside, you’re silent.
Because the truth is cruel, and loud, and echoing:
He’s not yours.
He never was.
And somehow, it still hurts like hell.
(Bucky’s POV)
The post-game locker room is loud — all adrenaline and sweat and boys shouting about wings.
But Bucky can’t hear any of it.
He’s sitting on the bench, hair wet from the quick shower, hoodie half-zipped, fingers tapping his knee.
His eyes are on the tiled floor, but his mind is somewhere else.
Steve sits beside him, toweling his hair.
“You okay?”
Bucky lets out a breath through his nose.
Shakes his head.
“She said no.”
“And now she won’t even look at me.”
Steve snorts.
“She’s emotionally mature. You said it yourself.”
“Yeah, well. Emotional maturity sucks when it’s aimed at me.”
Steve laughs. Then softens.
“You’re not used to this. A girl saying no. Not because she doesn’t like you — but because she does. And she doesn’t trust you yet.”
“Yeah, thanks. Feels awesome.”
Steve claps him on the back.
“You’re doing better, Buck. She sees it. She just… needs more.”
Bucky nods, quiet.
Then — he glances at the bouquet of crushed receipts in his hoodie pocket. The doodled notebook pages with your favorite drinks and flower types, half-written apologies, and metaphors that don’t hold up when you say them out loud.
He was gonna ask Wanda for help. Or Nat. Or both.
But Jordyn had found him first.
“You still like her, huh?”
Jordyn’s voice is soft, a little sad.
They’re standing by the benches near the side tunnel. Students have mostly cleared out.
Bucky nods.
“Yeah. A lot more than I meant to.”
Jordyn sighs. She looks at him for a beat too long.
“I don’t blame you,” she says, folding her arms. “She’s one of the best people I’ve ever known.”
“I know that now.”
“Took you long enough.”
Bucky laughs — small, but real.
And Jordyn smiles too, kind of bittersweet.
“You know,” she says, “I used to think you were just a flirt. A pretty face. No real depth.”
“You and her both.”
She shrugs.
“But… you’re trying. She sees it.”
She reaches out — not romantically, not dramatically — just gently, places her hands on his hips to center herself as she adjusts the strap on her bag.
It’s seconds. Literally.
“What kind of flowers is she into?”
He blinks.
“You’ll help me?”
“I’ll help you,” Jordyn says. “If you promise not to mess this up.”
“I don’t plan on it.”
And she says something that makes him laugh — something about how you lick your lips when you’re focused and how he’s going to combust one day in a gymnasium because of it.
He’s mid-laugh when he hears it.
“Still need a ride home?”
Your voice. Behind him.
His body jerks — like someone yanked him back with a hook to the ribs.
He turns.
You’re standing there.
Cool. Composed. Smile razor-sharp and completely unreadable.
But your eyes — your eyes are heartbreak and fury in a cocktail that guts him on sight.
Jordyn stammers something about him giving her a ride — it’s not a lie, just not the full truth — and then you're gone.
Gone.
Gone before he can say a single word.
Later That Night — Bucky, Alone
He’s outside Steve’s dorm now. Hoodie up. Hands in his pockets.
“I was laughing,” he mutters aloud, pacing. “She saw me laughing.”
The concrete under his sneakers feels too solid. Too loud.
“It wasn’t— she didn’t even—”
His voice dies in his throat.
Because it doesn’t matter what actually happened if you won’t even look at him long enough to let him explain.
He sits down on the steps.
Pulls out his phone.
Drafts a text. Deletes it. Tries again.
Hey. Can we talk?
Deletes it again.
He’s not going to fix this with a text.
He’s going to show up.
And tell you everything.
And hope to hell you still see something worth staying for after.
Because you saw him laughing — and you thought it was at you.
You saw hands on hips — and you thought it meant something.
You saw everything.
But what you didn’t see…
Was that he was trying.
That he chose you. Every single time.
And now?
Now you think he didn’t.
And it’s killing him.
It starts with a knock.
Not loud. Not soft.
Just… steady.
You’re still in bed, hoodie on, the light from your desk lamp casting long shadows across the wall.
Wanda’s gone. Nat’s at practice. Pietro — Pietro had come by with food and stayed long enough to check your pulse and scowl at your silence.
You hear his voice now.
Low. Sharp. At the door.
Then —
“She doesn’t want to see you.”
You sit up.
Back straight. Heart rattling.
You know who it is.
“I know,” Bucky says, voice muffled but softer. “But I brought something for her. Can you just… give it to her?”
There’s a pause.
Then Pietro again, quieter this time. Still sharp.
“You know I should punch you for what she looked like last night.”
Bucky says nothing.
Then, finally — just barely above a whisper:
“Yeah. I know.”
Your breath catches. You stare at the door, fists clenched around your blanket.
Silence.
Then Pietro — sighing, pissed, but a little… moved.
“Fine. Give it.”
Door shuts. Footsteps. Another knock.
Your door opens.
“Don’t kill me,” Pietro mutters, dropping the flowers on your desk. “But I let him give you this.”
You look up. You don’t say anything. You don’t need to.
Because the flowers — they’re ridiculous. A little uneven. Bright yellow and soft white, little sprigs of something green poking out like he panicked and added whatever he could find at the flower shop.
But the wrapping?
It’s folded and taped with slow hands. Intention.
There’s a note tucked beneath the ribbon.
You don’t open it.
Not yet.
The gym’s cold under your feet. Empty.
You stayed late to avoid seeing anyone.
And yet.
You feel him before you hear him.
“Hey.”
You look up. Bucky’s standing near the bleachers, hands in his pockets, hair pushed back, hoodie tugged halfway over his ears like he’s nervous.
You exhale hard.
“Seriously?”
“I just—”
“You don’t get to do this.”
He steps closer.
“Do what?”
“Show up. Pretend you care. Keep acting like you want me when you’re out there with her.”
You don’t mean to yell — but it rips out of you like it’s been boiling beneath your ribs for days. Weeks. Months.
Bucky freezes. His face twists like he’s been slapped.
“That’s not what happened.”
You laugh. Bitter.
“I saw it.”
“You saw what you wanted to see.”
Your jaw tightens.
“I saw her with your hands on her. Laughing. Standing there like—like every girl on our team before.”
“Because I asked her for help.”
“Bullshit.”
“No—listen to me.” His voice breaks, sharp and raw. “I asked her to help me pick flowers for you.”
Silence.
You blink. He steps forward.
“You think I don’t want you?” His voice trembles with disbelief. “You think I’m still playing?”
You open your mouth — but nothing comes out.
“She was teasing me. Said I was gonna combust watching you play, licking your lips like that when you’re focused.”
He runs a hand through his hair, pacing.
“I laughed. And then you walked in. And you looked at me like I was everything you swore you’d never fall for.”
You stare. Speechless.
“I didn’t even touch her like that. She put her hands on me. For a second.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?!”
“Because you were already walking away!”
The air between you crackles.
Hot. Furious. Devastated.
You shake your head, trying to breathe.
“I let myself feel something. And you—”
You swallow hard. Voice shaking.
“You were supposed to be different.”
“I am.”
“Then why does it hurt so fucking much?”
And then —
The air shifts.
His hand brushes yours.
Not to hold. Just to remind you he’s there.
You look at him.
You could kiss him.
You could slap him.
You do neither.
You step back.
Eyes wet. Heart splitting.
“I can’t do this, Bucky.”
He doesn’t chase you this time.
He just stands there.
Watching you walk away.
Again. With the flowers he picked in your dorm and his heart in your hands — even if you don’t know it yet.
The gym smells like chalk and sweat. You’re still lacing your shoes when Jordyn walks up to you.
Awkward. Nervous. She twists her fingers in the hem of her hoodie.
“Hey.”
You look up.
You already know something’s coming. You nod once, giving her room.
She fidgets.
“I need to tell you something,” she says. “About Bucky.”
You freeze.
She sees it. She breathes.
“You don’t have to say anything. Just… listen.”
So you do.
And she tells you everything.
How he told her you’re the one he wants. How he laughed because he was nervous, talking about the way you play like it’s magic and the way you lick your lips when you're focused and how it’s killing him. How she was the one who reached out.
How he asked her for help — with flowers, a letter, a way to finally do it right.
“And I thought I liked him,” she admits, eyes wide. “But I think I just liked the idea of someone like him liking me.”
A pause.
“You like him. Actually like him.”
You don’t answer.
You don’t have to.
She gives you a sad smile.
“I’m sorry.”
And somehow, that little sentence?
It lifts ten bricks off your chest.
Because she’s right. And you’ve been lying to yourself for too long.
You’ve been running on adrenaline since warm-up.
Every spike, every dig, every block — it’s like your body knows what your heart is finally catching up to.
You’re not running anymore.
Not from him.
Not from yourself.
You feel everything.
And when the game ends and the buzzer sounds, you don’t even wait. You grab your jacket, sling your bag over your shoulder, still in your spandex and jersey, hair in a messy braid, your shoes squeaking as you sprint.
Because his game isn’t over yet.
The cold air hits your skin like a slap, but you don’t stop.
You rush into the stands, heart hammering, eyes scanning the ice —
And there he is.
Bucky. #17
Skating slower than usual. Shoulders tight.
Off.
Until — he hears you.
“LET’S GO, 17!” you scream from the bleachers, cupping your hands around your mouth.
And it’s like something clicks in him.
His head whips around — he sees you.
And holy hell.
He smiles.
A goal isn’t even scored in that moment, but it might as well have been. Because something bigger just happened.
You showed up.
You’re standing just outside the locker room when the door swings open and he walks out, hair damp, pads peeled off under his hoodie, still catching his breath.
His eyes lock on you like he’s never seen anything so real.
“You came.”
You nod. “You weren’t at mine.”
He steps closer. Slowly. Like he doesn’t want to scare you.
“Don’t run this time.”
You blink.
“Don’t run,” he says again. “Just… be real with me.”
And something cracks again. Not like last time.
This one is different.
This one is safe.
“I’m terrified,” you whisper.
“I know.”
“I’ve been metaphor and armor and barbed wire since I met you.”
“I know that too.”
“And it’s not because I didn’t want you,” you say, voice catching. “It’s because I did. And that scared the hell out of me.”
A beat.
“Sometimes I feel like…” you trail off, voice warbled. “I’m not the book anyone should be reading. Too many chapters people skim. Too many pages people skip.”
He exhales, walking closer. Hands in his hoodie, like he’s holding back everything in him from pulling you in.
“Then let me be the one who reads every damn word.”
You blink fast.
Your hands tremble.
“I want to know your margins,” he says. “Your footnotes. The scribbles in ink no one else notices.”
Your chest aches.
He’s not saying it like a line. He’s saying it like a vow.
“You’re not too much. You’re just enough. You’re everything I didn’t know I’d fall this hard for.”
A pause.
And then, quietly:
“I’ve been fighting to get close to you. Not to win you — just to understand you.”
You swallow thick.
“What if I still break?”
He shrugs, eyes soft.
“Then we rebuild.”
“And what if I’m hard to love?”
“Then I’ll love you harder.”
It’s not perfect. It’s messy.
But he’s here.
You step forward.
Closer.
And when your fingers graze his hoodie — he lets you lead.
You bury your face into his chest.
And he wraps you in his arms like he’s been waiting forever.
The wall is down.
The fear is there.
But so is he.
And this time?
You don’t run.
You notice him before anyone else does.
He’s not standing by the door like last time. Not waiting till the second half or slipping in late with a coffee and a smirk. He’s already seated. Hoodie on, sleeves rolled up, forearms braced against his thighs, head slightly tilted—eyes on you.
Just you.
And he stays like that.
Through warmups. Through drills. Through your rotations. No teasing. No sly grin. Not even the usual Bucky Barnes bullshit line about how the spandex is “unfair to everyone else’s heart rate.” He just… watches. Intently. Quietly. Like the game could fall apart if he looked away from you for even a second.
And that’s what makes it worse.
Because you feel it. Every glance. Every unspoken word passed through a twenty-foot distance.
You pretend not to notice, but your serve hits harder. Your dives are sharper. You bark out calls with extra command, like if you don’t control this, you might lose control of everything else.
Then, during a rotation break, as you sit on the bench gulping water with your braid falling apart, you glance up.
He’s still watching.
And then—he waves.
Just a little flick of fingers.
Like a dope.
Your lips twitch. Again.
Dammit, Barnes.
After practice, the gym air feels too thick. You walk out with your hoodie in hand, hair wild, legs sore, already prepared to pretend like you didn’t see him all practice—except… he’s waiting. Leaning casually against the wall just outside the exit, hands in his pockets, eyes already meeting yours.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey.”
“Is it okay if I walk with you?”
You hesitate—not because you don’t want to say yes, but because part of you is still expecting to wake up from this. From him. From you. From all of it.
But the second passes. And then:
“Yeah.”
You fall into step beside him. And this time, it’s quiet. Not the awkward kind, not stuffed with words neither of you mean. Just silence. Space. Peace.
He doesn’t fill it. Doesn’t try to. Just kicks a pebble with the toe of his sneaker and matches your pace. You don’t touch. You don’t ask. You just walk. Like it’s something you’ve always done.
And maybe it is.
“What happens now?” you ask softly, not looking at him.
“Now?” he echoes. “Now we see what it’s like to just… be.”
You breathe. Deeper than you’ve let yourself all day. And you keep walking.
It’s not a date. Not officially. But he shows up that night anyway, hoodie still on, a paper bag of takeout in one hand and a folded menu in the other. You raise a brow.
“There were three sauces. I didn’t know which one you liked,” he says quickly. “So I brought them all. And shrimp tempura. You mentioned it once. That night after midterms when you nearly cried over your chemistry grade.”
“You weren’t even there.”
“No. But I heard. And I remembered.”
Your heart does that stupid thing where it flips sideways and forgets how to beat properly. You don’t say anything. Just open the door.
Inside, you eat on the floor. Both of you backs pressed against the side of your bed, mismatched socks, quiet music humming in the background. He taps the container with a grin every time you reach for the tempura.
You laugh more than you mean to.
And when you lean your head back and sigh, he doesn’t press his hand to your thigh or scoot closer. He doesn’t use the moment to make a move.
He just watches you. Like he’s trying to learn your edges.
“This doesn’t feel like what I thought it would,” you murmur.
“Bad?” he asks gently.
“Terrifying,” you admit. “But not bad.”
He nods. Like he understands. Because he does.
He walks you back to your door that night. The halls are quiet. The lights are low. And there’s something humming in the air between you both. Not fire. Not danger.
Warmth.
He stands in front of you, thumb hooked in his pocket, eyes flicking between your lips and your eyes like he’s working up the nerve to do something he’s been thinking about for weeks.
“So…” he starts, a small grin forming, “how’d I do?”
You smirk. “Didn’t annoy me.”
He chuckles. Shifts his weight. His voice dips slightly.
“Can I kiss you?”
You freeze—not out of fear, but out of knowing. Because this is real. This isn’t flirtation. This isn’t games. This is someone asking to be let in.
You swallow, throat tight.
“Only if you mean it.”
He doesn’t hesitate.
“I do.”
His hand comes up, gently brushing your cheek, and then he’s kissing you—softly, slowly, like you’re the first page of a book he’s finally ready to read. Like he’s afraid to tear it, afraid to rush it.
And you let him.
Because for once, you’re not scared of what happens when you let someone close.
When he pulls back, your lips are swollen, your breath uneven, your chest full of something you don’t have words for.
He doesn’t step away.
He leans forward, smirks—just a little.
“You’re blushing.”
You groan. “Shut up.”
“No, really. Didn’t think the girl who threatened me with a Gatorade bottle would blush.”
You shove his shoulder, but there’s no heat in it.
“Bucky.”
“Yes?”
“Shut up and kiss me again.”
This time, the kiss is different. It’s not cautious. It’s fierce. Your hands tangle in his hair. His arms wrap around your waist like you’re gravity. You pull him down. He presses in closer. Your lips move with urgency, with need, with everything you’ve been holding back for too damn long.
It’s not perfect. It’s a little messy.
But it’s real.
“So that first date?”
You roll your eyes. “You are impossible.”
He grins. “I’m interested.”
And this time, instead of answering with words—
You just kiss him again.
Yes to the date.
to him.
to letting yourself be seen.
Even if you’re still a little scared.
Even if it still hurts sometimes to be soft.
maybe soft isn’t weakness.
Maybe it’s strength you didn’t know you had.
(You've got mail!) I ACTUALLY CUT SOOOO MUCH OF THIS OUT BECAUSE IT DIDNT FIT. LIKE SOOOO MUCH OF IT WAS CUT OUT. AND THIS WAS HALF INSPIRED BY THIS ONE SERENA AND KORDELL EDIT OFF TIKTOK, OTHER HALF IS AMAYA PAPAYA.
