rebekah

A girl your age doesn't know any better. Naive little thing. All you see is the handsome man that stands in front of you, who foots the bill when he takes you out to a nice restaurant or on a shopping spree. You see the way he stares down a guy who looks in your general direction a little too long and the way he walks just a step in front of you in a public setting, clearing a path of safety.

What young girl wouldn't want a man like that?

But what they don't see is the way you don't even flinch when you're riding shotgun in his truck and Andrew sets his pistol in your lap. They don't see the blade he'd bought for you—sharp and small, wedged right between your breasts every time you leave the house without him.

They don't see the way your skin prickles when he teaches you the proper way to shoot a gun, standing in front of the bathroom mirror, pointing the barrel at your reflection.

His hands are at your hips, thumbs resting at the elastic band of your pretty, red panties. Andrew's voice is low and slow in your ear. "Mm. Tuck your elbow in. Squeeze the handle a little harder. Yeah, there you go. Now put your finger on the trigger, baby. Just like that. And when you're ready, you just gotta pull it."

You breathe in slowly, and your finger presses down on the exhale.

The gun clicks.

"Yeah, that's it," he says, sliding his hands lower, beneath the crimson fabric. What he finds is unsurprising to him, of course. Arousal pooling between your thighs, your clit slick and swollen and desperate to be touched. He circles it slowly, tentatively, lovingly. "Again, sweetheart."

Andrew doesn't speak much on the rumors that go around about the two of you. He's sure even his brothers believe some of them.

It's to be expected, really, with that mousy demeanor of yours.

You put your hair up a different way one day and when Craig compliments you on it you get all shy, hiding behind Andrew's shoulder with your cheeks flaming.

He thinks it's real cute. The way you act all timid in front of them, murmuring a thank you with that soft voice of yours, unable to meet Craig's eyes all because he complimented you.

But only an hour later, Pope's undoing the clips in your hair while you look up at him from down on your knees, saying—begging, "Hit me."

And Pope does. Smacks you hard, one good time with his palm against your cheek. The sound is like lightning through the open air. He doesn't do it because he wants to, he does it because of that misty look in your eye, because of the way you moan at the impact.

Because of the way you look up at him through your lashes and smile real wide, giggles falling off your kiss-swollen lips, like there's no place you'd rather be.

He gives you just what you need, fucking your mouth until you're crying for it, burying himself at the back of your throat.

Each little gasp for air you make pushes him closer and closer to release, but what really does him in is the way your hand finds his thigh, tracing a little heart-shape into the denim of his jeans while you choke on his length.

Andrew finishes at the back of your mouth without warning, filling you until his release spills from the corners of your plush lips.

His cock still aches when he pulls himself out of you. Your pretty makeup that you spent all that time doing this morning runs down your cheeks now, and sticky webs of saliva and cum connect his cock to your tongue.

"You look so pretty, swallowing me down like that. My beautiful girl. Say it."

Your eyes are bloodshot and watery but filled with love as you look up at him. "I'm your beautiful girl," you say, smiling wide, sticking out your tongue to show him the mess he's made of you before swallowing hard.

"Yeah you are," he murmurs. "My sweetheart."

You've even got Smurf fooled.

They're having a family meeting one afternoon, planning out the details on how to rob a marijuana dispensary that pays its employees exclusively in cash.

While you're moving around easily in the kitchen, Smurf watches you from the living room with a drink in her hand.

Craig and Deran are bickering, trying to figure out a way to distract the night shift security guards that stand watch at the front entrance.

And then Smurf suddenly says, pointing with the rim of her crystal glass, "Her."

Pope shakes his head. "No. Not happening."

"Think about it," Smurf says. "You go in right as the last employee walks out. She walks up, begging to be let in, and says she'll pay extra. Girl like her? They won't expect anything. Just a pretty sweetheart looking to end her day with a little indica."

His brothers are quiet, looking between you and Pope, toeing the line of choice.

In the end, Andrew lets you choose. Makes it clear that if working a job with them makes you feel uncomfortable in any way, they'll figure something else out. He lays out the risks and the reward and reminds you to be honest about your feelings.

But you agree almost immediately and no amount of talking on Andrew's part sways you. It's over the moment you take his big hand, press his palm to your cheek and say, "I love you, Andrew. Even this part of you. Especially this part."

It melts his heart and fills him with this almost uncomfortable level of tenderness. He would kill for you, die for you—all to keep you here by his side.

The job goes perfectly. Andrew and his brothers are able to slip through the ceiling vents unseen, all because you're batting your eyelashes and making your shy little jokes to the guards out front.

They leave the warehouse with duffel bags full of cash and get away clean and undetected.

You're waiting three blocks away in Pope's truck, sitting casually behind the wheel, coating your lips in that pretty lipgloss while looking in the rearview mirror. But your phone is clutched tight in your hand waiting on a text of confirmation.

Pope makes Deran drop him off so he can set his eyes on you sooner rather than later.

And the moment you see him, your eyes light up in this way he knows all too well. Pope nods, adrenaline high as he lifts the clear plastic mask over his face just enough to set it on the top of his head. "We're good," he says.

The hesitant look on your face turns into a grin, soft giggles flitting off your tongue. You slide back across the cab to make room for Pope behind the wheel. You look past him, to Craig and Deran in the car with no plates full of stolen cash. "We'll see you at home," you tell them.

And maybe they don't understand at first, but Pope does. Of course he does—he can feel the way that wanting, lustful energy buzzes beneath your skin.

He puts the truck in drive and pulls out of the lot, but he doesn't make it two blocks before you're wrapping those sharp, painted nails around his bicep.

Pope just smiles as you kiss his shoulder repeatedly, nuzzling the cords of muscle through the fabric of his black hoodie. It seems like such an innocent, sweet touch. But he knows the truth—knows it's not only sweetness in your heart, it's hunger.

"Hang on, baby," he says, hand resting on the inside of your thigh, squeezing tightly. "Lemme pull over."

He finds a secluded alleyway that offers just enough darkness to remain undetected. And the minute he puts his truck in park, you're climbing into his lap.

Pope welcomes the taste of your hungry tongue. Lets you slide it into his mouth, over his teeth, licking and sucking like your life depends on it. He's already half hard in his jeans, but the second you tilt your hips, grinding yourself down against his bulge, he's done for.

"You look—god, you look so good," you whimper, hands around his neck. You don't squeeze, but rather just rest them there, thumbs feeling the quickening beat of his pulse through his jugular.

"Did such a great job today," Andrew says, fingers flexing hard around your hips. "My perfect girl. Such a sweetheart."

You whimper at the namesake, a term he'd coined just for you, his shy, gentle girl. "Andrew, please."

He knows what you're asking for. And who is he, after all, to deny a girl like you? Someone good and soft and so very desperate.

He reaches beneath you, between your legs to find the buckle of his belt. In one swift movement, he undoes it with a clink, and pushes his jeans and boxers down.

"Wait."

Andrew freezes.

At first he fears he might've done something wrong. Assumed wrong or maybe gone too far or pushed too hard. Like usual. Like usual.

His mind starts to spiral, because who could ever hurt you if not a monster? Sweet girl. Sweet heart.

He's a monster. He's a fucking—

And then you smile, and those invasive thoughts disappear as quickly as they'd manifested.

You bat your eyelashes at him with this innocent look on your face, and tug the plastic mask on the top of his head down.

Pope understands then. Of course he does—because you're his filthy, sweet girl. His.

Your clit pulses and he can feel it against his cock, even through the cotton barrier of your underwear.

Andrew tilts his head, watching you through slightly plastic-obstructed vision. He waits for you to move first.

And you do so by leaning forward and laying a wet, open-mouthed kiss against the mask, right over his lips.

It's the most erotic thing Pope has ever experienced.

Because he knows you want him—the awkward, quiet Andrew.

But right now, you're asking for a different version of him. A much more violent version of him; you want Pope.

The part that thieves and breaks and kills. The very worst of him. And not only do you want it, you're twitching for it. Breath coming out like a sigh, hands clutched tight, pussy aching for him.

And the realization—God. He could die. He could fucking die from how much he loves you.

He takes you right then and there. Pulls your underwear to the side beneath your skirt and sinks his cock into you in one hard, claiming thrust.

Pope holds your wrists together tightly behind your back and makes it hurt, because he knows good and well that's what you want. All the while your tongue laves against the plastic of his mask, breath fogging up the surface, a sick, perverted indulgence that drives him insane.

He circles your clit with his free hand, reveling in the way it throbs beneath his rough hands.

It doesn't take long. It never does. He feels the slick velvet of your center squeeze his cock like a vice. Pope doesn't let up, rubbing your clit until you lean back with your eyes squeezed tightly closed, chasing the release you've needed since the moment he'd asked you to help them on this job.

"Look at me," he demands. It's not a request but an order.

You do, mouth open to make room for the cute moans that echo in the cab of his truck. "I'm gonna—god, please please I'm gonna fucking cum—fuck—"

He doesn't say anything. Just tilts his head and watches you.

It hits a second later, and it's beautiful. The way you fall apart in his lap, thighs shaking, fingers flexing beneath his hold, fighting desperately to keep your brain tethered to the earth.

Andrew fucks you through it. Circles your clit until you're squeezing your thighs together, running from the sensitivity.

He finishes inside you a moment later, cock twitching as his orgasm settles low in his belly. And when he's finished, spasming with the aftershocks, you lift the plastic mask from his face and discard it on the floor of the passenger seat.

You smile and kiss him softly and say, "Let's go home. I'm hungry now."

Andrew knows the two of you will take one step into that house and they'll all know what you've gotten caught up doing. They'll see the mess of his curls and the flush on his face. They'll see your swollen lips and the spit drying at the corners and they'll think, 'Jesus, Pope. You can't get off that poor girl for even ten minutes?'

And he won't say anything, of course. He'll just let them go on believing the rumors, believing that he's the one who's insatiable for the shy girl who's gotten caught up in his gravitational pull.

“So nice to me, sweetheart.” He mocks, leaning a little further down. “Bet you dream about me, don’t you. Up all night with that rabbit Nat got you-“

You shove your foot up, slamming it square on his chest. He’d been getting too close. You’d been able to smell his cologne, and it made your head spin like opium. Bucky laughs again, walking away like you’re not even worth the argument. Your heart stings, but you ignore it. It’s an old bruise. You’re usually good at not pressing it, at pretending it doesn’t exist.

But Bucky exists only to torture you. So it never fully heals.

He’d been teasing about the rabbit thing. It had been a gag gift for secret Santa, and after Nat had even gotten you a very nice pair of shoes when you were in private. But Bucky’s clung onto it, like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever thought of. You, with a vibrator. You possibly being able to get off, when you’re the uptight little prude. The one who never brings back hookups, never dates, just sits in corners like an ivy, clinging to the shadows and watching everything else live around her.

You’ve never been fun. Never been someone Bucky would’ve chosen to know. He didn’t choose to know you. You knew a girl who worked with another girl, and that girl had a boyfriend who knew a girl who needed a roommate. You needed a roommate. You had good credit—because you’re boring—and the girl interviewing you had taken a liking to you.

Natasha rode a motorcycle. She worked in a job she was allowed to tell you about—something in black ops, that explained all the wigs in her closet—and spoke five languages. She baked calm down, and went to shooting ranges to calm down, and insisted on getting you a gun license so she’d feel more comfortable with all the hidden guns in the house.

“Hidden guns?” You’d asked, feeling your face blanch. She’d just smiled.

“You’ll never find them all. Let’s go, it’ll be easy.”

It had not been easy. But you understood how—to someone like Nat—it might be. She’d never lost patience with you, but she’d still made it look easy. When you’d gotten home and mumbled that you needed to go shower for an hour, she’d just patted your head like you were a bunny and smiled.

She might’ve been your first real friend in a while. Because it’s not that you’re not… personable. You’re just a little mean tongued. And nervous. And boring, and blunt, and you don’t like leaving the house unless someone grabs the scruff of your neck and drags you. You go to work, and you go home, and that’s mostly it. Your closest friends before Natasha had been co-workers. And you’d been really, truly happy with that.

But interesting people have interesting friends.

Natasha had a lot of friends. And they moved in and out of your apartment like they lived there. 

Tony was a tech titan who you used to watch on the news, and now he left crumbs all over your couch. Wanda was a refugee and artist, and Clint worked in that same black ops thing Nat did. Steve had worked in it, but left to start his own non-profit with Sam. They all went far back, to elementary schools and playgrounds and clubs. They had history, but they were kind to you. Treated you like your little bachelor’s degree and normal person job fit in with their grand showmanship and large personalities that had been sucked right off the movie screen.

Most of them treated you like that.

Bucky didn’t.

Before you’d been introduced to him, Nat had described his as basically Steve’s brother, and it had been a striking endorsement. Steve had been kind to you. He brought you to a movie you’d really wanted to see, and never made fun of your stuffed animal collection. No brother of his could be all that bad, certainly not one even Nat described as charming and kind and not bad on the eyes.

Only one of those things was true.

Bucky Barnes is not bad on the eyes. You’d classify as maybe a medicine for the eyes, a miracle for the eyes, a blessing on a weary and tired viewer. He works in security or something, and it shows in his body. Sometimes he lets his hair grow out, and it’s frames his strong jaw and nose perfectly, all while making you want to run your fingers through each lock. You’re sure it would be like petting a very well-kept dog. He cares for it better than you care for yourself.

He’s got those eyes that knocked all the thoughts out of you, the moment you saw him. They’d sparkled and shone with his polite, white smile, and you’d just been swaying there like a lost scarecrow in a tornado. Your brain had been reduced to a fuzzy TV static and loud blaring noise, like you’d lost your own connection. Bucky had flexed his hand, a silent reminder you were supposed to shake it, and you hadn’t been able to get enough control over your body to even smile back.

His hand had been big. Calloused, with thick fingers and a lot of tiny scars. You’d shivered just at the idea of his touch. It might’ve been warm.

Might’ve been.

If Bucky had ever bothered to touch you at all.

By the time you’d dragged control back into your body, Bucky had given up and moved on. His ears had been a little red, in the moments after. You’d opened your mouth to apologize, make any excuse that would get him to offer a hand again.

He’d turned and walked away. Hadn’t looked at you for the rest of the night.

And when he looks at you now, it’s with something sharp behind his gaze. He never looks at anyone else like that. Never teases or mocks them, either. Acting like their mere presence in the room is a plague on his refined, perfect existence. He certainly never suggests they won’t be able to make it up five flights of stairs or asks if they’re sure they want to go out for the night.

You hate stairs. And you don’t want to go out for the night.

There’s only one thing more powerful than your picky little aversions, though.

The petty, blistering feeling at the top of your chest, that refuses to let Bucky win.

“You’re really coming with us?” Bucky calls your name from the kitchen, and you lift your chin, trying to look down your nose at the massive man.

“I was invited.”

“You’re always invited, you never actually get off the damn couch-“

“Barnes.” Nat walks past him, whacking his arm. “Don’t question miracles.”

You roll your eyes. “It’s not a miracle-“

“Yes it is.” She grabs your arm, hauling you off the couch like you weigh nothing. “I’ve been asking you to do this for years, I’m not letting Bucky frighten you off with his Buckying.”

That makes you giggle, and Bucky frowns. You catch him shooting Steve a look you can’t really read, and Steve just shrugs in return.

“I’m not trying to ruin it.” Bucky says, lofty and bored. “I’m just sayin’ she never comes out with us, and it might be a lot for the little doe to be shoved into the jungle or whatever-“

“You’re a poet.” Natasha says, giving him a flat glare. “Go wait in the car.”

Bucky scowls. “The car-“

“If you act like a dog, you wait in the car.”

“I am not acting like a dog-“

Sam raises his hand. “I caught him humping the furniture this mornin’ when he heard about it-“

“Sam.” Bucky hisses. “Shut the hell up before I knock your teeth out-“

“Steven.” Nat gives him a firm nod, and he sighs.

“Yeah, I got it.”

Bucky and Sam aren’t small men, but Steve grabs them by the collar and drags them out of the room without breaking a sweat. Leaving you and Nat in a suddenly very quiet apartment, a lingering smell of spice and pine still clouding the air.

Another reason you hate Bucky coming over. He’s mean to you, and he’s nice to everyone else, and he questions you then leaves the whole room stained in his presence.

“Ignore Barnes.” Natasha says it like an order, and it probably is.

You smile at her. “I always do.”

You think it comes off airy and convincing. Nat looks at you like she’s trying not to either scoff, or laugh. Before you can insist on anything, she’s grabbing your hand and dragging you into the bathroom. You did promise you’d let her get you ready. When you’d told her you could do makeup and prep yourself, she’d snorted and said maybe, but I’ll do it better.

One of the first lessons you learned was not to argue with Natasha when she’s sure of something. You let her sit you on the counter and sort through your makeup bag, finding everything she deems worthy of being on your face tonight. Your outfit hangs on the door, and you did choose that, but after Nat vetoed three others.

It’s nothing special. A short dress and heels that will blend right in a club. It hadn’t been that different from your other suggestions. But it had gotten a curt nod of approval and smirk from Nat, so it had something. You’re smarter than to question what.

“You should talk to Bucky tonight.” Nat says suddenly, and you blink at her in surprise.

“I- What?”

“Make him apologize. For being an ass to you.”

“That’s- It’s fine-“

“No, it’s not.” Nat gives you a firm look, and you sigh.

“I know, but- I don’t really care, okay? That’s just- It’s Bucky, right?”

You give her a weak smile, and this one doesn’t even convince you.

It is just Bucky. He’s charming and sweet and handsome, and he hates just you. So you hate him in return, just for being so perfect and deciding you’re the only person in the world not worthy of his attention. It would be easier if he really was a bad man. If you didn’t know he volunteered with kids and Steve’s foundation, if he didn’t advocate for his fellow veterans, if he hadn’t made his ma’s chicken soup when you and Nat had both caught something last winter, and taken the time to drop it off in person.

For Nat.

Because you’re just… Not worth it for him. Not worth his time, not worth his smiling, barely worth anything more than glowering stares and taunting words. And you’re not weak. You fight back every day, and keep all of your desires and affection buried deep in the pit of your stomach and swollen like an infection around your heart.

He never has to know that you think about him all the time. That you feel yourself bloom whenever your eyes meet, then wither when his gaze snaps away. Whenever he presses his body over yours just to tease you, the heat of his body makes your breath hitch. You spend long days daydreaming about how good a boyfriend he’d be, if he didn’t hate you. Attentive and caring and giving.

Every night you think about how giving he’d be. Flowers and coffee like he brings Wanda for galleries, or for Nat or Clint when they’ve been working late night shifts. He likes watching TV, you know, because he spends a lot of time sitting next to you on the couch and loudly making comments until you threaten to force-feed him bleach. But if that wasn’t the blunt and unforgiving knife of reality, you could just lay in his arms forever.

He could pick you up and carry you to bed. The same bed that you put that accursed vibrated between your legs, close your eyes, and dream of him railing you into the mattress. Fucking you until you can’t stand, until you can’t speak or thing, until your eyes are rolling back and your mouth can’t even figure out how to close, so he kisses you possessively or gives you some of those thick fingers to suck on-

“You should still talk to him.” Natasha’s words are blunt. If she’s noticed how you’ve been working yourself up, she doesn’t say a single word. “Before he does something stupid.”

You snort. “Bucky always does something dumb-“

“No. He does a lot of dumb things. Close your eyes.” Nat picks up an eyeliner, and you obey. “But there’s a difference between dumb and stupid. Stupid is harder to take back.”

You grunt, and you don’t think anything stupid Bucky does is going to have anything to do with you. But something scratches at your brain, and it’s green and bitter. Your fingers fidget in your lap, and you shouldn’t ask, but-

“Is he bringing someone?” You blurt, and just the idea makes you sick. Bucky with some model-type, holding her hips while she grinds onto him, all the honey he’d pour into her ears and down her throat while you just hugged yourself in the corner of the room. Her sitting on his lap in your apartment, you trying to hide the ugliness of jealousy but never being able to spare her more than a crude sneer. It’s the only reason Nat would possibly want you to talk to him. You and Bucky’s childish game of pulling each other’s hair and biting without teeth and seeing who breaks first, it ruins his picture of the perfect suitor. If you keep it up, you’ll ruin this for him, and he deserves to be happy but the thought of him being happy while you just sink into yourself like quicksand makes you want to die-

“Jesus, no.” Nat laughs. “That’s- Never mind.” She shakes her head, still chuckling about some secret you apparently don’t get to be a part of.

“What?” You try to push. “I’ve heard about his- You know. Promiscuity.”

Nat snorts. “From who?”

“Sam.”

“Sam’s an idiot.” She dismisses plainly, and you frown.

“Tony’s mentioned it too-“

“They’re both idiots.”

“Bucky’s told me, he said he leaves all his girls satisfied-“

“Bucky is the biggest idiot of all of them. Open.”

You listen again, and find Nat smiling at you with a strangely soft affection. Like you’re some wet kitten she rescued off the street.

“Put on your dress.” She says, wiping the corners of your slightly pouting lips. “Talk to Barnes.”

At the very least, you manage to follow one of those orders.

The dress is a little shorter than you thought it would be. It rides up your thighs, forcing you to pull it down with every step. In the car you cross your legs and stare at the floor, grounding yourself in the bass of Nat’s loud music as your heartbeat starts to pick up. You’re going out. You’re going out. Spiting Bucky was not a good enough reason to do this, it’s going to be loud and you can dance but not in front of strangers, and you’re going to be even more boring than usual and you feel like a fraud.

“Nice dress.”

Bucky’s voice is a low behind you, his breath fanning on your neck. You almost scream.

“Christ, calm down.” He’s grinning when you whip around, leaning forward in his seat to whisper. Sam and Steve are next to him, one very pointedly staring out the window, the other looking at something on his phone and humming like he’s already trying to drown out you and Bucky’s fighting.

“You scared me-“

“You saw me get in the car, sweetheart. Not my fault you’re jumpy-“

“I am not jumpy-“

“You are. Like a bunny.” His grin widens, and you scowl.

The shifting streetlamps make him look like an angel. Golden halo rays behind his head, long shadows that make him look even more rugged than usual. His lips look fuller, softer, eyes glimmering like a floodlight through the dark, and-

“Shut up.” You snap, turning back around. You can’t keep looking at him. It’s dangerous.

“I was just saying your dress was nice.” Bucky’s breath tickles your neck. You wrap your arms tight around your stomach.

“You also called me a rabbit.”

“Called you a bunny-“

“That’s the same thing.”

“No, it’s-“ He sighs, shaking his head. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

You flip him off over your shoulder, glaring firmly out the windshield. You can feel him retreat, but the closeness had lit up your nerves, and now they’re buzzing with hope that he’ll return.

Stupid fucking body. Stupid fucking Bucky.

You refuse to look at him when you arrive. You stumble a little bit in your heels—Natsha insisted on six inch, which is far too tall for anyone—and Bucky catches your arm, holding you upright. You brush his hand off like a fly and march on, refusing to give him the satisfaction of some other comment about how you’re like a baby deer.

When you get inside, you can smell it. The stench of sweat and alcohol and something fruity they probably use to cover the first smells. You cling to Natasha, letting her guide you through the crowd to the bar. She orders you two shots because you need them, and you don’t argue. Between Bucky and the club, you do. 

You down them both without flinching, and Sam whistles from behind you.

“Damn, you took those like a champ.”

You shrug, and Sam elbows Bucky.

“You see that, Buck-“

“Yeah. I saw it.”

Bucky’s voice is lower than usual. Almost sullen. You’d examine him, try to figure out what’s wrong with him, but you’re not supposed to be letting yourself care. He’s not your problem tonight. You’re here to indulge in fun.

You’re already not very good at that as is. Bucky’s consuming presence isn’t going to help.

Another drink might.

You’re three shots in when Nat brings you out to the dance floor. The liquor is pulling you lose, the frayed knot that’s always in your chest going slack enough to allow you to dance. You’re smiling and laughing like a normal person, almost completely able to forget to check where Bucky is in the room.

Near the edge of the crowd, drinking and talking to Steve.

A fourth shot might be needed.

You’re smiling like a fool now. The room is tilted a little, all the colors neon, but they blind out your usual worried and the tilt helps your worries slide off your body. You’re able to forget about Bucky until you notice a girl talking to him, and you take a fifth shot. A sixth, when he vanishes for nine and a half minutes, and your brain starts to map everything he might be doing to that girl.

Seven, when the first stranger asks you to dance and you’re not drunk enough to forget about Bucky and say yes.

Eight, when he tries to kiss you and you shove him away, because his lips aren’t pink enough and he’s not broad enough for you to every pretend.

Nat tries to cut you off there. You slip past her, and take a ninth. The room is just a blur now. You can’t fully remember who Nat is, and why you’re trying to avoid her. There’s a man with his hands on your hips, and he’s got dark hair that looks too greasy for you to touch. Another man calls you sweetheart, but he says it a little wrong and it makes you want to cry. None of them have the right eyes, and the ones that are closer don’t have the right smile.

You feel like you’re going to cry, by the time you’ve rejected the eleventh man. Or only fourth. Numbers don’t feel real right now. Most everything doesn’t feel real.

Everything except Bucky.

Because your own name is just a sound in your head that sounds foreign, but Bucky says it and you know to turn around.

It’s less because it’s your name. More because Bucky called you.

You smile, swaying on your feet, and you’re not even sure where you are anymore. It’s somewhere with a lot of people. Loud music. It’s dark, but bright at the same time, and Bucky looks like a walking dream as he moves towards you. Your vision swims, but he’s made of clear lines and a stern expression.

He’s mad at you. Your face falls, lip wobbling, and you take a step back. You don’t want him to be mad at you. Your heart is already beating in your ears, Bucky’s anger or distain might make it burst.

“Where the hell did you go?” He snaps, and you bow your head.

“I- I dunno-“ You hiccup, hugging yourself tight.

“Nat’s been looking for you, Steve barely stopped her from trying to make the building go into lockdown, and I-“ He cuts himself off, running a hand over his face, and you blink the tears away.

You’re looking up at him under your lashes, and he’s still angry. Some distant voice in your head tells you it’s your fault entirely. That he must’ve been about to go home with someone when they lost you, and now he’s pissed he had to pause his night to find you. You sniff, wiping your nose with your arm.

Bucky’s frown deepens. He takes a step forward, and you try to step back but balance feels like an Olympic feat right now.

His arm loops around your waist, pulling you right against his chest. You stare up at him, tears streaming down your cheeks from feelings you can’t even name anymore. They’re hollow and big and full and made of a million little cuts. They burn in your heart and through your blood, but also freeze in your throat and muscles. You can’t move. You don’t want to move.

Bucky’s big hand is splayed on your back, and you don’t want to go anywhere you can’t feel him.

That voice from before reminds you that’s not allowed, so you wiggle a little.

Bucky holds you tighter, and you surrender in a split second. His frown deepens, and you think you’re still crying. Your cheeks are certainly burning, and your throat feels oddly tight.

Gentle fingers brush under your eyes, and you hum softly. Bucky’s nostrils flare, those fingers brushing hair from your face before cupping the back of your head, forcing your gaze onto his.

“Jesus, woman.” He mutters, those beautiful eyes scanning over your slack face. “How much did you have to drink.”

“I dunno.” You breathe. His brow furrows.

“Best guess.”

You shrug, shaking your head, and Bucky sighs. You want to shrink and hide from him, from his obvious annoyance and disappointment. It’s nothing new, but it’s raw like this. You can’t figure out anything, let alone how to pretend like his hatred doesn’t bother you. You try to turn and hide your face, but Bucky just pulls it right back.

“Over five?” He prompts, and his voice is so soft. Like he’s trying to coax the answer out of you.

“I- I don’t know.” You whine slightly, and he sighs.

“Yeah. Alright.” Bucky’s throat bobs, and he looks up. Glances around you, his hands never leaving your body.

You stare up at him in the dark. You’re not supposed to be looking at him, but it’s impossible. He’s magnetic, and beautiful, and you’ve never been this close to him without one of you trying to claw at the other.

But your fingers cling to the fabric of his shirt, and it’s not to draw blood. You just don’t think that if he walks away you’re going to be able to stand up.

Bucky looks back down at you, and his tongue flicks over his lips. His thumb drags slowly over your cheekbone, leaving a little trail of fire in its wake. Your breathing gets shallow, your eyes fluttering. Everything feels like a lot. Like you’re so high in the atmosphere the air is starting to get thin. Bucky’s brow furrows, and he works his jaw like he does when he’s thinking.

You’ve always wanted to reach up and touch the lines that form on his face, when he worries. They’re deep, and still handsome, but they only ever mark that he’s stressed. He shouldn’t be. It’s only you, and you’re nothing to him.

He lets out a heavy breath through his nose, his hand dragging down to cup the back of your neck. You tip your head back, waiting for him to do something. Kiss you. Bite you. Slam you back against the wall and relieve the ache, building up between your thighs. Maybe just smell you and let his lips brush over a sensitive spot on your neck, teasing you like always until you’re crying and begging for him. 

Instead, Bucky just sighs. He pulls you forward, twisting you until you’re in front of him. His arms cage you to his chest, and he’s almost herding you down the hall.

“Where’re we going?” You tip your head back, and find him glowering at everyone around you.

They’re all moving so fast, stumbling in your path then scrambling away under Bucky’s glower. His eyes flick down to yours for a second, and maybe it’s the delusions of grandeur and liquor, but you could swear they soften slightly.

“We’re gettin’ you home.” He mutters, shouldering the door open. “You need to sleep this off.”

You wrinkle your nose as the chill of night air hits you. “But it’s cold-“

“Car will be warm.”

“But we don’t have a car-“

“We’re taking Nat’s.”

You scoff. “Nat would never give you her car-“

“Well, she did.” He grunts, voice dropping under his breath. “You’d never give me your car.”

“I don’t have a car.” You snap, and Bucky chuckles dryly.

“Yeah, I know.” He opens the door, giving you an amused look. “Up and in, baby.”

Your whole world stops for a second. You feel like you’re floating, a ditzy smile crossing your face, and you start to giggle because he called you baby. Bucky called you baby, like you matter to him, and he’s touching you.

Bucky sighs when you don’t move, and bends down. He scoops you up and drops you in the car like you weigh nothing. You’re still giggling when he closes the door and walks around the hood, sliding into the driver’s seat. For a second you stop, looking out the club with a frown. The world is still hazy, but you can see the neon sign, and it feels like you’re forgetting things that are very important-

“They’re all goin’ back to our place.” Bucky grunts, and you look over to find him staring at you with one of those stone-faced, unreadable expressions that he only uses around you. “It’s closer, cab will be cheaper.”

You frown. “Why aren’t they riding with us?”

“’Cause we’re going back to yours.”

“Why?”

“’Cause.” Is all Bucky offers. He starts the car before you can ask another question, and puts his arm around your seat to back out of the spot.

Nat has a back cam. He just always does it like this, and you’ve always chalked it up to his big, responsible man thing. Usually when the arm is around you, you glare out the window and pretend you can’t feel how close he is. How his fingers brush your upper arm, or how his smell gets stronger.

Tonight you can’t really remember why you do that. And Bucky does really smell good.

You turn your cheek, pressing it into his bicep. Bucky freezes, the car jerking to a stop, and you can feel his attention. It sparks a tiny fire in your core, and seeps down between your thighs. Your lips graze his skin, and he coughs.

His fingers dip down, brushing near your collarbone. You hum happily, and the car starts moving again.

When you’re out of the parking lot, Bucky doesn’t remove his arm like usual. You’re grateful. If he did, you might have chased it right into his lap.

“You have fun?” Bucky breaks the silence, voice gruff.

You nod, turning to watch him drive. He always does it in a way that’s almost unfairly attractive. He holds the wheel lazily, like he knows it’s under his control. You want him to hold you like that.

Bucky clears his throat. “You, uh- You did good.”

“Good?” You murmur, not fully understanding the praise.

You know it makes you throb, and press your thighs together. Bucky’s eyes flick to the motion, and his throat bobs.

“Yeah.” His grip on the wheel is white knuckled. “Good.”

Silence settles again, and you let yourself stare at him. He’s beautiful. So beautiful it makes you unsure that he’s real. You’d like to trace the line of his jaw, hear his smooth, deep voice again. Hear it say your name, because it’s the only thing that reminds you that you’re real. You can’t remember why you ever deprived yourself of this. Of him, and all his quiet glory. He’s a loud man, but never boastful.

He’s only really boastful to you. When he fixes the shower for Nat or someone brings up his army service, he waves them off and laughs, and you’ve always loved that about him. You love most things about him, even when he’s being insufferable. You sort of love that he’s insufferable, too. You’re not that easy either. And if you wrapped around him, you’re hoping he’d be too chivalrous to cut you off. He could mock you all he wants, you’d just hide your face in his neck and breathe him in. Grounding. Handsome. Impossible to resist.

Your fingers are itching, to touch that sad little furrow. There’s nothing for him to worry about. The world revolves around him.

“Saw you got some numbers.” He grunts suddenly, and you pause.

“Numbers?”

“Phone numbers.”

“Oh.” You reach for you bag, checking that the hard line of your phone is still there. It is. You don’t know what he’s talking about.

“You gonna call any of them?”

“Any of who?”

Bucky gives you an exasperated look, then double takes slightly. His worry lines deepen. It makes you pout, grabbing at your own hands to stop them from reaching for him.

“The guys.” He says slowly, frowning at the road. “That you were talkin’ to.”

Oh. Phone numbers. “No.”

His brows raise. “No?”

You shake your head, and Bucky prompts you with an oddly tight voice.

“Why?”

They’re not you. Even your drunk brain seems to know it’s bad idea to say that. “I didn’t want them.”

“Hm.” Bucky taps his hand on the wheel, shooting you a strange look. “Why?”

You can’t tell him that, but you also can’t think of a good excuse this time. You make a lame, half-hearted sigh, and turn your face back into his arm.

He doesn’t push it. He doesn’t talk for the rest of the drive. His thumb drags little circles on your upper arm, lulling you into a half-sleep only interrupted by the bump of the road. You’re not sure how much longer you’re in the car, and when it stops you can’t really remember what you’re supposed to do now.

Bucky helps. He slides away from you, squeezing your thigh in a silent reassurance before he steps out of the car. Your hand traces over where he’d touched you. Bare skin on skin, hands still light and gentle. He seems to have burned his handprint into you, and it spreads until you’re tingly and weak-kneed.

The door on your side opens, and his voice is low in your ears.

“C’mon, pretty girl.” A strong arm loops around your stomach, pulling you back. “Let’s get you in bed.”

You hum, and let Bucky guide you. You trust him completely, with all your heart and not a single question.

He handles you carefully. Guides you inside, holds you steady in the elevator, takes your keys  from your shaking fingers and opens the door. You’re sent to take a shower, but start to trip over nothing the moment Bucky lets go of you, so he sighs and draws you a bath.

“How am I gonna stand?” You mumble, sitting on the toilet while he runs the water. “Or rinse.”

Bucky grunts. “I’ll help.”

You hum in approval, and start to pull off your dress. Bucky makes a strangled sound, eyes flying up to the ceiling, and you’ve never seen his face so red.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Getting ready for a bath?” You frown at him, and he groans.

“You- Fuck.” He takes a heavy breath through his nose, closing his eyes. “Just- Keep your underwear on, alright?”

You nod, trying to ignore the heavy sting that he doesn’t want to see you naked. Bucky won’t even fully look at you as he helps you into the tub. He leaves the room while you sit helplessly in the water, barely moving until he returns. You wrap your arms over your chest, suddenly consciously that maybe you’re not pretty enough for him to look at you. You pull your knees to your chest and sniffle, just waiting for him. You don’t even know why he left in the first place. You wanted him here.

Bucky sighs, when he opens the door to find you crying.  

“Christ, I leave you alone for five seconds- Hey, woah-“ He kneels on the bathmat, hand flexing before he reaches out and wipes away your tears. “It’s alright, you’re alright. Don’t cry, sweetheart, you’re okay-“

You bite down a sob and turn your face, pressing it right into his shoulder. Again, Bucky stiffens. His arms hover for a second, breathing shallow, and you think he’s going to shove you away.

But he doesn’t. After that single, million year heartbeat of a moment, he grabs you. Holds you tight into his body, cradling your head and rocking you back and forth. The water flows under you, pushing up on the lip of the tub. A little bit flows over, splashing his pants.

He doesn’t seem to mind.

“C’mon, baby.” He murmurs, slowly starting to rise. “Let’s get you to bed.”

You nod, wrapping your arms tight around his neck. When he gets you on your feet, he stops for a second. His lips brush near your ear, and an electric rush dart through you. Then, fast but certain, he kisses the side of your head.

It’s so quick you’d think you imagined it, if you couldn’t feel the burn of his lips long after he pulls away. You reach up to brush it, when Bucky deposits you on your bed. You watch him move around the room like he belongs there.

He does.

He’d belong with you, if he wasn’t such a massive butt about your existence.

“It’s your fault, you know.”

Bucky glances up from your dresser, fisting a shirt in his hands. “What?”

“You.” You say, because it’s that simple.

He’s the reason you’re drunk. That you didn’t score tonight, that you’d been crying, that you have to be coddled like a baby.

Not that you mind that last one. It’s wonderful, having him touch and speak to you like he cares.

It’s still all his fault.

“What’s me?” He says, and you roll your eyes at the ceiling.

“All of it.”

Bucky says your name, and you wave him off with a dramatic sigh. You can hear him pad slowly across the room, and when he pulls you up gently you flop over his body. A useless ragdoll he’s trying to get a shirt onto.

But the harder you make it, the longer he’ll stay. The longer he’ll be nice, and touch you, and-

“I love you.”

Bucky stills. Your words hang in the air, but you don’t understand why. You’ve said far worse things to him, and he must have known. You know. You’re pretty sure Nat does too, with all the looks she’s always giving you after Bucky teases you and you flush, or you bicker and he marches away with a scowl.

It’s not some grand confession. You love him like the seasons turn and the sun always rises. It’s a deep, mechanical part of you that can’t be rewired, and you know because you’ve tried. But Bucky’s leans back and stares at you like the sky is falling.

“What?”

His voice is a croak, and you frown at him.

“I love you.” You say it slower this time. Maybe you’d slurred the words, and he hadn’t understood. “It’s your fault, because I love you and you’re just… There.”

He blinks at you slowly, obviously still not understanding. You roll your eyes, and flop back down.

Bucky coughs, grabbing your knee as if to steady himself. He’s sitting down, and it’s not like he’s in love. The world is perfectly under his feet. You’re the one suffering.

“I’m here?”

“All the time.” You whine, and his grip on your knee tightens.

“But you love me.”

“Mhm.”

“So why’s it problem that I’m here-“

“Because you never do anything.”

You can hear the frown in his voice. “I do things. I do lots of things-“

“You never touch me.” You prop yourself on your elbows, glaring down at him. “You just- You’re there, and you don’t like me and it- It makes me-“

“Makes you what.” Bucky’s voice is deep, his eyes dark on yours, and you stick your tongue out at him.

“You don’t get to know.”

“I don’t get to know?” He snorts. “No, you can’t just- You can’t say that kinda stuff then-“

“I wish you’d touch me.” You tell the ceiling.

Bucky grunts. “Yeah, I’ve heard. But-“

“Think I could cum just from listening to you talk.” You hum, your voice sounding like a faraway dream.

Your eyes are getting heavy, and Bucky’s gone completely silent. The words start to float out of you, like steam escaping through windows, into the warm, open sky.

“I’d like to touch you, too. Put you in my mouth, or just- ride you.” You sigh. “I want everything. I’d do- Do anything you told me too if you asked. Anything.” You look back up at him, your lip wobbling again. “But you never ask me. Why don’t you ever ask me?”

Bucky’s gaping at you, and he shakes his head, his voice a low croak. “I, uh- You’ve never-“

He swallows, glancing down, and you follow his gaze.

He’s straining through his jeans, shifting uncomfortably. You giggle, flopping back down. Your eyes start to droop, the room fading in and out. Bucky rises over you with a sigh, pulling the blankets up.

“’S nice.” You murmur. “You. Bein’ here.”

You yawn, and Bucky’s laughs. Under his breath, like an inside joke he won’t bring you into.

“Yeah. I know.” His hand grazes over your cheek, and you hum sleepily, eyes closing.

His lips press to your forehead, and it’s like a spell. The world, slowly and easily, starts to slip away.

“Sleep well, baby.” He mutters, and under that command, you do.

He’s not there when you wake up, and you have to be okay with that.

You don’t know how you’re ever going to face him again anyway. There’s a fog hanging over your brain, but it’s not thick enough that you can’t remember last night.

Bucky saw you naked. He was in your room, and put you to bed, and you-

You told him you loved him.

That you wanted him. That you could cum just from him talking to you.

You have to move. You have to change your name and move as far away as possible. Maybe Siberia, or Russia, or Romania, or somewhere he’ll never find you again. Because you told him you loved him, and now he’s gone.

He left a water on your bedside table. Mocking you with the fact that last night was real.

You force yourself to sit up, rubbing your temples, and take the glass. If you’re never going to see Bucky again, and you don’t plan to, there’s no need to spite him with ignoring it.

When you stand up, it takes a few deep breaths to start moving. Nat isn’t home yet, and she probably won’t be for a while. That gives you plenty of time to wallow before you vanish forever. You can spend the morning moping and cursing yourself, then worry about consequences.

You make cereal and put on coffee. Stare at the little bits floating through the milk, and try not to think about Bucky. If he’s thinking about you.

If he is, you don’t want to imagine what. That you’re a whore for throwing yourself at him, a fool for think he’d be open to such a confession—from you of all people—or maybe just the same as he always did. Maybe he’d known the whole time, and he just thinks you were gutsy to say it aloud when he so clearly wants nothing to do with you.

Nothing at all, but taking care of you while you’re drunk. Giving you a bath and putting you to bed, handling you like something precious and kissing the side of your head.

That could have been just more mocking. The same game he’s always played, accusing you of wanting him then laughing. Like he’d already known.  

But playing that game while you’re out of it isn’t Bucky’s style. He likes you biting back, sometimes he dangles comments over your head and grins when you snap at them. So there’d be no reason for him to play when you weren’t even able to a join him. But then there’s no reason for  him to act like that at all.

It’s too early to be thinking this much. You put all your hopeful bets on Bucky having somehow forgotten everything, so you don’t have to move.

The door opens down the hallway, and you glance up. It’s early for Nat to be back.

But it’s not Nat that calls your name through the house.

“Where’d you- Hi.”

Bucky walks into the kitchen, and you stare at each other. He’s wearing his clothing from last night, his hair mussed, two paper coffee cups in his hands. You swallow, and he coughs, glancing around the kitchen.

“I got you coffee.” He mutters a little bitterly, and you follow his gaze to the rumbling coffee machine.

“Oh.”

“You don’t have to- It’s here.” He puts it on the counter, and you nod, focusing back on your cereal.

You’re both silent for another long moment. There air is thick, like a swamp at the height of summer. You’re not sure how you remember to speak.

“How’d you know I was up?”

“Your door was open.” He mutters. “Made sure it was closed before I went out.”

“Did you-“

“On the couch. Just, uh-“ He rubs the back of his neck, eyes locked onto yours. “I wanted to make sure you weren’t alone, and- I think we, uh- You said some things. That we should talk about.”

You rip your gaze away as you flush, but if you’d had any hope of pretending you’d been too drunk to retain the night and just hoping he’d leave you be, that ruins it.

Bucky’s eyes narrow. He walks forward, until he’s right at your side. You can feel his presence buzzing through you, and swallow.

“You remember.” His voice is low, and he leans further down before you can protest. “Don’t lie to me. We’ve both been lyin’ way too much.”

You don’t dignify him with an answer. With even a glance.

Bucky leans closer.

“You said you wanted to touch me.” He’s almost growling in your ear. “You said you wanted me in your mouth, that you wanted me to ride you, that you’d do anything I told you-“

“James.” You hiss, twisting to glower at him.

Mistake.

He looks hungry. His eyes are blown out, only inches from yours, his tongue darts over his lips when you look down at them. He’s watching you like a dog that’s finally been told it can have its bone. Your grip on the counter tightens. It’s hard to stay upright.

“Full name.” He hums, the corners of his lips tugging up. “I’m in trouble.”

“You’re being a dick-“

“Yeah, but you like it.”

“I- You-“

“You love it.”

You freeze at that word. The air feels thin now. Your face is burning, and Bucky’s as collected as ever. Like this is all still just a game to him.

“Fuck you.” You spit. It takes everything you have.

Bucky doesn’t even flinches. “Yeah, you want to.”

Your mouth falls open, and he leans in closer.

“You meant it, right? Everything you said?”

Denying seems pointless. You try to anyway, but your lips barely prepare for the word no before Bucky’s giving you a stern look—don’t lie to me—and your voice dies.

He says your name, and it’s the same voice he used last night. Lighter, gentler, man trying to tend instead of force. You weren’t any match for it last night, but that doesn’t seem to be the drink’s fault. You give in just as easily right now.

“Yes.” You breathe.

Bucky’s eyes flash. “All of it?”

“Bucky…”

“Do you want me.” His voice is demanding now, and you try to look away.

He catches your chin, pulling you back. Forcing your gaze onto his, onto those beautiful, enchanting eyes.

You nod, and he hums in approval. The sound settles, molten and warm in your tummy.

“Do you love me?”

His words sound so sincere and taunting at the same time. You can’t look away, so you glare, and he chuckles.

“Come on, baby.” He brushes his lips over yours, his voice becoming something low. Something dangerous.

You don’t even bother to move away this time. You’re breathing in your chest, your stomach filled with too much desire to do much else. The brush of his lips let you taste coffee and mint, and his grip on your chin is commanding. You’re only putty in his hands. A lost cause that doesn’t really want to be found.

“Don’t make me fuck it out of you.”

Bucky’s eyes gleam, and he’s playing again. He knows he has you, that you want to be had.

His hand drags slowly, gently, on your waist. His fingers dip under your shirt, the soft touch making you gasp. You lean forward, and Bucky leans back. He tilts his head slightly, something stern still in his gaze. You blink hopelessly, trying to figure out what, and he squeezes your hips. It’s grounding and electric, and he presses back forward as you go still below him.

“Do you want me to fuck it out of you.” He growls, and your mouth falls open with a whimper.

Permission. He was holding himself on a leash for your permission.

Doubt drains from your head, far down south where a warm, summer storm is brewing between your thighs.

You spread your legs slowly, and grab his hand on your hips. Push it slightly down, until his attention follows.

Bucky’s jaw clenches, and his hand on your chin drops. You watch as he moves so tantalizingly slow, brushing the band of your panties before dragging down the seam at the apex of your thighs. He rubs you over the fabric, and your hips buck into the touch.

“Fuck.” Bucky hooks two of his fingers, tearing your underwear in one rip. “You’re so wet. Soaked through the panties, soaking my fucking fingers.”

You moan, pressing your face into his shoulder. Bucky dips his fingers into your heat, smearing the arousal all over your pussy, and you shake.

“Bucky-“

“You got this,” he spanks your pussy, then drags the mess down your inner thighs. “’Cause I’m here? Or just from thinking about me?”

“B- Both.” You mumble, trying to keep still as the broad pads of his fingers find your clit, rubbing in slow, tantalizing circles.

He hums. “You think about me a lot?”

Pressing hard on the sensitive button. Your knees give out, and you’re only caught by his arm around you’re lower back.

“Careful, baby-“

“All the time.” You whimper the confession, looking up at him with big, teary eyes. “Think about you all the time, Bucky, you’re- You’re so- Oh my god-“

Bucky yanks his hand from your pussy, grabbing your jaw and angling it back for a kiss.

It’s slower than you thought it would be, with how he crashed over you. You’d been expecting rough and harsh, all spit and ownership. Instead there’s a certainly behind it—a rough passion that’s demanding and hot—but it’s slow. Bucky doesn’t use his tongue until you open your mouth, and he hums in satisfaction when you grab at his hair, tugging slightly.

He grabs your ass, hauling you up on the kitchen counter. His hands wander your body lazily, tracing the softness of your hips and curve of your spine. He chuckles when you arch into the touch, deepening the kiss. Stars swim behind your eyes, and you realize you’re still grinding up into his torso.

“Bucky.” You plead, and he presses another tiny kiss to your lips, taking his sweet damn time.

“Off.” He tugs at the hem of your shirt, and you lift your arms to help him.

He leans back when you’re uncovered, and this time he isn’t trying to cover anything else. He palms one of your breasts, licking his lips before he takes the nipple between his fingers and rolls it. You squeak and his eyes dart up, almost studying how you shiver and blink at him.

“So reactive.” He switches to the other breast, and your fingers dig into the nape of his neck. “Almost came before I even really touched you, sweetheart. If you can’t hold it, you’re gonna be a fuckin’ wreck before I’m even done with you.”

You shake your head, face heating further. “It- It’s been a long time-“

“Yeah, but that’s not it.” He drags his hand down, over your abdomen. Back between your thighs. “You got that little toy keepin’ you satisfied-“

“Not satisfied.” You breathe, head lolling to the side as Bucky resumes his tight circles on your clit. “Not you, Bucky, fuck-“

He groans, dragging you back into a deep kiss. You give him everything you have in return, nipping at his lips and yanking his hair. Bucky groans and picks you fully off the counter, walking you both to your room and kicking the door shut.

“You drive me fuckin’ crazy.” He grunts between kisses, his own steps getting a little uneven. “The stuff I wanna do to you, no way we’re covering it in one night. Years to make up for, gotta ration it.”

“Years?” You pull back, and Bucky grins.

“Oh yeah. You’re not the only one who’s not satisfied, babydoll.”

“But-“

“Ah.” He kisses you, lowering you onto the bed. “Nope. Not now.”

You frown up at him. “Bucky, you said we needed to talk-“

“And now I’m sayin’ not now. And if my memory’s right,” he grins down at you. “You’re the one who said she’d do whatever I want.”

You flush, crossing your arms over your chest, and Bucky laughs. He pulls his shirt off, and you almost fall backwards on the sheets like it’s an atomic blow.

There have been glimpses. Moments. You’ve been to the pool with him before, and he’d been shirtless there too.

But he hadn’t been standing over you, massive and radiating power. You hadn’t been close enough to trace your fingers over the scars littering his muscle, remnants from his time in the army. You reach up in a trace, tracing one closer to his pant line, and he flexes under your touch. A low sound rumbles through him, and he catches your wrist with a warning look.

You giggle. “You’re not the only one who’s sensitive.”

Bucky’s eyes flash, his voice dropping impossibly low. “I’m gonna fuck you until you can’t speak.”

Your shift in the sheets, more desire building in your already aching pussy. Bucky’s attention darts to the movement, and his throat bobs. Every muscle in his body strains, and you give him a sweet smile.

“Prove it.”

Bucky makes that deep, growling sound again and grabs your face between his hands. He presses over you, shoving his tongue down your throat, and this is the kiss you’d been expecting from before. Rough and starved, almost marking you as much as kissing you. He bullies you down into the mattress with his weight, and you spread your legs wide to accommodate him.

“You’re so soft.” He mutters, kneading your thighs as his mouth starts to trail hot kisses down your neck. “Thought about touchin’ you like this forever, about how beautiful you’d be under me. And let me tell you, baby,” he nips under your jaw. “Better than I managed to dream.”

You grind up below him, trying to chase a little more friction. You keep meeting the rough fabric of his jeans, and the drag is beautiful, but it’s still not enough.

“Needy girl.” Bucky drags your legs apart, pressing his hips firmly over your core. The sudden pressure does the trick, and you moan, tipping your head back in brief relief. “Yeah, you like that. Feels so good and I’m not even doin’ anything.”

“Bucky, don’t- Don’t tease-“

“But it’s so fun.” He coos, kissing the corner of your mouth. “You get all nervous, makes me want to stuff you up with cock and see how you squirm-“

You make a loud, wanting sound, trying to fuck your hips up into the air. But Bucky’s heavy. You can only claw at his shoulders, and it just makes him tease more.

His rolls his hips, dragging the bulge in his jeans over your burning core. Your mouth falls open, and he kisses you, sneaking and arm tight around your back.

The forced arch of your back makes your legs open widen, giving him further access. He starts to rut against your bare pussy, and it’s perfect torture. Your arms are tight enough around him to choke, but it doesn’t slow him down. Bucky dry fucks you, your pussy throbbing desperately for release, arousal trickling down your ass and every thrust filling you with a burning pleasure.

You hadn’t been lying. It’s been a long time. But that’s not the only reason why you’re already so close to the edge again. Bucky’s body is everywhere around you, his thick arms holding you tight, his lips wandering over your neck and cheeks, leaving sloppy, open-mouthed kisses. The friction is everything, he’s everything, and you don’t have enough restraint to fight it.

The orgasm is sudden and harsh, shaking your whole body. You claw at his back, twitching and whining in his ear. You didn’t know you could cum that hard, hard enough to make eyes close from the overwhelming sensation, and it’s just from dry humping.

Bucky groans in your ear and pulls back suddenly. His eyes are lidded, expression lustful, and his palm flexes near his bulge like he’s forcing himself not to rub it. Your breathing is uneven, your pussy still aching, and you reach down to try and rub your clit until he collects himself.

He catches your wrist and pins it to the mattress, shaking his head. “You just fuckin’ came, baby.”

“I- I know- I just-“ You try to turn, and Bucky slaps your cheek lightly. Forces your attention back to him.

“You’re a big girl. Use words.”

You want to glare at him, but something about the slightly mocking order makes your pussy throb. Bucky raises his brows, and you barely manage not to drool.

“Want more.” You mumble, and he grins.

“And?”

“And?”

“You what?”

You stare for a second, then roll your eyes. “Oh, fuck off.”

Bucky smirks, squeezing his hold on your wrist. “’S alright. We’ll get there.”

You stick out your tongue, and he hums.

“That’s not very nice, baby. Think we need to work on your manners.”

“My manners are fine-“

“You’re a brat.” He teases, and you flush.

“I am not-“

“Yeah, you are. You’re a wet, needy little fuckin’ brat.” Bucky starts to move your hand between your legs, and you pretend to try and pull away.

He sees the challenge, and yanks it down. Presses it against your core, making you shake. Your eyes flutter, and Bucky laughs.

“Look at you.

“You really still got that vibrator?”

You nod, and he pulls your hand up. kisses your knuckles, eyes sparkling. 

“Grab it.”

You scramble up the moment he lets go of you, yanking open your bedside drawer and pulling out the pink rabbit. Bucky grabs your hips before you can roll back over, pulling you backward with your ass in the air. You twist to look at him and find his attention entirely fixed on your core. On the mess between your legs.

He’s almost in a trance, as he drags two fingers through your pussy lips. You flutter, overly sensitive from before, and Bucky shoves his fingers right into your pussy.

You go limp, at the sudden stretch. Bucky’s fingers are everything you’d imagined they’d be, and more. Rough in all the right place, deft and thick, crooking right at the edges as he finds your g-spot faster than even you can sometimes. He hums like he’s figured out something interesting and kisses the curve of your ass. He starts to rub the tips of his fingers, massaging that happy, spongey place inside you, and you moan into the sheets.

“Bu- Bucky-“

“You’re tight.” He mutters, kissing between your ass and pussy, the tiny patch of skin that sends a shiver up your spine. “And wet. Gonna feel real good around my cock, babydoll. Got a perfect pussy for me to fill up.”

You make another desperate sound, and Bucky presses further in.

“Oh, that sounds good to you, doesn’t it. Getting stuffed full of my cum, being my pretty cockslut. I’d make you walk around with it after, wear a skirt so I can fuck you again whenever you run out. Fuck you until it’s stained on your legs, until everyone can fuckin’ smell it. ‘Till they know you’re mine.”

Your pussy clenches at the possessive promise, and Bucky groans.

“You wanna be mine, don’t you sweet girl.”

“Ye- Yes-“

Bucky yanks his fingers out of you unexpectedly, and you almost scream in frustration. You try to twist around again to chew him out, but he grabs the back of your neck and shoves you into the sheets. You go limp, trembling as tears prick at your eyes. Bucky arms snakes around your stomach, his thumb resting under your clit. Never touch it, or where your pussy is fluttering, desperate to be filled.

“Say it.” He grunts, and you shake your head. You’re not that easy.

Bucky doesn’t seem in any rush to give up though. He spanks your pussy, and you cry out in a mix of pain and delight.

“Say it.” He orders, and your hands fist in the sheets as he spanks your pussy again. You grind against him, chasing more, and he pinches your clit hard.

You almost fly out of your skin, a lewd, garbled plea escaping your lips as another orgasms rushes through you. This one is shorter, but no less consuming. You clench around nothing, mouth hanging stupidly open, and Bucky sucks near your throat, his teeth brushing and making the pleasure all the more intense.

“Fuckin’ brat.” He mutters, awe almost coating his voice. “I’m a damn saint, making you cum again when you’re so greedy. When you got this hungry little pussy, begging to be stuffed with cock, and I’m letting you go first.”

“Please,” you try to flip over, but Bucky’s hold on you is too strong. “Bucky, please- Please just fuck me.”

“Oh, I will.” He kisses under your ear, voice silken and taunting. “But not now, babydoll. Then we would’ve brought this out for nothing.”

“What’s-“

A buzzing sound fills the air, and your eyes widen.

“Bucky, wait-“

“You know, you get more sensitive after you cum.” Bucky drawls, dragging the thick tip of the rabbit up and down your pussy. You try to focus on your breathing, squeezing your eyes shut as your body starts to get swept away in a wildfire.

“God, fuck-“

“Quiet.” He grunts. “I’m trying to talk, sweetheart. Be good.”

You nod, biting on your lower lip, desperate to listen well. To be good.”

“Like I was saying.” Bucky drawls, shoving the vibrating dildo up against your clit, then yanking it away. “You get more sensitive. And I was thinking all night about your little confession. That you can cum just from listening to me talk.” Bucky hums, dragging the head down to rest right over your entrance. “I like a challenge, but I’m got enough on my hands with you today. And since I’m so nice.” He pushes the thick length a little inside you, and your pussy clenches around it. “I’m gonna give you some extra hands. Extra sensitive,” he gives your clit a series of tiny hits, shoving the rabbit in deeper. “Some fake fuckin’ cock to get you ready for the real thing, and me.”

Bucky drags you back into his lap, right as he shoves the dildo home. You almost scream as the smaller bit presses over your clit, the thicker part driven right against where Bucky already knew your g-spot was.

“Bucky- Holy shit-“

He pulls your face to the side, silencing you with a deep kiss as you shake. You’ve already cum twice. That’s more than usual, and you’re not sure if you’ve got another.

You don’t get to tell him that, though. You don’t think he’d care to hear it right now, and fuck, do you want to see him try.

“I said quiet.” He growls when he pulls away, and before you know what’s happening he’s shoving the same fingers that had been in your pussy into your mouth.

You melt immediately, sucking on them as your eyes flutter. Bucky groans in your ear, moving his free hand to hold the rabbit inside your gushing, oversensitive pussy.

“Good girl.” He drawls in your ear. “Didn’t even have to ask, you just knew didn’t you. Fuck, you suck my cock half this good I’m not gonna be able to last ten minutes.”

You moan, and Bucky kisses the corner of your jaw before continuing.

“I know you’d like that. What was it you said? That you wanted to touch me? When this is done we can get you on your knees. If you behave.” He nips at your sweaty skin. “I’ll let you suck my dick. I’ll even fuck your face if you ask real nice. I hope you’re nice, baby, cause I can imagine it. You crying, lips around me, fucking your fingers while you choke on my cock. My pretty baby, my sweet fuckin’ doll loving me so much.”

You slump back against him fully, hips rolling uselessly, and it’s more subtle this time. The heat building at the bottom of your tummy, winding tight and made of a strange pressure.

“You’re gonna say it.” He coos in your ear, and your pussy starts to fight against the rabbit. Like it knows you can barely take it.

But you can’t lend it much energy. You like this position well enough.

“After you cum for me again, I’ll fuck you. Fuck you properly like the brat that you are.” Bucky groans, pressing his nose into your hair. “Walking around, making me feel like I’m the asshole for wanting you, for loving you when you’re snapping off at me,you’re a mouthy fuckin’ thing, aren’t you babydoll. Lotta bark but,” he pushes his fingers further into your mouth. “Not even a little bit of bite.”

Your eyes roll back, head pressing into his shoulder, and you give him a silent look of pleading that’s only met with a mocking grin.

“So pretty like this, sweetheart. Stupid and quiet, I ain’t even fucked you yet. Won’t clean you up after you’re done, just let you walk around with it dripping. Maybe I’ll fuck you until it sticks. Until you’re mine.”

Your back arches, and you’re so close. You can feel Bucky’s dick twitch against your ass, and somewhere in the distance your thoughts manage to collect enough to tell you that he removed his bottoms at some point.

“Fuck, ‘course you’re into that. Shouldn’t have expected more from you, with how much you love this. You’re close, baby.” His lips tease the shell of your ear. “So close.”

You whimper, grinding down onto him as the dildo vibrates, and Bucky groans. He pins you down to his lap with a hiss, fingers flexing on your stomach.

“Shit- You can’t just-“

He presses his mouth where your neck meets your shoulder, kissing and sucking as his dick throbs against you, and his dirty talk becomes mumbled and deep. 

“My pretty fuckin’ girl, can’t even wait for it, cum for me, babydoll, come on, fuckin’  show me how much your greedy pussy wants my dick-“

The pressure breaks like a flood. Your pussy gushes so hard it pushes out the rabbit, and your head flies back as you grind into the air. Bucky moans, fully moans, and starts to rub your clit back and forth with the palm of his hand. You grab his wrist, spasming and trying to chase it and escape all at once. You whine as it becomes all too much, batting at Bucky’s hand.

He stops, collecting your release on his fingers.

When he presses them against your lips, you open. Hum as he feeds your own juices to you. All you can do is lap at his fingers and look at him under fluttering lashes, and he smiles.

“Good girl.” He coos, and your body seizes up again. You moan around his fingers, and Bucky laughs.

He pulls them out, turning your head for a gentle, deep kiss. You’re boneless and cockdrunk, only able to let him give and give whatever he’s willing. You can’t even try to drag him close.

Bucky rolls you over, making sure your back is pressed into the mattress as he kisses you lazily. He rises up after a few moments, his gaze raking down your body, and you flush. If you had more strength, you’d cover yourself. You’ve never been good at being looked at.

But there’s nothing expect awe and affection in Bucky’s eyes. He traces a hand over your every curve and softer spot, rising slowly on his knees to part your legs.

“You’re a miracle, baby.” He murmurs, pumping his cock in his hands and for once, you feel like one. “Look at what you do to me.”

You do, and you might be about to burst into flames.

Bucky’s thick. Long, but not enough to worry you, and thick. He’s going to drag, be able to get balls deep and make you feel him everywhere.

You’re drooling, and he sees it. He smirks knowingly, and you wrinkle your nose.

“Come on.” He teases. “Say it, and it’s all yours.”

You shake your head, and Bucky hums. Crawls back over your body, notching his cock right at your entrance. His hovers his lips over yours, not quite fully kissing.

“Say it.”

When you find your voice, it’s raspy and broken.

“No.”

“But you know you want to.” He presses the first inch inside, and if you’d had any worries about not being able to take more, they’re knocked away with how good he feels.

You were right. He’s an even bigger stretch than his two fingers, and it perfect. There’s a slight ache, but it’s overwhelmed by the closeness. By how well he fits, how much you need more of this brimming, explosive pleasure already threating to take you over.

“Just say it, pretty girl. Say it for me.”

You shake your head, and Bucky pushes further in, and your hands fly into his hair like they were pulled there.

He groans, rutting into you, and bottoms out. You didn’t know you could feel this good. Be this full. Bucky moans in your ear, and you breath slowly, trying to adjust.

“You feel so good.” He smashes his lips over yours, the kiss demanding and long. “Knew you’d feel this good, always knew you’d feel this good, Christ-“

You roll your hips up, and it makes Bucky jerk. He slams into you, knocking the air from your lungs, and your toes curl in delight.

He barks your name, grabbing your jaw, and you beam at him.

“More.” You breathe, and Bucky’s eyes widen in slight surprise.

He recovers fast.

“Yeah?” He pulls out slowly, then slams back in, his tip kissing your cervix. “You like that? Like being fucked like a toy?”

You moan happily, and Bucky laughs.

“Thought you might surprise me, babydoll, but no.” He taps your cheek, and you open without a thought. “You’re just the pretty cockslut I thought you were.”

He drags all the way out again, but this time pushes in slower. You whine, but he doesn’t even acknowledge you, setting a slow pace that feels good, but is far too much. The roughness made you numb with a good, fuzzy sensation, but this makes you feel it. Bucky’s cock dragging against your gummy walls, the press of him over your g-spot and heat of him, right over your clit.

You can barely take it. You’re already so fucked out from the other orgasms, you’re barely able to hold onto Bucky properly. You think you might be about to black out from pleasure, but no part of you wants him to stop altogether, and how you’re trapped somewhere between paradise and hell.

“Look at you.” He grabs one of your breasts, palming it as he thrusts smooth and deep. “Nobody else does this to you, do they. Makes you feel so good, gets you so stupid on their cock.”

You shake your head, and Bucky taps your mouth again.

“Words.”

“Bucky…”

“Want to hear you, sweet girl.” He kisses your cheek, words pure filth in your ears. “Here you scream for me while I fuck you, hear how much you love it.”

“Can’t-“

“Yes, you can.” He slams a little firmer, giving you a pointed look. “Good girls listen. And when they listen,” he repeats the motion, holding your gaze. “They get filled up.”

You whimper, but nod. Bucky smiles in satisfaction, returning to his torturous speed from before.

“Anyone else do this to you?” He grunts, and you shake your head.

“No- No. Never, Bucky, only you-“

He groans, picking up his pace. “That’s fuckin’ right. No one fucks you like this, I’m gonna ruin you. If you wanna cum you’ll have to find me, I’m the only one who plays this perfect fuckin’ pussy- Shit-“ He groans, jaw clenching as he hits a little deeper than before. “Nobody takes care of you like me-“

“No one.” You echo, and you’re rewarded with another rough slam. “No one, Bucky, only- Only wanted you, needed you- Fuck-“ You cry out, pressing your cheek into his jaw. “You and your thick cock, needed you so bad-“

“I know. I know, babydoll, but I’m here now.” He kisses you quickly, speeding up again.

It’s enough to make you start to feel it again. Not slowly building, but being dragged out. The tip of Bucky’s cock drags through you, and that hot feeling in your core starts to fill up again. 

“Wanted to do this for so long.” He groans in your ear, and a loud moan escapes your lips. “You really got no idea, I thought I was gonna lose it every time I saw you, thought you’d never let me- God-“

You clench around him, and Bucky angles your hips up, allowing him to hit deeper. You moan, and he kisses the back of your neck, sucking a dark mark.

“My girl.” He mutters possessive, and you babble an agreement. “My smart, mean fucking baby, drunk on my cock. Prettiest girl in the world, mine-“

You moan, and Bucky cuts himself off with a groan. He kisses you again, then rises over you. Bracing his arms on either side of your head as he looks to where he’s fucking into you. Your gaze follows, and the warmth in your gut flares at the sight.

It’s the most vulgar, pornographic thing you’ve ever seen. Bucky’s thick cock, sliding in and out of you with ease. Precum and your own need for him shining on the thickness of him, his chest flexing with restraint as he forces himself to keep the same pace. You watch his cock vanish into your body, and feel him deep inside you, and God-

You look up, checking if Bucky’s as strangely moved by that as you are, and find him staring at you. The moment your eyes meet, he grabs your jaw, pressing you back down into the pillows with a rough kiss. You’re unable to do anything but take it all. Bucky’s tongue pressing down your throat, his lips moving expertly over yours, his cock fucking every word but his name out of your head.

“Look at me.” He rasps when he pulls away, and you nod.

His eyes are almost wholly black, and shining. Tears prick at yours, but Bucky leans down, kissing them away before going faster again.

His balls start to slap on your ass, his cock pumping in and out of you until it’s all you can think about. Bucky deep inside you, lighting you up, how you can feel a rush up your spine with his every thrust. A lewd, wet sound is filling the room as he pounds into you. Your pussy burns and spasms every time, but it’s too good to fight.

Bucky’s too good to fight. You don’t know why you tried for so long.

“Bucky-“ You breathe, and he grunts.

“You’re close, sweetheart.” He mutters, and you don’t know how he knows, but he’s right.

You’re about to snap again. To lose it from how he’s fucking you like you’re a doll and the love of his life, all at once. You grab his wrist, squeezing tight.

“Pretty girl,” he teases. “Gonna soak this cock like a good girl, aren’t you. Give it to me, baby, show me how much you love it-“

“Love you.” You breathe out, and Bucky freezes.

Balls deep, he stills. His cock throbs in protest, but he doesn’t seem to care. 

You blink at him, praying you didn’t ruin it. Bucky swallows, and rasps out your name.

“What?”

“I- I love you- Oh.”

He jerks into you when you say it, and you almost fly out of your skin.

“Fuck, Bucky- I- I love you-“

It happens again, but you don’t think he’s doing it to mess with you. He can barely seem to control himself, his attention almost feral as his cock jumps inside you.

“I- I love you- Oh my god-“

Bucky dives over you, kissing you like he’s trying to steal the words from your mouth. Like he can taste them.

“Damn right you do.” He grunts, cock dragging inside you as he starts to fuck you, shallow and brutal. “Love you, love you so much, you’re-“

He kisses you, and somewhere through the floating, hazy dreamworld his cock is fucking you into, you think he’s run out of words.

Bucky’s fucking you like an animal, because there’s nothing left for either of you to say. He pulls your hips back up to that angle from before, returning to that pace from before that pulled the confession out of you. You’re in incoherent, babbling mess, tugging at the sheets and watching Bucky above you like he’s God.

“Good girl.” Is all he’s grunting out, but it’s deep and every word of a noise than anything else. “Mine, my good fucking girl, gonna fill you up, you’re-“ He moans, doubling over your body as his thrusts become short and harsh. “You’re perfect-“

From nowhere, you find the strength to reach up and grab Bucky’s face. You pull it down, kissing him with every word you’re too ruined to say, and he moans.

Bucky slams home, muttering your name against your lips like a prayer. You can feel him everywhere. Hot and sticky, pumping deep into your own heat, coating your walls, dripping out and running down your ass. When Bucky starts to move again, slow and lazy, he presses it deeper, spreads it everywhere.

It’s hot on your clit, and Bucky’s still jerking and spraying inside of you. You’ve never been this full, it’s addicting. Your brain is empty, body alight with the feeling, Bucky’s cum so thick and demanding that you could swear you feel it washing through your whole body.

He reaches between your legs to rub your clit.

You get there all on your own.  

Your vision goes white, as you cum. You’re so out of it you feel it the same way you feel a cool breeze. Light and relieving, washing over the heat inside you and pulling a happy sigh from your lips.

Bucky kisses you, and this time it’s only sweet. All his mean words and taunts so easily dissolve as you reach up, running your fingers through his hair. He smiles against your lips, and you smile back.

“Told you I’d do it.” He mutters, and you shove his chest with a weak laugh.

“Shut up.”

He grins, moving up to kiss your brow, then the side of your face. He’s still buried inside you. Neither of you are in a rush to move any time soon.

“You mean it, though.” He pauses, moving back over your body.

There are those worry lines again. You reach up with a tiny smile, and soothe your fingers over them. Bucky hums, leaning into your touch, and you smile.

“Yeah.” You whisper, and his shoulders sag.

“Thank god.” He presses his face between your breasts. “That would’ve been bad.”

You laugh, running your fingers through his hair, and he wraps his arms around your body. He’s slid out a little, but you’re still connected to him, and you never want to move again.

“How long?” He mutters against you, tilting his head to meet your gaze. “Cause mine was when I saw you.”

You flush stupidly—he’s inside you—and mumble, “Me too.”

Bucky frowns. “But you were always- “

“And were you any better?”

He snorts, leaning up to peck your cheek. “Fair shot.”

“I know.” You snip, then, “You- You meant yours, right? I mean- What you said while…”

You trail off, because you didn’t imagine it. I love you and mine, too sincere to just be dirty talk.

Bucky rises back over you, gently guiding your gaze back to his. He smiles when your eyes meet, and kisses the tip of your nose.

“With everything I fuckin’ got.” He mutters, and you smile.

“Good.”

“I know. I mean, I did really well for myself- I’m complimenting you, woman!”

You’d shoved him, and Bucky grabs your wrists, wrestling them down into the mattress. He looks at you with a rough, fond exasperation.

“You’re a gremlin.”

“You like it.” You beam up at him, and he lower back down, kissing you lightly.

“Tough curse.” He mutters. “But I’m enjoying it.”

You roll your eyes at him, and he grins. Beautiful and all yours.

“Can we stay here for a while?” You ask, just because you want to have this, and sit in it. “Please.”

Bucky nods, and you feel your heart shine like it’s been given new batteries. Beating out of your chest and comfortably all at once, as Bucky rolls you both onto your sides, wrapping tight around you.

“We can do whatever you want.” He mutters, rubbing your hips and kissing the marks on your neck.

You relax, because you believe him. About all of it.

And now, you have him with you for all the time in the world.

the heat sat on the delta like a hand over a mouth.

even after sundown, it did not lift. it just changed shape. the white-hot, punishing blaze of afternoon gave way to something wetter, heavier, almost intimate in the dark, until the whole world seemed to sweat and breathe and pulse under the moon. the cicadas screamed from the trees. frogs called from the ditch behind the house. somewhere farther off, a dog barked once, then thought better of it. the air smelled like river mud and pine sap and old wood and the sweet rot of summer gone too ripe.

your little house held the heat long after the sun had slipped away. it clung to the walls, to the iron bedstead in the back room, to the thin cotton of your nightdress, to the nape of your neck where your hair had curled damp and wild. the windows were cracked open, but all they let in was more of it: more heat, more noise, more thick night pressing in.

you ought to have been asleep.

but remmick had made sleep a difficult thing lately.

it had started, as most troubles did, with a knock.

then another.

then that low, velvet drawl from the other side of your door, half-laughing and half-pleading, soft enough not to wake the whole lane, but pitched just right to crawl up under your skin.

“c’mon now, darlin’. don’t make me stand out here all lonesome.”

the first time, you’d frozen in your chair. the second, you’d rolled your eyes. by the third week, you had taken to sitting up with the lamp turned low and a book in your lap you never actually read, listening for the sound of his boots on your porch boards the way a body listens for thunder.

you did not know what exactly remmick was.

not in clean terms. not in church words. not in anything sensible enough to say aloud in daylight.

you only knew there was something not right in him.

something old.

something hungry.

a man did not show up at your back steps near dawn with blood drying black-brown on his collar and laugh it off as “a little trouble down the road.” a man did not stand outside your threshold with his hat in his hands and all that long, deliberate charm in his voice, and then stop so sharp it almost looked painful every time your doorframe cut between him and the inside of your house. a man did not eye the dark of your rooms like he wanted in so bad it made his jaw shake, only to stay planted on the porch no matter how sweetly he talked.

not unless something in him could not cross.

and you were not stupid.

so you made him beg.

not because you were cruel.

though, some nights, with the moon throwing silver over his mouth and his eyes gone strange and bright beneath the brim of his hat, you had a little meanness in you, and knew it.

mostly, though, you made him beg because it felt safer that way. because if he had to stand there and ask, and ask pretty, and ask again, then maybe you still held the upper hand in whatever it was growing between you.

he seemed to enjoy it, too. lord help you, he did.

he would stand with one shoulder leaned to the post, shirt half-open at the throat, dark hair falling over his forehead, and smile that crooked, wicked smile like the whole thing was a private game.

“you gon’ let me in tonight?”

“no.”

“you ain’t even gon’ think on it?”

“i am thinkin’ on it now.”

“and?”

“still no.”

that would make him laugh low in his chest, head tipping back a little.

“you got a mean streak in you, honey.”

“you keep comin’ back.”

“can’t seem to help myself.”

that part, at least, you believed.

he kept coming back.

night after night. never before full dark. never in broad morning. always after the world had gone soft and secretive, when the lamplight looked gold in your window and the crickets got to sawing away like they meant to cut the whole night in half.

some evenings he came neat and pressed, slick as sin in suspenders and polished boots, smelling faintly of tobacco and summer rain and whatever sweet oil he rubbed through his hair.

some evenings he came with his tie gone, shirt wrinkled, mouth too red.

and once or twice he came with blood on him.

never his own, you had thought.

until tonight.

you had nearly banked the lamp and gone to bed when you heard him stumble against the porch rail.

not knock.

stumble.

the sound was wrong enough that you were at the door before good sense caught up.

“remmick?”

for one second, there was only your own voice in the wet dark.

then, from just beyond the screen, low and rough and not half so playful as usual:

“mm. i’m here, honey.”

you lifted the lamp higher.

he stood on your porch with one hand braced hard against the post, bent a little through the middle like he was trying not to show it. his shirt was open and stuck wet to his skin. at first you thought it was sweat.

then the light hit him proper.

blood.

dark and fresh and too much of it, soaking the shoulder of his shirt and slicking down his side.

your breath caught.

“good god.”

he tried for a smile and barely managed it.

“that bad?”

you stared at him through the screen, pulse suddenly loud in your ears. even hurt, even pale under the dark gold of his skin, he had that same terrible beauty about him. those expressive eyes, that lean, strong mouth, that old, amused danger in the line of him. but tonight the danger looked dulled by pain. thinned. his lashes were damp. his breathing too shallow.

“what happened to you?”

“folk who don’t know when to quit,” he muttered. “an’ i ain’t in the mood to spin you a prettier tale.”

you should have sent him away.

you knew that as clearly as you knew your own name.

whatever he was, however sweetly he drawled and grinned and leaned against your doorway night after night, he was not safe. and blood made him less safe, not more.

but then his hand slipped on the post.

just a little.

just enough to show you how much it cost him to stay standing.

his face tightened. his eyes shut for one beat. when he opened them again, all that smooth charm had thinned down into something rawer.

“i know i ain’t earned much from you,” he said quietly. “but i could use a hand tonight.”

the cicadas went on screaming.

the lamp hissed low in your grip.

and you, fool that you were, slid back the bolt.

his gaze dropped at once to your hand on the latch.

then up to your face.

something moved in his expression. not triumph. not exactly. something more shaken than that.

you opened the door just enough to stand in the gap.

“you step inside this house,” you said, very carefully, “and you do exactly what i say.”

his mouth curved faintly, though pain still pinched the corners.

“yes, ma’am.”

“don’t start.”

“ain’t startin’. just appreciatin’.”

you pulled the door wider.

“get in.”

it was the strangest thing.

for all the weeks of his asking, all the nights of his smiling up at your porch and teasing at your temper, he did not stride in. did not swagger. did not act like a man who had finally won.

he paused at the threshold like it mattered.

like he felt it.

his eyes lowered, lashes dark against his cheek. for one second his whole body seemed to hold. then he stepped over the line of your door as slow and deliberate as a prayer.

heat moved with him.

not literal heat. something stranger. a pressure, maybe, or a hum, as if the room itself knew something old had crossed into it.

you shut the door behind him fast and set the bolt.

when you turned back, he had gone pale enough to show the sharp bones of his face.

“chair,” you said, pointing.

he obeyed.

that, more than anything, rattled you.

remmick always obeyed eventually, but with a smirk, with a murmur, with some sly little answer tucked in his pocket. tonight he took the straight-backed chair by your table and sat like the effort of lowering himself hurt.

you put the lamp closer and went for the basin and clean rags with your heart beating too hard.

“you pass out in my kitchen, i’ll be furious.”

his laugh came softer this time.

“wouldn’t dream of it.”

“shut up.”

“yes, ma’am.”

you shot him a look over your shoulder and he smiled a little wider despite himself. but it faded quickly when you came back and pushed his shirt off his shoulder.

the wound ran ugly under the collarbone and down toward his ribs, half-clotted, half-seeping, the skin around it sticky and hot.

“knife?” you asked.

“somethin’ like.”

“you need a doctor.”

“no,” he said at once, too sharp. then, gentler, “no doctors.”

you looked at him.

he held your gaze steadily enough that you let it go.

“fine. then you get me clean water and honesty.”

“one outta two ain’t bad.”

you dipped the rag and pressed it to his shoulder. he hissed.

“sit still.”

“tryin’.”

you worked in silence for a little while, cleaning the blood away, trying not to think too hard about the feel of him under your hands. his skin was hot. hotter than it ought to have been. the muscles in his chest jumped each time you touched too near the cut. now and then, when the rag dragged rough, his fingers flexed hard over his own knee.

but he did not move away.

he watched you.

that, too, you tried not to think about.

the room smelled of blood and lamp oil and summer damp, and beneath it all, him. some dark, green, clean scent like crushed leaves after rain.

after a while you felt his gaze settle heavier on your face.

“what?” you muttered.

his voice, when it came, was quieter than you expected.

“you lettin’ me in is liable to spoil me.”

you snorted. “you’re spoiled already.”

“no, honey. not like this.”

you looked up then.

he was slouched a little with the pain, one arm hanging loose at his side, dark hair damp at his temples, eyes half-lidded but fixed on you with a kind of strange, open hunger that had nothing to do with blood.

it made your stomach flip.

you pressed the clean rag harder than necessary to his shoulder.

he winced.

“serves you right.”

“that your bedside manner?”

“that’s my porch manner too. you keep forgettin’.”

his head tipped back against the chair and he smiled tiredly at the ceiling.

“an’ still i come runnin’.”

“you did not come runnin’. you came bleedin’.”

that got a real laugh out of him. brief, rough, but real.

then his eyes came back to yours.

“you gon’ tell me to leave once you’re done patchin’ me?”

you wrung out the cloth. “depends.”

“on?”

you set the basin aside. reached for the salve.

“whether you bleed on my floor.”

his gaze dropped to your mouth.

“what if i got somethin’ sweeter in mind to make it up t’you?”

your hand paused.

the whole room seemed to hold its breath.

he saw you go still and something changed in him then, sharpened and softened all at once, until the look he gave you was half-starved and half-devotional.

“c’mon, baby,” he murmured, voice gone velvet-thick. “been standin’ out on that porch near every night askin’ real nice. let me thank you proper.”

you swallowed.

“you’re hurt.”

“mouth ain’t.”

that sent a flush hot as fever right through you.

he saw it.

lord, he saw it, and his lips parted on a slow, aching breath.

“there she is,” he whispered. “knew you had a soft spot.”

you should have slapped that smile off him.

instead you sat there with the salve in your hand and your heart in your throat, staring at the wicked, wounded thing you’d let over your threshold at last.

and the worst part was how sorry you felt for him.

how badly you wanted to hear him beg.

the room held still around the two of you.

the lamp hissed low. the frogs kept up their racket in the ditch. somewhere in the walls, old wood popped as the house gave up the day’s heat inch by inch. remmick sat there half-open and blood-warm in your kitchen chair with his shirt hanging off one shoulder and that look on his face — that look that always seemed halfway between hunger and amusement until tonight, when pain had worn the amusement thin and left the hunger looking raw.

you set the tin of salve down harder than you meant to.

“you get patched first.”

his mouth twitched.

“yes, ma’am.”

“and stop callin’ me that.”

“you say jump, i say yes, ma’am, an’ somehow i’m the one in trouble.”

“you always in trouble.”

you dipped your fingers into the salve. it had gone a little soft with the heat, smelling sharp and herbal — camphor and tallow and something bitter you’d bought from an old woman outside greenville who swore it drew poison and bad blood out of a cut.

“this’ll sting.”

remmick looked at your hand, then at your face.

“ain’t the first sting i’ve known.”

“you are unbearable.”

“that your way of sayin’ you were worried?”

“that’s my way of sayin’ if you bleed on my good chair i’ll bury you myself.”

that did it. he laughed again, quieter now, but enough that the line of strain around his mouth eased for a second. and then you touched the salve to the wound.

he hissed through his teeth.

his hand jerked on his knee.

“sit still.”

“woman, i am sittin’ still.”

“you are squirming like a child.”

“i am grievously injured.”

“you are dramatic.”

“i’m dyin’.”

you snorted. “somehow i doubt that.”

his eyes flicked up then, dark and bright all at once.

“maybe you ought not.”

the answer came before your good sense had time to stop it.

“ought not what?”

“ought not doubt it.”

something in the way he said it turned the air colder than the open windows had managed all night. not threatening. not even quite solemn. just true in a way that made your skin tighten.

you kept your hand steady against his shoulder.

“what’re you, remmick?”

he let his head tip back against the chair, throat moving once on a swallow. when he looked at you again, he was smiling, but there was no lightness in it.

“you got a guess.”

you did.

you had a dozen.

none of them fit easy in the mouth.

you smoothed more salve over the torn flesh, watching the white grease turn pink beneath your fingers.

“i know what folks whisper,” you said carefully. “about things walkin’ after dark. about men with blood on their collars and no face in a mirror.”

his gaze sharpened at that.

“you checked?”

you did not answer, which was answer enough.

that morning three weeks ago, after the first time he’d stood on your porch too long with moonlight all over him and that impossible stillness in his body, you had let your eyes slide, just by chance, to the little looking glass hanging crooked by your door.

you had seen your own pale face. the flicker of the lamp. the boards behind you.

and nothing of him.

not even a blur.

he watched understanding settle over you now and gave a small, tired nod, as if some last pretense had finally been put down.

“must be invited in,” he murmured. “garlic makes me sick enough to wish for death. no lookin’ glass’ll claim me. sun’ll kill me dead. stake me through the heart an’ i stay put. immortal besides, which ain’t near so glamorous as it sounds.”

the salve went cold on your fingertips.

“lord.”

“not him neither,” he said softly.

you would have laughed if your heart had not been beating up in your throat.

instead you stared at the beautiful, blood-wet thing sitting in your kitchen chair and tried to make all the pieces of him fit together in your mind. the oldness you’d felt on the porch. the hunger. the way he’d never crossed your threshold until you told him he could. the garlic he’d once pushed so quietly to the far edge of his plate at a church supper and never touched. the mirror. the blood.

and somehow the thing that came out of your mouth was:

“so you were just gon’ tell me?”

his smile came back, crooked and weary.

“seemed rude not to, after you let me in.”

you shook your head like that could settle anything at all.

“you ought to be ashamed.”

“of wantin’ in your house? yes, ma’am.”

“of bein’ an undead creature in my chair makin’ jokes.”

“honey, if i stop makin’ jokes, you’re liable to get truly nervous.”

you were truly nervous already.

and something much worse beneath it.

because now his impossible nature sat plain between you, named at last, and still you had your fingers spread over the hard muscle of his shoulder, still you were tending him, still you had not opened the door and told him to get out of your house and never darken it again.

that had to mean something unwise.

you dipped your fingers back in the salve and smoothed a final layer over the wound. the bleeding had slowed to a sticky shine.

“hold this,” you said, pressing a clean folded cloth into his hand.

he obeyed.

still no smirk. still no sly remark. just those eyes on your face, following every motion you made like he’d tied himself to the sight of you.

you reached for the roll of bandage and tore off the first strip with your teeth.

his gaze dropped to your mouth. lingered. when it came back up, the hunger in him had changed shape. not gone. never gone, you suspected. but sharpened somewhere else.

you stepped close to bind his shoulder and he drew a breath that shook a little.

“easy now,” he muttered.

“what?”

“you all up on me like this.” his voice had gone lower, rough around the edges. “ain’t fit for a gentleman.”

“you ain’t a gentleman.”

“no,” he said softly. “that’s the trouble.”

you looped the bandage under his arm and over the salved cut, fingers brushing hot skin as you worked. to keep the wrap snug, you had to stand close — very close — and for one miserable second the side of your breast brushed his bare chest through the thin cotton of your dress.

remmick went perfectly still. then you felt it. a tremor. small. involuntary. running through him all at once.

you looked up.

he was staring at your mouth. not smiling. not teasing. just looking at it like a starving man made to watch a table set before supper.

“remmick.”

he blinked once, slowly, and seemed to drag himself back by force.

“finish your patchwork, honey.”

“you are strange.”

“that’s one word for me.”

you tied the bandage off neat and snug. he looked down at it, flexed the shoulder once, then rolled it carefully.

“well?”

“you’ll live.”

“that doesn't much matter since i ain't alive.”

you should have stepped back then.

instead you lingered half a beat too long with your hands still near his chest, and in that beat his eyes changed again. the joking fell away. pain was still there, yes. and that old dangerous thing under his skin. but now there was something almost worse than either one.

need.

plain and undressed and humiliatingly open.

“baby,” he said.

the word came out in a frayed whisper.

you froze.

remmick had called you darlin’ and honey and sugar and every other smooth little southern thing a devil with a pretty mouth might pull from his pocket.

but not that.

not like that.

“don’t start,” you murmured, though it sounded weaker than you meant.

his hand left the cloth at his shoulder and came up, slow enough that you could have stepped away if you’d wanted to. he did not touch you. just hovered there near your hip, fingers flexing empty in the air.

“please.”

your stomach flipped hard.

it was indecent, the sound of it. not his accent, not his usual silk. this was rough and raw and almost boyish with want. the voice of somebody sick with it.

you narrowed your eyes to buy yourself time.

“please what.”

his lips parted. shut. then parted again. and for the first time since you’d known him, remmick looked shy. it sat strangely on that old face of his. on that body made of long, lean menace and charm. looked wrong enough to be real.

“lemme have a taste.”

your pulse jumped. because of course. because vampire. because your mind went first and fastest to the dark wet hunger in him and the blood still scenting the room.

your own voice came out sharper than you meant.

“absolutely not.”

his brow pinched.

“what?”

“you got enough blood in you already tonight.”

it took him a second.

then a flush climbed under his skin — not quite human, not quite shame, but hot enough to see.

“no, baby,” he said, with something very close to a whine breaking the word. “not that.”

you stared.

his eyes dropped.

slowly.

to the hem of your nightdress.

and lower still, as if he could see through cotton and skin and everything you’d tried to keep put away.

then back up to your face.

“that sweet little cooze of yours,” he said, voice gone thick as summer mud. “that’s what i’m beggin’ for.”

the lamp flame gave one queer little jump.

you forgot for one full second how to breathe.

he saw every bit of it.

lord, he saw the shock, the heat, the offense you wanted and failed to call up, and he made a sound in the back of his throat like all of it only made him hungrier.

“you shameless thing.”

“yes,” he whispered at once. “yes, ma’am. i am.”

his hand finally landed, light as anything, at the side of your calf. not grabbing. not taking. just there.

“please, baby,” he said, and now there really was a plea in it, real and ragged and awful. “i promise i’ll be good f’you. i swear it. leave you alone after this if that’s what you want. jus’ need a taste, honey. please. i’m dyin’.”

you almost laughed at the absurdity of an immortal creature with blood still at the corner of his mouth saying he was dying for your cooze.

but the laugh never came.

because his eyes had gone wet.

actually wet.

and then, before you could make sense of that at all, one tear slipped loose and tracked hot and sudden down his cheek.

you went still.

“remmick.”

he shut his eyes like he hated that you’d seen it, and his hand tightened around your calf just enough to betray him.

“don’t do that,” he muttered hoarsely.

“do what.”

“say my name like i’m somethin’ pitiful.”

“you are pitiful.”

another tear slid free. then another.

it should have looked ridiculous.

it did, a little. this old beautiful devil in your chair with his shoulder bandaged and his mouth gone red and his eyes shining up at you while he begged to put his tongue between your legs.

but it looked worse than ridiculous, too. it looked sincere.

his lower lip had gone wet too, not with blood now. with drool. you watched it gather there, watched him swallow and fail to get himself under hand.

“baby,” he said again, softer this time, voice shaking. “please. i ain’t proud. i know that. don’t even want pride tonight. jus’ want t’put my face in it. make you feel good. lemme do that much.”

your own knees had gone strangely weak.

“you are not right.”

“never said i was.” he opened his eyes and looked at you full. “say no, an’ i’ll go. truly. won’t trouble your porch tonight.”

you knew that was a lie. he would trouble your porch until judgment day if given half a chance. but the offer hung there between you, humid and trembling and indecent.

outside, the frogs kept on calling. the porch boards clicked once as the night settled deeper. somewhere down the lane, a radio played low and far-off, all trumpet and sorrow. and inside your kitchen, a vampire sat in your chair with tears on his face and want slick on his mouth and your name trembling at the back of his teeth.

you should have sent him away.

instead, because you were foolish and summer-soft and a little bit cruel, you lifted one brow and said:

“how good.”

his breath hitched.

“what?”

“you said you’d be good for me.” you crossed your arms. “how good.”

that near undid him.

his whole head dropped forward. another shudder went through him, so hard it looked painful. when he lifted his face again, there was no charm left in it at all. no teasing. just desperate, open need.

“best you ever had,” he whispered. “best i got in me. i’ll pray to it. worship it. talk sweet to it till you’re too dumb to answer back. c’mon, honey. don’t make me cry no more ‘less that’s what gets you off.”

the heat that swept you then felt like fever.

he saw that too and moaned, low and raw and grateful, tears still standing in his lashes.

“there she is,” he breathed.

your voice came out hushed.

“you cryin’ over it is not helpin’ your case.”

“liar,” he whispered.

he shifted in the chair then, and you saw the plain, awful state of him under his trousers — hard enough it looked cruel, all that ache and hunger packed into him while he sat there begging for something that had nothing to do with blood at all.

“jus’ a taste,” he said again, nearly shaking with it. “i’ll be gentle. please, baby. please.”

you ought to have found that power and enjoyed it. maybe part of you did.

but mostly you just felt a strange, twisted pity opening in your chest, hot and helpless and dangerous as a match struck in dry grass.

because vampire or not, immortal or not, creature or devil or whatever old dark thing sat bleeding in your kitchen chair—

he looked wrecked for you.

and that was its own kind of wickedness.

you set your palm against the table to steady yourself.

“if i let you,” you said carefully, “you do exactly as i tell you.”

his answer came quick as breath.

“yes, ma’am.”

“and if i say stop—”

“i stop.”

“and you don’t take nothin’ else from me tonight.”

the look he gave you then was almost offended.

“honey.” his fingers flexed gently on your calf. “i’m askin’ for your cooze, not your soul.”

you should have slapped him. instead your mouth betrayed you first, twitching at the corners. remmick saw that tiny slip and nearly broke clean in two with relief.

“baby,” he whispered, almost crying again. “baby, please.”

you looked at the tear still clinging under one eye. the wet shine at his mouth. the bandage at his shoulder. the hunger all over him.

and because the night was too hot and too old and too full of things best left unnamed, you heard yourself say:

“then get on your knees.”

his whole body went still.

utterly still.

as if the world itself had stopped under him.

then he let out the strangest sound — half sob, half laugh, half some starving thing finally hearing grace — and looked up at you like he might drop dead from gratitude before he ever got his mouth where he wanted it.

he drops.

not graceful. not slow. not with any shred of the old sly swagger he wore on your porch night after night.

the second the words leave your mouth, remmick is on his knees so fast the chair legs scrape loud across your floorboards. his hands land on your calves like he’s afraid the whole thing might vanish if he does not hold onto something real, and for one beat he just stays there looking up at you.

you have never seen a face like that.

relief has split him wide open. it shines all over him — in the wetness still caught in his lashes, in the way his mouth trembles, in the helpless, hungry gratitude that has made a ruin of all his usual composure. drool glistens at the corner of his lips. his chest rises hard and uneven under the open ruin of his shirt. even his bandaged shoulder seems forgotten, pain drowned out by the permission you have just given him.

“oh, baby,” he breathes, voice breaking right down the middle. “oh, sweet thing—”

another tear slips free.

you stare down at him, half heated clean through and half shocked stupid by the sight of him. because this is ridiculous. because he is ridiculous. an immortal creature with blood still drying at his collar, crying in your kitchen because you told him he could put his mouth on your cooze.

and somehow that only makes it worse.

his thumbs move once over the inside of your calves, reverent as prayer.

“thank you,” he whispers. “thank you, thank you—”

“lord, hush.”

“can’t.”

“you can.”

“no, honey,” he says, eyes fixed on the hem of your nightdress like he can see straight through it. “no, i truly can’t.”

he leans in then, slow and trembling, and presses one hot, open-mouthed kiss to the inside of your knee. the heat of it shoots up through you fast enough that your hand flies to the edge of the table.

remmick hears the little hitch in your breath and groans.

“there it is,” he whispers, more to himself than to you. “there she is.”

his mouth drifts higher. another kiss. another. each one wetter than the last, his control slipping even in that. by the time his lips brush the thin cotton between your thighs, the whole front of your nightdress is damp with the heat of your body and the wet mess of his mouth.

you suck in a breath.

he shudders so hard it almost looks like pain.

“bedroom,” you hear yourself say.

his head snaps up.

“what?”

“if you carry on in my kitchen, i’m liable to die of shame.”

that gets the ghost of a laugh out of him, but it’s swallowed quickly by need. he wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand and then seems to think better of it, because he goes right back to looking at you like a starving man.

“bedroom,” you repeat, sharper now because if you don’t get moving he may well eat you standing up against the icebox.

he is on his feet in an instant.

too fast for a hurt man. too fast for a living man, maybe.

one moment he is kneeling with tears and drool on his face, the next his hands are at your waist, careful and trembling and all but lifting you off the floor with how badly he wants to.

“show me,” he says, voice gone rough as gravel. “show me where.”

you ought to feel fear at that speed, at that strength, at the way his whole body hums with something older and deeper than hunger.

instead you point down the hall.

and remmick all but shepherds you there, one big hand splayed at the small of your back, the other hovering near your hip like he cannot keep from touching you but is trying, trying still, to behave.

your bedroom is warmer than the kitchen, close and dim and full of summer dark. the sheets lie rumpled back on the bed. moonlight leaks pale through the cracks in the curtains. the little lamp at your bedside throws a low amber circle over the quilt and the iron rails.

you have barely crossed the threshold before he is there behind you.

not grabbing. not yet.

just breathing hard against the nape of your neck.

“can i?” he whispers.

that near undoes you more than all the begging did.

because now he asks.

now, when he is practically fevered with it, when his mouth is wet and his eyes are wild and his body wants, wants, wants — now he asks.

you turn toward him and catch his face in your hands before you can think better of it.

his eyes flutter shut at the touch.

“yes,” you whisper.

he groans like you have struck him.

then he bends, gets one arm behind your knees and the other at your back, and lifts you onto the bed with a care so at odds with the desperation in him it makes your chest ache. he lays you down, then stands over you for one terrible, suspended second staring at the length of you in your thin white nightdress.

his throat works.

“you gon’ kill me,” he says softly.

“you said you was immortal.”

“don’t feel like it.”

you ought to answer with something tart.

instead you watch him sink down to his knees at the side of your bed and all your wit goes elsewhere.

because now the nearness of him changes. the theatrical, porch-lit begging has dropped away. what’s left is lower, rougher, almost worshipful. he gets his hands under the hem of your dress and slides it up your calves, your knees, your thighs, and every inch he reveals seems to cost him another ounce of good sense.

by the time the cotton pools at your waist, his breathing has gone ragged.

“oh my god,” he says.

not smooth. not drawled. not teasing.

plain awe.

it goes straight through you.

“remmick—”

“thank you,” he says at once, staring down between your legs like he has stumbled onto salvation. “baby, thank you.”

you open your mouth.

nothing comes out.

because he leans in before you can say a word and puts his face there like he has been denied a thing for a hundred years.

the first touch of his tongue is hot and broad and indecently wet.

you jolt so hard the bed creaks.

he moans into you.

actually moans.

the sound vibrates through the softest part of you and the breath leaves your body in one helpless rush.

“there she is,” he whispers, and then: “thank you. thank you. lord, thank you.”

he says it right against your cooze, the words going slick and broken with want, and if the whole thing wasn’t already humiliating you might have laughed.

instead you clutch the sheet.

because he is not kissing you neat and pretty. he is not pacing himself. he is not doing anything but drowning.

his mouth is all over you at once — tongue dragging up through your folds in long, desperate strokes, lips closing and opening wherever he can get them, drool pouring out of him like he cannot keep from it. by the second pass he has you wet in three different ways: your own slick, the heat of your sweat, and the obscene mess of his mouth.

“remmick—”

his answer is another broken thank you.

then he goes right back in.

he eats you like a man trying to apologize with his whole head. every little sound you make only drives him deeper into it. if you gasp, he moans. if your thighs shake, his grip tightens. if your hips twitch up toward him, he makes the most wrecked, grateful noise and licks harder.

it is pathetic.

it is filthy.

it is ruining you.

“you are not right,” you gasp, one hand flying down into his hair.

that sends him wild.

the second your fingers fist in those dark waves and hold him there, he drags a long, rough sound out of his throat and then starts working in earnest, tongue flattening hard against you, then narrowing to circle the little knot of you that’s already gone hot and swollen from his attention.

your back arches.

the cry that breaks from you would have embarrassed you any other night.

tonight it only seems to feed him.

“yes,” he whispers into you. “yes, baby, make that noise. let me hear it. let me hear all of it.”

he slides one arm under your thigh and hauls your leg farther over his shoulder, opening you wider, and the new angle nearly drives you off the bed.

“oh god—”

“mmhmm,” he hums against you, drunk on it. “that’s right.”

his bandaged shoulder should be slowing him. should be making any of this awkward or painful.

it does not.

he seems beyond pain now. beyond reason, maybe. his need has thinned down to one shining, pitiful thing: your cooze in his mouth, your sounds in his ears, your body opening and shaking under him.

he is a mess.

drool shines all over his chin. it runs warm down the inside of your thigh. when he lifts his face for half a second to breathe, there is a string of wetness connecting his mouth to you that snaps in the lamplight.

you make a noise that is half scandal and half need.

he laughs then, hoarse and breathless and still far too close.

“pretty girl,” he murmurs. “you gon’ fuss at me for bein’ messy?”

and before you can answer, he lays his tongue on you again, broad and shameless, and drags it up through all that wet until your hands claw at the quilt.

“you are already loud,” he says, sounding wonderstruck. “thought i’d have to work you harder than this.”

“remmick—”

he finds your clit then, properly, and the whole room narrows to a point.

because now he is trying.

trying to make you louder, just as he promised himself.

trying everything.

he kisses it soft first, as if he cannot believe it exists.

then licks.

then sucks.

then moans into it just to hear what the vibration does to you.

it does plenty.

you cannot keep quiet if you tried. the little careful sounds you might have made for politeness’s sake are gone in three breaths. what comes out now is honest and broken and getting louder every time his mouth opens over you.

he likes that.

lord, he likes it.

every cry of his name pulls another yes out of him. every gasp brings another thank you, another baby, another soft southern murmur so thick with accent and want it goes half liquid in your ears.

“that’s it.”

“good girl.”

“lemme hear you.”

“thank you, honey, thank you—”

it is insane. utterly insane. he sounds as grateful as he is filthy, as if this is a favor and a feast and a miracle all at once.

you are not far from coming when he slides two fingers through you and curses low at the heat of it.

“sweet thing,” he says, almost reverent. “you so wet for me.”

he presses those long fingers in slow.

your whole body bows up.

he groans and pushes them deeper, curling them at once like instinct has taken over.

“yes!” you cry.

“there. there.” his voice has gone shaky with excitement. “that’s where it lives, don’t it?”

you do not know what lives there except maybe your soul.

all you know is that he has it between those wicked fingers and that impossible mouth and he will not stop.

he works you with both — fingers opening you, tongue circling and lapping and sucking wherever your body gives away the most — until the whole bed is creaking and your breath is coming in little panicked bursts.

outside, the frogs and cicadas go on calling as if no woman in mississippi has ever lost her mind under a vampire’s mouth before.

inside, you certainly are.

“remmick, i—”

“i know.” his mouth shines when he lifts it. his eyes are black and fever-bright. “gimme it. c’mon, baby. make it loud for me. i want it.”

the way he says want it nearly does you in by itself.

then he dives back down and sucks at you so hard your heel digs into the mattress and a cry rips right out of your chest.

he answers it with a groan so deep it sounds painful.

“that’s right,” he says against you. “louder. louder.”

and because he is a wicked thing, because he is drooling and crying and thanking you while he licks at your cooze like he was born to die there, because the whole sight and feel of him has taken every bit of modesty clean out of you—

you give him louder.

he all but sobs with relief.

and then you come.

hard.

so hard you nearly go blind for a second.

the sound you make rings off the iron bed and the walls and his shoulders tense under your hands as if even he had not expected you to break so pretty.

he does not stop.

not after the first wave.

not after the second.

he licks you through it with those broken little thank-yous still spilling from him, as if your climax is something he has been gifted and means to appreciate properly.

“remmick—too much—”

“one more kiss,” he whispers, not listening worth a damn. “one more, honey. jus’ one.”

liar.

his mouth lands on your clit again, soft and slippery now, and your hips jerk clean off the bed.

he laughs.

it is a terrible sound — delighted, drunk, gone.

“there she is,” he says. “there she is.”

you drag at his hair hard enough to make him grunt.

this only seems to encourage him.

he is trying for louder, and he is getting it.

the room is full of your voice now, your broken gasps and cries and the wet, filthy sound of his mouth. if there are neighbors awake enough to hear, let them hear. shame has drowned somewhere under his tongue.

and remmick, pathetic weeping thing that he is, seems intent on drawing every sound out of you that your body can make.

eventually, finally, he slows.

not because he wants to. not because he’s had enough. you can feel plain as day that he has not had enough, that some old greedy thing in him would gladly stay there until dawn licked in through your curtains if you let him.

but because your hands are trembling in his hair now instead of tugging, because your breath has gone soft and broken and spent, because your thighs keep twitching every time his mouth passes too near.

remmick lifts his head by slow degrees, like it pains him to do it.

his face is a sight.

mouth swollen. chin wet. dark hair in damp curls over his forehead. eyes gone glassy with want and relief and something so emotional it almost startles you more than the rest. there is still a sheen of tears caught in his lashes. still that same stripped-open look about him, all his porch-light swagger gone clean out of him.

for one beat he just looks at you.

then he presses a soft, almost reverent kiss to the inside of your thigh.

“there,” he whispers, voice rough as gravel and twice as tender. “there now.”

your hand slides from his hair to his cheek on instinct.

he goes perfectly still at the touch.

it is almost ridiculous, how quickly this old wicked thing of a man turns gentle the second your palm cups his face. the tension in his mouth eases. his eyes flutter half shut. he leans into your hand just a little, like he can’t help it.

“you all right?” he asks, so quiet you nearly miss it.

you swallow. your throat feels dry. your whole body feels warm and boneless and used up in the best and worst way.

“i think so.”

that gets the smallest ghost of a smile from him.

“think so ain’t the strongest endorsement i ever heard.”

you manage a weak huff of laughter.

“you near ate me alive, remmick.”

his head dips, and for a second you think he might laugh too, but what comes instead is softer. stranger.

“mm,” he murmurs, thumb brushing once over the back of your calf. “reckon i’d apologize, if i were sorrier.”

you should scold him.

you do not.

because he still looks wrecked. because the rough edge of his accent has turned velvet-soft with the night wearing on. because some dangerous little corner of you likes him best exactly like this — all old teeth and wet mouth and shamefaced tenderness.

you tug lightly at him.

“come here.”

he obeys at once.

that, too, is becoming a problem.

remmick rises from the floor slow enough to spare his shoulder and settles beside you on the bed with far more care than a man like him ought to have in him. he does not crowd you immediately. just sits there a moment, shirt hanging open, bandage white against his skin, looking at you as if he’s waiting to be told what he’s allowed.

you hate how much that look goes to your heart.

so you save both of you and lean in first.

he kisses you gentle. so gentle it near undoes you more than his mouth between your thighs ever did.

there is still the taste of yourself on him, still the heat of all that happened lingering in the room, but the kiss itself is soft and patient and almost bewilderingly sweet. his hand slides up to cradle the back of your neck, thumb resting just under your ear, and when he parts from you his forehead stays against yours.

for a long, quiet moment, neither of you says a thing.

the house settles around you. the insects outside drone on in the wet dark. from somewhere far off comes the faint, lonely whistle of a train.

you are the one who breaks the silence.

“you know you can’t stay.”

his lashes lift.

there is no confusion in his face. he knows exactly what you mean.

night is thinning. not enough to show at the window yet, but enough that the dark has changed. enough that the promise of morning is crouched somewhere just out of sight, waiting.

remmick’s mouth twitches with something almost sad, almost amused.

“that your way of throwin’ me back out?”

“that’s my way of sayin’ i don’t want you turnin’ to ash in my spare room.”

he huffs a low, warm laugh at that.

“thoughtful.”

“practical.”

his hand, still at the nape of your neck, rubs there once, slow and absent-minded. affectionate, before he catches himself and stills.

then his eyes search yours in the dim light, careful and far too open.

“if i come back,” he says quietly, “you gon’ let me in?”

you lift one brow.

“if?”

that actually makes him smile. small, crooked, tired.

“all right,” he murmurs. “when i come back.”

“better.”

his smile deepens just enough to show the edges of it.

you look at him — at the bandage, at the wet shine still lingering at the corner of his mouth, at the old hunger banked down now into something warmer and no less dangerous — and let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

“yes,” you say.

something in his face softens all over.

“yes?”

“if you come back,” you murmur, “which we both know you are… yes. i’ll let you in.”

for a second he just stares at you.

and then, so quietly it almost hurts:

“thank you, baby.”

he kisses you once more. not hungry this time. not pleading. just a slow, deep press of his mouth that feels almost like a promise. when he pulls away, he lingers close enough that his breath still warms your lips.

“best get gone, then,” you whisper, though neither of you moves.

“mm.” his hand slides from your neck to your cheek. “in a minute.”

“you said that on my porch too.”

“an’ still you let me stand there.”

“i make bad decisions.”

“lucky for me.”

you almost smile.

almost.

then he rises from the bed with a little wince that reminds both of you he came to your door bleeding. he gets himself back into his shirt as best he can with the bandage on, though he leaves the collar loose and the top buttons undone. by the time he reaches the door, the whole room feels changed around him, as if some part of him will keep sitting there in the heat even after his body is gone.

he pauses with one hand on the frame.

looks back.

that same old thing flickers over his face again — hunger, fondness, danger, all tangled up where you can’t pull one from the next.

“lock the door after me,” he says.

you blink. “you giving me orders now?”

“advice,” he says mildly. “there are worse things than me about.”

you snort softly.

“that remains to be seen.”

his gaze drops to your mouth one last time.

“sleep some,” he murmurs.

“you too.”

that gets a quiet laugh from him, and then he is gone down your hall, out your back door, into the last dark hour before dawn.

you hear the porch boards groan under his boots.

then nothing.

only the insects outside. the settling wood. the heavy summer hush folding back around your little house.

you sit very still in the middle of your bed, listening to the quiet he leaves behind.

and despite everything you know — despite the blood and the rules and the danger and the old dark thing in him —

You had promised yourself you would not spiral today. That promise sits thin as you step out of the library, the familiar pressure of deadlines stacking one on top of the other until breathing feels like a chore instead of a reflex that keeps you alive. There is a quiet pride in having stayed back this late, in choosing tables and notes over distractions, in being the kind of second year who does not get noticed for the wrong reasons. You’re someone who slides through corridors without anyone remembering her name but still remembers every page she read, every line she underlined, every small victory that does not need witnesses.

It should have been a clean exit. Library to hostel. Bed. Maybe a shower if energy allows. A voice cuts through that careful plan. “Hey. Hey, wait.” Your name follows, said with the kind of casual certainty that makes your stomach drop because you do not remember giving it to a him. You slow before you mean to, hate yourself for it immediately, then stop fully because pretending not to hear it is useless now. He is leaning against wall near the steps, fourth year scrubs on, bag slung carelessly over one shoulder like rules never applied to him in the first place. Bucky Barnes.

The name exists in your head long before this moment, passed around in whispers and rolled eyes. The kind of senior everyone knows without knowing, the kind who never seems stressed, the kind who smiles like he expects the world to bend for him because it usually does. He looks at you like this is normal. Like calling you over has not just rearranged your internal organs. “Yeah… You. From second year, right?” The nod comes before you can stop it. Your mouth opens, and closes. Something about air refusing to cooperate. He does not seem to notice, or maybe he does and just enjoys it, because his smile tips slightly. “Good. I was hoping it was you.” Hoping implies intention. Intention implies choice. Your brain scrambles to keep up. He reaches into his bag and pulls out a record book, thick and familiar and immediately ominous. Oh no. He holds it out like a peace offering. It’s not. “I need this filled. Clinical entries. You know how it goes.” Of course you know. Seniors handing down record books like curses, juniors swallowing irritation because no one ever says no. It is tradition dressed up as mentorship, exploitation wrapped in smiles. You have watched others do it, complained quietly about it, sworn you would find a way out if it ever landed on you. It has landed on you.

“Uh,” your voice finally shows up. “I… I have my own, uhmm records. To finish.” He hums, just acknowledging a fact that does not change anything. The book does not move. His hand stays steady between you, patient in a way that feels practiced. “I know. Everyone does. You’re good at it though. Got neat handwriting. I’ve seen your stuff.” Being seen has never felt like a gift. It feels like exposure, like someone has pulled back a curtain you forgot was there. You wonder who told him. You wonder when he looked. You wonder why it matters. You take the book because not taking it feels impossible. Your fingers brush the edge of his fingers for half a second too long, heat flaring where there should be none. You hate that too. “Thanks,” he says, like you have done him a favour already. “I’ll need it by Monday. You can just slip it under my door. Room 318.” Monday. Your mind does the math without permission, counts hours you do not have, pages you do not want to fill, resentment blooming immediately. Your mouth wants to say no now, wants to choke the word out before it becomes habit. Instead, what comes out is a quiet okay that feels like a betrayal. Fuck. “You’re a lifesaver,” his grin widens, the phrase just sticks under your skin because you know he does not mean it. It is just something he says. Something that works. He pushes off the wall then, stretching like this conversation has taken nothing out of him, like he has not just fucked up your entire evening, possibly your entire week. “See you around, yeah?” You nod again, nodding seems to be all you can do around him. He walks away without looking back, already pulling his phone out, already elsewhere. The space he had left behind feels too empty and too crowded at the same time.

You stand there, blaming fate, blaming everything. Irritation simmers, edged with something that feels uncomfortably like embarrassment. Not because he asked. Because you said yes. Why couldn’t you have said no? The walk back to your room passes in a blur of footpaths and familiar turns, replaying the way he said your name, the way he smiled like nothing in the world could touch him. The unfairness of it all presses heavy. Fourth years like him float through med school like it is a game. People like you count pages and hours and caffeine intake and still feel behind. When the door clicks shut behind you, you drop your bag on the chair harder than necessary, the record book landing on your desk with a dull thud that feels deeply satisfying. “Oh my God,” you mutter, then louder, “Oh my God.” Your friend looks up from her bed. She has known you long enough to recognize the particular tension in your shoulders, the way your hands shake when you are trying not to scream. “What happened?” You hold up the book like evidence. “Bucky Barnes happened.” Her face shifts instantly, recognition blooming into something between amusement and sympathy. “No. Absolutely not.” “Yes,” your voice rises despite yourself. “He just handed it to me. Like I’m his personal assistant. Like I don’t have my own shit to do.”

“Did you say no?” The silence answers for you. A dramatic groan leaves her mouth. “You cannot do this. Seniors will see you coming from a mile away.” “I didn’t mean to,” you snap, then immediately soften because she is not wrong and that makes it worse. “He just… called me. And he smiled. And then suddenly I had the book in my hands and it was done.” You pace now, words spilling out faster, frustration finally finding a mouth. “Monday. He wants it by Monday. Do you know how much I have to finish by Monday? I barely sleep as it is.” Her expression becomes gentler now. “Why you though? He has friends. Groupies. People who would do it without complaining.” “Apparently my handwriting is neat,” the bitterness in your tone is obvious. “Apparently he’s seen my stuff. Which is creepy, by the way.” “That man has no boundaries. Also he’s hot, so no one calls him on it.” You stop pacing to glare at her. “Do not.” “I’m just stating facts,” she puts her hands up. “He’s a menace.”

“He’s a fuckboy,” you correct, the word slipping out with venom, satisfying in its accuracy. “And I do not have time for this.” The innocent book still sits on your desk, infuriating you. Pages waiting to be filled with cases you did not attend, observations you did not make. Your jaw tightens. “I should just give it back,” you say, more to yourself than to her. “Tell him I can’t. Tell him I have my own work.” She watches you for a moment, then smiles in a way that is all understanding and zero judgment. “And will you?” The answer tastes bitter before it even forms. You sink onto your chair, stare at the book like it has personally wronged you.

“No. Because I’m weak and stupid and I said okay.”

“You’re just too nice.” A humourless laugh echoes. “That’s not a compliment in med school.” She gets up then to cross the room, and peers over your shoulder at the offending book. “Look. We’ll bitch about him while you write.” That helps. The bitching. “He smiled at me,” the confession slips out before you can stop it. “Like I was already going to say yes.” “Because he knows people do.”

“I hate that it worked.” She bumps your shoulder lightly. “Welcome to being human.” You pick up the pen, flip the book open, anger and resolve tangling together in your chest. If you are going to do this, you will do it right. Not for him. For yourself. Because that is what you do. Because walking away has never come easily.

Still, as the first page fills under your hand, one thought forms inside your head.

Bucky Barnes is going to owe you for this.

Finishing this stupid record book on time might actually be the most irritating miracle you have ever pulled off. Two nights of cramped handwriting and squinting at borrowed case sheets, all for a senior who probably has not worried about a deadline since orientation week. There is a strange mix of pride and annoyance together in your chest. Pride because the pages look perfect, neat lines and careful diagrams, everything organized the way your brain likes it. Annoyance because none of it is even yours. Your roommate watches from her bed while you pack the book into your bag. “You actually finished it,” her voice is impressed and a little horrified. “I had no choice,” you zip the bag with more force than necessary. “If I didn’t, he would find me in some corridor and smile at me again and I would say yes to something worse.” She laughs like she understands exactly what you mean. “Go give it to him and be free.” Free is a strong word, but you take it anyway. The walk across campus feels lighter without the weight of guilt hanging over you. You rehearse what you are going to say in your head, something polite and quick and efficient. Here is your record book, thank you, goodbye. Nothing more. Definitely no unnecessary conversation. You spot him near the canteen. Of course he is surrounded by people. Bucky always seems to exist in the middle of laughter, like he attracts it without trying. A couple of fourth years, one or two juniors, faces you vaguely recognize. He looks relaxed leaning back on the bench. Your steps slow on their own. It would be so easy to turn around, to come back later, to avoid this tiny social nightmare entirely. But the book is in your bag and Monday is too close and courage, apparently, is a muscle you are forcing yourself to use. He notices you before you can talk yourself out of it. “Hey,” he calls out, like you are an old friend and absolutely not a nervous junior.

Every pair of eyes turns in your direction at once. Wonderful. Exactly what you wanted.

Trying to ignore the sudden heat crawling up your neck, you walk closer. “Um, I finished it.”

You hold the book out to him the way a student offers homework to a teacher. Careful, a little formal, maybe even a little scared. His eyebrows lift when he flips through a few pages.

“Damn,” he does not bother to hide the surprise. “This is perfect.”

Praise should not matter this much from someone like him, but apparently your brain did not get that memo.

One of his friends leans forward, curiosity written all over his face. You remember his name after a second. Sam.

“So, this is the famous second year with the magic handwriting,” Sam says, looking at you like you are a rare species. “Hey, listen, any chance you want to do mine next? I will pay you in coffee and eternal gratitude.” Your mouth opens, ready to spit out a polite refusal you have been practicing since last week, but Bucky moves before you can speak. His arm slides around your shoulders, pulling you a fraction closer to his side. “Nah,” he says easily, “she’s mine.” The words echo in your ears long after he says them. She’s mine. You know it’s not serious. It’s just a joke tossed out between friends. Still, your entire body reacts like it is not a joke at all. Your heart jumps. Your face heats. You suddenly understand why half the campus melts over him. Sam raises both hands in surrender. “Okay, okay, territorial much. I see how it is.” “Find your own hardworking junior,” Bucky grins, finally letting his arm drop from your shoulders. Though the ghost of the touch stays behind though. You stand there feeling ridiculous, trying to remember how to breathe normally, trying to figure out how to actually survive. “Thanks for doing this,” Bucky’s voice is softer now, like the rest of them are not even there. “Seriously, you saved me.” “It’s fine,” you manage, which is not true but sounds polite enough. “Just… don’t give me another one.”

“Cross my heart,” he promises, two fingers over his chest in mock solemnity. The group drifts back into their conversation and you prepare to make a quick escape, mission accomplished, when Bucky stands up and grabs his bag. “I’ll drop you off,” he says, like it is the most natural sentence in the world. Did you hear it right? Your brain stutters. “What, no, it’s okay, I can walk.” “I know you can walk,” he sounds amused. “But I’ve got my bike and you’ve done me a huge favor and I’m not letting you disappear like that.” People are watching again. You hate that people are watching. Refusing in front of everyone feels impossible, so you nod before you can overthink it. The bike is parked near the gate. It’s black, shiny and slightly intimidating. Okay, very intimidating. You have never actually sat on one before. He hands you the spare helmet without making it a big deal, and somehow that small kindness settles your nerves more than anything else. “Just hold on to me, yeah,” he says while you climb on behind him. Holding on to him sounds like a terrible idea for your already fragile composure, but the engine roars to life and instinct wins over dignity. Your hands settle lightly on his sides, trying to keep a respectful distance that disappears the second the bike moves. It feels strange and a little unreal, like you have stepped into someone else’s life for a moment. Bucky drives smoothly, confidently, like he does literally everything else. You tell yourself not to enjoy it. You enjoy it anyway.

When the familiar outline of your dorm comes into view, you’re surprised of the disappointment that blooms. The ride had ended too quickly. Sudden quiet wraps around the both of you as he cuts the engine. You climb off carefully, handing the helmet back, already rehearsing another quick thank you and goodbye. Bucky does not move to leave. He stays seated, one foot on the ground, looking at you with that same unreadable half smile. “So,” he stretches the word out, “what do you want?”

“What do I want… for what?” “For writing my record,” he clarifies. “Don’t say nothing because I know how much time that took.” The question catches you off guard. You had not even considered the possibility of getting anything in return. In your head, this whole thing was just an annoying duty, a favor extracted through seniority and social pressure. “I really don’t need anything… it’s fine.” He studies you for a moment, like he is trying to figure out if you are serious. Apparently the idea of someone not wanting something from him is a new concept.

“Okay… but I’m not accepting that answer.” “you don’t have to do anything,” you insist, as you feel awkward all over again. “I just did it because you asked.” “Exactly. Which is why I’m doing something because you helped me.” You shift your weight from one foot to the other, suddenly very aware of how close he is, how easily he holds your attention without even trying.

“Look… let me at least buy you dinner. As a thank you.” Dinner. Your brain immediately supplies a hundred reasons why that is a bad idea. He is a senior. He is Bucky Barnes. People talk. You do not do dinners with boys on bikes who call you theirs in front of their friends. You definitely don’t do dinners with Bucky Barnes. “You really don’t have to,” your voice is weaker this time. “I want to.” He says it like it’s simple, like it doesn’t carry any hidden traps. You try to find a polite way out and come up empty. “It’s just dinner,” he adds, reading your hesitation with annoying accuracy. “No weirdness, I promise.”

The easy confidence, the genuine gratitude and the tiny hopeful tilt to his expression, makes your resolve wobble. “Okay,” you hear yourself say, surprising both of you. “But only dinner.” His grin widens. “Only dinner. Scout’s honor.” You have no idea if he was ever even a scout, but the image makes you smile despite yourself. “Same time tomorrow,” he starts the bike again. “Be ready.” Before you can overthink or change your mind or list all the reasons this is probably a terrible decision, he gives you a small wave and rides off.

You stand there for long after he is gone, heart doing strange unpredictable things, trying to understand how a simple favor turned into this. Deep inside your chest, excitement and nervousness argue back and forth. Dinner with Bucky Barnes. Tomorrow.

Maybe this is a bad idea. Tiredness is sitting heavy in your shoulders, the kind that feels stitched into your bones after a long day of lectures and wards and pretending to understand things you only half understand. The sensible version of you knows exactly what tonight should look like. Pajamas. Leftover notes. An early night. Peace. Instead you are standing in front of your tiny mirror with a dress spread across the bed behind you, trying to decide if it looks normal enough to pass for casual and nice enough to pass for dinner. This is ridiculous. Completely ridiculous. You keep telling yourself that while you brush your hair, while you check your phone for the tenth time even though you know there is nothing new there, while you dig through your drawer looking for the one pair of earrings that make you feel a little less invisible. Getting ready for dinner with Bucky Barnes feels like preparing for an exam you never signed up for. Your roommate is out, probably somewhere with her own life that does not involve spiralling over a senior who asked for a favour and then offered dinner in return. He probably didn’t even mean it like that. That thought pops up while you smooth the front of the dress over your stomach, trying to ignore how nervous your hands feel. He said it casually, like he says everything, like inviting someone to eat is the most normal thing in the world. He did not ask for your number. He did not give his number. People who plan real dinners usually do those things, right? They exchange details and make proper plans and act like adults instead of just throwing out a time and disappearing on a bike like you see on movies. What if he forgot?

What if he only said it because he needed to look cool and effortless like he always does? What if he says things like that to everyone and never follows through because he is Bucky Barnes and the world follows him around instead of the other way? The more you think about it, the more stupid you feel for taking it seriously. You imagine him right now somewhere across campus, laughing too loud with people who are not you, maybe already at a party, maybe already making other plans that have nothing to do with a shy second year who writes neat record books. A small ache starts low in your chest and you hate it instantly. Why did you even get ready? You stand in front of the mirror, turning slightly from side to side, trying to see yourself the way he might see you if he ever actually showed up. The dress is simple and soft and maybe a little nicer than what you normally wear to class, and suddenly it looks silly. Like you tried too hard for something that might not even happen. Oh God, the thought of sitting here all dressed up for no reason, waiting for a message that never comes. This is embarrassing.

You start to take the earrings off, fingers fumbling more than they should. It feels safer to assume nothing is happening. It feels safer to crawl back into your comfortable routine and pretend none of this ever existed. You reach behind you and tug at the zipper, already planning how quickly you can change and wash your face and bury yourself under a blanket. He did not even ask for your number. That sentence loops in your head like a stubborn song you cannot turn off. If he really wanted to take you out, he would have made sure he could contact you. That is basic logic. That is common sense. You pull the dress down over your shoulders, halfway committed to the idea of forgetting the whole thing. But then your phone lights up on the desk. The sound is small but it freezes you completely. For a second you just stare at it, heart suddenly beating in a way that feels unfair. Notifications come from lots of people. Groups and apps and random spam messages. It does not have to be him. There is no reason to assume it is him. Still, you walk over to the desk like you are being pulled by an invisible string. One new message.

Unknown number : I’m here. Come down.

That is all it says. Your face heats so fast it almost hurts. It’s him. He remembered. He actually remembered. The room suddenly feels too warm and too small making your earlier embarrassment shift shape into something lighter and terrifying in a completely different way. He is downstairs. Right now. Waiting for you. And you are standing here with your dress half off like an idiot. You scramble back into it with clumsy fingers, tugging the zipper up again, checking your reflection in a rush of nervous energy. The girl in the mirror looks flustered and a little wide eyed, and there is no time to fix that.

Of course he remembered. Why would he not remember. He literally told you to be ready at this time and you convinced yourself he was lying because apparently your brain enjoys drama. Maybe this is not such a bad idea after all.

You do not want to read too much into it. You really do not. But the feeling is there anyway, impossible for you to ignore. It is only dinner. Just a thank you dinner between a senior and a junior. Nothing dramatic. Absolutely nothing life changing. Still, you catch yourself smiling at your phone like it personally delivered good news. This is how it starts, isn’t it? Tiny things that mean nothing on their own slowly adding up into something heavier. A hand on your shoulder in front of his friends. A ride on his bike with the wind in your face. A message saying he is here when you were sure he would never come. Do not get carried away. Do not turn this into a story in your head. You barely know the guy. He barely knows you. Getting attached to the idea of someone is a dangerous hobby and you have exams and responsibilities and a life that already feels full without adding complicated feelings into the mix. What if this is all in your head? What if he is just being polite and you are turning it into something bigger because you are not used to attention from boys like him? What if tonight is normal and friendly and you walk back to your room later feeling silly for letting yourself hope for anything more? You don’t remember getting down. When you push open the hostel door and step outside, the evening air hits your face gently. For a second all you can hear is your own heartbeat being louder than it has any right to be. But that’s when you see him. Bucky is leaning against his bike exactly the way you imagined he would be, like he belongs there, like waiting for people outside dorms is just another ordinary part of his day. He looks up the moment you appear, and the second his eyes land on you, something in his expression changes. A playful whistle slips out before you can even take three steps toward him. “Okay, wow… yeah, hi. You look… really pretty.” Nobody ever just says things like that to you so casually. Nobody ever looks at you like that either, like you are something worth pausing for. You have no idea what to do with it. “I… um… thank you,” you manage, this is as flustered as you can get and it’s not even two minutes in. He smiles at the reaction instead of pretending not to notice it. “No, seriously. I’m glad you didn’t bail on me.” “I almost did,” you admit before you can stop yourself. “I mean… not because of you… God, no. Just because I thought maybe you forgot.” His eyebrows lift slightly. “Forgot?” “Yeah,” you are suddenly aware of how silly it sounds out loud. “You didn’t ask for my number and I didn’t have yours and I just… I don’t know, I figured maybe you say things like that to people all the time.”

He studies you for a moment.

“Hey… no. I don’t do that. If I say I’ll show up, I show up.”

He says it like he actually means it, and you hate how much relief that gives you.

“Good to know,” you mumble, suddenly very interested in the ground.

He reaches for the helmet hanging on the handlebar. “C’mere.”

Before you can process what is happening, you’re stepping closer, his hands are gently lifting the helmet over your head. He adjusts it carefully, fingers brushing your hair back so it sits properly, tugging the strap under your chin with an ease that makes your stomach flip.

“Hold still for a second,” he murmurs.

“I am holding still,” you answer, trying very hard not to focus on how close he is.

“Yeah but you’re holding still like you’re nervous.”

“I am nervous.”

He chuckles softly. “That’s kind of cute, you know.”

The buckle clicks into place and he gives the top of the helmet a small affectionate tap. “There. Perfect.”

You genuinely have to remind yourself to breathe.

Climbing onto the bike feels a little easier this time, but not by much. Your hands settle on his sides again and you wonder if he can feel how tense you are through the thin fabric of his shirt.

“You good back there?”

“Uh-huh, yeah,” even though your heart is doing ridiculous things.

The ride to the restaurant passes in a blur of lights. It feels different tonight, less awkward and more intimate, like you are sharing a small secret with him that the rest of the world does not get to see.

When he finally pulls up in front of the place, he turns back slightly. “Hope you like Italian. If not, pretend you do for my ego.”

“I like Italian,” you answer quickly. “I mean… pasta is good. Pizza is good. Food in general is good.”

“That might be the most honest review I’ve ever heard,” he laughs.

Everything inside feels new and a little intimidating in the way unfamiliar restaurants always do. Bucky opens the door for you without making it feel like a grand gesture, just a simple natural thing, and you slip inside with a quiet thank you.

He pulls out the chair for you at the table.

Nobody has ever done that for you before.

“You don’t have to do all this,” you say, sitting down carefully.

“I like doing it.”

The menu becomes a safe distraction for a few minutes, something to focus on so you do not have to keep wondering what to do with your hands or your face or your nerves.

“Order whatever you want,” he tells you. “Don’t do that thing where you pick the cheapest thing to be polite.”

“I was not going to do that,” you lie.

“You absolutely were.”

“Okay maybe a little,” you admit, smiling despite yourself.

The waiter arrives and Bucky waits for you to speak first, like your choice matters more than his. You stumble through your order with a little too much hesitation, suddenly hyper aware of how ordinary your preferences sound out loud.

“That’s a solid choice,” he says once the waiter leaves.

“I don’t do adventurous very well,” you confess. “I like safe food.”

“Nothing wrong with safe. Safe is good sometimes.”

Conversation should feel awkward. It usually does for you. Sitting with new people always involves long pauses and overthinking and trying to figure out when to talk and when to stay quiet. But with him, words seem to find their way out more easily than expected.

“So,” he leans back in his chair, “tell me something about you that isn’t related to med school.”

Your brain blanks immediately. What’s there not related to notes, day-old scrubs and stethoscopes?

“That’s… a hard question.”

“Come on, there has to be something. Hobbies, embarrassing talents, secret dreams.”

“I can touch my nose with my tongue,” you blurt out, then immediately want to sink into the floor. Bucky stares at you for a second and then bursts out laughing, real and completely unfiltered. “That is not what I expected.” “You said embarrassing,” you defend yourself, your voice is small like that of a child, cheeks burning a little too much. “No, that’s perfect. I’m genuinely impressed.” The way he laughs makes it easier to relax. It makes you feel less like a nervous junior and more like an actual person sitting across from another actual person. He tells you stories while you wait for the food, small funny things about his friends and the chaos of fourth year. You learn that he drinks too much coffee and hates morning rounds and once fell asleep standing up during a lecture. None of it sounds like the larger than life version of him people whisper about. It just sounds human. “So you really did all that work just because I asked?” he asks at one point.

“Yeah… I complain a lot but I’m bad at saying no.” “I’m sorry about that, by the way.” “About what?” “Putting it on you like that. I should have asked properly instead of… whatever that was.”

The apology catches you off guard. You had not expected that from him at all. “It’s okay. I survived.” “Still… thank you. Really.” Food arrives and fills the table with warm comforting smells, and for a while the conversation slows into easy quiet. He asks if you like it and you nod with your mouth full, making him grin. He pays attention in a way that surprises you. Notices when your glass is empty. Notices when you hesitate over the dessert menu. Notices little things you are not used to anyone noticing. “You don’t talk much,” he says suddenly.

“I know.” “Is it because you’re shy or because you think everyone else is dumb?” A small laugh escapes you. “Definitely the first one.” “That’s a shame. I think you probably have smart things to say.” Your fork pauses halfway to your mouth. “You don’t even know me that well.” “I know enough… and id like to know more.” Somewhere between the main course and dessert, the nervous knot inside you loosens. You start answering more without overthinking every word. You ask him questions too, and he answers without making you feel like a kid for asking. This feels entirely new but safe. Things that usually don’t belong together for you. By the time the plates are empty and the bill arrives, you realize with a tiny jolt that you do not actually want the evening to end yet. “Ready?” he asks.

You’re not. “Yeah.”

“So,” he says as you reach the bike, “dinner was okay.” “Dinner was really nice,” you correct. “Thank God. Because I was low key worried you’d hate my choice and never talk to me again.” “I would have at least finished the food before ignoring you.”

“You definitely know how to humble a guy,” he laughs. You stand there just looking at him, helmet in your hands, trying to hold on to the feeling of the evening before it slips away into ordinary life again. He looks at you with that same easy smile he had when you first came downstairs, but now it feels different. “Thanks for coming out with me.” “Thanks for actually showing up,” you reply before you can stop yourself.

His grin widens. “Told you I would.” As you hand him the helmet so he can help you put it on again, a small undeniable truth settles into your chest. Maybe you are not as immune to Bucky Barnes as you thought you were.

That night he drops you off like nothing extraordinary has happened.

Until you reach the dorm steps, he stands there and makes sure you get inside safely the way he said he would. Just a small wave and a lazy smile.

“Sleep well, okay?” There’s nothing cinematic about it, but it feels like a movie anyway.

You were on your bed for a long time afterward, staring at the ceiling fan and replaying the whole evening in your head from beginning to end, trying to understand how something so normal could feel so important.

You tell yourself not to overthink it. You tell yourself it was only dinner. You tell yourself a lot of sensible things that did absolutely nothing to stop the tiny hopeful flutter still moving around inside your chest.

The first text came later that night.

Bucky: Hey. Did you make it in without tripping over anything?

You laugh out loud because it’s such a ridiculous thing to ask. It felt like he texted because he just had to text.

You: Yes, thank you very much. No accidents reported.

Bucky: Thank god. I was prepared to feel personally responsible.

That’s how it started. Small messages here and there that slowly turned into longer ones without either of you noticing.

Bucky: How was class today?

You: Boring. You?

Bucky: Don't even ask. Surgery rounds are trying to kill me.

He started to slip into your routine in little almost invisible ways. A text in the morning asking if you were awake. Another one in the evening asking if you ate. Sometimes just a random picture of something stupid he saw on campus with a line of commentary that made you smile harder than it should have.

One morning, when you mention that you had skipped breakfast, he shows up outside your lecture hall holding a small paper bag and a cup of coffee.

“You said you didn’t eat,” he hands it over before you could even react.

“I didn’t mean for you to… you know… bring me food.”

“Yeah but I just didn’t want you to starve yourself, so here we are.”

Inside the bag is a sandwich cut neatly in half and a chocolate bar tucked beside it. You do not know what to do except mumble a shy thank you while trying not to look too affected.

You’re not used to people paying attention to small things like that. You’re not used to someone remembering. But here he is, with food, like you’d actually starve if you don’t eat.

Days begin to feel a little brighter with him in them. He waits for you near the library sometimes, pretends it’s a coincidence. You pretend to believe him. He walks you back to your hostel after late study sessions even when it’s slightly out of his way.

“It’s dark, okay. Just let me be dramatic and protective.”

“That is the most ridiculous you’ve ever said.”

“I prefer heroic but sure, we can go with ridiculous.”

He always teases you easily, gently, never in a way that makes you feel small. It always feels like he was trying to pull you out of your shell inch by inch, like he enjoys watching you relax around him.

One afternoon though, he did something that made your entire week.

You had been whining to him about how second years never get to see anything interesting in the operating rooms, how you were always stuck observing minor procedures while the exciting cases went to seniors.

The next day he texted you out of nowhere.

Bucky: Wear clean scrubs and meet me near the main OT at two.

You spent the entire morning confused and curious and a little nervous, and when you show up at the time he asked, he’s already there waiting.

“I pulled some strings... c’mon.”

“Pulled strings for what?”

“For you to watch something actually cool for once.”

He gets you inside an operating room you have no business being in.

You stand against the cool tiled wall with your hands folded awkwardly in front of you, trying very hard to look like you belong.

Bucky leans slightly toward you, voice soft enough that only you can hear. “this is a suspected small bowel perforation.”

Throughout the surgery, he explains before you could even ask anything.

“First perforation ever?” Bucky glances at you with a small smile.

“First case ever.”

He doesn’t seem to miss the awe in your voice. “Not bad, huh?”

Not bad at all.

Afterward you could not stop thanking him.

“You really didn’t have to do that.”

“I wanted to.”

That sentence becomes a pattern between the two of you. Small thoughtful things wrapped in the same simple logic. I wanted to. I want to.

He learns your coffee order without asking. You learn that he hated pineapple on pizza with an unreasonable passion. You start looking for his face first whenever you enter a room.

Slowly, without any formal decision, you become part of each other’s days.

Evenings often find the two of you sitting on the library steps pretending to study while mostly talking about everything else instead. You told him about your family and how nervous you were on your first day of med school. He told you about his ridiculous group of friends and how he still sometimes felt like he was faking his way through life.

“Everyone is faking it a little.”

“Even you?”

“Have you seen me?”

“Nah,” he chuckles. “You actually know what you’re doing.”

The faith he seems to have in you feels strange but warm and a little dangerous.

Sometimes you catch yourself thinking about him at odd hours, wondering what he might be doing, wondering if he is thinking about you too. The thought would embarrass you immediately afterward, but it never stops coming back.

You try to stay sensible about it. Really.

But he is Bucky Barnes. Charming and confident and surrounded by people all the time.

You are just you, always a little out of place in big social circles. There is no logical reason for him to keep choosing your company, yet he keeps doing it anyway.

One evening he calls instead of texting.

The sound of his voice in your ear makes you realize you had missed it more than you expected.

“Hey… are you busy right now?”

“Not really. Just pretending to study.”

“Perfect. Come downstairs for a bit.”

“Right now?”

In your two years of college life, there wasn’t a day where you’ve not dreamed of a moment like this. But there’s never been a day like this so far.

“Yeah right now. I’m outside.”

You go down in your pajamas and messy hair and he still looks at you like you were worth showing up for.

“I was out with friends, saw this juice you like,” he hands you a juice pouch like it’s no big deal.

He just got you something just because you liked it. You don’t remember the last time someone did that for you.

This shouldn’t make you feel special. But it does anyway.

These little moments pile up quietly. Late night conversations about nothing important. Shared snacks in the canteen. Him saving you from your seniors — who are his juniors by the way — during clinical postings. You helping him organize his notes even though he pretends to not need help.

One day he asks you to help him study for an upcoming exam. Pediatrics. You end up sitting together in an empty classroom for hours, your notebook spread between you while you explain topics he claimed to be terrible at.

“You’re really good at teaching,” he tells you. It’s a simple compliment. But when has there ever been anything simple about him?

“I’m just repeating what the book says.”

“No you’re not. You make it make sense.”

He looks at you with such easy admiration that you have to glance away to hide how much it affect you.

There are days when you wonder how this even happened. How a simple record book favor had turned into shared lunches and inside jokes and a growing comfort that feel suspiciously like happiness.

Your friends start noticing too.

“So are you two like… a thing?” your roommate asks one night while you were smiling at your phone again.

“No. We’re just friends.”

“Friends who text constantly and see each other every day.”

“That is literally what friends do.”

She gives you a look that says she absolutely does not believe you.

The truth is you don’t know what you are to him. He never defined it. Never said anything that crossed an obvious line. He was just there, steady, present and kind in ways that kept sneaking past your defenses.

You find yourself getting used to it. To him.

That scares you a little.

Because somewhere along the way you stopped thinking of him as just a nice distraction and started thinking of him as part of your life. You started noticing how your mood shifted depending on whether you had seen him that day. You started caring a little too much about how you looked when you knew he would be around.

You are not supposed to get attached. You know that. But knowing something and feeling something are two very different battles.

You spend a lot of time pretending that the little things don’t matter. That you are normal about him. That the way his name lights up on your phone does not rearrange something fragile inside your chest every single time.

It’s been easy mostly. Easier than it should be. You tell yourself it is just convenience, just proximity, just two people whose schedules keep overlapping like stubborn lines on a calendar. You are busy, he is busy, and somewhere in the middle of all that busyness you keep finding each other.

But tonight feels different in a way you can’t explain without sounding ridiculous even to yourself.

Maybe it is because he texted you at three in the afternoon asking if you wanted to grab something after your class, and you typed back a yes before you could think about it too hard. Maybe it is because you are sitting beside him now on the couch in his apartment with the television in the background like a polite third person trying not to interrupt.

Whatever it is, this is different.

You have been here before. Not like this, but close. Close enough that you know he keeps his spare blanket folded over the arm of the couch, close enough that you know he taps his fingers against his knee when he is trying to decide what to say next.

He is doing that now.

Tap tap tap.

“You look tired,” he’s always observant in that annoyingly careful way he has.

“I am tired.”

“Long day?”

“Long week. Long month. Long life, honestly.”

He laughs at that, pulling a smile out of you too.

“You wanna head home?”

The question catches you off guard because it is gentle and easy and leaves room for you to say yes without pressure. And for some reason that makes you want to say no.

“Not really.”

“Okay.”

Just okay. He stretches one arm across the back of the couch behind you. You think it might touch your shoulder. But it doesn’t, at least not yet.

The silence makes you aware of the small things, like like the way his knee is angled toward yours, like the way your foot is almost brushing his on the rug.

You start talking to fill it because you always do.

About a patient who made you laugh today. About the vending machine that ate your last twenty. About how you might actually be developing a caffeine dependency that deserves medical attention.

He listens to you like he always does, mouth twitching at the corners when you get animated.

Somewhere in the middle of your story you realize he is watching you a little too closely. The realization makes the words wobble in your throat.

“What?” you ask finally, because you’re self conscious and him watching you isn’t helping at all.

“Nothing.”

“No, you are doing that thing.”

“What thing?”

“The thing where you look at me like you know something I don't.”

His mouth curves. “I do know something you don’t.”

“And what’s that?” At this point, you’re wondering if you have clown makeup on because that’s how intense his look is.

“I know that we’re alone because Sam is out with his girlfriend.”

“That is incredibly unhelpful right now. And for the record, I know it too.” You roll your eyes, but you are smiling.

The movie he put on earlier plays forgotten in front of you. Some action thing you stopped following twenty minutes ago. You can hear it more than you can see it, explosions and dramatic music bleeding into the background of the room.

He shifts beside you, turning a little more toward you on the couch. The movement is small but it changes everything. Suddenly his leg is closer. Suddenly his shoulder is closer. Suddenly everything is closer.

He lifts his arm in an invitation, like this is the most normal thing in the world. Absolutely no words and yet you understand.

It shouldn’t feel like such a big decision to lean over a few inches. It shouldn’t make your heart start thudding. But it does.

You tell yourself not to be weird about it. You tell yourself this is nothing.

When you shift closer, his arm settles around your shoulders without ceremony. “Much better.”

You huff out a laugh and let your head rest back against the couch, trying very hard not to think about the way his thumb is brushing idly against your upper arm through your sleeve.

Minutes pass like that. Or maybe it is seconds. Time feels like a traitor you cannot trust.

You can feel the rise and fall of his chest beside you. You can smell the faint clean scent of him. You can hear the movie and the city outside.

All of it feels louder than usual.

“You cold?” he asks after a while.

“A little.”

He reaches for the spare blanket without letting go of you, drapes it over your legs with unnecessary care, tucking it around your knees. The gesture is so domestic it makes your throat tighten for reasons you refuse to unpack.

“Better?”

“Better.” Your voice comes out softer than you mean it to.

His hand doesn’t leave your arm. If anything, it drifts lower, resting just above your elbow, fingers tracing lazy patterns that make it hard to breathe normally.

You should probably say something. Make a joke. Lighten the moment. But every sentence you think of feels like a landmine you’d be stepping on.

You just sit there and let it happen.

“You know,” he says eventually, “you are very easy to be around.”

“Am I?”

“Yeah.”

“Most people would disagree.”

“Most people are wrong.”

Your chest does that stupid flutter again. “You just… say that to everyone?”

He turns his head to look at you properly then, and the teasing drops out of his face.

“No.” Just one word.

You become aware, all at once, of how close your faces are. Of how if you turned your head a few inches your nose would brush his. Of how his mouth is right fucking there.

Your brain scrambles for something normal to say.

“It is getting late.”

“Yeah.” Neither of you move to do anything about it.

His eyes drop to your lips and then back up again so quickly you almost convince yourself you imagined it. Almost.

“I should probably go,” you say, even though your body makes no attempt to follow through.

“You could.”

“You are not making a very strong argument for it.”

“I am not trying to.”

Your pulse kicks up, so loud you doubt if he could hear it too, but then you remember it’s inside your body and he will be unaware of it unless his hand makes contact with that point of you.

“Bucky.”

“Yeah?”

“What are we doing?”

He takes a breath slowly, like he is choosing his words carefully.

“Right now? Sitting on my couch.”

“You know what I mean.”

A small smile tugs at his mouth. “I think we are figuring it out.”

It’s a fucking line. He’s probably bluffing. He probably says that to all his flings. That answer should annoy you. Somehow it doesn’t.

His hand slides a fraction lower, resting at your forearm now, thumb warm against your skin. You can feel the calluses on his fingers.

The distance between you feels thinner with every breath. You can see the faint flecks of color in his eyes, the tiny scar near his eyebrow, the way his lashes cast shadows against his cheeks.

He tilts his head a little, searching your face like he is waiting for permission he does not want to assume. “Tell me to stop.”

Your heart trips over itself. “Stop what?” your voice is barely a whisper.

“Whatever this is about to be.”

You should say it. You know you should. This is complicated and messy and you promised yourself you would be sensible.

But sensible feels very far away right now.

“I don’t… I don't want you to stop.”

The words come out like a breath, almost worrying you that you imagined saying them.

He hears you though. You can tell by the way his shoulders relax, by the way his hand finally moves from your arm to your jaw, cupping it gently like something precious.

Your body moves towards him before your brain can catch up.

It’s hard to think.

The first brush of his lips against yours is careful. Like he is still expecting you to change your mind. It is soft and warm and nothing like the dramatic movie kisses you have built up in your head.

It feels real.

You lean in without thinking, closing the tiny space between you, and he makes a sound that you feel more than hear.

The kiss deepens slowly, two people learning the shape of each other in real time. His fingers slide into your hair, and you find yourself gripping the front of his shirt like you need something to anchor you.

It is unplanned and honestly a little clumsy in the best way.

“Is this okay?” he asks against your mouth.

“Yes.”

“You sure?”

“Bucky, please stop asking before I lose my nerve.”

A quiet laugh escapes him. He is kissing you again, a little more confident this time, a little less restrained.

Your brain goes pleasantly fuzzy. Every worry you walked in with dissolves into the simple fact of him and you and the warmth building between you.

His hand slips to your waist, drawing you closer, and you let yourself melt into him because pretending you do not want to feels impossible now.

You are very aware that this is a line. A big one. A bold neon line you are stepping over with both feet.

But right now you cannot find it in yourself to care.

The world narrows to the feeling of his mouth on yours, to the way he says your name like it means something important, to the way your heart pounds with a mixture of excitement and fear and something dangerously close to hope.

The kiss lingers like a question neither of you wants to answer just yet, his mouth moving against yours in a rhythm that feels both new and inevitable, pulling you deeper into a haze where everything else fades out.

You can taste the faint bitterness of coffee on his tongue, which he drank before you got here, and it mixes with the sweetness of the gum you'd chewed nervously on the way over, creating this odd, intimate flavor that's just yours and his right now.

His hand stays tangled in your hair, your fingers clutch at his shirt tighter, feeling the fabric bunch under your palms, the heat of his chest seeping through, and suddenly it's not enough.

You need more. You need to feel skin instead of cotton, need to know if his heart is racing as much as yours is.

Without breaking the kiss, you tug at the hem, pulling it up inch by inch, your knuckles grazing the smooth plane of his stomach. He gets the hint immediately, leaning back just enough to help you yank it over his head in one fluid motion that leaves his hair a little messy, falling over his forehead in a way that makes him look less put-together than the confident senior everyone sees.

"You sure about this?" he murmurs against your lips, you can feel that he's holding back but needs to check anyway, his breath warm on your cheek as his eyes search yours in the dim light.

There's no pressure in it, just genuine care mixed with that quiet intensity he always carries, the kind that makes you feel seen without feeling exposed.

And god, you are sure… surer than you've been about anything in weeks, even though your mind is a whirlwind of half-formed questions tumbling over each other: what if this changes everything, what if it's too fast, what if you mess it up somehow.

But none of that stops the yes from spilling out, because the way he's looking at you right now, like you're the only thing in his world, drowns out the doubts.

A small smile tugs at his mouth before he kisses you again, deeper this time, his hands sliding under your shirt to trace the curve of your back, fingers splaying wide against your skin, sending sparks everywhere they touch.

The contact makes your breath hitch, you arch into him. He takes that as his cue, lifting the fabric slowly, giving you every chance to pull away if you want.

You don't. Lifting your arms instead, you let him peel it off, the cool air of the room hitting your bare shoulders and making you shiver, though it is definitely not from the cold.

It's from the way his gaze drops, taking you in with awe that feels almost unfair, like he's memorizing every inch.

Left in your bra and the simple jeans you'd thrown on earlier, you feel heat creep up your neck, but he doesn't give you time to overthink it.

His mouth finds the spot just below your ear, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your jaw that make your eyes flutter shut.

"God, you're beautiful," he whispers, and it's not said like a line. It's mumbled, almost to himself, like he couldn't help it, that makes your hands reach for him again, tracing the lines of his shoulders.

He's solid and warm, the kind of presence that fills the space without overwhelming it, and you wonder briefly how many times he's done this, how easy it seems for him, but the thought evaporates when his lips find yours once more, pulling you back into the moment.

Your fingers fumble with his belt, nerves making them clumsy, warranting his help, as he undoes it with a quiet chuckle that breaks the tension just enough to make you smile against his mouth.

"No rush," he says, his voice steady even as his hands work at the button of your jeans, popping it open with a gentleness that contrasts the heat building between you. "We got time."

Maybe. Yes.

Sam's out, there’s no one here except you two. But the muffled sounds of neighbors through the thin dorm walls remind you that this is real life, not some polished fantasy, making this somehow urgent.

As he slides your jeans down your hips, he helps you kick them off without any awkward tangles.

The cotton of your bra and panties feel suddenly too thin under his gaze. You would’ve have worn something sexier if you knew this would happen.

Sitting back on his heels to look at you properly, he pauses. His eyes have gone dark but soft, his hands resting lightly on your thighs.

"Still good?" His thumb rubs small circles on your skin, the simple touch sending a jolt straight through you, making it hard to think straight.

You want more, but you’re also scared of wanting more, excited and overwhelmed all at once. But your body knows, nodding before you can form words, "Yeah, don't stop.” Stopping now would feel like cutting off a breath you didn't know you needed.

With that, he scoops you up effortlessly, one arm under your knees and the other around your back, lifting you bridal style. You let out a surprised gasp that turns into a laugh, your arms looping around his neck as he carries you the short distance to his bedroom.

The door's half-open already, and he nudges it wider with his foot, the room spilling into view: unmade bed with sheets twisted from whatever sleep he got last night, a desk piled with notes and a near empty water bottle, posters on the wall from bands you vaguely recognize.

It's lived-in, personal.

He lowers you onto the mattress, the springs creaking softly under your weight.

He follows you down, bracing himself above you on one elbow, his free hand trailing up your side as he kisses you again, slower now, like he's savoring it.

The bed dips under him, the pillow sinking a bit as your head rests back. You can feel the warmth of his body hovering just over yours, close enough to tease but not quite pressing down.

His fingers dance along your ribs, light, exploratory, absolutely maddening.

You need more, you need him to touch you properly. There’s the ache building low in your belly making you shift restlessly beneath him.

Without thinking, you reach for his hand, guiding it up to your chest, pressing it against your bra.

Surprised, he pulls back, a slight smirk playing on his lips as he looks down at you. "That eager, huh?" he teases, his voice laced with amusement.

"Tell me what you want.”

It’s absolutely impossible to word it, word what you want, as his thumb circles your nipple over the fabric. It's so close to what you need but not quite, making you whine softly in frustration.

"Just... touch me," you finally manage, the words coming out breathier than you intended,

He's already moving, his fingers deftly reaching behind you to unhook your bra with a single flick that speaks volumes about how many times he's done this before.

How many girls has he brought here, made feel like this? A spike of insecurity flickers, but it vanishes the second his mouth descends, warmth closing over one nipple while his hand cups the other, thumb circling in a way that makes your back arch off the bed.

Pleasure shoots through you, pulling a moan from your throat that surprises even you. It’s loud in the quiet room, echoing off the walls.

You're not usually like this, not vocal, always holding back out of some ingrained habit of keeping things contained, but here it spills out unfiltered.

He seems to notice it because frankly, it’s hard to miss. "That's it, lemme hear you… don't hold back if it feels good." His encouragement is gentle, making the next moan come easier, louder, as his tongue flicks and sucks, alternating sides until you're squirming beneath him, hands threading through his hair to hold him there.

Bucky takes his time, drawing it out, lips and teeth grazing just enough to tease the line between pleasure and ache, his free hand sliding down to grip your hip, fingers digging in slightly as if to steady you, or maybe himself. You’re not sure.

The sane part of your brain slips away with every pass of his mouth.

With spit shine and swollen lips, he eventually pulls back, his eyes meeting yours with a heat that mirrors the fire building in you.

"You're so responsive.” He's marveling at it, at you, his hand trailing down from your breast to hook into the waistband of your panties, tugging gently.

"Lift up for me, baby," the word baby slips out casually and affectionate, like he's said it a hundred times, making you obey without hesitation.

The fabric is peeled down your legs, and tossed over onto the floor, forgotten.

Now fully exposed, the vulnerability hits you for a split second. You feel the cool air on bare skin, but more than that, you feel his gaze.

When you break eye contact, he shifts down the bed with a purposeful grace, settling between your thighs. His hands part them gently, thumbs stroking the sensitive inner skin.

Anticipation tightens your core, making it impossible not to squirm under his touch. "Relax," he whispers, pressing a kiss to the inside of one thigh, then the other, his breath hot against you, making you tremble. "I got you."

The gasp you let out is stifled by your bitten lips, as his own brushes over your core gently.

"No, let it out— wanna hear how good it feels." The encouragement works, pulling another moan from you as his tongue finally presses flat, licking a slow stripe that makes your hips buck involuntarily.

He holds them down with firm hands, keeping you in place as he works, alternating between long, languid strokes and focused circles around that spot that has your vision blurring.

The room narrows to just the wet sounds of his mouth, the way his hair tickles your thighs, and the occasional groan from him like he's enjoying it as much as you are.

The sheets are rumpled from your fists, now they reach for him again, fingers tangling in his hair as the pressure builds, coiling tighter with every flick and suck.

Moans spill freer and louder now, spurred by his murmured approvals like "that's perfect" and "just like that" between breaths.

He's thorough, attentive, reading every reaction and adjusting, drawing it out until you're teetering on the edge, body taut and trembling under his touch.

His tongue keeps that relentless rhythm, dipping and swirling in ways that make your toes curl against the sheets.

The pressure coils tighter and tighter in your belly, a hot insistent build that has you gasping his name in broken syllables, "B-Bucky, oh God.”

Your hips grind up toward his mouth without any real control, chasing that peak.

A sudden and overwhelming wave crashes over you, your whole body tensing and shuddering as pleasure ripples out in waves that leave you trembling. Your muscles quiver in the aftermath, breaths coming in short ragged bursts that echo in the quiet space.

He eases you through it with softer licks that draw out the aftershocks, making your legs twitch and your hands clutch at his hair a little harder before you finally go limp.

You sink back into the pillows with a sigh that feels like it's been pulled from deep in your chest. Pressing a kiss to your inner thigh, then your hip, your stomach, he works his way up until his mouth finds yours again, tasting faintly of you in a way that's intimate and a bit dizzying.

"Hey," he murmurs against your lips, and you can feel the smile in it even with your eyes half-closed.

The trembling hasn't stopped entirely, little shivers running through you like echoes of the orgasm. Bucky notices that right away, brow furrowing, like he can't help but worry a little.

"hold on, let me get you some water," you hear him say, watching him through heavy lids as he twists the cap off of the bottle, sitting up a bit to hand it to you, his other hand steadying your back. "Drink this.”

The water hits your throat, the coolness of it washing something in you. He stays close while you drink, and when you hand the bottle back, he sets it aside before stretching out beside you on the bed.

His lips find your jaw first, trail up to your temple, brushing over your hairline in a way that feels almost too tender for what just happened, his breath warm against your skin as he presses another kiss there, then into your hair, like he's content to just lie here and hold you while your body settles.

The closeness wraps around you, his arm draped over your waist, fingers tracing idle patterns on your back that send lazy sparks along your spine.

As the trembling fades, you glance up at him, catching the way his eyes are half-lidded, watching you with that satisfied curve to his mouth.

There’s a confusion in you now. He's still half-dressed, jeans hugging his hips, and the unfairness of it hits you all at once, making you prop yourself up on one elbow, your hand trailing down his chest tentatively, fingers brushing the trail of hair leading lower.

"Wait, what about you?" because this feels lopsided, like he's given everything and taken nothing, and the thought lingers.

He shakes his head as his hand catches yours, bringing it to his lips for a quick kiss on your knuckles. "We don't have to rush the rest… there's always tomorrow, or the day after, whenever you're ready.”

That doesn't sit right, the idea of stopping here, of letting him walk away from this without feeling the same unraveling you just did.

Before you can second-guess it, your mouth forms a pout, lips pressing together in that way you know looks a bit childish but can't help. "But... I need you," you say, the words slipping out bolder than expected, shocking yourself even more, "I need your cock."

Whoa, where did that come from? It's not like you, this blunt courage bubbling up uninvited, heat flushing your face immediately after.

His eyes darken, a slow smile spreading across his face like you've just said something he didn't expect but absolutely likes.

"Say that again?" He slides his hand up your arm to cup your cheek, thumb brushing your lower lip as if to coax the words out.

A mix of embarrassment and frustration blooms, and you playfully swat at his chest with the flat of your hand, before your fingers drift lower again, fumbling with his belt buckle.

Avoiding his gaze, you tug at it clumsily. "You heard me."

His larger hand covers yours to undo the buckle with a quiet click, zipper rasping down as he lifts his hips to shove them off along with his boxers in one go, kicking them to the floor where they land in a heap.

He's hard and obviously so, cock springing free and curving up against his stomach, thick and flushed at the tip, veins standing out in a way that makes your mouth go a little dry.

He reaches over to the nightstand drawer, rummaging for a second before pulling out a condom packet, tearing it open with his teeth in that casual, practiced move that speaks to experience without flaunting it.

But before he can roll it on, your hand reaches out, "Wait—I've never, um, put one on before. Can I try?"

A surprised laugh bubbles up from his chest as he hands it over, eyebrows raised in amusement. "You wanna practice on me right now? Like I'm your training dummy or something?"

Lips jutting out again, "Teach me, Bucky… please?" drawing out the please.

He relents with a grin, guiding your hand to him, showing you without turning it into a lecture, "Pinch the tip here, yeah, like that."

His voice hitches when your fingers wrap around him, rolling the latex down slowly, carefully, the warmth of him pulsing under your touch making your breath catch.

Once it's on, he positions himself between your legs again, the weight of him settling over you comfortably, close enough that you feel enveloped, his forearms bracketing your head as he leans down to kiss you.

“You ready?" he murmurs against your mouth. You whisper a yes that's more breath than sound, your hands sliding up his back to pull him closer.

Inch by inch, he pushes in, stretching you in a way that's full and a little overwhelming at first, making you gasp into his shoulder, nails digging into his skin as your body adjusts.

The sensation builds from pressure to pleasure as he bottoms out, holding still for a moment to let you breathe.

"Fuck, you feel good.” The words are muffled against your neck.

The first thrust is steady and unhurried, making you wrap your legs around his waist, heels pressing into the flesh of his ass to urge him deeper.

The headboard taps the wall with each rock of his hips, he finds that angle that makes stars burst behind your eyelids, drawing moans from you that he swallows with kisses.

His own breaths come faster, mirroring yours. "That's it… fuck. Tell me — tell me if it’s too much—"

But it's not. It's perfect, the friction coiling that tension again until you're clinging to him, whispering "harder, please" in his ear.

Immediately he obliges, pace quickening until the room fills with the sounds of skin on skin, your shared gasps.

It builds faster this time, him inside you amplifying everything. You cum with his name on your lips, body clenching around him in waves that pull a deep groan from his throat.

His thrusts stutter as he follows right after, burying his face in your hair while he rides it out, hips pressing flush against yours one last time before he stills.

Somewhere between sleep and waking, you register the sensation of lips moving over your skin, the brush of his mouth along your shoulder, down the curve of your neck. That’s how you know it’s morning.

You stay still and let yourself exist in it.

His lips are softer now than they were in the dark. Curious in a way that feels less like hunger and more like quiet appreciation.

You are aware of your body before you are fully aware of the room. Aware of bare skin against bare skin. Aware of the way the sheets have slipped somewhere near your hips. Aware that you are not wearing anything at all.

There is a quiet exhale against your chest that makes you stir, eyelids fluttering open to a blur of morning light and dark hair bent over you.

“Morning,” he murmurs, sleep still clinging to his voice.

Your brain takes a second to catch up to the situation. To the fact that you are in his bed. That you fell asleep with your legs tangled with his.

You are naked.

He is naked.

You are in his bed.

Oh, also, this is Bucky Barnes.

There is no distance left to pretend this is casual.

“Hey.” His lips trail lower, until they take one nipple into its warmth, until it pebbles.

You open your eyes.

The ceiling above you looks different in daylight. More real. The warmth that had felt so comforting seconds ago now feels dangerously close to exposing something fragile inside you.

This is not something you do.

Not like this.

Not with a senior. Not with someone who walks into rooms and owns them without even trying. Not with someone like Bucky Barnes, who has a reputation that precedes him and a smile that has probably undone half the city.

And definitely not without talking about it first.

He lifts his head slightly when he feels the shift in you, eyes heavy but focused, mouth curving in a lazy smile that looks devastating this close.

“What’s that face for? Did I do something wrong already? Because that would be impressive.”

“No… no, it’s not that.”

“Then what is it?”

You do not have an answer that feels safe enough to say out loud. Instead, you trace a line across his shoulder with your fingers just to have something to do, to anchor yourself in something physical.

Last night was not reckless.

It was soft. It was slow. It felt like something building rather than something exploding. There were moments where he had looked at you like you were the only thing in the room, and the memory of it makes your throat ache in a way you do not know how to handle.

But that was night.

Night is easy. Morning is not.

“I’ve just never…” you start, then stop because the sentence feels childish before you even finish it.

“Never what?” he asks gently.

You let out a breath and force yourself to look at him properly. “Never done this with someone like you.”

“Someone like me?”

“Yeah. You know. Someone… above me. Senior. Someone who has a whole… history.” The last word slips out before you can soften it.

There is a pause. Long enough for you to realize what you have implied.

He studies you for a second, expression unreadable in a way that makes your stomach drop. “A history,” he repeats.

“I didn’t mean it like—”

“It’s fine.” His voice stays even, but something in it shifts just a fraction. “I know what people say.”

You want to take it back immediately. Not because it is untrue, but because it feels unfair in this moment. Because the man in front of you is not the whispered stories or rumors. He is human and still half wrapped around you like he belongs there.

“I just mean,” you try again, “I don’t usually wake up like this. I don’t usually… not talk about things first.”

He searches your face like he is trying to see the shape of what you are really asking. “Are you asking what this is?”

There it is. The question you have been circling since you opened your eyes.

“I don’t know,” you admit. “I don’t want to assume.”

His thumb traces a slow line along your hip. “I didn’t think last night felt like an assumption.”

“It didn’t.”

“Did it feel like a mistake?”

The word mistake is a mistake. Because last night felt like the opposite of a mistake. “No,” you say immediately. “No. It didn’t.”

It really didn’t. It felt intentional. It felt chosen. It felt like something that had been building and finally tipped over.

So why does your chest feel tight?

Why does your brain keep whispering that this is exactly how one-night stands begin? Intense, unexpected, and sweet in the morning until reality sets in.

Before you can say anything else, a sharp vibration cuts through the quiet.

His phone.

The sound is coming from somewhere on the floor, probably from his jeans. He groans softly and leans over to grab it, the movement pulling away the warmth that had been pressed against you.

You lie there watching the shift in him as his eyes scan the screen. “Shit, I have to take this,” he says. “Give me two seconds.”

The faint voice from the other side asks him numerous questions about where the hell he is and tells him he will lose his attendance if he isn’t there in ten minutes.

“Fuck — I’m late.” The words are simple. Practical. Normal. But they land like something heavier.

“Late?” you echo, absolutely dreading that you’re stalling him.

“Yeah. I was supposed to be in half an hour ago.” He runs a hand through his hair, already mentally moving into the day ahead. “I didn’t set an alarm.”

Last night definitely didn’t feel like a time where alarms existed.

But mornings come, and they wait for no one.

As he swings his legs off the bed, the sudden absence of him beside you feels enormous. You pull the sheet up instinctively, even though he has already seen every inch of you.

He is moving quickly now, scanning the room for clothes, checking his phone again. “I can drop you off on the way,” he says, distracted but not unkind. “I don’t want you getting a cab this early.”

“It’s fine, I can manage.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” He pulls on his jeans, glances back at you. “I’m not just leaving you.”

The reassurance should help. Instead, it tangles with the fear already building in your chest.

As you sit up, the sheet slips down to your waist. The room feels colder without the cocoon of the night around it. You watch him move around the room with practiced ease, like mornings here are routine.

It probably is routine for him.

You hope to God that only covers the ‘waking late’ part and not the ‘because of a one-night stand’ part.

You hate that your brain goes there, but it does. It does because there was no conversation.

It was just skin and warmth and whispered names in the dark.

“Hey,” he says, softer now, noticing the way you have gone quiet. “You okay?”

You nod because that is easier than explaining the way your stomach feels like it is sinking through the mattress.

“Yeah. Just waking up.”

He walks back over, bends slightly so you are eye level. There is something searching in his expression again, something that almost looks like he wants to say more.

“Last night…” he starts, then gives up as his phone buzzes again in his hand.

You take that as a cue to get ready and get the hell out of here.

You tell yourself that is normal. That adults have jobs and responsibilities. That this is not some dramatic movie where the world pauses because two people slept together.

But the fear creeps in anyway. What if it meant more to you than it did to him? What if the softness was just part of who he is?

What if you have stepped into something you cannot handle?

You slide out of bed, gathering your clothes from where they lie scattered. Each piece feels like evidence of something fragile and undefined.

He is already by the door by the time you finish dressing.

You search his face for something. A sign. A clue. A hint that he is about to say, stay. Or this is not nothing. Or we need to talk.

He does not.

He just checks the time again and sighs. “We should go.”

And just like that, you are left with more questions than answers.

It is ridiculous how much power one casual text can have over your entire nervous system.

The pharmacology class becomes ten times harder to sit in when you know it’s Bucky that’s texting you. You wait a full thirty seconds before checking because you refuse to look eager, even if no one can see you.

When you finally glance down, it is exactly what you expected.

Bucky: survived the morning. you alive over there?

That is it. No mention of last night. No shift in tone that would confirm or deny anything that happened between the sheets and the soft early light.

You stare at the screen, rereading the words as if they might rearrange themselves into something more revealing if you look hard enough.

Survived the morning could mean anything. It could mean he is thinking about you. It could mean he is not. It could mean the night was a pleasant distraction before reality resumed its normal rhythm.

Honestly, it was stupid of you to expect that he’d say something over text. At least he doesn’t ghost.

At least he texted.

You tell yourself that if it had meant nothing to him, he would not have bothered. He would have let the day swallow it. He would have gone back to being Bucky Barnes, charming and untouchable, moving from one thing to the next without looking back.

But he texted.

Your thumbs hover over the keyboard. Every possible reply feels wrong.

Too warm and you look clingy. Too cool and you risk sounding detached. Too flirty and you might seem like you are assuming something. Too flat and you might seem like you regret it.

Why is this so hard?

Finally, you decide on something light.

You: barely. Caffeine is the reason I’m alive.

You stare at it. Delete it. Type it again with a different emoji. Delete the emoji because that feels like too much. Send it before you can edit it a third time.

The three dots appear almost immediately.

Bucky: that’s concerning. eat something.

Your chest tightens at the simplicity of it. It’s the same tone he uses when he shows up with food because you mentioned skipping breakfast.

You want to read more into it than is there.

You force yourself not to.

You: yes dad.

You cringe as soon as you send it. Now why did you say that? Why are you like this?

His reply comes a few seconds later.

Bucky: don’t start.

You can almost hear the amused warning in his voice. Heat creeps up your neck even though NSAIDs are being discussed right now.

The conversation fades into small exchanges after that. Nothing deep. Nothing that addresses the thing sitting heavily between you like an unspoken question. He tells you medicine rounds ran long. You tell him a patient tried to bribe you with chocolate. He tells you to accept the chocolate next time. You tell him that is unethical. He tells you you are no fun.

It feels almost normal.

Almost.

But beneath every word is a current you cannot ignore.

By the time your class ends and the sky outside has turned that deep dusky blue that makes everything feel a little more fragile, you have replayed every message at least ten times in your head. You have analyzed the speed of his replies, the punctuation, the absence of certain words.

He did not call you baby.

He did not say he missed you.

He did not bring it up.

You tell yourself that maybe he is giving you space. That maybe he is trying not to rush you. That maybe this is what maturity looks like.

But another voice whispers that maybe it did not mean the same thing to him.

That maybe you were one of many mornings.

You hate that thought immediately. It feels unfair. He was soft. He was careful. He had asked you if you were sure. He had not treated you like something disposable.

And yet.

You have heard stories. You have seen the way girls look at him. The way they orbit him like he carries his own gravity.

What if you had stepped into something that was always going to feel bigger to you than it did to him?

By the time you reach the campus courtyard that evening, your chest feels tight with thoughts you cannot shut off.

You had not planned on seeing him, but you know he usually lingers here. A part of you hopes he will not be there so you do not have to figure out how to act. Another part of you hopes he is because not seeing him would feel worse.

He is there.

Of course.

He stands in the middle of a loose circle of friends, laughter carrying easily across the space. Sam is beside him, animated as always, gesturing wildly as he talks about something you cannot hear. A couple of others hover nearby, one of them leaning against Bucky’s shoulder in a way that looks effortless and familiar.

The sight of it makes something twist low in your stomach.

He looks the same as he always does. Relaxed. Confident. At home in his own skin. There is no visible shift that marks him as someone who woke up with you wrapped around him this morning.

Why would there be…

You slow your steps without meaning to. You consider turning around. Disappearing before he notices you. Pretending you are busy.

But then his eyes lift and land on you.

The change is subtle but unmistakable. His body angles slightly in your direction even before he excuses himself. He says something to Sam that makes Sam glance over at you with a knowing grin that immediately makes your face heat.

Bucky makes his way toward you. “Hey.”

You force yourself to meet his eyes without letting the storm inside you show. “Hey.”

“How was your day?”

The question is simple. Ordinary. You search his face for anything that hints at last night, but there is nothing but genuine curiosity.

“It was fine,” you reply, and then immediately hate how flat that sounds. You clear your throat and try again. “Busy. But fine. Yours?”

“Rounds were brutal,” he admits with a small shake of his head. “Chief decided I haven’t stood for 24 hours today.”

His comment makes you laugh despite yourself. “That seems illegal.”

“I’m considering filing a complaint.”

His gaze lingers on you for a second longer than necessary. There is a softness there that makes your pulse stumble, but it is fleeting. You cannot tell if you imagined it.

“You look tired.” He tilts his head slightly like he’s trying to figure something out. “Did you eat?”

The familiarity of the question makes your chest ache. “Yes,” you lie, because admitting you forgot feels too intimate somehow.

His eyes narrow just a fraction like he does not entirely believe you, but he lets it go.

There is a pause, not awkward but not entirely comfortable either. You are hyperaware of the group behind him, of the way laughter erupts suddenly, of the fact that this is his world and you are standing on the edge of it.

“I’ve got a game tonight,” he says after a moment, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s gonna run late.”

“Oh,” you say, and hope it does not sound like disappointment. “Good luck.”

“Thanks.” He studies your face again, like he is trying to read something you are not saying. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

The question is casual on the surface, but something about the way he says it makes your heart trip.

“Yeah… tomorrow.”

“Okay.” He smiles, that familiar crooked thing that used to make your stomach flip in a lighter way. Now it makes it drop.

He hesitates for half a second, like he might say more. Like he might bridge the gap you are too afraid to cross. Instead, he steps back slightly, already half turning toward his friends.

“Don’t stay up too late,” he adds, almost teasing.

You want to laugh. Instead, you nod.

“Go win your game.”

“Always do.”

He walks back to the group, slipping seamlessly into the rhythm of their conversation. Someone claps him on the back. Someone else throws an arm around his shoulders. He laughs at something Steve says, head tipping back slightly, unbothered.

You stand there like a statue.

Nothing about that interaction confirms your worst fears.

Nothing about it reassures them either.

He did not avoid you. He did not treat you like a stranger. He asked about your day. He said he would see you tomorrow.

And yet the space where a conversation should have been feels cavernous.

You tell yourself you are overthinking. That this is what normal looks like. That not every connection needs a dramatic declaration to validate it.

But as you turn away and start walking, the questions follow you anyway.

Did you move too fast?

Did you blur something that was supposed to stay light?

Are you already more attached than you meant to be?

The next time you see Bucky, he’s waiting for you outside your class. He is just there, eyes scanning the crowd until they land on you, and the way his face shifts when he spots you makes something hopeful spark before you can smother it.

For a split second, everything inside you softens.

He waited. He is physically here.

“Hey.”

You try to keep your expression neutral, like you did not spend half the lecture imagining this exact moment. “Hey. How long have you been standing here?”

“Long enough to hear the professor inside mispronounce drugs. I was tempted to go correct him.”

A quiet laugh escapes you before you can stop it. It feels good. Too good.

“That would’ve gone well.”

“I know. I’m very charming.”

You tilt your head slightly. “Debatable.”

“Ouch.”

You feel easy talking to him like this. Like nothing else is on your mind. But your heart does tighten occasionally, ruining everything.

“Walk with me?” he asks, nodding toward the parking lot.

You hesitate for a fraction of a second, not enough for him to notice, but long enough for you to feel the weight of the decision. You nod anyway.

When your shoulder brushes his, you are hyperaware of it. He does not comment. He just matches your pace.

“You okay?” he asks after a moment, glancing sideways at you. “You’ve been… somewhere else all day.”

“I’ve been in class.”

“You know that’s not what I meant.”

You force a small shrug. “I’m fine.”

He studies you like he does not entirely believe that, but he does not push further.

When you reach his place, he unlocks the door and steps aside to let you in first. That tiny gesture, that small courtesy, feels more intimate than it should.

The apartment looks the same but also not the same. The familiarity of it hits you harder today. You have been here before, but today it feels different because you woke up in his bed yesterday and left with no answers.

He closes the door behind you and tosses his keys onto the counter.

“Sam’s out,” he says casually, shrugging out of his jacket. “Date night again. I think he’s trying to set a record.”

You nod, even though your stomach flips at the information.

Sam is out. Which means you are alone.

The implication settles between you almost instantly.

“Oh,” you aim for neutral and land somewhere uncertain.

He steps closer without making it dramatic. He always does that, moves into your space like it is the most natural thing in the world. His hand finds your waist, fingers warm through the thin fabric of your shirt.

“I missed you.” The words send a rush of heat through you that you hate for how quickly it responds.

“It’s been one day.”

“Still.”

Before you can think about it, he leans.

The kiss is familiar already, like your mouths have memorized each other. His hand slides up your back, pulling you closer, and your body reacts on instinct, melting into him before your brain catches up.

You let yourself sink into it. Into the warmth and the steady pressure of him. Into the way his hand trails lower to your hip. Into the sound he makes when you kiss him back harder.

But then your brain wakes up again.

Sam is out. You are alone.

He waited for you after class.

Is this because he wanted you, or because he wanted this?

The grip on his shirt loosens slightly, but he picks up on it somehow.

“Hey,” he murmurs against your mouth, not pulling away entirely. “Where’d you just go?”

Nowhere safe.

You step back just enough to create space. “I’m just… tired.” You hate how weak of a lie it is.

You can clearly see him battling confusion. “Tired?”

“Yeah. I didn’t sleep much.”

That part is true. You did not sleep much because your brain just would not shut up.

His hands remain on your waist, not letting go. Almost not wanting to.

“We don’t have to do anything,” he says, searching your face. “I’m not dragging you in here for that.”

The defensiveness in you flares up immediately even though he has not accused you of anything.

“I didn’t say you were.”

“I know. I just—” he exhales slowly. “You feel different right now.”

Because you are spiraling.

Because you cannot tell if you are standing at the beginning of something real or in the middle of something casual that you are already too invested in.

Because you keep imagining him bringing other girls here with the same ease.

“I’m fine,” you repeat, which sounds less convincing each time.

He studies you in that steady way that makes it hard to hide. “Talk to me.”

The words are gentle. That almost makes it worse.

What are you supposed to say?

That you are scared you moved too fast. That you are scared he does not see this the way you do. That you are already picturing him getting bored in a week and drifting away like this was just another phase.

You cannot say any of that without sounding dramatic or fucking stupid.

The only sane option feels like distance.

You shift away from him just enough to create it, even though every part of you wants to stay where you are. “I think I’m coming down with something,” you say, reaching for the first excuse that sounds remotely believable. “I’ve felt weird all day.”

The concern on his face is immediate. It wipes away the warmth from a second ago and replaces it with something sharper, focused. “What kind of weird?”

You shrug like it’s nothing. “Just… off. Headache. Maybe.” The lie comes very easily.

He closes the small gap you tried to make, instinct overriding whatever confusion he’s feeling. His hand lifts toward your forehead before you can think of a reason to stop him. His palm settles there, clinical in a way that almost makes you flinch.

“You don’t feel warm,” he says.

Of course you don’t. You’d know if you were febrile. You both would.

“I don’t know.” You pull back a fraction. “I just—” The rest tangles in your throat. “I think I should go.”

He studies you like you’re a case that isn’t lining up with the symptoms. Brows pulling together, jaw tightening slightly as he runs through possibilities that don’t fit.

“You just got here.”

You can feel him trying to reconcile it. Sudden onset vague malaise. Absolutely no convincing clinical picture.

You know he knows.

“I didn’t want to say anything earlier,” you add quickly, filling the silence before he can dissect it. “Didn’t want to make it a thing.”

His gaze doesn’t soften. But there’s less confusion now. More searching.

“You were fine five minutes ago.”

You hate how true that sounds.

“I wasn’t… I just didn’t think about it.”

That part isn’t even a lie. You hadn’t been thinking. Not about consequences. Not about tomorrow. Not about anything but him.

“Don’t be like that,” he says. “If something’s wrong, tell me.”

Something is wrong. It is inside your own head and you do not know how to untangle it without making a mess.

“Nothing’s wrong,” you insist, even though your chest feels tight. “I just need to rest.”

There is a flicker of something in his eyes now. Hurt. Frustration. Maybe both.

“Did I do something?” You hate that you made him think that.

“No,” you answer quickly. “No, you didn’t.”

But you cannot elaborate because the truth is messy and unformed and terrifying.

Reaching for your bag, “I’m gonna go,” you say, keeping your tone as steady as you can manage.

He stands there for a second like he is debating whether to argue. Then he exhales and grabs his keys from the counter.

“I’ll drop you.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I know. I want to.”

I want to.

The firmness in his voice makes it clear he is not letting you leave alone, and a small part of you is grateful for that even as the rest of you feels like you are sabotaging something you cannot define.

You walk toward the door with him a step behind, the tension between you thick and unspoken.

This is not how you imagined today going.

He had waited for you after class. He had kissed you like he meant it. He had said he missed you.

Yet you are the one walking away.

As he opens the door and gestures for you to step out first, the weight of it settles deeper in your chest.

You are building a wall in real time, brick by careful brick, and you are not even sure what you are protecting yourself from.

Behind you, he locks the door and follows, close enough that you can feel his presence but not touching.

The silence is heavier than any argument that could have happened.

Your phone buzzes halfway through the afternoon. You consider ignoring it just to prove to yourself that you can. That you are not waiting around for him, that your entire mood does not hinge on whatever words appear on your screen next.

You still look immediately.

Bucky: heyy

Bucky: i wanna see you. if you’re feeling up for it. will be near your block after your last class. maybe wait by the entrance? no pressure.

He did not say come over. He did not ask if you are free. He said he wants to see you.

Your brain — traitor that it is — immediately begins its spiral. Maybe he just feels bad about yesterday. Maybe he thinks you were actually sick. Maybe he is trying to smooth something over. Maybe he is bored.

Fuck.

Maybe he just wants you.

You force yourself to be normal.

You: yeah. i’ll be there.

He reacts with a simple thumbs up.

By the time your last class ends, your nerves feel stretched thin. You tell yourself this is stupid. You are not walking into a confession. You are not walking into a breakup. You are walking outside your own building to meet someone who asked to see you.

Still, your palms feel slightly damp.

The doors swing open and voices spill across the courtyard in overlapping bursts of laughter and conversation. You scan automatically for him, heart already climbing into your throat.

It takes less than five seconds to find him.

Not alone.

A small group surrounds him, the kind of cluster that forms around someone people gravitate toward without even meaning to.

Steve stands on his left, animated as always, gesturing with both hands while he talks. Sam leans back against the wall with that amused, observant look he wears when he is about to make a comment no one asked for.

And then there is a flash of red.

She is standing close to him. Close enough that her shoulder nearly brushes his chest.

Natasha.

You have seen her before, of course. It would be impossible not to. Red hair that catches light like it knows it is being watched, sharp eyes that miss nothing, posture that suggests she does not need to raise her voice to command attention.

Right now, her fingers are at his collar. Adjusting.

She smooths the fabric down, straightens it slightly, then taps his chest like she is approving her own work.

There is familiarity in it that feels intimate even from a distance.

Your stomach drops so fast it almost feels physical.

That is not a friendly distance. That is not casual. That is close enough to touch without thinking about it.

Your brain does not wait for logic. It does not ask questions. It fills in blanks you never agreed to.

She fixes his clothes because she has done it before.

She stands that close because she is allowed to.

You are just another girl who showed up for a week.

You take an unconscious step back, already calculating the fastest way to turn around without being obvious. You could say you forgot something. You could pretend you never saw his text, even though you’ve replied to it. You could avoid the humiliation of walking over there like you belong.

Before you can pivot fully, his head lifts and eyes find you immediately.

There is no hesitation in the recognition. The moment he sees you, his expression shifts in a way that feels unmistakable. Something bright flickers there. Relief, maybe. Something softer than the grin he wears with the rest of them.

“There you are.”

Your body freezes mid-retreat.

He steps away from the group without thinking twice, closing the space between you in a few long strides. You have no choice but to stay where you are unless you want to make it obvious you were about to flee.

“Thought you were gonna ditch me.”

“I was literally just walking out.”

“Sure.” There’s just that faint teasing curve of his mouth.

Over his shoulder, you can feel the group’s attention shift.

“Come here.” He reaches for your hand. There’s no time for you to overthink or even think for that matter.

The contact is warm and familiar and it sends a rush of conflicting emotions through you. You let him guide you toward them even though every insecure thought in your head is screaming that you do not belong in this circle.

He says your name easily. Naturally. Not as an afterthought.

Shit, he’s introducing you to them.

But it’s just your name. There’s no label that follows.

Of course there is nothing to add. What would he even say?

This is the girl I slept with.

This is the girl I’m seeing.

This is the girl I don’t know what to call yet.

You force a polite smile as he gestures around.

“You know Sam,” he continues. “That’s Steve. And this menace is Nat.”

Nat’s gaze shifts to you fully now. “Hi.”

“Hi,” you reply, hoping your voice does not betray the way your stomach is still tangled.

Sam offers you an easy grin. “So this is who he ditched us for the other night.”

Heat floods your face instantly.

Bucky shoots him a look. “Shut up.”

“What? I’m just saying.” Sam shrugs.

Steve, ever diplomatic, steps in smoothly. “Nice to finally meet you.”

Finally.

The word echoes in your head.

Finally suggests there has been discussion. Anticipation. Awareness.

You glance at Bucky instinctively, searching his expression for any hint that he is uncomfortable, embarrassed, anything.

He does not look embarrassed.

If anything, he looks almost… pleased.

His hand rests lightly at your lower back now. The gesture is subtle but grounding, and it only confuses you further.

If Nat meant something more, would he touch you like this in front of her?

If you meant something more, would he have said it out loud?

Conversation resumes around you, overlapping. You answer when spoken to. You nod. You laugh at the right moments. But your thoughts keep circling back to the image of Nat’s fingers at his collar, smoothing, straightening, touching.

He does not pull away from you once. If anything, he shifts closer as the minutes pass, angling his body slightly so you are not on the edge of the circle but tucked nearer to him.

Sometime later, he leans down slightly toward your ear. “You good?”

“Yeah.”

His eyes linger on your face for half a second, like he is trying to read what you are not saying.

“Walk with me?”

You nod before you can second guess it.

His hand slides more firmly around your waist this time as he guides you away from the group.

You can feel Nat’s gaze on your back as you leave, or maybe that is just your imagination refusing to calm down.

The motorcycle waits a few steps away, gleaming faintly in the lowering light. He stops beside it but does not let go of you immediately.

“What’s going on in that head?” His voice is softer now that you are alone.

“Nothing.” Nothing feels like the only safe answer.

He huffs out a quiet breath. “You’re terrible at lying.”

“I’m not lying.”

“Okay.” You can tell he’s still not convinced.

The closeness of him is distracting. His hand is still at your waist, resting just above your pelvis. You can feel the warmth of it through the fabric and it makes your thoughts even more tangled.

“Where are we going?” You want to change the subject.

“It’s a surprise.”

“I don’t like surprises.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is when they involve you.”

A flicker of amusement crosses his face. “Wow. I feel attacked.”

“Just tell me.”

He hesitates for dramatic effect, then leans in slightly, voice dropping. “Where else?”

Your breath catches before you can stop it.

“Bucky.”

“My place,” he finishes, like it is obvious.

Of course it is.

The words hit differently now, layered with everything your mind has been chewing on for the past twenty-four hours.

My place.

Is that all this is?

Your heart thuds against your ribs, too loud, too fast. You tell yourself you are being unfair. You tell yourself he invited you to meet his friends. He introduced you. He did not hide you. He did not flinch.

And yet the image of Nat’s fingers at his collar refuses to fade.

“Okay.” You hope he cannot hear the storm building behind the single word.

His hand squeezes your waist lightly before he finally lets go to grab his helmet, and the absence of his touch feels colder than it should.

Bucky’s place feels too quiet for the amount of noise in your head. He drops his keys into the bowl by the counter and turns toward you. There is no visible tension in him, no sign that he feels the way you’ve been feeling.

“You’ve been kinda weird lately… you mad?”

The softness in his voice makes it worse. It would be easier if he were careless.

He reaches for you when you don’t answer, hands sliding to your waist with an easy familiarity. Sitting back onto the couch, he pulls you with him, guiding you until you are straddling his lap, knees pressing into the cushions on either side of his thighs.

It happens naturally, like your bodies already know the choreography.

His mouth finds yours before you can think too hard about it. The kiss is warm. You can feel your breathing get uneven as his fingers resume their path on your body.

His lips trail from yours to your jaw, then lower, pressing unhurried kisses along your neck. Heat spreads beneath your skin where he lingers.

Your hands rest on his shoulders, and for a moment you almost let yourself fall into it.

Almost.

Because the image of Nat leaning in, adjusting his collar with that quiet confidence, flashes again. At the worst possible moment. Because you do not know what you are to him.

“Bucky…”

He hums against your skin. “Mhmm?”

“What is this?”

His mouth stills. “What is what?”

“This,” you repeat, gesturing helplessly between your bodies while still sitting in his lap. “Us coming here. Sam conveniently being out. You kissing me like nothing’s complicated.”

His confusion deepens, and he looks genuinely lost. “I’m kissing you because I want to.”

“That doesn’t answer anything.”

“It kind of does.”

A sharp exhale leaves you in frustration. “No, it doesn’t, Bucky.”

With his hands steady at your waist now, he shifts in his place. “Okay. Then tell me what you’re asking.”

“Am I just… part of something casual to you?” The words finally come, absolutely rushed. “Because that’s what it feels like sometimes.”

His expression changes in a way you cannot immediately name. You know it’s not anger. Probably something closer to disbelief.

“Casual?” he repeats carefully.

“I saw her,” you blurt it out. “Nat. Fixing your collar like she’s done it a hundred times. And Steve said finally, like I’m the last to know something. And you didn’t say anything when you introduced me, you just said my name. Like that’s all there is.”

“There is more.”

“Then what is it? Because from where I’m sitting it feels like I’m the only one trying to figure it out.”

The irony isn’t lost on you, and you don’t give him space or time to respond.

“I don’t do this… I don’t sleep with someone and then just pretend it’s fine without knowing what it means. I don’t wake up next to someone and spend the whole day wondering if I just made myself convenient.”

His hands tighten slightly at your hips at the mention of convenience.

“And before you say I’m overthinking… I know your thing. Everyone knows. You don’t exactly have a reputation for… consistency.”

“That’s a polite way to put it.” He exhales, trying to look as unbothered as possible.

“I’m serious,” you insist. “I don’t wanna be another girl you had fun with until something better came along. I don’t want to be someone in your rotation. I don’t want to feel stupid for catching feelings when you’re just—” you stop at that because the next words just wouldn’t come.

“Just what?”

“Just being you.”

He doesn’t respond. You hate that he doesn’t respond. That’s when you realise you’re still straddling him, still close enough to feel the steady rise and fall of his chest, still close enough to feel the unmistakable press of his length against you. Even in the middle of this.

How can someone be turned on in such a situation, you genuinely do not know.

“And don’t laugh,” you add, because his mouth twitches. “If you laugh I will actually leave.”

“I’m not laughing at you… I’m just trying to figure out how you managed to build an entire alternate reality without asking me a single question.”

“I’m asking now.”

“Yeah. After deciding all the answers.”

“Because you never said anything.”

Bucky studies your face, eyes searching in a way that makes your pulse pound. “You want me to say it?”

“Say what?”

“That I haven’t always been great at this.” He nods slowly, almost to himself. “Fine. I haven’t. I’ve dated around. I’ve kept things light. I liked that it was easy. There weren’t any expectations. People knew the deal.”

The honesty stings more than you expect.

“That’s exactly what I’m talking about.”

“But that’s not what this is.”

The firmness in his voice makes you want to hide yourself, but still you look at him. “Then what is it?”

He looks back at you like he’s choosing his words carefully. Or you think that’s what he’s doing. “Do you remember the first time we talked?”

“Of course I do.”

“I was an ass. I handed you my record book like it was nothing.”

“You were,” you mutter.

A faint smile touches his mouth. “Yeah. I was used to people just… going along with whatever I asked. And then you looked at me like I had personally offended your entire bloodline.”

Despite everything, a reluctant breath of laughter leaves you.

“I — I noticed you before that… I’d heard your answers in rounds. Seen your handwriting in the logbooks. You don’t try to stand out, but you do anyway. I kept waiting for a reason to talk to you that didn’t sound stupid.”

Your heartbeat stutters.

“The record book was the only excuse I had,” he admits. “And then you said yes even though you clearly didn’t want to, and I felt like a jerk the entire walk back to my room.”

That catches you off guard. “You did not.”

“I did.” His gaze does not waver. “Because I knew you weren’t like the others. You weren’t trying to impress me. You weren’t flirting. You were annoyed. And I still kept thinking about you… I’ve liked you since then. Not in a casual way. Definitely not in a ‘let’s see what happens’ way.”

“I kissed you because I wanted you. I slept with you because I thought we both wanted it. And it was never convenient. It was anything but convenient… because every time you look at me like you’re trying to decide whether I’m worth the trouble, it drives me insane.”

Heat rises to your face.

“Nat fixing my collar means nothing,” he adds as an afterthought. “She’s been doing that since first year. Also she’s dating some girl. And Steve said ‘finally’ because he’s tired of listening to me talk about you and not doing anything about it.”

“You talk about me?” The question feels fragile, but absolutely unnecessary and useless from what you’ve been hearing so far.

“Constantly,” he says without hesitation. “To the point where Sam told me to either ask you out properly or shut up… apparently it’s hard being my roommate.”

Your mind struggles to reconcile that with the version of him you built in self defense.

“I have been a guy who keeps things surface level,” he goes on, not flinching from it. “I liked not having to care too much. But with you it hasn’t been surface level. At all. I just… didn’t know how to shift gears without scaring you… so no,” he says, more quietly now. “You’re not part of a rotation. There isn’t one. Not anymore.”

The words make you feel absolutely stupid and make you smile at the same time.

“And if you think I brought you around my friends because you’re temporary… then you really don’t know me as well as I hoped you did.”

Now guilt seeps in because you just built this whole picture in your head that couldn’t be the farthest from reality.

You start to slide off his lap, embarrassment flooding in, but his hands hold you there gently.

“Don’t go,” he murmurs.

“I just— I made a fool of myself.”

The corner of his mouth tilts in a smile. “Yeah… a little.”

“Bucky!”

“I’m not making fun of you.” His grip on your waist tightens, reassuring you. “I like that you cared enough about this to spiral a little.”

Your eyes sting again, but for a different reason.

He shifts subtly beneath you, and the movement reminds you once more of the hard length pressing against you.

“Also,” he adds, voice dropping, “for someone who thinks this is casual, you’ve been sitting on my lap for ten minutes while I’m very obviously not neutral about you.”

Your mouth opens in a soft ‘O’ at the attention he just called to himself.

His grin spreads slowly now. “You get so worked up… and it’s distracting.”

“Distracting how?”

His thumbs trace idle patterns at your waist. “You’re so hot when you’re mad. I’ve been trying to focus on what you’re saying and all I can think about is how badly I want to kiss you again.”

The sincerity in his voice cuts through the last of your doubt.

“I like you,” there’s a finality in his voice. “I just didn’t know how to say it without sounding like every other guy who says it and doesn’t mean it. So I just… didn’t say it… But I’m saying it now. Clearly. I want no room for interpretation. I want this. With you. Not because it’s convenient. Because it’s you.”

The story you built in your head never included this version of him at all, but that’s okay, you get to have first hand experience.

my masterlist !

extras. that was wayyyy longer than i intended. If this flops, I’ll never set foot on tumblr again 😭 been waiting like a month to post this shit lol