𝓜arie.

a/n: due to a few things happening irl, I had to post this today. what can I say, I just want to take care of this man and let him cuddle on my chest and feed him his favorite food 😭 thank you so much kie @metal-armed-muse for listening to my excited ass when I shared this idea with you, and for giving me your feedback 🩵

hope you’ll enjoy! see you next month 🫂

His hands grab onto the frame of the bedroom window and his weight shifts, but the noise of boots landing on the floor never comes. Endless years of practice have trained him to move like a snake, and just like the strategic reptile, it’s impossible to hear him approaching, unless he wants you to. Blood never stains what it’s not supposed to, his work being too clean, spotless. Methodical. And then, he disappears in the quiet of the night, as if he had never been there in the first place. 

This time, he arrives silently for an entirely different– and definitely purer– reason.  

You are lying on your side, back to the window, knees slightly drawn in as if looking for comfort. The blanket has slipped down one of your shoulders, just enough for that naked patch of skin to be covered in goosebumps. 

The window closes behind him with a soft click he barely allows, leaving outside everything that doesn’t belong here. The cold air, the damp stone, the hum of distant traffic that never quite reaches this street. 

The echo of gunfire; someone’s agonizing shout; the sharp electric snap of orders obeyed too fast to think.

He perceives the change of air at once. Warm, still. It smells faintly of laundry soap and perfume still lingering from this morning. The aroma of something brewed hours ago and left to cool travels languidly from the open bedroom door. The Soldier feels warmth seeping deep into his bones, and he might not notice it, but his shoulders lower a fraction as he breathes in the familiar mix of scents that with time he has learned to associate with you. With home.

The lamp on the nightstand is off, but the city lights leak in through the glass, thin stripes of amber light crossing the wall and the duvet. 

He stands there longer than necessary, allowing himself to just exist in the only place where his mind doesn’t split apart and time doesn’t blur. No shouted derisions, no hands on him that don’t ask first. 

They never do. 

He moves closer, slowly, but the floorboard creaks under his weight anyway. The sound is barely there, but it’s enough to make you stir in your sleep. When he reaches the side of the bed, your body heat touches him like a hand stopping him from falling into the void. It’s human. He didn’t know it was possible for something like this to exist, so different from the artificial warmth of the machines deliberately built to break minds. 

One of your hands is tucked under the pillow, the other rests open on top of the sheet. Your breathing is steady, each inhale and exhale is measured and unafraid.

Outside, a car passes, distant tires on wet pavement. Somewhere far below, a siren wails and fades, yet you don’t wake up.

Carefully, he lowers himself on his knees, mindful to not touch the covers. He studies your face like he’s afraid it might morph into something else if he looks away. Then, a hand trembling reaches out before he can stop himself. Just fingers grazing bare, soft skin. 

Your cheek fits beneath his touch in a way that makes something in his chest tighten. The sensation grounds him, pulls him fully into the room.

Then, your eyes open.

You startle awake with a sharp intake of air, but the fear never comes. Recognition settles in instead, relieved and immediate.

“Winter.” You exhale a whisper.

He pulls his hand back at once. “Sorry.” He immediately answers, the word rough and uneven. “I… Woke you.”

You sit up, already reaching for him, your fingers brushing his wrist. “It’s okay,” your smile makes his stomach somersault. “You’re here.”

That’s enough. It always is.

You swing your legs out of the sheets and rub sleep from your eyes before turning the lamp on your nightstand on. Your squinting eyes flick over him automatically, assessing: dirty boots, no weapons, the dark smudge of some dark liquid dried on his sleeve. Worry tightens your mouth.

“Sit.” You murmur, patting the mattress. However, he stands where he is, rigid and contained. 

“Winter.” You call out gently.

He shakes his head. “Dirty.”

You give a small nod, understanding. “Okay.” You stand up and walk to your desk scattered with books and your work pc. “Sit here at least.” You turn the chair so it’s facing the bed. “I’ll get the shower ready.”

That makes him hesitate, and you immediately understand why. 

“Or… You can come with me?” He gives you an immediate, sharp nod, like he’s afraid you might change your mind. 

In the bathroom, the light is a little brighter, and he fights back the instinct to cover his eyes. You lean over to reach for the shower faucet as he follows closely, too close maybe, but you never comment nor mind.

Winter stands amongst clean scents and cleaner tiles, dirty, booted feet huge and out of place on your fluffy bath mat. It makes him feel momentarily lost, so without much reflection, his hand reaches for the back of your sweater, fingers fisting the fabric hard, like a lifeline. It’s hard not to notice how his grip shakes. 

“It’s okay,” you repeat, calmly. “I’m right here.”

The water starts to run, and he flinches at the sound, then steadies when it doesn’t change, doesn’t escalate. Steam begins to rise, fogging the mirror, and his head lowers, forehead nearly touching your shoulder blades. You can feel the shake in his entire body now— small, like he’s holding something back.

You keep moving, slow and deliberate, as you retrieve towels, test the water with your hand, adjusting it until it’s warm but not hot. Yet you never stray far from him. They might be mundane tasks, but having Winter standing behind you makes them feel like a precious ritual.

Finally turning around, you notice how he keeps his eyes fixed on a random spot on your top, chin tilted down as if too ashamed to meet your gaze. “Do you want my help to undress?” 

His grip on your sweatshirt tightens for a moment.

“Yes. Just… Don’t leave. After.” He utters, words uneven.

“Do you want me to help you wash up?” He nods, but you gently coax him to give you permission with words.

“Yes, please.”

It feels like someone has just filled his ears with cotton wool, his mind suddenly feeling fuzzy and his tongue heavy as you carefully start peeling his dirty gear off of him. He finds his head tipping forward to rest on your shoulder as you work on his belt. Your hands stop short as you finally feel the weight of his head settle, moving them on his back.

“I’m not going anywhere.” You don't seem to care about the filth that covers him. You just hug him closer. “Just keep breathing and let me help you.”

You feel more than hear his sigh, his shoulders slumping as he leans more against you. You hold him for a long moment, yet for Winter it feels endless and not enough at the same time. When you slowly start pulling away, he fights the urge to bring you back in his arms.

Unknowingly to you, his cheeks turn rosy as you proceed to kneel down in front of him and help him remove his boots and then his pants. To anyone outside of this little sanctuary you created for him, he might be the cruel Winter Soldier, the fist of Hydra, nothing more than an asset. But here, naked and shaking, standing before you in his rawest, most human form, he’s just a vulnerable man craving love. 

It’s been almost a year since the start of this tender relationship, but your breath never fails to hitch when your eyes fall on his freshly bruised body. Your heart breaks all the same for the old scars; they might not hurt anymore, but they will forever remain bearers of great suffering.

He knows the sight makes you sad. He notices the light in your eyes dim a little and your lips press together at the reminder of how much pain he must endure daily at the hands of those sadist bastards. He hates being the reason of your sadness, but there's nothing he can do to prevent new bruises from blooming on his skin.

Another way he keeps failing you. 

His blue eyes briefly dart over your body, fingers fidgeting as you remove your own clothes as well, now standing alongside him in your underwear. You offer a small smile as you open the shower door, and the heat on his ears turns scorching hot. He likes looking at you, well— he adores it, actually. You are so pretty and your skin is always pleasantly warm under his cold hands. 

With a soft hand on his back, you guide him inside. There’s barely enough room to move, with Winter being tall and muscular, yet you always make it work. A small, panicked sound falls from his lips when the hand on his back disappears; he abruptly turns around, his eyes frantically flying left and right, until they land on you, bent to retrieve the small white shower stool you bought deliberately for him. For nights like this one.

“Sorry, I forgot to pick it up before.” His shoulders lower at once, and when you finally get inside, you gently guide him to sit down.

“Can you tip your head back a little, baby?” A shiver runs down his spine at the familiar pet name, and he immediately complies. You hum softly as you start lathering his hair with your shampoo, and his eyes flutter close, prompted by the delicate, circular motions and your low voice. It could be the latest song of your favorite singer, or a hit from twenty years ago, he wouldn’t know. To him, you are the inventor of everything soft and fun.

You are noticeably tender in the way you scrub at his scalp, before shielding his eyes with one hand so the mix of water and shampoo doesn’t burn them as you rinse all the grime out. You do it twice, just to be thorough. He tried to mimic your actions once… There, but his handler has only ever given him five minutes to clean up. The last time the Soldier went over time, the agent in charge broke his human fingers for having still product in his hair.

The smell of your products is also noticeably better than the unscented shampoo Hydra provides him with. Yours is just… Well, you. He has come to associate that scent to your hair and body; as a matter of fact, he loves smelling like you. That must mean he gets to be closer to you, right? 

“Smells… Like home.” 

It’s quiet enough to be easily overridden by the water’s noise, if you weren’t always so focused on his reactions. Your smile is fond. “Yeah? Better than the cherry and sweet almond shampoo?”

“Too sweet.” You chuckle at the instant but subtle grimace appearing on his features, and the corners of his mouth twitch at the adorable sound before he can stop it. Your eyes catch it anyway. 

“There he is.” You comment quietly, still grinning. Winter never knows what to do with your praises. His face flushes and he ducks his head, suddenly unsure where to put his eyes. 

Letting the conditioner sit in his hair is his favorite part, because that means his body is next. You are even more tender with it, at the beginning he couldn’t understand why, when all his life he’s been used to rough hands and dismissive touches. They made him believe he was unworthy of such gentleness. 

Your palms are tender and cautious as they reach every nook, even the marring on his left shoulder. His breathing steadies at your lack of hesitation, as your fingers trace the border where skin ends and metal begins, where the scars are now old, deep lines crossing and overlapping, reminders of a body altered without consent. He rarely looks at them; to him, they are just another proof of his uselessness.

Something in his chest tightens painfully at the distant realization that this might be the first and only time those scars are touched without nefarious purposes. Not to test. Not to repair. Not to weaponize.

Just… To be cleaned.

When your shower gel and the conditioner have been both washed away completely, Winter’s hands twitch where they rest on top of his thighs. The moment you’re done with his back, he stands up to face you.

“Are you okay?” You instantly ask, mentally retracing your steps. Did you touch something you weren’t supposed to? Did you push too much on a new bruise?

“You do everything.” He starts, sorrow creeping in his voice. “For me.”

You tilt your head, slightly confused. 

“I don’t… Get a turn.” 

I don’t get a turn to wash you, to return the favor, to care for you.

“You know, I was sweating under that blanket.” You blurt out with an easy shrug. 

That does it. This time, he smiles, small but real. Gone almost as soon as it appears, but it’s there.

“You sit now.” He waits for you to remove your underwear, his eyes taking sudden interest in the wall. You find it so adorable the way he stoically frowns at it, yet his red ears traitorously give him away. 

When you are done, he gently but firmly guides you to sit on the stool. At that, you have to bite your bottom lip to hide the endeared smile threatening to take over your lips. 

Winter takes the bottle of body wash with reverence, his hands trembling, but he doesn’t hesitate. The process is slow, mimicking what you did to him. His eyebrows furrow in concentration as he cleans all around; you’re quiet, trying to not shudder when he grazes your breasts with the slightest hint of pressure while lathering them in soap. When he gets to your hands, he cleans each finger, one by one, delicately turning your hands several times until he’s satisfied. 

He hesitates before moving lower, hands hovering uncertainly over your knees. He glances up at you, checking— always checking.

“Okay?” He asks quietly.

You nod with your eyes twinkling in adoration. “I’m alright. Go on.”

So he does. He kneels, slowly. The tiles are hard beneath his knees, but he barely registers it. All of his attention narrows to the task in front of him, he needs to do this right. His hands start at your thighs with careful, methodical strokes, completely different from the way he cleans his weapons— thorough, respectful. They are steady now, the shaking reduced to a faint tremor that comes and goes with his breath. He treats your skin as something entrusted to him.

The water runs over his fingers as he works lower, on your calves, rinsing away soap and the weight of the day you’ve carried with you. He doesn’t rush, there’s no urgency here when he’s in your company. Then, with one hand supporting your ankle, he washes your feet, his touch firm enough to be sure, tender enough to never startle. He frowns again in deep and sincere concentration, every motion is deliberate, conveying something akin to I am trying.

He rinses thoroughly, ensuring no suds lingers on your body, as if leaving even a trace behind would mean he hasn’t done enough.

When Winter's finished, he stays where he is. He looks up at you, water still dripping from his hair, ocean eyes searching your face with quiet intensity. He doesn’t smile, nor speaks. He simply waits. The waiting is familiar, but this time it isn’t fear driving it. It’s hope.

Hope that he’s done well.

Hope that this, at least, was right.

You meet his gaze, expression soft and sure. “You did perfectly.”

You notice the moment your words settle into him, slowly, and his shoulders ease. The tension he’s been holding finally loosens its grip. He nods once, accepting the praise the only way he knows how, silently and reverently.

Winter rises from the floor without the rigid precision he usually carries, his movements more languid now, less guarded. His naked chest moves gently as he takes your hand, helping you stand up.

“There,” he utters, quietly proud. “Clean.”

“Thank you.” You smile.

Once you’re out, your hand reaches for the towel– his towel, the yellow one. It’s his favorite, worn enough to be soft against his tortured skin, yet still in good conditions. You keep it folded in your vanity cabinet, untouched except for the nights he comes home.

You always start with drying his shoulders, wrapping the towel around him and blotting instead of rubbing, careful with the metal and the scars. Once his body is only slightly damp, you reach for your own towel, but his fingers wrap around your wrist, stopping you from drying yourself.

“I can.” He mumbles, already grasping the white fabric.

You pause, searching his face for any sign of discomfort. When you find none, you nod. “Alright.”

He dries you the same way he washed you, softly and focused, before you wrap yourselves in your respective towels and you guide him back to your bedroom. You open a drawer, and pull out a pair of black underwear and some clothes. They’re soft, well-worn, shaped by time and repeated washing. Clothes that you bought specifically for him after the first time you met. His chest tightens at the sight: red henley and grey sweatpants. He mentioned it once, how these two items feel familiar, safe, and since then, you’ve been making sure to keep them always clean and ironed, ready for the next visit.

Winter doesn’t comment, but his eyes linger on the fabric, memorizing it anew. He watches you approach with the henley folded over your arm and the sweatpants draped neatly beneath it.

“May I?” You ask once you stop in front of him, and he nods eagerly.

You help him step into the black boxers first, then the sweatpants, letting him steady himself with a hand on your shoulder when his balance wavers. He lifts each foot obediently, movements unhurried, trusting you to guide him. The henley comes next. You chuckle when he bends down to make it easier for you to reach his head, and that makes his lips twitch in amusement. You lift it over him carefully, then his arms raise, fabric sliding down warm skin, familiar and comforting. You adjust the collar and smooth the sleeves, fingers lingering just long enough to ensure nothing pulls or twists wrong.

“There.” You nod satisfied. “Better.” This shade of red softens him; it’s a color that feels chosen, not assigned.

He looks down at himself, then back at your form standing before your closet to retrieve your own things.

“I help.” He says suddenly, materializing behind you as you look for a pair of underwear.

You pause with your hand inside the drawer. “Help with…?”

“Your clothes.”

Your reaction is immediate, eyes softening at his eagerness to help you, to take care of you just as you are doing with him. “Alright.”

You pick a fresh pair of pajamas, and he gently pries it from your hands. He bends down, holds the fabric open, waits for your cue, helps guide your arms through. His gaze dutifully follows his hands as he smooths your top down; they started trembling again when presented again with your beautiful naked body.

This, too, grounds him. Being useful without being used, helping without being ordered.

“Thank you, baby.” He shivers again as you take his hand, leading him back toward the bed. This time, he doesn’t hesitate, but instead follows easily, willingly, allowing you to decide where he should sit.

Relinquishing control here doesn’t feel like losing it, it feels like setting it down somewhere safe. It’s like stepping off a ledge and trusting there will be a soft mattress to land on.

You kneel in front of him, this time dabbing water from his hair with patience.

For a moment, he’s here.

Then the stillness stretches.

The task is done, the praise has already happened. There is no next instruction.

His eyes unfocus, the room dulling around the edges, sounds flattening into something far away. His hands curl into themselves while resting on his crossed legs, fingers twitching faintly.

“Hey.” Your voice comes muffled to his ears, his head feeling heavy. “Baby, your feet.”

Your palms press against his knees, grounding him through contact. He startles, just a little, then sluggishly follows your lead, moving to sit on the edge of the bed to plant his feet flat against the floor.

“Good.” You nod. “Can you hold this for me?”

You guide his hand to the blanket you keep on top of the duvet for colder nights like this one. It’s thick, familiar, the weave uneven from years of use. His fingers fidget, rubbing the edge between thumb and index finger.

“Alright.” You continue, kneeling between his parted legs. “Stay with me. Can you tell me five things you see?”

His mouth opens. Closes.

“…Lamp,” he answers finally, his jaw clenched. “Window. The pictures on the wall. Desk. You.”

“Good. Four things you can touch.”

He tightens his shaky grip on the blanket. “This. The floor. The–” His breath hitches slightly. “The bed.” Then his hand tentatively reaches for yours, and you instantly intertwine your fingers, squeezing it once. “Your skin.”

“Good job, my love. Three things you can hear.” 

He swallows. “Water pipes. Fridge, and… Your voice.”

You smile. “Excellent. Two things you can smell.”

“Shampoo, and… Soup.”

“That’s right, I made it just for you, hoping you would come by.” You nod. “And now, one thing you can taste.”

“I– water… From shower.” He blinks once. “That okay?”

“Of course, baby.” You lean closer, towel forgotten for the moment. “There you are.” Your fingers stroke his knuckles tenderly.

His breath catches. Then quieter, softer, like you’re tasting the word before letting it go. “Winter.”

The sound of it sends a shudder through him, sharp and electric yet not painful at all. Not Soldier. Not the title carved into him by force.

Just Winter.

Suddenly, he’s taken back to that night, when he met you. Snow crusted into his hair, fingers numb, barely able to stand. He remembers you asking what you should call him— remembers the blank space where his name should have been.

Then... I’ll call you Winter, you stated, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He lowers his head, breath steadying, warmth spreading through his chest, and suddenly the world doesn’t feel like it's been plunged under water anymore. His name sounds like silk on your tongue. 

“I like…” He gulps shakily. “When you say it.”

The hand caressing his locks stills.

“I know.” You answer.

He loves to hear it. Means he is here with you, where he can just be Winter: grounded, wrapped in softness, allowed to be held together by someone else’s careful hands. 

After his hair is mostly dry, you set the towel aside. The sharp edges of the panic attack have dulled, leaving a comfortable silence behind.

“I’m going to fetch the first aid kit, alright?” You explain quietly. “I’ll be right back.”

Winter gives you a faint whimper. “Fast?”

“Of course.”

He lets you go reluctantly, fingers still worrying the edge of the blanket and gaze diligently following you as you bring back your damp towels in the bathroom. He stays still where you left him, heart exposed and body waiting. 

When you return, you press a water bottle into his hand. 

“Here, drink this first, okay?” He nods, quickly chugging down the fresh liquid without pause. He pulls the bottle away only when his lungs beg for air, sharply gasping as his wide eyes search your face, open and desperate.

“Good boy.” He promptly ducks his chin down. You set the red bag on the bed, and open it slowly, as if even the sound might startle him back into something else.

He glances at it, then at you.

“You know... I heal.” He says, not defensive, just factual. “Serum… By morning.”

“Do they hurt?” The left corner of your lip lifts calmly, already reaching for a cotton pad.

His eyes glance down at the wounds on his knuckles. “... A bit.”

“Then we can take care of them so they don't.” You add, softer now. 

He looks taken aback for a moment. “Okay.” Then nods, slightly slumping forward.

You start with his face, always warning him about what you’re about to do.

“I’m going to clean the cut on your cheek. It might sting a little.”

He nods and stills, eyes closing. The pad is cool against his skin, the pressure light, but he mainly perceives the careful fingers holding his chin. 

“You’re doing great.” You whisper, not as praise, just as information. “How are you feeling?”

He searches for the right answer, words not lining up the way they should. “I’m… Here.” He says finally.

Your expression softens. “That counts.”

Your moves are sure, cleaning each scrape, each bruise with care. Every time your hands change position, every time you reach for something new, your voice narrates.

“I’m going to put ointment on your cheek.”

“I’m going to touch your jaw now.”

“I’m almost done.”

The predictability steadies him. The rigid line of his spine softens, inch by inch, like a bow finally unstrung, enough for his hands to abandon the blanket and clutch your sweater instead. When it’s time to take care of his hand, he tenses again— reflexive, old— and you pause immediately.

“Your knuckles,” you start. “I’m going to clean them. Is that okay?”

He swallows. “Yes.”

Your movements are unhurried even as you wrap his fingers, one by one, the bandages snug but not tight, and his wrist goes lax. By the time you finish, he's leaning slightly forward, toward you, without meaning to, exhaustion pulling him downward now that he’s safe enough to feel it.

Your fingers thread slowly through his hair, gently massaging his scalp. “Hey, are you hungry?” Your warm breath tickles his forehead.

He perks up at that, just a small, imperceptible movement before he nods, his eyes still peacefully shut. “Yes. But…” He clutches the fabric of your top, pulling it slightly, as if your body might dissolve if he lets go.

“That’s okay.” You soothe. “Just come with me.”

You place one hand at his elbow, the other steady at his back. His eyes are now open yet visibly hazy as he rises with your help. His movements are languid, almost boneless, as if the fight has finally drained out of him, completely. 

“Alright, we’re going slow.” You keep mumbling. His heavy steps are sluggish, clumsy, almost childlike in his exhaustion. 

“Good. That’s it. I’ve got you.”

You move together into the kitchen, step by step. The light here is not nearly as bright as the bathroom’s since you just turn the one above the stove on. 

“Do you want to sit, baby?” He immediately shakes his head, tugging again at your shirt. “Okay. Then you can keep an eye on the soup.”

You move to the fridge, taking out an airtight container. Winter stays behind you, arms wrapped around your waist and fingers still tightly grasping the front of your sweater. You leave the soup in a pot on medium-low heat, while you take care of the grilled cheese. You spread a generous layer of butter on one side of four slices of bread, all the way to the edges, then repeat it with another four. After assembling the sandwich, you gingerly move back to the stove with Winter now pliant against your back. The skillet is already hot as you place the first two slices of bread, buttered-side down. His nose digs into the slope of your neck, pinning your body gently against the counter with his weight as you add the cheese, then place the other two slices on top, buttered-side up.

Your hand often picks up a wooden spoon, stirring the soup so it doesn’t scorch. The delicious smell quickly fills the apartment, simple yet familiar, and you gently squeeze his wrist, eliciting a small hum out of him. You also heat some milk, then pour it in a blue mug, the same one that he unofficially claimed as his almost a year ago. You test the temperature before setting it on a tray.

When the stove has been turned off, you scrupulously cut the sandwiches. Not diagonally, or halves, but into smaller, manageable pieces. Bite-sized then arranged neatly on the plate beside the bowl of soup.

“Let’s sit on the couch so you can finally eat. Alright?” He nods silently, not moving an inch.

After setting the tray on the coffee table in front of the couch, you carefully unwrap his arms from your body, guiding him to sit. His shoulders are still a little rounded and no longer braced for impact.

Winter stares at the mug for a moment, then at the soup, as if recalibrating. You just observe him in silence, patient.

Food is… Complicated.

Most of the time, his body is fueled without him even knowing; nutrients are delivered through tubes, systems that don’t require taste or choice. When he’s awake, eating is functional at best, discouraged at worst. Flavors are unfamiliar, overwhelming. Something to manage carefully.

That’s why you make sure this is always in your kitchen. Tomato soup, cheese, bread.

Things he knows and trusts by now.

Winter shakily reaches for the plate, balancing it in his lap. He lifts the spoon with measured care, brings it to his mouth. The warmth hits first, then the taste. His eyes close in ecstasy.

You relax beside him, close but not crowding, smoothing your hand on his back in long, steady strokes; a rhythm he’s learned to follow.

“That’s it, my love.” You murmur. “Is it good?” He dutifully nods, eating in small bites, pausing between each one. He switches to the sandwich after a few spoonfuls, fingers clumsy but careful around the bandages.

“Hot.” He mutters.

“I know,” you reply softly. “Careful. Don’t burn your mouth.”

Halfway through, he slows.

The spoon lowers. His gaze drifts to the plate, then away. You don’t comment, nor try to coax him to eat more. You simply cover the plate with one of the napkins and set it back on the tray, close enough that it can be reached again if needed.

You nod slowly. “We can wait.”

A few seconds pass, then a minute. Winter shifts, breath shallow, cheeks warming. His eyes flick toward your unoccupied hand resting on your thigh, then up to your face. He swallows, before quietly calling your name.

“Yes?” You perk up, lost in the hypnotic movements you kept going on his back.

“Can you… ?” He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t have to, it's not the first time he has asked you to feed him.

You smile reassuringly and reach for the plate. “Of course.”

You scoop a modest bite, wait until he shyly lifts his chin. Then you bring the spoon to his mouth, keeping your other hand cupped under it in case any dribbles.

His lips part, trusting your timing, your pace. He swallows, breathes, nods faintly. You sit with him like that, feeding him slowly, praising him without pressure, alternating between a few spoonfuls of soup and a piece of grilled cheese.

“Just one more bite, sweetheart.” You coo. “You’re doing so good.”

When the bowl is empty and only crumbs linger on the plate, Winter sloppily wipes his hands on his sweatpants while you set everything back on the tray. You sigh, glancing at the unused napkins, but when you look up at him, his eyes are huge and expectant, his shoulders shaking slightly with every single quivery breath. 

“Can I ask you something?” You lean back, turning your palm up so it rests on your thigh, an offering. Winter nods, immediately intertwining his fingers with yours.

“Do your muscles hurt today?” Then, more specifically. “Your shoulders— the left one.”

He tries to shake his head. It’s small, instinctive— the kind of denial that comes from habit more than truth. “I’m fine.” He says a little too quickly.

You don’t argue, never do, yet you don’t look totally convinced.

“I’d like to help.” You add instead. “If you’ll let me, I can massage it. Just like last month, do you remember?”

Winter hesitates, before nodding at your question. Of course he remembers the first time he allowed you near the metal, near the scars — makes something ripple through him. So you wait.

“…Okay.” He agrees quietly.

The corners of your mouth lift, relieved but measured, and your hands reach into the drawer beside the couch. You take out a small bottle: lavender-scented massage oil.

“Can you remove your shirt for me?” Winter eagerly takes the hem, his movements clumsy and fast to please you. You pour the liquid in your hands and warm it up. He watches the motion, the careful intention behind it.

“I'm warming it,” you explain. “So it won’t hurt.” Then cup your hands in front of his face “Inhale slowly, please.” 

He nods, his shoulders raising and lowing slowly, deeply. You can already see his muscles relax further.

The smell is nice, yes, just not as good as your scent.

“Can you turn around for me? I’ll be right here behind you.”

Winter does as you ask, a little uncertain but compliant, giving you his back. Shifting closer, you kneel behind him so you can reach his shoulders without pulling him off balance.

“I’m going to start on your right side,” you warn. “Then I’ll move to the left. Tell me if anything feels wrong.”

Your hands settle on his upper back, firm but gentle, spreading warmth through muscle that hasn’t been allowed to rest properly in years. He exhales, a shaky little thing, the sound catching in his chest as tension begins to give way.

When you reach the left shoulder, your touch changes. Your fingers trace the edge where flesh meets something unyielding, not pressing yet— just acknowledging it. You work the surrounding muscle first, easing the strain there before coming closer to the scars.

“I’m here,” you murmur. “Breathe.”

The scars are pale beneath your hands, textured. You use only the pads of your fingers at first, careful to avoid friction, careful not to drag. The oil helps a lot, smooth and warm.

Winter shivers, not from pain, but from being touched there without consequence.

You lean forward and press a soft kiss to one of the scars at the edge of his shoulder— brief, like a benediction rather than a claim.

He inhales sharply, hands curling in his lap.

“Okay?” You ask immediately.

“Yes...” he breathes, dreamy. “Again. Please.”

You continue with a small smile, alternating gentle pressure with those small, grounding kisses, each one placed deliberately, as if you’re reminding his body that this part of him can exist without being a threat. The crease on his forehead smooths, his head bows. Even the rigid line of his spine softens under your care.

For once, the metal is simply there: acknowledged, included, treated with the same love as the rest of him.

He doesn’t notice when the massage ends, not at first.

Your hands have been moving in slow, patient circles across his shoulders for a long time, thumbs pressing into the muscle just enough to coax the tension out without startling it. You learned where to touch by trial and error— where his body allowed pressure, where it flinched, where it locked. Learned to listen to the rhythm of his breathing, the subtle hitch that meant too much, the slow exhale that meant stay there.

When your hands finally still, he only realizes because the warmth leaves him, and his body reacts before his mind can.

His back straightens. It’s instinctive, brutal in its efficiency. Muscles snap tight as wire and shoulders squaring as if bracing for impact. Somewhere deep in him, an alarm shrieks— a wordless signal that touch has stopped and something else is about to begin.

He hates that moment. Hates that his body betrays him even here.

But nothing happens.

No command, no pain, no hands forcing him forward or down.

Instead, there is a pause. A careful one.

Then he feels your fingers again, not on his shoulders this time but lighter, hesitant, brushing the nape of his neck. Then, fingertips slip into his hair.

He inhales sharply.

For half a second, every nerve screams no. Touch near the head is dangerous, hands near the skull mean restraint, electrodes, cold metal pressing against bone. His body remembers even when his mind refuses to. But your fingers don’t grip, they don’t pull. They simply rest there, warm and slow, sliding gently through the strands at the base of his neck.

The rigidity bleeds out of him gradually. Shoulders lower, spine curves again, folding back into the couch, into your space. He lets his weight settle against the cushions, his head tip forward just enough to give you better access.

Permission, offered without words.

Your fingers comb through his hair patiently, separating locks, untangling where it knots. He hasn’t let it grow this long on purpose— basic grooming like haircuts is low on Hydra’s priority list as long as it doesn’t interfere with his orders. The messy, long hair combined with a mask and goggles helps obscure his features. It makes it easier to change his appearance by eventually cutting it if needed after a mission. The unkemptness, though, bothers him in ways he doesn’t fully examine. It reflects something he isn’t meant to think about— the lack of choice, the absence of ownership over his own body. Yet when you comb through it, carefully, he doesn’t think about how long it’s grown or how uneven it is. He doesn’t think about how easily it could be to be cut away, reshaped, erased.

He loves the way your fingers linger, loves the unhurried patience of it, the way you treat each strand with reverence. As if it’s not another tool, camouflage, an accident of neglect. But something personal, something worth loving. With you, the hair doesn’t signify disorder or loss of control. He doesn’t care how it looks then.

“Today was… Kind of long.” Your voice is low, almost a murmur, as if afraid to disturb him. “Not even bad. Just long.”

Your fingers separate a section of hair. 

“Hmm.”

“I had this meeting that should’ve lasted twenty minutes,” you go on. “It turned into an hour and a half, and no one actually decided anything. They just argued and talked in circles.”

You twist a strand loosely, let it fall.

“That… Happen often?” He asks quietly.

“All the time.” You chuckle, a hint of resignation in your voice. “And on my lunch break too.”

Your fingers keep moving, tracing slow paths across his scalp. You gather sections of his hair, twist them loosely, let them fall again. The repetition is hypnotic. His eyelids grow heavy, blinking lazily as the world narrows to your voice.

“Do you remember about that new intern I told you about last month? The one who doesn’t know how to send emails? Today he spilled coffee everywhere. Papers, desk, his shoes. He swore so loud he scandalized half the floor.”

Winter breathes out, something similar to amusement. “Poor papers.”

“Right?” You grin. “A colleague tried to help him but he stomped around and shrieked that he could clean it himself. It wasn’t very polite.”

He hums again, his body slightly swaying side to side.

“The elevator here got stuck for a second too.” You then add. “Well– not really stuck. It just stopped abruptly and then groaned back to life. But you know I get anxious in small spaces.”

He nods slightly. “I hear sound,” he says. “Now.”

You snort quietly. “Yeah, exactly.”

You let the braid unravel and start again, fingers patient.

“I passed this shop on the way home, there was a beautiful dress in the window, but the color... Eh. Though I stared at it like I was actually going to buy it.”

“Did you?” He perks up, suddenly interested.

“No.” You huff out a laugh. “I would never wear that color. But the thought of buying it crossed my mind for a hot second.”

His mouth twitches. “You… Think a lot.”

“Too much.” You agree with a sigh.

You gather his hair into a loose ponytail, holding it gently at the base of his neck, and he exhales, long and slow. His head tips back slightly, resting against your shoulder. The contact is accidental at first, then deliberate. He adjusts, settling more fully into you, trusting that you will support the weight.

When you release his hair, it spills loose again, brushing his neck. Your fingers continue to play with it absentmindedly, starting and abandoning small braids.

He could fall asleep like this.

The thought never fails to surprise him— not because he’s tired, but because the idea of sleeping without fear is so foreign it feels almost dangerous. Sleep usually comes to him drugged, forced, or not at all. Here, it hovers at the edges, optional.

A gift.

He shifts slightly, just enough to get more comfortable, and your fingers pause for a fraction of a second before resuming. Always checking, always attentive.

“The city was loud on the way home. Too much traffic for a Thursday.” You continue. 

“Better now.” He murmurs.

“Yeah.” You look down at his closed eyes. “Better now.”

Your fingers twist a strand, smooth it down, then starting over.

“I know none of this is important.” You swallow.

He answers immediately, without opening his eyes. “It is. For me.”

You pause, then resume, gentler.

“Okay.” You answer quietly. “Then I’ll keep talking.”

You shift beneath him. It’s a small movement— just the subtle change in pressure as your legs tense and your weight begins to lift, but his body reacts as if the floor has dropped out from under him.

His eyes snap open.

The world sharpens instantly, edges cutting, heart slamming hard enough that it steals his breath. Before thought can catch up, his hand shoots out, fingers curling into fabric. He grips your sweater at the hem, fist tight until his knuckles turn white.

“Don’t—”

The word doesn’t quite make it out. It breaks apart in his throat, unfinished.

You freeze.

“I’m here,” you soothe immediately, not pulling away. Your hand comes down over his, warm and grounding. “I’m just getting your shirt and the blanket. That’s all.”

The word takes a moment to register.

Winter blinks, breath stuttering as panic drains in reluctant waves. His grip loosens, fingers uncurling as shame sharply burns in his veins. After he releases the fabric completely, his hand falls back to his side.

“Sorry.” He mutters.

You don’t correct him, nor say it’s okay or that he shouldn’t apologize. You never frame it like a mistake. Instead, you smile softly and reach for the folded blanket draped over the back of the armchair as he quickly puts his henley on, still avoiding your eyes.

When you return, you wrap him in it. Carefully at first, tucking it around his shoulders, then firmer— snug and enclosing. You pull it tight enough that he can feel the pressure along his arms and chest, the reassuring weight settling over him like an armor made of wool instead of scratchy, rigid cloth.

The blanket faintly smells of your detergent. It traps warmth, keeps the edges of him from drifting apart. He grips it reflexively, fists tightening in the fabric as if to test its solidity.

You lie back down with him, adjusting until you fit together along the length of the couch. One arm slides beneath his shoulders, the other wraps around his waist, drawing him closer.

He hesitates for half a second, then shifts, turning into you. His head comes to rest against his favorite place, your chest. The position is vulnerable in a way that makes his instincts recoil. Head exposed. Ear pressed against soft, unarmored flesh. Too close. Too open.

But then he feels it.

The rise and fall beneath his cheek. Slow. Steady.

Your breathing.

And beneath that, fainter, but unmistakable, the rhythmic thud of your heart.

Alive.

The realization hits him with unexpected force. It tightens his throat, sends a strange pressure blooming behind his eyes. He focuses on the sensation desperately, like committing coordinates to memory. The warmth of your body, the cadence of your breath... The proof that you are here with him now. Unhurt. Real.

He adjusts slightly, pressing closer, until his ear is aligned perfectly over your left breast. The sound of your heartbeat becomes clearer, more defined. His own breathing gradually syncs to it, instinctively matching your pace.

Your free hand picks the remote and turns on the TV. The volume stays low, barely more than a murmur, but he recognizes the opening notes of the intro immediately.

It’s the show you introduced him to months ago— something simple and predictable. He doesn’t understand every joke, every reference, and language still slides past him sometimes, too fast, too cluttered. But he catches enough: the rhythm, the emotion, and he knows the characters. Knows that nothing truly bad happens in it, not really.

It’s safe noise.

“This one… Good?”

“It’s your favorite episode.” You reassure him. “The one with the cheesecake.”

He hums in acknowledgment, the sound vibrating against your chest. He likes the cheesecake episode. The characters tell the story of how they came to meet and live together, and even if they disagreed at the beginning, they still stayed together, still chose each other. That's what friends do, apparently.

“I guess I do that too sometimes.” You shake your head as the woman keeps blabbering. “Instead of just letting things be, I dissect them. Over and over again.” You murmur half-amused. 

Winter shifts slightly, his fingers curling into the blanket at your side. “You think a lot.” A pause. “Is good.” 

You chuckle softly. “That’s a very nice why to put it.”

You go quiet for a moment, then continue, more thoughtfully. You tell him about how you promised yourself to read more literary classics, so you bought a popular one but haven't finished it because you keep falling asleep halfway through the same chapter. About your favorite coffee shop near the headquarters of S.H.I.E.L.D. that changed management, and now the coffee tastes awful.

“They ruined it.” You sigh. “It was the only good thing about going to work.”

Winter exhales through his nose, something close to a laugh. “A crime.” he says.

You laugh for real at that, the sound vibrating through your chest and into him. He clings to it, to the way your body moves with the sound. You lapse into companionable quiet again, punctuated by the low dialogue of the show. Your hand drifts slowly up and down his back, a repetitive motion that requires no attention.

Eventually, you speak again.

“Did you like the food?” You wonder. “I think the soup was too salty.”

He nods, then remembers you can’t see him. “Was good.” He states. “Easy.”

“That’s the goal.” Another pause.

He gathers enough courage to add. “You… Make it better. Eating.”

Your arms tighten around him almost imperceptibly. “I’m glad.” 

The episode ends and another begins. He doesn’t track the plot as closely now, his focus narrows again to sensation: your heartbeat, the warmth of your palms, the steady pressure of the blanket holding him together.

This— this is what matters.

Not the missions, the handlers, the endless commands and resets.

Here, he can feel you alive beneath his cheek, and in doing so, remind himself that he is still alive too.

He closes his eyes again, not in panic this time, but in trust.

Sleep pulls at him early. It always does when he’s here, once the edges have been sanded down by warmth and proximity and the low murmur of the television. His body is heavy, reluctant to move, curled into the borrowed safety of your arms.

Still— he shifts.

The movement is small but purposeful so you feel it immediately.

“Sleepy?” He nods. “Do you want your journal?” He nods again, suddenly more awake.

You don’t try to stop him, even when his eyes are glassy with exhaustion, even when his movements are slow and stiff. You know this is not a habit he can skip, not without consequence.

Winter disentangles himself carefully, the loss of your warmth registering as a faint ache. The blanket slides from his shoulders and he folds it with surprising precision before setting it aside, while you slip inside your bedroom. Hidden behind carefully folded sweaters lies a plain, dark-covered diary.

When you come back, he gently takes it from your hands, sitting back on the couch as you keep yourself busy watching the episode where Blanche worries about menopause. 

The pen is already there, snug in the black pen loop you bought for him. His hand aches faintly as he writes, yet he ignores it. Fatigue is irrelevant. This is survival.

He writes the date first, slowly. Then, he begins. The sentences are simple, concrete. Things that cannot be argued with.

Drank warm milk. Blue mug. Chip on the rim. 

He pauses, considering, then adds.

Milk was sweet. Did not hurt stomach.

His handwriting is uneven but deliberate, each letter formed with intent. He presses harder than necessary, as if afraid the words might fade. Briefly glancing up, his eyes wander across the apartment, collecting details.

Blanket is the one her mother made. Wool. Heavy. Very warm. Smells like her soap.

Her sweater is soft under fingers. Loose sleeves. She wears it when too cold.

His grip tightens slightly on the pen. These details matter. Texture matters. They are proof. He flips back a few pages, scans what he’s written on previous nights, grounding himself in continuity. Evidence that this has happened before, that it wasn’t a dream. Because if there is something in this world equally terrifying as seeing you hurt, it's forgetting you.

They notice it before he can do something about it.

A hesitation that lingers too long. A second too slow to pull the trigger. The way his gaze drifts instead of snapping back to attention. Reports flag it as inefficiency, Pierce calls it degradation.

They restrain him in a room that smell like metal and disinfectant, hands rough and practiced, voices clipped and impersonal. He fights them harder than he ever has before.

Not to escape.

To remember.

He snarls, thrashing as they drag him forward. Hands close around his arms, his shoulders, his throat. He kicks, feral and wild, teeth bared, a sound tearing out of him that isn't language anymore.

Images flood his mind in sharp, desperate flashes: you asleep on your side; your hands warm against his back; the new set of lamps you bought specifically for him, gentler on his eyes than the bright ones installed in your apartment. And then your voice, whispering that he’s safe, even when he is forced on his knees for another order.

He can’t lose that.

Not you.

“I need—” he gasps, straining against their grip. “Please— I can’t—”

They don’t listen.

He twists free for half a second— enough to stumble back, enough for hope to ignite painfully in his chest— and then more hands are on him. Too many. He is forced down, strapped in, leather biting into his wrists and chest.

The chair looms. A mouth guard is forced between his teeth.

And then, panic explodes.

He screams. 

Your name flicks over and over in his mind, he clings to it like a lifeline, trying to carve it into himself deep enough that it couldn’t be burned away.

The warmth. The quiet. The way you look at him when he finally comes home.

He begs silently, fiercely, for those moments to stay.

Then the world goes black.

A week passes in pieces he can’t track. No missions, no movement. Just pain and fragments. His head feels hollow, like a room after furniture has been stripped out.

When they finally deploy him again, he follows orders flawlessly. And when it’s over, when the noise fades and the night quiets… His feet take him somewhere else. He doesn’t know why.

The Soldier stands in the middle of your living room, rigid and uncertain, surrounded by objects that mean nothing and everything at the same time. The couch, the lamp, the faint smell of your lotion.

His head hurts.

Then, the door opens.

You freeze in the doorway, keys still in your hand. Your eyes widen as they find him, but neither of you moves.

Something is wrong. He could see it in your expression— fear, shock, something like grief— and it makes his chest tighten.

“I…” He swallows. Words feel wrong. “I don’t know why…” He says slowly. “But I needed… Come… Here.”

Silence stretches between you, fragile as glass. Your eyes instantly fill with tears.

You cross the room in slow steps, as if approaching a scared animal, and stop just short of touching him, like you are sure he might vanish if you do.

“Winter.” You whisper.

The sound of it cracks something open.

Not memory.

Instinct.

His gaze drifts past you, caught on the small desk by the wall. A notebook sits there, plain and worn.

He frowns, not understanding why that object suddenly feels important enough to be acknowledged. “That.”

Your breath hitches when you turn around and see what he is pointing at. “You—” You stop yourself, clear your throat. “You wrote it. For this. You told me to read it when I miss you, so…”

You carefully place it in his hands.

Inside are pages of his own handwriting— uneven, blunt, desperate.

She keeps you safe.

You are not a weapon here.

You love her.

The words land one by one, slow and devastating.

He sinks to the floor, clutching the journal to his chest like it might anchor him to the world.

Hydra wiped him. And still, somehow, he found his way home.

Once, he didn’t know what was missing. The emptiness was just another state of being, another blank space he learned to move through without question. Now he knows the shape of what can be erased.

The memory of that week sits in him like a bruise he can’t stop pressing. Not the chair, or the restraints. Those are familiar, manageable. What haunts him is the moment in your living room— the way your face changed when you saw his eyes and realized Winter was gone.

He remembers the fear in you. That’s what stays with him.

After that night, every time he leaves your apartment he catalogues it more carefully than any mission. The smell of your hair; the sound you make when you laugh quietly so you won’t wake the neighbors. He stores these things with the same ruthless precision Hydra engraved into him, as if repetition alone might burn them too deep to remove.

He also starts writing more.

The journal never leaves your apartment, but it grows heavier with pages. Dates. Details. Small things that wouldn’t matter to anyone else.

Drinks her tea too hot.

Bounces her right knee when nervous.

He writes not because he thinks it will save him, but because the thought of waking up without you terrifies him more than pain ever has.

The fear also changes how he touches you. He lingers longer, like every contact might be the last one. His hand rests at your back a second too long, and his forehead presses to yours when he thinks you’re asleep. He watches you more closely, to memorize your breathing.

Sometimes you notice, yet he doesn’t tell you that some nights he’s afraid to close his eyes because he might wake up empty again. That the warmth in his chest will vanish, leaving nothing but muscle memory and orders.

He becomes more careful with routine.

If he misses a visit, panic coils in his gut. If you move something in the apartment, he asks you to tell him where it went, and why. If you suggest changing your rituals— a different kind of food, a different chair— he stiffens before he can stop himself.

So you learn to reassure him in new ways.

“I’m here.” 

“You’ll always find me.” 

“If they take it again, we’ll rebuild it. I promise.”

He wants to believe you, but the memory won’t let him forget how close he came to losing everything without even knowing it was gone. That knowledge makes him love you harder, almost desperately.

And every time he walks back into your apartment, every time the lock clicks behind him and the warmth closes in, relief floods his bones so hard it nearly hurts.

He is still here.

You are still here.

And for now, that has to be enough.

It all comes to a head the following month. He notices it the moment he steps inside.

The mug is wrong.

It’s sitting on the counter instead of the table. A different one— slender, white, unfamiliar weight. The sight of it makes something inside his chest stutter.

You look up from the stove, surprised. “Hey.” Your smile should ease a little bit of the tension in his shoulders, but he’s too busy having a one-sided staring contest with the new mug. “You’re early.” You weren't expecting two visits in two days, not that you're complaining.

Winter nods, still by the window he came in, and you follow his gaze. “Oh— the blue one is still in the dishwasher.”

His throat tightens. He hadn’t realized he was holding his breath.

“Okay.” He says quickly. Too quickly. “Okay.”

He moves deeper into the apartment, checking the windows, the lock, the corners. Everything is where it should be. Everything except that small, ordinary change that shouldn’t matter at all.

Your smile fades into a thin line.

You set the dishcloth down. “Winter,” you call softly. “Sit for a second.” He hesitates. 

“Please.” You add, and that’s when he obeys, perching himself on the edge of a chair, spine straight, hands clasped together so tightly the metal plates in the vibranium arm hum faintly. He keeps his eyes on the floor.

You open the dishwasher, pick the right mug out, still wet, and set it in front of him. He exhales before he can stop himself.

“Hey.” You breathe out, crouching in front of him, always careful not to crowd him. “Talk to me.”

“I’m fine.” He answers automatically.

You’ve learned that rushing him won’t take you anywhere. The truth sometimes finds its way out on its own.

“You panicked.” You swallow. Not accusing, just stating a fact.

Winter shakes his head. “No. Just– The mug… Not here.”

“There was a different mug. Yours was not in his usual place, and it scared you.”

His jaw tightens, still keeping his blue eyes firmly on the table. So you reach out, resting your hand over his knuckles. “Is it happening again?” You whisper. “The fear of forgetting?”

Winter swallows.

“I remember,” he starts, the words coming out rough. “That week.”

Your breath catches. 

“Didn’t know…” he quavers. “Didn’t know you.” His voice falters. His lips press together, forcing the rest out. “I thought… If I forget… Come back empty.”

Your other hand tentatively comes up to his cheek, softly but firm enough to turn his face toward yours. He regards you with distressed eyes, almost like he wants to burst into tears.

“Winter,” your voice is surprisingly even. “You found me without your memories.”

He shakes his head, breath uneven. “What if I don’t?” The words spill out faster now. “What if I– walk here but– don’t stop.”

You pull him into your arms before the demons can take him. He stiffens for half a second, then collapses into the embrace like he’s been waiting for permission. His forehead presses into your shoulder hard, almost as if trying to fuse together your bodies. His hands clutch the back of your shirt, desperate and grounding all at once.

“They can hurt you,” you murmur into his hair. “They can take pieces. But they will never get this.” Your hand presses over his chest, right on his heart. “They don’t get what you choose.”

“I’m scared.” He chokes on a breath, barely audible.

“I know. I am too.” You frown. “But I trust you to always come back to me. Whatever happens.”

You lean back just enough to look at him, hands cradling his jaw as your thumbs brush the tension off. “We’ll make more anchors,” you continue. “More than the journal, more than routines. You won’t have to carry this alone.”

Winter searches your face with a lonely tear sliding down his cheek.

“But you need to tell me, my love.” You add. “When it gets bad. You can't just hold it inside.”

He nods, a small, hasty movement. “I’ll try.”

“That’s all I’m asking.”

You rest your forehead against his, breathing him in. Slowly, his shoulders lower. The panic ebbs vertiginously, leaving him utterly drained and hollow.

That day the Soldier learned that being seen in his fear makes it hurt less.

On the bookshelf nearby, something catches his eye. A photograph. He frowns faintly, he doesn’t remember writing about it. He stands, retrieves it, studies it under the low light. You look younger in the picture, standing among a group of people, all smiling too wide, holding papers. 

Graduation.

He sits back on the couch and writes again.

Photo on shelf. Her graduation. She is smiling, with friends. I forgot.

He underlines the last sentence once, not hard enough to tear the page. Just enough to mark it.

He frowns at it, then adds one more line, smaller.

Watched show. Cheesecake episode. My favorite.

Winter closes the journal with care. The cover makes a soft, final sound as it meets itself, and for a moment he rests his palm flat against it, as if sealing what he’s written inside. The facts are there now. Anchored and safe. He then hands it to you with a single word. “Wait.” 

It’s not a request, nor a command. It’s simply a word that carries a deep meaning for you, honed by repetition.

You nod and stay where you are on the couch, blanket pooled on your crossed legs and journal safely pressed against your chest as your eyes follow him discretely. Winter rises, and his posture changes immediately— spine straightening, shoulders setting, breath recalibrating.

This is another version of him. Not the one who melts into your touch, not the Winter who closes his eyes and asks for snuggles against your chest.

This one is the Soldier.

He moves through the apartment without sound, bare feet finding the places that won’t creak. The living room first, then the narrow hallway. He checks the front door, fingers testing the lock once, twice. Not because he doubts it, but because certainty matters. You deserve to sleep behind a door that he knows, without question, is secure.

The deadbolt is firm, the chain untouched.

That's when he stops to listen. The building has a rhythm at night. He learned it in his second month here, memorized it the way he memorizes terrain. The movement of pipes at predictable hours; the distant hum of traffic softened by elevation. The occasional elevator cable groaning faintly through the walls.

Tonight, everything matches, so he moves on.

The windows come next. He doesn’t open them, just checks the latches, presses gently against the glass, notes how the frames sit in their tracks. One latch feels a little too loose when he tests it, so he tries again and again, toying with it a little until he hears the click seat properly.

Good.

There are things you don’t notice. Wouldn’t notice. The way footsteps in the stairwell sometimes echo wrong— too light. Pondered. The way a door should never close without sound in this building. The absence of noise where there should be some. When something doesn’t fit, his body knows before his mind names it.

Each night Winter spends here, he positions himself between you and the door. It’s not conscious anymore, his body simply arranges itself that way, a barrier of muscle and bone laid instinctively in the path of danger.

Only on certain nights he lets you take that place, because they are different.

Sleep turns against him, memories surface uninvited— too vivid, too sharp. His body reacts as if certain things are happening in that exact moment: his breath hitches, his muscles lock, his hands curl at his sides as if looking for weapons that aren’t there.

You know the signs, and you talk him back. Every time, unfailingly. 

Your hand presses flat between his shoulder blades, grounding, firm. You tell him where he is, the date, his name. Your name. You remind him that the walls are painted a certain color, that there is a tile by the window that creaks and every single time he visits, he promptly forgets and steps right on it.

You stay awake until his breathing evens out. Sometimes, when it’s especially bad, you convince him to let you sleep on the side of the bed closest to the door, as if daring the world to come through you first. He hates that. Loves it too, how you refuse to let him carry everything alone, how you fiercely fight to give him some respite.

Yet it takes everything in him not to pull you back.

Winter’s not only good at noticing things out of place, but also all your little tells. The way your hands get cold when you’re tired, how you push yourself through chores even when your shoulders slump, your breathing changing when you’re stressed. When he sees it, he doesn’t comment— he just intervenes. Guides you gently to sit. Takes the dish from your hands. Finishes folding the laundry while you watch him with half-lidded eyes, amused as he lines the edges up with military precision. He cleans up before you can see the mess: broken glass swept away silently, coffee wiped from the counter before it can stain. Not because you can’t handle it, but because he wants your world intact, even in small ways.

He never tells you everything, and for that, his stomach often twists in guilt.

You ask sometimes, careful not to pry. He answers around the truth, trimming the sharp edges. Leaves out the blood, the names, the parts that would keep you awake at night. When memories surface that are too dark to contain, he removes himself. Steps into the bathroom. Onto the balcony. Anywhere the weight of them won’t bleed into your space.

When you apologize for worrying about him with a small voice, he shakes his head.

“Not your fault.” 

He keeps supplies stocked without telling you: batteries replaced before they die, water bottles cycled so the oldest are used first, first-aid replenished. He memorizes alternate exits in your building, calculates the fastest routes away, times his arrivals and departures so no one sees patterns forming.

He teaches you safety in pieces small enough not to frighten you. A suggestion here, a quiet reminder there.

“Always look peephole first. Even if wait someone.”

“Leave lights on when not home too.”

If you mention having to go somewhere for work, or with your friends, he warns.

“Crowded.”

“Only one emergency exit.”

And you choose accordingly.

On rare days when he can stay longer— when missions are short or delayed— he sits with you through work phone calls, holding your hand beneath the table, his head resting on your shoulder when voices on the other end get too insolent.

Despite the danger of being caught, he stays nearby whenever you’re sick, just enough to watch the building from a distance. He makes sure to check on you in his own ways.

So even if he’s gone, part of him still lingers in every precaution, every habit you follow, like an unspoken promise: he will always try to keep you safe, whether or not you can see him.

By the time Winter finishes with his safety rounds, the edges of his vision have gone soft with exhaustion. You are curled at one end of the couch, knees tucked up and eyes glued on the screen. The television is still on, low volume, but you instantly give him all your attention when he sits beside you.

“There you are.” You mumble. His hand reaches out before he’s fully aware of it, fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt. “Everything okay?” 

He nods once. “Good.”

“You want to go to bed?” He nods again, and promptly follows you as you rise. He stays half a step behind you down the hallway, fingers still hooked into your shirt, his presence a shadow that isn’t threatening. When you reach the bedroom doorway, he hesitates.

There’s something else.

He shifts his weight, searching for the right words. His brows knit, and his grip tightens slightly, not in fear but in hesitation.

“Uh,” he starts. Stops. Tries again. “We… Do face thing?”

You turn, already beaming. “Skincare?”

“Yes.” He nods quickly, hopeful. “Skincare night.”

There’s something almost boyish in the way he says it, his eyes flicking up to your face, thrilled.

“If you’re not too tired.”

His answer is immediate. A firm shake of his head. “Not tired.”

It isn’t a lie. His body is exhausted, but this doesn’t cost him anything; on the contrary, he loves spending time with you, doing what you like.

Your smile widens. “Okay. Come on, then.”

The first time you’d introduced him to skincare, it was nothing short of endearing.

Big blue eyes full of confusion followed your movements as you adjusted the fuzzy Shrek headband on his hair. It was yours, a gag birthday gift from your best friend. 

“What?” Winter frowned over your shoulder, staring down at the two two colorful face mask packets. 

“Face masks. The pink one is a moisturizing and soothing mask with chamomile. The yellow one is supposed to give your skin a glowing boost. And…” You explained, opening the first one. “They feel nice on your face.” 

Winter’s eyebrows rose in interest, slightly leaning in to tentatively sniff the fabric. “Warm?”

“Nope, they’re slightly cold.” You carefully opened the mask sheet. 

“Pretty?” You hummed in confusion. “My skin… Pretty like yours with… This mask?” 

Oh.

You looked up at him then, your chest suddenly tightening at the way his eyes blinked down at you, curious and innocent.

“Oh baby, your skin is already pretty.” The apples of his cheeks gained a beautiful rosy shade. “Now bend down a little please, this is for you.”

He tried his best to stay still as you set it on his face, a chuckle falling from your lips at his grimace when the hem briefly got caught on his lips. You carefully adjusted the mask, before pulling away to admire your work. Pierce would probably have an aneurysm if he saw the menacing Winter Soldier wearing a Shrek headband and a pink face mask.

“Alright?”

“Cold.” Winter muttered. “And wet.”

You tore open the other pack, giggling. “Just let it sit for a few minutes, I promise you'll get used to it.”

He did in fact not get used to it. It was slimy, and it actually forced him to keep his chin up, worried it would suddenly lose its grip and slide right off his face. But he loved the way you doted on him with your little products. He also couldn't deny the normalcy of it all. And when you cupped his cheeks as you checked for any left over cream? He instantly melted like ice cream under the sun. You also gave him a kiss at the end… So that's how he promised himself to never skip skincare.

You reach under the sink and pull out his headband.

“Wolf?” He perks up.

You nod. “Wolf.”

He bends without being asked, lowering his head so you can slip it over his hair. The fabric brushes his temples as your fingers adjust it, and he closes his eyes.

You bought it on a whim, and then hesitantly showed it to him on his next visit, shyly explaining how you had seen it at the store and thought of him. He nodded at the time, unsure how to respond. But that night, he held it in his hands for hours after you fell asleep, committing the feel of it to memory.

You brush your teeth first, side by side at the sink. He observes you in the mirror while pretending not to. The way you unconsciously lean forward, the small crease between your brows when you concentrate. The domestic normalcy of it all makes his chest ache. This is what other men do, he thinks. They stand in their bathroom with the women they love, arguing about how toothpaste should be squeezed. Just existing in these quiet spaces without fear.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been staring before you glance up and catch his eye in the reflection.

“You okay?”

He nods, a little embarrassed. “I like this.”

Your smile softens. “Me too.”

Afterward, you reach for the cleanser. He turns toward you automatically, chin lowering just slightly in invitation.

“Do you remember what this does?” You pump a small amount into your palm. 

“Cleans skin and make it... Nice?” He asks.

“Yes.” You smile. “Makes it healthy… And also nice.” You work it into his skin slowly, narrating the motions. He focuses on the sensation: your thumbs circling his cheekbones, the faint scent of something clean and mild. He breathes in deeply, grounding himself in the moment.

The mask comes next, he recognizes it by the packaging.

“This is funny one.” He murmurs when you unfold it.

You snort, carefully smoothing it on his face. “You say that every time.”

He shrugs, lips twitching under the fabric. “Animal masks are funny.”

You put on yours as he starts examining all the other products, humming after reading each name. His flesh hand is still gripping your shirt.

“Serum.” Winter says suddenly. “What do?”

You turn to him, eyes bright. “Serum helps with a lot of things. Let's say it gives skin the targeted support it needs.”

He hums absentmindedly, absorbing the sound of your voice more than the information itself.

“Sunscreen?”

“Protects your skin from the sun’s aggressive radiations, and prevents aging.”

He frowns. “You are not old.”

You laugh at his offended tone. “It’s preventative.”

With a huff, he goes back to the next product. “Retinol?” 

“It stimulates the production of collagen. Basically it smoothes wrinkles and fine lines.” You explain patiently. “But it can be harsh, so I don’t use it every night.”

He nods solemnly, as if this knowledge is vital. In a way, it is. It’s part of you, part of the world you exist in that doesn’t involve violence.

He studies your face while you talk, his heart beating a little faster when your pretty eyes light up while explaining the things you enjoy. He loves this version of you– relaxed, trusting. Because this is what you look like everyday, in the moments he's not allowed to be part of.

When it’s time to remove the masks, he sits on the closed toilet lid as instructed and closes his eyes without being asked. This is the part he likes best.

“Okay.” You mumble. “Moisturizer.”

Your fingers are gentle as you take your time smoothing the cream into his skin like it’s an act of devotion. He leans forward slightly, chasing the touch without meaning to. When you finish, Winter waits with bated breath until he feels the soft press of your lips against his. The reaction is immediate. He freezes, before blushing violently. His breath stutters without him allowing it.

Then his eyes open, and he swallows, mustering all his courage. “My turn.”

Your smile is radiant as his hands carefully grasp your shoulders, leading you to sit down. He frowns in concentration as he applies the moisturizer to your face with precise movements, trying to not let his eyes linger too much on your features now that your eyes are closed and he can admire your beauty all he wants without his cheeks going on fire. 

When Winter hums satisfied, you know he's finished. Once your eyes flutter open, you instantly catch his expectant eyes.

“You did good. Thank you, baby.” You chirp warmly.

His eyes twinkle with something unspoken yet very evident. On the outside, he simply allows himself to give you a nod, unable to speak, before he clumsily leans in and kisses you— quick, shy, barely there.

You bite your bottom lip to hide a grin. “Ready for bed?” 

He nods and reaches first for your hand, fingers threading through yours. 

You ease yourself back onto the mattress; it dips under you, sheets rustling softly, the pillows shifting as you settle into them. You move around a little until you’re comfortable, until your back is supported and your arms are relaxed at your sides.

Then you look up at him.

Winter stands at the edge of the bed, hands hanging uselessly for a moment before one of them finds your outstretched arm, closing around your palm. The lamp casts your face in warm light, softening every line, the room now feeling like a little, tender haven where the rest of the world doesn't matter. Like time itself has slowed just to savor this moment.

“How do you want to sleep?”

Some nights, he knows immediately; the answer rises up in him like instinct. Other nights, like this one, the want is there but tangled— wrapped in hesitation, in the lingering belief that wanting too much closeness might be a burden.

He swallows, shifting forward, movements enough clumsy that they would shock anyone who’s ever seen him in motion elsewhere. Precision isn’t what he needs right now. Control isn’t either. So he climbs onto the bed slowly, carefully, knees sinking into the mattress between your legs. The action is awkward, but earnest. He pauses, hovering for half a second, checking your face for any sign of discomfort.

“Come here.” You encourage him softly, immediately understanding and opening your arms.

Winter lowers himself with meticulous care so you don’t have to bear the full weight of him. He’s acutely aware of the difference between you two, of his density, his strength. He would never forgive himself if he hurt you, even by accident.

When he’s adjusted himself into a careful balance, he finally lets his head rest on your chest, fingers shakily clutching the fabric of your sweater to further anchor himself. 

The effect is immediate.

Your heartbeat meets his ear like a signal. Not loud, not insistent. Just there, constant and reliable. He exhales, a long breath that feels like it’s been waiting in his lungs all night.

His body exists in a world that is often abstract— rooms blur together, nights collapse into each other, days are measured in objectives rather than hours. But this? This is measurable.

Your heart gives shape to time, each beat is proof of continuity. He adjusts his head slightly, angling his cheek so more of him is pressed into your warmth. The cotton of your shirt brushes his face, and he closes his eyes, not because he’s tired, but because opening them feels unnecessary.

Your chest rises and falls beneath him, slow and deep. Without thinking, he begins to match it. He’s learned, over time, that when he listens to your breathing long enough, his own stops being sharp, like something he has to monitor. You bring one hand up to his back, palm settling between his shoulders. The contact is firm enough to be grounding, gentle enough not to startle. Your other hand finds his hair almost immediately, fingers threading through it in slow, patient strokes.

Winter lets out a low, shaky exhale, the sound so raw it makes your ears perk up. 

“Are you alright, my love?”

He clings harder onto the fabric, and you are certain that he is going to tear it off with how hard he is gripping it. 

“Closer.” He shifts once, twice, restless. He buries his face harder against your chest, moving his mouth blindly, mouthing you through the cotton of your top. Desperate and clumsy, a low whine slips from his throat when the fabric denies him skin.

The first time this happened was three months in your relationship. He jerked in his sleep, his eyes squeezing shut, whimpering... He was stuck in a nightmare. Then he shot up, his breaths ragged and uneven.

Winter whipped his head frantically, his eyes still adjusting to the darkness of the room, only relaxing a little when he heard your voice beside him.

“Hey, Winter– Winter, it’s okay, it was just a nightmare.” Your hand tentatively touched his arm, and his reaction was immediate. He dived onto you, head heavy on your chest as your arms wrapped around him, your hands rubbing his back up and down as he trembled, holding you tighter, trying to be closer. 

“It’s okay, you’re safe.” But your words didn’t seem to soothe him at all as he continued to restlessly fidget.

“Baby? You’re okay, you’re in my apartment… What do you need?”

“I–” You wiped the tears that started streaming down his cheeks as he continued to squirm, burying his face further as if he needed to crawl into your rib cage.

“Yeah?” You tried to coax it out of him.

Winter shook his head, still trembling in your arms “Closer.”

“Closer?” You looked around the room as if it had the answer, but the Soldier beat you to it. He suddenly sat up, hesitating for a moment before wordlessly slipping his head under your shirt. Your gasp of surprise made his muscles immediately freeze. That was it, your breaking point. He had taken advantage of your kindness for too long, and now… How could he do something like this? Dive under your shirt… And for what?

His body flinched as a reflex when your hands rested on his back, slowly starting to rub the rigid muscles in circular motions. 

“It’s okay, take what you need, Winter.” Nuzzling his face further into your chest, his arms went slightly limp around your waist. Finally, his breaths started to even out, and he fell asleep. 

After that night, Winter sought after your breasts not only for sexual pleasure, but also for comfort. At first, he was more subtle about it. He would inch his way closer to you after a nightmare, careful to not press too much onto you, even if he wanted to do. So badly. Then, he started doing it when you two lounged on the couch, or before falling asleep, quietly resting his head against them. If you stirred, he’d only cling onto you tighter.

Huffing, Winter’s hands reach for the hem of your sweater, tugging it upward. You help him, shifting enough so he can remove it completely. 

“That’s okay, there we go.” You cradle the back of his head, guiding him back down.

You hear him sigh happily, and despite his beard tickling your bare skin, you do your best to not squirm, worried he might interpret it as you trying to free yourself from his hold. Your fingers gently comb his locks, without urgency. Winter moans, arms circling your waist to pull you impossibly closer as the fog in his mind grows thicker. It feels safe, comforting, like open arms ready to catch him.

His face nuzzles into your breasts for a while, until you feel something wet around your nipple. You instinctively bite your bottom lip to stifle your gasp, though Winter feels the little flinch of surprise. His warm mouth suckles in soft, absent pulses; that's when his body completely melts. Not dramatically, nor all at once. But gradually, muscle by muscle.

Your legs shift slightly, closing just enough to cradle him there, and his hips press closer, a subtle movement to seek more contact. His nose brushes the fat of your breasts, inhaling deeply so your scent blesses his lungs, clean and familiar. 

A whine is muffled against your flesh when you press a kiss into his hair, just above his temple. 

“You’re safe.” You murmur, not as reassurance but as a statement.

His breathing evens out further, a shiver running down his spine as your your nails lightly graze his scalp. The repetition is soothing in a way that sinks past thought, settling somewhere deep and silent.

Minutes pass. Maybe longer, and he’s now more awake than ever, a primal need racing through his veins. You can pinpoint the exact moment his actions take a different turn. He latches more greedily onto your nipple; his tongue flicks the turgid nub, rough and desperate; the suction turns almost bruising. His hard suckles speak of a specific need right now, so you cradle him closer, core throbbing as the wet sounds fill your bedroom. 

His eyes shut close as if in a trance while his tongue swirls over the sensitive bud. He uses his flesh hand to play with the other, gently twisting it. But the tremors in his body only grow worse: he needs more. More skin, more warmth, more of you wrapped around every broken part of him.

He whimpers, the sound pitiful, hungry. His hips keep jerking forward in clumsy, desperate thrusts, rubbing his now heavy cock against the mattress, but the friction is not enough. 

“Winter.” You swallow. “Do you need me to touch you, baby?” His nod is eager, quick. “Okay, okay. Lift your hips a little for me.” He immediately obeys, allowing your hand to slip past his pants.

His eyes drift up towards you, glassy and filled with desire as you gently squeeze his length, running your finger with a featherlight touch over his delicious tip. His hips buck immediately into your hold, a gasp promptly falling from his lips. “Mommy please– feels too good.” Your hand squeeze him tighter, going up and down faster now, prompting him to bury his face back between your breasts.

“Yeah? Feel good, baby?” Your fingers briefly dance downward to tease his balls, stroking gently. “Am I making you feel good?”

“Tell me. Please.” 

“What, baby?” Your thumb swipes over the leaking head..

“That–That I’m–”

“What?” You tilt your head. “Good? My handsome boy?” He blushes with his whole body, a fevered glint lighting up in his eyes as his hand desperately kneads the supple flesh of your tits.

He grows impossibly harder in your hands, his hips thrusting forward, turning into a moaning, stuttering mess. “Yes–Yes, I am!” 

You feel his body tense, thighs tight and bulging, as he lets out a long, deep groan. “So big, so smart… You are my best boy, Winter.” 

Oh, he whines so loudly at that, his balls drawing up tight. He craves your praises, especially when you call him smart. The Soldier is not used to that word, not when he's been considered a dumb mutt his whole life. 

“Come for me, Winter.” He squirms and moans helplessly on your chest, bursting all over your hand, curling his toes at the force of his orgasm. You keep jerking him off until the very last twitch, until he collapses on you, his cock still throbbing, refusing to soften. 

You know he always needs more before being completely satisfied.

Winter exhales harshly, one of his hands already fumbling with your pants. 

“Let me.” You lift your hips, helping him lower your pants and panties at the same time. His hands frantically take the hem of both, carelessly tossing them on the floor. He does the same with his own pants and underwear, clumsily tugging at them with his free hand. In the end, his feet remain tangled in the fabric, and he leaves them there, too desperate to feel you.

He shudders when his still sensitive cock comes into contact with your wet core as your thighs spread wider to give him more access, his hips starting a graceless grinding motion. His lips latch again on your tender nipple, suckling greedily.

“C’mon, baby.” You murmur against his temple, still keeping your fingers gently tangled in his hair.

Winter doesn’t even line himself up properly at first, just thrusting blindly, rutting against your folds. He gasps when your hand wraps again around his cock, gently guiding the tip to your hole. That’s when he sinks inside you with a single, shaking move that has you clenching. 

“Mommy!” He cries out into your chest, desperately driving into you. You adjust yourself a little so your legs properly wrap around his hips, holding him firmly since his movements are so chaotic and frantic.

“So good, baby.” You sigh in bliss, gently running your hand up his bare back, encouraging him to continue.

His rhythm falters almost immediately, embarrassingly fast. His whole body goes rigid, and with a broken cry he comes again, cock pulsing deep and warm inside you.

He whimpers low in his chest, urgently clinging at your waist. “Filled me up so good, darling.” You murmur into his ear. His hips give a weak thrust at that, face pressing deeper into your neck. 

A needy little sound falls from his lips. “Kiss?”

“Of course, c’mere.” You soothe, hands cradling his cheeks to lift his flustered face. A yelp rips out of your throat as his lips messily and hungrily attach to yours. An ache claws at his lungs as he explores your mouth with his tongue. He doesn’t have time to breathe, not when he can spend it kissing you. The urge to taste every single corner is so intense his hands tremble as they squeeze your hips, and with his chest heaving against yours, he sucks on your tongue, coaxing it into his mouth. 

Slowly, yet inflexibly, you pull away. Winter confusedly chases after you, voice breaking as he protests at the loss.

“Baby, breathe. You need to breathe.” You whisper, compensating by dragging your lips along the length of his jaw. 

A mix of shame and hunger curls into his stomach at his own desperation, at the need to please you, to earn the sweetness of your praise. He rocks his hips once, just enough to make you gasp. His cock, flushed dark and leaking, is still throbbing and very much hard inside you.

“I can–” He mumbles against your neck. “Need again– came too fast, please mommy, please again.”

“Yes darling, yes. Make me feel good.” You push your hips back against his. Winter chases your heat with awkward but hungry jerks, so eager to feel you clench around him. 

“Oh God! Yes, just like that, baby!” You arch up, the knot inside your belly ready to unravel. His breath hitches sharply, so easily aroused by your praise.

“Making mommy… Feel good.” He gasps. Your hand slowly moves between you two, landing on your clit.

“Yes.” You exclaim against his temple, clenching as you start circling your throbbing nub. A shattered little sound breaks out of his throat at that, before his head momentarily ducks down.

“No!” Your wrist is suddenly caught by his fingers, bringing your hand back to his hair. “I can– I do it.” His fingers move right where you need them, a tad faster than yours, but it’s still so good. 

“Oh fuck– yes, yes, yes!” You almost scream, rocking your hips back into his frenzied thrusts.

“So good my love, you feel so good.” You moan shamelessly, the wet noises of his cock sliding in are so animalistic and obscene you pray your neighbors are both working their night shift at the hospital; or at least that they were so drained they fell asleep on their couch. 

You are so close when he whimpers brokenly. “So pretty mommy, so beautiful when you come… Please, wanna see it, please come.” 

He still remembers when he saw your naked body for the first time, his cock hardening so humiliatingly fast as he’d never seen anything so gorgeous before. He came all over himself that day, whimpering as you touched him for the first time. He wasn’t used to this kind of attention, and having a beautiful woman stroking his cock while gently caressing his inner thigh, murmuring against his lips how much of a good, smart man he is… Well, the Soldier just couldn’t help himself.

You smile at his adorable pleas, when your orgasm finally hits you, powerful and mind-breaking. You writhe underneath his body, crying out his name over and over again, with your heart beating so fast you think it’ll come out of your chest any moment.

Winter lets out a strangled moan as you clamp around him, forehead pressing insistently hard against the valley between your breasts and arms trembling, still caging you. 

“C’mon baby.” You whimper, so sensitive. He whispers, whole body shuddering as he keeps humping you without rhythm, crudely.

The second your palm cradles his cheek, Winter shatters. He sloppily thrusts into you, face twisted into a tortured, beautiful grimace as he comes for the third and final time tonight, hot spurts of cum stuffing your pussy so intensely you both gasp.

“So good, my sweet boy. You did so good for me, Winter.” You mumble sleepily, still your arms tightly hold his shaky form against yours, while your hips rock gently to milk every single little drop out of him. 

He clings to you, all soft and sweet. “Thank you, mommy. Love you.” He groans. “Love you so much.”

You press a kiss to his temple, your heart so full it feels like it'd burst. “Love you too, baby. So so much.”

When his breathing begins to slow down, you gently thread your fingers through his hair again, scratching lightly at his scalp until he makes a soft, pleased hum.

“Winter.” You whisper, already recognizing the change of weight. He is about to fall asleep. “I need to move, honey. Need to clean us up before sleeping.” 

He immediately perks up at that, whining and burrowing his face harder against your neck, refusing to let you go. His cock is now soft inside you, yet he doesn’t want to pull out, as if being there would keep you on your bed under him, forever.

“I promise I’ll come back quickly, I just need to clean up.” You cup his cheek, slowly lifting his face to look into his eyes. “Please, baby.” 

He blinks slowly and heavy, eyes hazy as if he just woke up from the best nap of his life, like the ones that leave you wondering what year it is. Wordlessly, he pushes himself up on dangerously trembling limbs, grunting as he pulls out. As soon as you are able to move freely, you catch his wrists, helping him lie back down on your bed. 

You leave a kiss on his slightly parted lips. “Be right back.” He nods sleepily, ferociously fighting back his drooping eyes until you come back. You quickly clean yourself up, before dampening a clean cloth with warm water. When you come back, you chuckle silently as his head slowly falls to the side, literally on the brink of sleep, when his eyes abruptly shoot open. He frowns, shaking his head as if that would be enough to push fatigue away, but when he sees you, his whole face instantly lights up. 

“Hey.” You greet him, giggling as he sheepishly waves his hand at you. You kneel by his side, gently wiping him until you are satisfied. Taking a shower would be better, but Winter is too exhausted. He is so stubborn and eager to please you that he would dash to the bathroom this instant if you even dared to hint at it. So you do your best with the damp cloth, later throwing it into your washing machine before sprinting back to your room.

His head immediately goes for your chest as you lie back beside him, his naked sweaty body clinging to yours without question. 

“Time to sleep, my love.” You kiss the top of his head, slowly smoothing your hand up and down his back. 

His breath gradually evens out, and just when you think he’s fallen asleep, you hear a deep mumble. Your name. “Thank you.” 

You keep stroking his back until you drift off as well.

The first pale light of dawn slips across your bedroom quietly. Winter would have slept longer, curled into your warmth, listening to the steady reassurance of your breathing, but some parts of him never fully shut down. Awareness rises gently, and he stays still for a long moment. He takes a long, deep sigh before shifting carefully, yet your eyes flutter open even before he can fully get up.

“Don’t.” He whispers. “Sleep.”

“I can’t.” You say, voice tight. “Not today.” 

It’s always like this, the moment you both have to face the harsh reality again. And without failing, that devious, gnawing realization that this might be the last time you see him forms a knot in your throat. You don’t let him see it, never, even if he notices it in the way your hands tremble as you set up the table for breakfast. He notices it in your eyes, when you pretend to not stare at him, trying to memorize every single detail of his face; in the way you help him dress up, glaring at his gear as if it’s its fault he has to go. In the way your voice chokes when he hugs you by the door. 

And then he hears it as he hesitantly walks away, when you fall to your knees and cry your eyes out, shivering and alone.

You help him to the bathroom, guiding him under the shower. You ask if he needs help, as usual, but his answer is always the same, without fail. 

“No, or I never leave.” 

You don’t even know where you find the strength to giggle. Maybe it's because you are so desperate to see that little satisfied smile of his when he realizes he is the one to have elicited that melodious sound out of you. 

You then sit side by side at the kitchen table, knees occasionally bumping as he basks in your care. Winter eats his eggs and toast sluggishly, tasting each bite and savoring every second of you asking him if he wants more eggs, or if he’d like some juice beside the usual cup of warm milk. 

Next comes the tactical gear. He stands still while you help him, letting you guide his arms into sleeves, fastening straps, adjusting the fit. All the while he grasps your sweater with white knuckles. Your lips stay in a thin line, your gaze lingers a fraction of a second too long on each buckle, each seam. He swallows when your fingers brush his arms and shoulders, as if trying to memorize his body one last time.

When you secure the final strap, your hand lands on his chest. You pause, just for a heartbeat, then smooths the fabric flat before leaving a kiss on his cheek.

He wants to say something, something that would make this easier… But the truth is, nothing can.

When time comes, you reach for a plastic container on the counter. Winter already knows what’s inside: neatly cut fruit– apple slices, grapes, something bright and citrusy. He promptly takes it, and something in his chest fractures open.

Tears sting his eyes before he can stop them. He blinks hard, jaw tightening, but they come anyway, blurring the edges of the room. He stares down at the fruit like it’s evidence of something unbearable.

A small parting gift, something you quietly added to your rituals so he wouldn’t have to go back alone. Something that reminds him of you.

His blue eyes are firmly fixed on yours as he momentarily places the container on the console table, before stepping forward abruptly and pulling you into him. His arms wrap around your waist with careful force, his face pressed into the slope of your neck, breathing your scent in, clinging to the warmth of your body like it’s the only real thing left.

This is what he hates most. How good it feels to hold you, how natural.

How wrong it seems to walk away from it.

Your arms come up around him instantly, holding him just as tightly, forehead pressed to his chest.

Maybe if he stays like this long enough, the world will forget to pull him back.

When Winter looks at you, he lifts a hand to hold your cheek, leaving a gentle kiss on your forehead. Then another, on your lips. 

“Can pretend I’m normal man.” He rasps out. “Go to normal work.”

Your breath hitches for a moment. A quick, cruel image of you sending him off to a normal job crosses your mind. A wife kissing his husband goodbye. A girlfriend giggling in her boyfriend's arms at the promise of a romantic date. A parallel universe where he gets to live his life without violence, control, death.

Yet you manage a small smile, for him, thumb brushing his wrist. “And I can pretend you’ll come back to me at the end of the day.”

The Soldier can only gulp through another fresh set of tears. It hurts too much to say more.

You hold each other’s gaze for a moment, something unspoken passing between you— an understanding carved out of repetition and trust.

“Remember me.” You choke out.

“Always.” He breathes out, hands desperately clutching at the back of your sweater. “I love you.”

Your lips quiver. “I love you too.”

Winter reluctantly pulls back. It’s a slow, torturing process that leaves the both of you terrifyingly cold. He picks up the plastic container, tucks it safely under his arm, and turns to open the front door.

He takes a step forward, then, because the hundreds of swords piercing through his bleeding heart are not excruciating enough, he decides to look over his shoulder.

You stand framed in the doorway, arms crossed tightly around yourself as if trying to hold your body from shattering into a million of pieces. Your wet eyes follow his, lips contorting in various shapes to keep your trembling chin at bay. Then, you force a small smile, because you know how important it is for him to remember you like this– serene, safe. 

He commits the image to memory with ruthless precision, before fully walking into the silent hallway. He doesn’t look back once he steps onto the emergency stairwell, the door cautiously closing behind him to not alert your neighbors.

To you, it sounds like thunder cracking the sky open.

By the time the city truly wakes, the Winter Soldier has already vanished.

general bucky taglist: @jimmywoosimp @iambuckyswifey @metal-armed-muse @shotinthedcrk @picuappled @dugiioh @hiraethmae @siemprx @its-in-the-woods @bunnybuckys @squishyfruitloop @buckybarneswife08 @sambuckystony @obiwansito @espressopatronum454 @my-drvidess @fictionalmensexual101 @annelouise321 @supersoftspidey @bitter-semi-sweet @wintrsoldrluvr @alialialisstuff @sergeantsebastian @avgdestitute @herejustforbuckybarnes @applesauce-pouch-queen @lillianacristina @delusionfeed @bubblessunshinehoney

a/n: I couldn't get enough of camgirl!reader after on air, so here we are! disclaimer: the two stories are very different. sorry for any typos/grammar mistakes but I have a fever + I can’t even stomach water, so the editing part was a nightmare and took me forever.

might turn this into a series, idk. let me know if you’d like to read more about these two. hope you’ll enjoy 🍓

Bucky stares at his desktop for a few minutes before he finally works up the courage to open a private browser. He lives in a penthouse at the top of one of the most exclusive buildings in New York. No neighbors, no roommates. Surely no one will inadvertently stumble across his browser history, yet this still feels scandalous, and he wants to cover his tracks. He types in the name of the site Tony recommended, already feeling dirty, but he has been feeling so desperate lately, enough to indulge in this debauchery. 

When the page loads, he freezes as a legal consent notice pops up. Of course he is of age— pathetically so, to be lurking around this kind of site. However, he cannot quite bring himself to agree to the terms just yet.

He leaves his bedroom nervously hesitating and heads to the kitchen to pour himself a glass of whiskey. He is in need of a little liquid courage, if he's going to go through with this.

Bucky sighs as the first amber drop touches his lips. He’s infuriatingly horny, and that might just be enough to spur him to action. And yet, the idea of masturbating to a stranger on the internet is somewhat depressing. What he really wants is to find a lover: someone to connect with emotionally and physically, someone to lavish with attention and cherish... But that’s certainly not going to happen tonight, on a damn live cam site. Statistically speaking, he’s far past the age when most people meet their lifelong partners, and sometimes he wonders if he missed his chance. After fucking around with women that mainly approached him because of his last name in his early twenties, and ending a six-year-long relationship with an ex business partner, Bucky gave up pursuing relationships and focused instead on his career: he carried on his father’s legacy by renovating the family’s successful company. But now that he has a stable job and too much time and money on his hands, Bucky must face the harsh reality: he is lonely. All his close friends are in wonderful relationships, but even with all their advice and encouragement, his latest attempts at dating went rather poorly, solidifying the belief that maybe that's just how it's supposed to be. Maybe he is destined to be alone. 

But even if he can’t find a suitable partner, Tony— the genius billionaire who fell in love with his assistant and turned from an arrogant playboy to a committed husband— assures him there are plenty of options online that can cater to his needs, recommending a cam site that he was a regular on. Bucky had no choice but to listen to his friend's sexual preferences the last time they met for poker night. And while he was sure he could have lived perfectly well without knowing about Tony and his raging master kink, the idea has stuck with him.

If he can just get past his agitation, he thinks he might be able to find some worthwhile entertainment at least.

The Midleton Very Rare finally settles his nerves, and Bucky decides to return to his computer, quickly accepting the legal consent notice. Immediately, he is overwhelmed by an overwhelming amount of nudity that sets his ears on fire. Some of the video thumbnails are tastefully done: hands concealing intimate body parts, legs crossed demurely, backs turned. But most are crude and explicit that leave nothing to the imagination. Though he supposes that's the whole point.

Bucky frowns as he scrolls through the available streams. He shouldn’t be picky, he should just click on something and get it done. It's not like he's looking for a date, just a pretty face to help him let off some steam. His eyes flick past rows of thumbnails, and with a grimace he wonders if his standards are too high, or if his tastes are just too particular. 

He’s about to close the page and give up on the whole thing when his attention is caught by a beautiful woman posing with a clear dildo. The CEO stares at the image for far too long. There is something in your eyes— a playful determination, or perhaps recklessness— that piques Bucky’s interest, and he can’t tear his eyes away.

A glance at the title of the stream and he's inhaling sharply. 

“Can daddy fuck me better than my toy?”

Swallowing his apprehension, he clicks on the thumbnail with an abrupt motion.

The sound connects first, a loud moan leaking from the speakers. “Fuck– ah need to come so bad.”

Bucky flushes in embarrassment, scrambling to lower the volume as he takes in your naked form riding a clear toy. Even if your face is twisted in pleasure, this feels exploitative and wrong. And yet, Bucky can’t look away. You are simply gorgeous, your moans sweet and enticing, and the way you push your beautiful breasts forward as your back arches in pleasure is stunning. 

Your giggle at some message in the chat is cut short by a gasp as you work the toy all the way in to the base. Your hazy eyes roll back in ecstasy as heat coils in your lower belly, and you start bouncing up and down like a hopping bunny. “Fuck, you’re so big. Never been so full before.”

It’s like you are speaking directly to him, saying exactly what he wants to hear. Bucky is already discovering kinks left and right, and he has only just started watching.

“Love your big cock, fucking me sooo good.” You whine, and he swallows around nothing. He can’t help but think back at his most recent and humiliating sexual encounter, when a woman he met at a bar took a look at his dick and blurted out “You’ve got to be kidding me.”, before promptly leaving. Perhaps even you would be horrified by Bucky’s size, but right now he can pretend you are complimenting him on a part of his body he’s overly insecure about.

Your chest heaves, lips shiny with saliva as you look up at the camera with eyes too innocent to belong to such lewd situations. “Are you close, daddy?” 

Bucky’s slacks are unbearably tight, and he clumsily unhooks his belt, unfastening his pants to relieve the growing pressure on his cock. He wants to touch himself, to lose himself in this perverted fantasy, even if the hammering thought in the back of his mind keeps reminding him that you’re probably half his age.

Your baby girl, his mind supplies unhelpfully, tempted by your username. 

“That’s it, daddy.” You moan, circling your hips so you can tease the length against your walls. “Need your big load to fill me up.”

The words are unimaginably filthy, and Bucky can no longer resist the burning urge to free his cock from the confines of his underwear. He groans quietly as it fills out impressively quickly, hard and throbbing as he keeps rubbing it.

Fully erect, Bucky’s cock is imposing, longer and thicker than the dildo you are bouncing on, and he likes to imagine that you could take him with just a little more effort and careful preparation.

“So big.” You whine. “I’m coming, oh God– please please!” 

The tip alert has been pinging on and off this whole time, and Bucky thinks he understands now. He too wants to shower you with everything he has. He has practically already made up his mind to create an account only to support you.

“Come with me!” You beg.

“Shit.” Bucky’s orgasm takes him by surprise. His legs shamelessly part as his cock spurts messily over the hand he has wrapped around his girth, lost in the sad illusion that it’s your pussy gripping him this tight. He milks every last drop, soiling not only his pants but also part of the keyboard. He curses inwardly, but his mind is too fuzzy for him to actually care. 

Your moans get louder and higher and Bucky doesn’t let himself come down as he keeps the strokes going, squirming at the sweet pain.

“Oh fuck!” Your hips jerk forward once, and you fall down on the whole length as you curl up on yourself, twitching and moaning as your climax hits you. Your eyes roll back and Bucky’s spent cock twitches in interest. It has been far too long since he has felt so appeased after masturbating. Perhaps he should be ashamed for jerking off while watching you, a young woman calling him daddy and begging to be filled by his big cock, but he cannot find it in himself to regret it.

Your eyes squeeze shut at the plastic brushing against your sensitive walls as you gently remove the toy from your abused hole. “Look what you’ve done to me.” You sit back on the beige carpet, opening your legs to allow your fingers to spread your folds. Then you reach for the dildo, parting your lips enough to let your tongue lick the length like a damn lollipop. 

“You can’t be real.” Bucky utters absentmindedly, then frowns down at his twitching cock. He is too tired for another round.

“Hm, bet you want to taste me now.” You mumble, sucking on the tip. He rubs his salt and pepper stubble, incredulous of how his dick twitches again. You hollow your cheeks for the last time, letting the toy out of your mouth with a resounding pop. “I had so much fun. Next time I want to use this.” You pick something up off camera, then proudly dangle a nipple chain in front of you. Your eyes flick to the side, presumably reading the chat, where texts quickly come one right after the other. You giggle– a sweet, fresh melody that makes a shiver run down Bucky’s spine. “Not tonight, you perverts. Your baby girl can only take so much.”

Bucky reaches for a tissue and lethargically cleans himself off as you chat a little with your viewers. It's difficult to believe that the woman eagerly riding that dildo, and the adorable and delightful sweetheart talking half-naked in front of five hundred people, are the same person. It leaves him stupidly smitten.

“Have a good night!” You conclude. “See you on Thursday!” You blow a kiss, and the notice that the stream has ended takes over Bucky’s screen, the image of your lovely smile frozen behind it.

Silence engulfs the large bedroom, and Bucky is left staring motionless at the darkening desktop. There are a few recommended videos of yours on the side, but he immediately clicks on your username to visit your profile. Besides details about private shows and video requests, you have your regular schedule posted, and Bucky promptly opens the calendar app to make a note. The profile also includes a photo gallery. Bucky scrolls through pictures of you posing in lingerie, then there a few of you naked in front of a full length mirror, your body teasingly positioned sideways and your arm covering your chest. Then, one of you lounging in bed with your lips wrapped around a red lollipop. 

Bucky sets up an account and links his payment information without hesitation. He has a considerable amount of money saved up, but the occasions to spend it on anyone are rare. He wants to send a tip, but when he reaches the small optional box to leave a note, he rests his hands on the desk, lost in thought. 

A note would be nothing. Just a sentence. But even that feels like a step too far. He could already see how it would go— how he’d check back later, then again, pretending not to care, measuring the hours by the absence of a reply. And if you do answer, even briefly, kindly, it would settle somewhere deep and stubborn, another thing he’d carry alone. The thought makes him ache with familiar, dull recognition. Wanting has always been the dangerous part, it turned moments into promises no one else had made. 

Bucky shakes his head and lets out a soft, humorless chortle. This is how it starts, isn’t it? Convincing yourself that a few words might change the shape of things, that you can step out of the quiet you’d built your life around just by being sincere enough. Before he can talk himself out of it, he types a short respectful line, easy to ignore, and sends the tip.

Thank you for the company.

The moment it's gone, the truth settles in. Your inbox must already be crowded with names and messages and small attempts at connection, all blurring together. He is just another stranger passing through, another line you’d never have time to read.

He leans back in his chair and wonders why knowing that hadn’t been enough to stop him. While this site certainly isn’t going to score Bucky a life partner, knowing you are there fills him with a surprising warmth. 

Perhaps this week won’t be so lonely after all.

When Bucky logs in the site on Thursday night, there is a red number one sitting at the top of his inbox. His fingers pause over the keyboard, the hum of his computer suddenly too loud, the room impossibly still. He blinks once, twice, hardly believing it.

baby-girl-69

hey SergeantB, thanks for the generous tip 💕 were you interested in a private show?

A small smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. He is surprised you answered. He wonders if he added too many zeros by mistake, but when he checks the amount, the number is as intended. Four thousand hardly seems like a generous tip; after all, your time is surely worth much more.

Bucky is admittedly intrigued about a private show, but his phone lights up with the notification that your stream has just begun, so he decides to message you later. He is overly eager to see you again. 

It’s silly, he knows, but if it makes him happy, it can’t be that bad. Right?

You’re dressed up in a tight top and some shorts, your knees folded under you demurely.

You look so pretty.

“Thank you for joining me today.” The chat is already in a flurry, and you greet a few viewers with colorful emblems by their usernames. They must be some regular donors, people subscribed to your profile.

Bucky wonders how much they have spent to gain your personal attention. He considers typing out a greeting himself, but he isn’t quite ready to dive in yet.

“Thought we do something different tonight.” You start. “Just some Q&A, if you all are interested. I’m a little tired.” 

The chat is now moving slow enough for Bucky to follow along, and he watches you read for a moment, your bottom lip caught in your teeth.

“Oh, let’s start off with an easy one. How am I doing tonight? Thanks for asking, milf_fucker86. As I mentioned, I’m feeling a little tired. But I’m looking forward to chatting with you all.”

You answer questions about your other job, without going too much into detail, then your hobbies, your likes and dislikes. Even if he needs to remind himself several times throughout the night that this is your online persona, Bucky is very invested. You are so endearing, and he wishes he could meet someone like you in real life.

“Ah! vibemike wants to know my favorite kind of roleplay. What do you think, chat? How well do you know me?” Your smile turns mischievous. “Professor and student? I’d say that's one of my favorites, yes.” You nod. “Master and maid? Hm, not really a fan of the whole ‘master’ thing but the maid part is certainly interesting. What do you think? Me in an apron with some stockings and no panties?” You giggle. “Okay, so lately I’ve been into boss and secretary. I really need to get down on my knees under my boss’ desk and let him fuck my mouth, especially if he’s on an important business call.”

You wet your lips, momentarily looking down. “Guess I’ve got a little excited.”

Bucky swallows thickly. No doubt he will picture that scene next time he is at work. His gaze instinctively drops to the space under his desk, and his face heats in embarrassment.

“No, I’m not wearing a bra, super_sp3rm.” You chuckle. Slowly, you get up on your knees to give your viewers a nice close-up of your chest, your nipples pert and begging to be touched.

With a knowing grin, you keep chatting leisurely, both of your hands rubbing your breasts until your breath hitches faintly. 

“I wasn’t planning on doing anything tonight.” You pant as your nails keep teasing your covered nipples. “But my panties are all wet now. What do you think? Should I take care of it?”

The tips have been quite slow until now, and Bucky has a feeling this was your plan all along.

You laugh. “God, you’re so filthy.” Your teeth chew on your lip as your free hand moves under the fabric of your shorts, starting to move in circular motions. “This is all your fault, I just wanted to talk to you guys. So this is what you get for tonight.” 

Bucky is a little disappointed as your pussy stays hidden behind the fabric, but after a few minutes, everything is forgotten as your breath stutters, and Bucky leans in, hoping to catch more of your unfairly tempting sounds.

“Feels good.” You moan, hand moving faster. “Oh, fuck, I’m so close.” Your eyes momentarily flit towards the chat. “Are you going to come with me?” Your head falls back as your fingers twist your nipple hard enough you cry out. “Coming!” You gasp, body trembling and eyes rolling back. 

Bucky’s mouth has run dry at this point. 

Your hand languidly comes out from between your legs, and with a sultry gaze at the camera, you loudly suck on your glistening fingers. “Hm, so good.” Then, a smirk. “Were you hoping I’d share?”

The comments are becoming increasingly filthier, but you are too tired to keep the show going. Several viewers were clearly hoping for more, but you promise to go back at your usual content on your next stream. 

“Little reminder that this week I'll be available both on Saturday and Sunday for private shows. So hurry up and book your slot! What are you waiting for?” You wink. “Just send me an inbox if you’re interested.” 

After your stream ends, Bucky pulls up your private chat. He sends a quick reply saying he is very much interested in a private show, and because he’s just so happy to have found you, he tips the same amount as Tuesday.

Before he can log out, you reply with another cute “thank you!!” before letting him know about your availability for Saturday night.

Your exchange is straightforward and short, and Bucky is oddly comforted by the contractual nature of the arrangement. He will be paying for your time and lovely company, so even if Bucky is as dreadfully boring as his recent dates have told him, you will at least be compensated.

He spends all night tossing and turning, too excited to fall asleep.

On Saturday night, Bucky joins the session with embarrassingly sweaty palms and jittery legs. He feels overly warm and flushed, even as he sits at the desk in his bedroom with only his pants on, no underwear and no shirt.

When the session starts, he finds you sitting on your bed with your legs crossed and a small smile on your lips. Your sheer night robe does nothing to hide the lace teddy underneath, the fabric is tight, spectacularly hugging the luscious curves of your hips and chest. 

“Hey Sergeant.” You purr. “How are you doing tonight?” Bucky’s breath hitches when you adjust the hem of your robe. “You really caught my attention throwing those big tips around. Though, I don't think I've ever seen your name in the chat before.”

I am new.

I have only seen your two latest streams.

Bucky types out, concentrating on the movements of his fingers with big, deep breathes.

“Really?” You chuckle in surprise. “I’ve never got such generous tips.”

I believe things of great value are priceless. 

He types honestly.

You freeze for a second, almost imperceptibly, then chew on your bottom lip. “Oh, well– thank you.” Bucky doesn’t think he’s ever seen you act so bashful, neither in your streams, nor in those little videos you post on your profile. 

You clear your throat, back to business. “I’m all yours tonight, Sergeant.” You tilt your head. “Should I call you that? Or do you prefer another name?”

Bucky groans at that. He didn’t think much about it when signing in this site, yet hearing you use his ex-title in the military has heat pooling into his stomach like molten metal. Though, there is something else that has caught his attention, embarrassingly so, since your first stream.

When Bucky takes too long to reply, you intervene. “It’s just because I need a name to moan.” You chuckle. “Many men like daddy.”

His response is immediate.

Daddy is perfect.

“Awesome.” You grin. “So,” you run both of your hands down your sides, drawing attention to your delicious form. “What are you going to do with me?” 

To be completely honest, I have never done this before. 

Bucky blushes slightly at that, but judgment doesn’t come. “I’m honored to be your first then, Daddy. I’m here to make your fantasies come true. So if there’s something you like…” You grin. “Anything, just tell me. Don’t be shy!”

Bucky flushes hotly. All he really wants is to see you fuck yourself on that thick dildo from that fateful night. He wonders if that is appropriate to ask.

I would love to see you without the robe.

You nod, and languidly remove the piece of clothing, tossing it somewhere behind the camera. Your hand instantly grasp one of your breasts, capturing your nipple between two fingers. The lace fabric is very thin, and your erect nubs are already greeting Bucky without any sort of barrier obscuring them. “Wish they were your hands, Daddy.”

You are stunning.

Will you let me see your pretty little pussy, baby girl?”

You moan sweetly. “Thought you said this was your first time.” You utter breathlessly.

I am sorry if that was too forward. Please let me know if I make you uncomfortable.

“Oh don't worry, Daddy.” You spread your legs, toying with the little button keeping the teddy closed. “You ready? How badly do you want to see my pretty pussy?”

So badly, please baby.

“So polite.” You hum amused, before you let the button go. The two halves of the lace fabric jump away, and Bucky takes in your already glistening core.

So beautiful, baby girl. I wish I could put my mouth on you, I am sure you taste heavenly.

Your cheeks are on fire by the time you finish reading his text. “You’re typing pretty fast. Still using both hands?” Bucky frowns momentarily. 

Yes?

“You’re not touching yourself?” Your eyebrows furrow.

I want you to come first.

His cock is noticeably enlarged and straining against the fabric of his underwear, but Bucky is more interested in watching you fall apart.

“Oh.” Your eyebrows raise in surprise, momentarily taken aback. “Wow... Okay, then tell me what to do.”

Bucky swallows, fingers moving very slowly on the keyboard. Here goes nothing.

I would like to see you take your biggest toy.

Your eyes widen. “Daddy,” you gasp. “My biggest toy is very... Big. I don't think I have enough time right now, but I can show you my other toys!”

That’s perfect. Just pick out the largest one you are comfortable with tonight.

Bucky gets a nice view of your ass as you bend down to retrieve a box. When you return to frame, you are holding up two dildos, and Bucky nearly chokes. Both toys are impressively long and thick, definitely larger than the toy you had used on Tuesday night. He passes a hand through his dark locks, eyes quickly flitting between the two fake dicks.

“Would one of these be okay?” You ask timidly.

I didn't realize you had larger toys, sweetheart.

“Oh. You really are new, then. I’m… Well, I like big things.”

Bucky is dead. Dead and gone to heaven. 

You are a gem, baby girl.

His message makes you grin. “So which one do you want, Daddy?”

Bucky chooses the pastel blue toy, the thicker of the two, textured with veins and a pair of wrinkled balls that Bucky would love to see pressed against your ass. The toy is very close to Bucky’s own size, and if you can take it tonight, he might just fall in love.

You smile. “This is one of my favorites, though it might take me a little extra effort to get it all in.”

I will pay extra. Whatever you want.

“You’re too eager to spend money on me.” You contemplate, tilting your head.

I am very eager to see you with that toy inside.

You burst out laughing at the sudden abruptness. “You have some kind of size kink?” There is no judgement in your tone, just amused curiosity.

Bucky hesitates a moment. If he is going to spill his secrets, a stranger seems like an appropriate choice. 

I have a rather large cock, but I have never been with a partner who could take me comfortably. Most of them run away scared.

He sends the message and is immediately embarrassed for treating you like some sort of therapist. You're just a camgirl trying to do her job.

“Oh.” You gasp, momentarily stunned. “Well Daddy, I love big cocks. If I ever say you’re too big, it’s a compliment, okay?” You stop. “How big are you, if you don’t mind telling me?”

Bucky slowly writes out his measurements, his face practically on fire.

“What?” You shriek. “I– fuck.” Your eyes widen a fraction, before you fret to continue. “I don’t mean it in a bad way, sorry. That's actually so hot.”

From the way your squirm on your sheets, Bucky is convinced you are telling the truth.

You put your hands several inches away from each other. “Like, this big?” Your whimper is so quiet Bucky wouldn't have caught it if it weren't for his expensive computer. “Fuck, you’d ruin me for anyone else, Daddy.”

The CEO doesn’t know how much of this is an act, but he is far too pleased to question it.

You resolutely nod, picking up the blue dildo. “I’ll show you how good I can take this.” You start kissing the length. “Rather have your big cock, Daddy, but this’ll have to do for now.” 

You mouth at the head of the toy, eagerly sucking. Your lips stretch wide around it, and Bucky shivers. He wants to feel that mouth on his cock so badly; he has had exactly two blow job experiences, both unsuccessful, yet you look like you would be able to suck him off without hurting yourself. 

“Wish I could taste your big cock, Daddy. Think I could fit all of you in my mouth? Wanna try so bad.” You gasp, pulling the toy off with a wet pop, and Bucky mentally thanks your camera for perfectly catching the shining of your lips.

“Fucking hell.” Bucky groans. He adjusts his cock, fingers brushing over the growing wet spot on his sweatpants. It's humiliating how you already have him copiously leaking. 

You're doing so good for me, baby girl. Just imagine it's me.

You whine, leaving the toy by your side so you can ease two fingers inside yourself, scissoring them. “Hope you’re watching very closely, Daddy.” You moan. “Look how good my pussy is stretching for you.” 

You turn behind, reaching off camera to pick up a smaller toy— a white vibrator. As you press the toy against your clit, your body shivers and you moan so loud Bucky has to take a deep breath to calm himself down. 

You glance back at the camera with glassy eyes. “Are you touching yourself, Daddy?” 

Have you come yet?

A desperate whine falls from your parted lips. “Almost.”

Be a good girl and come all over yourself. Then, I'll touch myself.

“Feels so good, Daddy.” Your head falls back, the wet obscene noises coming from your fingers as they fuck your hole have Bucky blushing. “Wish you were here.”

I wish I was too baby girl.

“Gonna come.” You pant, and Bucky leans back, his back stiff like a board as his eyes fix on your pussy. It clenches and unclenches desperately around your digits, your moans so beautifully sinful they make his cock twitch in desperate need of attention.

Even if your chest is heaving to regain your breath, spent and satisfied, you keep your slick-coated fingers inside. “How was it, Daddy?” You hum.

Gorgeous. You're such a good girl, sweetheart. The best.

Bucky observes how you've been preening under his praises, wishing he could be there to feel your body squirm in delight against his. That's when he realizes he is at his limit now. He massages his swelling cock with gentle fingers through the grey fabric, finally pulling the hem down under his balls to stroke it until it stands at full mast against his stomach.

On screen, you are lazily fingering yourself with one hand and lubing up the blue dildo with the other. The toy lays across your torso, hefty and long to the point your hand can barely encircle it fully.

“You’re still here, right?” Your voice is breathy. “You’ll come with me now, Daddy?”

Yes baby

He is typing with one hand now, and fuck if it is difficult.

You grin, before it dims abruptly. “Would you like to... Turn your mic on? So I can hear you.”

Bucky should say no, he really should. But he rationalizes that it will make things easier for the both of you...

Sure, if you do not mind

“You're so silly, Daddy. Of course I wouldn't mind!” Your smile is brighter than the sun. “Okay, so just press on the mic icon. You might get a notice to allow the site to use it.”

You wait for a few seconds, before an unfamiliar notification sound echoes through your speakers. “Done?”

“Yes.” He utters, timidly clearing his throat. “Hi, baby.”

You chew on your bottom lip to prevent an embarrassingly loud moan from tearing out of your throat. “Hi... Fuck, I love your voice. Keep talking, please.”

“All right, sweetheart.” He keeps stroking himself lightly, grinning when he notices how you shudder. “How many fingers can you fit in your sweet hole right now?”

“Three.” You adjust yourself, until your shoulders rest on the pillows, propped up against the headboard, and with your legs shamelessly spread. Bucky's screen is now completely full of the image of your pussy getting fingered.

“You are absolutely stunning.” His cock throbs in excitement, and he needs to roughly squeeze the base to fight off his approaching climax. “What do you think, darling? Are you ready to be stuffed full?”

You whine. “Yes, Daddy. Stuff me full with your big cock.”

Bucky moans loudly, the noise catching him by surprise. He’s been waiting so long for this— for his size to excite someone instead of intimidating them. “Come on. Put it in for me.”

You presses the toy against your folds, a delicious, broken moan bounces off your bedroom walls as the tip of the toy nudges your hole, splitting it open.

“Oh baby girl.” Bucky sighs, so captivated by your expression, twisted in a mix of concentration and bliss.

“Daddy, it’s so big.” You cry out. Your free hand grabs the upper hem of your lingerie piece to pull it down, immediately going for your breast.

“Fuck.” He groans, completely lost into the sensation of his hand sliding over his cock, and the other fondling his balls. You eases the dildo in to the base, your whole body shaking.

“So full...” You mumble deliriously, rubbing your nipple with your thumb.

“That's it, look at you.” Bucky gasps out. “Taking my big cock so well, princess.”

Your hips buckle up. “Fuck, I can’t—” You pant. “So sensitive... I–I'm gonna come.”

Bucky has been hovering over the edge for long enough now. “I'm close too, baby girl. So close.”

“Yes yes! Come with me, Daddy!” You keen, removing your hand from your chest to furiously rub your clit. The other moves the toy back and forth, until your hips jerk.

“Shit, baby.” Bucky grunts. “Come for me, baby girl– c'mon want you to make a mess on my cock.”

Bucky’s soul leaves his body. He digs his feet into the ground, his back arching from the chair as his warm release ends up all over his stomach, and it smears over his hand as he continues to pump his length. His ears are literally ringing at the sheer intensity of his orgasm.

Once his vision comes back clearly, he glances down at himself. There are streaks of cum across his chest and dripping down his fingers; then he sees a few spots across his keyboard.

He hasn't made this much of a mess in years.

On the screen, you are still shaking in the aftershocks of your own climax. When your legs finally collapses against the mattress, Bucky swallows as his eyes land on the wet patch on your sheets.

“Fuck.” You exhale loudly. “That was so good, shit.” Your chest heaves as an arm stays splayed over your eyes. “You okay there, Daddy?”

“I am.” Bucky pants, staring at your puffy folds. He wonders if he is supposed to leave now, but he’s not ready to end this yet.

“Did you come?”  

“I did.” The apples of his cheeks turn red. “A lot.” He then adds quietly.

“Yeah?” You gently pull the toy out and toss it to the side, raising on your trembling elbows. “I had a lot of fun tonight, Daddy.”

“Me too, sweetheart.” Bucky swallows, suddenly at loss of words. His heart is still trying to come out of his chest.

Your fingers teasingly spread your folds open. “Think I could take your big cock in one go now?”

Bucky sincerely guffaws at that, astonished by your everlasting mischievousness, even when your eyes are lazily blinking at the camera. He is literally smitten with the recklessly confident woman that you are, and perhaps this is just a character crafted to please your viewers, but to say he is pleased is an understatement.

“I am glad I found you.” He blurts out quietly. There's a moment of silence between you, too long, too deafening. And Bucky immediately regrets saying that. He crossed a boundary, didn't he?

You curl up on your side, your smile small yet sincere. “Glad you found me too, Sergeant.” You wink, letting out a small yawn. Bucky's heart clenches painfully at that.

“I wish I was there to clean you up.” He does not know why he says it, perhaps just to prolong this fantasy where sweet, little you is his lover instead of a stranger he’s paying for sexual gratification.

For a moment, a soft look of vulnerability colors your features. “Wish you were here, too.” You whisper, then slowly sit up, biting your bottom lip. “Hope to see you again soon.”

The CEO swallows around nothing. “Yes, of course. I look forward to seeing you again.” He clears his throat. “Goodnight, baby girl.”

Later in bed, Bucky smooths a hand over the empty space beside him. He knows he is a damn old fool for desiring something that is not meant to be. But there's no harm in dreaming.

general bucky taglist: @jimmywoosimp @iambuckyswifey @metal-armed-muse @shotinthedcrk @picuappled @dugiioh @hiraethmae @siemprx @its-in-the-woods @bunnybuckys @squishyfruitloop @buckybarneswife08 @sambuckystony @obiwansito @espressopatronum454 @my-drvidess

Some may label you foolish for missing the signs. You’ve read every romance column known to women, familiarizing yourself with these so-called symptoms of a failing relationship. Looking at Max and the life you’ve built, you never thought to give any of them credence.

So what if he works countless late hours in the office, he’s continuing to build his parents’ legacy — of course, he would work hard. So what if he puts his phone face down when you enter the room, smiling up at you tight with a stiff crinkle in the corner of his eye that you brush off — he just wants all his focus on you. So what if he decides to get a separate credit card for his personal items — he doesn’t want to burden you with his spending.

You’re not naive by any means. Many have called you cynical, evidenced by the articles you write that often renounce simplistic forms of love, pure perspectives on life with no consideration of the horrors of the human mind.

It’s not that you’re naive. It’s that your edges, the ones that face him, have been smoothed over time. Chipped away and sanded until they are curves that he can hold onto, keeping a firm grip on you to free his other hand to reach for another.

When you first step past the threshold of your home, the last thing you expect is to hear voices. Max was supposed to be at work. Your heart lifts, the innocent thought that he had come home earlier to surprise you crossing your mind. It’s a consideration that does not last very long when a woman appears, skipping out into the living room which you have a clear line of sight into from the doorway.

A woman who looks very much like Max’s secretary. The one who always prepares you coffee when you stop by. The one who always simpers so sweetly at you, but lingers her sultry gaze a little too long on your boyfriend. The one Max told you not to worry about.

A woman who is in nothing but her bra and panties.

At first, she doesn’t see you, giggling carefree with her bare feet against your hardwood floors. Only when she does a twirl does she see you in your doorway. Only then does she do a double-take, stumbling over her own foot and nearly toppling over your very nice vase.

“Shit,” she squeaks out quietly, righting herself into an awkward stance.

The words die in your throat. While your mind could attempt to do the mental gymnastics of justifying why your boyfriend’s secretary would be practically nude in your place, you’re not granted the opportunity when the man of the hour comes running up to her, broad arms that you once called your home wrapping around her.

“Come back here,” he laughs, lips attaching to her delicate neck. The one adorned with a pearl necklace that you remember seeing him sneak into the apartment, but never reached your hands. “What are you—”

At least, you aren’t the only one caught off guard. It seems to be a three-way standoff the way everyone freezes where they stand. There is only a brief second of silence, you could hear a pin drop, before the chaos unfurls.

Safe to say, your beloved vase does not survive the five minutes it takes to chase the two of them out of your home. The vase ends up scattered across the hallway outside your door, lodged against his skin and maybe even hers. You’ll be the first to fully admit that you can’t fully recall what exactly transpired in the moments following the betrayal.

When all is said and done and you’re left in the aftermath of what just happened, two weeks before Christmas, all you can think is — ‘tis the fucking season.

—

By the time you roll to a stop in front of your parents’ upstate home, you’ve comfortably settled into the third stage of grief. Ire flows through your veins the entire drive up, blood rushing to your foot for you to floor the accelerator the entirety of the three-hour ride over. The music that blasts through your speakers is deafening. It’s angry, it’s hurt. It’s a reflection of you.

While you had been numb when you first called your parents to request permission, asking to use their home under the guise of a quiet place to focus on work with your pressing deadlines, that paralysis has quickly subsided into fire that sears through your entire being. Despite the early December chill, all you feel is hot.

Flames enveloping your heart in pure, unbridled white-hot anger. How dare he. Seven years. Seven of the best years of your life. Seven years shredded into nothing in five minutes. Five fucking minutes. He couldn’t have even bothered sitting you down, telling him that he was no longer interested in you, that he no longer loved you. He couldn’t even bother extending the courtesy of breaking up with you.

Hell, he couldn’t have even bothered booking a goddamn hotel room like any other cheater out there. He took her — the woman he promised you never needed to worry about — to your home. Your safe space. The one you purchased with your hard-earned work.

Your fingers itch with the urge to dial up his number, to give him a piece of your mind that certainly will last a lot longer than five fucking minutes. But you bite back that impulse because it’s not worth it. He’s not worth it.

He already tainted every single piece of your home by bringing her there. All the good — the whispered kisses under the covers, the tangling of your legs on the couch with the television purring quietly in the background, the clanging of pots and pans for your dinner dates — is gone. Memories stained with permanent ink. When you imagine your pristine apartment, all you can see are the spots — the marks that can never be erased. Smudges over the flawless house you’ve built.

For a while, you sit behind the wheel, knuckles tight where you grip. The tears are warm in your eyes, you will them away, but they stick. They roll down fast, soft lines down your face that can’t seem to disappear, no matter how many times you wipe them.

For a moment, you think you’ve regressed in your grief — the guilt seeping back in through the cracks of your wrath. The self-blame question in the margins of your mind has only partially formed when a knock on your window jolts you back to reality.

Quickly swiping away the wet streaks on your face, you squeeze your eyes shut and force your face to be brave. You plaster on a shaky smile before you unlock your car and slide out.

“Marta, it’s been too long.”

Marta is a four-foot-nine lady who’s been working here since you were two running around in nothing but your diapers. She mostly keeps the house clean, but she has had to occassionally wear a few hats, including babysitting you when you’re being a bigger brat than usual.

Her thick arms swathe you in a warm embrace, one that you didn’t know you desperately needed until your own limbs return the affection. She doesn’t say anything about your swollen eyes or your sniffly nose. Instead, she holds you at arm’s length and smiles softly. “Dear, it’s been much too long. You haven’t been here in years. The last time I saw you, you were off to start your first year in the city.”

Remorse slinks around you again, hovering close by. “I know, I’m sorry. It’s been busy. Life, I mean. I haven’t really had the chance to come back here.”

“No matter,” she tuts quietly with a pat on your shoulder. “I’m glad to see you’re doing well. You look healthy at least. Probably could use my squash soup, you used to love that.”

“I still do,” you grin back.

Marta takes you on a tour of the home, refreshing your memory of where things are stored and the renovations your parents have done on certain rooms, including turning your bedroom into a home gym. The two of you spend an hour or so catching up, her lighting up with every piece of your life that you share with her. By the time she bids her farewell, the sun is slowly sinking over the horizon.

The rush from the day has slowly given way to weariness that weighs heavy on your eyelids. You barely register her words when she tells you that your parents have hired a full-time caretaker for the property who lives just down the road. You barely remember drifting towards the living room couch and stretching out, letting sleep swallow you.

When you come back to, the room is bathed in a gradient of purple and orange. The sun peeks shyly over the horizon as you stretch your exhausted, aching arms long into the air with a groan. Your phone lights up to indicate that it’s barely six, which means you’ve slept more than you have this past week alone.

You tug the throw blanket around your shoulders, fabric dragging by your feet as you step across the creaky, cool floors into the kitchen. You reach for a fresh glass and fill it with tap, tipping the crisp water down your throat to quench your parched throat.

Sleep hadn’t been kind to you. Even — especially — with your eyes closed, all you can see is the betrayal that plagues you. The scenes shift throughout the night — your home, his office, a restaurant that you used to frequent with Max. Each one once a memory of the good you had, now soiled with her face replacing yours. It’s her hand he’s holding. It’s her eyes he’s looking into.

You’re standing in the fringes of these moments, like an outsider watching through a window.

Your head pulses with an ache that doesn’t seem to cease. Instead, you try to distract yourself by fussing with the kettle to make some tea, hoping that the caffeine would ease your drowsy mind. While you wait for the kettle to whistle, your hand automatically reaches for your phone, your first instinct is to scroll through the news notifications.

A wedding in Brooklyn. Another stupid comment from the president. An alien invasion in Metropolis.

You can’t tell if some higher power above finds destroying the world you live in to be the ultimate cosmic joke. This is why you don’t like writing about real news; it’s too depressing. At least you find interest in the topics you write, even if they aren’t always the most critical things the world needs. 

You’re halfway through this article from The Daily Planet that you’re convinced is another outlet similar to The Onion when you spot movement in your periphery. The blood-curdling scream leaves your lips when you see the dark figure standing by your kitchen.

Said figure then steps into the streaks of gold the sunrise paints across your floors. Slowly, his face is illuminated — it’s his broad chest that you notice first, hidden beneath the fabric of his t-shirt. Your eyes then shift to his equally broad shoulders, covered by a plaid button-down that hangs loose over his middle, tight around his biceps. Then his bearded jaw comes to life before the slope of his nose and finally his bright blues.

While you aren’t a particular fan of home invasions, maybe there is something to the way this man looks ridiculously handsome. Ridiculously, effortlessly handsome. He doesn’t even seem fazed when you lunge for a knife, pointing it in his direction. In fact, he looks rather amused.

“Who the fuck are you?”

“Never knew you had such a potty mouth.”

A scowl descends on your face. “Never answered my question.”

“I’m Bucky,” he says simply. When you don’t put your weapon down, he sighs. “Marta didn’t tell you? I work here. Been helping your parents with construction, renovation, and plumbing, along with some other odd tasks.”

Bucky? “What kind of name is Bucky?”

His lips curl again, amusement deepening the dimple in his cheek. His eyes twinkle with mischief, like he’s about to respond with a ridiculously stupid line. Your annoyance burrows deeper into your heart as you tighten your grasp around the knife.

“You gonna put the knife down or are you gonna keep acting up?”

There’s something in his voice, the curl of his syllables, the drop in pitch of his tone. It almost makes you want to listen. Almost. Your hand falters for a second, he notices. His smile stretches again.

“What? I gotta show you my state ID?” He chuckles, reaching into his pocket and pulling out and jingling the keys in his hands. “Telling you that I have keys to the place. I didn’t realize you were coming so soon. Thought it would be a couple of days. Upstairs toilet has been acting up so I was going to take a look before you came.”

Pinching your lips, you slowly lower the knife. You slip it back into the block but keep your eyes on him the entire time. “Alright, I’ll bite.”

“Bet you do,” he mutters under his breath, low enough that you nearly miss it. But the morning is quiet, a far cry from the constant cacophony of sirens and honks in the city. For a second he pauses, his curious eyes appraising you silently. They analyze you carefully from the top of your head to where your toes are curled into the tiles.

Then they fly back up to meet yours. You make the mistake of letting a gasp escape. You didn’t think it was possible but he grins even wider. He looks even more handsome with that smile. “What?” You snap, crossing your arms over your chest, covering yourself up further.

“Nothing,” he huffs a laugh, “just look cute in the morning.”

Your heart stutters against your ribcage. He doesn’t even wait before he tromps up the stairs, footsteps disappearing along with the ghost of his voice caressing your ear.

The way your heart skips is new. You’ve been with Max for so long that you forget the thrill of the flirting game. The little comments. The teasing looks. You tell yourself that it’s because you’re freshly heartbroken. It’s not because Bucky is alluring in the way Max never was. Rough bumps rather than smooth surfaces. You’ve slipped on that slope before; maybe it’s time to try something different.

—

For the most part, you keep to yourself. Bucky putters around and outside the house doing all sorts of things. Sometimes he’s carrying a toolbox, other times a sledgehammer. There are instances when he walks around with nothing at all. But through it all, he’s always fucking stripping.

He would come into the house with at least two layers. Over the course of the day, he would peel off his shirt and drape it over the kitchen chair. Then, when he’s under the sink plugging away, he tugs his t-shirt over his head. By the time you look up for the second time that hour, he’s already exposed in front of you.

It’s not easy to ignore, not when you see the way his abs flex with every move. Or how he grunts every time he does something a little hard. Or the attractive furrow of his brows when he can’t figure something out.

You’ve been sitting on this desk by the window for the better part of the day, but your eyes have wandered more than a handful of times to him. It’s enough times to make it embarrassing when he catches your gaze straying to him one too many times. When his lips tip up with that stupid twinkle in his eyes. That’s when you duck your head back down behind your laptop screen.

At some point in the afternoon, Bucky does come up to you. He opens his mouth and, before he can say anything, your stomach rumbles. Loud.

Shit.

It’s worse when you see him clearly resisting a laugh, his teeth catching his bottom lip, his eyes shining with mirth. It looks even brighter in the light — closer to a baby blue than cerulean.

“What?” You glower at him when he doesn’t say anything.

“You wanna go out and eat?” The question catches you by surprise, obvious when the creases on your forehead melt into your raised brows.

Bucky shoves his hands into his jeans, his naked chest still open in front of you. You almost want to look at the mirror and write whore on it with how closely you’re tracing the lines on his stomach. Maybe it’s time to write a piece on attractive parts of a man that aren’t sexual. Like the clavicles. His are quite attractive.

“There’s no food in the house. Your parents cleared it all out when they left on their cruise,” Bucky clarifies, hand reaching up to scratch the back of his ear. For the first time since you met him, he looks almost… awkward. It’s satisfying.

“Right, that would make sense,” you say, equally as awkward. “Where were you thinking?”

“I needed to go into town to pick up some supplies, need it to fix up that toilet upstairs. There’s a bistro there with decent sandwiches — nothing crazy like you city folks are used to but it’s food.”

As if on cue, your stomach protests again. Loudly. Bucky doesn’t hold back his laugh this time. Heat crawls up your neck as you scrape your chair back. “Fine. Let me get changed first.”

“Why?” Bucky looks at you, eyes falling to your clothes before coming back up.

He can’t be serious. You’re in frumpy, wrinkled pajamas that cover your toes. “I can’t tell if you have shit taste in clothes or if you’re just being nice.”

Thankfully, Bucky only smiles at you and lets you know that he’ll wait outside. When you finally step out in a much more appropriate sweater and jeans, Bucky’s leaning against a pickup truck, arms crossed over his chest. He seems to be deep in thought, eyes laser-focused, face devoid of emotion. His gaze is on the dirt in front of him. He only looks up when the front door slams shut a little too loud.

The sharpness in his eyes chips away when they land on you. You’re not entirely sure what to make of that change and choose to tuck it away in a box of questions for another time.

The drive into town is relatively quiet, Bucky has some radio station playing music with static that he hums along to. You choose the safer route of looking out the window to the wide expanse of forests and farmland. Your mind slides slowly back to why you’re here in the first place, a dangerous territory you would rather avoid.

“How long are you staying?”

You jerk around to face him. “Oh, um, I haven’t really figured that out yet. Maybe Christmas? New Year’s? Who knows?”

He’s quiet for a beat then continues, “Why’d you decide to come up? Figured you’d want to spend the holidays with friends — your boyfriend — in the city, especially with your parents gone.”

You know what he’s doing. He’s testing the waters, wading his fingers in slowly to see if anything will bite. So you sigh. “You don’t have to beat around the bush. I haven’t told my parents yet but I found my boyfriend with his practically-naked secretary in my apartment. Packed up my bags same day and wound up here within five hours.”

An expletive leaves his lips. “That’s… shit.”

You can’t help the bark of a laugh that comes out of your mouth. “One way of putting it. It’s pretty shit, especially when I gave him seven years of my fucking life.” Now that the floodgates have been opened, all your words come pouring out. They spill out in questions about whether you’re good enough, whether you did something wrong to deserve this, to push him to that point. They stream out in expressions of irritation, a combination of how dare he with that motherfucker with a sprinkling of who the fuck does he think he is.

By the time you run out of phrases to curse out your ex, Bucky is pulling up to a parking spot in this quaint town. It’s the kind of small town you see in movies where people greet each other walking down the sidewalk, where the flowers are always yellow, and the skies are clear. It’s the complete opposite of the storm brewing inside of you.

That is when you realize what you’ve just done. Embarrassment swiftly spreads across your entire body, rippling in goosebumps. “I’m sorry.”

“Why?” He asks, sincerity coating the single syllable.

“I said too much. You didn’t want to know all that.”

Bucky shrugs. “Didn’t mind it. Helpful context. Plus, think you needed that.”

You do feel a little lighter, a little less tense. You’ve had nowhere to channel all your thoughts and energy since yesterday evening, worsened by the fact that you haven’t eaten a single bite since lunch. For the first time since you left your house, you’re able to take a breath without your lungs quivering. It’s steady. Your heartbeat even.

“Thanks,” you say quietly.

Another huff of a laugh. He rubs your head, an affectionate gesture for a guy you’ve just met this morning, but you don’t mind it. There’s a familiarity to his touch that you lean into. He seems surprised but smiles. “No need to thank me. Let’s get some food in you.”

Lunch with Bucky is an experience, mainly because, by the end of it, you’re convinced he’s some sort of celebrity in town. No fewer than five people stop by to say hello and coo about how nice Bucky is. The waitress comes by with a slice of pie on the house. The chef knows the way Bucky likes his burger by heart. You get plenty of you’re so lucky’s that you blanch at, much to Bucky’s entertainment. If you didn’t know any better, he planted these extras and you’re waiting for someone to jump out and say you’ve been punked.

“Did I accidentally walk into a cult and you’re the high priest or something?” You ask when you finally leave the restaurant, a paper bag in Bucky’s hand of extra dishes the chef had whipped out for him.

His lips shift into a smirk. “Now why would you say that?” You’re not going to give him the satisfaction so you clamp your mouth shut and look away. Bucky touches your head again, and you do swat it off this time. “I have to go to the hardware store for the things. Did you want to join me or explore?”

The face you involuntarily make is apparently answer enough.

“Alright, grump. Give me your phone, we’ll trade numbers. Meet you back here in an hour?”

“It takes you an hour to pick up supplies for a toilet?”

Bucky shakes his head as he returns your phone. “A lot of questions. Might start charging you for answers.”

Before you can say anything else, he’s already stalking down the street. You’re left standing there, wondering what in the world you’re going to do to kill an hour. So you just start walking, your feet taking you down corners, twists, and turns. You wander around a farmer’s market for a while and end up with two bags of fresh produce to hopefully last you the week. Without fail, each stall owner points out that we haven’t seen you around here before, welcome to town!

It’s slightly unnerving but perhaps you aren’t used to eastern hospitality. Usually, when someone acts nice in the city, they probably want something from you. You try not to let your cynicism show and merely say I’m only in town for a little bit.

You’re making your way back towards the car when a bookstore not too far away from where you’re parked catches your eye. The titles are a little worn, but they look like they’re taken care of. There are a few classics that you’ve been meaning to read, time that you invested in your boyfriend now freed up for you to regain your literacy. You stack a few copies in your hand, only stopping when you can no longer balance them with your grocery bags.

When you go to put the bags down, you catch a fascinating sight.

Bucky is walking towards you but he doesn’t seem to have noticed you yet. On his journey, he suddenly stops, turns to look inside a store then goes in. Your eyebrow raises in question which is quickly answered when the door swings open and an old lady walks out, chattering excitedly at Bucky who is now carrying three additional bags. He packs them away inside her trunk and she pinches his cheek, which he winces at.

Then he continues walking only to pause again when he hears a group of kids bickering in front of a shop. He talks to them for a moment, the sheepish looks on three of their faces growing before they mumble apologies and run off. The one kid remaining thanks him profusely, lighting up in a smile that could power a city.

His final pause was when he spotted a dog sitting patiently on the sidewalk. He crouches down and gives the dog a few good rubs, lips moving in a murmur you can’t hear from the distance. The dog rolls over to show its belly which Bucky provides equal attention to.

Finally, he stops in front of his car and looks around. That’s when his eyes catch you and a slow smile spreads across his lips. He struts over to you — yes, strut because the way he walks makes him look like a model.

“Find anything interesting?” He teases, nodding to the pile in your hand.

You purse your lips. “Yes, a few. I’ll go pay and be right out.”

Bucky plucks the stack from your hand, flipping through them with an easy smile and putting away the ones he says are in your parents’ library. Only two remain. Instead of handing them back to you, he peeks his head inside the bookstore. “Mr. Moore, put them on my tab, will you?”

Mr. Moore is fast to agree and wave him off.

“You have a tab here?”

“Yes, I’m surprisingly literate.”

“That’s not what I meant,” you scowl.

“Mr. Moore only takes cash and he’s nice enough to let me keep a tab in case I don’t bring enough cash.”

Oh. When Bucky senses you aren’t going to ask follow-up questions, he picks up your bags from the floor and tucks the books between his arm and his waist.

“I can carry them myself, you know.”

“I know.”

You don’t need to look at him to know he’s smiling again. Damned flirt. Bucky opens the door for you again, waits for you to slide in and hook your seatbelt, before he drops off the items in the trunk and goes over to his side. 

When you prepare dinner that evening, a risotto recipe you found online and somehow manage not to destroy, you find yourself quietly stirring the mixture. It’s not as if you’re thinking about your breakup again or the fact that you have just lost seven years of your life to a man who couldn’t keep in his pants and had the gall to lie to you about it. You’re only feeling a little… listless.

For that reason, you are thankful that Bucky is still tinkering around upstairs. You haven’t gone to check on him once but you assume he isn’t destroying your mother’s precious porcelain tiles. The noise is comforting. It’s a relief to know that you’re not alone in this expansive, overwhelming space. You’re not engulfed in deafening silence that rings all too sharp in your ears.

As you switch off the stove, you hear Bucky land on the final step downstairs. Typical man — no help in the kitchen but arrives when the food is ready. His voice carries into the room as you keep your back turned towards him. “Toilet upstairs should be good to go. I’m going to head out for the day.”

That has you freezing. Muscles involuntarily spasming. You’re not entirely sure why you lock up. It’s not as if you know this man, as if you want him to stay. Because why would you want him to stay? Again, you don’t know this man.

Slowly, you turn, shifting your gaze away from him and onto the flowers dotting the wall. “I made too much for dinner. Followed a recipe with multiple servings. Did you want some?”

Bucky observes you for a second, silent as he searches your face. You can see his eyes moving from your periphery but you refuse to meet them. Then he breathes out, “Sure. That would be nice.”

“Wash your hands,” you automatically say, wincing when your habit comes out. Your now ex-boyfriend had the terrible habit of coming in from god knows where and putting his hands on everything in your spotless home.

The man before you doesn’t seem to take offense; in fact, he looks humored. “I was going to. Scout’s honor.”

Dinner passes relatively peacefully. Between the tang of lemon on your tongue and the mushrooms melting in your mouth, Bucky peppers you with surface-level questions. What do you do for work? How’s life in the city? What are you working on these days? You hate to admit it but you are grateful that you’re not entirely alone here.

You have a feeling that Bucky understands that too. He keeps the conversation flowing, not a moment of silence for you to overthink your current circumstances. Even as the two of you are working through the dishes side by side, Bucky makes you laugh over some of the things your parents have done in the house, their kooky requests that he has had to draw the line on. Your heart feels a little lighter once more.

But as the night dwindles down and the crickets begin to chirp outside your window, Bucky moves slower, like he’s delaying his departure. When you look at him from across the room, he seems hesitant for a second then asks.

“You don’t remember me, do you?”

His question catches you off guard, your grip on the sink faltering. “Uh, have we met?”

Bucky tilts his head, like he’s trying to gauge whether your response is genuine. “Never mind,” he shakes his head with a small smile. The look has you prickling in annoyance, partly because it seems like you’re not in on the inside joke playing in his head. Still, you don’t give him the satisfaction of reacting to it. “I’m going to head out, let you get some rest. I’ll be back here early tomorrow morning,” he smirks, “just a heads up so you don’t launch that knife at my head.”

Your eyes roll instinctively. “If I throw a knife at your head, it’s more likely because you’re insufferable.”

“Mhmm, sleep tight. If you need anything, call me. I’m just down the road and I can be here in five minutes, yeah?”

The offer is comforting — an olive branch. You don’t tell him as such, but he seems to know when your shoulders slacken, tension draining from your bones. “Yeah, thanks, Buck. Bucky—” you quickly correct yourself.

His pink lips curve up on one corner. “Buck is fine too. Goodnight, doll.”

Before you can protest the unprompted nickname, the front door is closing behind him. When you reach up to touch your cheeks, you find them warm. 

–

The following days pass in a hazy blur. You continue to work around the house, moving your laptop from one place to another whenever you run into a block. Sometimes you pace, take a lap around the house. What you won’t admit to yourself is that, every time you move, you find yourself chasing after Bucky.

You’re still not entirely sure what work he does around the house, but apparently it’s everything. One moment he’s fixing the leaking tap in the kitchen, the next he’s climbing on the roof to fix the shingles. He’s always covered in dirt-stained clothes, always ends up shirtless in the house at the end of the day. It’s all incredibly distracting.

If Bucky notices you trailing after him, he doesn’t point it out. He keeps to himself, occasionally looking up to check on you then goes back when he sees that you’re still sitting there, fingers chipping away at your keyboard. Once he does notice, which is unfortunately after the second time you followed him, he always gives you a heads up.

“I’m going to work on the kitchen sink, do you need more time here?”

“The balcony upstairs has a clear view of the garden and the roof.”

Small gestures that don’t go unappreciated by you. The two of you make it a habit of sharing lunch, you whip up something easy when you need a break from writing, and Bucky tries his hand at a new dish when you’re fully immersed in your work (spoiler: both of you put both bathrooms in the house to good use).

The noises he makes as he works — the clanging of his tools, the hissing of loose air, the little grunts he lets out — become your soundtrack. A soothing sort of white noise that keeps you company as the words fall onto the pages. You don’t think you’ve ever been so productive in your life.

When the day bleeds into hues of pinks and purples in the sky, you find that sinking feeling returning. Dinners with Bucky are comfortable with the two of you sharing bits and pieces, like a precursor to dessert that leaves you hungry for more. Each time Bucky shares a small bite, you have the urge to take a bigger one. He seems to know, drinking in the curiosity in your eyes, and offering you more.

However, as each night winds down and the silence begins to settle again into the air, you’re left to your own devices. At the end of the night, he always leaves. There are words sitting on your tongue that risk falling free, a plea for him to stay, to keep your nightmares at bay. Alas, your pride has them crumbling into ashes, and he is gone before you can even whisper your desire into the quiet.

This is one of those nights and you find yourself twisting and turning in the guest room, the sheets feeling a little too scratchy, the bed a little too firm, and the room a little too silent. Throwing the covers off, you pad back downstairs and attempt to tire yourself with work. Only the sentences come out a garbled mess and you end up closing your laptop in frustration, nearly tossing that darned thing out the window. You’d give something else for Bucky to repair.

So you give into your last resort which is to step outside into the brisk air and sit on the steps of your front porch. At least out here the crickets and the wind lull you to a sense of peace. A peace that you haven’t found on your own since you left the city. You almost miss your small apartment and the cracks on your floor, the sounds of city traffic and impatient rush-hour drivers pouring in for the day. But you rather enjoy the fresh air. You needed it — to take a step back.

When you think about Max now, the ache doesn’t pulse as painfully anymore. Your heart throbs dully, a reminder of what you have suffered and survived. When you really turn it in your mind, you realize that what you had in him was comfort. It’s difficult to describe what you had as love when you can barely describe what it means to be in love with him. Romantic media has soiled your idea of love and sparks and butterflies, pushing you to the other end of the spectrum to believe that love is much more practical. Love is about checks and balances, building a strong, grounded foundation to last.

And you’re left wondering if you’ll ever find a love that feels like the movies.

Before you can dwell on it for too long, you hear the sound of gravel crunching and your skin pebbles in fear. You have no weapon out here. You’re near hypothermic in your flimsy pajamas. Your fingers will likely crack if you even think about clocking this intruder.

Luckily, you don’t have to think about self-defense when Bucky emerges from the shadows. The moonlight casts him under a pale glow, gleaming gold with the lamp hanging by the front door. “You scared me,” you mutter with a huff, heartbeat soothing into a gentle rhythm.

“You scared me. I thought I was going crazy when I saw someone sitting on your porch. Figured I’d check to make sure you were okay.”

A light laugh slips past your lips. “Why were you up?”

“Why were you?”

“Stop turning it around on me.”

“You’re such a brat.”

A gasp. You narrow your eyes at him. “Excuse me?”

“And you’re barely wearing anything. You must be freezing.” Bucky doesn’t waste a beat before he shrugs off his thick coat and drapes it over your shoulders. The warmth that surrounds you is immediate — what remains of Bucky’s body heat that clings to the fibers of the fabric. “What in the hell are you doing out here?”

You sigh. “Couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t work. Thought I could use some fresh air.”

“Doll,” Bucky grunts, sounding almost disappointed.

“Why do you call me that?” The question springs from your lips before you can think twice. “Just— not that I mind, I’m just wondering.”

He pauses only for a second before he shrugs. “Because you look like one.”

“You objectifying me, Barnes?” You raise an eyebrow, crossing your arms over your chest to bury yourself deeper into his jacket.

It smells like him. You’ve been getting whiffs of him while he works — sometimes he smells like citrus and pines, other times like sweat and grime. Both are equally intoxicating and you can’t tell which you prefer. This jacket is a balance of the two, placated by the crisp winter air.

“Only if you want me to,” he shoots back with an easy grin, leaning against the wooden frame opposite of you.

You hate to admit it but there is something so effortlessly sexy about him. A lazy kind of confidence that doesn’t come embellished with hours of primping that you’ve seen your ex do. The fine lines on his face, the exhaustion in the shadows under his eyes. They make him feel real.

Bucky adds, “Are you okay?”

The million-dollar question. “Not sure,” you confess, eyes wandering into the open field. You see his house in the distance, blinking like a single star in the stretch of darkness. “I think I’m getting there.”

Bucky drops down next to you, scooting closer while also nudging you to make room for him. You do. For a moment, the two of you sit in the stillness. Two people existing, hovering but never touching. His voice is gentle when he asks, “Do you want to talk about it?”

The first instinct is to say no. You’ve barely met the man, you already told him too much once, you refuse to do it again.

But the voice inside your mind tells you to trust him, to open up to him. He’s a stranger, one who you’ve been following in the time you’ve been here. But his presence feels like a safe haven.

When the words come out, they are intentional. “I’ve been playing back the last few years in my mind. Seven years is a long time to spend with someone. I keep trying to find that single point of inflection, the time when it all went wrong. When did he decide that I wasn’t enough? Or maybe that I was too much? When did he figure out that it wasn’t me that he wanted forever? When did he realize that this risk was worth losing me?”

The questions that have been swirling in your mind for the better part of your nights spill out into the silence. You take in a shaky brath, your heart pressing against your bones, tight in the way it shrinks and inflates. Bucky doesn’t respond and it coaxes more out of you. The doubts you’ve been too fearful to address.

“I think I come back to the question of why. Why did he do it? Why didn’t he just break up with me if he didn’t love me anymore? Why did he take her to our home? Why her? Why not me?”

When you turn to look at him, he’s already staring right back at you. His gaze is kind. There is no weight to the way he scans your face crumpled into a resistance to your tears.

“It’s not on you. His decisions are not a result of your actions. His mistakes are not a reflection of who you are. Guys fucking suck,” he spits out and you giggle, the sound a little frayed. “It’s true — well, most guys suck. This one in particular because he couldn’t see what was right in front of him. Hopefully this one asshole doesn’t deter you from finding someone better. Someone who loves you. Deserves you.”

Your voice betrays the hope that tinges it. It’s fragile, small. “You really think there’s someone out there like that?”

Bucky’s eyes are soft, the frozen chips in his eyes thawing into clear water. “Loves you, yes. Deserves you, never.”

Your heart palpitates a little too loud, a little too fast. The skip of a beat. Your fingertips tingle with the urge to reach out to him, bury them in his thick hair. It would be easy, sliding your hand to close the whisper of a distance. It would be simple to scooch over until your knees touch, until you can brush your lips against his skin. Until you can draw them up to his.

His glance falls to your mouth, a brief millisecond, before flying back up.

Easy. It’s easy.

Too easy almost.

“Come on, let’s get you inside.” Bucky gently bumps your shoulder with his, breaking the spell. You look away quickly, hoping the warmth that’s crept up your neck doesn’t give away your intrusive thoughts.

The two of you rise to your feet, Bucky reaching out a steadying hand which you don’t take but appreciate anyway. He walks you to the door, some form of upstate gentleman hospitality that’s severely lacking where you live in the city.

There’s a crackle of a spark in the air, one that flashes so quick you nearly miss it. It’s a zap of lightning in clear skies. It weighs in the atmosphere like the residues of humidity after a downpour. The feeling sticks to your skin but it’s not uncomfortable, only unfamiliar.

“Try to get some sleep,” Bucky says as you stand just past the threshold of your doorway. You almost invite him inside, lips parting with the request ready. Without waiting for you to ask, he responds, “I’ll see you tomorrow. Promise.”

You can only nod. “Thanks, Buck.”

“Anytime. Have a good night,” he calls out as he jogs down the steps, figure half cloaked in the darkness.

A breeze whips past your neck and that’s when you realize— “Wait, your jacket.” You whirl around just as he turns back to look at you.

Then there’s that charming grin again, and your heart stupidly lurches for him again. “Keep it,” he beams, stealing the air from your lungs, “it looks better on you.”

—

Something has changed. You can’t quite put a finger on it, but you sense the shift to his demeanor. An unfamiliarity that makes the hairs on your arms stand. While the morning starts like any other, Bucky feels… different. He’s still wearing his uniform tee and plaid shirt combo, red this time, greeting you with a sleepy grunt at seven as he trudges into the house. Yet, the air teases with a new kind of tension.

It begins with breakfast when you’re deftly flipping some eggs and bacon, a hearty meal you have been preparing every morning. Bucky goes towards the stove, undoubtedly to steal some food as he always does. Only this time, he brushes behind you, a little too close for comfort when you can feel his body heat against your back. As he plucks a piece of bacon from the pan, his hand settles on your spine — high enough to be appropriate, low enough for you to notice. It’s not uncomfortable, but the weight and warmth say I’m here. When he drifts away, his palm drags to your hip, squeezes lightly, then releases you. He leaves you with the echo of his footsteps disappearing down the hall.

It’s not a material change. Not really. It’s not something you would outwardly question with him. It’s not that you mind that he’s suddenly comfortable enough to put his hands on you. You haven’t known Bucky that long but, when you’ve spent nearly every living moment together for the past few days, there is an automatic intimacy that connects the two of you. A red thread if you will.

You hate to describe it as dependency; whenever he exits a room you’re in, the temperature drops a degree lower; when he returns, the sun is pleasant where it kisses your skin. You want to chalk it up to the fact that you really haven’t been in this house for too long, and Bucky radiates the kind of contentment with being accustomed to the space. The voice in your head calls you a liar in denial.

You try not to listen to her too much. What does she know?

Bucky slithers back into the room a couple of hours later, this time in coveralls. A system in your brain appears to have malfunctioned at the sight because it can’t compute exactly what you’re seeing. If Bucky notices your blank stare, he doesn’t point it out. Perhaps it’s the years of evolution — and a decade of staring at men only in boring, stiff suits, but that same voice earlier is now screaming in your ear that’s a fucking hot working man. That voice is likely influenced by your knowledge that he actually does work with his extremely capable hands. It begs the next question: what other things are those hands capable of?

Your self-control tried and failed to slam the brakes on finishing that thought. How easily did you forget that seven-year relationship that almost destroyed you. What you need now is some healthy distance from romance and all of its associated variables. What you don’t need is to be thinking about how broad his chest looks underneath that navy fabric that stretches across it, or how his thick arms seem to fill it out, or how he’s now starting to tie his hair back into a bun.

Life isn’t fair. Some higher power up there is testing you and your self-restraint, which is admittedly not very strong.

“You okay?”

Bucky’s voice helps you drag your attention away from cataloging every single detail you find delicious about him today, quickly creating and filling a little memory box in your head to the brim. It’s probably a bad decision since you haven’t exactly gotten laid in a while, and Bucky is someone who you very much can imagine doing the laying.

Swallowing the thick, aroused lump in your throat, you nod and smile. Tight. “Fine. Great.” Your voice comes out embarrassingly breathless.

Thankfully, Bucky lets it slide. “I need to go into town to help out a friend. Did you want to come along? Figured we could do a night out after I wrap up. Dinner maybe.”

Your brows jump. Is he— “Are you asking me out?” You blurt out before you can stop yourself.

Bucky’s lips tug up on the corners, pretty pink surrounded by his dark stubble. He has trimmed it down, giving you a clearer view of his sharp jawline and shallow dimples. You can’t tell which one is worse for your libido.

“Do you want me to ask you out?”

You press your tongue against the inside of your cheek, heart skipping a beat over how casually confident he looks. That lazy smile, that devilish glint in his eye. “Touché,” you mutter, “let me get changed.”

Looking at your options, you are — well — stumped. It’s not as if you packed to star in some cheesy romcom, playing out this potential something with your parents’ employee. You packed for comfort, which means a wide array of cozy, ratty sweaters and sweats, more than enough leggings to avoid a wash, and a single pair of jeans. You tell yourself you’re not trying to dress to impress Bucky, why should you? It’s not a date. Still, you find yourself digging through your pile for more options, praying for something more enticing than home clothes that drown you.

Past-you clearly thought you needed this and you find a flowy, maxi skirt which you throw on with your most presentable sweater. You spend a bit of time on your makeup and hair — enough to make you look like you have been getting eight hours of sleep a night, not enough to make Bucky think you’re putting in that much effort for him.

Now, you look good. You may even look good enough for a date. Which this is not.

When you get to the bottom landing of the stairs, Bucky’s head immediately lifts from his phone. The slow smile that sprawls across his face is certainly worth the extra push you put into your appearance. He doesn’t comment, instead giving you a leisurely once-over that has your chest rising with the hitch of your breath. His eyes dark with his pupils blown.

For some reason, it feels infinitely heavier than a compliment.

The drive out into town is plagued with air thick with tension, the music crooning from the speakers doing nothing to ease it. It’s like sparks of electricity crackling here and there, enough times for you to notice, but so de minimis that you can choose to ignore them.

“You feeling better? Didn’t catch a cold from last night, did you?”

“No,” you murmur, “I’m fine. Just— hasn’t really been easy sleeping away from home. I’m used to the crowds and the noise.”

Bucky pauses. You can practically hear the gears in his head turning. “Anything I can do to help?”

You almost — almost — let slip that his being around does help. That his voice is soothing, his presence calming. The proximity and his warmth a balm for your aching soul. “No, think I just need to grow into it,” you shrug with a sigh, then add, “but thank you for checking in on me last night — and for your words.” You stop to take a deep breath. “It’s a little embarrassing actually to tell you all that, I hope I didn’t make you uncomfortable.”

“Doll,” Bucky says, the word tinted with the slight hint of exasperation. “I’m glad you talked to me, alright? Shouldn’t be thinking all of that alone. Don’t want you thinking that you’re to blame for someone acting real stupid.”

You hum, looking away to bite back the smile that threatens to crawl up your lips. “Thanks, Buck.”

His shoulders loosen, rolling back slightly as he reaches his free hand over to your knee, giving it a squeeze. It’s barely anything, but it feels like everything.

“This okay?” He asks, voice so low that you almost miss it beneath the quiet purr of his car.

His hand is a comforting weight on your knee. His fingers grounding without overwhelming you. His eyes search you in brief glances, almost wary. You can feel his grip loosening, his hand slipping as you wait a beat too long to respond.

“Yeah, it’s okay,” you say, equally quietly, but you know he hears it when he slides his hand back firmly over your knee and keeps it there.

When you arrive and Bucky releases you, you feel the loss almost instantaneously. You wonder if it’s your heartbroken-riddled mind playing tricks on you, craving the touch of a man you barely know to replace the one you thought you did. His gaze finds you again, kind and warm. There’s reassurance in the way his blue eyes shine, and you take satisfaction in that for now.

Bucky helps you down, careful to take your hand and slip his fingers through yours as he tugs you towards the open door of the garage. You don’t question why he keeps your hands interlinked, you don’t want to risk him letting go.

“Great, you’re finally here,” a tall blonde man pops out from behind the car. “I can’t get this running. I don’t think the battery’s busted but—” His eyes find you a smidgen too late, but are quick to drop to your hand in Bucky’s.

Instinctively, you pull away, tucking your hand behind your back. It’s not shame, it’s embarrassment. You don’t know this man. He doesn’t know you. Neither of you can define the nature of your relationship with Bucky so neutrality seemed to be the best option.

Bucky peeks at you, slightly amused, but doesn’t comment. “Yeah, give me a second and I’ll take a look. Come say hi first, don’t be rude.”

The man swaggers over towards you, legs as long as Bucky’s carrying him to the two of you in a few quick strides. He wipes his hands, stained in oil and grease, on a rag that looks equally soiled. He sticks it out and Bucky smacks it away.

“Don’t get your greasy paws on her.”

The man is handsome in that traditional sense, a typical all-American. The light to Bucky’s dark, with the exception of the black smear on his face. He grins easily and nods his head at you. There’s a knowing look in his eyes that you can’t understand, but Bucky seems to, judging by the glower he throws at him.

“I’m Steve, Bucky’s friend.”

You introduce yourself and stick out your hand for Steve to shake. His smile stretches a little wider as he accepts it, and it morphs into a smirk when he turns to Bucky.

“Bucky didn’t tell me he was bringing a pretty lady around. Hell, I didn’t even know he knew any ladies, let alone pretty ones. Have you met Sam yet? Did you bring her around to meet Sam? He’ll love her. He’ll love you.” His attention consistently shifts between the two of you with every question. 

“Shut it, Steve.”

His gruffness is leveled by the fondness in his voice. It’s clear they have a good relationship. Good enough that Bucky lets parts of him that he hasn’t even shown you shine through. It’s endearing.

Bucky shoos his friend away, then turns to you. “Assuming you don’t want to stick around a couple of grease monkeys, I can drop you off in town when I go to pick up some supplies for that guy. I can pick you up whenever you give me a call. It’ll be a couple of hours at least before I finish up, but we can go to dinner after? You can also stay here if you want. I grabbed your laptop on the way out in case you wanted to do work or relax with us. Steve has WiFi.”

In the last few years, you don’t think Max has thought anything through beyond getting takeout together after work or shooting you a quick message if he gets a last-minute reservation somewhere. Perhaps your standards have stooped to levels lower than the floor in the years you’ve been together — resignation mistaken as comfort, but the thought that Bucky has put into making sure you’re comfortable is nice.

“You can drop me off in town. I can walk here after, it’s not too far.”

“Doll, I’ll pick you up, don’t—”

“Can you relax?” You huff, crossing your arms over your chest. “I can read a map, Barnes. You finish up whatever you need to do here so then we can go to dinner. I want that Italian spot. The one you keep talking about with the good ravioli.”

His lips quirk up as he shakes his head slightly, a huff of a laugh escaping his lips. “Alright. I already made a reservation there, you’ve been talking my ear off about it.”

“I have not.”

“Alright, doll,” he relents. “Come on.”

Bucky keeps his hand on your knee again for the duration of the ride, completely oblivious to the fact that your heart is about to leap out of your chest and onto his dashboard. He releases you to come out and open your door, his hand around yours again in an instant, like he can’t bear to not touch you for even a second.

Before Bucky separates from you to head to the hardware store, he clasps your hand a little firmer. “Call me if you decide you want me to pick you up. I’ll have my phone on me the entire time, yeah?”

You sigh, rolling your eyes. “Yeah, Buck.”

Bucky chuckles again. “Such a brat.” You scowl. “I’ll see you later.” With one final pat to your head, he walks away.

The town is a nice place to stroll around in. Given that you’ve been cooped up at home, being more than aggressively productive with work and your deadlines, it’s nice to actually use your legs for something other than going to the kitchen or the bathroom. You stop by little shops and pick up little trinkets that remind you of Bucky, realizing later that he may not even need them. You start to overthink it, panicking on the sidewalk over how it looks, when a door opens.

“Come to look for more books?”

Mr. Moore. “Oh, hello. I, uhm, honestly am just browsing for now,” you say sheepishly, scratching your cheek. “But I’ll certainly be back when I’m interested in more.”

“Don’t worry. I was just surprised James was with a pretty lady, never seen him around here with anyone — and he is around here quite a lot.”

Heat creeps up your neck at the pretty lady, second one you’ve gotten today. Instead, you opt to address— “James?”

“The young man you were with. He comes by a lot for books. Says he is building out a library for someone.”

A library? James? “Bucky’s building a library? For someone?”

“Ah, yes, that’s what he prefers to go by. Yes, he comes by to pick up a new book every once in a while. His taste is quite eclectic and I’m not sure if he’s even read any of them,” Mr. Moore laughs lightly, unaware of what his words have just done.

Your heart may have splintered a bit. Despite what you try to tell yourself, that you’re not trying for anything with Bucky, this disappointing news has dashed what little exists of your hope. It feels a bit childish to be so… possessive over a man you’ve just met. You only know him in the context of your little bubble, within the confines of your home. He probably does have a life outside of it all, why wouldn’t he? You’re only meeting Steve for the first time and he seems to be a very good friend.

You try not to think about it too much as you start the slow walk back to Steve’s place. Even the hustle and bustle of this quaint town does nothing to distract you from the multitude of thoughts swirling through your head. You’re still thinking about them even when you stop in front of the open garage again.

Steve perks up when he spots you. “Hey! You’re back.”

Bucky slides out from underneath the car fast and your heart traitorously jumps. His coveralls are now spotted with grease and oil, his hair messier from lying on his back, top buttons of his coveralls popped open in the heat of the work. His eyes are bright when they find you, but his brows immediately pucker.

Fuck, are you really that obvious?

He gets to his feet and wipes his hands down, cursing when he sees that he isn’t getting rid of them that easily. He almost looks pained when he approaches you, looking down at your hands. “Sorry, don’t want to get you dirty,” he mutters, bitterness tinging his voice.

“It’s okay,” you can only say.

Bucky tilts his head, seeming to assess you and your expression. You don’t know what face you’re making, but it’s clearly concerning enough to have him frowning. “Everything okay? Did something happen?”

You’ve known this man less than a week and he can already read you like a book. Meanwhile, you apparently haven’t even begun to read the important chapters of his life. “Yeah, I’m good,” you force a smile.

Looking far from satisfied with your response, he gives you an easy out by pivoting to look at the bag in your hand. “Got anything nice?”

Now the gift feels a little silly. You pull out the small item from the bag. “Um, it’s a fridge magnet. A ravioli. Thought it would be cute since we’re having that for dinner tonight.”

“S’cute,” he murmurs, eyes only briefly flicking to the item in your hand before refocusing on your face.

“It’s for you,” you state lamely.

Bucky’s eyes sparkle even brighter as he looks at it in awe. He reaches out to take it from you, flinching at his dirty hands again as he stops. “Thank you, I love it,” he says softly, “hold onto it for me, will you? Don’t want to get it dirty.”

You hum and nod.

“Doll, did something happen? Was someone bothering you?”

Your head jerks up. “What? No. Nothing happened.”

“Then why do you look like someone kicked your puppy?”

Do you? “I don’t have a puppy,” you sarcastically respond. Bucky gives you a pointed look. “Nobody was bothering me, promise. I’m just… thinking about something.”

“You gonna share that thought with me?”

Highly unlikely. You’re not here for any longer, you may as well save yourself the embarrassment of bringing up hey, so I thought we had something starting here, but you seem to have someone else you’ve been interested in for a while.

Fortunately, before you can answer, Steve calls out. “Shit, Buck, need your help with this.”

He looks pained once more when his attention flies briefly to Steve and returns to you. “We’ll talk later. I gotta help this guy. He’s fucking hopeless when it comes to cars.”

You end up sitting against the wall on one of the workstations, your laptop propped up in front of you. Despite having all the time in the world while waiting for Bucky, you can’t seem to concentrate. It’s a good thing you’re ahead of most of your work. The rest of these pieces can be pushed to January, which leaves your holidays untouched. You end up pulling up a book you’ve been meaning to read and flipping through it.

The pages do keep you occupied, stopping you from going down a rabbit hole of despair. Every once in a while, Bucky would stop by and say, “Sorry, not that much longer.” He’d check in to see if you were hungry, if you wanted a drink, if you were enjoying the book, if you were comfortable, if you were warm enough. 

His concern is sweet, but you can’t help thinking that this is probably how he is with everyone. If he’s like this with you, you can’t imagine what he’s like with the recipient of that library he’s crafting.

Each time, you would reassure him that you’re fine and to focus on the task at hand. He doesn’t look very convinced.

When you’re a third of the way into the volume, Bucky comes up to you, looking weary but glowing with contentment. “Took longer than I expected. Sorry about that. I’m going to go wash up and we can go?”

“Sounds good.”

Bucky lifts his hand up again, fingers twitching, only to pull it back in frustration. You don’t have time to solve what that was about when he then goes into Steve’s house. Steve is still tinkering away lightly but you can feel his gaze drifting towards you every once in a while.

“You finding the house okay?”

His question pulls you back to the present. “Ah, yeah, it’s been good. Bucky takes great care of it.”

“Mhmm,” Steve singsongs, like he knows something he won’t share. Him and Bucky have that tendency, you’re not gonna take the bait. “What do you think of him?”

The question catches you off guard. Steve is probably being a protective friend. Bucky has been spending an awful amount of time around the house. Maybe he’s worried that he’s left him defenseless to a stranger from the city — not that that man can be defenseless, he can probably fling you across the room with one hand. The mental image does nothing to help when you press your legs together.

“He’s a good guy.”

“The best, really,” Steve emphasizes, “loyal too. Like a dog.”

You let out a small snort at the comparison. “Think he’ll twirl three times and bark if I tell him to?”

“Think he’ll do anything you tell him to,” Steve flashes a cheeky grin.

You’re not sure what to make of that. His words are cryptic, saying little but hinting at so much more. As a writer and a reader, you’ve always been able to read between the lines — except for when it comes to things related to you. In this case, while you are slightly hopeful about his words, you’re not going to let it get out of hand. 

“How long have you known him?” 

Steve pretends to think for a second, but you know the answer is top of mind. “Since high school. We went to different colleges for a bit, but ended up back here anyway.” 

This is someone who knows Bucky well. Really well. Maybe even too well. Perhaps he would know this person that he’s supposedly interested in. You could be nosy and ask, play it off as genuine curiosity, but who are you to invade his privacy? 

“That’s a while,” you choose to mutter instead. 

“Not longer than you though,” Steve shrugs. 

Your brows immediately meet in a frown. “What do you—”

“Ready to go?”

Bucky’s return interrupts your train of thought and your head instinctively turns to find his voice. The words fizzle out in your throat when you see him. You’ve seen Bucky down and dirty, grease-stained, dirt-covered. You’ve seen him shirtless under your sink, on your roof, behind your house. But you’ve never seen him like this.

To others, it may be nothing to write home about. A crisp button-down, black trousers. He’s rolling up his sleeves as he approaches you. His hair is tugged up into a bun with a few strands (aptly named slut strands by your friends) loosely framing his face.

The closer he gets, the louder your heart beats. You wonder if he can hear you, wonder if it’s obvious how your brain is completely short-circuiting at the sight of him looking deliciously put together.

While you can’t find the words to say, Steve lets out a low whistle behind you. “Look at you, haven’t seen you look this clean since senior prom.”

“Quit it,” Bucky grunts. If you didn’t know any better, you swear you see his ears tinged pink. He shifts his focus to you, eyes softer. “Ready to go?” He repeats.

Unfortunately, all you can manage is a nod. Mentally, your jaw is on the floor, dragging behind you as he leads you back to the car, a warm hand on your back.

It’s been so long since you’ve been this… affected by someone. Max dressed in custom suits and shirts that cost him thousands at least, but none of them have your heart beating out of your chest, your legs pressing together, or your breath knocked out of your lungs. Bucky changed that quickly.

Once again, you’re left wondering if this is all the aftermath of your breakup. You can’t help but constantly contemplate whether your attraction towards Bucky is spite towards your ex, or a search for something more, or a temporary filler for that cavity in your chest. The questions are a test of your rational decision-making. Emotions are difficult to decipher after a major incident, but you find yourself enjoying Bucky’s company and maybe that’s enough for now.

Bucky keeps his hand on your knee again on the drive over, the weight strangely soothing. A familiar touch. He doesn’t press further on your quietness from earlier, but you don’t miss the way he keeps glancing your way with inquiring eyes.

The Italian place is nothing fancy, nothing like the Michelin-starred establishments in the city. It’s a small, family-run bistro that Bucky apparently frequents because the host and the owner greet him like family, kisses on his cheeks and everything.

“And look at this pretty lady you’ve brought with you,” Maria beams, immediately welcoming you with a hug and a kiss on each cheek as well. “My, my, I can’t remember the last time you’ve brought a date here.”

“Maria,” Bucky scolds teasingly, affectionately, “I’ve never brought a date here.”

“You’re right,” she hums, eyes sparkling with a mirth that you don’t understand. “Come on, I have your table set up for you. Good thing you called, we have the Millers coming in later for Harry’s sixtieth so you know they’re filling the whole place.”

A groan resounds next to you as Bucky guides you to follow Maria with a hand on your back. “So much for a nice, quiet dinner.”

Maria only smirks before she leaves you at the table to get some water. You finally manage to get your first question out, and it’s not even the most pressing one. “Do you all just know each other around here?”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “No, not everyone. Some are more active in the community than others, so you tend to see the same faces. The Millers are a large, rowdy bunch, you’ll always see the group of them at town events. Maria’s family has been here for generations and she does food donations every Sunday.”

“And you?”

Bucky leans forward, arms folded on top of each other on the table. His baby blues shine under the low overhead lights. His smile almost teasing. “What about me?”

Warmth crawls up your neck again. “How does everyone know you?”

“Not everyone knows me,” he says and you immediately reward him with an eye-roll over his fake modesty. He laughs, “It’s true. I help out around town, I’m pretty handy, but nothing compared to some of the good people around here.”

“I think if you kidnapped someone’s dog, they would probably thank you for taking such good care of them.”

A snort slips past his lips. “Glad you think so highly of me.”

Dinner is a lovely, quiet affair. Bucky’s compliments did not do the ravioli justice as the pasta melts in your mouth with that delicious ooey-gooey filling. You’re pretty sure you blacked out and threatened to marry Maria at some point if that would get you her secret recipe. She laughed and told you that you don’t think Bucky would ever let that happen.

“Oddly protective of your ravioli, Mr. Barnes,” you grin.

“Oh, trust me. It’s not the ravioli he’s protecting,” Maria smiles, winking at the two of you before disappearing back into the kitchen.

You’re too food-drunk to fully process her words, instead choosing to scoop up more sauce onto your pasta and into your mouth. Another moan leaves your lips at the tangy, fresh tomato flavor.

“You make those noises every time you eat?” Bucky asks from across the table.

You finally look up from the divine dish, finding him amused, pupils dark where they’ve expanded. You don’t even have the capacity to be embarrassed when the food is worth it. “Only when I get something really, really good in my mouth.”

Bucky’s lips part before his tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip. He closes his eyes for a moment, releases a sigh, and once again shakes his head. “The mouth on you.”

Sure enough, the moment the Millers arrive, the restaurant descends into pure chaos. You’re surprised Maria even let Bucky keep the table when their family takes up the remainder of the seats, some of them squeezed together shoulder to shoulder. Their voices pulse off the walls, rambunctious in a way that only a large family can be. You find yourself both endeared and amused; after all, growing up, it’s only been you and your parents.

“Wonder what it would be like to have a big family,” you murmur quietly.

“Think you want a lot of kids?”

“First date and we’re already talking about having kids?” You grin, relishing the way he flushes pink again.

It’s not a date, the voice in your head chooses to emphasize then. Two friends having dinner. Remember, Bucky has someone he’s actually interested in. The reminder has your stomach churning and suddenly, panna cotta on your tongue doesn’t taste as sweet anymore.

“Hey, where did you go?” Bucky drags you out of your thoughts again. His gorgeous face is marred by the furrowing of his brows. You blink at him, the grey clouds slowly rolling away. “Lost you for a second there,” he murmurs, “what are you thinking about?”

“Nothing,” you answer a little too quickly.

“Are you sure? Sure seems like something’s bothering you. If I can do anything to help, you know I will.”

Unfortunately, this is not a problem he could help with. Not unless he suddenly loses interest in whoever he’s building a romantic library for. “I’m fine,” you force out a smile, “just work.”

“Thought you were doing well with your deadlines.”

Shit. You’ve always wished that men would pay more attention to the things you say; now, you’re starting to regret hoping for that. “I am, I’m thinking about my line of work for January. Hoping I have enough to sell to publications.”

Bucky stretches his hand across the table and takes yours, thumb brushing the back of it gently. “You’ll do great. You’re good.”

“You’re just saying that,” you laugh, your heart threatening to burst again with how aggressively it’s thumping. Your hand feels like it’s on fire where it’s tucked into Bucky’s.

“No, I’ve read your work. You do some nice fluff work, but there are a lot of your analytical think pieces that I enjoy.”

A squeak escapes you. “You’ve read my writing?”

“Don’t look so surprised, your parents talk about you all the time. How proud they are of you. I get forwarded all your articles.”

You groan, pressing your free hand against your forehead. “I’m going to murder them. I’m so sorry.”

“Why should you be? I like reading them.”

“They’re force-feeding it to you.”

Bucky laughs, grinning wide. “Actually, they did offer to stop after a while but I told them to keep ‘em coming. Makes me feel more intellectual compared to all the how-to-fix-a-bathroom guides I’ve been reading.”

It’s irritating how you keep drawing comparisons between Bucky and your not-to-be-named ex. The latter worked in finance and barely had the time to give your work the time of day. You didn’t think much of it, figured it just wasn’t his cup of tea. Little did you know that his cup of tea was bending his secretary over his desk.

“Well, I appreciate it,” you say, hoping your embarrassment of being perceived isn’t too obvious.

Bucky turns to look at the increasingly unruly crowd to the side. “Ready to get out of here? With the amount of wine Harry’s drinking, I have a feeling the tables will be their new floors soon.”

With a laugh, you nod. Bucky swipes his card before you can even pull out yours, which pulls a protest out of you. He only smiles, “First date, right? You can take the next one.”

Oh, how you love the way your heart skips a beat.

You didn’t have a single drop of alcohol yet you feel wine-drunk the entire ride home. With Bucky’s hand on your leg and his humming in your ears, this feels like a high you haven’t experienced in a while — or at all for that matter. You almost wished he would drive slower, take his time so the night wouldn’t end. Once the night comes to an end, he’ll be gone again and you’ll be alone again.

The car pulls to a quiet stop in front of your house and the engine clicks off, bathing the two of you in a thick silence. The dread sinks in fast. It’s not only about being left on your own, it’s specifically about having distance between you and Bucky. Today feels different; it’s not like all those times spent in your kitchen sharing a meal or the drives out into town for a purpose. There is a heavier taste to the air that leaves you wanting more, craving a fix that you can’t quite name.

“Walk you to your door?” Bucky asks softly, to which you manage a nod.

There aren’t enough steps between the car and the door. By the time you exhale, you’re already on your front porch, your key in the door. Bucky hovers behind you wordlessly.

Once the door is open, you rotate to look at him again. “Thanks for dinner, I really enjoyed it. We should do it again sometime.”

“Mhmm, just say when and I’ll take you.”

Then that word sticks again to your mind, begging to be freed. The one plea that you’ve managed not to say, but rests so heavy on your tongue that you want it to just roll off. Bucky looks at you with eyes searching for any signs.

Stay.

His eyes widen, revealing more of those beautiful blue irises, gold flecks glowing underneath the warm oil lamp. You realize then that you’ve said it out loud.

Moritification is etched onto your face when you quickly add, “For wine. I picked up a bottle last time we were in town. Um, it’s still early. If you want. You don’t have to, I’m sure you’ve got better things to do but—”

“Nothing better to do,” he easily interjects, “nothing else I’d rather do.”

Your chest blooms with hope as you take a step back into your house, swinging the door open further for him. “I’ll get the opener.”

The two of you settle in the living room. The television flickers quietly as background noise as you take another sip of the burgundy wine. It tastes delicious, a twenty-dollar bottle that could pass as two hundred. Maybe it’s not the wine itself, maybe it’s the company. Bucky pokes at the logs blazing in the fireplace before setting the metal rod aside and sitting back down next to you.

The conversation flows easily, lubricated by the alcohol buzzing in your veins. You take one glass after another, finding yourself a little lighter, a little less anxious in talking to him when he’s so close to you like this. He listens to you with rapt attention, even when you start going on tangents, arms moving around animatedly. He asks you follow-up questions, intrigued when you reveal more details about your story.

You tell him about life in the city, your friends, your colleagues. You don’t even think about your ex as you describe it to him, your life doesn’t center around him after all, and you realize that now. You tell him about the stories you’re thinking of writing, more think pieces that he enjoys, and he asks you to send him the draft when you’re done, tells you that he’d love to read it in advance.

“Why would you want to read the draft? It’s not going to be perfect,” you say, crinkling your nose.

Bucky’s lips twitch with the ghost of a smile. “I like seeing how your works progress. How they can only get better. Plus, gives me some idea to the raw makings of your mind.”

You laugh at that. Bucky grins even wider.

When you realize how long you’ve been talking — how much, you stop abruptly. “Shit, I’m sorry. I’ve been rambling. I tend to do that.”

“Don’t apologize, I like hearing you talk. You haven’t really been doing much of that since you got here.”

The way Bucky’s looking at you now, like you’re the only thing in the world worth paying attention to, has butterflies fluttering inside your chest. Your stomach flips when you see the flames flicker, casting his features in this warm glow, the other half shadowed where he turns to look at you.

He looks beautiful. He always has been. But in this light, on this specific night, you don’t think you’ve ever seen anyone more irresistible.

You blame the alcohol for what you do next. Looking at the clock, you see that it’s gotten quite late. The two of you have spent the last couple of hours chatting right here on this couch. A very comfortable couch.

“You’ve had a good amount to drink,” you whisper, scooting closer to him. 

He’s had one glass. Barely anything. He probably doesn’t feel a drop with how big he is.

He looks at you, his gaze falling to your lips before slowly, hesitantly drawing back up. “I have,” he lies for you.

“You should just stay the night. S’not safe for you to drive,” you say, keeping your eyes locked on your hand as it reaches over to slide up his lap. His thick thigh tenses beneath your fingertips and your mouth begins to salivate instantly.

“Sounds like a good idea,” he confirms as he leans closer towards you. His breath ghosts the shell of your ear as he does so, lips grazing the length of your neck as he inhales deeply. “Y’smell so good.”

You bite back a moan, swallowing it down with the taste of the wine. “New perfume.”

“Don’t think I’ve smelled it before.”

“Didn’t think you were paying attention to how I smelled.”

Bucky chuckles low, puffs of air meeting your sensitive skin as he presses his lips against the side of your neck. A shiver snakes up your spine as your eyes slide shut. His presence is heady, like a drug seeping into your veins.

“I always pay attention when it comes to you.”

Fuck. Not only is your heartbeat crescendoing, there’s a new but not unfamiliar pulse between your legs that pulls a whine from your lips. Bucky shifts back and you feel that loss almost immediately, body instinctively drawing closer to seek him out again.

“Are you sure about this? You’ve had quite a bit to drink,” Bucky says gently, gaze laced with concern as he stares at you.

You can feel him pulling away, becoming more hesitant, but your hand squeezes his thigh, the same way he’s been doing all day. “Never been so sure of anything in my life. Promise.”

Before the flickering flames, Bucky slides a hand up your neck, thumb pressing gently against your jaw, which has you parting your lips ever so slightly in soft pants. He watches it carefully, how your lips stick together before separating, how your eyes glaze over at the small act. Then he leans closer, you can feel his breath against your skin. Your eyes slide shut expectantly, lips closing in anticipation.

“Keep your mouth open, doll,” he says, voice clear and stern.

You feel that order between your legs, pussy clenching. But you do as you’re told and you open up your lips again. Bucky closes the distance with a groan and licks your bottom lip. It’s like the first breath of air when you’ve been choking for so long, the first drop of liquor for an addict who just wants a taste. His tongue pushes into your mouth and you moan needily, fingers crawling up his chest to claw at his collar and draw him closer.

Bucky doesn’t waste a second and hoists you up to his lap, legs bent and straddling him, before kissing you again. His moan reverberates straight through you, straight to your core where it squeezes with the need for attention. His hands around your back, one to cup your ass and the other to bury in your hair. He tugs it back, gentle enough not to hurt you, but firm enough that you can feel your eyes rolling to the back of your head.

He tilts your head slightly to the side to open your neck up for his lips. His teeth. His tongue. He’s lapping at you like a dog while you grind down on his lap like a bitch in heat. His mouth feels hot and delicious against your sensitive skin, his growing erection digging against your thigh until you position yourself right on top of it. You thank the heavens you decided to wear a skirt, the thin fabric of your underwear is the only thing that stands between you and heaven. His cock feels thick against you, growing with desperation.

“Tastes so good, as sweet as I imagined,” Bucky mumbles against your skin. “Are you wet for me, doll? Can feel you leaking on my pants.”

Shame doesn’t even reach you when you’re slammed with the urgent need to feel more of him, pressing yourself down with a hungry whimper.

Bucky slips his hand underneath your sweater and tugs it over your head. You let him without a single letter of protest. The house is warm with you sandwiched between the fireplace and Bucky’s body heat. Your body feels like it’s been lit on fire with how Bucky ravenously drinks you in, his keen bright eyes memorizing you with a weight that has you shuddering.

“Always imagined what you looked like underneath all those cute sweaters and hoodies,” he says softly, palm stroking up your side and thumb reaching to brush your nipple over the fabric. You jolt in his hand, back arching slightly to his touch. “Could never compare to the real thing. Look at you. Fuckin’ beautiful.”

“Buck,” you whimper, the beginnings of embarrassment settling in the more he stares at you.

His gaze is casual but alert, like he’s taking his time committing the sight of you, every part of you, to the parts of his mind that he will constantly bring to the forefront. “Don’t get shy on me,” he smiles slow, “been thinkin’ about this for far too long. You don’t know how many ways I’ve imagined taking you. How many nights I spend with my cock in my fist, the sound of you in my fuckin’ ears like you’re right there with me.”

You let out another curse at the visual. All those nights you spent turning alone in your bed, you could’ve been with Bucky. You could’ve had his cock in your fist, could’ve been giving him the real reactions that he so desperately wants.

Bucky pops open the hooks of your bra, carelessly tosses it aside, before he dives in. His mouth latches onto your nipple while his hand gropes you eagerly. Fingers pinching, palms kneading, stimulating every inch of you, before he switches sides. Your nipples are slick with spit as you throw your head back, pushing your breasts more into his mouth, which he accepts with a wet groan.

“Pretty fuckin’ nipples, couldn’t have pictured anything better,” he grumbles, teeth nipping lightly to tug your nipple.

It would be humiliating to hear him narrate all this, but everything that comes out of his mouth is fire on your skin. “More, Buck, need more,” you stutter a gasp.

“Yeah? So needy. God, you’re fuckin’ unbelievable. Look at you grinding your hips down like a slut for me. You want my cock that badly?”

Bucky pulls away for a moment, seeming worried that he has gone a step too far when he frowns to check on you, but you’re still weighed down by your labor breaths, your chest constricting. You put your own hand on the back of his head to push him back towards you. “D-don’t stop.”

You don’t need to ask him twice. He’s back on you, tongue swirling around your peaked nipples, breath hot against the moist skin. Drunk on the feeling, you barely register Bucky laying you down on the couch, stretching you long as he crawls between your legs. He pushes your skirt up to your hips slowly, the fabric tantalizingly exposing each inch of your leg until he sees the damp fabric of your panties.

His thumb digs into the wet spot as he chuckles. “So wet for me already. So desperate. Thought I was the only one who wanted this. But looking at you now, so sweet on me, rubbing your pretty pussy against me before I even do anything,” he groans, breath hot against your skin. His tongue darts out to stroke up your clothed pussy, getting a hint of your saccharine taste.

“Buck,” you whine, fingers burrowing in his thick hair. His bun has loosened now, more of his hair brushing against your legs. “I can’t— I want your cock. Please. Can’t wait anymore.”

“No can do, doll,” he smiles, pressing a firm kiss against your clothed cunt. “Need to make sure I take care of you first. Prep you first. I don’t want to hurt you with my cock.”

The idea of how thick he is, how big, that he has to prepare you properly. You can only weakly nod as he ducks his head again and begins to thumb your clit while he mouths on your pussy, soaking your panties further with his spit. Before long, he’s hooking a finger to drag your panties to the side and touching his tongue to your center. The first stroke has your hips lifting, a gasp yanked out of your throat involuntarily.

“So fuckin’ sweet, this is what I wanted for dessert,” he grumbles, keeping his lips attached to your pussy. His tongue swipes up the lips, meeting his thumb at your clit to stimulate that sensitive bundle of nerves. “Would’ve taken you right there at the restaurant if you asked.”

“Bucky,” you whine. You could say more, but his name says enough. I want you. I need you. Your mind already struggles to string words together with him, let alone when you have him between your legs. His breath stokes the fire deep in your belly as he continues mouthing you hungrily.

“Mmm, keep calling my name, doll. Always pictured what you sound like beggin’ for me,” Bucky grunts and finally pushes a finger into you. He looks up at you as he does, watching as your expression morphs from a frustrated frown to blissful desire. He pumps the finger in and out of you slowly, enough to tease you, to edge you. With every stroke, he changes his tactics based on how you’re responding. He curls his finger inside when he sees your lips part, he pulls it out when you squeeze your eyes shut. His tongue joins two of his fingers then as he scissors you open, stretching out your insides.

His ministrations are relentless and you’re left squirming and whining underneath him, his free hand pressing down on your hip to keep your steady. You’re leaking all over the couch, the smell will likely last for days, but that seems to be the last of his problems.

“Should’ve taken you at mine,” Bucky grunts in annoyance. “I wanted you to drip all over my bed, my sofa. I wanted your smell to linger for days. Every time I lie down to sleep or rest on the couch after a long day, I’ll smell you everywhere. I’ll jerk my cock to the thought of you, knowing you’re probably doing the same with your pretty fingers right here.”

“Shit, Bucky, please. I can’t do this anymore,” you gasp breathlessly, “I need you. Please. I need you inside. I want you to cum with me.”

“Doll, you keep me down here and I’ll cum untouched, I promise you. Don’t need my dick wet in you to cum. You don’t know how long I’ve been waiting for this, how long I’ve wanted this. How many times I pictured bending you over the kitchen counter, or eating your cute cunt on the balcony.”

Desperate whines leave your lips again as you tug on the strands of his hair, a feeble attempt to get him to come up. The more he talks, the closer you get to your orgasm. But you want him. You want him inside you.

“I’m begging you, please. Just— just come up here and fuck me properly.”

Luckily, Bucky relinquishes and crawls his way up, his lips wet with your juices dragging up your skin as he makes his way back up. When he meets your lips again, you can taste both of you on him. You never thought you’d like it, but the way Bucky enjoyed himself down there was enough to have you giving in.

Bucky strips off his shirt, flinging it across the room, and unbuttons his pants. He quickly takes everything off before climbing back on top of you. While he keeps your mouth busy, his hands are tugging down your panties to your ankles. You don’t even know when he grabbed a condom but he’s already rolling it on while your brain is still stuck in this hazy fog of lust.

“So hard for you,” he heaves, “been hard for days. Balls so full. No matter how many times I cum, every time I see you, I get so hard again. You’ve turned me into a mess. Desperate only for you.” He positions himself at your entrance and the first push of his thick tip into you already has the two of you moaning. He inches himself in slowly, if not for you then for him. Bucky lets out a gasp as your pussy clenches tight around him. “So fuckin’ tight, doll. Fuck. Pussy was made for me. Got me locked in a death grip. Like she doesn’t wanna release me.”

Bucky eases into you slowly, excruciatingly. Every drag of his cock inside of you feels like the strike of yet another match to set you on fire. Your knees are bent and he’s fucking deep inside you, sweat beading his brows not from exhaustion, but the energy exerted to keep himself in check, to stop himself from finishing embarrassingly fast.

“Could cum right now, doll. But want you to enjoy it. Want you to feel how fucking hard I am for you.” His fat cock splits you open as you lie there and take it, as you let him use you however he wants. You savor the way his face transforms every time he pumps inside you. His eyes shutting and opening, a battle between the need to control himself and the desire to watch you as your cunt swallows him. His lips separating with hot, heavy breaths. His chest rising, stomach tightening, until you can see his chiseled torso gleaming in the light.

“Buck, I’m so close,” you whisper, trust in your own voice slipping through your fingers. “Needa cum. Just, mmm, feels so good. Need you.”

Bucky presses his forehead against yours, capturing your lips once more as he fucks into you. His cock is hot and heavy and thick inside you, a weight that grounds you into the cushions. Your insides coil tight. Your entire body buzzing alive with a desperate need for a satisfaction that’s so close you can practically taste it.

“So fuckin’ gorgeous, doll. You’re made for me. This pussy, gonna mold it to my cock. I’m gonna keep you in here, fuck you stupid every day. You don’t have to worry about a thing, I’ll take good care of you, you know that, right?” He rasps, shifting away slightly only to search your eyes. When you can’t find the energy to respond, he punctuates a “Right?” With a particularly deep thrust.

You nod, unsure of what you’re even agreeing to. At this point, all you have in your mind is Bucky and his smell and the feel of his cock delicious inside of you. You feel so full, each nerve vibrating for attention as Bucky continues to pump into you. Sweet and filthy words spill from his lips, each syllable dragging you closer and closer to that climax you so desperately crave.

“Now that I’ve had a taste of you, don’t think I’ll ever let you go.”

“Going to have you cockwarm me, just sit on my cock and look pretty.”

“Make you cum every day, until you can’t think about anyone or anything but me.”

From this moment alone, you know Bucky can keep his promise. Your brain is repeating his name over and over again, wretched pleas falling from your lips as he ruts his hips to push himself deeper inside of you. You can practically feel him inside your stomach, his length disorienting.

“Bucky, p-please, I wanna cum. Please let me cum.”

“Yeah, you want to cum, doll? Want to cum all over my cock? You’re already soaking my cock right now, can’t wait to have your cream all over me.”

His words have you wheezing, gasping for air in your choked lungs. You beg him one more time, the permission to release.

“Alright, doll. Cum around my cock. Squeeze my dick. I want you to milk me dry. Cum for me.”

Your orgasm wracks through you like lightning, the crack striking you as your pussy convulses around his cock, your stomach tightening with the release that catches you. Your body quakes beneath him as he too finds his completion, burying his face in your neck, beard scratching your sensitive skin, as he spurts into the condom, filling the rubber with evidence of his pleasure. Bucky’s hips stutter a few more times as he slumps on top of you, careful not to hurt you, but his weight a steadying presence.

Your cunt is still throbbing around him, his cock twitching inside of you, when you finally swallow around your dry throat. Bucky jerks back, quickly assessing you as he lifts himself up. Your hand wraps around his bicep to keep him there, keep his cock inside you a little longer.

“You okay?” He asks warily. “Did I hurt you?”

A laugh of disbelief rises from your chest. “Oh fuck you like you didn’t just give me the best damn orgasm of my life.”

His frown melts away into a wide smile. “Yeah? Best one, huh? That’s a big compliment.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

He presses his lips against yours again, tasting you slowly once more before he draws away and kisses your temple. “Well, now I have to figure out how to make it better than best.”

Somehow, you don’t think he’ll have a problem doing that. 

–

A one-time fix was never going to be enough. Now that you’ve had a taste of him, you can’t seem to get enough of him. Whereas you were already following him around the house before, you can’t keep your hands off him now. Anywhere he’s willing to take you, you will. 

Not that it’s any different from Bucky who hasn’t let you out of his sight for a second since that night. When the two of you wake up the next morning, sticky with each other’s body heat, Bucky joins you in the shower and soaps you up before he sinks his cock back into you, taking you against the hot stream of water pouring down from above, pressing you up against the cool tiles until your legs are shaking. 

With the wine glasses still in the sink, stained red from the night before, he has one of your legs over his shoulder as he devours you again. This time, you do cum around his tongue and, based on the groan and the way his shoulders shake, he finishes untouched inside his pants.

The two of you bounce between your bed, the kitchen counter, against the outdoor shed. You get on your knees for him until he’s begging for you to stop. You don’t and he cums in your mouth, cock hitting the back of your throat as he spills white into you. He returns the favor by pressing you down onto a wooden workstation and your legs clamped around his face as he eats you out, eyes fixated on you the entire time. 

You still do activities outside, of course. When Bucky tries to work on the sink, you end up slithering over and fucking him on the floor. When you try to write outside on the porch, Bucky has you sliding your wet pussy along his cock until he cums all over your belly. 

Sometimes, you still drive out to town and you tease him so much in the car that he ends up swerving into a deserted road to fuck you in the backseat. The two of you go at it like rabbits anywhere and everywhere, days of build up feeling like months of separation. So much so that—

“Shit, I’m out of condoms,” Bucky curses with two of his fingers inside you and one hand trying to fiddle with his wallet. 

At this point, he’s riled you up enough that you say, “I’m clean. I’m on the pill.”

Bucky’s lips tilt into a small amused smile at the desperation in your voice, how you greedily grind against his hand. “As enticing as that sounds, I want to be safe with you.”

So you drive into town and stop by the nearest store. Bucky picks up two boxes of condoms, smirking when you question him teasingly if that would be enough. The store clerk eyes the two of you with disdain as Bucky pays for it, once again pushing your wallet away. 

On the way back home, you’re still vibrating with need but there’s a calm with Bucky that has you leaning back in surprise, watching you carefully.

“What’re you thinking about?”

Bucky huffs a laugh, smiling as he turns to you. “It’s my favorite time of day. Driving you.”

It’s unexpectedly soft and you can’t help yourself from leaning over to press a kiss to his cheek. Bucky turns then to peck you quickly before his hand takes yours on your lap. 

Through all this, you can’t help that tiny, niggling, persistent voice in the back of your mind that reminds you of what Mr. Moore had said. About this person that Bucky is trying to court. Your brain is struggling to draw the line between him having this grand romantic gesture of building someone a whole damn library and the fact that he’s fucking you of all people right now. Not only once or twice or thrice, but you’re running out of fingers.

The only reason that your brain helpfully supplies is that you are a filler. It is the only reason that makes any semblance of sense. A good time. A good lay that he indulges in from time to time to keep him busy and distracted since he can’t seem to be with the one he is actually interested in. You want to ask him, want him to clarify what his intentions are — if this is all temporary or if he hopes for it be something more. Every time you come close to asking, your pride stands in your way; your last shred of dignity telling you that it’s better not to know rather than get an answer that puts an end to all this. You end up replacing that urge with his lips instead.

If you can’t have him forever, at least you can have him now.

Bucky doesn’t appear to suspect any of these thoughts from you. After all, every time he notices a shift in your mood, every time a question hangs on the tip of his tongue, you climb on top of him and push his attention to your body instead. It’s a defense mechanism, one that you’ve used hundreds of times before to avoid disappointing conversations. It’s apparently a tactic that works on Bucky too.

Still, sometimes, when all is said and done, and you’re tangled up in your sheets, Bucky says, “I know there’s something on your mind, I don’t want to push you to talk if you’re not ready. But I want you to know that I’m here and I’ll listen.”

Those times, your heart aches a little louder.

However, the conversation happens sooner than you think. It all comes full circle to where it began. You’re fully sated, limbs tingling all over from the delicious fuck that Bucky just put you through, stretched out like a feline on the couch — one that you replaced under the guise of a Christmas gift to your parents.

Bucky’s naked ass, his very gorgeous naked ass, is within your line of sight as he adds more logs to the fireplace. He had gotten up the moment you shivered a little bit. When he returns to you, he sets up pillows on the floor and tugs you down with him. A blanket covers both of your nude figures as he wraps an arm around you to keep you close and warm.

In addition to that invasive thought, another question comes to mind when you retrace your steps with Bucky.

“Something you said when I first met you,” you start and Bucky hums, “you mentioned something about me not remembering you. Have we really met before?”

His body shakes with laughter and you swat his chest, cheeks warm not only from the dancing flames. “We have.”

“When?” You ask in exasperation, knowing full well he’s only dragging this out for his entertainment.

“A long time ago. We met a good number of times actually,” he continues. When you give him a look demanding more, he only smirks. “My dad used to work for your parents. He did all of the upkeep on the property until he passed a couple of years back, then I took over.” You whisper a quick sorry for his loss with a kiss to his cheek which he gratefully accepts with a squeeze of your knee. “We lived in that same house but I used to come around and help him with odd jobs around here, especially when he got older. Your parents also just let me hang around because I was learning from my dad. That’s when I first met you.”

You’re struggling to piece together the memories from your childhood. Fragments of scenes in this house that you frequently visited during school holidays or lived in only for certain seasons. It’s all a little hazy but you vaguely recall a dark-haired kid. Always with a scratch on his face. A streak of dirt on his white t-shirt.

“Back then, you only came up here every summer and fall. Only time I got to see you. Grew up kinda alongside you. I’m a little older than you, a little scrawnier then—”

It hits you then. “James?” You blurt out. “You’re James?”

Bucky laughs, eyes twinkling delightedly. “Yeah, I’m James. It’s my first name. Bucky’s short for my middle.”

You remember this guy, older than you. He used to toil around in the garden, planting all sorts of vegetables and fruits that your parents would use to whip up the occasional home-cooked meal. You remember telling him once that daisies are your favorite and, three days later, you found beds of them in the backyard ready to pick. You hadn’t picked any of them; instead, you’d spend hours just laying on the grass reading by the flowers. You remember your friends coming to visit and they would tease you relentlessly for living with a boy because James was always there. They weren’t being mean, they were just innocently poking fun. You remember denying your crush on him, a crush long forgotten when you started getting to know Max more in the city.

Still, James is always on the outskirts of your memories. Helping your mom with groceries, talking to your dad about his car, out and about around the house. He lingers on the edges of your periphery, never quite in the center after a while. You can’t believe you nearly, completely forgot about him.

Now, what Mr. Moore said makes sense. Calling him James. You never connected the dots.

“Did you eat a truck or something?” is the first thing you ask. The James you knew, the blurry visage in the back of your mind, was lanky and skinny. He was always a little tall even for his age, but never this big. Not as big as Bucky is now. It seems like your graduation and full move into the city had removed him altogether from your thoughts.

“I grew up,” Bucky smirks. He sure did.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

He shrugs. “You didn’t remember me, there wasn’t a point to bringing it up. Plus, it was cute seeing you squirm around someone you thought to be a stranger for a while.”

He practically is a stranger. The years of distance have put a wall between the two of you, one that you failed to look over. But you’ve been chipping away at it slowly over the past week, taking down the bricks to reveal the man on the other side. The man you had known and the man as he is today.

With one mystery down, you brave yourself for the second — one that has the potential to break your heart.

“I was talking to Mr. Moore that day, when we visited Steve.” Your words have Bucky perking up, shifting to look at you with deep curiosity. “He told me that you come by there a lot, that the reason why he knows you so well is because you’ve been buying a lot of books to build a library for someone.”

Bucky pales even in the warm light of the fireplace. Your heart sinks.

“I just— if you were interested in someone, you don’t have to— I mean, if she or he or they are here, I don’t really understand why we’re doing this. I just assumed they’re not here and so you couldn’t, you know, be with them. Because it’s insane to think that someone wouldn’t want to be with you. I guess what I’m saying is—”

He shuts you up with a kiss, lips sealed firmly on yours. “Shut up.”

“Excuse me,” you scoff.

“For someone I consider to be incredibly smart, you’re an idiot.”

“Again, excuse me?”

“Doll, you’ve touched that library.”

That takes you aback, you look at him incredulously. “What?”

“The books you’ve been going through. That library upstairs.”

The realization dawns on you fast, melting like snow on your fingertips. The neurons in your brain are rattling off signals into the abyss, piecing together things you’ve heard, things that have happened in the last few days. Mr. Moore’s words. Steve’s vague teasing. Bucky’s behavior.

Oh god.

Before you can spiral further, Bucky takes your hand in his and brings it to his mouth. He places soft kisses on your palm and on your wrist, feeling the pulse underneath with his lips. “You read so much growing up. I remember you raided your parents’ books until you ran out. You’d complain about not having enough so I used to clean out my pocket money to buy you more. You lit up, thinking your parents finally heard you, and you finished those books in no time. It just became a habit,” he adds.

“You’re still buying books today?”

“Never stopped,” he replies simply, as if it’s the easiest thing in the world. “You hadn’t come around in a while but I figured that you’d like it once you did. I’m not consistently buying things,” he chuckles, “just whenever I see something that makes me think of you, I’ll get it and shelve it.”

The library had been sparse growing up, shelves with empty slots that had you irritated even as a teenager. You never questioned the new books that popped up from time to time, thinking it was your parents finally adding to their collection. The library today is filled to the brim, books upon books filling the racks. The ones that don’t fit sit on a couple of neat stacks on the floor.

“Was that what had you up in your head all this time? You thought I was buying books for someone else?”

At that, you snap back into reality, embarrassment creeping up on you.

Bucky laughs and you whine for him to stop, burying your face in your hands. He takes your hands and uses them to draw you closer, peppering your face with kisses that have you squirming and giggling. “Fuckin’ cute. After all the time I spent with you and you thought I was trying to court someone else?”

“I didn’t know!”

“Doll, I’ve been into you since we were kids. Into you even when you were gone. You think I’d let this chance go when you’re here?”

You look up sheepishly at him. “I’m sorry I didn’t remember you.”

“Don’t be sorry,” he murmurs sweetly against your lips. “We have all the time in the world to make up for it.”

–

Your morning routine hasn’t changed much since everything that has transpired. You still make breakfast for the two of you, Bucky still comes into the kitchen groggy. Except now Bucky is strolling in straight from your bed, head rumpled with sleep, and eyes that quickly darken at the sight of you. He sidles up behind you, strong arms wrapping around your waist as he pastes his lips on the back of your bare shoulder where your pajama shirt has slipped down.

“Morning, doll,” he rumbles tiredly, tucking his chin over one shoulder.

“Morning,” you hum and pluck a piece of crisp bacon to hand-feed it directly to him.

It always starts like this, an innocent act stained the moment Bucky puts his mouth on you. He closes his lips around your fingers, licking the grease and flavor off completely and pressing his morning erection against your ass. “Want you,” he says, sleep slowly bleeding out of his voice.

“You had me last night, yesterday afternoon, at lunch, and in the morning,” you say with a smug smile. He looks equally pleased with himself when he realizes how many times, how many ways he has had you in the past twenty-four hours.

“Can’t get enough of you,” Bucky grins, switching off the stove and shoving his hand past the elastic of your pants. “I want to feed this greedy little cunt too.”

Before long, you’re a moaning mess with your cheek against the counter as Bucky fingers you open — not that he has to anymore with how much he’s fucked you last couple of days — and thrusts his cock deep inside you. He’s pounding into you from behind, fingers solidly buried in the flesh of your hip. He bends forward to press his front against your back, nipping your ear as his hand comes around to lock around your throat.

The light squeeze has you dizzy, whimpering for more. Bucky keeps you full, tells you how you’re such a good girl for him for always warming his cock in the morning. How your pussy is still so tight around him even after the number of times he has stretched you open.

You’re in that halfway state of lustful daze and barely-there consciousness when Bucky stiffens behind you. Turning back to look at him, you whine petulantly. “Why’d you stop?”

“Do you hear that? Someone’s coming.”

You grunt, nudging your ass back against him. “It’s fine. It’s probably the mailman, we can get it later.”

However, Bucky still doesn’t move an inch, which makes you huff. The sound of the car rolling up towards the house has him freezing. “Shit, I know that car.” He abruptly pulls out of you, cursing under his breath again as he helps you pull your pants up.

“Whose car is it?”

“Your parents.”

“Shit.”

The world drops at your feet as you scramble to put yourself together again. While your parents know you’re not their innocent little girl anymore, it doesn’t mean they approve of you christening every inch of their holiday house with the man they hired to maintain it.

Panic claws at your stomach but Bucky quickly kisses you, kind eyes grounding you. “Okay, let me make sure we didn’t leave anything behind. You go talk to them first.”

Always the rational one. The one with the solutions. All you can think about is — “They were supposed to be gone for another few days!”

“I know, doll,” he murmurs softly then kisses your forehead. “Go.”

Your stomach flips, and you can’t tell if it’s because Bucky’s being extra soft with you, or the fact that your parents nearly caught you getting your insides rearranged with Bucky fucking you seven ways to Sunday.

You reach the door just in time to hear the keys jingle. Grabbing the handle and swinging it open, you greet them with the brightest smile you can muster. “Mom! Dad! You’re back so early. I thought you were supposed to be in Cancun for a couple more days.”

Your dad wraps you in a hug first, his jacket chilly against your thinner pajamas. When he embraces you, you finally catch sight of the intruder who at least has the decency to look contrite when he catches your eyes. Your fists ball together tight at the sight of him.

“What’s he doing here?”

As your mom wrangles you into a hug of her own, your dad beams brightly at you, seeming almost proud for doing such a good deed. “Oh, honey, we thought it would be such a shame for you to spend Christmas alone and working, so we left our cruise earlier and picked him up on the way up here. I was surprised to hear Max didn’t come up with you. He’s welcome here, you know.”

“Okay, but—”

Max, the fucking asshole, has the nerve to interrupt you with a pointed look and that practiced smile on his face. “And we are so, so grateful for that,” he declares, sliding an arm around your shoulders and pecking your cheek. You wanted to hit him with an uppercut to his fucking jaw. His hand squeezes your arm. “We wouldn’t want anything to ruin Christmas, would we?”

Your parents love the holidays. They think it’s the time to reconnect with loved ones, spread magic, and sprinkle holiday cheer. You’ve been celebrating the season with Max, your parents, and his parents in the city for years, a convening of the two sides likely to be officially family soon. But this year is clearly different and your parents have yet to catch wind of what has happened.

You hate to break their heart, especially since you know they wanted to do something nice for you. So you keep your mouth shut — for now. The threatening glare you sear into Max’s head behind your parents’ back as they enter is enough to have him cowering slightly.

As if the universe is determined to set your life on fire, Bucky comes down the hall just as the front door closes behind the lot of you. His eyes are warm when they find your parents, but you can see the wall that slams up when he spots Max next to you, his arm around you. You quickly shrug it off with a frown, trying to reassure him with your gaze but he’s already shifting his attention to your parents.

“James! Good to see you, son. I see you’ve been taking good care of the place and our girl. The two of you haven’t seen each other in some time, right?” Oh boy. He’s been taking real good care of you, that’s for sure.

Bucky’s lips tug up into a genuine and partially amused smile as he nods. “Just doing my job.”

The look he throws at you is knowing, sparkling almost with mischief. You breathe a sigh of relief seeing some of the light return to his eyes as he looks at you, almost quietly asking if you’re okay. You only manage a quiet nod, pursing your lips to inform him that you’ll update him on the situation later.

Expectedly, Max’s glance bounces between the two of you, the small wheels in his mind spinning and working on overdrive. The genius that he is puts two and two together, and he narrows his eyes at Bucky. Good thing your real man isn’t one to be fazed and he sizes Max up as they greet each other.

“Max, the boyfriend,” Max smiles confidently, almost snarkily, as he sticks his hand out.

Bucky looks at it, looks at him, and clenches his jaw. “Funny, that’s not what she told me about you,” Bucky snips right back.

That wipes the smile clean off Max’s face and you’ve never seen anything to satisfying.

Your dad — god bless his soul — is oblivious to the showdown happening under his roof and only claps his hands together. “Let’s do a family dinner tonight. James, you’re welcome to join us, of course. We will order in and have a feast. A celebration of the holidays and joyous reunions.”

You wonder how you’re going to get yourself out of this mess.

The dinner is only tense for you, Bucky, and Max. Your parents are enjoying the catered meals, Maria having outdone herself with the selections once again. While your parents chatter your ears off about the cruise, you’re nervously looking between Max to your right and Bucky diagonally across you. He hasn’t said a word the entire time, while Max has been currying favor with your parents. He’s always been good at that, sweet-talking his way into situations. He just doesn’t know how to keep himself there when he can’t keep it in his pants.

“So, Max, tell us, come on. When are you doing it?”

“Doing what, sir?”

“Proposing to my daughter, of course!”

You can hear a pin drop in the silence that follows. Your mother waits with bated breath, you tense down to your toes, Max is frozen solid, and Bucky looks like he has stopped breathing altogether. The awkwardness weighs heavily at least between the three that understand the situation, but your parents only look at him with hopeful eyes.

“Sweetheart, you two have been dating for god knows how long now. It’s about time, don’t you think?” Your mother coos. “She wants children and this is a good time to start. We’d love to be grandparents.”

Marriage? Children? As good as Maria’s cooking is, you can feel the food coming back up your esophagus. Max glances at you and forces out a smile. A smile both to convince your parents and to convince you. “Soon. Whatever it takes. I’ll get her to marry me.”

It’s not only a promise to them. It’s a promise to you. He’s determined to win you back.

Your mother practically swoons. “Look at that, how romantic. Isn’t that just sweet?” As if things couldn’t get any worse, she then moves her attention to Bucky. “James, what about you? We’ve known you for as long as these two and I’ve never seen you with anyone. Do you have anyone special? You’re free to bring them around, you know. You’re practically family.”

Your heart knocks against your ribcage in anticipation. What would he say? Is this it? Is this the time to reveal everything?

However, Bucky doesn’t even as much as spare you a glance before he turns to your mom with a tight smile. “No, no one special right now.”

The collective disappointment is palpable around the room, but it’s most obvious on you. Bucky still won’t meet your eye, instead picking apart the food on his plate to keep himself distracted and his hands busy. Your parents continue to talk through dinner but none of you seem to be listening anymore. The five of you work quickly to put away the dishes and clean up the table for the evening.

With every passing second, your heart sinks deeper into the floor. You can feel Bucky slipping away, his presence, his mind elsewhere even as he putters around the house to help.

“Well, we’re going to call it a night, kids. We’ll see you in the morning. Perhaps we can go for a hike!” Your dad announces enthusiastically, only to be met with the groans of everyone in the room. “Okay, so hike up for debate, we can discuss this tomorrow.”

Your mother only shakes her head, shooting apologetic glances at the three of you. “He’s had a long day. Have a good night. Max, you can stay in the same room. We know you’re both adults, we trust you to act accordingly. And wear protection.”

“Mom!” You snap and she only laughs as she pushes your father up the stairs into their room. You mutter curses under your breath about how unbelievable your parents are.

When they’re finally out of sight, you turn towards Bucky, taking a step towards. However, he takes a step back, shaking his head. “I should head out for the night. Your parents are still here. We can talk in the morning.”

“Buck—”

“You have some things you clearly need to sort out too,” he smiles and you don’t like that it’s tinged with sadness. A preemptive disappointment that you want to wipe away.

You’re about to reach out for him again when Max catches your hand and shakes his head, telling you to stay. That one moment of distraction is all it takes for Bucky to leave the house with a quiet click and his car roaring to life. By the time you step out onto the porch, he is already driving down the winding road.

It is then that you turn the maximum strength of your seething glare towards Max. “You really have some fucking nerve.”

“They showed up at your door, thought I’d be home. They called me, what was I supposed to do?”

“Don’t pick up! Tell them you’re cheating scum! Literally anything but tagging along and fucking showing up here when nobody wants you here.”

Max sighs. “Baby, come on.” The pet name grates on your nerves now, sounding like the scrape of nails on a chalkboard. “It was one time—”

“Was it really? Because the two of you sure as hell seemed real comfortable in my home, fucking on my bed.”

“We weren’t fuck—” he stops when he sees the look on your face, “not that time. No. Look, I made a mistake. We have something good here, don’t we? We’ve been together for so long. That was an error in judgment on my part. She was temporary. You’re forever, baby. You’re it for me. We’re meant to be together. Your parents love me. Why throw away a good thing?”

When he extends his hand towards you again, you smack it away with your stomach churning in disgust. “You’re fucking vile. This was never a good thing. Meeting Bucky here, the way he treats me, the way he sees me, I know now that I was never anything more than a convenience for you. So you can shove that mistake and whatever good thing you think we have up your fucking ass.”

“You’re really going to disappoint your parents over Christmas?”

“My parents care more that I’m genuinely happy, and I can tell you — from the bottom of my heart, with the greatest sincerity known to man — that I am genuinely happier with Bucky than I have been with you all these years. I can’t believe I wasted all my time on you, but at least now I know I was preparing myself for someone much, much better than you.”

Max opens his mouth again and you’re getting real sick of his bullshit so you pin him yet with another glower, daggers landing a hairsbreadth away from his head. That shuts him up.

“I want you gone in the morning. I’m not a heartless asshole like you so you can stay on the couch. You’re going to keep your bags packed and you are going to go. I will explain everything to my parents so you don’t have to face them again. Or would you prefer I tell my dad now so he can whoop your ass back into the city?”

The look of pure, unfettered fear on his face is more than satisfying. While your dad is the most easygoing man you’ve ever known, he is also fiercely protective, especially when it comes to you. The last thing Max wants when your dad learns the truth is to be under the same roof as him, a confined space and acres of land in his backyard to hide the skeletons.

“Fine. I’ll leave in the morning. But I’m telling you right now, you’re making a huge mistake.”

“I’m sure you think that, but I don’t think I’ve ever been more confident in anything in my life.”

With that final word, you throw the door open and head out to the shed. You don’t want to arouse suspicion from your parents, so you can’t take the car and risk them noticing you peeling out of the driveway, but you also need to see Bucky tonight. Right now. You don’t like the look that he left with, like he’s saying goodbye without a proper farewell. Your rickety old bike leans against the wall. It looks like a death trap but it’s a death trap that’ll work to get you where you need to go.

In hindsight, biking in the dark is likely your dumbest idea to date. The flashlight on the creaking hunk of metal flickers in and out, leaving you blind in the darkness for a good portion of your ride. The tires are almost completely flat so it takes you a bit more work to get it moving. Your sweater catches on a few branches on your way there, probably collecting a bird’s nest by the time you reach Bucky’s home. You’re squinting at the mailboxes you pass by and finally screech to a halt when you see Barnes painted onto one of them. You turn into his driveway and break into a run the moment you hop off the bike; in fact, you’re only halfway off your bike as it spins and hits the ground when your own feet pound against the dirt.

Your fist knocks repeatedly, banging louder and louder with every second. He’s in there. He can’t pretend not to hear you. The side of your palm is starting to sting with how hard you’re knocking on his door when you land another hit, the same time the door opens, leaving you swinging into thin air.

“Doll, you’re going to wake up the whole damn neighborhood.”

“It’s not my fault you weren’t answering.”

Bucky looks behind you, notices something, and then looks at you with wide eyes. “How did you get here?” You open your mouth then promptly close it because you know he won’t like the answer. A scowl descends on his face. “You did not bike here. Tell me you didn’t bike here.”

“Okay, I won’t tell you that.”

“Are you insane? Do you know how dark out it is? Not to mention that bike is a death trap. Chain barely works, everything is rusted, the light is busted. You have no reflective attachments whatsoever which means cars can’t even see you. What if you got hit? What if you got hurt? What’s the matter with you?”

It’s your turn to give him a dirty look. “Oh, get off that high horse, Barnes. You wouldn’t even look at me, what was I supposed to think?”

“I told you we’d talk in the morning.”

“Well, we both know that you’re good at keeping secrets and who knows what you would’ve concocted in your head before the night is over.”

Surprisingly, he doesn’t argue with you. He only sighs and tugs you inside, muttering about how cold it is before he grabs a jacket from the coat rack and wraps it around you. “Alright, fine. Yes, I was thinking a lot about dinner. Maybe it got in my head a little bit.”

“I knew it,” you hiss. “And you still left?”

“I figured you’d want time to talk to your ex.”

“Why would you even think that?”

Bucky licks his lips, crossing his arms over his chest. He looks bigger this way, broader, but there’s something vulnerable to his stance that pinches your heart. “Look, I just wanted you to have the full opportunity to consider your options. We’ve had a great few days. This last week has been unbelievable. Sometimes, I still can’t believe this is real — and that you’re real. But if this is a rebound thing for you, fine. Just— I can’t really do that, not with you. I don’t trust myself to keep my distance.” He breathes out, his exhale shaking along the notes. “Also, you deserve better than that tool over there. Even if you don’t end up with me, even if you don’t stay with me, don’t go back to him. You could do so much better.”

This is when you take a step towards him, your hands reaching out to untangle his arms and wrap them around you. Your own hands slide around his torso, wrapping around his middle as you look up at him. “Bucky, listen to me very, very carefully. This is not a rebound. You are not a rebound. I haven’t thought about my dickwad of an ex in days. When I do, it’s only to compare how shitty he was to how incredible you are. I would never go back to him. I didn’t want to upset my parents for Christmas, which is why I kept my mouth shut tonight. I’m telling them about Max first thing in the morning. It’s not because I didn’t want to tell them about you because I do — and I think they’ll be happier seeing me with you anyway.”

He tilts his head. Light is already returning to his eyes and you melt into his hold as he tightens his arms around you. “Why do you say that?”

“Because I’m much happier with you too,” you grin, reaching up to kiss him quick on the lips.

Bucky leans down to chase your mouth again, slanting his lips over yours. He sighs into your parted lips. “You still live in the city, doll. This wouldn’t work. I can’t take you away from your life there.”

“Well, I do work remotely most of the time and my parents barely use this house. I could move back in while I figure out what to do with my apartment. The train is an easy trip into the city, I could still see my friends, or I can invite them up here for a getaway.” You look up at him with coy eyes, a teasingly shy smile. “Introduce them to my very gorgeous boyfriend.”

He practically glows with your words. The smile that threatens his expression breaks out in full force across his handsome features. “Boyfriend, huh? Think I could get used to that.”

“You better because that’s what I’m going to be calling you from now on. Boyfriend.”

“Fuckin’ tease,” he chuckles and lifts you up, your legs wrapping around him. “Well, how about you let your boyfriend take real good care of you tonight?”

“I can’t think of anything better.”

bucky is kissing (taglist): @superbassbuck @earthsmightiestbenders @umbreoni @houseofhyde @bckyslover @its-in-the-woods @flockoff-featherface @winterdecember18 @chateaubarnes @54nboo @barnes-babydoll @phoenix-in-writing @tofuonfaiya @avengersfan25 @miraclediviner @averyhotchner @hailmary-yramliah @catclaw1 @heldbybarnes @opheliabbarnes @/blowingbarnes @stanmarvelous @pinksplace @lunexiax @54nboo @it-is-rebel-owl-ma-dudes @esunarint @nikkitabarnes @captain-shannon-becker @toxicrelief

He’s sitting in his office, looking perfect. 

That’s where he usually is. In his pressed suit, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up, his hair tucked slightly behind his ears because none of his aides can convince him to cut it, and you won’t bother to try. 

You know he hates this. The formality of it all, the glass between himself and his staffers, the little pin they give him to show off that he was in the military, before turning around and rejecting his bills. But this got his parents off his back—which, as you’ve frequently reminded him, is an insane reason to run for congress—and he gets to take his lunches whenever he wants. 

Which is great for you. 

Because now you get to have lunch together every day. 

The secretary nods when you flash her your guest badge, and gives you a simpering smile. You don’t understand why she hates you, why she always tries to stop you from going in under the guise of security. You haven’t been able to bring yourself to ask Bucky, because he’d go and talk to her about it, and you really don’t want to be hovering in the background for that conversation. 

Maybe it’s because you take up a whole half-hour of Bucky’s attention, and it’s the most valuable currency in the world. 

You can’t blame the secretary for wanting to keep it to herself, best she can. You’ve gone to drastic lengths to do the same, the least embarrassing being sitting next to him in every single lecture during your college days, and the most being the time you dedicated a whole two weeks to convincing him to mostly work from Brooklyn instead of DC, just so you wouldn’t have to see him less. 

At least your scheme worked, is all you can think as you feel the secretary glaring daggers at your back. You know why her skirts are so short, and blouses are so low-cut. And she’s got a really nice body. You’re sure she’d be batting better results, if she’d just be nice to people who visit Bucky. 

He is just a man, and he’s got the eyes to see her black lacy bra. 

He also cares about his friends more than anyone you’ve ever met. 

And he never misses the venom with which she speaks to you. Curt greetings of your name, needless questions about why you’re here, and scowls at you when she thinks you can’t see. 

“I need to talk to her about it, don’t I.” He mutters as a greeting, frowning out the glass doors, and you sigh. 

“She’s just doing her job, Buck-“

“Well, she’s not that good at it. And this is the third time I’ve caught her lookin’ like she wants to kill you-“

“You know why she’s doing that, right?” You drop at his desk, sliding the sandwich you brought him across the desk. 

Bucky’s eyes flick to you, his brows raised. “God, don’t say it again-“

“She wants to fuck you.” You say it in a sing-song voice, because it hides the bitterness on your tongue. “She dreams about you calling her into your office and saying get on the couch, doll-“

He snorts. “That supposed to be me?”

You nod, taking a large bite of your own sandwich and grinning at him. Bucky just shakes his head with a chuckle, unwrapping the tinfoil around his lunch.

“I don’t talk like that-“

“Yeah, you do-“

“Chew and swallow, sweetheart.” He gives you a dry look as you speak through a mouthful, and you roll your eyes at him. “Jesus, I’m pretty sure someone raised you in a fuckin’ barn.”

You swallow dramatically, and stick your tongue out at him. “I’ve been groomed for high society, Sergeant. That’s why they didn’t give me any napkins at the deli, they trust me without them.”

Bucky sighs, leaning forward to frown in the paper bag. “You forgot the napkins?”

“Nuh uh, weren’t you just listening to what I said-“

“Yeah, and I know you.” He leans back with an amused look. “You’re hurtin’ yourself more than me, sweetheart. You got somethin’, right there.”

He points to your nose, and you scrunch it, trying to lick it off. Bucky watches you for a few moments before shaking his head again, and reaching over the desk. 

The moment his thumb brushes your nose, you go still. 

His touch always fucking does that. It doesn’t matter if it’s passing you a pencil in college, sitting next to you in your first apartment, or resting his fingers over yours on the subway, when he helped you figure out the commute to work. Bucky’s always been able to shut you down and light you up like no one else has. Like you’re not sure anyone else ever will. 

He leans back, and licks the bit of sauce off his thumb. It makes your breath hitch, and gaze drop down to your lap. You don’t know why he does those kinds of things around you, when it means nothing. Maybe he’s practicing for other women, maybe he’s just not thinking about it, or maybe he knows that you’re in love with him and is just toying with you. 

No. 

There’s no way he knows. 

And even if he did, he’d never be that cruel. He’d reject you softly, then pull back until your feelings fade. Because he’s a good man, who volunteers for fund drives and helps old ladies carry their groceries and makes you share your location when you walk home at night—not necessarily with him, but you’ve never suggested anyone else, and some small part of you likes knowing that he might be looking at his phone and worrying about you—because he’d go full John Wick if something happened to you. 

Which only makes you love him more. 

Only reminds you that he has no idea what he does to you. What he’s always done to you. 

What no one else has managed to replicate, to the point that it’s become a problem. 

You can’t love anyone that’s not Bucky Barnes. You can’t think of wanting anyone that’s not him, either. You can’t move on from something you’ve never had at all, and it’s not fair to yourself to keep waiting to see if he turns around and finally sees you. 

He won’t. 

Bucky’s already seen you, and he’s decided you fit very well in the friend category. Best friend category, even. Which is more than you could’ve hoped for, given he was this pretty, perfect, untouchable god in college, and you were just you.

You’re still just you.

You’ve always been you, no matter how you try to be something else. 

Someone who could look shiny and pretty on the arm of a congressman. Someone who could bend down low enough to show off Her lacy cleavage, and flutter her eyelashes at her hot boss. Someone whose bravado isn’t just a show you know everyone can see right through.

Bucky likes you how you are. You know he does. 

But he just likes you. 

You’re done waiting for it to turn into something else. It won’t. And you don’t want to attend his wedding in however many years, playing the role of the drunken, lovesick and jealous woman that his bride didn’t want to invite.

So you had a plan, when you walked into the office. And no matter how Bucky smiles at you or cleans your face with his infernal, rough and big fingers, you’re going to go through with it. 

“Barnes.” You lean forward, making your words firm and sharp.

He raises his brows. “Yeah?”

“Can I ask you for a favor?”

“Sure. But if it’s getting you early access to the kittens in the shelters again, I told you I’m not in-charge of that-“

“No, it’s not that-“

“Okay, good, because I swear I looked into it for you, but I’m not an emperor-“

“Good. You’d be a bad one. Can I-“

He frowns. “Why would I be a bad emperor?”

You sigh. “Bucky-“

“I mean, I agree with you.” He leans over the desk, holding your gaze. “But I wanna know why you think I’d be bad at it.”

“Because you don’t like parties, Buck. And people would spend all day saying stupid things to you.”

“People say stupid things to me now-“

“James.” You give him a pleading look. You spent all morning building up the confidence for this, and you’re about to lose it. 

Bucky, by some miracle, just sighs and nods. “Sorry. But,” he gives you a small grin. “You’d make a good empress.”

You flush. He’s not being helpful, smiling at you and looking better every moment. Staring at you while he takes a large bite of his sandwich. 

The words, for a moment, get caught in your throat as you watch him. You’re never going to do better than Bucky. If you ask for what you want, you’re going to have to learn how to. 

You just have to spit it out. Like vomit, sickening and vile when you force it up, but once it’s gone, you’ll feel better. 

All you have to do is say it, and you’ll start getting better- 

Bucky says your name, his voice a little lower, like he’s worried.

He does really care about you. Even if it’s not the way you care about him. 

Goddammit. 

“Can I have one of your friend’s phone numbers?” You blurt, and Bucky sits up. Just blinks at you for a moment, like he doesn’t understand the words you just said, then clears his throat.  

“What, to like- Help with somethin’?”

In a way, yeah. “No, um- To go out with.”

“On… a date.”

You nod, picking at the skin of your nails, and Bucky is still just staring at you. 

“Is there one you want?” He asks, voice low, and you shake your head.  

“No, I was- Uh-“ God, your face is on fire. This was a horrible idea. “I was kind of just going to let you choose?”

Bucky’s silent for another, long moment, and you can hear the tick, tick, tick of his watch. 

You got him that watch. As a celebration, when he got into office. He’d hugged you so tight you can still sort of feel it. Kissed your cheek. You’d lain in bed for three hours that night, just touching where his lips had brushed and grinding into your sheets. 

It’s best not to think about it. 

“You want me.” Bucky says slowly, and your eyes snap up.

“No, I just-“

“To pick one of my friends. For you to go on a date with.” 

You let out a heavy breath. Bucky’s staring a little blankly at the air, and you’re not even sure he heard your panicked protests. “Yes, please.”

“For somethin’ serious?” His eyes focus slightly, narrowing on yours. “Or just sex?”

Your nails dig into your palms as you start to feel like you’re on fire. He doesn’t know. He has no way of knowing.

That you’ve been too caught up in your stupid, romantic little fantasy where he brings you flowers and confesses his love on his knees before fucking you stupid. That you’ve been waiting for him, like an idiot, because some foolish little part of you wants it to be perfect, and it really never gets more perfect than Bucky.

Bucky knows you didn’t really have dates in high school, and he’s been around for all of your weak attempts to go on dates since then. He’s been next to you when you get asked out at a bar. You’ve told him all about dating apps, and singles nights, and blind setups from friends. 

But you never go past the funny stories and details. 

You never tell him that even for the ones who don’t end up disgusting you, it never goes further than a few kisses. 

It’s never gone further than a few kisses. 

Because you’ve been saving further for Bucky. Whenever you’ve pictured a first time, since the very moment you laid eyes on him, it’s always been Bucky above you. His voice in your ear, his hands roaming your body, his touch lighting you on fire. 

You can’t keep waiting. And he doesn’t know. 

He’s protective of his friends. That’s all his question is. 

So you give him a nervous smile, and shrug. “Something serious?”

“Huh.” He frowns. “Didn’t know you were lookin’ for that.”

“I, um- I just started.” You tug at the hem of your shirt, watching him carefully. He’s oddly still. You’re a little concerned. “Buck, if you’re not- I mean, if you don’t think any of them would like me-“

“No.” Bucky grunts, giving you a firm look. “They all- They would love you.”

You flush. You don’t want them to love you. 

Don’t think about it. 

“Oh- Okay. So can I have a number? Just for one date, then I’ll leave it alone.”

“Yeah, just-“ Bucky sighs, leaning back in his chair and running a hand over his face. “I’m sorry, what’s goin’ on?”

“I’m… asking for your friend’s number?” Your stomach twists. “Bucky, are you feeling okay, do we need to go-“

“No, that wasn’t- It’s not a memory thing.” His throat bobs, and he won’t stop fucking staring at you. It’s not helping you get over him faster. “I’m just tryin’ to understand.”

“Okay, good.” You pause. “Understand what?”

He gives you a strange look. “You don’t date, sweetheart. Not really. Did somethin’ happen?”

“I- I date-“

“No, you don’t. You just- Never mind.” He lets out a heavy breath. “Are you serious? About wanting to go out?”

“Yes.” You lean forward, trying to drag confidence from the pit of your stomach. “Can I have Steve, please?”

Bucky makes a face. “No. He’s like my brother-“ His lip curls. “No.”

“Well, how about Stark?”

“You’d hate Stark.”

“You hate Stark. I like money.”

“Yeah?” He gives you an amused look. “You just tryin’ to gold dig?”

“Maybe.” You cross your arms. “Or I’m just hoping that my true love is also rich. It would solve a lot of problems.”

Bucky’s gaze softens slightly. “Sweetheart, if you need money, I can-“

“No, James. I’ve told you no.”

“It wouldn’t be an issue, just for your rent-“

“I’m fine.”

“I just wanna help you-“

“And you can do that.” You give him a firm look. “By setting me up on a date with one of your friends.”

Bucky scowls, and lets out a long, labored sigh. Like this is physically hurting him. The idea of you, in any sort of romantic situation with someone he cares about, is just that impossible to think about.

Another thing you really don’t want to think about.

“Fine.” He mutters suddenly, and you sit up.

“Really? You’ll help?”

“Yeah, I’ll help. We’ll get you a date, doll. Whatever you want. But,” his voice turns firm, before you can even process the weight with which he said whatever you want. “Not any of my friends.”

You frown. “Why not-

“Cause.”

“That’s not a reason, Bucky-“

“The reason doesn’t matter. Do you want my help or not?”

You sigh. There’s not really another choice. “Yeah. I do.”

“Alright then.” Bucky watches you carefully, still almost impossibly still. “We’ll go out this weekend, and- I know a few decent guys.”

“Decent?”

“Good guys.” He mutters, and it sounds like he hates the words. “They’re good guys, we just aren’t that close. They’ll be into you, swear it.”

You nod slowly, and this went about as well as you could have hoped. “Bucky?”

He grunts your name, and you offer him a small smile. 

“Thank you.”

“‘Course.” He mutters. “Anything.”

His attention never once wavers from you, even as his phone starts to ring. And he’s so pretty. Lips too full and pink, even in a tight line. Hair soft looking, beard neatly trimmed, eyes so blue. 

You’ve had too many dreams about getting lost in them. 

They aren’t dreams that will just fade, either. They’re like a routine. You go to bed, and think of Bucky to fall asleep. Fantasize about him through the night. Daydream about him until you crawl back into bed, and repeat it all over again.

Which is why you have to do this. Having someone else will force your thoughts away from Bucky, and what can never be. 

“You should get that.” You whisper, and he nods. 

“Probably, yeah. And you gotta get back to work.”

“I do.” You try to make your voice light, because the air of the room feels oddly hot and heavy. “Have fun with her.”

You tilt your head back, to where you can feel his secretary glowering at you. She had a call for him. You’re being distracting, and hogging him. 

You can’t manage to feel bad about it at all. Not when you turn to leave, and it’s your name that he calls. 

“You know I’d never do that, right?” His eyes flick to his secretary. “That’s not… She can keep dreamin’ or whatever. But I’m not interested.”

“Yeah. I know.” You hold your bag a little tighter. “I mean, you’re seeing someone, right? Mary… Monica?”

“Macy.” He mutters, and you bite on your inner cheek.

Better not to think about-

“But she broke up with me.” 

You blink at him, and the phone call goes silent. There’s an odd weight in his eyes, and you hadn’t known things with Macy were that serious. At least, not serious enough for him to look like someone just shot his dog.  

“Oh, Buck. I’m so sorry, why would she-“

“Don’t worry about it.” He shrugs, and you frown. 

“But-“

“She just saw some things she couldn’t ignore. That’s it.” His tongue flicks over his lips, and the phone starts to ring again.

“Bucky-“

“I’m good, sweetheart. She wasn’t wrong about anything. Just-“ He sighs, still staring at you. “Something I gotta work on. It was for the best.”

You nod, but still murmur, “That sucks. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah.” He blinks slowly, mouth curving in an odd, weighted smile. “So am I. See you tomorrow, doll.”

“See you tomorrow,” you echo, and force yourself to turn.

Bucky has a job to do. 

You have a Bucky to get over. 

This is the best way to keep him without driving yourself insane. 

He hadn’t been as eager to help as you thought he’d be. 

It’s better not to think about it. 

This is all for the best. 

———

Bucky is a horrible matchmaker. Truly awful. Almost impressively so. 

It usually takes effort, to be this fucking bad at something. Especially for James fucking Barnes, who’s good at every damn thing he does. You’ve seen him fix cars and paint decent flowers, and his voice isn’t amazing but it’s good, and he can dance and cook and tell jokes and speak four languages.

You’ve never seen Bucky be bad at anything in his life. 

But Jesus fucking Christ, he’s dogshit at this. 

“How was Michael?” He asks you, sprawled on your couch when you get home.

“Um…” You drop your keys in the bowl by your door, pinching your brow as you try to think of kind words. “He’s… interesting. A lot of opinions, and- Some very interesting interests-“

Bucky drawls your name, still looking at the TV. “You said interesting three times.”

“Because he’s very interesting.” You snap. “Where did you find him, again?”

“Another friend.”

“One of yours-“

“Nah, I asked Stark about any single friends he had.” His voice lowers slightly. “You said you wanted someone rich.”

“You’re rich.” You mutter under your breath, and Bucky looks at you so fast you’re shocked he doesn’t break his neck.

“You didn’t ask for me, doll.” 

You flush, looking down to your shoes. “Very funny.” You mutter. “I’m saying rich doesn’t have to equate psycho, Barnes.”

Bucky grunts. “I thought he was interesting.”

“He was.” You kick one shoe off a little too hard. It flies across the room and lands near Bucky’s feet. 

“So what’s the problem?” Bucky leans down, grabbing your shoe and holding it out. “Last guy was too boring, this one too interesting? Are you the fuckin’ pea princess?”

“The princess and the ea.” You grab your boot with a glare. “And the last guy spent fifty minutes talking about golf. I wanted to shoot myself.”

“Don’t do that, doll, I’d miss you too much-“

“Well, then, you shouldn’t send me on dates with men who might want to hunt me!”

Bucky blinks at you for a moment, his fist curling on his lap. “What?”

“I don’t know, he just gave, like- Creepy stalker vibes. He asked my blood type and body fat, Bucky.” You drop on the couch next to him, glaring at the TV. “He wanted to know how fast I could run.”

There’s a moment of silence, and Bucky’s voice is so low you almost don’t hear it. “You ain’t seein’ him again.”

“No, I’m not. But thank you, for introducing me to him in the first place.”

“I didn’t mean to-“ Bucky sighs, and you see him tip his head back in your periphery. “I trusted Stark, okay? I won’t do that again.”

“Whatever.” You grumble, pulling your knees up to your chest. “This was a stupid idea anyway, Bucky. I can just die alone, it’s fine-“

“You’re not gonna die alone,” he mutters your name, and you can feel his gaze. “I... Goddamnit- I got one more guy for you. We were shipped out together, he moved here a few months ago, and- Hey, he’s got both his arms.” Bucky grins at you. “He’s like a better me.”

You frown, keeping your gaze fixed ahead. There’s no better Bucky. It’s just him, being everything you love and a little more after that, and distractions. 

“What’s his name.”

“Jake. He’s workin’ in construction right now.” There’s a pause, then- “I hooked him up with it.”

You hug yourself a little tighter. Bucky got him a job. He owes Bucky a favor. 

Which is, apparently, needed for someone to go on a date with you. 

“I’ll ask him if he’s free this weekend.” Bucky mutters. “And I’ll give him your number, so you can ignore him if you want.”

That makes your mouth twitch. “Thanks.”

“‘Course. Anything.” 

He sighs, and it’s the same words he’s been saying whenever you talk about it. Almost robotic. 

You wonder if he dreads saying them, almost as much as you dread hearing them. 

Because it’s not anything. 

It’s everything, but what you want. What you can’t have. 

Bucky’s arm stays over your shoulders, as you watch TV on the couch. You don’t ever want him to be replaced by anyone else. You don’t want better Bucky. 

You just want Bucky.

Better not to think about it. 

You don’t really have that many options. 

You’ll take what you can get. 

———

Jake isn’t a better Bucky. He’s like a remodel, or second edition, or faded imprint of him. Which is a cruel thing to think of a person, but you can’t help it. 

He sent you the first text. I hear we got a friend, trying to push us together. 

You’d blinked at the screen, then carefully typed back, We may. Are you Jake?

Guilty. You the pretty girl Barnes is trying to pawn off?

You’d frowned at that, trying to think of what you could possibly respond, when Jake sent another message. 

He shouldn’t be trying that hard. Unless you’re not real.

Unless I’m not real

You sound too good to be true, darling. 

That had earned a small smile. Yeah? Bucky sort of sold you pretty high, as well. 

Doubt it was as high as he sold you.

And your smile had grown. Not the wide, carefree one you get with Bucky, but a real smile. Which, right now, is sort of all you can ask for. 

You spent the whole week, texting with Jake. At work, on the subway, at home in bed. 

The only time you don’t is when you’re eating lunch with Bucky. You can’t even think about him, because the moment you walk into his office, the whole universe narrows down to Bucky. It always has. You’re pretty sure it always will. 

Just Bucky, frowning at the papers on his desk but smiling when he sees you. His tie a little askew, and his hair messy, like he’s been touching it all day.

“You okay?” 

“Yeah, I’m good.” He grins at you. “Happy you’re here.”

You flush. He can’t just say stuff like that, it’s not fair. “Happy to be here. You obviously needed me.”

“Yeah?” He chuckles, taking his sandwich. “How’s that?”

“You look like shit, James.”

He laughs, loud and full, and it makes your heart kick into a drum. “And you look lovely, doll.”

“I slept last night.”

“So did I.”

“Bucky-“

He says your name back with an eye roll. “I’m good, sweetheart. I’m always good.”

You sigh. “We both know that’s not true-“

“Don’t worry about me. I’ll sleep tomorrow night.” 

“Tomorrow?” You glare at him. “Sleep tonight, Barnes-“

“No, tonight is movie night. I got the popcorn.” 

You flush. Movie night. You forgot about movie night. 

“Bucky, um-“ You set down your sandwich, fiddling with the cuffs of your sleeve. “I actually… can’t go to movie night.” 

He just looks at you, holding his sandwich. He looks like he’s trying to strangle it, even as his voice remains calm. “Why not?”

“I, um- I have a date.” 

“Ah.” His tone is impossible to read. It’s going to drive you insane. “Thought that didn’t go anywhere.”

“We’ve just been talking.” You mumble. “I can reschedule-“

“No. Go on your date.” He gives you a tight smile, and it’s not Bucky’s normal smile. That goes all the way to his eyes. 

This smile looks pained. Too wide. Too quick, without even a huffed laugh. 

Better not to think about it. 

But that’s all you do.

You go out with Jake, and all you can think about is Bucky.  

Jake has an accent, but it’s a little sharp around the edges compared to Bucky’s drawl. He pays for your meal, but doesn’t open the door for you, like Bucky has always done. He stands with you on the street, but when you tell him you’re walking home, he just asks if you have pepper spray, then calls himself an Uber.

But he’s sweet. 

He laughed at your jokes. He called you pretty. He kept his hands in respectful places, but still touched you. Light fingers on your wrist, a cautious hand on your waist when he kissed your cheek goodnight.

“Can we do this again?” He asks, and something in you panics. 

You’ve never made it past the dinner date. Not to actually do things that might lead to—or kill the chance of—other things. 

“Um, yeah. Yes. That would be nice.” You sound insane. “I would… like that a lot.”

“Great.” Jake grins at you as his car pulls up. “Get home safe, and text me when you’re free?”

“I will.” You give him a nervous smile, pulling at the cuffs of your shirt. “Goodnight, Jake.”

His car pulls away, and you just sway on the curb. 

Too real. This is getting too real, and you don’t know how to handle it. The air feels thin, and your skin is getting hot, and every time a car passes by it’s like the headlights are focused on you. Welcoming everyone to laugh at the girl who gets dizzy over brushing hands and secret smiles. Who’s freaking out because the date she went on might lead to sex, but it’s going to be the wrong sex, with the wrong person, when the right person never even wanted her in the first place.

You should Google how to do this. The dating thing. Maybe ask a friend.

Do anything but call Bucky, because the whole fucking point of this is to get over him. 

It’s like trying to scale Everest with only a thin piece of string.

You need him, because he has a habit of just making it all better. Of saying the right thing, or offering a solution, or making a dry joke that turns the world into something less heavy. 

The phone rings only twice, before he picks up. 

“You alright, doll? Tell me where you are, and I can come and-“

“I’m just walking home, Buck. I’m okay.” You take a deep breath, and Bucky lets out an audible sigh. 

“Good. Did, uh-“ He coughs. “How was it. The thing.”

“It was good.” It was okay. Not you, so just okay. “He wants to go out again.”

“Do you?” 

“Do I-“

“Wanna go out again.” Bucky’s voice is oddly heavy. “With him.”

No. “Yeah. I do.” 

“Okay. Congrats. You callin’ to thank me, or something?”

“No. I mean, yes, thank you, but- There’s another thing. And it’s actually pretty dumb, so-“

Bucky says your name sternly over the phone, and you swallow. 

“I’ve sort of never… I haven’t- I’ve never been on a second date before.” You say it quickly, like the speed can somehow mask what you’re saying. 

Look at how fucking sexy I am, Bucky. I’ve never been on two dates, and I’m having a panic attack about it. Do you want to fuck me now?

“Oh.” Is all he says, and you can’t read that tone. Why the fuck can’t you read that tone. 

It’s not judgment. It’s not disgust. It’s just low and strange and without his face, there’s no way you’re going to be able to figure out what he’s thinking-

“Do you wanna practice?”

You trip over your feet. “I, um- What?”

“Practice,” he says your name gently, and you’re pressing the phone so close to your ear the speaker vibrates with his every word. “Just a trial run. So you know what people do.”

“I know what people do on dates.” You grumble, and Bucky scoffs. “James, I do-“

“Then you don’t need my help, do you?”

You scowl. “Are you actually trying to help? Or just making fun of me.”

Bucky drawls your name. “When have I ever made this kinda fun of you?”

“So incredibly often-“

“I’m being serious, sweetheart.” He says, and you close your mouth. “If you wanna do this, I will.”

Fuck. “To help?” 

“Yeah. Sure.”

You frown at the air, trying to breathe through your nose. A fake date, so you can go on a real date, specifically to get over Bucky. 

He offered. 

It’s a horrible, horrible idea, but Bucky offered. 

So you say yes.

———

“You didn’t have to do this.” You mutter, and Bucky shrugs. 

“Yeah, I did. I’m tryin’ to set your standard high, sweetheart.” He holds out the flowers with a small grin. “Expect nothin’ but the best.”

You smile despite yourself, and the fucking pain he doesn’t even know he’s putting you in. 

Showing up at your doorstep. 

With flowers. And a grin that could maybe move a goddamn mountain, looking at you like he’s seen the sky and you’re the only star in it worth watching. Like you fucking matter to him, in some way more than a friend he’s doing a favor. 

A huge favor.

Goddamnit, there is cruelty to his kindness. 

There’s a price that he won’t have to pay, for what you already know this is going to do to you. 

Bucky took his whole Friday night for this, for you. He seriously planned a date he’s not even going to get sex from, with someone he sees every day. 

You do matter to him. You know you matter to him. 

You’d like to matter enough that he didn’t have to play pretend with you. 

That this was just reality, or that you didn’t care at all. 

There would be nothing bitter to this, if you just didn’t care that he got your favorite flowers. If you hadn’t been buzzing for this all afternoon, only for him to arrive right on time, dressed casually but well and ringing your doorbell as if he doesn’t have a key to your apartment.

Nothing but the best, he says. 

You have it now. 

It’s impossible not to think about it. About the what-ifs. Play all the little games in your head, where you map out exactly how this could go. Paint a picture of you and Bucky kissing in a photo booth, shoot the scene of him putting his arm around your shoulders and whispering a secret in your ear, pull the puppets into holding onto each other in the dark, long after the night is over. 

Most of them run the same story. 

You’ve put more effort into how you look right now than you did on the actual dates. But that’s needed, for you to swing the door open, and for it to properly hit Bucky. There are supposed to be lights and swelling music, flowers and glitter and moon eyes, as he really sees you for the first time. It’s what would set everything in motion. Bucky sees you, falls in love with you—slowly, over the whole night—and then you both laugh about this fifty years on the porch of your shared house.

Instead, you opened the door and Bucky just smiled, and showed you the flowers. If he scanned over your body or felt fireworks, he doesn’t show it. 

He just fucking smiles at you. And continues to be so painfully perfect.

“We should go, I got a whole day planned out for us.”

“Really?” You hold the flowers too tight. You might be about to crush them. 

“Nah, but I want to beat the traffic. C’mon, doll.”

He holds a hand out, and you raise the flowers pathetically. “Um- I have to-“

“Right.” Bucky nods, his hand faltering slightly. “I’ll wait.”

And he does. He waits, still offers you his arm—but not his hand, which is fine, because it’s not a real date so you can’t expect anything at all—and walks you out of the building to his- 

“No bike?” You say, and Bucky shrugs, opening the door to his car.

“I know you don’t like it. Not very high standards of me to put you on a death trap.”

You sigh. “I don’t think they’re death traps, Buck, I just think you’ve had enough injury for one lifetime-“

“And I think I’m maxed out. Someone somewhere had to owe me some luck.” Bucky gives you a firm look as you open your mouth. “I’m not makin’ you ride it, sweetheart.”

You stick your tongue out at him, crossing your arms over your chest, and Bucky grins. 

“There’s my girl.”

He just closes the door after that. Walks around the hood of the car and hops in the driver’s seat with another small grin. 

As if he didn’t just stop your heart in your fucking chest. 

And he doesn’t stop doing that, all fucking day. 

“I just don’t want you to get hurt.” You mutter a little later, knees propped on the dashboard, and Bucky chuckles. 

“We still on the motorcycle thing?”

“We’re not on it, Bucky, I just don’t think you’re made of steel-“

“You’d be wrong.” He shrugs, fingers tapping on the wheel. “I do so many steroids, I’m basically a superhero at this point.”

“But you’re not.” You mutter, picking at your nails, and he lets out a long sigh. 

Reaches over the console and takes your hand, squeezing it gently with a small grin. 

“Does it help if I say that my security team’s been makin’ me do it less?”

You look up at him, chewing on your lower lip. “They have?”

Bucky nods, glancing at you out of the corner of his eyes before looking back to the road.

“You don’t gotta worry about me, sweetheart. I got people I pay for that.”

You swallow, and it’s a stupid thing to say, but it’s falling from your lips before you can stop it. “Am I allowed to worry about you for free?”

He lets out a heavy sigh. “Yeah. You can do whatever you want with me, doll.”

You flush, looking back out the window. He doesn’t know what he’s saying, is all it is. He’s comfortable with you, he basically sees you as a sister, it’s not even flirting so much as it’s reassurance. A reminder that he’s not going back to the army, that there are people who make sure the Bucky that fell out of a second-story window in college isn’t allowed to make every single choice about what’s safe. 

He’d been drunk. He thought he was Michelangelo, that he’d invented wings. 

He hadn’t.

It’s amazing it took him going to the army to lose an arm. You’ve heard all the stories about him and Steve as kids, and how he was always jumping in front of fists aimed at the scrawny kid who thought heart was a valid way to win a fight. But you have a feeling that—just like after the Michelangelo incident—he’d spend more time making sure Steve was okay than he was. Bucky didn’t think he was invincible. 

He just cared more about how the people around him weren’t. 

Cares more about reassuring you that he will be okay, than trying to argue. You’ve been through enough together of him to know that you might not have valid reason to worry—Bucky’s careful on the bike, but he was careful in the army as well—but he’s still going to tell you it’s okay. 

Dry jokes and teasing only go up to when you’re genuinely worried, because Bucky cares about you. 

That’s why he said that. 

You can do whatever you want with me.

For comfort. 

But there’s no reason for him to keep holding your hand.

Best not to think about it. 

He parks at Coney Island, and you huff a soft laugh. You should have guessed.

“I feel special.” You tell him, as he helps you out of the car—he’s just a boy raised well, it doesn’t mean anything—and he frowns.

“Why’d you say it like that?”

“Like what?”

He opens his mouth, then shakes his head. “Never mind. You got everything?”

You nod, and try not to dwell on how quickly—how certainly—Bucky takes your hand. Not your arm. Your hand.

It shouldn’t make you feel dizzy, just to hold hands. It doesn’t bode well for actually, finally having sex. But you squeeze Bucky’s hand—probably too tight—and he doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t give any sign that this is making him feel gooey and kept as well—like you’re melting while being held together all at once—because there’s no reason for it to. 

“You take all your dates here, Barnes?” You joke lightly, trying to remind yourself how to speak, and he just shrugs. 

“Nah.”

You pause. That didn’t sound like a joke. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.” He keeps looking at the crowd, but squeezes your hand gently.

He doesn’t offer another answer. 

Through the whole day, he only seems to offer more and more questions that make your head spin. 

It’s really impossible not to think about it. Not when Bucky’s right here with you, and he seems to shine brighter than the glare of the sun in your eyes. 

“Why didn’t you bring sunglasses?” Bucky mutters your name while you wait in some line, and you shrug. 

“I didn’t think I’d need them, Buck-“

“We’re at the beach-“

“You didn’t tell me we were going to the beach.”

Bucky pauses. “No. I did.”

“James, you said be ready at 11 and then dress however you want.”

“Oh.” He winces slightly, then gives you a small grin. It’s really impossible to stay mad at him. “Sorry.”

“You sound it.” You grumble—mostly for the show of it—and turn back to face the line. 

Bucky tosses his arm over your shoulders, and it takes a lot of willpower not to let your knees give out. 

He leans down, to whisper in your ear. He might be trying to kill you. 

“I am sorry, doll.” He reaches around to grab your chin, gently guiding your gaze onto his. 

And his eyes are so fucking blue. In the sunlight, it looks like he’s trapped the sky inside of him. 

That’s what being around him feels like, sometimes. His presence covers you, natural but demanding, not trying to be big, but impossible to be smaller. 

Maybe he did trap the sky. 

Maybe you’re just so in love with him it’s making you insane. 

“Bucky.” You whisper, and he grins at you. 

“Hi.”

“Hey.”

“Is this guy botherin’ you?” He nods up to the sun, and you snort, looking away from him with a flush. 

“That’s so stupid-“

“Yeah, but you like it.” He laughs, drawing back up to his full height and—by some small grace—missing the way your breath hitches slightly. “I’ll buy you sunglasses after.”

“No, you don’t have to-“

“I want to.” He guides you forward, another step in the line. “I told you. Nothin’ but the best.”

For you. 

Nothing but the best for you. 

He’s not actually dating you. It’s something you have to remind yourself of, over and over, through the whole day. Bucky would always hold your hand on a roller coaster, because he’s not a guy to just let you be afraid. He’d always pay for your food—he’s got the money—and he knew what to get you because you’re friends. Just friends. 

Going on a fake date. 

Nothing feels fake about it. 

It’s getting hard to remember that it is fake. 

And Bucky’s not really fucking helping. 

“You want the bear, or the- What the hell is that?”

“Pokémon.” You mumble, fidgeting with the cuff of your sleeve. “We’ve talked about them, Bucky. You said they were cute but weird.”

“I was right.” He mutters, hands braced on his hips as he assesses the stuffed prizes. “You want one?”

“You don’t have to-“

“We’ve been over this, sweetheart.” He drawls, giving you a firm look. “Want to.”

You wrinkle your nose. “You suck.”

“Yeah, I’m the worst for winning you a stuffed… turtle?”

“Squirtle.” You sigh. “And, I’d, um- I’d like-“

Bucky smirks. “Take your time, baby.”

“I just want a bear, please.” You blurt it, the baby making your heart kickstart. “Just a bear.”

Bucky nods, looking over to the animals. The bear is the smallest prize. Barely the size of your forearm, skinny and a little scraggly looking. You chose it because he won’t have to try and win it. He was a sniper. He’s got a good arm, and he can use it once to get you the stupid, ugly bear, because this isn’t a real date.

“Alright.” He mutters, pulling out his wallet with an unsettling look of determination in his eyes. “I can get a bear.”

You stand off to the side as he approaches the booth, and realize very quickly the mistake you’ve made. 

There are two bears. Yours is the ugly one. 

And a massive, fluffy one that you’re not sure Bucky is going to be able to carry. The one that requires a perfect score, and sits like a holy grail at the top of the shelf. Pristine. Untouchable. More of a white whale than an actual prize. 

But no one can ever accuse Bucky Barnes of backing down from a challenge he thinks he’ll win. 

And he was a sniper.

“There you go.” He grins at you, chest puffed with pride and eyes sparkling, as he passes the beast into your arms. “Got you the bear, sweetheart.”

You glare at him, and he’s standing so close. The bear is the only thing separating your bodies, and he leans down over its head, leaving your faces only inches apart. 

“I feel like you purposefully misinterpreted my request.” You whisper, and his smile grows. 

“I love it when you talk dirty to me.”

 “James-“

“Maybe I found a loophole.” He shrugs, and before you know what’s happening, he’s pressing a small kiss to the tip of your nose. “But what have I been tellin’ you?”

You swallow, and it takes a second to remember how to speak. “Nothing but the best.”

“Good girl.” 

You just gape at him, leaning slightly forward, but he started it. You can’t be blamed for falling into his gravity, you can’t be blamed for any of this. For the way he’d let you have some of his ice cream, the cleaned off the corner of your lip with his thumb. For the sunglasses on your face sliding too far down your nose, and Bucky pushing them back up all day with a single finger and smile. For the way your hand keeps just attaching to his, because he took yours first. 

And now his eyes flick down for a moment, tongue darting over his lips. 

You can’t be blamed. You’re not thinking about it, the single spot where Bucky’s lips brushed making it impossible to think anything, so you can’t be blamed for whatever’s about to happen- 

Bucky draws up. His hand finds your waist and squeezes, but he clears his throat and looks over your head. 

Back to the crowd. 

Like nothing happened at all. 

“It’s gettin’ late.” He grunts, and his voice is a little rougher than a moment before. “Ready to go?”

You nod, because you’re pretty sure if you open your mouth you’ll whine his name. 

Bucky gives you a slight look of concern, but doesn’t push it. Just takes your hand, and starts to guide you back through the crowd. 

He insists on carrying the bear back to the car, and it hangs in front of him like a massive riot shield. Helping you get through the crowd, allowing your body to press close to his to remain behind it. 

And close to Bucky.

On the ride back he puts his jacket on his lap because it’s getting warm, but still holds your hand in the car. He carries the bear up to your apartment, like the stupid, sweet man he is. 

He refuses to come inside. 

He makes you practice rejecting him three times. 

“Bucky, this is dumb-“

“Nope.” He has his hands on his hips, and a stern look on his face. “That’s not a good rejection. You’re hurtin’ my feelings.”

“You don’t have feelings, you’re a fake scenario man-“

“Ouch. Now you’re really hurin’ them-“

“James.” You glare at him, hugging yourself tight. “There’s no reason for me to do this.”

“Yeah, there is. No puttin’ out on the second date."

You flush. “Bucky-“

“No, I know, you don’t wanna talk about that with me.” He makes a slight face, his voice oddly low. “But anyone who can’t wait for you doesn’t deserve you. So unless you and John are having soulmate sparks, you’re gonna have to reject him.”

“We’re not having-“ You cut yourself off, blinking at him. “Jake. His name is Jake.”

Bucky’s nostrils flare. “Right. I forgot.”

“You introduced us-“

“Are you gettin’ my point?” He says, sounding oddly urgent. “Don’t settle. You’re worth more than that.”

You snort. “Yeah, as evident by my countless suitors.”

Bucky sighs your name, making another strange face. “Just tell me you’ll be careful?”

There’s something real, in his voice. 

But there’s been something real, underlining this whole day.

Best not to think about it. 

“I’ll be careful, Bucky.” You smile at him, and his shoulders slump slightly. “Thank you. For everything.”

“You’re welcome.” He mutters, watching you carefully. “You have fun?”

“Yeah.” You really did. 

“Good. You, uh-“ He clears his throat, taking a large step back. “You looked real nice. All day. Gorgeous.” He nods to himself, and looks like he’s going to continue.

But he doesn’t. 

He just mumbles a goodnight, and walks away. Leaving you standing in your doorway, swaying slightly as you float in his words. 

Gorgeous.

It’s all you can hear.

And no matter how much you remind yourself not to, you can’t stop thinking about it. Any of it. Bucky’s closeness, and how he smelled a little like mint and rain. His hand in yours, his lips on your nose, his full attention. All yours, without you even having to ask. 

The night passes, so painfully slow. You keep seeing his eyes, just as always, and your fingers wander between your thighs with a sigh of his name. 

It’s nothing new. 

It chases you into the daylight, and through your whole date with Jake. He takes you bowling, and your fingers brush, and he buys you food and sits right next to you, but all you can do is think about it.  

About Bucky, and his lips on your nose. How he’d looked at you. 

If it, any of it, was real. 

If it’s allowed to matter, if it was. 

You try to shove it down. Try to focus on Jake, and bowling, and getting over Bucky.

But you get back to your apartment, tell Jake he can come up after the next date—just like Bucky told you to—and walk through your door to see the bear. 

He didn’t have to do that. Any of it. 

But he did. 

You have another date, next week. Jake is sweet. 

You’ve never felt less over Bucky Barnes in your whole life. 

And you have no idea where to go from here. 

———

You’ve been seeing Jake more and more. Two dates turn into three. Three turns into four. He kisses you for the first time outside your apartment, but you tell him not to come in again. 

Once you cross that barrier, it’s no longer just something fun. Something to kill an afternoon or evening. Jake will kiss you a little harder, and his hands will start to wander, and you’ll have to make a choice. 

Is this how you want it to happen. 

Is Jake who you want it to happen with. 

No.

Because he’s still not Bucky. 

Jake is sweet. You’re repeating it over and over, because it’s sort of all that keeps you answering his texts. Not because there’s anything wrong with him, but because sweet means safe. Sweet means you could probably confess to him that you’ve never really done anything, and he’d treat you well. Be gentle. Not judge. 

But sweet also means there’s not that much edge to your conversations. Sweet means no sparks.

He holds your hand, and it doesn’t fit that well. 

He kisses your cheek, as he brings you drinks from the bar, and it’s just sweet. Nothing more. 

There’s no desire to turn your face, nothing going airy in your head and molten in your lower stomach. You’re relaxed in the booth, legs crossed out of habit, not to try and chase off an aching need. 

“You look pretty.” Jake smiles at you, sliding into the booth. “Like a fairy.”

Gorgeous. “Thank you. Not too bad yourself.” You hold your glass up for him, and he clinks it with a grin. 

“Seriously, you’re like the hottest person here.” He leans closer, lips brushing lightly over yours. “Every guy wishes they were me right now. I can feel them glaring.”

You laugh softly, even as your skin starts to itch. “I think you might be exaggerating.”

“No. I mean, I’m so fucking serious. You got the kinda face that starts a war.” Jake grins, and you feel sort of sticky. Like his compliments, as nice as they are, are hot and tar-like on your skin. “I should go thank Barnes, for letting me take a shot.”

“A shot?” You take a long drink, and Jake laughs. 

“Oh, yeah. He had people lining up to get with you, honey. I don’t know how I got to the front of the queue with him, but I’m glad I did.” He brushes hair out of your face, and you wish he wouldn’t. He’s not great at it, and now it’s sticking to your lips. “How was your day.”

“Alright.” You shrug. “Just a day, except for like, one thing with my boss. How about you?”

“Amazing, now.” He grins. “I might have to go thank Barnes now.”

You flush at just the sound of his name—if Jake says it one more time, you might explode—and take another sip. “I think it’ll have to wait until morning.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” Jake sighs. “Don’t want to bother him on his date.”

The drink catches in your throat, coming out in a sputtering cough. “Bucky- What?”

“He’s at the bar.” Jake angles his thumb, frowning. “You okay, baby?”

“Yeah, um- I’m good. Great.” You try to crane your neck around Jake’s sweet face. “Where is he?”

“I dunno, with his girl. You want a napkin.”

“No, I’m- Yes.” You blink at Jake, still looking concerned. “A napkin would be good, please.”

Jake nods, standing back up, and the moment he’s gone you sit on your knees. Scan over the crowded bar with a frantic focus, because Bucky’s not here. He can’t be. He’s allowed to go on dates—you can’t think of one, good reason he wouldn’t be, or at least one that isn’t made of empty claims and a green feeling, festering in your heart—but he didn’t tell you he had one.

He doesn’t have to do that either. But he usually does. So Jake must have just seen some other guy with soft hair, brilliant eyes, and a metal arm.

Or it’s Bucky. 

Standing at the bar with some redhead. Soft hand holding a drink, metal elbow propped on the bar. 

Laughing. 

You feel sick.

It’s not like you didn’t know he gets around. That’s one of the reasons you’ve known you’d never be good enough for him. You’d be a disappointment, compared to the model who’s batting her lashes and biting her lip right now. Who he’s looking at like he’s missed her his whole life. Who says something that makes him throw his head back, and shake his head as he takes another drink. 

You can’t look away from it. From how she touches his shoulder so lightly to how she says something that makes his ears red and head shake. How smoothly their conversation flows between sincerity and joy. 

And you wonder what it looks like when you talk to Bucky. 

If you’re even in a corner of his mind right now, when he’s possessed your every thought for maybe your whole life. 

“Here you go.” Jake returns, holding out the napkins, and you give him a small smile.

“Thanks, babe.”

“No problem. Gotta help my girl.”

He sits back in the booth, and your stomach turns.

“Your girl, huh?” You try to say it casually, even as you taste bile on your tongue. 

Jake seems to buy it. “Yep. I mean,” he winks at you. “Once you let me into that magic apartment of yours.”

Fuck. “Jake, I- I told you I want to take it slow-“

“I know. And I can hold on. I got a hand.”

Your eyes widen. Again, he doesn’t see it. 

“But I’d like to just, like, see where you live.” He gives you a sweet smile. “We can just watch a movie. I’ll make dinner.”

A movie and dinner. Sweet. 

You don’t want to, don’t want to let Jake into your space, don’t want him to start making your blankets and couch cushions smell like him instead of Bucky. 

But Bucky’s at the bar. And he didn’t seem all that worried about wearing the shirt you got him to flirt with his redhead. 

Which is exactly why you have to say yes. 

“Okay.” You smile at Jake, and it feels plastic, but he doesn’t see. He never sees. “Tonight?”

“Right now.” Jake grabs your arm, and you giggle nervously as he pulls you up.

“Wow, we’re eager-“

“I’ve been hoping for this all month, honey. Let’s go.”

You laugh, and try to just feel this. Wanted. If Jake has nothing else for you, at least he wants you. 

But you could swear you feel something prickling on the back of your neck, as he pulls you out the door. And because you can’t help it, you look back to see Bucky and his redhead. 

They’re behind you.

If you’re going to get over him, and his bears and kindness and handsome face, you have to stop looking back. 

Hopefully, one day, you’ll figure out how.

———

He won’t let you. 

Bucky won’t let you stop looking back.

It’s all you thought about that night. With Jake right next to you, his thumb drawing circles on your arm as you watched some movie, you stared at the bear and thought about Bucky at the bar. If he’d win his redhead a bear. If he’d bring her to Coney Island at all. When Jake kissed you goodnight, you wonder if Bucky kisses his redhead this chastely. When you crawled into bed, you made yourself sick with thoughts of what Bucky could be doing right now. If his redhead keeps the dominant aura she had in the bar, and straddles him. Makes him beg. 

If he wouldn’t want you, because you’re not sure you can do that kind of work. You don’t want Bucky to beg. 

You just want him to look at you like you’re the most important thing in the world. To call you good girl again, because that’s been spinning around your head since he said it.

And it wanders between your thighs, with fingers that aren’t rough and big. 

Bucky’s name falls between your lips, as a phantom of his voice just whispers in your ear. 

Good girl. Nothing but the best. Whatever you want. 

He’s torturing you, and he’s not even in the room.

He won’t let you go, even when he doesn’t know you belong to him in the first place. 

You waste the day, shuffling around your apartment and doing busy work. Text with Jake. Do the dishes. Wash your couch cushions, because they smell like smoke and beer now. Call Jake. Get groceries. Schedule a date. 

It all just blurs together, into nothing, right up until Bucky calls. 

You almost drop your phone, trying to pick up. 

This getting over him thing is going fucking great. 

“Hey,” you sound too breathless. You need to calm the fuck down. “Hi, Bucky. What’s up?”

“Nothin’. Just had a question for you.” He pauses. “Now a bad time?”

You glance at your computer, where you’re supposed to be buying tickets to go out with Jake. “No, it’s good.”

“Alright, great.” Bucky sighs. “Look, I wasn’t bein’ creepy, and I’m real sorry about this, but- I saw you. Last night. With Jack.”

“Jake. And yeah.” You swallow. “I saw you with your date.”

“My- Oh, no.” Bucky laughs, and you blink at the air. “That wasn’t my date, she was just an old friend. I’ve told you about Nat, right? She and her sister came over from Russia in high school, she’s been on and off with like, everyone but me.”

“Oh.” Your face might be burning. “Sorry, I, um- I guess I should’ve said hi.”

“Nah, it’s better you didn’t. Not because I wouldn’t want you to,” he adds quickly, because he knows you too fucking well for it to be fair. “But ‘cause I’m the sorry one.”

You frown at the air. “Bucky-“

“You don’t have to say yes. I won’t be hurt if you do. But,” he lets out a heavy sigh. “Nat saw me lookin’ at you. And she figured out who you are, and wanted to meet you. I talked her out of bothering you and Jace, but she sorta doesn’t let up once she wants something. And I know you’re not a huge party person, but I’m having one tonight. Bunch of old friends, all in town for once. At my place cause it’s the biggest. If you wanna come, you’re welcome.” 

Fuck.

This isn’t going to help you stop looking back, but he was looking at you. And his friends want to meet you. And God, he won’t just let you get over him, even when he’s barely doing anything at all.

“Do you… Want me to?” You whisper, and she chuckles.

“Doll, you know I want you here all the time. But my friends are a lot-“

“Okay.” Fuck. “I’ll do it.”

Bucky lets out a long sigh of relief. You can hear the smile in his voice. “Great. I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

You look at the computer. The tickets were supposed to be for tomorrow. 

“See you then, Bucky. Do I need to bring anything-“

“Nope. You’re all I need.”

———

You’ve heard a lot about Bucky’s friends. A lot. You know they all grew up together, playing sports and in clubs and going to dances. That almost everyone but Bucky left the city for college—even Steve, heading abroad because he wanted to meet as many people as possible, know everything about the world and do that semester abroad housebuilding that turned him into a tank of a man—but they’ve all kept in close touch. You know all their names. You’ve met a few of them in passing—Steve fully once, when he’d been visiting home for thanksgiving and Bucky had invited you along—but never all of them at once. 

It’s intimidating, to shift on your feet at his door and wait for someone to answer. To pray it’s Bucky, so they don’t ask who the random girl is. 

You have a key to his place. You could just walk in. 

You wait anyway. 

Bucky pulls open the door with a wide grin, then groans your name.

“I told you not to bring anything-“

“It’s just a drink!” You protest, holding it to your chest like a stuffed animal. “Just take it, Bucky-“

“Of course I’m gonna take it.” He reaches out, and your fingers brush as you pass him the bottle. “But I’m payin’ you back for it.”

You sigh. “Bucky-“

He says your name in a teasing tone, grabbing your hand with a wide, carefree grin. 

“Stop standin’ outside like you don’t belong in here. Everyone’s been waiting to meet you.”

You flush, as he pulls you inside. And you’re sure he must be exaggerating, because you can see the slight hint of red on his cheeks that means he’s been drinking. Bucky tends to be dramatic, when he drinks. To lose every filter, and just laugh and say what he thinks. Once he told you he’d be able to pick up a car, and you got to watch him grunt and squat on the curb for twenty minutes, before flopping on the pavement and groaning that they made them heavier.

Nobody’s been waiting for you. You’re barely ever waiting for you. 

Bucky waits for you. He pauses, when you hang up your jacket, still grinning at you in the low light of the hall. 

“What?” You ask, and he shrugs, his hand lingering on your hip. 

The touch is possessive. Like he’s touching you just to touch you.

He doesn’t seem to know he’s doing it.

“You look good.” He hums, taking a large step closer. “You smell good.”

It’s a lot of work, to look him in the eyes when he’s this close. You might drown in them.

“You’re drunk.” You whisper, and his grin just widens.

“Only on you, babydoll.” 

Your eyes widen, mouth falling open, and someone calls Bucky’s name from his living room.

“C’mon,” he moves you right in front of him, your back pressed to his chest, and you lean back to keep gaping at him. “The people are waitin’ for their princess.”

It’s hard to think of anything to say to that. It’s hard to think of anything to say all night. 

Because Bucky stays this close, and his proximity is a drug. 

It doesn’t help that he wasn’t lying. 

Everyone, for some fucking reason, knows exactly who you are. Says your name like they’re greeting an old friend, shakes your hand as if they’re being introduced to the president. And the whole time Bucky just stands right behind you. Laughs and holds your hip and drinks. 

His friends know all about you. Tony asks about your job. Wanda asks about your mom. Clint hands you your favorite snack when he corners you and Bucky, as if it’s something he’d been hoping to do all night. 

Steve gives you a kind smile, and that, at least, is what you expected. 

Sam keeps looking at you as if he’s seen a unicorn. 

“So, this is her, huh?” Sam—with the exact same smirk and annoyingly knowing expression Bucky described him as having—drawls your name. “I was startin’ to think she was made up, Buck. But look at her.” He raises his glass with a grin. “Real!”

Bucky rolls his eyes, but still chuckles. “Y’know, I showed you pictures. And Stevie isn’t that good at photoshop.”

“I alright at photoshop.” Steve frowns. “I made that poster, to help with your campaign.”

“Yeah, and he didn’t use it.” Sam scoffs, giving you a look of amusement. “Did you see that one, kid?”

You swallow. You can be a part of this conversation. 

It’s better than just standing, half in Bucky’s arms, trying to work out why everyone knows so much. 

“Was it the one with the raccoon? And bold letters?”

Sam beams. “You have seen it! Trust the Barnes to keep out animals under control!”

He bursts out laughing as Bucky snorts, and Steve sighs. 

You give him a small smile. “I liked it. I told him to use it, actually.”

Steve shakes his head. “No, it’s alright. I know it wasn’t my best.”

“Yeah, but she thought it was.” Bucky squeezes your hip lightly, and your hand flies to his forearm. “She thought you were a damn genius for that one. When my team shot it down, she took a poster and hung it on her fridge.”

“Really?” Steve grins at you. “Did you like the other one?”

You nod. “The one of Bucky as a ten-year-old, wearing the superhero costume?”

“He’ll protect our streets.” Sam snickers. “I’m tellin’ you, Buck, I only think you won ‘cause you didn’t use that one. Everyone wanted sexy, rugged James as their rep, not cute-kid Bucky.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Stop sayin’ I only won ‘cause I’m hot, Sam-“

“Why? That’s why I voted for you.”

“Yeah, whatever.” He takes another drink, still grinning. “And we did use the superhero one, Wilson.”

“I know, I just try to pretend you didn’t.” Sam sighs, looking at you again. “You got that one on your fridge?”

You flush. You haven’t let go of Bucky’s arm. 

He hasn’t tried to move it. 

“No.” You smile softly. “But his Mom showed me another photo of that costume, and I made a shirt out of it. I wore it to his swearing-in ceremony.”

Bucky groans, but Sam and Steve burst out laughing. 

They like you. 

Bucky’s friends like you, and they’re treating you like you’re actually someone worth knowing. Like you’re not just Bucky’s college friend. 

Even Bucky sort of isn’t treating you like he’s just your college friend. 

He always gets touchy when he’s drunk, as well. But his arm goes around your shoulder, and his lips only brush your neck when he slumps over you. 

Usually. 

Tonight, his hands are almost everywhere. His mouth doesn’t brush you at all, but it’s because he’s standing so tall behind you. So close. His metal arm is wrapped around your stomach, after a few more drinks. You can feel every bit of muscle, every rise and fall of his chest. Almost his heartbeat, if you turn your head just right. 

It’s too much. You feel like you’re being teased, like he’s pulling you apart just for fun when you’re about to lose your fucking mind. 

You need air. You to need not get lost in him, because he’s just drunk, and this means everything to you, but he’ll forget in the morning. 

When you twist out of his hold to go to the bathroom, he lets you. But his arm reaches out, holding your hand until you’re all the way out of reach. 

You need to learn not to look back. 

It’s not going that well. 

The bathroom is a small reprieve. You breathe, and fix your hair, and glare at yourself in the mirror. It’s just nothing. You’re his friend, and he’s introducing you to everyone, which is why he hasn’t left your side all night despite seeing you almost every day. He’s drunk, which is why he’s so touchy. He’s not thinking about this—about what he’s doing to you—so you shouldn’t think about it either.

You have Jake. And a date with him tomorrow, and he’s actually kissing you and going out with you, instead of just being weird.

Think about Jake.

You barely make it a foot out of the bathroom, before someone is saying your name, and it’s impossible to think about Jake. 

The redhead from the bar—Nat, Bucky called her—is grinning at you from the shadows. 

“Wow, you’re even more out of his league up close.”

You blink. “What?”

“Nothing.” Her voice is smooth, like honey. 

Bucky said they’ve never slept together. You have no right to care if they do. 

But she’s looking at you like she’s sizing you up. Like you’re her prey, and she’s debating whether it’s even worth eating you at all. 

“I’m Natasha.” She hums, and you swallow.

“I know. Bucky, um- He told me.”

She nods. You’re not sure she ever blinks. “How was the rest of your date?” 

“It was okay. How were your drinks?”

Her lips twitch. “Good. The guy you were with. Cute. Jacob?”

“Just Jake.” You mumble. “And, yeah. He’s sweet.”

She nods again. “Do you love him?” 

“I- I don’t-“ Because you can never fucking help it, your eyes flick to the end of the hall. To where Bucky is waiting, somewhere back in the crowd. “I don’t know, we’ve only been together for like, a month-“

“Oh.” Natasha nods, and she looks like she’s solving a puzzle you can’t even see. “That makes sense.”

“It does?” 

“Yep.” She smiles at you. “That’s when Bucky started acting like a kicked puppy.” She laughs to herself, and before you can even process that, she keeps talking. “You know, I was there. When he woke up after the incident. It was me and Steve, the two people he’s known the longest. And you know who he asked for first?”

You shake your head, and her eyes glitter. 

“No, you do.” She touches your arm gently, starting to walk past you, back into the hall. “Think about it.”

Then, she’s gone. 

You almost glide through the party. Back to Bucky’s side. 

You’re not supposed to think about it.

You can’t stop thinking about it. 

None of this was a good idea, because you can’t stop thinking about it. Not when Bucky’s whole face seems to light up at the sight of you, and he pulls you right back into his side. Not through the whole night, as he almost shows you off to his friends. Talks you up while holding you like you’ve seen him hold kittens and expensive, first-edition Lord of the Rings books. 

When you see Nat again—Bucky introducing you with a proud grin and long speech about how good you are at your job—she just smiles at you, and engages in a normal, non-cryptic conversation. 

Like she knows she’s done her job. Done it too well. 

The crowd eventually thins, until it’s only you and Bucky left, and you’re never going to be able to think about anything else again. 

Bucky pulls you out onto his fire escape, and pouts when you take the drink out of his hands.

“I don’t want you trying to fly, Buck.” You murmur, dropping in on the windowsill, and he grins.

“You care about me.”

“Of course I care about you. Bucky-“ You squeak as he pulls you into a tight, almost suffocating hug. “Bucky, what’s wrong-“

“Nothin’.” He mutters, pressing his face to the top of your head. “You smell nice. Glad you came.”

“Of course I came. You asked me to.”

“Yeah, but I was thinkin’ you’d be busy. With Jake.”

You laugh slightly, but it’s more out of confusion than anything else. You don’t understand why he’s saying Jake like that. As if it’s a curse. 

“Or work.” Bucky’s still muttering to himself, and he pulls back suddenly. “How’s your boss. Is he still givin’ you shit? Cause I can bring a bill to the floor that no one should be mean to you. Ever.”

“I- I don’t think that would make it to the floor, Bucky.” 

“It could. I’d make it.” He leans back down, pressing his face into your neck. “I’d just have to show them how pretty you are, and they’d all be goin’ that’s a good idea, Barnes. No one should be mean to her.”

“Okay. C’mon.” You slowly guide him down, until you’re sitting on the stairs. “Bucky, how much did you drink?”

“Normal amount.” He shrugs, leaning back from your neck, but not fully. 

Your noses are still bumping. 

His breath is warm on your face, and his hand is pressed on your thigh. Not trying to start anything, but lighting you on fire. 

Just seeming to hold you, for the sake of holding you. 

“You’re so beautiful.” Bucky murmurs, and you swallow. 

“Bucky…” 

“I know.” He sighs, dropping his brow against yours. “Too late. ‘M too late.”

“I-“

“But you are beautiful.” He reaches up, lightly tracing your cheeks, and your mouth falls open. “I think you could end every war. If they saw you smile. So,” he yawns, arms falling around you as his eyes flutter. “Remember that.”

Bucky passes out in your arms, half folded over your lap and holding you tight. 

And you’re never going to be able to forget it. 

You just sit here, for a while. Run your fingers through Bucky’s hair. Listen to the horns on the streets below, watch the flashing lights of the city.

Think about it, Natasha seems to whisper in your ear. Do you love him. 

You don’t love Jake. That’s never even really been on the table. 

But this man, in front of you, looking at you like you’re all the stars in the sky, yet still just the brightest one that guides him home, is so easy to love. He’s all you’ve ever wanted. 

This, right here, is all you’ve ever fucking wanted. 

And it’s still not even yours. 

———

You break it off with Jake quietly. 

A nice dinner. You pay, because there’s a worm of guilt, eating at your gut for how you treated him. He’s a nice guy, really, but he’s not Bucky. And that’s not his fault. 

No one can be. 

“It’s because of Barnes, isn’t it.” He says as you wait for his cab outside, and you freeze. 

“I, um- I don’t-“

“It’s okay.” He gives you a small smile. “I mean, that’s why I was so shocked he even asked. I remember him showing us all your photos, during our tour. I thought that with everything, he’d go back and marry you or something.” Jake chuckles. “Then he’s asking me if I want to take you out, and I thought he was going to give himself a fucking stroke. I counted myself lucky just to have the chance.”

You swallow, your voice soft. “The chance?”

Jake nods, eyes fixed on yours. “To take what Barnes is too much of a pussy to grab, when it’s right damn in front of him.”

“Bucky’s not-“

“Yeah, he is. But it’s alright.” Jake shrugs, hands in his pocket. “You sorta are, too.”

He leaves you gaping on the road, and you’re not even sure if he was trying to hurt you. He didn’t say that like he was. He said it—just like everything else—sweetly. 

But it still stings. 

Mostly because he’s right. 

You’re a coward. 

You never told him you were in love with him. Not in college. Not when he got shipped out. Not when he came back, or when he struggled to readjust, or when he ran for office and won. You’re always just there, and you can never bring yourself to leave. 

But you can’t bring yourself to change, either. 

You don’t tell Bucky you broke up with Jake. You don’t ask him what he meant on the balcony. You don’t do anything but think about it, and keep going to lunch like nothing happened at all. His secretary glares at you, and you smile. You give Bucky the same sandwich as always, sit in the same chair, and bask in his attention. 

“Hey, uh-“ Bucky clears his throat, frowning at his sandwich. “How’s it goin’? With Jake.”

You laugh softly, and Bucky gives you a confused look. 

“That… Uh- Good?”

“No. It’s just funny you only remember his name after we’ve broken up.”

He freezes, and a little bit of lettuce falls out of his mouth. “You broke up? Did- He didn’t fuckin’-“

“I broke up with him.” You give Bucky a small smile. “Down, boy.”

“Yeah, alright.” He slumps in his chair, still watching you carefully. “Was he not treatin’ you right?”

“No, he was fine. I just, um-“ I’m in love with you, and that made it impossible. “I wasn’t ready, yet.”

You’re not sure you ever will be. 

Jake was right. You’re a fucking coward. 

And Bucky is just sitting there. Frowning at you, silent and watchful. You raise your brows at him in a silent challenge, and he sets down his sandwich with a sigh. 

“You’re just not a big relationship person, huh.” He wipes his chin with his sleeve, and you frown. 

“No, I just- No. And, James-“ You reach up, pulling his arm away. “Don’t do that, it’s a nice shirt.”

“Sorry, sweetheart.” He drops his arm, still watching you. “And it’s okay if you aren’t. Was just wondering, ‘cause, well.” His brow draws slightly. “I mean, I’ve known you forever, and you only ever do the one-night thing.”

“I…” You blink at him, his words slow to sink in, and sudden to hit. “I what?”

“Nothin’ wrong with that either!” Bucky sits up, voice slightly panicked. “Men do it all the time-“

“You do it, Bucky-“

He snorts. “Sweetheart, I haven’t done it since college. That’s just- Not what I’m lookin’ for.”

The world is spinning too fast. 

You don’t have time to stop the words from falling out of your mouth.

“What are you looking for?”

Bucky makes a low sound of amusement. “Something serious.” 

“Oh.” You look down to your fingers. It’s too hard to look him in the eyes. “That’s- I didn’t know that.”

“You never asked.”

He says it so simply. Like it’s something you should have known about, when he never shared it. When he’s the one who said about you-

“I haven’t done it ever, Bucky.” You mumble, picking at your nails, and he grunts. 

“Well, you tried with Jake-“

“No.” You shake your head, still looking down. “I haven’t done one-nights. I- I haven’t done anything.”

Bucky’s silent. And it’s not a big deal. Just another conversation between best friends. Some honestly, that you’re used to sharing so freely with him. Nothing at all. 

But his voice is hoarse, when he speaks. And you don’t have to look up to know how he’s watching you. 

With pure, hot, undivided attention. 

“Anything?” He echoes. “Like… One-nights?”

“Or two nights.” You mumble. “Or- Afternoons. Or anything.”

Bucky coughs. “What about, uh- Parties-“

“Nothing, Bucky. I’ve never-“

“Anything.” He finishes, and you nod. 

It starts to spill out, before you can stop it. 

“I just- I was trying to find someone. That’s why I asked. I wanted to get it over with, get someone to take care of it, and I trusted you.”

“You trusted me.” Bucky rasps, and your nails dig into your palms.

“Yeah. I did. I knew you’d give me someone, um- Good.”

“Someone good.” He echoes. “Cause you’ve never had anyone. And you trusted me.”

You nod, and Bucky continues.

“To find you someone to sleep with? Or date and sleep with.”

“Both.” You flush. “I, um- I wanted it to mean something, I think.”

Another moment of silence. “And you trusted me.”

“I trust you, Bucky, I don’t know why that’s something you’re- It’s not that big a deal-“

“No, it’s not. Plenty of people are virgins, doll-“

“Don’t- Bucky, you don’t have to-“

“I’m tryin’ to understand why you didn’t just ask me.”

Your heart stumbles. Flips inside out, then back again. Your gaze shoots up, because you have to see if he’s joking, but he’s not. You’ve never seen Bucky look more serious in his life.

“What?” You whisper, and his throat bobs. 

“Just date me,” he says your name softly. “I’ve been in love with you forever, I’ve fuckin’ hated having to set you up and just- Not care, but- Just date me. You trust me, and if you’re just looking for someone to take care of it I can, but- Me.” He leans forward, and you’re not sure you’re breathing. “Date me. We can’t forget this forever if you don’t wanna, but- I want to. Please.” He says your name, voice low and rough. “I want to, so bad. Just be with me.”

For once, you can’t think. You can only look at Bucky, and try to work out if this is real. 

It must be. You can feel the heat. The electricity. Smell Bucky’s cologne.  

It’s real. 

“When?” Your question is only a breath, and he lets out a humorless laugh. 

“First time I saw you.”

“Same.”

Bucky blinks, then his eyes widen. “Are you-“

“Are you?”

“Yeah, I- Of course I am-“

“Then yes.”

His face splits into a wide grin. “Yes?”

You nod slowly, and say the only thing you ever could. “Yes.”

———

“Relax.” He mutters, and your fingers dig into his scalp. 

You can’t relax. You’ve spent too many nights dreaming of this, too many lovely dates and days of flowers waiting for it, too much time planning it out to the last detail, and-

Bucky kisses a soft spot on your neck, his tongue flicking over sensitive skin. You pull on his hair with a soft gasp, and he groans. 

“Relax, babydoll-“

“Can’t.” You gasp, back arching off the bed. 

His hand has found a comfortable home, right between your legs. His metal palm is resting right over you cunt, rubbing back and forth until you’re soaked through your panties. Your head is spinning. Bucky’s bare-chested and powerful above you, and he promised tonight, so there’s not fucking way you’re going to be able to relax. 

Because he made you wait. 

Bucky kissed you stupid in his office—made a whole show out of it, when he walked you out—and spent three weeks taking you out and promising soon. 

That if you wanted it to mean something, he couldn’t rush it. 

Only the best, for my girl.

You’ve pouted at him. Whined that as long as it’s Bucky, touching you and pulling you apart, that’s it. All you want. 

But he held onto his romantic night idea. Kissed your cheek and lips and neck, did everything but what you’d been waiting so fucking long for. 

And now you’re lying on his bed. And his hand is between your legs. 

He can tell you to relax all he fucking wants, there’s no way you’re going to be able to- 

Bucky murmurs your name in your ear, voice low and commanding. “I’m tellin’ you, relax.”

You twist to glare at him. “I’m telling you, James, I-“

He shoves your panties aside, thumb circling around your clit and one broad finger sliding into your cunt. 

Your mouth falls open in a shameless moan, and he captures the sound in a sloppy kiss. 

“So wet.” He mutters against your lips, and you spread your legs wider with a whine. “And needy. Sweet girl, you got somethin’ you want?”

“Yes.” You roll your hips, trying to fuck yourself on his finger. “You, Bucky, want- Want you-“

“You got me.” Another, softer kiss. “Always got me, doll.”

He starts to pump his finger in and out, at a slow torturous pace. His thumb still doesn’t fully hit your clit, but he moves slightly back on his knees. Attaches his mouth to one of your nipples, sucking and flicking his tongue as a second finger slides in. Your breathing starts to come shorter and shorter, and you’re shamelessly grinding onto his hand. 

The softer one—the one that had been tracing your lips, then holding your waist—slides over your abdomen and pins you down. Bucky sits fully back on his knees, giving you a stern look. 

“You gotta re-“

“Don’t-“ You whine, writhing in the sheets as his finger stills inside of you. “Don’t tell me to relax, Bucky- I- I need it, you know I need it, please-“

You’re on the brink of tears, but you’re on fire. Every nerve is lit up, you’re already molten putty for him to play with, you need him. He knows you need him. 

And there’s love in his eyes. Real, deep love that you’re falling into like crashing through the stars. It’s shining, as you pout up at him and try to squirm below him. 

So much love. 

Not an ounce of sympathy. 

“Hold still.” He warns softly, thumb resuming it’s slow circles, and you flutter around his fingers. “Baby, we talked about this, I can do it how you want, or-“

“How I want.” You force yourself to stop moving, but god, it’s hard. 

But so is Bucky. You can see the outline of him, pressing through his sweats. Making your mouth water, and pussy clench again. 

Bucky raises his brows, and you flush.

“That- that one was a mistake-“

“Hm.” He just keeps looking at you. Like you’re something beautiful. 

Some artwork, that he’s entirely ready to ruin.

But still, his voice becomes a little softer. “Sweetheart, if you’re not ready-“

“I’m ready.” You wrap your arms around your stomach, giving him a pleading look. “Please. I’m ready, I- I want all of it. You.”

He hums. “And I told you-“

“I know. I still want it-“

“Yeah, you want it.” He sighs, thumb finally pressing right over your clit. A high, strangled whimper leaves your throat, but you somehow manage to keep still. 

“Bucky-“

“You want it hard.” He drawls, tracing the hand on your stomach up your sides. You shiver, and he smirks. “But you’re so sensitive, babydoll.”

“But, that-“ You flush, gaping up at him a little uselessly. “That’s good, right?”

He chuckles. “For me. But sweet girl, you’re walkin’ a big walk,” he leans down, letting his lips brush over yours. “For someone who can’t even take my fingers in her pretty little pussy.”

You gasp, and he presses the thumb on your clit a little harder.

“Yeah, you like that, don’t you?” His eyes are dark on yours, voice low. “You don’t want me to fuck you like you get all pretty when I say I’m going to fuck you. That I’m so hard for you it’s hurtin’?”

“Oh- Oh my god.” Your hands shoot up to grab his shoulders, and his fingers start to pump again. 

“There she is.” He trails soft kisses on your neck, even as his fingers hit a pace that’s like a drill. “Yeah, keep singin’, doll. It feel good?”

You nod, back arching off the mattress. “So- So good, Bucky, yes-“

“You think you can take my cock?” He hums and you squeak. 

It’s one thing to dream about it. One thing to imagine it, over and over. 

Another to feel it. Hear him. Have his metal fingers moving inside you, hitting a deep spot while his thumb plays with your clit. 

It’s a new kind of high. A vulnerable, nervous, embarrassing high. 

And Bucky isn’t having it. He leans up, fingers never breaking pace, and grabs your gaze. Forces your hooded, glazed eyes onto his sharp, darkened ones. 

“Answer me, pretty girl.” 

You make an incoherent sound, and he picks up his pace. 

“With words.”

“I- I can-“ Your words fall into a moan, as he starts to rub inside of you. “I can take it-“

“Good girl.” Bucky pulls out his fingers, and laughs softly when you whine at the loss. “Babydoll, if you’re coming, it’s on my cock.”

Oh. 

 You can live with that. 

Bucky rises back up on his knees. Pulls himself out of his sweats slowly, his eyes never leaving yours. And he’s big. Bigger than you thought, even with the size of his bulge in the jeans. You swallow, wrapping your arms around your body, but he just laughs softly.  

“No.” He strokes himself slowly, moving your arms to be pinned over your head. “Keep lookin’ at me, sweet girl. Wanna watch you feel it.”

You nod weakly, and you couldn’t look away if you tried. He’s got you exactly where he wants you. 

Exactly where you want to be. 

Bucky slides his cock between the soaked lips of your pussy, the head of him bumping your clit. You make soft sounds with every wet sound and touch, but he doesn’t hurry up. Just watches you with that darkened affection, cooing your name when you start to whimper. 

“Even that feelin’ like too much, doll?”

“I- I just- Oh.” You moan as he slaps his cock against you, a pleasurable little shudder racking your body. “Bucky-“

“That’s my name.” He murmurs, watching himself rub against you. “Save it for when I’m fuckin’ you, pretty baby.”

He has to stop the pet names, the teasing, the low, taunting voice. It’s making you fucking dizzy, which isn’t fucking fair. You’re already wound so tight. Every already feels so good it’s like you’re about to fly out of your body.  

“Can- Can you please just-“ You take a ragged breath as he bumps over your entrance. “I need it, I need it, Bucky, I can’t take it-“

“Shh.” He leans down, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips, and you might have been about to cry. “Can you relax for me, my sweet girl?”

You nod, and it’s not like you have much of a choice. Not when Bucky keeps kissing you so gently, and you go limp as he notches himself against your cunt.

“Breathe.” He mutters, and you obey blindly. 

It was a good order. 

All the air is knocked from your lungs as Bucky slides home. 

You can feel him everywhere. The hardness, the perfect stretch that makes those tears start to fall, the pure fucking glory of Bucky Barnes, bottoming out so deep inside of you he might be in your throat. You make a strangled plea of his name, and he kisses you all over your face, still inside of you. 

“It’s okay, doll, takes some time.” He kisses the corner of your mouth with a smile, and you wrap your arms around his neck. 

You hadn’t even realized he let your wrists go. You just want to be closer. 

And slowly, the pain of the intrusion starts to morph. Turns into white-hot pleasure, from the sensation of fullness. From the hunger for more. 

“Bucky.” You mumble in his ear, wiggling slightly below him. “Move, please.”

He rises up, attention still soft. “Yeah?”

You nod, and he lets out a heavy breath. Leans down to kiss you so lovingly, you almost forget that he’s buried deep in your pussy. 

Almost. 

Then he starts to move. 

Bucky starts slow. Holding you like glass, pulling out then slowly driving back in. Making you feel all of it. The drag of his cock, the heat of his lips all over your skin, the press of his balls against your ass. His hands wander shamelessly, seemingly focused on feeling as much of you as possible. 

“Feel so good, sweet girl.” He drawls as he palms your breasts, kneads your hips, rubs at your waist. “So fuckin’ tight and warm, dripping on my cock. So good.”

It’s all making you lightheaded, and building the heat in your core, but it’s so gentle. You can feel the tension in his shoulders, as he holds himself back. 

“Oh, fuck.” He mutters, squeezing your ass as he angles it a little up. Hits a little deeper.

You squeak, nails digging into his shoulders, and Bucky chuckles. 

“Yeah, that’s it, babydoll. Takin’ this cock so well.” He kisses you, deep and heavy. “So fuckin’ pretty. My best girl.”

The praise goes right to your head and cunt. 

Suddenly, it’s not enough. 

“Bucky.” You mumble, tugging at his hair for attention. 

He draws up quickly, concern all over his face. “What, what’s wrong-“

“Not enough.” You grab his hand, holding it to his chest and grinding into his cock. “More. Please.”

It takes him a second to get it. 

You can see the exact moment he does. 

“Goddamnit.” He rasps, hips jerking slightly. “You- Sweetheart, I don’t wanna-“

“Please.” You repeat, giving him your best, poutiest look. “Harder, Bucky. I- I need it.”

He blinks at you slowly, then nods. 

He’s the one who said whatever you want. And this is what you fucking want. 

There’s one more, soft kiss. A reminder, that this is still something sacred. Then Bucky draws up, one hand lightly resting on your waist, and draws almost fully out. 

You don’t get to even register what’s happening before he’s slamming back in, and the loudest moan you’ve ever heard falls from your lips. 

Bucky’s eyes flash, and he repeats the motion. You look up at him in a cockdrunk gaze, and for once, you’re not thinking about anything. 

It feels too good to think. Bucky’s too much to think. 

And he’s looking at you like he’s found heaven. His hand on your waist tight enough to leave a bruise, the other one pinning your hip to the bed. 

“Good?” He rasps out, and you nod.

There are only two words you remember. 

Bucky. 

More. 

And you don’t even have to beg for them, because he gives them to you both at once. 

Bucky leans down, kissing you with teeth and spit and want, then starts to fuck you like a man possessed. 

It’s fucking paradise. He pounds into your cunt until it’s aching and on fire, everything in your body dangling right over the edge of some great fall. He grunts with every thrust, skin slapping against skin and the bed creaking. His kisses start to roam, but remain open-mouthed and starved. 

It’s too much. It’s not enough. You reach up for him, and he grabs your hands and puts them back over your head. You call his name in a broken, heady plea, and he just makes an animalistic noise and fucks you hard. 

“Bucky-“ He hits that deep, sensitive spot inside of you, and you moan. “Bucky-“

He groans your name, and he looks like a god above you. Sculpted chest and massive arms, handsome face slack with his own pleasure, eyes fixed on you with such reverence and disrespect. The black and gold of his arm shines in the dark. Every time he kisses your cervix, you flutter around him, and he makes the most sinful sound you’ve ever heard.

Bucky’s thrusts start to grow a little less measured, and you’re all but a broken, fucked out mess below him. So impossibly sensitive to every touch—even just his thumb, rubbing small circles on your wrist—yet unable to find that release. 

A low, desperate sound rumbles through Bucky’s chest, and he’s rutting into you so fast you’re reduced to nothing but a slack mess below him. He slides in and out without resistance, you can feel your arousal dripping down onto your ass, and you’re so close- 

“Let go, babydoll.” He grunts, spitting onto his free fingers and starting to rub your swollen clit. “C’mon, cum for me-“

You see white, when your orgasm hits, and you scream his name so loud your voice goes hoarse. 

Bucky makes a feral noise of your name, as he keeps fucking you through it. And you’re barely floating down when he pulls out, slaps your clit with his cock, and cums all over your stomach. Sticky and possessive and hot.

So fucking hot.

A soft breath escapes your lips, and Bucky reaches down with a gentle hand. Brushes your hair out of your face, and kisses the tip of your nose. 

“That it?” He murmurs, and you know he’s already thinking about the after. All the cleaning he told you he’d take care of, because he just wanted you to worry about feeling good. 

He’s so fucking perfect, it makes you giggle. 

Bucky frowns. “What’s funny?”

“Nothing.” You hum, pulling him down into a long, safe, certain kiss. “That was it.”

Metallica. AC/DC. Led Zeppelin. Guns N’ Roses. Iron Maiden.

Bands that unite everyone with sick riffs and pure rock energy that still blasts through people’s headphones and car stereos to this day. Timeless. Monumental. Sensational.

You could be complete opposites with someone—hell, even sworn enemies—but there’s one thing people will always agree on, and that’s good fucking music.

And that’s exactly why Bucky can’t stand what he’s seeing right now.

Because there you are—sitting in the student union—with John fucking Walker beside you, talking your ear off about “seventeen thirty-eight,” “strip clubs,” and “trap beats.”

All telltale signs of shitty music. Music Bucky hates—and music he definitely knows you hate too.

Yet there you sat, in your cute little pink outfit, twirling a strand of hair around your finger and nodding along to every word America’s Asshole had to say.

“Buck,” Steve called, his eyes glued to his laptop screen. “Did you already submit your article for—” he glanced up mid-sentence and paused when he noticed Bucky’s glare fixated somewhere past him.

Steve’s eyes followed, glancing over his shoulder, and he let out an agitated sigh at the sight.

“So fucking stupid,” Bucky muttered under his breath, clicking angrily at his pen.

“Buck,” Steve tried again.

Bucky sat up straight, tearing his eyes away from you. “What?”

“Stop looking at her,” Steve lectured, tapping away on his laptop. “You’ve got no chance.”

Bucky let out a harsh, disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. He’d heard that claim a hundred times from his friends, but only he knew the truth.

He did have a chance with you.

He had a chance with you that night weeks ago, when he locked eyes with you across the crowd at a house party. He remembered the night clearly. Some underground garage band was thrashing in the backyard, and he was squeezing through the crowd to find the bathroom—that’s when he saw you. All the breath was knocked out of his lungs. He thought you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

He never expected to find someone like you—someone who’s popular and thrives on the attention of football players—at a party like that, much less listening to music like this.

The whole concept of popularity in college was stupid. He thought that shit ended in high school, but you proved him wrong, and he hated you for it. Every man turned their head when you walked by, girls started dressing like you, and everyone scrambled for an invitation to the parties you hosted.

God, he fucking despised girls like you.

But there you were that night, stripped away from all the popularity, the tight clothes and short skirts, and the preppy makeup. You were just… a dirtbag.

Just like him.

Bucky didn’t know what came over him, but he started moving before he could think, his feet carrying him through the crowd toward you. He tapped you on the shoulder and you turned, eyes bright and wild. He said your name, and you… just stared at him.

He remembered that face clearly, a blank look that told him he was no one to you.

Of course you didn’t know his name. You were complete opposites after all.

He immediately regretted walking over to you. At that point, he wished the ground would’ve just swallowed him whole.

Just as he turned to leave, you snagged his wrist and smiled.

Then you said, “Bucky Barnes, right?”

And then that night, he took you to the bathroom, where he fucked you hard against the sink, the door, and the toilet seat—kept you full of his cock until you were a crying, moaning mess. It was the best night of his life. The sloppy sex, your voice crying his name through the music, your manicured fingernails digging into his back and gripping his hair. He could never forget it, because that night replayed in his mind every time he jerked off to the thought of you.

You exchanged numbers, and the next morning, he woke up to a text message from you that ended your guys’ story before it could even start.

👑: hey

👑: can we keep what happened last night between the two of us?

No explanation. Bucky didn’t need one.

And like the stupid idiot he was, he let you get away.

bucky: yeah

bucky: looks bad

From there on, you were his dirty little secret.

And he was yours.

“I don’t know why that girl’s got you wrapped around her perfectly polished finger,” Steve continued, snapping Bucky back to reality. “You’ve got girls throwing themselves at you after every show, yet you can’t stop staring at her. I thought we hated girls like her?”

Bucky’s jaw clenched, his eyes drifting back to you and John. “I do hate her.”

“Hate her or want to fuck her?”

Bucky shot him a sharp glare. “Steve.”

Steve chuckled and raised his hands up in surrender, shrugging. “I’m just sayin’. It’s hard to tell nowadays with you.” He shut his laptop and got up, swinging his backpack over his shoulder. “And don’t forget about the gig this—”

“This Friday,” Bucky interrupted gruffly. “I know.”

“And don’t forget to hang the posters—”

“I’ll do that right now.”

Steve grinned, ruffling Bucky’s shaggy hair before Bucky swatted his hand away. “Good boy.”

“Get out of my face, Steve.”

Once Steve was out of the way, Bucky’s eyes naturally flickered back to you. By the time he was looking, you were already staring at him—not at John Walker, but at him. You should’ve looked away, but right now, the only interesting thing in this room was Bucky. Not the blonde droning on about “sicko mode” or “mo bamba,” whatever the hell those words even meant.

And how could you possibly look away when Bucky was holding your gaze just as intensely?

But then, with an agitated sigh that you could practically hear across the union, he swiped his belongings off the table and left the room, breaking the silent staring contest.

“So anyway,” John spoke up. “Are you coming this Friday?”

You turned to him, reluctantly. “What’s happening on Friday?”

John laughed, almost disbelieving. It was very obvious from the start that you weren’t listening to him—nor did you have the intention to—yet he still stayed. John was persistent: he’d get into the skirts of any attractive, popular girl on campus, and for a football player like him, having a hot girl on his arm was simply an ego boost.

“The big game is on Friday,” he said flatly, as if you were the stupid one. “And then the frat party right after.”

“Oh,” you blinked, trying to play dumb. “Right.”

A small, almost doubtful smile tugged at his lips. “So you’re coming, right?”

You forced a smile so wide it hurt. “Of course I am.”

John let out a low whistle, clapping his hands together loud enough to make a few heads turn. You had to bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from cringing.

“That’s my girl!”

My girl?

You couldn’t hold the cringe back anymore, your face scrunching up into a sour expression before you could stop it. John was too far ahead of himself to even notice. You got up suddenly, snapping John out of his little victory dance.

“I’m going back to the chapter house to study—”

“Oh!” John immediately jumped up with you. “Let me walk you back, then.”

“I can walk myself,” you said, flashing a polite smile as you pushed your chair in and made your escape before he could argue.

Behind you, you heard John gathering his things frantically, the chair squeaking as he scurried after you. “Wait!” he called out, but you continued walking, pretending not to hear him.

You pushed the door open, and just as it was about to swing shut, John slammed his hand against the frame, barely catching it as he held the door open for himself.

“Wait—hold on—”

You rolled your eyes and continued walking, but you stopped short at the sight of Bucky standing in front of the message center. He was messily pinning up posters, scattering them across the board and blatantly covering the existing ones before his. Once John caught up, he opened his mouth to speak but noticed your attention was caught elsewhere. His eyes followed yours—and then he saw Bucky.

Bucky was covering up the frat party posters John had hung up earlier today, not even trying to be sneaky or ashamed about it.

“That fucking asshole,” John muttered under his breath, already stomping angrily toward Bucky.

“John,” you reached out, trying to stop him, but it was too late. “Wait!”

“Dirtbag Barnes!” John called out, finally catching up to him. His face was twisted in an angry, unpleasant look. He scrunched up his nose, looking down at Bucky like he was trash—even though there was only about an inch difference in height.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Bucky gave him an impassive look. “I’m putting up posters for my gig this Friday. What else?”

John scoffed. “You’re covering up my flyers for my party.”

“No one wants to go to that shit anyway.”

John let out a disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. His jaw clenched, and he fisted his hands at his sides. Just as he was about to raise one for a punch—leaving Bucky completely unflinching—you stepped in the middle.

“Jesus Christ, John!” you glared at him, putting your hand out defensively—a small, absurd barrier against a football player. You knew John was an asshole, but you also knew he wouldn’t risk his reputation and his spot on the team by laying a hand on a woman.

John sneered, dropping his hand reluctantly.

Bucky, meanwhile, offered him a smug, taunting grin. “Would you look at that,” he drawled. His eyes tracked you up and down slowly, before flicking back to John. “Your guardian angel, dressed in pink, here to rescue you.”

John let out a cruel, barking laugh at the comment. The taunt should have offended you, but you found yourself physically tilting your head down, trying to hide the pink flush on your cheeks as you bit back a smile, because... well…

Bucky had called you an angel!

“I don’t need ‘rescuing,’” John crossed his arms, completely oblivious to your reaction. “If anything, she was the one who saved you. If it weren’t for her, you already would’ve been doubled over on the floor with a bloodied fucking nose.”

“Great,” Bucky’s smile only grew wider. “Having a bruised nose would look sick when I perform on Friday.”

John made a face of disgust. “You’re fucking disgusting.”

“And you’re a fucking asshole. What else is new?”

“Bucky,” you warned.

His shoulders deflated just slightly. John mumbled something under his breath, already half-turned away and seemingly forgetting his mission to "walk you back to the house."

“Don’t linger around that dirtbag for too long,” John scoffed. “Unless you want to start smelling like trash.”

He gave Bucky one last dirty look, then turned back to the poster board, violently ripping one of Bucky’s posters down. He crumpled it in his hands, tossed the ruined paper haphazardly at Bucky, and finally walked away.

Once John was out of sight, Bucky turned his full attention to you. You didn’t even need to look at him to know the expression on his face; you could feel his judgmental glare burning into the back of your head. You turned to meet his eyes.

“Hey, loser.” You teased, trying to play dumb.

“John fucking Walker,” he said with an incredulous laugh. “Him, out of all people? Seriously?” He looked down at the crumpled paper in his hands, slowly unfolding it. “Can’t say I’m surprised,” he mumbled the last part—but you heard it perfectly clear.

“John and I aren’t dating—”

“Yeah?” Bucky cut you off. “Then why is he following you around like some lost fucking puppy?”

“I don’t know! He won’t leave me alone. He only keeps an arm around my shoulder because it makes him look good. It’s nothing serious,” you said defensively.

You honestly didn’t know why you’d let John hover around you like this for the past few days, or why you had done nothing to stop it. You were used to guys—especially the popular ones—flocking to you; being near you gave them an incredible ego boost. You were just an accessory, and before, you hadn’t cared. You thought the same thing of men like John. You weren’t any better.

But after meeting Bucky, after letting him touch and defile you the way he did at the house party, a deeper part of you couldn’t help but keep John slung over your shoulder just to see Bucky riled up and jealous.

“Nothing serious,” he nodded, the understanding look completely fake. “Just like the guy before? And the one before that?”

You crossed your arms. “What are you insinuating? That I’m some kind of slut?”

Bucky just grinned, playing with your reaction.

“No. Not at all, angel.” He took a step closer, his fingertips catching the ends of your hair, twirling it tauntingly in his fingers. “Because those guys haven’t had you the way I had you, is that right?”

You sucked in a sharp breath and glanced around warily. You hated how easily your body still reacted to him. You circled his wrist, prying his hand away with a shaky grip.

“Bucky,” you sighed, managing a firmer voice. “What we had weeks ago—it was a one-time thing. Someone like me would never—”

“...fuck around with a sleaze like me?” he tilted his head down at you, the look almost condescending despite the self-insult. “Is that what you were going to say?”

Truthfully, you were drawn to Bucky as powerfully as he was drawn to you. But you couldn’t date someone like him. College was about networking, surrounding yourself with upstanding people who would connect you to future success. Being around Bucky—all dark, baggy clothes, shaggy hair, stubble, and loud music—felt like a direct detour from that steady path.

Yet, you relished the way he fawned over you.

But then a colder feeling snapped you back to reality—maybe Bucky was no different from John. Maybe, by having a woman like you on his arm, he was just building his own brand of reputation, too.

That reminder alone was enough to bring you crashing back hard down to earth.

“Bucky, let’s be real,” you insisted, jutting a hip and crossing your arms to maintain confidence. “Aside from our music taste, we have nothing in common. We have no chemistry.”

You expected Bucky to be upset by that—to finally give up and retreat. But Bucky, unpredictable as always, only smiled wider. He leaned in, his warm, low breath feathering against your ear.

“Oh, princess,” he cooed, his voice low and raspy. “You didn’t even know what chemistry was until you met me.”

Your face immediately warmed with sudden heat. You couldn’t understand how Bucky—a guy who managed to set most people off with an unintentional string of words and only hung out with the same three people—could make you melt with such a simple phrase.

“Th-that’s…” you cleared your throat, already turning halfway, “…so unbelievably corny.”

Bucky chuckled behind you, but before you could take three full steps, he called your name.

Like an idiot, you stopped and turned back around.

“Can you make it this Friday?” he asked, and suddenly he didn’t sound so confident. His brow furrowed just slightly, and his shoulders slumped a little with genuine appeal.

“To your gig?” you frowned.

He nodded, handing you the crumpled, unfolded paper of his flyer. You glanced down at it; in big, bold black letters, “CIVIL WAR” was written in the center in a messy grunge, edgy style.

Bucky pressed his lips together, already knowing what you were thinking. John had his football game and the frat party on the same night. And one thing Bucky knew about you was that you never skipped out on a party.

He glanced at John’s remaining poster on the message board, then back at you.

“Come on. Just skip a party for one night and come watch me play instead,” he pleaded. “Listen to actual good music. Not that… trap shit Walker was going on about.” He motioned lazily with his hand toward John’s poster.

“I won’t go,” you said flatly. But despite your words, you folded the crumpled paper neatly and tucked it into your shoulder bag.

He smiled as he watched you. “That’s a shame. I want to see my pretty girl in pink cheering my name in the crowd.”

You felt like the breath got knocked out of your lungs. When John Walker called you his girl just a few minutes ago, you wanted to double over and hurl vomit all over his pristine Nikes. But hearing Bucky call you his girl—his pretty girl—made you want to drop everything and run into his arms.

But instead, you inhaled a steady breath and turned on your heel. “I’m not going to that dump just to watch mediocre playing,” you shouted over your shoulder.

Bucky just barked a laugh behind you—a sound that couldn’t help but make a smile tug reluctantly at your lips.

“Alright. I’ll see you there, princess.”

It was Wednesday night, and Bucky was practicing drums in his garage with the rest of Civil War: Steve on lead guitar and vocals, Sam on backup guitar and vocals, and Natasha on bass.

Mid-song, Nat stilled her fingers on the strings and shook her head, letting out an exasperated sigh. “Steve, are you getting sick? You sound off.”

Steve turned from the microphone and gave Nat a look. “I’ve been singing for two hours straight. Of course, I sound off.”

“Amateur,” Bucky coughed behind his fist.

Sam and Nat chuckled until Steve turned and gave them all a dirty look that silenced them. “Shut the hell up, Buck. You’re drumming off-beat too, and it’s throwing the rest of us off.”

Bucky huffed a laugh. “That’s impossible. I’m the drummer, so technically, you all have to follow me.”

Sam scrunched his face. “That’s not how it works.”

“Whatever,” Nat cut in, already lifting the strap of her bass over her head. “Let’s all take five,” she said, pointing a finger at Steve. “Go drink some water.”

As everyone scattered, their idle chatter filling the garage, Bucky’s thoughts raced back to you. He’d sounded so confident when he said, “I’ll see you there,” but in reality, he wasn’t confident at all. He knew girls like you were avid partygoers, and he hadn’t cared until he met you—until he had a taste, until he had marked your body and claimed it as his.

Now, the idea of you going to that party, vulnerable among assholes like John Walker, sent his blood boiling.

He pulled his phone from the back pocket of his worn jeans and opened social media. Of course, he immediately saw a bunch of stories from tonight’s party. Seriously, what was the appeal of all these parties anyway? On a Wednesday night, too. It was unbelievable, he thought, even though he was staying up way past midnight rehearsing for his own gig.

His thumb idly scrolled through stories until a particular one stopped him cold. It was a brief video of you, dancing exuberantly—and clearly drunk—to loud music. You were in your typical cute little outfit; short skirt, heels, and plenty of pink. Bucky’s jaw tightened as he replayed the clip, devouring every detail. Your skirt was riding high, giving the camera—and everyone nearby—an ample view of your legs. The way you moved, the way your body was bouncing as you danced…

It sent a thunderbolt of desire straight through his body and right to his dick.

“Alright, break time’s over,” Steve announced, tapping the microphone so the sound echoed through the garage. He looked over his shoulder at Bucky, who was still absorbed by his phone.

“Buck. Did you hear me? I said break time’s—”

“I gotta use the bathroom,” Bucky snapped, shoving himself out of his drum seat. The cymbals clanged loudly as he bumped into them in haste.

“What? Where the hell are you going—!” Sam barked, but Bucky was already past the door.

Bucky scrambled quickly to the bathroom, slamming the door shut and locking it. His phone shaky in his hands, he kept replaying the video of you over and over again. How badly he wanted to send you a text, to drive over there and pick you up just so he could keep you for himself. He wanted to be the only one to see you like this—not John Walker, not your stupid sorority posse of mean girls.

Just him.

His erection was pressing insistently against his boxers and jeans, and he knew he couldn’t go back out there in… such a state.

He set his phone down on the bathroom sink, unbuckling his belt quickly, pushing his jeans down along with his boxers. His cock sprang out, heavy, slapping against his lower belly—aching to be touched. He replayed the story a few more times, then shut his eyes as his eager hands went down to his dick with a low groan.

“Fuck,” he groaned to himself, tossing his head back as his mind started to fill with flashbacks of the night he had you.

He remembered you on your knees on the bathroom tile, taking him in your perfectly puckered lips that shined with a shimmery lip gloss.

“Fuck, angel…” he moaned as he balanced one hand against the wall, his forehead pressing against it as the other hand fisted his cock eagerly. His hand wasn’t nearly as soft, as warm, and as wet as your lips. But this would have to do for now.

He started rocking his hips into his hand as he remembered the way you batted your cute, long eyelashes at him. He groaned, his thumb swiping over his slit, spreading pre-cum over his cockhead.

“God, baby…” he sighed. “This isn’t fucking fair—you shouldn’t be flaunting yourself at these… stu—stupid parties,” his fist moved faster, and his legs started to shake as he remembered your soft legs wrapped around his waist as he held you up and fucked you against the door.

“You should be here… w-with me, fuck, baby.”

He squeezed his eyes shut, his breath hissing out as his hand quickened its pace around his shaft. The more he surrendered to the filthy thoughts of you, the more his cock throbbed and jerked in his grasp.

He replaced the feel of his fist with the tight, wet warmth of your mouth. He visualized the way your tongue trailed along the heavy underside of his cock, lapping at every sensitive ridge. Bucky’s eyes snapped open, his vision blurred as he focused on the floor, imagining you kneeling directly in front of him.

“Fuck… just like that, baby,” he moaned to himself, his hips moving in rhythm with his fist, as if you were taking him in your mouth.

“Gonna… fuck, gonna paint your fucking pretty face with my seed, princess.”

The imagined sounds of your moans and gasps drowned out the guitars and Steve’s singing from the next room. Your sweet voice, the way you cried his name and begged him to cum inside you—it was enough to shatter his control.

His rhythm broke, and his grip turned sloppy over his cock as he pulsed and shuddered. “Fuck… baby, I’m gonna cum—” he groaned, driving a hard and final thrust into his palm, spilling himself all over his fingers.

Catching his breath, he watched his seed drip down his hand and onto the cold tiles. With a soft sigh, he reached for the toilet paper, meticulously wiping himself and the floor clean.

Bucky knew this was wrong, finding arousal in the sight of you drunk at a party and fixating on the memory of the night you shared, but he was powerless to stop.

He claimed he hated you, but the hatred wasn’t for you.

It was for the fact that he couldn’t have you. It was for the fact that you wouldn’t choose him.

Sam’s fist hammered on the bathroom door. “Bucky—what the hell are you doing in there?”

“I’m—uh,” Bucky stammered. “Taking a shit.”

“Well, hurry the hell up. Steve’s getting upset and we need to nail this song down by Friday, man.”

Bucky hauled his jeans up, his belt clanking as he swiftly buckled it into place. “Tell that punk to inhale and exhale for five and I’ll be right out.”

He couldn’t see it, but he could practically feel Sam’s eye roll from just outside the door. Sam mumbled a quiet “whatever,” and the sound of his footsteps shuffled away from the door and down the hall.

Just as Bucky reached for the lock, his phone dinged with a notification. He looked down at the screen, and he felt his breath catch in his throat.

👑: bucky. can you pick me up? please?

And that was all it took.

He pocketed his phone and pushed the bathroom door open. He strode back to the garage to retrieve his jacket—instantly earning a round of “where the hell do you think you’re going?” from Sam, Steve, and Nat.

“I’ve got an emergency, just…” he motioned dismissively, “practice without me.”

They continued to argue right up until Bucky snatched his keys and stomped out the front door and into his car, but he didn’t heed their complaints—you needed him. You needed his help.

And that was the final truth Bucky hated.

He hated how effortlessly he could drop everything—no matter how important—just to answer your call.

Bucky broke every speed limit to get to you, to reach the stupid party you’d gotten caught up in. The entire drive, his mind raced with several thoughts: that you were okay, that you weren’t hurt, that one of those filthy frat boys hadn’t put their hands on you. When he pulled up to the house, you stumbled out by yourself to meet him at his car, but Bucky got out and steadied you, helping you slide into the passenger seat.

You reeked of alcohol, could barely stand, and your hair was disheveled—your makeup was a smeared mess.

“Jesus Christ,” Bucky mumbled as he buckled your seatbelt. “You look like a fucking mess.”

“Wow,” you sighed, your elbow propped on the center console as you struggled to keep yourself upright. “Aren’t you the sweetest thing?”

He only rolled his eyes as he made his way back to the driver’s seat, quickly getting in so no one at the party would spot him. “You also smell like shit.”

“Oh, come on,” you pouted. “Don’t be mean to me!” you whined as you gave his shoulder a playful nudge.

Bucky glanced at you, a warmth spreading across his face as he laughed at your words. This wasn’t the first time since you two met that you had called him in the middle of the night, needing his help. And every single time, he was there for you. Without fail.

“Me? Mean to you? Never,” he teased as he put the car in drive and gently pressed his foot on the gas.

You let out a soft giggle, your face flushed pink, the sound making Bucky’s heart flutter in his chest. He cleared his throat, keeping his eyes steady on the road. The speed he drove now was a complete contrast to his reckless drive to get to you. He was slower now—and despite the risk of you throwing up in his car—he took his sweet time driving you back to your house, all just so he could savor these few minutes with you.

“So…” he drawled, “… did something—”

“No. Nothing happened,” you answered immediately, already expecting the question. Every time Bucky picked you up, he always asked and made sure you were okay. “No one touched me. Well, they tried, but I didn’t let them. You know how these frat boys are.”

You looked out the window, your eyes glossy as the world outside blurred, but you caught Bucky’s reflection, and you spotted the way his jaw clenched.

“I just wanted to get out of there.”

“And the first person you thought to text was me,” he huffed a non-humorous laugh. “It’s starting to become a pattern, isn’t it?”

You, being in a drunken haze and completely oblivious to the strain in his voice, only tossed your head back and laughed.

“But you like it, don’t you? It gives you the excuse to see me,” you leaned over, poking your manicured finger at his cheek. “And I know how bad you want to see me.”

He parted his lips to say something—perhaps try to taunt you back—but the words caught in his throat. Because, despite your drunken state, the truth of your words was undeniable, and you knew it. You knew exactly how badly he wanted you, and here you were, drunk and vulnerable in his passenger seat, dangling that power right in front of him.

You noticed the grumpy look on his face and turned toward him, a lazy smile tugging at your lips. “Oh, don’t be mad, Buck,” you cooed, drawing out his name, which only made his grip on the wheel tighten. “You always look so serious when you’re mad. It’s kinda hot, actually.”

“Christ,” he muttered under his breath.

“What?” you giggled, leaning closer. “You don’t like it when I say stuff like that?”

If you were sober, he would’ve slammed the car into park, dragged you to the back seat, and claimed you for himself. But he couldn’t. Instead, his temper flared with how intensely you were taunting him, knowing damn well how much he wanted you.

“I don’t like it when you drink like this,” he shot back. “Or when you go to parties where you know those idiots can’t keep their hands to themselves. It’s self-sabotage.”

You pouted, the sound of it almost childlike. “You worry too much.”

“Someone has to,” he said with a scoff. “The Barbie and Ken dolls that you love to surround yourself with don’t seem to. That’s why you keep calling me instead—because no one else will.”

Your smile faltered.

His words struck you hard. Painful as they were, they rang true—a truth you never wanted to admit. You surrounded yourself with people like John Walker, who only cared about social status and appearances, always looking out for themselves and themselves only.

Bucky was genuinely the only person who looked out for you.

You leaned back in your seat, crossing your arms defensively over your chest, and turned your gaze back to the window. “Can you hurry up and take me home?” you said, your voice so painfully soft it was barely audible. “I feel sick.”

Bucky sighed, immediately regretting the words as they left his mouth. “Look, I just…” he pressed his lips together, struggling to find words that wouldn’t upset you further. “I worry, okay? You call me because you know I’ll show up. And I do, every time—”

“Yeah. You show up. Then you remind me why you shouldn’t have.”

Bucky exhaled sharply through his nose, frustration building in his chest. “That’s not fair.”

“Neither is what you said.”

A tense silence settled in the car again. He wanted to apologize, to tell you exactly how he felt every time he came to pick you up in the middle of the night. It was always about you—about the way his stomach twisted when you called his name through slurred words, needing him, wanting him, but just never in the way he needed you to.

But he couldn’t say that. Not when you were sitting there looking so small, so hurt.

So instead, he muttered, “Did you have anything to eat?”

You blinked, your eyes hazy as you looked back at him. “What?”

“You need to eat. You can’t drink on an empty stomach.”

“I haven’t,” you said, frowning. “I’m not hungry.”

Bucky flicked his turn signal on. Instead of turning right toward your sorority, he turned left, heading elsewhere. “We’ll stop by a gas station and pick you up something to eat.”

You scrunched your face, your nose wrinkling. “A gas station? That’s all greasy, processed food. I’m not messing up my diet.”

He huffed a laugh, trying to keep things light. “You just shot back a couple of tequilas and now you’re worried about your diet? A chili hotdog for one night isn’t going to ruin you.”

Each protest and whine went in Bucky’s ear and out the other. Once he pulled into the gas station’s parking lot, you sat reluctantly, arms crossed. Bucky laughed at your resistance, unbuckled your seatbelt, and hauled you up in one swift, steady motion. You collided into his chest as he wrapped a strong arm around you, holding you steady against him.

At this point, you weren’t drunk enough to be stumbling over yourself anymore, but you weren’t about to push yourself away from Bucky’s arms. He led you toward the hot food section, and your nose was immediately hit with the smell of the rotating hotdogs.

You made a sour face. “Please tell me you’re not actually going to feed me that.”

He grinned, already grabbing a bun and splitting it open. He grabbed a hotdog—still slick with juices—and slapped it onto the bun. He started loading it with chili from the dispenser, the machine sputtering and making strange noises as it poured its goopy contents, nearly overflowing.

“That looks disgusting.”

He only laughed as he started piling on shredded cheese that had been sitting on the counter for God knows how long, followed by diced onions and a drizzle of mustard.

He turned to you and held it up. “There. Five-star dining.”

You blinked down at the hotdog, not even hiding the disapproving look on your face.

When you didn’t move, he let out a low sigh and gently took your hand, guiding the hotdog towards you. “C’mon. Just one bite.”

The warmth of his hand pressed against yours, and for a second, you felt your breath catch in your throat at the contact. You stared at him—the faint smirk on the corners of his lips, the messy hair falling into his eyes—and was that eyeliner?

With a hesitant sigh, you took a bite. Immediately, your face twisted, but you didn’t stop chewing. “Oh my god, that’s so bad.”

He laughed—a real one this time, soft and deep. “You’re a goddamn liar. You love it.”

He turned to make his own hotdog, and you couldn’t help the smile twisting at your lips as you watched him. At the party, there was no one else like him. There was no one with baggy and ripped jeans, scuffed Converse, or shaggy hair who wore eyeliner. You watched his hands as they got to work on the hotdog. His hands were calloused—not because he worked out frequently or obsessed over sports. His hands were rough because of his constant drumming.

And for some reason, that fact made your body warm.

After he paid for the hotdogs, he led you back outside where you two sat in his car, Iron Maiden playing on his speakers at a low volume—music they would never play at the parties you go to, and music you secretly enjoyed.

He had his seat reclined back, arms draped behind him as he ate his hotdog. The both of you sat in comfortable silence—aside from the music playing—as you looked out at the ongoing traffic, the lights and cars zooming past each other.

“I fuckin’ love this song,” Bucky said, turning The Trooper up. “The band and I have been trying to learn it—but Steve can’t even get the beginning riff right.” He shook his head, taking another bite.

“I’m sure Steve’s trying his best,” you casually took a bite. “He’s probably just rushing the gallops.”

Bucky paused mid-bite, turning to you with a surprised look on his face. “Look at that,” he grinned, leaning over and ruffling your hair. “You know what gallops are—how cute.” He finished his hotdog, crumpling up the wrapping paper.

“Sooner or later you’re going to be wearin’ black eyeliner and replace Steve as the lead guitarist in my band.”

“God—no,” you scoffed lightly. “I would rather be caught dead than be seen wearing sloppy dark make up around my eyes.”

He gave you a look. “You’re sayin’ my eye make up is sloppy?”

A small, smug smile tugged at your lips. “I’m saying you could do a better job,” you motioned to beneath your eyes, “at blending it in.”

“Oh yeah? Enlighten me.”

You crumpled up the wrapper of your hotdog and tossed it somewhere in the backseat. Leaning down, you rummaged through your pink handbag and pulled out a black eyeliner pencil.

“Wouldn’t be caught dead wearing it, yet you have an eyeliner pencil in your purse?”

“Shut up,” you mumbled.

You crawled over the center console, squeezing and wiggling your way into the tight space between the driver’s seat and the steering wheel, nestling yourself onto his lap. Bucky’s body suddenly felt so warm, his heart thumping so loudly in his chest that he prayed you couldn’t hear it.

He also prayed that you couldn’t feel his hardening erection.

“Okay,” he tried to say casually, but he couldn’t help but feel giddy.

He went still as your hand came up, your thumb resting just beneath his eye. The car suddenly felt so small—so suffocating. You leaned in, close enough for him to catch the faint scent of your expensive perfume—the exact one he smelt that night he had you.

You were close, so fucking close.

All he had to do was lean in and kiss you.

He let out a shaky exhale, and you furrowed your brow slightly.

“Your hair’s in the way,” you said, your soft hand running through his long hair, pushing it back from his face.

He was so starved for your attention and touch, that the gentle graze alone, the suffocating proximity, your smell, your voice—it was all enough to make his cock unbearably hard. And he knew you could feel it now too; every exhale you let out was shaky, and your hands were trembling just slightly. He was confident you felt the same tension he did when your eyes flickered down to his lips just briefly before looking back up.

Bucky cleared his throat, his hands subconsciously finding your hips and holding you in place. “How are you feeling?”

You paused. “Better now,” you slowly retreated your hand. “Head hurts a little. But I mostly just feel exhausted.”

He nodded. “We should take you home—”

“Wait,” you pulled out your phone, opening the camera app and flicking it to the front camera. “Look. It looks way better, doesn’t it?”

He paused, taking your phone and looking at himself carefully. He huffed a laugh. “Yeah, I guess it does. You know—” he handed your phone back to you, “you should be my makeup artist for my gigs. You’re coming to my show on Friday, right? You can do my makeup then.”

You rolled your eyes. “You want me to be both your makeup artist and your cheerleader? For free?”

His hand couldn’t help but wander to your backside, more instinct than intentional, really. But you didn’t pull away. If anything, you leaned closer to him.

“Come on, just show up for me. I show up for you all the time, don’t I?” his eyes flickered down to your top. “I could even make you a band shirt, and I’ll have it designed all pink and pretty instead of black—just for you. What do you say?”

You couldn’t help but smile. “I’m not showing up to your gig, Buck.”

He smiled back, a little crooked. “Whatever you say, princess.”

You two stared at each other for a moment, neither pulling away. The Iron Maiden track and the sounds of the street began to die down; it was well past two a.m. in an empty parking lot, quiet and dark, leaving the two of you alone in that confined, tense space.

Bucky felt his heart hammering against his ribs. If he could freeze time, he would stop it right here. It was just the two of you—you sitting pretty in the passenger seat of his beat-up car, his favorite band faintly playing. It was perfect. All that was left to do was kiss you.

“You’re so fucking pretty,” he mumbled so quietly it was more for himself than for you.

His face immediately burned when he saw the mischievous glint in your eye and the curl of your lips.

You leaned in closer, your lips barely brushing against his, teasing—taunting. “Am I?”

He shuddered. “The prettiest girl I have ever seen.”

You swiped your tongue across your bottom lip, making Bucky’s breath catch in his throat. Before he could react, you closed the remaining space between you and pressed your lips against his.

His body melted instantly at your touch, as if he’d been anticipating this very moment, and he let out a low groan as his fingers slid into the strands of your hair, his grip tightening just enough to hold you still against him as his lips explored yours hungrily.

You felt him push his tongue past your lips, exploring frantically, tasting you as much as he could—his body moving in a way that was filled with desperation, yet still savoring the moment. He kept kissing you until you were both out of breath. He pulled away, his hand still tangled in your hair, not wanting to let go. He sighed softly and pressed your forehead against his.

“Fuck, princess… I…” he breathed, pressing another messy kiss to your lips. “I’ve been waiting to kiss you all night.”

You huffed a breathless laugh. “I know you were. I could see it in your eyes the minute you picked me up.”

He gave your hips a gentle, yet possessive squeeze as his hands moved up your thighs and around your waist. “There are so many things I want to do to you,” he managed, swallowing hard. “And it fucking kills me knowing I can’t.”

“Do things like what?” you teased, your fingers tracing the pattern of his T-shirt across his chest.

His jaw went slightly slack. He watched your fingers graze his clothed chest, breathing hard. “Like… lift up this tiny skirt,” he muttered, his hand playing with the hem of your miniskirt, “push your panties to the side, and fuck you right here on my lap.”

A small, complacent smile tugged at your lips as you gave your hips a subtle roll, feeling the thick bulge of him against his jeans.

“Yeah?” you leaned closer, your lips brushing against his. “You want me to ride you? Right here, in your car?”

A deep groan rumbled from his chest as his hands shoved the hem of your skirt higher, his erection straining against his denim as he caught sight of your bare and supple thighs.

“Don’t push me, princess,” he muttered, his fingers slinking underneath your panties, gently grazing your mound. His thumb found your clit and rubbed, his fingers dipping a little deeper, and his eyes darkened once he felt how warm and wet you were.

You whimpered, your hips immediately bucking into his touch. Your heart hammered in your chest and your legs felt like jelly just from being so close. The way Bucky called you "princess" made you feel something no other man ever had. You had been called plenty of pet names before, but none of them ever came from the campus dirtbag, Bucky Barnes.

“Call me princess again,” you pleaded.

“Oh, baby,” he rasped, one hand sliding behind you, squeezing your ass through your panties and pulling you impossibly closer. “You’re a princess, my fucking princess. Fuck. I worship the ground you walk on, and I want to keep you all to myself. And you know that—you know you’re my pretty little princess, don’t you?”

You nodded, biting your lip.

Bucky smiled softly at you, but every word that left his mouth was filthy. “You’re such a dirty little girl, yet you still want to be called a princess?” His hands found yours and guided your fingers down to his belt. “If you’re such a princess, why don’t you go ahead and help me out, baby? Go on. Help me out of these pants.”

Your manicured nails clinked against the buckle of his belt as you worked to remove it and unbutton his pants. He lifted his hips slightly, strong enough to hold you up, and helped you pull his cock free from the confines of his denim. He was already hard, already slick and pulsing—begging for your attention.

You gasped softly at the sight. You cupped him in your hands and began to pump him slowly. His hips immediately jerked, his mouth hanging open as he savored the feel of your smooth hand against his warm cock.

It had only been a few weeks since you had last seen him bare and aching for you, but it felt excruciatingly long. You watched him, mesmerized by the way his brows furrowed and his eyes kept fluttering shut under your movements. You knew he missed you just as much as you missed him.

“Does that feel good, Bucky?” you leaned in, pressing your forehead against his.

He sighed. “So good, angel… don’t fucking stop.”

While your palm worked his dick, you slowly rocked your hips back and forth against him, rubbing your clothed pussy against his thigh and making the car shake. Bucky watched the provocative sight; the roll of your hips, the way your miniskirt rode up to your waist—now a sad excuse for a belt.

The sight alone was enough to make his cock throb in your hands.

You looked down at him, letting out soft sighs and moans to help him along. Your hand began pumping him faster and harder, the speed quickly overwhelming him. And as much as he loved the feeling of your soft hands and the sight of your pretty nail polish around his cock, he couldn’t fight his greed.

He couldn’t control the burning desire to be buried deep inside you.

“Fuck—baby,” he grunted, his hands clamping down hard on your hips suddenly. “Hold on.”

“Hold on?” you raised a mocking brow. “But you just told me not to—”

He mumbled something grumpily under his breath that you couldn’t catch, his hands coming roughly to the waistband of your panties and trying to push them down. But his movements were clumsy, urgent, and desperate—nearly tearing your expensive, lacy underwear in his grasp.

“Bucky, baby—wait! You’re going to rip them. They’re my favorite pair—”

He groaned as he tore angrily at your panties, ripping a hole right in the center to expose your wet slit. You let out a sharp gasp at the sudden roughness, but his frenzied need for you sent butterflies to your stomach and made your core clench with anticipation.

“I’m sorry, baby,” he breathed, though he didn’t sound sincere at all. His hand found the base of his shaft, already positioning the tip toward your wet entrance. “I’m sorry. You know I can’t help myself around you, pretty princess. Especially not when you’re right here…” his tip caught your entrance, slowly pushing in—testing you, “…sitting so pretty in my lap, just asking to be ruined.”

Your hands steadied on his shoulders, your hips instinctively pulling away, intimidated by the size you haven’t had in weeks. “Bucky…”

“Don’t shy away now, baby,” he grunted, guiding your hips down. He slowly sank you deeper onto him.

You tossed your head back, gripping his shoulders tighter as he guided you down onto his lap. Your walls were warm as they fluttered around him, clenching down as you took him in slowly but eagerly.

“Fuck, princess…” he moaned, eyes locking onto yours. “You remember how to take me?”

“Of course I do,” you said, trying to maintain confidence. You nuzzled into his neck, pressing a soft kiss. “How can I not after the way you fucked me in the bathroom—oh!”

Your words were cut off by a sharp moan as Bucky rutted his hips up, his cock completely sheathing inside you in one hard motion. You shook in his lap at the rough thrust, and Bucky’s arms immediately hooked behind you, wrapping you tight against his chest as your face remained snuggled in the crook of his neck.

“Fuuck,” he moaned into your hair. “That’s it, baby. You’re taking me so good, aren’t you?” another hard thrust up, but his arms held you steady against him so you wouldn’t jolt again. “I bet your pretty little pussy missed me so much, is that right?”

“Yes!” you moaned into his neck. “I missed you so much, Bucky—”

“Yeah? You missed me?” he groaned, one of his hands tangling into your hair.

You yelped as he gave your hair a harsh tug, pulling your face away from his neck so you were forced to look at him. He held you absolutely still as he continued rutting up into you, his cock fucking you hard and deep. His tight grip on your body immobilized you, forcing you to take every inch of his relentless thrusts.

“Tell me, baby. Tell me how much you missed me.”

“I missed you s-so… so much. God, I missed you so much, Bucky!” you moaned, your neck slightly arched as you looked down at him.

A low, seductive sound rumbled from his throat, and he smiled—a nearly sneering grin. “Goddamn, you’re so cute when you tell me that,” he growled as his hips continued to pound into you, setting the driver’s seat creaking and the whole car shaking.

“I missed you too, princess. I missed you so much—your body... the way it’s pressed against mine... fuck, I missed holding you close—” he rushed out, staring at you with lustful, hazy eyes. “Now, tell me how good I’m fucking you. Tell me how good I’m making you feel—how no one else can fuck you as good as I can.”

Despite being trapped in his arms, you rocked your hips in time with his thrust, desperate for more friction.

“You’re fucking m-me… so good, Bucky. Oh my god, don’t stop—!”

“Now, will you tell me how no one else can fuck you as good as I can?” His voice turned soft and pleading, yet every word felt rough and demanding. “Tell me that I’m the only one for you—that I belong to you and you belong to me. God, please. Will you make me the happiest boy and tell me that, princess? Please?”

Tears prickled at the corners of your eyes as he pounded upward into you. You clung to his shoulders even tighter, your walls fluttering and clenching down on him as he only fucked you deeper; your chest pressed tightly against his with the force of his hold.

“I-I belong to you, Bucky. I only belong… to you!” you moaned, your voice pitching into a whine. “I’m yours, all yours—”

“Goddamn, you moan so pretty, baby,” he said softly.

A soft laugh left his lips as his thumb came up to wipe your tears, smearing your mascara and eyeliner. You felt his cock throb inside you at the sight—teary-eyed, mascara running, and eye makeup everywhere.

“Look at you, princess,” he breathed. His eyes were soft and admiring, but his thrusts were anything but. “You’re a crying little mess on my cock. And your makeup…” His fingers grazed beneath your eye, then gently pushed messy strands of hair away from your face. “You look so fucking beautiful like this. I want to keep you like this, a crying mess on my lap forever.”

Every sense was overwhelmed—the sharp scent of his cologne, his lustful, hungry gaze, the contrast of his gentle hands against his brutal thrusts, the soft sweetness of his voice delivering filthy words. You tightened around him, nearly coming undone.

Bucky groaned, driving another hard thrust as he felt you clench around him. “Fuck, baby, are you gonna cum?” his hands wandered back down, gripping your ass tight as he rutted into you. “Shit, princess. I’m gonna cum too—”

You couldn’t contain yourself. Tucking your head into the crook of his neck, you whined and moaned like a desperate slut as he drove you to release.

“Bucky!” you cried out his name, shaking and trembling in his lap as your climax hit you hard and fast. “I’m cumming—fuck—h-hold me—”

He cooed softly into your ear, his arms never losing their grip. “I’ve got you, baby. That’s it. Cum all over me, baby. Fuck—I’m gonna cum too—”

His words died in his throat as he tucked his face into your neck. Melting into one, you were impossibly close as he gave one final, hard rock of his hips upward, burying himself completely deep inside you. His cum filled you—warm and thick.

“My god, princess—you’re fucking... takin’ everything inside—shit...” he babbled, his hands wandering greedily and desperately all over you. Your waist, your thighs, your back, your hair. Everywhere.

Both of you were left panting in the driver’s seat, his body warm as he held you close. You kept your face buried in the comfort of his neck while he pressed soft kisses to your head. His arms now loosened their hold, his fingers grazing lazily—and lovingly—up and down your spine.

A soft smile curled at your lips. You loved this. You loved being nestled in his lap, held close after the nasty, filthy love he’d made to you. You loved the safety you felt in his arms—a feeling no one else could ever give you.

And in this moment, tangled up in each other’s grasp, you never wanted to leave.

“That was…” you panted, “really, really good—”

“Come to my show on Friday.”

“Bucky,” you pulled away slightly to meet his eyes, keeping your voice light with a soft, tired laugh. “I told you. I can’t—”

“Please,” he pleaded, his voice breathless. “There’s nothing that I want more than seeing my pretty girl in the crowd, cheering me on.”

You bit your lip, hesitant. When he looked at you like that, it made saying no feel impossible.

“Would your band even want someone like me in the crowd?” you asked quietly. “Your friends make fun of girls like me.”

He sat up straighter, as if sensing your slow agreement, and you nearly tumbled out of his lap before he held you still.

“Come on, think about it,” he said, a grin tugging at his lips. “How good I’d look with my arm around you. Everyone would be talking about us. The band would start getting recognized, and you—” he paused, his thumb brushing your waist—“you could finally stop pretending. Listen to whatever music you want. Do whatever the hell you want…”

Bucky kept talking, but the only words that stuck were “how cool I’d look with my arm around your shoulder,” “everyone talking about us,” “my band will start getting recognized.”

It hit you like a punch to the gut—the very fear you’d been trying to bury clawing its way back to the surface. He didn’t want you. He wanted what came with you. The attention. The status. The boost.

He wasn’t any different from John Walker—except this time, you had actually slept with him.

He kept rambling, excitement spilling from his mouth, but the words blurred together, meaningless. Without saying a thing, you slid off his lap, tugged your skirt back into place, and crawled over to the passenger seat.

Bucky blinked, his confusion clearly visible at your sudden withdrawal.

“Take me home,” you mumbled, trying to straighten your clothes back into place.

He frowned, reaching a hand toward you. “Hey—”

“I said take me home,” you bit back, your glare suddenly harsh. “I want to fucking go home.”

His brows rose at your sudden change in tone. “Did I say something—”

“I told you to take me home, Bucky!” you yelled—practically screamed—loud enough that it made him recoil in the driver’s seat. “I shouldn’t have asked you to pick me up, and we shouldn’t have done this.” You motioned a finger between the two of you. “I’m not going to your gig. A girl like me should never be caught with a loser like you, anyway.”

You had to turn back to face the window, because the hurt on Bucky’s face would have otherwise crumbled you to pieces. But you needed to put yourself first. You were tired of being an accessory for men.

“Jesus,” he mumbled, adjusting his seat and quickly putting the car into drive. “Fine. I’ll take you home.”

The drive home was silent. Bucky kept stealing glances at you from the corner of his eye, but you refused to look back—staring hard out the window, putting miles of distance between you even as you sat side by side.

It was obvious he had more to say, but the words never came.

It was Thursday afternoon.

Bucky hadn’t seen you since the moment he dropped you off. He kept replaying every second of that night in his head—the look on your face when you begged him to take you home, the crack in your voice when you called him a loser. He tried to go back to his usual routine, attempting to drown out every thought of you with band practices, loud drums, and hanging out with his bandmates.

But it was no use.

Tomorrow night, he had his gig. And you had your party.

Maybe that’s how things were supposed to be in the end. He was the dirtbag loser in his corner of loud music, instruments, and dark clothes. And you were the pretty princess on your throne, surrounded by mean girls and boys who only cared about their own backs.

Maybe this was exactly where the two of you belonged.

But as he walked into the student union to hang up a few last-minute posters for his gig, he saw you.

Same corner table. Same group of people. You were laughing as if nothing between you and Bucky had ever happened. John Walker was sitting right beside you, leaning close, whispering something in your ear that made you smile wider.

Bucky stopped in his tracks, the posters clutched in his hand. For a moment, he thought about walking over there—just to say something, anything. Even if it meant a public humiliation ritual in front of your posse. But the look on your face told him he didn’t belong to you anymore.

He crumbled the papers in his hands and turned the other way.

It was Thursday night, the night before his gig. He lay in bed, the screen lighting up his tired eyes. He typed and deleted the same messages over and over.

bucky: can we talk?

bucky: i’m sorry

bucky: i miss you

Then, he sucked in a breath and finally found the courage to send one.

bucky: you looked happy today.

He watched the screen, his heart beating loud in his chest. A few seconds later, the message was marked Read.

And then nothing.

No reply.

Just that tiny, mocking word at the bottom of the screen—reminding him that you’d seen it. That you were choosing silence.

Bucky leaned back against the wall, the screen of his phone fading to black. He’d written a dozen crappy songs about heartbreak before, but none of them had ever felt quite like this.

Like losing someone who was still right there, just out of reach.

It was Friday morning.

Bucky’s gig was later that night, and the campus was already bustling with energy for the football game. Across the square, he spotted you—surrounded by your friends, all dressed in pink and laughing. It was ridiculous how much they all took after you, trying to be you.

In his hand, he clutched a small pink gift bag. He had spent half the week working up the nerve to bring it to you, the other half designing what was inside—his band’s shirt, but re-imagined just for you. Soft pink cotton, delicate script instead of bold print, a design that looked more like something you’d actually wear.

You hadn’t spoken since that night. But he couldn’t let today go by without trying.

He crossed the quad, his worn Converse crunching over the gravel. Your friends noticed him first—a few stifled laughs, some whispered comments he tried hard to ignore. One of them even elbowed you just before he reached your group.

He stopped in front of you, the gift bag dangling awkwardly from his hand. “Hey,” he said quietly, his voice rough.

You blinked. “Hey,” you drawled awkwardly, acting as if he wasn’t speaking directly to you.

“I, uh…” he rubbed the back of his neck, then held the bag out toward you. “This is for you.”

Your friends exchanged looks, trying and failing to hide their amusement. One of them muttered something under her breath that made the others snicker, but Bucky didn’t care. His eyes stayed on you, earnest and pleading.

“I made it,” he said. “Thought you might like it.”

You stared at the pink tissue paper peeking out from the top of the bag, then back at him. He looked tired—dark circles under his eyes, his hair a mess, his denim jacket slightly frayed at the cuffs. But he looked sincere.

With a nervous hand, you reached into the bag and pulled out the shirt. The hoops of the bag dangled on your arms as you spread the fabric wide.

Your eyes widened.

He had made you a shirt, just like he said he would.

“Bucky, I—”

Before you could finish, one of the girls spoke up behind you, loud enough for everyone nearby to hear. “Aww, that’s so cute. He made you a band shirt?”

Laughter rippled through the group, but you weren’t laughing. Your eyes stayed on him.

“Civil War?” one of them scoffed. “Never heard of ’em.”

“They’re probably not that good.”

All their words sounded like a blur to you. You tuned them out completely, focusing only on Bucky, who was the only thing in front of you.

Every word those girls spoke hit him hard, but he tried to hide it. As if sensing your guilt, his jaw tightened. But he didn’t move.

“It’s fine,” he said under his breath, offering you a small, crooked smile that was supposed to be reassuring—it wasn’t. “I just... wanted to see you and tell you that I’m sorry.”

But before you could say anything else, Bucky gave you a small, dismissive nod and turned away. You watched him go, the gift bag still dangling uselessly from your wrist. His broad shoulders—slumped in defeat—disappeared into the crowd, swallowed by the noise of the square.

And behind you, the girls were still laughing obnoxiously.

“Oh my god,” one of them giggled. “Did you see his jacket? Does he smoke or something? I swear, I smelled cigarettes.”

“And that shirt,” another snorted, gesturing at the one still clutched in your hands. “Did he print that in his mom’s basement or something?”

“Please,” someone added, “I can only imagine the kind of songs he wrote for you. That’s so creepy—”

You turned sharply, the sound of your heels cutting through their laughter.

“You done?” you asked, your voice calm in that terrifying, icy way that threw every single one of them off guard.

They exchanged awkward glances. “We were just—”

“No, really,” you interrupted, smiling sweetly. “Please, finish. I want to make sure I hear every single shallow, brainless thing that comes out of your bitchy mouths.”

One girl stammered. “E-excuse me—”

You took a step closer, the pink shirt still balled in your fist. “You sit here pretending you’re better than everyone because you wear pink and flirt with mediocre football players who can barely spell your names,” you sneered, almost laughing in their faces. “But in reality—all of you whores are a herd of sheep who just can’t seem to stop copying me and wanting to be me—”

One girl tried to laugh it off. “God, what’s your problem—”

“My problem?” you cut in, flashing a perfect, pristine smile. “My problem is that I’ve spent way too long pretending you’re all my friends when really, you’re just discount versions of me with worse hair and cheaper shoes.”

The group went silent.

You didn’t bother wasting another breath on them.

Instead, you turned on your heel and walked away, the sharp click of your heels echoing against the pavement as you disappeared into the crowd.

It was Friday night.

The air of Thunderbolt’s Bar, the kind of off-campus dive that always felt held together by duct tape and noise, was thick with the smell of sweat, stale beer, and cheap stage smoke. The crowd was better than usual—shoulder-to-shoulder, the low sounds of conversation punctuated by the clink of bottles and the occasional cheer from someone already half-drunk.

Backstage, Bucky sat on an old amp case, his knee bobbing—a nervous habit—as he twirled a drumstick in his hands.

Steve was pacing, hyped as always before a set. “Place is packed, man. It’s gonna be a good night.”

“Yeah,” Bucky muttered, glancing toward the heavy curtain that separated them from the crowd.

He stood, shoving his drumsticks into his back pockets. He wiped his palms on his jeans and peeked through a slit in the curtain for what had to be the tenth time. The front row was full—faces he recognized from campus, people holding drinks, heads bobbing to the warm-up playlist blasting from the speakers.

But not your face.

“Hey,” Sam called, tuning his guitar. “You good, Buck?”

Bucky forced a smile. “Peachy.”

But his stomach twisted as he looked out one last time. He’d imagined you there all week—standing in the crowd in that pink shirt he made for you, smiling at him like you used to. He had hoped, maybe, you’d show up after all.

Yet, after that night in his car, and after the poor choice of words he had strung together, why would you come to a dump like this for him?

You called him a loser. You told him that a girl like you should never be seen with a guy like him. You had stood there while your friends laughed at him.

And yet, deep down, Bucky knew you didn’t mean it. You couldn’t have.

What you two had—it was different. It wasn’t just some party fling or a drunken mistake. It was late-night drives at two in the morning, listening to Iron Maiden in his car and making love. It was greasy chili dogs. It was smudged eyeliner and band shirts.

He wouldn’t call it love. He wasn’t stupid. Love was too heavy, too final a word for what you two shared. But he cared for you—God, he cared for you so bad it hurt. It sat heavy in his ribs, an ache that wouldn’t go away no matter how big the status quo was or how hard he played his drums.

And he knew you cared for him too, even if you tried to hide it behind the perfect hair, the designer purses, and the flawless smile you put on for everyone else. He’d seen you without all of that—barefaced, soft, and real. The kind of real that made him forget to breathe.

He cared for you so much that maybe it was love.

He just didn’t know what to do with it anymore.

“Barnes,” Nat called, slipping her bass strap over her shoulder. “We’re on. You ready?”

Bucky forced a nod, his chest tight. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

The stage lights dimmed, and the peaceful hum of the crowd turned into eager whispers. He followed Nat and Steve through the side curtain, the heat of the stage lights hitting him hard. The noise was instant—cheers, laughter, clinking bottles, the pulse of bass-heavy music vibrating through the bar’s floorboards.

Steve was the first to step up to the mic, flashing his trademark grin. “Alright, you beautiful people,” he called out, his voice amplified through the speakers. “We’re Civil War, and we’re about to make your Friday night a hell of a lot louder!”

The crowd erupted. Steve was a great lead; he always knew how to hype them up.

Bucky settled onto his seat behind the drums, his heart thudding in his chest. His fingers tightened around his sticks, the familiar feel of the wood trying to calm him. He looked up, scanning the sea of faces under the flashing pink and blue lights—people pressed against the stage, heads bobbing, phones raised.

He wasn’t looking for fans. He was looking for you.

He knew you wouldn’t come. You said you wouldn’t. He told himself he didn’t care. But the ache in his chest betrayed him, growing sharper with every passing second he couldn’t find you.

As Steve started strumming the opening riff, the sound Bucky had complained about all week, his gaze swept over the crowd. A sea of faces blurred together; sweatshirts, hats, flashing phones—none of them were you.

Until he saw pink.

There, near the middle of the crowd.

You stood out like you always did—soft, glowing, completely out of place and yet exactly where you should have been. You were wearing his shirt, the one he’d made just for you, the one your friends had laughed at. The pink fabric stood out sharply against the black sea of band tees and denim jackets, and somehow, you made it look like the most beautiful thing in the room.

And for the first time in days, everything felt right again.

Your eyes met his across the stage. A slow, knowing smile spread across your face. And from there on, Bucky knew what this was.

This was love.

You mouthed two words that hit him harder than he had hit any drum.

“Hey, loser.”

THANK YOU FOR READING!! i didn't anticipate this fic to be any more than 7k+ words but unfortunately i can't stop yapping.

but anyway. i hope you enjoyed, and thank you for reading!!!! <333 it means a lot to me.