anna

“You’ve already had three,” you reply, nudging your plate toward him anyway. “You planning to eat the table too?”

“Don’t tempt me,” he says, grabbing your fork before you can change your mind.

Across the booth, Steve snorts into his coffee, the sound half amusement, half warning. “One day she’s gonna stop letting you steal her food, Buck.”

“One day,” Bucky agrees around a mouthful, “but not today.”

You roll your eyes, trying to ignore how familiar this feels—how safe. The three of you have been orbiting each other for over a decade now, since back when Bucky used to yank Steve out of street fights and you used to bandage them both with whatever scraps of cloth you could find. Somehow, even after all the years, all the growing up, the rhythm never changed. Steve’s the cautious one, always watching out for everyone. Bucky’s the charmer, always grinning through the chaos. And you—you’re the one trying not to think about how the table feels emptier every time one of them leaves.

“You hear about that new Stark show next month?” Steve asks, leaning his elbow against the table. “Supposed to be even bigger than the last one.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, swallowing the last bite of your pancake. “They’re doing some big fireworks display, I think. You should come, doll.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Me?”

“Who else?” His voice is light, teasing, but his gaze lingers. There’s something behind it—something that’s been hovering there for weeks now, maybe months. You don’t let yourself name it.

“Maybe,” you say, pretending to think it over. “If you ask nicely.”

Steve hides a smirk behind his mug. “Careful, Buck. Sounds like she wants you to grovel.”

“I can manage that,” Bucky says, leaning forward, his smile all mock sincerity. “Please, sweetheart, grace me with your presence at the Stark Expo.”

You try to roll your eyes again, but the way he says sweetheart knocks the air out of you just a little. You tell yourself it’s the coffee—too hot, too strong. “You’re impossible,” you say.

“Yeah,” Steve mutters, “but he’s charming, and he knows it.”

That makes Bucky grin wider. “Exactly. I’m a catch.”

You want to laugh, but instead you find yourself studying him—the crease of his smile, the faint scar above his brow, the way his hair keeps falling into his eyes. He looks older than he did last year, the war having carved faint shadows beneath the jokes. It’s subtle, but you see it—the flicker of something unspoken that sits behind the bravado.

When he catches you looking, he smirks. “What? I got syrup on my face or something?”

“No,” you say quickly, heat creeping into your cheeks. “You just—never mind.”

He tilts his head, amused. “Just what?”

“Just... look like you’ve been through a lot lately,” you finish softly.

For a moment, he doesn’t answer. His grin falters, just slightly. Then he shrugs, eyes dropping to the chipped edge of his coffee cup. “Yeah, well. Guess we all have.”

There’s a beat of quiet. The jukebox flips to another slow tune, and you can feel the weight of the world creeping in—the draft, the headlines, the growing ache of goodbye that none of you want to talk about. Then Steve, ever the peacekeeper, breaks the silence. “You know,” he says, pushing his cup aside, “when all this is over, we’re gonna go dancing again. Like we used to. Whole gang back together.”

Bucky glances at him, a spark of his old grin returning. “You promising that, punk?”

“Yeah,” Steve says. “I am.”

“Then it’s a date,” Bucky says, and his eyes flick back to you when he says it.

Your stomach twists. He doesn’t mean it like that—not really—but the words settle somewhere deep anyway. “Alright, soldier,” you say, trying for levity. “But you better not step on my toes this time.”

He leans closer, that familiar mischief in his eyes. “I never do, doll. You just get nervous.”

You scoff, pretending you don’t hear the double meaning in his voice. Outside, snow begins to fall again—soft, fleeting, like the moments you’ll soon lose.

---

The Stark Expo glows like it’s been dipped in starlight. The air hums with the crackle of machinery and laughter, and somewhere in the distance, a brass band blares out a tune half-swallowed by the roar of the crowd. You can smell popcorn and oil and the faint sweetness of hot sugar in the air. Brooklyn’s never felt so alive.

You walk between Bucky and Steve, both of them looking like they’ve stepped out of two different worlds—Bucky polished and confident in his pressed uniform, Steve still small, shoulders drawn tight in his oversized coat, his eyes bright with determination. They keep pace with you through the sea of people, shoulders brushing now and then.

Bucky keeps stealing glances down at you. It’s not subtle—it never has been—but tonight, there’s something heavier in the air between you. The way the light hits him makes his hair shine like warm bronze; there’s a smear of oil on his sleeve from helping a mechanic earlier, and the sight of it, ordinary and real, does something strange to your chest.

The announcer’s voice booms over the speakers, crisp and clear, “welcome to the Modern Marvels Pavilion and the World of Tomorrow! A greater world. A better world.” You tip your head back, watching the lights dance off glass and chrome. The future looks dazzling and impossible, and for a moment, you forget about the war creeping closer every day.

Bucky nudges you with his elbow, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You think Stark’s gonna make one of those flying cars work this time?”

“I think he’ll pretend it does,” you reply, smiling. “And half the crowd’ll believe him.”

“That’s optimism,” he teases.

“That’s experience,” you shoot back, and he laughs—that easy, golden sound that’s always been your undoing.

When Howard Stark strides onto the stage, the crowd cheers, and Bucky’s boyish excitement sparks. He’s leaning forward beside you, eyes shining, jaw slack like a kid seeing fireworks for the first time. “Holy cow,” he breathes as Stark gestures toward his levitating car.

You glance up at him—because of course he’d be more interested in the machinery than the spectacle—and for a moment, you just watch him. His expression is so open, so full of wonder, that it squeezes at something deep in your chest. The car sputters and drops with a metallic clank. Laughter ripples through the crowd. Bucky shakes his head, still grinning. “Guess it’s not ready for takeoff.”

You start to reply, but when you turn to Steve, he’s gone. “Steve?” you call, rising on your toes to scan the crowd.

Bucky curses softly. “Of course he—” He sighs, eyes already darting toward the nearest exit. “I’ll bet he went to the enlistment tent.”

You look at him. “Again?”

He runs a hand through his hair, frustration simmering under his calm. “He’s nothing if not stubborn.”

“Sounds familiar,” you murmur.

That earns you a look—half amused, half warning—and then he’s threading his way through the crowd, motioning for you to follow. You find Steve exactly where you expected—standing in line for enlistment, jaw set, chin high, ready to argue his way into a war he has no business fighting. Bucky reaches him first, the argument spilling out just like it always does, Steve insisting, Bucky trying to talk him down, the air between them thick with worry and loyalty and love.

You hang back a little, watching the two of them. You’ve seen this scene play out before—Steve’s fire meeting Bucky’s steadiness. You know how it ends, Bucky hugs him, the two trade barbs about stupidity and bravery, and Steve stays behind while Bucky walks toward the future with a rifle on his shoulder.

Except this time, you’re part of it.

When Bucky pulls away from Steve, you’re standing just beyond the gate, arms wrapped tight around yourself, trying not to think about how little time there is left. He spots you and the teasing grin he wore a second ago softens into something almost shy. “Hey,” he says, stepping closer. “Sorry about that. He’ll be alright.”

You nod, though the words feel stuck in your throat. “He always is.”

You fall into step beside him as the crowd begins to thin, the noise of the fair fading behind you. The night air is cool and damp, the city skyline a jagged cut of shadow against the sky. For a long moment, neither of you speak. The silence isn’t awkward—it’s familiar, like a melody you’ve both known for years. Then Bucky breaks it. “You know,” he says quietly, “I thought about asking you to dance back there.”

You glance at him. “Why didn’t you?”

He kicks at a loose bit of gravel, shrugs. “Didn’t want to make a fool of myself before I ship out. Gotta let you remember me as dashing and graceful.”

You laugh, soft and a little sad. “Oh, I think that reputation’s already in pieces.”

He grins, the sound of your laughter tugging one from him in return. “Guess so.”

The two of you reach the corner where you’ll part ways—your apartment’s only a few blocks down, his barracks in the opposite direction. You stop under a flickering streetlamp, its glow painting the edges of his face gold. He shifts, hands shoved deep in his pockets, and suddenly the air between you changes. The world narrows to just the sound of the wind, the buzz of the light, and the pounding in your chest. “You’ll write?” you ask, your voice small.

He nods. “You bet I will. And when I come back, you and me—we’re going dancing. For real this time.”

You smile, though your eyes sting. “You’d better keep that promise.”

He steps a little closer—close enough that you can see the pulse in his throat, the faint line of worry between his brows. “I always do.” For a second, neither of you move. His hand twitches like he wants to reach for you but doesn’t quite dare. The silence stretches, thick with everything you’ve never said. Then he exhales, low and rough. “You know, doll… if things were different—”

“Don’t,” you whisper, even though part of you needs to hear it.

He swallows hard, searching your face. His voice drops to a rasp. “I just—I don’t wanna go off thinkin’ you don’t know how much you mean to me.”

Your heart stutters. “I know, Buck.”

But that’s the lie you both settle for.

He leans in just enough that his breath brushes your cheek. You can smell the faint traces of smoke and coffee on him, familiar and grounding. For one suspended heartbeat, you think he’s going to kiss you. But then he steps back. “I’ll see you when I get back,” he says, his smile small, almost fragile.

You manage a nod, even as your throat closes. Your hand grips his arm for just a second before letting go. “Be careful.”

He salutes you with two fingers, that old playful gesture that’s always been yours, and then he turns away, his figure swallowed by the night.

You stand there under the streetlamp long after he’s gone, the world around you humming with the distant echo of laughter and music, the ghost of what might have been lingering like the last note of a song that never quite finished.

---

The stench of iron and smoke clings to the air. The sound of metal striking metal echoes through the cavernous facility—steady, relentless, like a heartbeat that refuses to die. Bucky’s palms are raw. The skin at the base of his fingers is split and burned from gripping tools that sear hotter than they should.

He’s been here long enough that time doesn’t make sense anymore. Days and nights blur together under the artificial light. There’s no sky, no wind—just the crackle of electricity and the cold bark of orders in German. The name Hydra carries through the hallways like a curse.

“Keep your head down,” Dugan mutters from beside him, his voice low, roughened by exhaustion. “Don’t give ‘em a reason.”

Bucky doesn’t answer. He’s too busy forcing his hands to keep working—tightening bolts, fitting metal plates, assembling pieces of a machine he doesn’t want to understand. He knows it’s a weapon. Everything here is.

He’s lost count of the days since they were captured. The tank had come out of nowhere, cutting down their unit, and then there was the flash, the fire, and the smell of burning oil. They’d run, ducked behind the wreckage, but the ground had shaken beneath their feet. And then—capture. The moment his wrists were bound in cold metal cuffs, he’d known that whatever this place was, it was worse than death.

Now, he works. Because working means living a little longer.

There’s a guard—Lohmer—who seems to have made it his personal mission to break him. The man’s boots are always somewhere nearby, pacing, stopping, waiting for a mistake. The first time Bucky faltered, Lohmer’s fist drove into his ribs hard enough to make him choke. The second time, it was a rifle butt to the jaw.

Tonight, the bruises have gone purple, deepening like shadows.

When the shift ends, they’re herded into a cramped barracks room with cracked concrete floors and rows of cots that smell of sweat and rust. The guards shove the last of them through the door and lock it behind them. The clang of the bolt echoes.

Bucky sits, breath ragged. He stares down at his hands, still trembling from the cold and the strain. Across from him, Jacques murmurs something in French that he doesn’t catch. Falsworth coughs into his sleeve.

“You alright, Sergeant?” Dugan asks, voice quiet.

“Yeah,” Bucky says automatically. “Peachy.”

He’s not. He hasn’t been for weeks.

When the others drift into uneasy sleep, he stays awake. There’s a small window high up on the wall—just a slit of glass—and through it he can see a sliver of sky, faint and pale. He stares at it until his eyes burn.

That’s when he thinks of you.

The memory of the Stark Expo hits him hard, sudden and vivid. The lights, the music, the way your laugh had rung out above the noise. You, standing under the streetlamp, looking at him like maybe you saw something worth waiting for. He can still see the way your breath had fogged in the cold air, the way his fingers had twitched with the urge to touch your face.

He should’ve kissed you.

God, he should’ve kissed you.

He presses the heel of his hand to his eyes, jaw tightening. The air smells of sweat and rust, but in his mind, he can still smell the faint sweetness of your perfume—that soft, lilac scent that clung to his uniform after you parted ways. He remembers the weight of your hand on his arm, the tremor in your voice when you told him to be careful.

He’d laughed. Told you not to worry. Told you he always kept his promises. Now he’s not sure if he’ll ever see you again.

He thinks about how you’d smiled that night, the corners of your mouth trembling just a little. He wonders if you’ve been reading the papers, if you know where the 107th was sent, if you flinch every time another list of casualties gets printed. He imagines you sitting by the radio, he imagines you crying. And it guts him.

Somewhere down the hall, a guard shouts. A man screams—short, sharp, cut off too soon. Bucky stiffens, every muscle coiled tight. He knows that sound. He’s heard it too many times. A moment later, the door to their barracks bangs open. Lohmer strides in, baton swinging against his thigh. His smile is all teeth. “Barnes,” he says, pointing. “You. Up.”

Bucky rises slowly, every bone in his body protesting. Dugan starts to say something, but one look from Bucky silences him. He’s learned there’s no point in fighting unless you can win—and tonight, he can’t. Lohmer drags him into the corridor, past other cells, past the smell of ozone and blood. When they stop, it’s in front of a steel table lined with restraints.

Zola stands on the other side, adjusting his glasses, his face unreadable. “The Sergeant has shown… resilience,” he says mildly. “Let’s see what makes him special.”

Bucky’s breath catches. “I’m not—”

Lohmer hits him before he can finish. When the pain comes, it’s all-consuming—white-hot, blinding, tearing through his veins like fire. He tries to hold onto something, anything, but his mind scrambles for an anchor and finds only you.

He sees you in the crowd at the Expo, face glowing in the electric light. He hears your voice—soft, teasing, alive. He remembers the way you’d said his name, how it had sounded like a promise.

If he lives through this, he swears, he’ll tell you. He’ll find you. He’ll ruin whatever’s left of that friendship if it means feeling your hands on his face just once. Then the pain swells until he can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t remember anything except your smile as the world fades to white.

---

The rain comes down hard over London, steady and cold, washing the last of the Austrian mud from the tanks that line the courtyard. The SSR base is alive again—shouting soldiers, whirring engines, the metallic clang of repairs echoing through the night. For the first time in months, there’s warmth. Food. Beds. Music crackling faintly from a radio in some nearby tent.

Bucky sits on the edge of his cot, staring down at his hands. They still shake, sometimes. Not from cold—not anymore. From something else. The serum that Hydra forced into his veins still burns beneath his skin, a restless thrum he can’t quite quiet. The medics said it was a miracle he survived. They don’t know the half of it.

He’s alive. But it doesn’t feel like it.

He runs his thumb along the edge of his dog tag, tracing the worn letters. Barnes, James Buchanan. He’d stared at it every night since Steve pulled him out of that facility, just to remind himself that he was still him. That he hadn’t been erased and rebuilt into something else.

Outside the tent, he hears laughter—Dugan’s booming voice, Steve’s steadier one, Peggy’s dry humor cutting through the rain. It’s comforting and sharp all at once. They’re celebrating a victory, the kind of moment that should feel like redemption. But all Bucky feels is distance.

He hasn’t slept more than an hour at a time since Austria. Every time he closes his eyes, he’s back there—the flicker of the lab lights, Zola’s voice, the metal biting into his wrists. And always, always, your face, like a ghost that won’t leave him alone.

He remembers how you looked the night he shipped out—the streetlight catching on your skin, the tremor in your smile. He remembers the promise he didn’t make. The kiss he didn’t take. He’d thought about you every day since.

When the war ended in the papers, you were supposed to be the reason to come home. But now, home feels like a foreign word. He hears footsteps crunch outside and doesn’t need to look up to know who it is. Steve’s gait hasn’t changed—measured, steady, and too big for the narrow tent aisles. “You look like hell,” Steve says lightly, brushing rain from his jacket as he steps inside.

Bucky huffs a laugh. “You’re one to talk, punk.”

“Fair,” Steve admits. “Peggy says we’re supposed to be wheels up for London command in an hour. You ready?”

Bucky shrugs. “As I’ll ever be.”

Steve’s quiet for a beat, watching him. “You been sleeping?”

“Define sleeping,” Bucky mutters, rubbing at the back of his neck.

Steve doesn’t push, just nods. That’s the thing about him—he never pries, but he always knows. “We’ll be home soon,” he says. “Brooklyn, maybe. You can see her again.”

Bucky’s stomach tightens. Her. You. The word itself feels like a wound. “Yeah,” he says softly. “If she even remembers me.”

“She will,” Steve says, firm but gentle. “You’re hard to forget, Buck.”

He smiles at that, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He doesn’t say what he’s really thinking—that the man who left Brooklyn isn’t the one who’ll be coming back. That you deserve better than someone who can’t close his eyes without hearing screaming.

When they reach London, the city is gray and alive, a strange mix of celebration and mourning. The SSR sets up in a refurbished government building near Piccadilly. There are briefings, missions, late nights in smoky war rooms. But there’s also laughter again. Steve’s grin. Peggy’s dry wit. The sound of rain on the windows.

And every night, when the noise fades, there’s you.

He catches himself imagining it—walking through your neighborhood again, knocking on your door, seeing your face when you realize he made it home. He imagines you laughing, hugging him, maybe calling him “idiot” for scaring you half to death. He imagines you still wearing your hair the same way, still smelling like lilacs. He imagines kissing you this time—no almosts, no stopping himself.

But every time he lets the thought take shape, something else follows, the look on your face when you see what’s left of him. The scar at his temple. The thinness from weeks of starvation. The tremor in his hands when he tries to button his uniform.

What if you flinch? What if you smile, but it’s pity? What if you’ve moved on?

He thinks about writing—just a letter, something to tell you he’s alive. But every time he picks up a pen, he can’t find the words. What do you write to the person who used to feel like home when you don’t know if you’re still the man she’s waiting for?

So he doesn’t.

He fights, he follows orders, he cracks jokes with the others when he can. But when night falls, when the rain starts again, he lies awake staring at the ceiling and whispers your name into the dark like a prayer he doesn’t deserve to have answered.

It’s nearly dawn when Steve finds him again, sitting alone on the edge of a cot, cigarette burning low between his fingers. “Couldn’t sleep?” Steve asks. Bucky shakes his head. Steve hesitates, then says quietly, “you know… when we get back home, she’s gonna be real glad to see you.”

Bucky doesn’t look at him. The smoke curls between them, soft and ghostlike. “Yeah,” he says finally. “I just hope I don’t scare her off first.”

Steve frowns, but before he can answer, the radio crackles with new orders, and the moment passes like everything else in war—half-lived, half-lost.

---

The train screeches into the station under a bright, brittle Brooklyn sun. The platform is overflowing—mothers, wives, siblings, children—all craning their necks for a glimpse of someone they prayed would come home. Flags wave, whistles blow, and through the chaos, the air thrums with a kind of happiness that feels almost unreal.

You stand near the edge of the platform, hands twisting in the fabric of your coat. You’ve been here since dawn, unable to sit still, unable to breathe properly since the radio announced that the 107th—the Howling Commandos—were finally returning home.

You’d heard the stories, of course. Whispers in the papers. The rescue at the Hydra base. The new Captain America leading impossible missions. It sounded like something out of a comic book—Steve, the sickly boy from Brooklyn, a hero now. And Bucky…

Bucky, who’d been captured. Tortured. Presumed dead.

The first time you saw his name in the paper, you’d gone still, coffee spilling down your wrist, the world narrowing to a single line of print. Then came the silence. No letters, no news. You’d mourned him quietly, privately—because no one had told you to stop hoping.

And now—now he’s on that train. Alive.

You spot them before anyone else does—the tall figure in the blue uniform, unmistakably Steve, waving off the applause, and beside him, a man in an olive coat, his cap pulled low. For a moment, you think your eyes are playing tricks. He looks older, thinner, his face marked by shadows you don’t recognize. But then he lifts his head, and you see it—the same crooked smile, the same soft blue eyes.

Your heart breaks and heals in the same instant. “Bucky!”

You don’t remember moving. One second you’re frozen, the next you’re running—pushing past the crowd, calling his name again, louder this time. He looks up, startled, and when he sees you, something inside him cracks open.

He steps off the train just as you reach him, and before he can say a word, you throw your arms around him. It’s not graceful. You hit his chest hard enough that it knocks the air out of both of you, but his arms come around you immediately, strong and sure, holding you like you’re something he’s dreamed of and never expected to touch again.

“Jesus, doll,” he murmurs, his voice rough. “You’re really here.”

You laugh through the tears you didn’t realize were falling. “You’re—you’re alive.”

He chuckles softly, the sound trembling. “Guess I am.”

You pull back just enough to look at him, your hands still fisted in his coat. There are scars at his temple now, faint lines etched around his mouth that weren’t there before. He looks like a man who’s seen too much and survived it anyway. “You look—” you start, then falter.

“Terrible?” he offers with a wry grin.

“Different,” you whisper. “Older.”

His gaze softens. “So do you.”

Behind you, Steve clears his throat, smiling that earnest, boyish smile that doesn’t quite match his broad new shoulders. “You gonna share, Buck, or is this a private reunion?”

You laugh again, turning to hug him next, and Steve wraps you up like the brother you never had. “You did it,” you say against his shoulder. “Both of you. You came home.”

“Told you we would,” he says. “Didn’t I?”

“You said a lot of things,” you tease weakly, pulling back to look between them. “Not all of them true.”

Bucky chuckles. “She’s got you there, pal.”

The three of you stand there for a while, letting the noise of the station swell and fade around you. For a few blessed minutes, it’s almost like before—three kids from Brooklyn again, laughing about nothing, forgetting the rest of the world exists.

When you finally leave the platform, Bucky keeps close. He walks beside you and Steve through the busy streets, hands shoved deep in his coat pockets, smiling politely at the strangers who nod or wave. But every now and then, you catch him looking at you—quick, quiet glances that hit like a pulse beneath the skin.

It’s like he can’t quite believe you’re real.

You lead them to the corner diner, the same one you used to haunt before the war. It’s changed a little—new paint, new jukebox—but the smell of coffee and bacon grease is the same. The waitress recognizes Steve immediately, gushes about the newspapers, and sets you up in your old booth by the window.

When the coffee arrives, Bucky’s hand lingers on the cup for a long time before he drinks, as if relearning the taste of ordinary life.

“So,” you say, trying to fill the silence. “What happens now? You two back for good?”

Steve nods. “That’s the plan. The SSR’s wrapping things up here in the States. They’ll probably find something else for us to do, but—”

“Home’s home,” Bucky finishes for him, voice low.

You smile. “Good. I missed this.”

Steve grins, leaning back. “What, me and Buck bickering over pancakes?”

“Among other things.”

For a moment, it really does feel like nothing’s changed. You catch Bucky’s eye over the rim of your cup and he smiles—small, private. You feel warmth bloom in your chest, unfamiliar and dangerous. Then the bell above the diner door rings. You glance up, and the world shifts again.

Andrew steps inside—tall, clean-cut, still in his office clothes. His eyes find you immediately, and he smiles. The engagement ring on your finger feels suddenly, painfully heavy. “There you are,” he says, crossing the diner. “I stopped by your place—they said you’d come down here. I thought I’d find you with—” He stops mid-sentence when he sees the men at your booth. Recognition flickers in his eyes. “Captain Rogers,” he says, extending a hand. “An honor.”

Steve stands, polite as ever, shaking it firmly. “Just Steve, please.”

Then Andrew turns to Bucky. “And you must be Sergeant Barnes. She’s told me about you.”

Bucky rises slowly, every trace of warmth gone from his face. He takes Andrew’s hand, grip measured, voice smooth. “All good things, I hope.”

“Of course,” Andrew says with a tight smile.

You can feel the tension rolling between them—two different kinds of manhood colliding. Bucky’s eyes flick to your ring before he looks away, and something in your chest twists painfully.

Andrew drapes an arm around your shoulders, casual and proprietary, and presses a kiss to your temple. “We should get going,” he says softly. “Dinner at my parents’ tonight.”

You nod, but your throat feels tight. You turn back to the table. “I’ll see you both soon, alright?”

Steve smiles, warm and oblivious. “You better.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything. He just gives a small nod, eyes unreadable.

When you step outside, the air feels colder. Andrew’s talking—something about promotions, a friend’s engagement party—but his voice fades into a blur. You glance back through the diner window. Bucky’s still watching you. For a heartbeat, you meet his eyes—the same blue that once promised laughter and mischief and safety. Now they’re tired, sad, full of things you’ll never be able to say.

Then Steve says something, Bucky looks away, and the moment breaks.

You turn, forcing a smile for the man at your side, and walk away—the ring cold on your finger, the ache in your chest sharp and familiar. Behind you, in the glow of the diner window, Bucky’s still there, his coffee untouched, and tells himself he’s happy just to see you again.

---

The weeks that follow are an echo of a life you all once knew—familiar rhythms layered over a city trying to remember how to breathe again. The war is over, but Brooklyn still hums like it’s waiting for the next siren. Windows are patched with new glass, ration posters fade on the walls, and people fill the streets again with laughter that still sounds uncertain.

For the three of you—you, Steve, and Bucky—it’s as if the world has been rewound, though the edges don’t quite line up anymore. The diner booth is still yours, the coffee’s still weak, the jukebox still sputters out old love songs. But Bucky doesn’t joke as much now, and Steve sits taller, his shoulders too broad for the space. You try to ignore the differences—or maybe you just pretend not to notice them.

It starts small. You thread your arm through Bucky’s as you always did when you walk down 39th. He still lets you, though now his body goes a little stiff at first, then softens as if he remembers he’s supposed to. Sometimes you’ll reach for him without thinking—to tug him across a street or to steady him when he’s distracted—and the jolt that runs through him is subtle but real.

He hides it well. He always did.

What gets him most isn’t how you’ve changed, but how you haven’t. You still hum under your breath when you’re nervous. Still tap your nails against your cup while you talk. You laugh easily, throw your head back the same way you did when he’d tease you before the war. You still look at him with that same open warmth that once made him feel like the luckiest man alive, and now it just makes him ache.

He doesn’t know how to fit himself into this version of Brooklyn—this version of you.

You’re engaged now. He reminds himself of it every time he sees the ring on your hand. Sometimes it catches the light and glitters against your coffee cup, a tiny cruel flash that digs under his ribs. Andrew is polite enough, decent enough, the sort of man who never raises his voice and always says please and thank you. He brings you flowers, takes you to dinner, shakes Bucky’s hand and calls him “pal.” Bucky shakes back, every muscle in his jaw tight.

He tries to be happy for you—really tries. You deserve safety, something whole. Not a man who wakes up drenched in sweat, fists clenched around ghosts. He tells himself that every time he sees you laughing at something Andrew says. It doesn’t make it hurt less.

There’s a night in late August when the three of you go out for drinks, the kind of night that used to belong to another lifetime—before uniforms, before blood and cold and loss. The bar’s crowded, cigarette smoke curling in the air, the jazz band so loud you have to lean close to be heard.

Steve’s grinning, shouting over the music about some newspaper interview he’s been roped into, Peggy’s name slipping into the conversation now and then, unguarded. You tease him mercilessly, and he blushes red as ever.

Bucky watches, smiling, sipping his whiskey too slowly. When you lean against him to whisper something—a joke, a memory—your hand finds his arm like it used to, fingers curling into the fabric of his sleeve. It’s innocent. It always is. You don’t see the way he freezes for a half-second, the way his breath catches before he forces a smirk in return. “You always were the funny one,” he says softly, almost lost beneath the brass.

“Only because you two were hopeless,” you tease back, and he grins—that old, dangerous grin that used to get him out of trouble and into more of it.

The moment stretches a little too long. Then Steve says something that makes you laugh again, and Bucky looks away. Later, when you all spill out into the street, the night air cool and damp against your skin, you loop your arm through his again without thinking. “Will you walk me home?” you ask, same as you always did.

He wants to say no. He wants to say he shouldn’t. But he just nods. “’Course.”

Steve peels off in the other direction, calling something about meeting tomorrow, and then it’s just the two of you.

You walk in silence for a while, your heels clicking softly against the pavement, your hand light on his arm. The city hums around you—car horns, laughter, music drifting from open windows. Everything feels the same, except it isn’t. “You seem quiet tonight,” you say finally, glancing up at him.

He shrugs. “Guess I’m still getting used to being back. Feels strange.”

“I can imagine.” You hesitate, then smile. “But it’s good. Having you home. I missed this.”

He swallows. “Yeah. Me too.”

You stop at a crosswalk, the streetlight painting your face in amber and shadow. For a moment, he forgets how to breathe. You’re looking up at him like you used to—the same soft tilt of your head, the same easy trust in your eyes.

And then he sees the ring glint again and feels the ground tilt beneath him. He forces a smile. “Your fiancé treating you right?”

You blink, surprised by the question. “Of course. Why?”

He shakes his head quickly. “No reason. Just—you deserve good things, is all.”

You smile faintly, a little shy. “He’s kind. Steady. My family likes him.”

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Sounds perfect.”

He means it to sound light, teasing even, but it lands heavier than either of you expect. You both fall silent. The only sound is the rumble of an approaching trolley and the faint hum of music from somewhere down the block.

When you reach your door, you turn to face him, still holding onto his arm. “You’ll come by again soon, won’t you? For dinner maybe? Andrew’s been wanting to cook for everyone.”

He almost laughs. Andrew’s cooking? The thought alone feels wrong—some man he doesn’t know standing where he used to, in your kitchen, touching the things that used to belong to the three of you. But he just nods. “Sure, doll. Whatever you want.”

You smile, squeeze his arm, and then, as if you don’t know what you’re doing to him, you step close and kiss his cheek. “Goodnight, Buck.”

His breath catches. It’s so quick, so ordinary, but it burns straight through him. He watches you disappear behind the door, the soft click of the latch echoing louder than it should. He stands there for a long time afterward, hands in his pockets, staring at the space you left behind.

When he finally turns away, the night feels colder. He tells himself that this is fine. That this—your friendship, your laughter, the arm he’s still sure he can feel linked through his—is enough.

But as he walks back down the quiet street, he knows it isn’t. Not anymore.

---

There’s another night in September, one of those in-between evenings when summer hasn’t quite let go. You, Steve, and Bucky are back at the diner—your diner—sharing a plate of fries while the jukebox hums some slow swing tune. The booths are full, the air smells like coffee and salt, and for a while, it almost feels like before.

You’ve kicked off your heels under the table, your feet brushing Bucky’s every now and then. You don’t even notice, but he does. Every time.

Steve’s talking about some meeting with the SSR, something about military reorganization and “civilian roles.” You’re listening with a faint smile, chin propped on your hand, your other hand absently tugging at the sleeve of Bucky’s jacket, straightening it like you always did when he wore his old coat crooked.

He watches your fingers instead of listening. The sight of your hand on his arm—small, certain, unthinking—stirs something both grounding and unbearable in him. When you glance up and catch him staring, you give him that same teasing grin you always used to. “What?”

“Nothing,” he says, voice rougher than he means. “Just… forgot how much you talk.”

You laugh, a quick, bright sound that draws a few curious looks from other tables. “That’s a lie and you know it.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “You two sound exactly like you did when we were fifteen.”

“Means we haven’t aged a day,” Bucky says with a smirk, though the weight in his chest says otherwise.

You smile at that, soft and fond. Then your gaze flicks toward the window, and you sigh. “Andrew’s picking me up soon.”

Bucky’s smirk falters. “Right. Of course.”

“Don’t sound so thrilled,” you tease, nudging his shoulder.

“Just jealous the guy gets to drive that fancy car of his while I’m stuck on the trolley,” he says easily. But the joke doesn’t land the way it used to.

A silence settles—not awkward, but charged. You look like you might say something, but then the bell above the door rings, and Andrew walks in. He’s polite as always, all charm and pressed shirts, waving to Steve and offering a quick handshake to Bucky. “Evening, fellas.”

“Andrew,” Bucky says evenly. “How’s work?”

“Busy. But I can’t complain.” He smiles at you then, and the way you light up—not as bright as you used to, maybe, but still real—is enough to make Bucky’s chest ache. “Ready to go, sweetheart?” Andrew asks.

“Yeah,” you say softly, standing and slipping on your coat.

Bucky stands too out of habit, like the gentleman he used to be. “See you around, doll.”

You glance back at him over your shoulder and smile. “You will.”

When the door closes behind you, the air feels heavier. Steve looks at him, knowing but kind. “You alright, Buck?”

Bucky exhales through his nose. “Never better.”

After that, he starts seeing you less. Not because you’ve changed anything—you still invite him for coffee, for dinners, for quiet evenings where you, Steve, and Andrew talk about nothing at all. But Bucky starts finding reasons to miss them. He tells you he’s got work, or errands, or that he’s tired.

The truth is, every time he sees you with Andrew, it kills him a little. The way Andrew’s hand rests casually on your back when you walk through a door. The way you lean toward him when you laugh. The way you still look at Bucky like you’re waiting for him to say something that he never will.

He spends more time at the docks now, helping unload cargo. The physical work keeps him grounded. He doesn’t talk much to the other men—they all recognize him as the war hero from the papers, whispering his name like it belongs to someone else. Maybe it does.

Sometimes, late at night, he takes the long way home past your street. The windows are lit warm and soft, and he can almost hear your voice drifting out through the open glass. It’s masochism, maybe, but it’s the only thing that makes him feel real.

A week later, Steve finds him on a park bench overlooking the river. “You’re torturing yourself,” Steve says, sitting beside him.

Bucky doesn’t look at him. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yeah, you do.”

The water glints silver under the moonlight. Bucky flicks his cigarette into it, watching the ember vanish. “She’s happy,” he says finally. “That’s all that matters.”

Steve’s quiet for a moment. “You sure about that?” Bucky glances at him then, brow furrowed. “I see the way she looks at you, Buck,” Steve says. “The way she lights up when you’re around. You really think it’s just friendship?”

Bucky’s throat tightens. He wants to deny it. Wants to say it’s all in Steve’s head. But the truth sits heavy in his chest, undeniable. “It doesn’t matter,” he says at last. “She made her choice.”

Steve studies him, sympathy in his eyes. “Maybe. But maybe she’s waiting for you to give her a reason to make a different one.”

Bucky laughs softly, humorless. “Yeah? And what then? I ruin what’s left of the only good thing I got?”

“Maybe you fix it instead,” Steve says quietly.

They sit in silence after that, the wind carrying the smell of salt and the faint sound of distant laughter. Bucky doesn’t answer, but Steve doesn’t press.

That night, Bucky dreams of you again. Not the war, not the pain—just you. Standing under that streetlamp, same as before, smiling up at him with eyes that look like home. He wakes before you can speak, the ghost of your touch still burning on his skin.

He sits up, heart pounding, and realizes that whatever he’s been trying to bury all these months—all these years—isn’t going anywhere. The war might be over, but he’s still fighting the same battle. And this time, the only thing he’s in danger of losing is you.

---

Late autumn settles over Brooklyn like a sigh. The air has that crisp edge that smells faintly of rain and coal smoke, and the trees along the sidewalks have begun to let go of what’s left of their color. Every street corner feels familiar, but quieter—like the city itself is still learning how to live again after the war.

You’ve spent the last few weeks tucked into wedding plans, your days filled with appointment books, fabric samples, and letters from relatives who suddenly remember your existence. The apartment smells faintly of starch and lavender, and the table is perpetually buried under swatches of ivory silk and lace.

Andrew’s handwriting covers half the notes in a neat, efficient scrawl: dates, times, addresses. You fill in the margins with doodles—vines, petals, tiny hearts—absent-minded things you used to sketch when you were supposed to be paying attention to something else.

And when you’re not working on the wedding, you’re with Steve and Bucky. The three of you still orbit each other, even if the rhythm has changed. Steve helps where he can—moving furniture, offering his larger-than-life charm to shopkeepers who’d otherwise ignore you in crowded stores. Bucky tags along sometimes, quieter now, his smile a little tighter around the edges.

He doesn’t say much these days, but you still feel him—the weight of his gaze when you laugh at something Steve says, the way he steps instinctively closer when you’re walking down a busy street, like his body’s still wired to protect you even when there’s nothing left to fight. You notice, though you don’t let yourself linger on it. You can’t.

It’s one of those chilly afternoons when the three of you end up downtown, balancing boxes full of wedding supplies between you. You’re moving through the narrow aisles of a florist’s shop, the air thick with the scent of roses and damp earth. “I don’t know,” you murmur, studying the bouquet in your hands. “These seem too stiff, don’t they? I want something softer, more natural.”

Steve, ever practical, squints at the arrangement like he’s inspecting troop formations. “Looks fine to me.”

You laugh. “You said that about the last three, too.”

“Well, they all look fine,” he says, a little helplessly.

Bucky smirks faintly, leaning against the counter, sleeves rolled up, hands tucked into his pockets. “You’re askin’ the wrong audience, doll. Between the two of us, I don’t think we’ve bought flowers that weren’t apologies.”

You glance up at him, caught off guard by the flicker of humor—the first real one you’ve seen from him all day. “Is that right?”

He shrugs, but his smile lingers. “Pretty sure every girl I ever gave flowers to had just finished tellin’ me off.”

“That’s because you deserved it,” Steve mutters.

Bucky grins. “Yeah, maybe.”

The sound of your laughter fills the small shop, and for a moment, it’s like time folds back on itself—the three of you as you were before the war, teasing and bright, untouched by the years between.

But then the florist asks about delivery dates, and the spell breaks. You glance down at your notes again, biting your lip as you try to recall the schedule. Bucky watches the motion, the way your teeth catch the soft skin, and something unravels inside him.

It’s the same nervous habit you had when you were sixteen, sitting at that diner booth and worrying about school, or the future, or whatever small storm was brewing in your head. You’d always do that—chew your lip until it was raw—and he’d tease you, reaching out to nudge your chin lightly with his thumb until you stopped.

He used to know everything about you. The songs you hummed when you cooked. The way you liked your coffee. The sound you made when you were trying not to laugh. Now he stands three feet away and feels like a stranger.

Later, after you’ve settled on a bouquet and paid the deposit, the three of you step outside. The cold air hits hard, sharp with the smell of rain. You draw your coat tighter around yourself and glance up at the sky, half-expecting snow. “Thanks for coming,” you say, glancing between them. “I know this stuff isn’t exactly your idea of a good time.”

Steve smiles. “You kidding? Beats punching Nazis.”

Bucky gives a quiet snort of amusement but says nothing. He shoves his hands deeper into his coat pockets and looks down the street instead. “You sure you don’t mind helping with deliveries next week?” you ask. “The caterer’s sending samples, and the venue wants us to test the layout.”

“Course not,” Bucky says, still not meeting your eyes. “Just tell me when and where.”

Something about his tone makes you pause. “You don’t have to, you know. I don’t want to take up your time.”

He glances at you then, his eyes soft, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Don’t worry about it, doll. I got nothin’ but time.”

You try to return the smile, but it falters. There’s something behind his words you can’t quite name—a tiredness that doesn’t belong to a man his age. You want to ask him what’s wrong, but Steve’s already talking about dinner plans, and Bucky’s gaze has shifted back to the street.

That night, you’re sitting at your kitchen table, flipping through your notebook. The apartment is quiet—Andrew’s out late again, working—and you find yourself staring at your lists without reading them. The flowers, the venue, the dress… it’s all supposed to be exciting, but it feels like you’re building something in the wrong shape.

You think about Bucky—the way he’d smiled today, the way he’d looked at you when you laughed. The way he’d gone quiet again afterward. You shake the thought away, turning another page, but your pen hesitates above the paper.

You still write his name sometimes. Just his initials, tucked into corners, the way you used to when you were a teenager doodling in the margins of your homework. You tell yourself it’s habit. Nostalgia. But it feels like something more—something fragile, dangerous, and alive.

Across town, Bucky’s sitting on his narrow bed in the boarding house, the lamp beside him casting a weak yellow glow. He’s got an envelope in his lap—an invitation to your wedding, embossed and perfect, the edges faintly smudged from where you must have handled it.

He turns it over in his hands for a long time, his jaw tight. Then he sets it on the nightstand and leans back against the wall, staring at the ceiling. It should make him happy, seeing you getting everything you’ve ever wanted. It should feel like closure.

But instead, it feels like the world is slowly erasing him —like he’s watching the one thing that tethered him to his old life slip quietly out of reach. He closes his eyes and tells himself he’ll keep helping. He’ll keep smiling. He’ll be your friend. He’ll do all the right things.

Even if it kills him.

---

The following week arrives gray and drizzly, the kind of November day where the streets shine wet and the light never quite breaks through the clouds. The city hums quietly—horns in the distance, footsteps on slick pavement, the smell of roasted chestnuts from the corner cart.

You’ve invited Steve, Bucky, and Andrew to your apartment for a small “planning dinner.” Nothing formal—just a way to go over some details before your mother and Andrew’s parents join for the final tastings next weekend.

The dining table, usually cluttered with fabric swatches and half-burned candles, is covered now with plates and notebooks. You’ve spent the whole day rearranging, making sure everything looks right. There’s a neat little spread of sandwiches, cookies, and tea laid out, and your engagement ring glints whenever you reach for a cup.

Bucky’s the last to arrive. He hesitates on the landing before knocking, half tempted to turn back. But then he hears your voice through the door—that light, hurried tone he’s heard a thousand times—and he knocks once before he can talk himself out of it.

You open the door with a smudge of flour on your wrist. The smell of something warm and buttery drifts out from the kitchen. “Buck!” you say, smiling. “You made it.”

He grins back, awkward and genuine all at once. “Wouldn’t miss it, doll.”

You let him in, taking his coat and hanging it carefully beside Andrew’s. The apartment feels cozy—too small for four people, maybe, but bright and alive with the hum of conversation. Steve’s sitting on the sofa with a cup of tea, papers spread over his knees. Andrew’s standing by the table, sleeves rolled up, carefully arranging sandwiches on a platter. “Glad you could join us,” Andrew says pleasantly, looking up. “We were just about to talk food.”

“Dangerous subject,” Bucky says, pulling out a chair. “You sure you want my opinion?”

“Only if it’s good,” Andrew jokes.

You laugh, and the tension eases for a moment. They spend the first twenty minutes talking about seating charts and table settings, Steve occasionally chiming in with comments that make you laugh and roll your eyes. Bucky mostly listens, offering a word here or there when you ask him to weigh in.

He watches the way you move, the way your fingers hover over the list as you read it aloud, how you press your lips together when you’re thinking. Every detail feels sharper than it should, like his mind’s cataloging every part of you to hold onto later.

Then Andrew says, “Oh—speaking of food, I talked to my mother today about the luncheon menu.”

You glance up, smiling. “Oh? What did she say?”

“She’d love to prepare some of the dishes herself. Thought it’d be a nice personal touch,” Andrew explains, flipping through his notes. “You know, her cucumber sandwiches, that salad she makes with the dill dressing—your favorite.”

Bucky’s fork stops halfway to his mouth. He doesn’t say a word, but something in his chest goes still. Your expression flickers—not enough for Andrew to notice, but Bucky sees it. A tiny hesitation. A half-second of polite confusion. Then your smile smooths back into place. “Right,” you say gently. “That’s lovely.”

Andrew beams. “I told her you’d be thrilled. She’ll start prepping this week.”

Steve nods approvingly. “Sounds fancy. I’ve never had cucumber sandwiches before.”

“Oh, they’re very refreshing,” Andrew says cheerfully. “Perfect with tea.”

“Sure they are,” Bucky mutters under his breath, his tone too quiet for anyone but you to catch.

You shoot him a look, small but sharp, as if to say don’t. He gives a slight shrug, leaning back in his chair. The rest of the conversation moves on—table linens, music, who will walk you down the aisle—but the air feels different. Bucky can’t stop hearing Andrew’s voice echoing that one word, favorite.

He remembers the real story. The diner, years ago. You’d ordered a sandwich with cucumbers and took one bite before making the most disgusted face he’d ever seen. He’d teased you for it, and you’d shoved your plate at him, muttering something about “texture” and “godawful smell.” He’d laughed until you threw a napkin at his head.

It was such a small thing—ordinary and stupid—but somehow, it feels enormous now. Because Andrew doesn’t know. He doesn’t know the girl who once snuck a stray cat into her parents’ kitchen, who carried three pairs of gloves every winter because you always lost one. He doesn’t know that you used to hum Gershwin when you cooked or that you hated thunderstorms but loved the smell of rain after.

He doesn’t know you. And Bucky realizes, with a quiet ache that steals the breath from his lungs, that he’s the only one left who does.

After dinner, Steve leaves first, promising to help you haul boxes to the venue next weekend. Andrew lingers a few minutes longer, kissing your cheek before heading home. You see him off at the door, murmuring soft goodnights, and when you turn back, Bucky’s still sitting at the table, arms folded, eyes fixed on the empty plate in front of him. “Thanks for helping tonight,” you say, voice careful. “I know it’s not the most exciting thing in the world.”

He looks up slowly, a faint, wry smile on his lips. “Exciting’s overrated.”

You roll your eyes affectionately and start gathering the dishes. He stands to help, wordlessly taking a stack from your hands. The quiet between you feels different now—heavier, but not uncomfortable. Familiar, almost. You wash, he dries. It’s easy, practiced, like slipping back into an old song you both know by heart. When the last plate’s done, you lean against the counter, exhaling. “Andrew’s mother’s really going all out. It’s sweet of her.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says lightly, though something sharp threads through his tone. “Sweet.”

You glance over at him. “What?”

He shakes his head. “Nothin’.”

“Bucky,” you press, arms folding. “Don’t do that. What?”

He hesitates, then shrugs. “Just funny, s’all. You always hated cucumbers.”

You blink. “What?”

“Cucumbers,” he says again, half-smiling. “You used to pick ’em off your sandwiches and dump ’em on my plate. Said they tasted like cold soap.”

You stare at him for a second, caught off guard. The memory is so vivid it startles you—the diner, the cheap plates, his teasing grin. “I… guess I did.”

“Guess you forgot,” he says quietly. You open your mouth to answer, but the words stick. The kitchen feels smaller suddenly, too quiet. His eyes are on you, steady and sad, like he’s seeing something you’re only just starting to remember. He clears his throat, looks away, and grabs his coat. “Anyway, I should go. Long day tomorrow.”

You nod slowly. “Right. Of course.”

At the door, he pauses. “Goodnight, doll.”

“Goodnight, Bucky.”

When the door closes, you stand there for a long time, your back to it, the faint smell of soap and tea still clinging to the air. You don’t know why the stupid detail bothers you so much—why it leaves your chest tight and your eyes stinging. But you can’t shake it.

Because he’s right. You do hate cucumbers. And you can’t quite remember when you started pretending otherwise.

---

It starts as something small, almost imperceptible—a ripple under the surface of a life you’ve been trying to convince yourself is whole. After the night of the cucumber remark, everything feels… tilted. The moment itself had been nothing, really. A few harmless words in a quiet kitchen. But they’d cracked something open that you’d spent months keeping tightly sealed.

Now, the smallest things catch at you. Andrew’s laughter, too practiced. His kisses, always polite and brief. The way he talks about the future in tidy, well-planned sentences—his job, the house you’ll have, the way “Mrs. Reid” rolls so easily off his tongue.

You smile when he says it. You always smile. But inside, there’s this quiet voice that keeps asking, when did you stop belonging to yourself?

You start noticing how often you nod when you don’t agree. How many times you laugh even when something doesn’t strike you as funny. How you smooth over the rough edges of who you are to fit the life that’s being built around you.

It isn’t bad, you tell yourself. Andrew is a good man. Gentle, thoughtful. He works hard, treats you well, makes sure you never walk home alone. He listens when you talk—or at least, he listens enough to respond in all the right ways.

But sometimes, when he looks at you across a dinner table or from the driver’s seat of his neat little car, you get the sense that he’s seeing a version of you that isn’t real. A woman built from good manners and careful words. A woman who never picks fights, never rolls her eyes, never swears when she drops something heavy.

And every time, you think of Bucky. Of the way he’d grin when you cursed, teasing you just to see if he could make you do it again. Of how he never flinched when you disagreed with him, never made you feel smaller for it. Of how, somehow, he could read your silences better than most people could read your words.

You try not to think of it, but the thought follows you like a shadow.

You see Bucky again a week later, almost by accident. You’re on your way back from the tailor with your arms full of packages—bolts of fabric, invitations, a box of new gloves. The wind’s sharp and biting, tearing at your hat, and you’re juggling everything when a voice behind you says, “you always did try to carry the world by yourself.”

You turn, startled—and there he is. Bucky stands a few feet away, collar turned up against the cold, hair mussed by the wind. He looks better than he did last week, or maybe it’s just that he’s smiling, a little shyly, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to.

“Buck,” you breathe, shifting the packages. “What are you—”

“Was passin’ by,” he says easily, stepping closer. “Figured you could use a hand.” You start to protest, but one of the boxes slips, and he catches it before it hits the ground. He looks at you with that same half-smirk he’s always had—the one that makes your heart stutter for reasons you don’t want to name. “Still stubborn as ever,” he murmurs.

“Still nosy,” you shoot back automatically, though the words come out softer than you intend.

He grins, just a little, and takes the rest of the boxes from you before you can argue. “C’mon, doll. I’ll walk you home.”

The walk is quiet at first. The city hums around you—the whistle of a streetcar, the chatter from shop doors, the faint smell of roasted nuts from a vendor down the block. The two of you move in step like you used to, your gloved hand brushing against his sleeve every so often.

It feels almost normal. Almost easy. He asks about the wedding, and you tell him bits and pieces—the dress, the flowers, the venue—but even to your own ears, it sounds rehearsed, like you’re reading from someone else’s script. When you trail off, Bucky glances at you sideways. “You happy?”

The question lands like a pebble in a pond—small, but the ripples keep spreading. You blink, caught off guard. “What kind of question is that?”

He shrugs, eyes on the pavement. “Just seems like a thing a guy oughta ask his friend before she gets married.”

You laugh, but it doesn’t sound right. “Of course I’m happy. Why wouldn’t I be?” He doesn’t answer, just nods slightly. The silence stretches between you until you add, “Andrew’s good to me. You’ve seen that.”

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I’ve seen it.”

Something in his tone makes your stomach twist. The rest of the walk is quieter. You talk about safe things—the weather, Steve’s latest SSR gossip, a new bakery opening down the street. When you reach your building, you pause at the steps, clutching your packages tighter than necessary. “Thanks for helping,” you say.

“Anytime,” he replies.

You linger a moment longer, the wind tugging at your coat. “You should come by Sunday. We’re having dinner with Steve. Just the three of us, like old times.”

He hesitates, eyes flicking up to meet yours. “You sure that’s a good idea?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Then, finally, “alright. Sunday.”

You smile, relieved. “Good.” When you go inside, you can feel his gaze following you up the stairs. You don’t look back.

Sunday comes, and with it, a quiet warmth you didn’t know you’d been missing. The three of you sit around your little kitchen table, laughing about nothing—the way Steve still can’t cook, the way Bucky still eats like a man starved. For a few hours, it’s as if the years between you’ve been peeled away.

You pour coffee while Bucky leans back in his chair, sleeves rolled up, telling a story about one of the guys from the docks. His voice is rich and low, easy with laughter. You’ve missed that sound more than you realized.

When the story ends, Steve gets up to wash dishes, leaving you and Bucky alone for a moment. You watch him quietly. The curve of his jaw. The scar by his temple. The way his eyes crinkle when he smiles. You shouldn’t look at him like that, but you do anyway.

He catches your gaze and holds it. Something flickers between you—familiar, dangerous. You open your mouth to say something, anything, but Steve comes back, clattering dishes, and the spell breaks. Later, after the dishes are done and the laughter’s faded, Bucky lingers at the door. You walk him down to the stoop, saying goodnight like always. The street’s quiet, washed silver by the lamplight. “You really are happy?” he asks again, voice almost lost to the wind.

You hesitate. “I’m supposed to be.”

He studies you for a long moment, then nods, as if that’s answer enough. “Take care of yourself, doll.”

He starts to turn away, but you reach out, catching his sleeve. The fabric is rough and warm under your fingers. “Bucky.” He looks back, and for a heartbeat, everything stops—the air, the sounds, even your own pulse. You want to say something. To tell him that you don’t know how to do this—how to want two different lives, how to stop pretending. But the words won’t come. So you just let go. “Goodnight.”

He hesitates, then tips his head slightly. “Goodnight.”

When he walks away, you stay there for a long time, the cold biting through your coat, your heart pounding like it’s trying to tell you something you already know. And somewhere down the street, Bucky doesn’t look back—because he’s afraid that if he does, he won’t be able to keep walking.

---

The afternoon is one of those deceptive early-winter days—bright sun, brittle cold, wind that nips at your cheeks but never quite steals the warmth from the light. The four of you—you, Andrew, his mother, and Steve—have spent the better part of the day at the reception hall, finalizing decorations and seating arrangements. Bucky had tagged along under the excuse of “lifting heavy things,” but truthfully, he just couldn’t stay away.

The hall itself is beautiful in that sterile, echoing way—pale walls, high ceilings, windows that catch every bit of sunlight and spill it onto the polished floors. There are samples of floral arrangements along one wall, stacks of folded linens, a small buffet table with coffee and pastries that have long gone cold.

You’ve been moving nonstop for an hour—bending, rearranging, lifting centerpieces, trying to visualize how it’ll all come together. You’re tired, your hands ache, and the hem of your skirt keeps catching on your heels.

Bucky watches from the side, sleeves rolled up, arms crossed. Steve’s beside him, dutifully holding a roll of seating charts while Andrew and his mother discuss silverware with the event planner. “Careful, sweetheart,” Andrew calls as you lean over to move a stack of chairs. “You don’t have to do that yourself.”

You smile, trying not to sound as breathless as you feel. “I’m fine. Just making sure the space works.” It’s right about then that your purse slips off the chair where you’d set it—and the entire contents scatter dramatically across the floor. Lipstick, coins, a small notebook, a handful of folded receipts. You let out a startled sound, bend to grab it—and promptly hit your knee on the edge of the table. The pain is immediate and sharp enough that the word slips out before you can stop it. “Goddammit.”

The sound echoes, far too loud in the open space. For a second, the entire room freezes. Andrew’s head snaps up from where he’s been talking with his mother. She blinks, the faintest twitch of disapproval crossing her expression—not much, just the tightening around her mouth, a small flicker of polite discomfort that might have gone unnoticed if Bucky hadn’t been watching her.

Steve looks like he’s about to laugh, then catches himself. Bucky turns away, biting down on the grin that’s already threatening to break loose.

You flush hot, half from embarrassment, half from frustration. “I—sorry. Table jumped out at me.”

Andrew recovers quickly, his voice smooth, reassuring. “It’s alright, darling. Maybe watch where you’re stepping next time.”

You nod, forcing a small laugh, and crouch to gather your things. You can feel your face burning. Bucky moves forward before you can stop him, crouching beside you. “Here,” he murmurs, low enough that only you hear it. His gloved hand brushes yours briefly as he hands you your lipstick. “You kiss your fiancé with that mouth?”

You shoot him a look, half scandalized, half amused despite yourself. “Don’t start.”

He smirks. “Couldn’t help it. Been too long since I heard you swear.”

“Should I be flattered that you missed it?”

He shrugs, sliding a coin toward you with one finger. “Maybe I just missed you.”

The words hang in the air a moment too long. You swallow, eyes flicking to his, but before you can respond, Andrew’s voice cuts across the room, “everything alright?”

You stand quickly, clutching your things to your chest. “Yes. All fine.” Bucky rises slower, expression carefully neutral, though you catch the flicker of amusement still dancing in his eyes.

The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur of polite conversation and half-hearted planning. Andrew’s mother offers notes on napkin folds, Steve provides the occasional grunt of agreement, and you smile so much your cheeks hurt.

But you feel Bucky’s gaze every time you speak. Every time you laugh too softly or fidget with your gloves. When you finally leave the venue, the daylight’s already fading into that soft gold that makes everything look warmer than it is. Steve walks ahead with Andrew and his mother, deep in conversation, while you and Bucky lag behind, the cold air frosting your breath. He glances sideways at you. “You okay?”

You exhale a laugh. “Just humiliated myself in front of my future mother-in-law. Totally fine.”

“She’s gonna live,” he says with a grin. “Hell, I think it was worth it just to see her face.”

You groan. “She looked like I’d cursed out a priest.”

“She kinda did,” he teases. “Never thought I’d say this, but I missed hearin’ you swear.”

You glance at him, smiling despite yourself. “You’re impossible.”

“Maybe. But you used to call me worse than that.”

You roll your eyes. “When you deserved it.”

He laughs, genuine this time—the sound so warm and familiar it hits something deep inside you. “You got a mouth on you when you’re mad, sweetheart. Don’t pretend otherwise.”

“I was sixteen,” you protest, shoving your hands in your coat pockets. “Everyone had a mouth at sixteen.”

“Yeah,” he says softly, looking ahead. “But you had fire.” That quiet tone—low, almost reverent—steals the humor right out of the air. You look up at him, but he’s not smiling anymore. His eyes are distant, thoughtful. You walk the rest of the way in silence. Not uncomfortable, just… heavy. The kind of silence that carries too many words neither of you can afford to say.

When you reach the corner where you’ll part ways, you stop. “You’re walking the wrong direction again.”

He smirks faintly. “Never said I was goin’ anywhere in particular.”

You hesitate. “You didn’t have to come today, you know. I know it’s not exactly your kind of thing.”

“I didn’t mind,” he says simply. Then, after a beat, “I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

“I’m fine,” you lie automatically.

He studies you for a moment, then tilts his head slightly. “You’re allowed to be more than ‘fine,’ you know.” You open your mouth, but no answer comes. He gives you a small, tired smile. “See you soon, doll.” You watch him walk away, hands shoved deep in his pockets, his figure fading into the crowd until he’s gone.

That night, Andrew calls—his voice smooth, polite, talking about dinner with his parents and the guest list. You listen, answering when you need to, but your mind drifts elsewhere. You think of the way Bucky had knelt beside you without hesitation. The quiet teasing. The memory of your younger selves flashing between you for one breathless second. You think of how Andrew had said, “watch where you’re stepping,” and how it had sounded less like concern and more like correction.

You hang up the phone with a headache and a hollow ache in your chest. When you turn off the light, you whisper into the dark—a soft, frustrated word that you’d never say out loud. Bucky would have laughed. And for the first time in a long while, you do too—quietly, bitterly, but real.

---

The night of the dance comes almost by accident—one of those things Steve insists on, claiming it’ll “do everyone good to get out.” He’s been helping with a fundraiser for returning veterans, something organized at a converted ballroom downtown. There’ll be live music, dancing, food, and a chance, he says, to feel normal again.

You’d refused at first. Between fittings, dinner invitations, and endless lists from your mother and Andrew’s family, your days already feel like borrowed time. But Steve is relentless—and Bucky, of course, is going. So you give in.

The evening is cold enough that your breath ghosts in the air as you step from the cab. The building glows warm through tall windows, laughter spilling onto the street in bursts as couples sweep in through the doors. Music drifts faintly out—brass and strings, something upbeat and elegant.

You smooth your gloves, nerves prickling under your skin. Andrew couldn’t come; a late dinner with a client, he said, promising to make it up to you over the weekend. He’d kissed your cheek on the way out the door, already thinking about something else.

Now, standing under the soft halo of the marquee lights, you almost turn back—until you hear a familiar voice. “Hey, doll.” Bucky’s leaning against the doorframe, coat open, tie slightly undone. He’s smiling—that lazy, easy grin that used to make your stomach do strange things when you were younger.

You exhale. “You look—”

“Don’t say it,” he warns playfully. “I already know.”

You grin despite yourself. “You were going to say it anyway.”

“Maybe,” he admits, pushing off the wall. “You look beautiful, by the way.”

It’s simple, unembellished, and it lands harder than it should. You nod, trying to keep your voice steady. “Thank you.”

He offers his arm with a flourish. “Shall we?” You take it before you can think better of it. The hall inside is alive—bright lights glinting off polished floors, the air full of warmth and perfume and brass. A small band plays near the stage, their instruments gleaming under the glow. Couples swirl across the floor, the sound of laughter weaving with the rhythm of the music.

Steve finds you both near the entrance, already grinning, already holding two glasses of champagne. “You made it!”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” you say, smiling.

Bucky raises a brow at the glasses. “Since when do you drink the fancy stuff?”

Steve shrugs. “Figured I’d start celebrating before anyone gets sentimental.”

“You’re the sentimental one,” Bucky teases. “You cried when you saw that puppy in the paper last week.”

“Yeah, and you didn’t?”

You laugh, shaking your head. “You two haven’t changed a bit.”

For the first hour, everything feels easy. You sit together at a table near the floor, watching dancers spin, the band switching between swing and slower numbers. Steve gets dragged onto the dance floor by a brunette in a red dress, who you’re pretty sure is Peggy, leaving you and Bucky to nurse drinks and trade quiet jokes.

But as the night wears on, something shifts. The music slows. The lights dim slightly, turning everything gold and soft. Couples begin to drift together, the chatter thinning into quiet laughter. You’re fiddling with your glass when Bucky stands. “Come on.”

You blink up at him. “What?”

He nods toward the floor. “Dance with me.”

“Bucky, I don’t think—”

He extends his hand, palm up, eyes steady. “It’s just a dance.”

Your heart stutters, but you take it. His hand is warm around yours, solid. The other settles lightly at your waist as he guides you into the rhythm. It’s slow, easy—the kind of song that sways more than moves, leaving space for breath between every step.

You haven’t danced together since before the war. Back then, it had been all laughter and clumsy steps—your heels on his boots, his grin bright enough to fill the room. This feels different. Older. Heavier. You can feel the weight of his gaze on you, even as you try to keep your eyes anywhere else. “So,” he says quietly, his voice just audible over the band. “Big day’s coming soon.”

You nod. “Two months.”

“You nervous?”

You laugh softly, though it sounds a little hollow. “Should I be?”

He shrugs, eyes flicking down to yours. “Guess that depends.”

“On what?”

“On whether you’re happy.”

You swallow. “You’re starting to sound like a broken record.”

“Maybe,” he says, smiling faintly. “But you still haven’t given me an answer.”

You look away, focusing on a couple nearby, the woman’s patterned dress catching the light as she spins. “It’s not that simple, Bucky.”

“Doesn’t have to be.”

The music slows further, the last few bars stretching out. His thumb traces an idle circle at your waist—so small you almost think you imagined it. You glance up at him. “You’re staring.”

“Can’t help it,” he murmurs. “I’ve spent half my life lookin’ out for you, and the other half trying not to.”

Your breath catches. “Bucky—”

He shakes his head slightly, cutting you off before you can say more. “Don’t worry. I’m not gonna ruin your night.” The song ends, but neither of you move right away. You’re still caught in the slow sway of it, the warmth of his hand, the nearness of him. Finally, he steps back, the loss of his touch like stepping into cold air. “Thanks for the dance, doll.”

You nod, voice soft. “Anytime.”

He smiles—that quiet, sad smile that doesn’t reach his eyes—and turns away before you can say more. You stand there, trying to steady your breathing, watching him move toward the bar. The crowd shifts around you, but everything feels strangely far away—the music, the laughter, the shimmering gold of the lights.

When Steve returns, flushed and grinning, you force yourself to smile. You make small talk, you drink another glass of champagne, you laugh in all the right places.

But every time you glance across the room, Bucky’s already looking at you. And when the band starts another song—something slow and aching—you can feel the pulse of it in your bones, the echo of his hand still at your waist. You know, with sudden terrible clarity, that the world you’ve built is about to crack.

The cold hits like a slap when you step outside the ballroom, the sudden quiet almost deafening after the swell of brass and laughter. The sky is a heavy gray-black, the kind of night that promises snow. Streetlights cast soft circles on the pavement, and the air smells faintly of salt and smoke.

You pull your shawl tighter around your shoulders and exhale, trying to steady yourself. Inside, the party is still going strong—laughter, footsteps, clinking glasses. You can still hear the echo of the band through the doors. The sound feels far away, like it belongs to someone else’s life.

You hadn’t meant to come out here. You just needed air. Space to breathe. You’re halfway down the steps when the door swings open behind you. “Figured I’d find you out here.” You turn. Bucky stands in the doorway, coat over one arm, his expression unreadable. His hair’s a little messy from the heat inside, his tie loose. He looks nothing like the man who’d smiled and danced with you an hour ago. He looks like someone who’s come to do something he can’t take back.

“Hey,” you manage, your voice thinner than you’d like. “Needed a minute.”

“Yeah,” he says, stepping down beside you. “Me too.”

The silence stretches, filled with the low hum of the city and the distant sound of a passing car. You look out toward the street. “It’s getting late. I should—”

“Don’t go yet.” It comes out sharper than he means, and he runs a hand through his hair, sighing. “Sorry. Just—just wait a minute.”

You hesitate, then nod. He steps in front of you, close enough that you have to tilt your head to meet his eyes. The lamplight catches the faint scar at his temple, the sharp line of his jaw. You can see the muscle in his throat move when he swallows. “You can’t marry him,” he says quietly.

The words hit like a physical thing—not shouted, not dramatic, just certain. You stare at him, the wind tugging at your shawl. “What?”

He exhales hard, almost laughing, not because it’s funny, but because he’s run out of ways to hold it in. “You heard me.”

“Bucky—”

“Don’t.” His voice cracks slightly, the word raw. “Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talkin’ about. You’ve been pretending long enough.”

You step back, shaking your head. “You don’t get to say that.”

“The hell I don’t.”

“You don’t,” you repeat, louder this time, the tremor in your voice betraying you. “You had years, Bucky. Years to say something, and you didn’t. You went off to war, and you didn’t write, you didn’t—”

“I thought I was dead!” he shouts, then lowers his voice quickly, the sound cracking in the cold air. “I thought I was dead, and when I wasn’t, I didn’t know how to come back. You think I wanted to ruin what we had?”

“You already have,” you whisper.

He laughs—quiet and bitter. “Yeah. Guess I did.” You turn away, hugging your arms around yourself, staring out at the blur of passing headlights. Your breath clouds the air, your chest tight. He steps closer, voice low again. “I’m not tryin’ to hurt you, doll. I just—” He stops, searching for the words. “Every time I see you with him, it feels like I’m watching somebody else live your life. And I can’t keep doin’ it.”

Your throat tightens. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I do.”

He reaches out, hesitates, then lets his hand drop. “You think I don’t see it? The way you look when you’re with him—polite, careful. Like you’re walkin’ on glass. You used to laugh with your whole body, you know that? You’d throw your head back and snort like it was the funniest thing you ever heard. You don’t laugh like that anymore.”

You blink, and your vision goes blurry. “That’s not fair.”

“It’s true.”

You shake your head, half laughing, half crying. “God, you think you can just come back and tell me I’m unhappy? You think you can just say that and everything changes?”

He takes a step forward, closing the space between you. His voice drops, rough and steady. “No. I think I can tell you the truth. I love you, and I have since before I even knew what that meant.” The words hang there, suspended in the cold air, heavy enough to change the shape of the night. You stare at him, heart pounding, your mouth open but no words coming out. He laughs again, softer now, broken. “I know. I know I’m too late. But I’d rather ruin what’s left than spend another day pretendin’ I don’t still feel this way.”

You whisper, “Bucky, stop.”

He shakes his head. “I can’t. Not this time.”

“Don’t do this to me.”

“I’m not doin’ anything to you,” he says quietly. “I’m tryin’ to be honest. For once.”

You step closer without realizing it, until you’re only a breath apart. The air between you feels electric, sharp, full of everything you’ve both been avoiding. “You don’t get to tell me you love me now,” you say, voice shaking. “Not after all this time.”

He swallows. “I know.”

You look up at him—his eyes, his face, the way he’s looking at you like you’re something precious and painful all at once. “Then why are you saying it?”

“Because I’d rather you hate me for it than never know.”

He reaches out, fingers brushing your jaw. You should pull away. You don’t. The touch is so light it barely registers, but it’s enough to make your heart lurch. You realize you’ve been waiting for it—for years, maybe.

And then he kisses you.

It isn’t careful. It isn’t perfect. It’s desperate, aching, years of silence collapsing into one impossible moment. His hand finds your face, yours fists in the front of his coat. He tastes like smoke and whiskey and regret.

For a second, you let yourself fall into it—the familiarity, the warmth, the terrible rightness of it. Then reality slams back. You break away, breathless, trembling. “Don’t,” you whisper. “Please.”

He takes a step back immediately, hands raised like surrender. “I’m sorry.”

You shake your head, voice thin. “No, you’re not.”

He opens his mouth, closes it again. “You’re right. I’m not.”

You stand there in the cold, neither of you moving, the echo of the kiss still pulsing in the space between you. Finally, you turn. “I have to go.”

He doesn’t stop you this time. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “I know.”

You walk away, your heels striking the pavement, each step harder than the last. You don’t look back, because if you do, you’ll break. Behind you, Bucky stays where he is, the wind tugging at his coat, the sound of the music from inside drifting faintly through the doors. He runs a hand over his mouth, as if he can still taste you, and lets out a shaky breath that turns white in the cold air.

When Steve finds him later, still standing outside under the lamplight, he doesn’t ask what happened. He doesn’t need to. “Guess she went home,” Steve says quietly.

Bucky nods, staring down at the street. “Yeah.”

“You okay?”

Bucky laughs once, soft and bitter. “Not even close.”

Steve doesn’t say anything after that. Just claps a hand to his shoulder, solid and wordless, before leading him toward home.

That night, you sit on your bed in the dark, your shawl still around your shoulders, your hair still styled from the dance. The mirror across from you reflects a version of yourself you don’t recognize—flushed cheeks, tear-stained eyes, a ring on your finger that feels heavier than gold.

You press your fingers to your lips and close your eyes. The ghost of him is still there—the warmth of his hand, the tremor in his voice when he said your name. You tell yourself it was a mistake. That it won’t happen again. That it doesn’t change anything. But deep down, in the place where you’ve hidden everything that still feels alive, you already know it does. Because no matter what happens next—no matter how much you tell yourself otherwise—that kiss didn’t feel like the end of something.

It felt like the start.

---

The morning after the dance dawns gray and breathless, the kind of quiet that feels like the city itself is holding still. You wake long before your alarm, eyes open to the dim light filtering through the curtains. The bedsheets are cold beside you—Andrew had stayed at his parents’ house last night after the dinner he mentioned, something about convenience, early meetings. You’d told him it was fine. You’d meant it.

But now, the silence in the apartment feels unbearable.

Your shawl is draped over the chair where you tossed it last night. One glove sits on the floor, half under the bed. Your lipstick is still smudged faintly around the corners of your mouth. You stare at your reflection in the vanity mirror for a long time—your eyes red-rimmed, your hair a little messed up from sleep.

You look like a woman who hasn’t slept. You look like a woman who’s done something unforgivable. You press your palms flat on the table, forcing a breath through your lungs. You should feel guilty. You do feel guilty—but not in the way you expected. The shame sits alongside something else, something more dangerous. You feel awake.

You make it through breakfast without tasting a thing. The paper sits unread beside your plate, the coffee untouched. Every tick of the clock seems louder than the last. You keep hearing his voice, low and rough.

You can’t marry him. You used to laugh with your whole body. I’d rather you hate me for it than never know.

You try to drown it out with reason. Andrew is good. Steady. The kind of man your parents dreamed you’d marry. He’s kind to you, even if his kindness sometimes feels more like careful politeness than love. You’ll have a warm home, safety, a life without turbulence.

Bucky is none of those things.

He’s reckless, restless, full of jagged edges and ghosts that won’t leave him. His hands still tremble when he doesn’t sleep. He disappears for hours to “walk,” though you suspect he’s not walking so much as running from his own mind.

But when he’d kissed you—God, when he’d kissed you—there had been no distance, no pretending. Just truth. Raw, terrible, beautiful truth. And now you can’t un-feel it.

You find yourself outside his building before you realize you’ve even left home. The cold gnaws at your fingers; your breath fogs the air. You’re in your best coat, a hat tugged low, gloves clasped tight as if they’re the only thing keeping you from shaking apart.

You stand there for a long moment, staring at the door. Every part of you is screaming not to go inside—but your feet move anyway. The hallway smells faintly of tobacco and cheap soap. The floorboards creak underfoot. You reach his door, heart hammering, and knock before you can talk yourself out of it.

It takes a moment. Then footsteps. Then the latch.

When the door opens, he looks… wrecked. Bucky’s hair is rumpled, his shirt half-buttoned, his eyes red-rimmed like yours. He blinks when he sees you, caught between surprise and something softer—something like disbelief. “Doll.”

“Can I come in?”

He steps aside wordlessly. The apartment is small—one room with a narrow kitchen, a half-drawn curtain separating the bed from the rest. There’s a record player on a crate, a mug on the windowsill gone cold. Everything smells faintly of metal polish and smoke.

You take off your gloves, set them down on the table, and stand there, unsure what to do with your hands. He’s watching you carefully, like he’s afraid if he blinks you’ll disappear. “I shouldn’t be here,” you say first.

He nods once. “Probably not.”

Neither of you move. The silence stretches. Finally, you force the words out, “what happened last night can’t—”

“—be undone,” he finishes for you. His voice is steady, quiet. “I know.”

You swallow. “Andrew—”

“Doesn’t love you the way you deserve,” he says, too quickly.

“Don’t,” you whisper. “Don’t make him the villain. He’s good to me.”

“I know he is,” Bucky says softly. “But he doesn’t see you.”

You turn away, pacing to the window. “You keep saying that. That he doesn’t see me. What does that even mean?”

He moves closer, not touching you yet. “It means he doesn’t know the way your hands shake when you’re excited. Or how you hum when you cook. Or how you hate cucumbers but love the smell of mint. He doesn’t know how you look when you’re mad and trying not to cry. He doesn’t know you fall asleep reading, or that you talk in your sleep sometimes.” You close your eyes. “He doesn’t know you,” Bucky finishes, voice low. “Not the way I do.”

“That’s not fair,” you whisper. “People change, Bucky. I’m not who I was before the war. Neither are you.”

“Maybe not,” he says, and now he’s close enough that you can feel the warmth of him at your back. “But you’re still you. The real you. And I’m still the fool who fell for you before either of us knew what love was.”

You turn around, ready to tell him to stop—but he’s looking at you with that same quiet honesty that’s always undone you. No pleading. No bravado. Just truth. Something in you breaks. “You think this is easy for me?” you snap, tears stinging your eyes. “You think I haven’t spent every night trying to make myself believe that I can do this—that I can marry him, smile, build a life that’s good, even if it’s not…” You trail off, breathing hard.

“Not what?” he asks softly.

“Not you.” The words hang there like a confession torn from your chest.

Bucky exhales slowly, eyes darkening. “Say that again.”

You shake your head, tears slipping free. “Don’t make me.”

He takes a step closer. “Say it.”

You look up at him, voice trembling. “It’s not you.”

He doesn’t move for a long moment, just studies your face—every tear, every tremor. Then, so quietly you almost miss it, “then don’t marry him.”

You let out a shaky breath. “Bucky—”

“Don’t marry him,” he repeats, firmer now. “Don’t spend the rest of your life pretending this never happened. Pretending you don’t feel it too.”

Your throat closes. “You’re asking me to destroy everything.”

“I’m asking you to be honest,” he says. “For once. Just with yourself.”

The silence that follows feels like standing on a precipice. You can hear the tick of a clock somewhere, the distant sound of a car outside. Finally, you whisper, “if I walk away from him, there’s no going back.”

“I know,” Bucky says. “But maybe that’s the point.”

You meet his eyes, and for the first time in months—maybe years—you feel something that isn’t fear. You feel clarity. You leave his apartment an hour later, the sun beginning to rise pale and pink over the rooftops. The streets are still quiet, the city half-asleep. You walk the whole way home.

By the time you reach your door, your fingers are numb, your heart raw. You set your ring on the table—gold glinting in the soft morning light—and sit beside it, staring until the sun burns through the window. When the phone rings, you don’t answer. Not yet. You don’t know what you’ll say to Andrew, not really. You just know it has to be true. And for the first time in a long, long while, that feels like enough.

That afternoon, Bucky finds Steve at the diner, coat unbuttoned, eyes still tired but different now—lighter somehow. Steve raises a brow when he slides into the booth. “You look like you haven’t slept.”

Bucky huffs a laugh. “I didn’t.”

“She come by?”

He hesitates, then nods. “Yeah.”

Steve studies him for a moment. “You tell her?”

“Yeah.”

“And?”

Bucky looks out the window, where sunlight spills across the street, turning everything gold. “I don’t know yet,” he says. “But for the first time since I came home… it feels like maybe things might be right again.”

Steve smiles faintly. “That’s something.”

“Yeah,” Bucky murmurs, fingers curling around his coffee mug. “It is.”

Outside, the city hums to life again—the promise of something new on the horizon. And somewhere across town, you sit by the window, your ringless hand resting over your heart, breathing in the quiet morning air. You don’t know what comes next.

But you know who you want to face it with.

---

It happens on a Sunday. The kind of pale, overcast morning that seems to hum with quiet finality—the sort of day that feels like the closing of a chapter, even before anything has ended. Your hands tremble only once when you lace your gloves. Then again when you look in the mirror and see the faint indentation where your ring used to sit. It’s strange how something so small could leave a mark so deep.

Andrew had called three times since last night. You’d answered none of them. You’d written him a letter—neat, careful handwriting, the kind of letter that doesn’t waste words. You apologized, you explained just enough, you didn’t say Bucky’s name. You thanked him for being kind. For being safe. For giving you a life you could have loved, if your heart hadn’t been somewhere else.

When you finished, you folded it, sealed it, and set it gently in his mailbox before you lost your nerve. Then you walked. The city feels softer than usual—washed clean from an early morning drizzle, streets gleaming faintly under the muted sun. People bustle past you in coats and scarves, voices muffled, the world continuing as if nothing monumental has shifted. But for you, everything has.

Bucky doesn’t hear the knock at first. He’s just come back from the docks, sleeves rolled up, hair still damp from the mist. There’s a record playing—something scratchy and old, the kind of jazz you used to hum when you worked beside him at the old diner near Flatbush.

He’s been trying not to think about you; he’s failing. So when the knock comes, soft but steady, he almost doesn’t answer. Some part of him is terrified to open that door, afraid that seeing you—or not seeing you—will finally undo him for good.

But he does. And there you are. Your coat’s damp at the hem, your cheeks stinging from the cold. There’s no ring on your hand, and your eyes—God, your eyes—look clearer than he’s ever seen them. “Hey,” you say, voice small but sure.

He blinks, then steps aside automatically. “You came.”

You nod, stepping inside. “I did.” The air in the room feels charged, the same way it did that morning in his apartment. But this time, there’s no hesitation between you. No guilt. Just a quiet certainty settling in your bones. “I ended it,” you say.

Bucky freezes. “You what?”

You meet his gaze. “With Andrew.”

He opens his mouth, then closes it again, struggling to find breath. “You sure?”

You nod once. “I told him the truth.”

For a moment, neither of you move. Then Bucky lets out a slow, unsteady breath and takes a step forward—one, then another, until you’re standing close enough to feel the warmth of him through your coat. “What did you tell him?” he asks softly.

“That I couldn’t marry someone I didn’t love,” you whisper.

He searches your face, voice barely a murmur. “And who do you love?”

You don’t look away this time. “You.”

The silence that follows isn’t empty—it’s full. Alive. Like the first inhale after years of holding your breath.

And then he’s kissing you.

It isn’t desperate this time. It’s steady. Sure. The kind of kiss that feels like coming home after too long away. His hand slides up to cradle your jaw, his thumb brushing the tear that slips free. You don’t even realize you’re crying until he murmurs against your lips, “hey, hey. Don’t.”

You laugh, half-sobbing, pressing your forehead against his. “I’m okay.”

“You sure?”

You nod, smiling through the tears. “Yeah. I think I am.”

He exhales shakily, relief breaking over him like sunlight. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to hear that.”

“Maybe I do,” you tease gently, your hand resting over his heart. He covers it with his own, fingers threading through yours. His pulse beats strong under your palm. You stay like that for a long time—standing in the quiet of his apartment, the city noise drifting faintly through the window. It feels fragile, this peace, but also real. Earned.

Eventually, he guides you to the small kitchen table, sets a kettle on the stove, and makes tea—the way he used to when you were kids, strong and too sweet. You sit across from him, elbows on the scarred wood, steam curling between you. He watches you for a moment, eyes soft. “You sure you’re okay?”

You smile. “You’ve asked me that three times.”

“Can’t help it.”

“I know.”

You reach across the table, covering his hand with yours. “I think I’ll be okay, Buck. For the first time in a long while.”

He nods slowly, thumb tracing circles against your wrist. “You know this won’t be easy.”

“I know,” you say. “But at least it’ll be real.”

He looks at you then—really looks—and you see the weight lift from him. The guilt, the fear, the quiet ache that’s been hiding behind his smile since the war. “Real sounds good,” he murmurs.

The weeks that follow aren’t simple. There are whispers, of course. Muted condolences from neighbors who think you’ve been jilted. Polite confusion from Andrew’s family. Your mother’s disappointment—quiet, tight-lipped, the kind that cuts deeper than yelling.

But there’s also laughter again. You and Bucky and Steve falling back into a rhythm that feels like the world before it went to hell—coffee at the diner, evenings spent walking home through the city, warmth slowly replacing what had been hollow.

Sometimes, it’s quiet—hands brushing on park benches, shared cigarettes in the cold, Bucky’s coat around your shoulders. Sometimes, it’s loud—dancing in his room to bad jazz, arguing about who cheats at cards, Steve rolling his eyes fondly from the doorway. And every now and then, when you least expect it, he’ll reach for your hand—just a touch, light and unassuming—and it’ll still take your breath away.

It’s early spring when you wake in his bed for the first time with sunlight spilling through the window, his arm slung across your waist. The city hums faintly outside—car horns, laughter, the world moving on.

You turn your head, watching him sleep. He looks younger like this. Peaceful, almost. You reach up, brushing your thumb along his cheekbone. His eyes open slowly, blue and soft, and he smiles—that same crooked grin that’s undone you a hundred times over. “Mornin’, doll.”

You grin back. “Morning.”

He leans in and kisses you, slow and easy, the kind of kiss that doesn’t ask for anything except the promise that you’re both still here. When he pulls back, he murmurs, “you know, I still think about that night at the Expo sometimes.”

You laugh, low. “When you vanished to find Steve?”

“Yeah,” he says, smile widening. “Should’ve kissed you then.”

You tilt your head, teasing. “You made up for it.”

He hums, pressing another kiss to your forehead. “Not done makin’ up for it.”

You smile against his skin. “Good.”

Outside, the city keeps moving—trains and laughter and sunlight spilling over everything. The world isn’t perfect. It never will be. But for the first time, it feels like yours again. And when Bucky pulls you close, his voice low against your ear, you know with absolute certainty that you did the right thing.

extra notes: this fic has been done for months, probably since tloas came out in october. i still think months later it's one of my favorites so i hope y'all liked it as much as i do <3

everything taglist: @clxt-lamb1 @person-005

He was sat up straight on his knees on the hard floor of the lower deck, with you holding onto the couch cushion in front of you like it was a lifeline you couldn’t afford to let go of. Your nails dug deeply into the fabric of the sheet that covered the couch, body getting jolted forward with each harsh thrust of Bucky’s hips. His vibranium hand gripped onto your waist tightly, while his flesh one was clasped tightly over your mouth.

Despite the resistance of his strong hand, your whimpers still tumbled out. You couldn’t help yourself. A low grunt sounded from behind you, while you felt the coldness of metal leave your waist and join the warmth covering your mouth.

“You’re not as quiet as you think.” he growled.

Your eyes squeezed shut and you couldn’t help but clench around him, his words feeding your arousal. You both knew you probably shouldn’t be doing something so scandalous in Sam’s family boat, but it wasn’t easy to refrain from giving into the temptation between you two.

The quiet squelching that came from between your bodies with each movement of his hips didn’t make it any easier to stay silent, either. Bucky’s warm breath ghosted over your ear as he panted heavily, hands still securely held over your mouth to silence you. The feeling of his velvety cock dragging along your walls with each punishing thrust only served the tight, knotty feeling that started twisting low in your tummy.

“Try to be a little quieter for me, sugar, alright?”

A sharp little slap lands on your cheek, a condescending tap that stings just enough to jolt your eyes open.

“Eyes on me when I’m talking to you, pretty girl.”

Bucky’s voice is a tether, deep, cooing, and laced with something cruel, as he toys with your pussy, never quite pushing in.

You blink up at him, lips parted, tears staining your cheeks.

“There she is,” he rumbles, thumb finding your clit in mean, deliberate circles that make you whimper. “My clever little thing. You were so mouthy in class today, baby. All those big words, arguing like you knew better than me.” He smiles, lazy and wolfish. “Go on, sweetheart. Let’s hear a few now.”

But his cock keeps nudging at your entrance, catching just enough to make your cunt flutter around nothing and your thoughts dissolve.

“I—I can’t—” you hiccup. “You make—fuck—you make it very hard to think.”

“You can’t?” he echoes, mocking and indulgent. “But you’re my best student, baby. Is your little pussy making you stupid already?”

He pushes in, just the tip, then pulls out again, as if to prove a point. You cry out in a needy sob.

“Uh-huh, uh-huh,” you agree desperately.

He laughs, patronising, and grabs your face, squishing your tear-soaked cheeks between one large hand until your lips pucker in a pathetic, ruined pout.

“Aww, don’t pout sweetheart,” he coos, condescending and fond, thumbing your tears away as he bullies the head of his cock back inside. “S’okay. Brains are overrated when you’ve got a pussy like this.”

You whine, glassy‑eyed, hips twitching, cunt fluttering uselessly around him, trying to pull him deeper. His thumb drags against bottom lip, before he presses it into your mouth. Instinct takes over and you suck, mindless.

“Fuck, baby,” he groans, cock twitching, just inside you. “You’re so dumb like this.” You moan around his thumb, drooling. “Just a needy little fucktoy now, huh?”

You sob again, nodding dumbly. “Y-yes, sir—”

“Good fucking girl,” he growls, finally bottoming out in one long thrust that knocks the breath from your lungs. “Don’t worry. You don’t need to think, baby. Just cry real pretty and take what your professor gives you.”

the rest of the team was nice, including you on trips out and training with you like you were already a part of the team. treating you like you were in their family.

you’d been there for nearly five months now and bucky continued to act like you didn’t exist. he always hung out around steve so you quickly noticed how close he was to him rather than anyone else. stubborn as ever, you wanted the team to like you, including bucky. so naturally, you thought to befriend both of them and started hanging out with steve and sam more outside of work. steve was entirely a sweetheart and full of smiles, making a huge effort to make you feel welcomed into the team.

bucky, however, he kept his distance from you, trying not to talk much even when he did with others. purposefully keeping conversations short and painfully professional. making sure you weren’t part of any missions he was involved with.

you didn’t think much of it, taking his lack of regard to the chin and pretending it didn’t hurt your ego. but as soon as he saw you hanging out with steve alone in the kitchen one late night, he started being entirely cold towards you.

sure, you hadn’t been part of the team for long, but he particularly didn’t like how everyone else accepted you almost immediately. he definitely didn’t like how you always had an answer for everything or how steve always came to your defense.

after six months of working with the avengers, bucky barnes never warmed up to you. in fact he became hostile, dismissive, and borderline rude when he you tried to talk to him. you’d walk up with a file in hand, ready to ask him about it, and he’d actively ignore you or put you off to be someone else problem. when you were walking past him in the hallways felt like walking past a ghost sometimes just from how faraway he felt from everyone else.

if he wasn’t such a dickhead without reason, you might actually feel bad for him.

then one day, you’re walking with tony and steve, but bucky makes it a point to make sure you see him too. a visible scowl on his face as he approaches you while your laughing at something one of them said. his shoulder roughly touches yours as you walk past him in the corridor, so much so that you nearly topple over. you catch yourself on the wall just to look up and see him staring back at you. he almost seems like he regrets it, but then he gives you a stupid, knowing smile, and you feel anger boil low in your belly.

“should watch your step there, rookie.”

you scoff and brush yourself off, giving him a tight smile right back that only seems to make him grow more annoyed. steve even asks him what his problem was, but he responded with a grunt and a long cold stare like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

over the next couple weeks he gets even more apparent in his attempts to be a nuisance to you. he makes you do extra work, makes sure you get your ass handed to you during training and reminds steve of everyone curfew specifically when he knows you were gonna go out that night. watching you smugly as you walk downstairs cause he knew you’d just go back up.

it’s not like you were gonna be nice back either. he’s clearly shown his feelings of distaste, so you stopped tried to coddle a grown man.

but when he purposefully makes you look like a rookie on a mission you were desperately trying to prove yourself on—you’re seeing red. you’re stomping hard across the hall, muttering profanities and threats under your breath. bruce, being the sweet guy he was, is trying to calm you dow but is careful not to touch you.

“hey, i don’t think he meant anything by it,” he starts again, the same excuse he made for bucky in jet ride back to the tower.

you huff and turn to bruce, his expression immediately falls at the disdain on your face.

“he shouldn’t have disarmed me in front of the fucking target.”

bruce nearly cowers in on himself despite being the easiest person to ragebait and you feel horrible for projecting onto him. you soften your tone and sigh deeply, putting a hand on your brow.

“fuck, i’m sorry bruce. i’m just frustrated with this whole situation right now,” biting the inside of your cheek.

he nods in understanding, giving you a knowing, small smile and soft hand on your shoulder.

if anyone could understand uncontrollable anger, it’s bruce. if anyone could hone in on it, it’s also probably bruce, but you’re not looking for logic right now. you’re just pissed off beyond your limits and a certain super soldier who couldn’t help himself on the mission was the cause.

bucky wasn’t even supposed to be on that mission. you literally had the target in your line of sight and had already disarmed him and cornered and bucky claimed that he saw otherwise. he caught you by surprise and toppled you over, pushing your gun out of your hands, practically wheel-barrelling into the guy, which you were sure was for no apparent reason other than to fuck with you. sam and sharon walked in moments later with confusion plastered over their face while you had annoyance over yours.

the heavy footsteps of the culprit ascending down the towers hall makes your blood boil all over. you apologize to bruce again as bucky and steve emerge from the elevator. steve shoots you a knowing glance before slipping away from bucky and joining sam in the kitchen. when you look up, bucky eyes already found yours, dirt across his brow. he says your name once but you ignore him, stomping away and needing distance from him before you got violent.

bucky is hot on your tail, chasing after you until you reach the kitchen, “you can’t avoid this forever.”

you say nothing, zipping off your tactical vest and dropping it on the bench in the hall. he scoffs like he were the one who should be mad.

as if he didn’t just make you look like an amateur in front of the target for the last fucking time.

“hey, i’m talking to you brat!”

that was it. it felt like steam was coming out of your ears at this point and you turn abruptly— tossing your gear at him hard and pushing your palms into his chest.

“what the hell is your problem?!” you yelled, shoving him backwards.

he rolls his eyes and lets you push him. he makes no point to take your hands off of him, but wraps his fingers, metal and flesh, around your wrists. “me? are you dense? you messed up the whole mission running in like the damn rookie you are.”

you feel your face grow warm with anger. you yank your hands from his grip. he’s not your damn superior, even if you were a rookie with the team. steve and tony didn’t give you a choice when you joined the team, it was a no brainer.

“don’t talk to me like i’m a child barnes.”

he glares at you, chest heaving as he leaves in closer. his breath his hot against your face.

“well you sure as hell act like one, sweetheart.” his words laced with malice.

you bite back a harsh word and lean your chin upwards, “you weren’t even supposed to be in there, i had him.”

he laughs, “you didn’t have anything but a bullet about to lodge into your thick skull.”

your grit your teeth, “oh, fuck you barnes.”

“fuck me? fuck you!”

neither of you making any effort to move away, you press on, “quit being such a dick.”

bucky leans even closer, “quit being a brat.”

then you finally shove him away, annoyed at how he copied your words, “you’ve been a dickhead to me for months now all because your ego is inflated since steve let you take the lead on this,” you spat. he looked unamused, so you wanted your words to stick, “but we both know that if you didn’t run point, it would have concluded by now and i would’ve had him.”

having struck a cord she didn’t even know was there, his hands clench on his side, “yeah, you needed someone who actually knows what their doing to come with you. i run point cause i’m simply more skilled than you are sweetheart. i have more experience, more tactical knowledge. what are you anyway, twenty-something?”

with a heavy scoff, you berate him, “oh fuck off, my age means nothing here, we both know i know what the hell i’m doing. the question is, do you old man?”

“old man—” he mutters, without thinking he bites back, “well you’re a spoilt brat who only got here cause of steve.”

incredulous, you laugh, “the joke writes itself barnes.”

his expression falters and he glares at you as he wets his lips, “you’re a damn liability.”

shifting on the balls of your feet to get a closer reach at him, "and you need to stop acting like you know what is best when you clearly don't."

he barks out a humoured laugh, "and you do? you almost got yourself killed, taking unnecessary risks like you’re invincible. sorry sweetheart, you’re gonna get someone else or yourself killed one day."

“don’t call me that,” glaring daggers at him, "nothing was going to happen until you chose to expose everything and blow my cover."

"yeah?" he asks, like he knows something you don't, condescending in his tone, "maybe cause you're acting like a child getting their first bit of freedom. trying to prove yourself for people who couldn’t care less about what you do."

at this point you’re clenching your jaw so hard, it feels like it might break. he always knows how to push your buttons.

you don't think as you put a hand to his chest and he raises his brows in question, but doesn't withdraw from you. without another thought, you grip the fabric over his chest and draw him in fast while dragging your head back to snap it forward—hitting his nose hard with your forehead. to your petty victory, his nose bleeds down his cupids bow, and he extends his tongue just a little further to touch it with the tip before cracking the faintest bit of a smirk.

you lock your ankle at the backs of his knees and drag them forward, grabbing his throat with the other and shoving him down hard. you only get the better of him cause he’s letting you, you know that. still, in that one fluid move you knock him on his ass. but bucky knows you too well—he anticipates what you’d do and anchors his arm around your waist, and dragging you down on top of him. you go down with an oof.

“don’t you ever put me in that position on a mission again barnes. i don’t care how fucking old you are.” pushing yourself up onto your elbows as he doesn’t budge, hooking his fingers into your belt loops.

his other hand snakes to the small of your back and up your spine, sending shivers up. he almost looks proud of you, not even a little angry. you can’t help the slight tremble you have as he pushes you downward so you’re inches away from his face now. the warmth of his body radiating off of him and onto you as you straddles his waist. he wets his lips whilst shamelessly staring at yours and your lips part instinctively at the sight that was turning you on despite it all.

bucky smirks like he can read your mind.

“you play dirty, you know that?” the most smug smile on his face like he wasn’t bleeding all down his neck, “it’s kinda doing it for me.”

you slap his hand off your waist and stand, kicking his shoulder, softer than you could have. pushing off of him, his back goes flat on the ground. surprised by how easily he let you go.

he licks his lips again in that stupidly attractive way and you try not to watch him. when you move away, bucky laughs softly as you walk, ignoring how you calling him a “pervert,” under your breath.

sam hears the commotion and comes lightly jogging out of the kitchen where steve had gone into, seeing bucky spawled out on his back. bucky is grinning like an idiot with his head slightly lifted off the ground as he watches you walk away. the dull clicks of your shoes echo as you storm off with a little bounce that showcased your annoyance. sam shifts his eyes from down the hall, back to bucky and back to you again as though he were putting together the situation at hand.

sam scratches at his head and sighs, "you need to leave that woman alone barnes. i swear, one day you're both gonna tear each other's throats out."

with genuine reluctance, bucky starts tearing his gaze away from the sway of your hips and makes a hum of acknowledgement. once you’re out of his view, he drops his head against the floor with a soft thud. the sound of you slamming your door shut echoes far enough for them to hear it.

a ridiculously handsome smile still plastered across his face, bucky sits up.

“yeah? you really think so?”

🏷️ add yourself to the taglist

foolishly wrong, autoheart

Kid.

That word fucking haunted you. 

Mornin’ kid. 

Work givin’ you trouble kid? 

Won’t be home ‘til late kid. Buncha debriefs. 

He always called you kid. You hated it. You were barely younger than him — well, biologically. You doubted you’d look as good as him at 106. Every time his perfect lips would say that word, it seeped in your bones in the worst way possible. It’s not like you ever told him, but you’d come to despise that word. More than your boss. More than non-tippers. 

More than the stain you were angrily rubbing out of a table. The words he left you with this morning looped in your mind as you took out your anger on the poor table. 

Remember ‘bout tonight kid. 

As if you could forget. His entire workplace — which consisted of five deeply deranged heroes — was having dinner at your small Brooklyn apartment. And you stupidly volunteered to cook, to make a good impression. Absolutely not so maybe he’d look at you differently for once. You thought it was brilliant , especially when he thanked you with that half smile that made your brain buzz with adrenaline and your heart rate spike. 

Then you realized you had an opening shift that day at the buffet you worked at, and several papers due the day after. But you weren’t going to tell him that. He’d just insist on ordering takeout and you couldn’t have that. You’d researched for hours recipes from the 40s so that maybe he’d thank you without that damn nickname. 

How you — college student, waitress, up to neck in debt — ended up with Bucky fucking Barnes as a roommate, you’d never know.

It started with a text – hey is this unit still available? – when you’d posted your extra room online in the hopes of finding a roommate. You could barely believe that this ex-Congressman, current New Avenger, was texting you about a shitty Brooklyn apartment. 

Turns out he just needed a place that wasn’t the Tower to live in. And your unit just happened to be the same address his old place (from 1942 you’d learned quickly) used to be. So who were you to refuse him? If you were lucky, maybe he’d even pay off your student loans. 

Then he moved in. And you were faced with a tall broad-shouldered man whose arms should be (and probably were) illegal in most countries. And you knew you were fucked. So deeply fucked. You’d seen him on TV a few times but nothing could prepare you for having him tower over you. He was so damn handsome and never fucking smiled, which made him look like an ever brooding puppy with his big blue eyes. He’d just grunted a hi and made you coffee – in your own kitchen. Before even moving his boxes in. And just like that, you had a massive crush on your roommate who moonlighted as a superhero. 

One year later, that crush had dangerously grown into an all consuming love for this stupidly kind and grumpy man who constantly referred to you as a kid. You’d gone as far as a girl could go – listened almost exclusively to 40’s music, cooked his favourite dishes constantly (under the pretence that you liked them too – even the most bland ones from his childhood), you even did his damn laundry. You wore his hoodies and boxers around the house, for god’s sake. 

It’s not that he wasn’t thankful. It would be easier to forget him if he wasn’t. But he always complimented your cooking with those stupid blue eyes looking into yours. He always hummed along the old tunes echoing from your phone. He didn’t hug you often, but when he did, he’d hold you close, nose buried in your neck. And it was somehow so platonic it hurt. 

He never looked at you like you wanted him to. His eyes never lingered on you when you dressed up. You paraded around in his damn boxers and he didn’t even bat an eye. You could wear the tightest, most revealing dresses and he wouldn’t even flicker his eyes down to your cleavage. Not even your legs. 

Just.

You look good, kid. 

Anyone less delusional would have given up by now. You should’ve given up the day you’d walked into the kitchen in a bra because you didn’t think he was awake and the man didn’t so much as look at you twice. Just grunted a good morning and kept drinking his black coffee. You’d almost unhooked it, just for science. 

God, it made you want to scream. You still held onto hope – fragile and stupid hope – but you were starting to believe that your love was a lost cause. That you were a lost cause. 

You slammed the napkins on the table in frustration. The clattering of cutlery soon followed. Two hours. Two hours until your shift ended and you had to cook like a madwoman for a man who wouldn’t care if you walked in fully naked. 

“You alright?” One of your coworkers asked as you slammed three glasses down at your station, still half full with flat Pepsi. The brown liquid sloshed at the shock and a few eyes turned towards you. 

“Mhm. Just school,” You lied smoothly. They didn’t need to know just how little you cared about college since James Barnes came into your life. Maybe it was severely unhealthy but he consumed everything about you. You took a damn advanced World War II seminar last semester just to be able to talk to him about it. You had no previous interest and/or experience in that field. You’d barely passed the class, but it hadn’t mattered even when your GPA took a hit. The sparkle in Bucky’s eyes when you’d approached the subject quietly and respectfully had made it all worth it, especially when you’d lay on your living room floor listening to his low voice recounting his toughest times during the war. 

You blinked out of your thoughts when your coworker bumped your shoulder but Bucky’s blue eyes stayed in your mind. The rest of your shift was hell. Well, internally at least. Outside of your mind, the customers were kind, the tips were good and your boss had let you off early. Even as you went home, the sun was shining and your bus was early. But your brain was a storm of thoughts, from how the hell you were supposed to throw together a full dinner in three hours to what dress you should wear. You could go with the short red silk one, just to see if he’d drop the kid in front of his “coworkers’’. Or maybe your small black number. Could never go wrong with an LBD. 

By the time you were home, you’d gone through your entire closet mentally, wondering if you still had the rust coloured dress that you’d bought because it looked identical to a dress you’d seen in an old 1940’s magazine he was thumbing through. Jesus Christ, if you even stopped to think about it you’d realize you were turning yourself into a housewife for him. And he didn’t even so much as look at you like anything else but a friend. 

Hands on hips, you were staring at the mess that was your floor. Clothes were strewn across the floor, heels and sneakers sitting proudly on your bed. The silk dress was hanging from your desk chair – you’d decided against it. Too sexy for a dinner party with your roommate’s coworkers. 

Would it be too obvious to wear the orange shirtwaist dress? 

Before you could doll yourself up into a 1940’s daydream, you threw the dress away, deep back into your closet. Too obvious. Too desperate.

So you settled for a black silk blouse and jeans. Casual. Slightly sexy. You unbuttoned another button on the blouse for good measure. 

Your phone buzzed and your heart leaped. Maybe it was him, texting you about tonight. Checking up on you. Asking if you wanted something from the store. Wondering if you’d go on a date with him. God, a girl could dream. 

You grabbed your phone from the pile of bras on your bed and your heart drooped. Not Bucky. Your best friend. 

pamm | 3:27pm heyy you free tnt? me, tommy n carter were planning on going out if you wanna join You | 3:27pm noo sorryy, cooking for buck n his friends tnt pamm | 3:28pm booo, you always do that. you wearing that housewife dress too??  pamm | 3:28pm no but seriously, you need to stop putting so much effort into that guy 😭 You | 3:28pm oh stfu, like you're any better w tommy  pamm | 3:29pm hon tommy and i are together, you’re literally just busting your ass over a guy that treats you like a child

You rolled your eyes, though her words settled in your stomach. She was right, as much as you wanted to deny it. 

pamm | 3:29pm if you’d rather do that than go out w us, thats up to you but yk pamm | 3:30pm  he could at least have the decency to stare at your tits once in a while

You snorted, taking a look in the mirror. You’d worn your best bra, the one that made your chest look illegal. Maybe you’d get a glance. Even just a flicker down. God you were so thirsty for the slightest bit of attention from him.

You snapped a picture for Pam, posing so your boobs were front and centre, and sent it.

You | 3:30pm hopefully tonights the night then You | 3:31pm even put some of that shiny product you gave me on the girls  pamm | 3:31pm  UM SEXY?? If that man doesn’t make a move, I will 💋

You giggled, until your eyes flickered to the time. 3:31. Three thirty one. T-minus 2 hours and a half until the damn Avengers rocked up. And you still had an entire chicken pasta dish and a coconut cream pie you’d found online to make. 37 Best 1940’s Recipes, the website said, so you’d gotten all the ingredients and prayed he liked it. But just in case he didn’t, you’d prepped his favourite pie – a plum pie – that was sitting in the back of the fridge behind your inexhaustible stock of energy drinks. Bucky hated those, swore by good old fashioned black coffee and wouldn’t touch the cans with a ten foot pole, so your secret was safe. 

You | 3:32pm pam, babe, i have like barely three hours to get this shit done i gtg im so sorry have fun tnt <3

You almost ran to the kitchen, barefooted, your phone tucked in your back pocket haphazardly. Without a glance at your apron, you scoured the fridge for the ingredients you’d bought a few days before. Coconut shavings – check, eggs – check, whipped cream – check, vanilla that costs more than you could afford– check. But leftover pie dough from the plum pie? Nowhere to be found. You frantically pushed aside a tower of chicken legs, looking for your missing crust. Panic started to settle. You had zero time to buy a new one, much less make one from scratch. 

You couldn’t make a coconut cream pie without the pie part, now you could you? Fuck, you could shoot Bucky a text but you wanted it to be a surprise. But it wouldn’t be much of a surprise if you had nothing to serve. So you reluctantly fished your phone out of your pocket again, clicking on his contact. 

You | 3:46pm hey could you stop by the store for a premade pie dough  You | 3:46pm the one i had for tnt disappeared 

Disappeared was a ridiculous word but you’d sworn you’d prepared extra last night just to have enough. You’d left it sitting proudly in the fridge, not hidden –there were only so many things you could hide from a supersoldier with enhanced senses. As you paced the kitchen, gathering the seasoning for your chicken, your phone buzzed again. You almost dropped the garlic salt, diving for your phone. 

Bucky | 3:49pm Shit, I used it to make some meat pies this morning for our lunches. Thought it was just leftovers. B.

Exasperation should be settling in your gut but instead, amusement filled you at the perfect punctuation. He swore up and down he knew how to function in this century but still signed his texts. 

You decided to ignore the way ‘our lunches’ hit something in your chest you’d spend too long mulling over later that night. 

Bucky | 3:49pm I’ll get you some. The nice kind right? The one in the organic section? I’m sorry kid. B.

Your stomach fluttered then dropped. There it was again. That word. He could’ve said the most thoughtful, kind, most Bucky thing in the world, and then added that word. The one that tasted bitter in your tongue and seemed to flow from his like honey. There were times at the beginning of you living together where you almost thought he felt the same about you, like when he taught you how he used to dance in bars and clubs back before the war. It started friendly enough, going through various dances, like your poor attempt at the Charleston (You looked like a flailing chicken. A cute one, he’d said). You tripped over his feet during a foxtrot and he looked too graceful on his feet to be an ex-assassin. 

By the end of the night, the music had slowed, Vera Lynn’s voice filling the air. He’d quit trying to teach you but still danced with you, just slowly rocking side to side. His vibranium fingers were splayed across your lower back, his other hand in yours. You felt the callouses, the warmth of his fingers. His thumb was brushing your spine, holding you close to him. 

He’d looked down at you with his blue eyes and that’s when you knew. That your stupid crush wasn’t just something you could brush off anymore. You’d fallen in love with Bucky Barnes, and for a foolish moment, you’d thought he might’ve felt it too. 

And then, as the music flickered out and Vera Lynn returned to her box of memories, he pulled away from you, dropping your hand. 

You did good, kid.  

It was the first time that word broke your heart, but it certainly wouldn’t be the last. 

Which led you here, in the middle of your kitchen, about to lose it over a three-lettered word and a missing pie crust. 

You | 3:51pm yeah, thank you! dinner might be just slightly late, but ill have cocktails done n those scallop things u like at 6 :) 

You remembered the first time you almost gave him an aneurysm trying to explain what the hell ,,:)’’ was. He was so damn confused when you’d sent it, and now he even sent you ,,<3’’ sometimes. He clearly thought nothing of it but every time you’d see that stupid less than sign and 3, something in your chest unraveled. 

Bucky | 3:52pm What would I do without you? B.

Sometimes you swore he knew how you felt and just fucked with you. Because those six words shook you so hard you almost dropped your phone. You felt tears prick your eyes, not out of sadness but out of frustration. Was he serious? If he didn’t know, he was the most oblivious man in the world and if he did, he was cruel. God you’d take an honest rejection over whatever the fuck he was playing at. 

You let out a thick breath, blinking back your tears angrily. You just slammed your phone face down on the counter, wiped your eyes and started mixing the seasonings with trembling hands. You prayed no tears would slip loose, your cheap drugstore “waterproof” mascara had failed you before and you had no time for a wardrobe mishap. But your vision blurred with unshed tears, and your bottom lip quivered so you took a deep breath, reached for your phone, closed the message app too quickly, and turned on your favourite playlist. Not the 1940s one. You’d crumple to your knees if you heard one more smooth jazz melody from your phone.

So with Jody Gadsden’s voice ringing out in your small kitchen, you tried your best to get through prepping the chicken. You usually liked making dinner. It made you happy, took your mind off work. But today, hands deep in chicken thighs and garlic salt? Your teeth were clenched, still blinking back tears that resurfaced every time you thought about Bucky (which was every two minutes). You threw the chicken in the oven, and glanced at its digital clock. 

4:24pm

You sighed, washing your hands. An hour and a half left. An hour and thirty-six minutes before you came face to face with his coworkers, like a girlfriend would. In your apartment full of memories the two of you made, his sweaters thrown over your side of the couch, your picture in his wallet. Except you slept in separate bedrooms and never once had you felt the press of his lips against yours. You weren’t sure you ever would. 

But you kept going. You grabbed the coconut, the cream, the sugar, the eggs and followed the website’s recipe carefully. There was no way you were going to mess this up. Even for a man that destabilized every crevice of your carefully crafted being. You were almost on autopilot for the next hour, Autoheart fading to Finger Eleven, followed by Eric Carmen accompanying you as you baked and cooked. 

At 5:30 on the dot, the doorknob turned and you wiped your trembling hands on your apron as Bucky stepped through. He had a bag slung over his shoulders, his stupidly attractive face turning to you to greet you with a sheepish smile. You tried, oh how you tried to stop the rush you felt in your veins at his presence. You tried to smile back. It probably came out as a twitch of your lips before your eyes darted back to the counter where the bacon-wrapped scallops sat, ready for the spicy honey you’d made. 

“Hey,” He said, closing the door behind him, shrugging off his jacket. He wore that red henley, the one you’d fantasized pulling off his body so often it hurt. “How was your shift?” He asked, carefully, like he was approaching a wounded animal. Maybe somewhere in your fantasies this is where you’d break down and admit how much you loved him, and he’d kiss you against the kitchen counter that had seen too many of your near-romantic moments. But this was real life, where the best you could do was croak a yes and where he simply handed you the pie crust. 

“Thanks,” Your fingers brushed against his tanned ones and you pulled them away fast, still avoiding his gaze. 

He stood next to the kitchen island, hovering like he wanted to say more, like if he left, something would not be quite right. Your shaky fingers grabbed the wooden honey dipper and drizzled the scallops, trying your best to act normal. As normal as you could with a highly perceptive supersoldier scanning your every move.  It was quiet as you turned to put the scallops in the oven. You were still facing away from him when he spoke. 

“I’m sorry about the pie,” Five words and your entire composure almost shattered. Here he was, in all his six-foot-something stature, one of the most powerful men in the world, apologizing to you for something as trivial as a pie crust. You turned around, and caught his eyes for the first time since he’d arrived. His blue eyes were riddled with guilt, his hair tousled. His usually confident, no-bullshit persona was gone, just a man drumming his fingers against the faux-marble counter next to his college student roommate. Fuck. 

“Don’t worry about it seriously.” You forced a laugh, unwrapping the expensive organic pie crust he’d bought just for you. “How much do I owe you?” 

His jaw clenched and you could tell he’d wanted to say more, maybe fight you on the nature of your quick shutdown of his apology. Instead, he just shook his head, a smile tugging at his lips.

“Don’t worry about it. Fairly sure I can cover a pie crust.” He said, one of his fingers twitching against the counter. 

“Bucky, please, I can pay for my ow-”

“Says the college student with a shitty job,” 

That shut down the argument and with a laugh, your heart eased a bit. You shoved him away gently, trying to avoid the warmth of his bicep underneath your hand. 

“Alright, get out. I don’t have forever to finish this pie,” You unrolled the dough, setting it in the pan as Bucky chuckled, walking away. 

You were too deep in your thoughts, too wrapped up in getting this pie perfect to notice him lingering in the doorway. Too distracted to notice the way his eyes dragged down your body as you worked. Too distracted to see the clench of jaw as he lingered on your chest, your little frown, your lips. He left the moment your tongue darted out to lick your bottom lip. He never stayed long enough for you to notice the way his pupils dilated anytime you were in his space. 

When 6h30 hit, you were ready. A bit disheveled, a bit anxiety-ridden, but with a fully prepared coconut pie, scallops out on the counter, and chicken thighs warm and seasoned wrapped in foil. You had regained some sort of dignity after your mid-prep breakdown, and not a single lash was out of place as you took out the bottle of champagne Bucky had bought for tonight. 

Bucky stepped out of the hallway leading to your bedrooms and you tried not to drop the very expensive bottle. It wasn’t a fucking secret that Bucky Barnes looked illegal in formal wear, but it still caught you off guard every time. You were used to him in sweaters, Henleys and leather jackets when he was around you, so the moment he combed his hair back and wore something slightly more classy, it awakened something in you that had died about three exes ago. 

He was fiddling with the sleeves of his black button-up, mumbling under his breath as you stood there, apron long forgotten in your hands. Four buttons were undone, revealing the curve of his muscled chest, his dog tags glinting in the soft light of the kitchen. You couldn’t help the swoop of your stomach when he adjusted his watch and looked back up to you with a crooked smile.

“How do I look?” 

“Good!” You answered, a little bit breathy, trying your best not to knock over the bottle as you pushed it towards the seven glasses you’d set on the island. The scallops looked perfect, sitting prettily on the nicest plate you could spare, decorated with springs of thyme. The entire apartment smelled like heaven, and yet your stomach was in knots, stuck between vomiting your nerves up or stuffing down everything as fast as you could. 

Bucky walked over to you, his smile wrinkling the corner of his eyes. He looked like the first ray of sunshine after rain, beautiful, holding your aching heart between his calloused hands. You held your breath as he pushed a strand of hair away from your face, his fingertips grazing your cheeks. You stood there, looking up at him, and he stared back, an unreadable look in his eyes.

You thought you’d felt his fingers twitch against your face, and for a second, you really thought he’d kiss you. And then the doorbell rang. And he dropped his hand, looking away from you. 

“It smells amazing, thank you so much for this, kid.” 

He had to be joking. 

Before you could even register, a swarm of people walked through the door, Bucky holding it open for them. You watched him smile, hug a few of them, shaking hands with the others, and shoving a blonde man with his metal arm. You stood there, frozen, unsure what to do. This was not your element. Talking down to some right-winged asshole at work, talking in front of a class about the literary repercussions of Dante’s Inferno on Italian literature, that you could do. Hosting six world famous superheroes in your safe space – who also happened to work very closely with the man you could not get out of your head? Yeah, you weren’t sure you could do this. 

But before you could melt in a puddle of anxiety and sulk back to your room, Bucky walked over to you, and leaned against the kitchen counter. He introduced you to each of them, and you prayed your hands weren’t too clammy as you shook the blond man, John Walker’s hand. A woman with long brown hair smiled at you, Ava. The towering large Russian man swopped you up in a bearhug, and you squeaked, your nerves loosening just a bit as Bucky laughed. 

The final two shook your hand, a nervous looking man with a twitchy smile, and a blonde woman who looked to be just a few years your senior. Bob and Yelena. 

“It’s nice to meet you finally,” Yelena spoke, her accented voice speaking over her (apparently) father’s booming voice as he talked to your roommate. “Bucky talks about you a lot.”

It was said so matter-of-factly that you almost didn’t fully catch the full intent of her words. She raised an eyebrow at you, her eyes darting to Bucky. Bob stifled his smile, and you felt your face flush as you stuttered a response. 

“Ah, well, nice to know he appreciates me,” You laughed awkwardly, “Y’know how it is, I try to be a good roommate.” You kicked yourself in the shins in your mind at your nervous tone. 

Yelena simply hummed and you felt an arm wrap itself around your shoulders. It was warm and strong but you knew in a second it wasn’t Bucky. It was a different kind of strength, something that didn’t ignite your stomach with want, but with a spark of unknown and anxiety. 

“Barnes didn’t tell us he had such a pretty girlfriend!” 

You wished you could sink in the ground as Walker’s words echoed in the small kitchen. Alexei, Bucky and Ava paused their conversation as laughs slipped from the rest of the team. Bucky joined their laughter a second too late, sounding a little bit too forced.

“She’s not my girlfriend,” He said, and you could see his hands rip another tear in your carefully guarded heart. 

“Yeah, just a roommate,” You added, avoiding his eyes. Walker’s arm remained around your shoulder and he shrugged an apology, claiming a pretty girl like you shouldn’t be living with a hunk like him if you wanted to get laid. You face flushed for the millionth time tonight and Yelena shoved his arm away.

“You sure you don’t want to be his girlfriend, Walker?” She said, crossing her arms over her white button up. John lifted his hands in surrender, chuckling. “Asshole.” Yelena muttered her breath, and it was your turn to laugh. Maybe you could find some semblance of stability from the ex-Russian assassin. Yep, that was your life now. You’d done this to yourself. 

“Alright, go on and eat, I don’t want this food to waste, scallops are expensive,” You announced, pushing the plate towards Alexei, who’d been eyeing them since he walked in. You ignored Bucky’s frown, and popped open the bottle of champagne, pouring a glass for everyone. 

Bucky’s coworkers all crowded around the island, tasting the scallops you’d spent years perfecting. Between praises and sips of sparkling wine, Bucky slipped behind you, whispering your name with a tug on your arm. You excused yourself, heart beating out of your chest, before slipping from the group, joining Bucky in the doorway to the living room. 

“How much did you spend on tonight?” He asked, his voice low and the space between his eyebrows wrinkling. You almost laughed at his concerned look, as if he didn’t realize just how much life cost for a college student.

“Don’t worry about it,” You muttered back, adjusting the sleeve of your shirt he'd ruffled when he dragged you over. He let out an exasperated breath and pulled out his phone, his large fingers awkwardly typing away. “What are you-” You were interrupted by the buzz of your own phone and you pulled it out, knowing exactly what it was.

Venmo: Bucky Barnes sent you $300 (USD)

Before you could protest, or even express your surprise at his use of Venmo, he squeezed your arm hard. It took everything in your being to not pull away from him, and even more to not bridge the gap between your bodies. 

“I don’t wanna hear it. You spent the entire afternoon cookin’ f’me and my friends.” Then he leaned down, looking you straight in the eyes. “I’d be losing my mind without you,” And he walked back to the party, leaving you in the doorway, staring at the molding like it owed you money. You blinked once, twice, and then it hit you. 

He hadn’t called you kid. Not a single time since they’d arrived. And that small burst of hope spreading to your fingertips made you move back to the group with a large smile on your face. 

The coconut pie and the plum pie was long devoured by the time you’d eclipsed yourself to the kitchen to start cleaning up, replaying the moment you’d brought out both in your mind. Bucky looked stunned for a moment before his usual reserved face split into a large boyish grin. You’d almost collapsed right then and there, your hands shakily cutting a piece for each of you. 

You were wrapping up some chicken and rice for the New Avengers to take back to tower (their request – they’d loved your cooking) when the door to the kitchen was pushed open. You jumped a bit as Yelena walked in, adjusting the cuffs of her shirt. 

“Oh hi,” She said, stalking over to you like a predator observing its prey. You tried not to squirm under her stare. She leaned against the counter next to you, observing your face as you kept packing food in the containers, hands albeit a little shakier. 

“Hey,” You replied. You’d quickly realized halfway through dinner that while Yelena was calm and offered you respite from Walker’s antics, she was just as observant. And she had not let a single detail escape her this entire evening. 

“You love him.” A simple statement, but it made you freeze. 

“W-What?” You stumbled through the phrase, turning your eyes to meet hers. They weren’t accusing, just intrigued. 

“You love him.” She repeated. “Bucky.” She added. 

You laughed nervously, wiping your hands on the cloth you’d thrown over your shoulder. If you couldn’t admit it to even your closest friends (except Pam, she was the exception) , why would you tell this near-stranger anything? “He’s a good friend, but it’s nothing more,” You lied through your teeth, and she cocked her head slightly. It was more menacing than curious now. 

“I am trained to kill a man with a hairpin, and to extract any information from anyone. I don’t think it is ‘nothing more’” 

Okay, no lying yourself out of this one it seemed. You turned to put the rest of the leftovers in the fridge. And to avoid eye contact as you admitted for the first time outside of your mind and Pam that you loved Bucky Barnes. 

“I, uh, yeah,” You said, slowly shutting the fridge door. “I have feelings for him.”

It was quiet for a second before you heard Yelena hum again. You faced her again, smoothing down the front of your jeans. She had a small smile on her face and before you could even try to backtrack, she spoke. 

“Good. He needs someone like you.” 

You scoffed. 

“I don’t think he knows I’m an adult, Yelena.” You were truly losing your mind. Not even Pam knew the extent of your delusions with him. 

She raised a sharp eyebrow, pushing herself up from the counter. 

“Just keep taking care of him. You’re good to him.” She left the room right after, not even sparing you a second look. Your heart was beating out of your chest, sweat beading on your forehead. You took a deep breath to steel yourself before you followed her to the living room where the rest of the guests were getting ready to leave.

“Ah there is best cook!” Alexei exclaimed, throwing both his large arms around you, “You cook again for us, yes? Barnes will bring us food or we return for more!”

You giggled, returning the hug. 

“Absolutely, you just let me know what you’d like!”

Ava gave you a nod, a small smile dancing across her lips. She thanked you, and elbowed Walker who was busy staring at your collection of vinyls. 

“Oh yeah, thanks.” He shrugged, before turning to observe the 1940s vinyls. You prayed he wouldn’t comment on them. 

Oh yeah, I’m just so desperately in love with James Barnes that I listen to them because it’s sometimes the only piece of him I can have. 

Bob followed suit, giving you a small side-hug, saying he’d never had such good pie. Yelena then embraced you in a tight hug, which took everyone in the room by surprise. You were frozen for a second before hugging her back. 

“I don’t think you know Barnes as well you think, малышка.” She whispered, before pulling away from the hug with a stern look. You averted your eyes, but the words echoed in your mind for long after they all left. Bucky told you he was going to take a shower before helping you clean. 

It was 10h45 and you were hands deep in hot water and dish soap when the floor creaked, announcing someone had entered the kitchen. You looked up and locked eyes with your roommate, just wearing a simple white shirt and shorts. His hair was damp and he was still halfway through towel-drying it, his feet bare as he joined you at the sink. 

“I know I said it a lot, but thanks. Seriously.” He said, throwing the towel over his shoulder. “I really couldn’t have survived tonight without you.” Your mouth went dry and you tried your best to not let just how much his comment affected you. You just nodded, not trusting your words. 

You stayed in silence for a while before he took a step forward, grabbed a dish towel, and started drying the plates. It wasn’t an awkward silence, but there was a tension that your usual quiet evenings did not have. Like something was looming over the both of you – namely, your massive fuck-off feelings. You just needed to not look at him. That would do the trick at least until tomorrow where you’d continue your game of treating everything like normal roommate things. 

Minutes passed and you cleared your throat, still avoiding his eyes.  “How was your day?” You asked, scrubbing down a dessert plate. 

“It was good, ran late to a meeting, then ran late here.” He chuckled a bit as you handed him the plate and your fingers brushed again. You tried not to flinch. “You?”

“Mh, not horrible. Got everything done kind of on time,” You laughed under your breath, mostly out of nerves. “Marjorie let me off work early and zero assholes today,” 

He stilled, before putting down the plate. 

“What do you mean ‘work’?” He asked, his voice low. It was your turn to pause, because fuck you had told yourself you would not mentioned you’d worked today. 

“I, uh, I just worked opening today, I ended early, I didn’t want to tell you! It’s not a big deal, I wanted to help you and I feel great honestly I’m-”

He interrupted you by saying your name in that low voice of his, and you looked up to him, still holding a glass under the bubbles.

“You… fuck, you’re amazing,” He almost whispered, his head slightly tilted. That look in his eyes, the one he got sometimes when it was just the two of you and the silence of late nights, almost made you believe, again, that there was something else. A spark. Something he’d finally acknowledge. You couldn’t breathe, your entire body warm and shivers running down your spine. He licked his lips, his finger twitching against his thigh. Shit, was this really happening?

And then he blinked, the look turning into something near stone. He abruptly turned back to the sink, grabbing the glass right out of your hands. You were still stunned, still trying to figure out what the hell had just happened. And then he spoke, and your entire composure crumbled. 

“Just, thanks kid.”

You snapped. 

“Why the fuck do you call me that?” You said, your voice trembling. 

“What?”

Your throat felt tight as you wiped your hands off, now not afraid to stare at him. He’d been yo-yoing with your feelings all day, and you had enough. 

“Fucking ‘kid’!” You couldn’t control your volume on that last word and he took a step back. He opened and closed his mouth a few times and before he could say anything you interrupted him. “I mean, it’s not like I’m a damn teenager.” 

You’d gotten closer to him, almost standing toe to toe with him. His eyebrows knit, crossing his large arms over his chest. 

“You are a college student in her fucking twenties, of course you’re a kid to me,” He said, carefully choosing each one of his words. And if you’d had a clearer mind, you’d have seen the obvious lie slip past his lips as he bit back what he truly wanted to say. 

You couldn’t help but gape at him and tears threatened to spill as you swallowed hard. 

“I hate that word,” Your voice was wobbly and you knew, oh you knew you were going to tell him tonight. You couldn’t do this anymore. This was torture for yourself, and you couldn’t spare yourself the imminent rejection. You needed to be free of this fucking torment that was loving Bucky Barnes. 

Before he could open his mouth to ask why, or add anything else, you took a deep breath and tears started rolling down your cheeks. 

“I’m in love with you, Bucky. And it’s fucking horrible, it kills me, because I try so hard to make you see me a different way. I try so damn hard everyday, and I get you calling me ‘kid’. It’s torture to wake up every day and see you in our kitchen, drinking coffee from my cup, making you dinner because I love you, and get treated like your little sister.” You were hiccuping through words now, dishes long forgotten. “And you wanna know the worst part? Sometimes I’m not even sure how you feel. And it would be so, so much easier if you could just put a stop to it. If you don’t feel the same, then stop dancing with me around our apartment. Stop looking at me with those damn eyes of yours and then call me kid. ‘Cause it fucking kills me and I don’t know what the hell to do anymore!”

The last words were a yell and you stood facing him, your chest heaving. He hadn’t moved a muscle and was just staring down at you, left hand tightly gripping the side of the counter. He wasn’t saying anything, just breathing just as heavily as you and you couldn’t handle it. You swallowed hard, smoothed your hair back, and pushed past him. He didn’t even try to follow you, just let you run to your bedroom, before you locked the door and collapsed on your bed. 

Arms tightly wrapped against your pillow, you cried, and cried, unable to stop the sobs wracking your body. You weren’t even sure why you were crying anymore. The weight of your feelings, his damn explanation for your “nickname”, your exhaustion – all weighed down on you as you sobbed into your pillow, mascara running down your face, staining the cotton. 

You stayed there, curled up on your blanket, crying until your eyes were dry but your body still shook with sobs. And you almost thought you’d fall asleep like that, but then a soft knock came from your door. 

You ignored it at first, still squeezing your poor pillow, but he knocked again. You heard your name, muffled against the door. So you got up. Not bothering to fix the mess your hair had become, not even caring that your perfectly selected outfit for tonight was all crooked and wrinkled. You reached the door, your fingers shaking as you hovered above the knob. 

With a deep breath, you twisted it, opening the door with a creak. Bucky was on the other side, his eyes rimmed with red and his hands flexing. It was quiet as you both took in each other’s appearances, till he finally spoke. 

“I, uh, I’ve just been sittin’ there,” He nodded to the wall next to your door. “Trynna figure out what the hell I was doin’. What I was gonna say.”

You stayed silent, your arms wrapped around yourself, avoiding his gaze. 

“Can I come in? Just to talk? Please?” He added. You clenched your jaw, but logic got the better of you. You needed to face this, even if you would’ve rather anything else tonight. So you nodded, turning back to sit on your bed, clutching the pillow. 

He gulped, stepping into your space, and sat at the edge of your bed, and took a deep breath. And he said your name again, in the tone that always made you feel like you were floating. 

“I’m a moron. A massive fuckin’ idiot.” He said, his voice rough. He reached out for your fingers, still gripping the cotton like a vice. You let him tug you forward a bit, his large hand resting over yours. 

“It was self-preservation, the whole kid thing,” He confessed, his thumb tracing circles over your skin. “Just the easiest way I could protect both of us. And I see now, it was the stupidest thing I could've done.”

“Protect?” You croaked, still trying to wrap your tired mind over his words. He let a pitiful laugh out and licked his lips before speaking again. 

“Myself from falling even deeper in love than I already was. Evidently, it did not work out.” 

You froze. You couldn’t have heard him right. 

“Y-You what?” You stuttered out, head snapping up meeting his fond blue eyes. 

“I love you,” He repeated, inching closer to you. “I always fucking have, from the moment you opened that door and accepted me as all I am. I fell in love with you so quickly it terrified me, and I didn’t want you roped up in, well all of this,” He gestured at himself “, so I just… pushed you away. And I’m so sorry, I never wanted to hurt you.”

It took your mind a long time to comprehend just what he’d confessed to you, holding his expectant gaze for a long moment, mouth agape. Emotion flooded you, love, anger, confusion. 

This entire time?

You lifted a trembling hand, and his eyes softened, still rubbing circles on your other hand. He looked so bare and gentle that you almost felt guilty but with one strong push you shoved him off your plush bed, tears of fading anger and bubbling laughter filling your eyes. Bucky was clearly not expecting it because the supersoldier known for his strength slid right off, landing at the foot of your bed. You tried not to giggle as he looked at you shocked. You bit back your laugh, put on your most serious face and spoke. 

“You are an idiot,” You said, shifting to have your face at the same level as his. “I’ve been torturing myself for months and this entire time, you felt the same. And never once did you consider that in protecting yourself, you just hurt me more.” 

He lowered his head, brown hair falling over his eyes but before he could say anything, you slid your palm over his cheek, turning him towards you. Your eyes locked, and you found yourself drowning in his blue eyes once more. 

“Don’t ever do it again.” You whispered, before you finally closed the gap, kissing him with the passion of months of built-up desire. It took him a split second to respond, his hand flying to your face, greedily sliding his lips against yours like you were the only source of water in the desert of his emotions. He groaned when you deepened the kiss, your lips opening to let him in. He shifted to kneel in front of you and your bed. It was perfect, Bucky drinking you in, you responding with the same vigour, hands wandering to his hair, his perfect brown strands.  

You broke for air after what seemed like hours, but only to pull him up to the bed, and he obliged, standing to his full height. You shifted back, tugging him down to you, reattaching your lips as soon as possible. His weight was like a blanket to you as your legs wrapped around his strong thighs, tongue delving deep in his mouth. 

Fuck, this was real. 

Months of wishing he’d see you as more than just a roommate and here he was, arms bracketed on either side of your face as kissed you with more intent than half of your exes. Your arms snaked around his neck tugging him closer but the moment your hips started involuntarily bucking against his, he pulled away with a groan. 

His lips were kiss-swollen, pupils blown out wide, dark hair tousled by your hands and if he were to fuck you right here and now, you wouldn’t have complained. 

“I don’t, I don’t think we should go further,” He said, panting, though the insistent pressure you felt on your inner thigh told you his body had other plans. Yet, pulsing core aside, you knew he was right. You’d just upgraded your relationship from strictly roommates to… whatever you’d become. Maybe taking your time wasn’t the worst idea. 

“Okay,” You said, a content smile dancing across your lips. You leaned up to kiss him one final time before he rolled off of you, laying next to you. You both stared up at the ceiling of your bedroom, his pinkie wrapping itself around yours. It was silent for a long time, only your breaths synched together. 

“Bucky?” You asked, breaking the carefully crafted quiet. 

“Mh?” 

“If you loved me this entire time, did you notice when I would… dress up? Or down?” You hoped he knew what you hinted at. The dresses, the boxers, the bras. He let out a breathy laugh and moved to face you, elbow propped up. 

“Fuck, I did. I almost had an aneurysm when you were just in that damn red bra. Almost lost my damn mind.” He answered, pupils dilating as if the memory of you just in your bra reignited the fire that had dimmed during the silence. 

“I almost unhooked it,” You whispered, as if telling him your deepest darkest secret. He groaned, falling back on the pillows dramatically, hair fanning out around him. You rolled on top of him, laying flat against his muscled body. He was hard everywhere you weren’t and it fit so perfectly against you. You kissed him chastely on the lips. 

“And the dancing? Was that…” Your voice trailed off as you looked down at him, unable to stop the rush of warm emotion through your veins as he looked up at you with the most adoring eyes you’d ever seen in a man. 

“The moment I knew I was so, so fucked.” He replied, hands sliding on your hips, thumbs stroking your hipbones. “You looked up at me with those damn eyes of yours and I had to tell myself not to kiss you right then and there. Though I’m startin’ to think I should’ve.”

“Mhm, you should’ve. You had me convinced you thought I was a child.” You gave him the nastiest look, though your lips were still stretched in the smile that wouldn't leave your face. 

“I’m sorry,” He said, his grip on your hips tightening, before kissing you briefly, but deeply. You rolled off him, but stayed close, burying yourself into his side as his strong arm came to rest around you. 

“You looked amazing tonight, by the way.” Bucky’s fingers were tracing circles in your back, his lips pressed against the crown of your head. Pam was going to be so smug.

“You did too,” you echoed, hand resting on his abs, absentmindedly sliding up his shirt. It was nice. Quiet. And you stayed like this for hours, talking about everything and nothing, about the months you spent pining, about the months he spent pining. And eventually, you drifted off, cheek pressed to his strong chest. He stayed awake a little longer, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head, before closing his eyes peacefully. 

It was perfect. It was everything he’d ever wished for, hoped for, and he was so at peace. After years of running, of pain, he’d found his salvation. And it was you, with your kind smiles, your food, your love, that had mended him. And he was perfectly at peace.

Until with a gasp, you woke up and stared at him panicked.

@nerdreader @starstruckfirecat @baguwagu @sunday-bug @murnsondock @7batsinatrenchcoat @overwintering-soldier @surebutwhy @embervelour @bananaminn @butterflies-on-my-ashes @okaytrashpanda @xamapolax @aceofheartsssss @mars-in-a-cup @doilooklikeagiveafrack @cjand10 @aesthetic0cherryblossom @rosemary-beach-babe @pattiemac1 @morphoportis @sugamilkey @dreammiiee @riah1606 @suri-de-city @ordelixx @galaxygoddess30 @magnificentreviewdreamer @flowstatefic @prk-hoon @multifandomrandomgirl @kodzuminx @sarapolare @sinistersnakey @greatenthusiasttidalwave @najdjjfjjdid @thelastbluecookie @squishyfruitloop @cammiwu @livia087 @boomyoulookingforthis @nvr-land @sebastians-love @lilulicious @themareverine ❤️

a sweat-slicked body and your heart knocking against your rib cage—that was how you awoke, shooting up out of bed in a panic. it was as if your system knew something sinister was lurking just beyond the wall, and your mind still needed time to catch up. yet, you were safely snug in your bed, baby blue nightgown gathered up around your waist, and comforter tucked between your thighs from the act of kicking it off in your sleep.

you consciously understood that nothing bad was going to happen, but you couldn't seem to calm your ever-racing mind. you placed a palm just above your heart as if that might steady its wild rhythm. you flopped back down onto your mattress, staring at the ceiling of your childhood bedroom. the room that always seemed to bring you comfort, but now that you're older, it only makes you feel a deep sadness, hollowing out your chest.

you had come back home for the holidays in hopes that the stress of your everyday life might melt away. instead, it seemed to make you more anxious. your mother had moved on in her life, and she was doing it with or without you. the aching feeling in your chest hadn't gone away, not since your father's death, but it appeared his death hadn't affected your mom as much, since she went and got married a mere months after your dad died.

to make matters worse, you liked james—the man your mom married. by liked him, you meant the kind where a tingle would fizzle down your spine all the way down to your toes and make you lose balance every time he simply glanced in your direction, let alone open his mouth to speak.

raspy words would fall from his lips as he tried to carry on a conversation, which only led your treacherous mind to wonder how he'd sound while inside you. would his voice dip lower, muttering, "takin' me like the good lil slut i knew you were," as he railed you from behind? oh, and the delightful sound of the bed frame crashing against the plaster wall would complement his words so well. or would his tone soften, spewing praises like, "always knew you'd feel this good," as he held you like you were a delicate wildflower?

you tried—and failed—to stop your mind from going there, but it was no use when the greek gods themselves carved his face, all sharp lines and chiseled features. and since you arrived at the house, it's been hell trying to avoid him. james was around every corner, asking you how you were or if you needed anything. the more you ran into him, the more you were tempted to say, "yeah, your cock."

so, your bedroom had doubled as a tower, you'd locked yourself away in, not unlike when you'd dress up as a princess in your youth and act as though you were waiting for your prince charming to save you. however, this time your 'prince charming' was much older and had a metal arm.

after some tossing and turning, you eventually decided to get out of bed. wandering through darkened hallways, you made your way to the kitchen in your sleepy state.

"hey, angel," a voice cut through the quiet, causing you to nearly leap from your skin. you stopped in your tracks, turning towards the voice that haunted you in the daylight.

that nickname that graced your stepdad's lips sent you into a momentary spiral. he had been calling you that for some time, and it made your knees wobble without fail. it was always baffling to hear because he didn't give your mother the same treatment by giving her a cute pet name, not that you knew of anyway. but who were you to judge? maybe she didn't like the term of endearment as much as you did.

james was sitting comfortably on the couch, shrouded in shadow. he was leaning back, arm slung over the back of the sofa, with his knees slightly parted.

he brought the short glass of dark liquor that he held in his flesh hand to his lips, speaking into the mouth of it. "what're you doin' up?"

he sipped the liquid, then set it down on the coffee table with a dull clink. eyes never wavering from yours, he waited for an answer.

you swallowed hard, "uhh…couldn't sleep." the cold of the open air, and the weight of his stare, chilled your skin. a wave of goosebumps washed over your flesh in tiny dots, and your nipples pebbled beneath the sheer material of your nightgown.

his gaze shifted, catching the peak under the fabric. your cheeks heated, embarrassment etching onto your expression. lifting your arms, you crossed them over one another in an attempt to hide the fact that you weren't wearing anything under your sleep dress.

steel blue eyes flicked back to your face, but he certainly didn't seem perturbed by the knowledge that you didn't have a bra on. in fact, james seemed all the more smug, his mouth tugging up at the corners and adjusting his posture to sit up straighter.

with a strange surge of confidence, you teased him, murmuring, "i could ask the same of you."

he snorted, a light puff of air leaving his nostrils. "yeah, guess we've got somethin' in common. came out 'ere 'cause i couldn't stand lookin' at the damn ceilin' no more," he admitted.

a soft smile spread across your face at the realization that you were more alike than he knew. after a stretch of silence, he finally patted the space beside him. "c'mere."

you hesitated for a moment before your bare feet finally padded over to the sofa, and perched on the edge of the cushions, keeping a respectable distance between you. planting your sweaty palms on your thighs, you evaded his gaze by playing with the hem of your gown.

"why're you so far away? come closer," your stepdad instructed. you glanced up, and he had his arm out—an open invitation for his warmth. "promise, i don't bite. not unless you want me to."

your mouth went dry at the implication, stunned that he would be so bold. "'m only kidding," he said, but a smirk remained on his lips like he was still leaving the offer open.

after some contemplation, you shifted, inching towards him. he released a heavy sigh when you still weren't in the vicinity he wanted you to be in. once you were within reach, he gripped your waist and hauled you into his side.

you stiffened, your breath getting caught in your throat. you'd never been this close to him, rarely ever gave him hugs, so it was daunting. james enveloped you with his muscular arm, squeezing your hip in reassurance.

"relax," he drawled. "ain't gonna hurt you, angel."

you melted into his embrace, muscles unlocking as his warmth seeped into your shivering form. your craned neck eventually lowered onto his toned chest, nuzzling into him absentmindedly.

"better?" he asked. you nodded against him in response, causing him to hum in contentment. "good. now, how 'bout you tell me 'bout the nightmare you had."

quickly lifting your head, you gazed up at him in disbelief. "how-"

you didn't get the chance to finish your sentence because he cut you off, "i know that look." he reached up with his metal hand, black-plated knuckles running over your cheekbone. "horror permanently glazed o'er those pretty eyes. i know it 'cause i've lived it."

he lightly caressed your face, then took hold of your chin, forcing your eyes to stay on his. "wanna tell me 'bout it? 'm always here to listen," he offered, giving you a comforting grin.

unbeknownst to you, you opened up to him. you didn't know whether it was his earnest expression or the proximity, but you told him. "it was…my dad. i haven't had dreams about…that night in a while, and i guess being back here made them return," you mumbled sheepishly.

his eyebrows went upturned as his hand migrated to cup your cheek, thumb sweeping over the sensitive skin of your undereye. "'m sorry, sweet girl. 's there somethin' i can do to help?"

"this. this is helping," you confessed, leaning into his touch. it was strange how much comfort he brought you. you'd only conversed a handful of times, and each time you only ever shared surface-level information. now, you were admitting to the recurring nightmares you have about the day your father died.

james tugged you closer, drawing your head back down to rest on his chest. you pulled your legs up on the couch, curling them into your body. he hummed, sending tiny vibrations through the cheek that was smooshed against his pec.

his hand slid from your waist to your back, rubbing soothing circles into the silk of your gown. your body seemed to fall into a state of calm as his fingers brushed along your spine. studying the simple gesture took priority in your mind, the nightmare becoming a distant memory.

with each pass over your back, his touch got lower and lower. it was almost imperceptible with your carefree mood, but then his knuckles were grazing along the curve of your side. innocent touches turned daring as his calloused fingers danced along the hem of your sleep dress and skimmed your upper thigh.

your eyes fluttered open, but you didn't say a word, in fear of making this situation awkward. when you didn't comment on the action, he continued. his hand trailed over the slope of your thigh and tickled the inner portion of it. you shuddered, and heat pooled in your lower stomach, causing you to squeeze your legs together to dull the ache between them.

yet, his touch stayed persistent; he gripped your thigh, kneading it with his massive hand. his flesh hand snaked higher, your nightgown rising in the process. the fabric climbed up your hip, eliciting a gasp from between your lips. you pushed down the material rapidly before he completely exposed you.

"james-" you whispered, shock making your tone rise up an octave.

"bucky," he corrected before you could finish.

"okay, bucky. we shouldn't…" you trailed off.

"we're not doin' anythin'. 'm just tryin' to take care of you, so lemme do the work, angel," he cooed, attempting to open your legs with a tiny pinch to your thigh.

"no, this…is wrong," you insisted as if you were trying to convince yourself instead. you kept a strong grip on your gown, preventing him from lifting it, but your fists loosened slightly. he noticed, releasing a dark chuckle into your hair, before planting a kiss to the crown of your head.

"you're givin' me mixed signals," he muttered against your scalp. "that pretty mouth is sayin' one thing, but this beautiful body's tellin' me the opposite. you see my dilemma?"

your breath was coming in short, sharp heaves as the idea of letting your stepdad touch the most vulnerable part of you bounced around in your skull.

"can almost hear your mind, 's so loud. lemme quiet it," he coaxed in a gravelly tone as his hand wandered back to the blue silk across your thighs.

the words were lodged in your throat, and your hands shook where you held down your dress.

"hey, 's okay," james hushed. "how 'bout i help you decide, huh?" his metal hand wandered down your front, gatherings your wrists and pulling them away. with his other hand, he carefully peeled back the thin layer covering your figure.

you squirmed in his grasp, a weak attempt to escape; your body had seemingly already decided what it wanted, and your brain was left a scrambled mess. you raised your head, glancing down to watch with widened eyes as he bunched the material around your torso.

"tell me you don't want me to touch you, and i'll stop," he instructed, his mouth moving behind your ear as he spoke. "c'mon, use those big girl words, and tell me you don't want me to make you feel good. then, we can forget all this happened, and i'll even carry you back to bed, leaving you…aching f'me."

you gazed up at him, eyes welling up with embarrassment. you had tried to keep your attraction towards your stepfather under wraps, but it appeared he detected it quite easily.

he frowned mockingly, "you thought i didn't notice? oh, 's been the only thing on my mind, sweet girl. noticed every time you squeezed those thighs together just from somethin' as simple as my voice."

a tear slipped free, sliding down your cheek as your bottom lip wobbled. "shh, don't cry," he soothed, letting go of your wrists to catch the tear with a metal finger. "nothin' to be embarrassed 'bout. i feel the same way."

you sniffled, furrowing your brow in confusion. "so, you didn't notice?" he asked, tilting his head. "i've been thinkin' downright filthy things ever since you arrived. i feel like a fuckin' teenager with how hard you make me any time you're 'round."

cupping your jaw in his metal palm, his eyes flitted down to your lips as he licked his own. "you walk 'round in those lil skirts you wear, and expect me not to respond? could barely hold myself back from takin' you in the kitchen this mornin' right in front of your ma. you gonna deny me now that we're alone?"

the air felt too thick in your lungs, every breath choking you. though you knew you were waltzing on dangerous territory, you decided that this was something you wanted. he was something you wanted. "b-but w-what if she-" you stutter uselessly.

"don't worry, angel. you'll be quiet f'me, won't ya?" he smirked, his finger tracing absent-minded patterns on your bare hip.

"yeah, i'll be quiet," you found yourself saying, agreeing to this ridiculous idea.

"hmm, that's a good girl," bucky praised, digits trailing back down to your inner thigh. "now how 'bout you spread those perfect thighs f'me, so i can help you unwind?"

his metal hand fell to his lap, watching you expectantly. without much convincing, you planted your foot on the cushion and began parting your legs slowly. he assisted you, gripping your thigh to spread you open.

a low rumble erupted from deep in his chest at the sight before him—soaked lips exposed to the drafty air. "look at you. no panties on, 's almost like you wanted this to happen." he leaned into your ear before proceeding, "you wanted me to touch you, huh? wanted daddy to make this precious pussy feel good?"

you swallowed thickly at the sound of that title rolling off his filthy tongue. while nodding, you bit your lip at the obscenity you were admitting to. you observed closely, leaning forward as he traced your soft skin with a rough hand. he made zig-zags with his pointer finger, inching closer to the place you craved him.

with the same finger, he skimmed the area around your slick folds, not quite touching where you wanted him. you twitched, impatience clawing at your flesh like an untamed animal. "please, bucky," you whined.

"fuck," he growled. "i do love when you beg. just be patient f'me, though. you watch, i play, yeah?"

he splayed his two fingers into a v-shape, flattening the digits against the sides of your center and spreading the lips of your cunt. then, he pinched your lips between his pointer and middle fingers, toying with you. Your cunt glistened, even in the dim lighting, and the more he toyed with you, the more it wept like even it was begging for more contact.

"such a pretty fuckin' pussy. she looks so perfect, all wet and eager f'me," he observed, punctuating the statement with a few kisses to the shell of your ear.

calloused fingers ghosted over your clit, and your hips jerked upward in search for more friction. with the lightest pressure, he rubbed your bud in languid circles like he had all the time in the world. you moaned as your head fell back into his firm chest, reveling in his gentle touch.

"that's it, angel, take what i give you."

exploratory carresses alter into solidified strokes of his fingerpads on your clit. the pressure increased as his pace quickened, giving you exactly what you sought out. you whimpered, turning your head to bury your face in his shirt as he continued his ministrations. every pass of his digits on your swollen bud extracted a new sweet sound.

ceasing his movements, he brought his fingers to your jaw and nudged you with them. you tilted your face up, a silent question forming in your gaze.

he brought his two flesh fingers to your lips, tapping on the bottom one, requesting access. "suck," your stepdad demanded.

obeying, you opened your mouth, and he slid the pair through the gap. he pressed down on your tongue, and you wrapped your lips around them. you sucked on them just like he asked, swirling your tongue around the two. he appeared to be pleased with your actions, parting his lips to release a rough exhale.

you looked up through your lashes as you took his fingers deeper into your mouth, the tips hitting the back of your throat. you gagged, spit sputtering from the small seam of your lips.

"ooh, messy aren't we, sweet girl?" he laughed in awe, saliva dripping down his fingers and onto his palm. he took the pair out from your mouth, moving them back down to their original position as he hooked a metal finger under your chin.

he tipped your head back slightly before closing the distance, murmuring against your mouth, "bet that mouth would feel even better 'round my cock, but we'll save that for another time. tonight is all 'bout you." he sealed his promise with a kiss. his lips moved hungrily against yours, practically devouring you.

meanwhile, his dampened fingers trailed down the length of your pussy until he reached your entrance. they spiraled around your welcoming hole, teasing you. then, his fingertips prodded into your cunt. you gasped, the sound getting rapidly swallowed by his mouth on yours.

slipping through your tight walls, he pushed in up to his knuckles. he stretched you out, shoving them all the way in. you broke the kiss, mewling from the sensation of his fingers deep in your pussy. he spread the inserted fingers, scissoring you open to make more room for his huge digits. you yelped softly, swiftly biting your lip after, to dull your sounds.

"feel that stretch?" bucky questioned arrogantly. "makes me wonder how you'd take daddy's cock. i'd have to work you open more than this before i'd make you take it. wouldn't wanna hurt my sweet angel."

he withdrew his fingers to the knuckles, and dove right back in. starting a steady rhythm, he thrust his fingers into you repeatedly. you tried to keep your noises at bay, but his touch felt like heaven. it was like the clouds were making way to bring forth a harmonic symphony—the wet squelch of him fingering you. the sounds only added to the pressure building in your gut.

"daddy," you whimpered pathetically, the title feeling like it was always meant for him. it felt right on your tongue, and he seemed to think so, too. not only did his eyes turn hooded, but his fingers picked up speed.

"yeah, i know. lemme take you there," he said, curling his fingers against your sweet spot. groaning, you arched your back into his touch, and you craned your neck back, your face upturned towards the ceiling. you desperately clawed at him, seeking purchase on something to hold onto. you finally grabbed his forearm, nails digging into his flesh and leaving behind tiny crescent moon shapes.

your cunt clenched around his fingers, teetering on the edge and threatening to fall into a pool of ecstasy. "ooh, i felt that. you close?" he rasped. words failed you, so you settled for nodding frantically.

"mmm, go on, cum on my fingers. soak 'em, make it all messy," he rambled.

with only a few more thrusts of his thick fingers, your pussy fluttered as the beginning of your climax washed over you. you opened your mouth in a silent scream as your orgasm wracked through your form in waves.

james worked you through it, ramming his fingers up into you. you were in a state of pure bliss as your mind went numb with pleasure. but pleasure began to bleed into overstimulation when he didn't stop. he hadn't even slowed down; he just kept driving his fingers into you over and over without a care.

"b-buck, it's…it's too much," you cried, shoving at his arm. yet, he never wavered. in fact, you swore he increased his pace, reducing you to a babbling mess. "p-please. please, daddy, i can't-"

your pleas fell on deaf ears as he added a third finger to your throbbing cunt instead of complying with your begging. you squealed, but before you could reach the peak of your scream, he placed his metal hand over your mouth, stifling your loud noises.

fingertips relentlessly bumped against your g-spot as he whispered, "gimme one more. i've waited this long to have my way with you, don't you think i deserve one more?"

you yelped helplessly into his palm as another orgasm formed, a coil winding tight in your stomach. your hips jolted up, and the heels of your feet kicked the couch cushion below you. it was all so overwhelming, but you couldn't do anything about it; you had to just sit there and take it.

before you knew it, your pussy clamped down on his three digits, your second release causing your body to shudder violently. you shrieked into his non-human hand until your throat was raw, and your vision flashed white. you felt lightheaded with the intensity of your climax, your head lulling to the side.

finally, he eased up on his ministrations, stopping when you went limp in his arms. you slumped against him, shivering as he extracted his fingers from your pulsating pussy. bucky removed his hand from over your mouth, giving you a moment to breathe.

as you came down from your high, he planted a kiss on your hairline, mumbling soft praises into your hair, "did so good f'me. 'm so proud of you."

after a couple of deep breaths, you eventually managed a soft, "thank you, daddy."

he chuckled, "no need to thank me. i'll always be here to take care of you."

shifting, he curled you into his side as he caressed your side. you went quiet, nestling into his chest as your breathing evened out. "i gotcha, my sweet angel. just get some rest."

with that, sleep pulled you under. despite the complication of this relationship and the risk of being caught laying on someone who wasn't yours, you rested easily knowing this man belonged to you for at least a few more hours.

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.

Bucky takes another swig of his spiked beer. Whilst cleaning out the tower, a bottle of Asgardian liquor had been uncovered. The results had nearly paralysed a typical civilian, but Sam remarked that Steve found the enhanced booze had given him a decent buzz. Bucky was curious: he'd sprinkled some into his bottle of beer during guys night. There was a numbing to his senses that he hadn't experienced in so long, it was nearly foreign. Every story drew a laugh slightly stronger than usual from him. It was "guys night" - an excuse for the men to claim the living space and play cards. The game of poker had long been abandoned, and as the drinks had started to flow, the conversation topics had veered to less mature and civilised topics...

"And she was screaming," Alexei booms out in his thick accent. He's smug and arrogant - most of it largely displaced - as he recalls an escapade from his glory days as the Red Guardian. It seems the Russian women were (supposedly) infatuated with him. "I got complaints from neighbours that murder was happening."

"Yeah right," Walker mutters, rolling his eyes.

"Ah," Alexei smirks, tilting his beer at Walker. "Jealous, are you?"

"I'm not jealous, man," Walker says. "What've I got to be jealous about? Your story's obviously bullshit?"

"It is not shit of the bull," Alexei grunts. Sam quirks a brow, vaguely amused. "I made woman come five times - one night." As if to underscore his point, Alexei raises his hand. His eyes catch on Bucky. "Mr Soldier will know - women like super soldier's, yes?"

With that, Sam chokes on his beer as he laughs. Bucky rolls his eyes. "I'm a one-woman kind of man," is Bucky's answer. This wasn't exactly news to the team: Bucky had been in a committed relationship with you for nearly two years, and before that started, you were his closest friend and confidant.

"Still," Alexei hums. "Your woman - she is satisfied, I assume."

"I'd like to think so," Bucky murmurs, talking another swig of his drink. Then, loose-lipped by the liquor, he adds, "I mean, I got a few years advantage on all of you, so..."

Walker laughs and Bucky grates his teeth at the sound. "Come on, man - you didn't fuck back in the forties."

Bucky doesn't answer, but he purses his lips and takes another drink, as if silently correcting him. Walker's brows raise. "A'right, fine. If you did, it was just missionary-crap, right?"

"I'm a-hundred-and-ten, not dead," Bucky mutters. He levels Walker with a look. "I was fucking before you were even a speck of dust in your mother's womb."

Sam whistles lowly. Alexei clasps his hands together and rubs, newly energised by Bucky's reveal. Leaning forward like a horny teenager in the locker room, he eyes Bucky. "What did you do, Mr Soldier?"

Scoffing, Bucky rolls his eyes again and has another drink. There's a boyish smirk fighting its way onto his face. He feels the buried part of him from the thirties crawling out as he sardonically quips, "What didn't I do."

"Kinky shit?" Walker asks, unconvinced. Bucky gives a noncommittal shrug. "Come on, man - give us something."

"I don't know," Bucky cringes. Plenty of scenarios run through his mind: a red-haired chick sucking him off down an alleyway; another blonde dressed in nothing but his army jacket...

"You know best kink of all?" Alexei speaks up. The group look to him - Bucky quietly grateful for the change in focus. His grin is self-congratulatory as he says: "daddy."

Bucky nearly falls out his seat. Appalled, he echoes, "daddy?"

Alexei nods proudly. Walker is clearly in agreement, laughing childishly as he shoves the larger man's shoulder. Even Sam has a faint look of agreement on his face, his smirk hidden behind a swig of beer. Bucky's brows furrow. Things had changed over the years since he was in his youth, but surely incest was still pretty horrific, right? His disgust must be visible because Sam sniggers, pointing his pinky at him.

"Think Barnes might be showing his age," he jokes to the others. They collapse into laughter. Bucky's brows are so tightly tugged together, it hurts. "Relax man - it's not an actual dad. It's...like a nickname, I guess."

"A nickname? Wait - calling someone daddy in the bedroom? That's, what, sexy?" Bucky asks, unconvinced. The three men nod with varying levels of enthusiasm. The conversation quickly continues to something new, but Bucky can't get the discussion out of his head. It hangs around him and muddies his thoughts the walk home, until he's climbing into bed beside you.

The room is dark save for the glow of the television screen. It plays almost silently in the background - you struggled to sleep to quiet. Sighing, Bucky brushes a hand through his hair and stares at the ceiling. The cotton sheets are soft against his bare chest. The shift in the bed rouses you from your sleep. You roll over with a small, sleepy hum. Your hand seeks out his chest, fingers soothingly running over the thin smattering of hair.

"Hey," you murmur. Bucky glances down to meet your half-lidden gaze. The smile on your face is sweet and loving, softened with sleep.

"Hey," he says. His fingers catch your hand, bringing your knuckles to his lips.

"How was guys night?" you ask. He lowers you hand back to his chest with a long, tired sigh.

"It was a'right. Made me feel old," he confesses. Your brows furrow.

"Old?"

"I mean, I know I am old, but-- I don't know, they were talking 'bout some shit and I had no idea it was even a thing--"

"-okay, I feel like you're talking in code," you say with a small laugh. Bucky lets out an amused huff. Shifting to sit up, Bucky mirrors your movements. The television glow casts your face in an angelic, bewitching light. His eyes trace the curve of your features, lingering on your lips, before languidly casting down your torso. The silk pyjamas you're wearing are adorable. "What were they talking about that made you feel old?"

You and Bucky weren't exactly vanilla in the bedroom, so he's unsure why the thought of talking about this makes his ears burn pink. His eyes remain trained on the television as he sighs. "Alexei said something about a 'daddy kink' and...apparently everyone but me knows what that is." His eyes hesitantly glance to you as he asks. "Have you ever heard of that?"

You don't laugh at him. Don't look at him like he's centuries of years old (even if he is). The pace that your fingers trace mindless patterns on his stomach doesn't falter. "I've heard of it, yeah."

"Great," Bucky groans. His eyes press shut and he rubs at the bridge of his nose. His bones feel like they're creaking: never before has Bucky felt more his age.

"What? Why's that bothering you?" you gently ask.

"Cause, I feel like I've got this whole blind spot that I didn't even know about," Bucky exasperates. "Makes me worry what else I'm blind to."

"Bucky," you sigh. Leaning closer, your fingers trace up to brush along his collarbones - tips catching slightly on the chain of his dog tags - before ghosting along his jawline. He gazes at you like you're something holy. Smiling lovingly, you reassure him, "you don't have blind spots. Believe me, there's so many kinks and fetishes out there, it's next to impossible to know about them all."

"Yeah?" he murmurs, eyes dancing over your features. You nod.

"Yeah," you reply. Kissing him soft and slow, you smile against his mouth. Your breath is minty from brushing your teeth. "I'm very satisfied. Daddy kink or not."

That makes him laugh. You pull away and smile at him, pleased some of his anxiety had lifted. Swallowing his nerves, Bucky catches your hand in his vibranium one and toys with your fingers. "Is it something you've tried before? Y'know, just cause you said you've heard of it."

"I haven't, no," you answer. You talk as casually as discussing the weather. "My friend's mentioned it before. Says it changed her and her partner's game in the bedroom."

Bucky's brows raise, his curiosity peaked. "Really?"

"Mhm," you nod. You interlock your fingers and squeeze his palm to yours. "But like I said, I'm satisfied plenty."

"Good," Bucky murmurs. He tugs you closer and you gladly plant another kiss to his lips. Sighing against your mouth, he admits, "jus' made me feel old."

"Come here." He can feel the smile of your lips against his. Your fingers slip into his hair; the bedsheets rustle as you move. "I'll help you feel young."

You kiss him something fierce and Bucky grunts. The tinges of good nature lingering between you. It causes you to giggle against his mouth before chasing it with another kiss. Bucky's hand catches your neck to keep you close. The sound of your breathless laughter is like music to Bucky's ears as he hikes you up into his lap. His hands are greedy as he palms the flesh of your ass, rolling your hips against his. Bucky groans approvingly against your mouth, and it prompts more of your giggles.

"Something funny, doll?" Bucky asks with a grin, tone light. You pull away enough to meet his gaze. You tug gently on his dog tags and sink your teeth into your lower lip.

"Nothing's funny," you say. But as if exposing your lie, you start to laugh once more. Bucky's fingers sink into the give of your ass. You distract him with a smattering of kisses to his lips before admitting, half-giggling, "I was just thinking about calling you daddy."

Bucky's laugh is loud and raspy. His forehead gently bumps against yours, eyes slipping shut, as he replies, "by all means. I'm kinda curious what the fuss is about."

"Oh yeah?"

"Mhm," he grins.

"Maybe I will..." you tease. He's only half listening, preoccupied with having your mouth back on his.

You giggle and squirm when he tosses you onto your back, climbing atop of you on the plush duvet. Your hands caress his body like he's something to praise: unbothered by the smattering of scars that told of all the lives he'd lived. Somewhere in the tenderness, the humour that once simmered fizzled away into a deep and raw passion, bred from vulnerability. It's not so funny with Bucky's head between your legs. When he's eating you out so thorough, your back is arching off the bed and you come so hard, it leaves you dizzy and whining.

After some time, Bucky forgets what even brought you both to this moment. That is until he's fucking you, hard and deep - the headboard rhythmically thumping against the wall - with your head nearly dangling off the foot of the bed. You're gasping. Moaning his name amongst pleas and curses; fingers pawing at his face and hair, coaxing his mouth to yours. Bucky grunts against the warm skin of your collarbones. He's obsessed with the way your pussy squeezes his cock: sucks him in, loving and soaked. He's so lost in the feel of you - in the moment of it all - that his mind short circuits when you let it slip.

"Fuck, daddy, please..."

It's a whimper, half formed in a moan. Bucky's hips stutter for a split second and his vision whites. And it takes him less than a minute to come to a sudden conclusion: he gets it.

"Yeah? Daddy's cock making you feel good, huh, baby?" Bucky growls against your throat. You nod desperately, legs locked around his waist. "You're taking daddy's dick so well, baby-"

"Oh my God," you gasp. He drives himself impossible deeper - so deep he'd be worried about splitting you open, if there was any room for his rational brain. But you seem to fucking love it. The noises you're making are obscene. Possessed, even.

"Such a good cockslut for daddy," he groans. The effect the word has on him is like heroin.

"Feels so good..." you whimper, eyes rolling back. "M'so close daddy, please..."

Bucky fucks you through your orgasm, and when you come, it's red raw and hot. Your fingernails nearly cut into his scalp with the way you cling to him. Bucky isn't far behind - not with how you're gasping that Godforsaken nickname over and over and over. His mind is still half degenerate mush ten minutes later, as the two of you are curled up on the wrong end of the bed, naked and spent. Your lips ghost kisses on his chest, still rising and falling unevenly from the escapades. His fingers are brushing tenderly over your thigh and waist and hairline; revelling in the sheer fact that he gets to have you.

"So...verdict on the daddy kink, old man?"

He grins tiredly, eyes closed. "Think I can get behind it."

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