He always stares at you. It doesn’t matter if you’re hanging out at Steve’s place—technically Bucky’s place as well, but you refuse to give him any sort of credit about that—or getting coffee, or at the movies, or here, in another bar on a Friday night, trying to wash the week down with a drink, Bucky stares at you like he’s trying to kill you. It’s the kind of stare you’d find creepy from anyone else. A knit brow and heavy breathing, like just the sight of you makes him want to rip his head off. You glare back when you can, but tonight, you’re determined to ignore it. Ignore him.

Bucky can be as pretty and charming as he wants, he’s not getting a rise out of you. Not one that he can see, at least. When you got to the bar, he drawled your name and teased you about your drink, but you just grabbed your boyfriend’s hand and dragged him across the room without a look over your shoulder.

Maybe one look.

One look that Brock didn’t have to see, because he’s always accusing you and Bucky of having something. You’ve tried to explain to him that whatever something he thinks exists between you and Barnes is just the negative space of pure fucking loathing, but he doesn’t listen. He never listens.

“Barnes wants to fuck you,” he’d muttered last week, after you got home, and you’d rolled your eyes.

“Bucky does not want to fuck me, he can barely stand to be in the same room as me-“

“Because he wants to fuck you,” Brock has snapped. “I don’t want you hanging around him alone.”

You’d scoffed. “That’s- We’re friends-“

“Thought he hated you-“

“He does. But- It’s complicated.”

And it was. Bucky was Steve’s best friend, and Steve was your work husband, and Natasha was your best friend, and Steve’s actual girlfriend, and Bucky’s work wife, and Sam was Bucky’s other best friend and work husband, and your best friend—you’d even lived together, in college, which Brock never seemed to understand the concept of—and Steve’s business partner, which made him your boss, but you Nat’s and Bucky’s  boss, and it was a tangled mess of relationships and years of history that became impossible to unweave. You and Bucky were friends because if you weren’t, you were enemies, and that always hurt right under your ribs in a way you never wanted to acknowledge.

Bucky wasn’t a bad guy. He was a stubborn ass sometimes, and he stared a lot, and got kind of judgey about stupid things, but so did you. The first time you met, you’d just stared at each other for—according to Natasha—five straight minutes. Once you’d been at some stupid charity gala, and you’d spent the whole time gossiping in the corner about the old, rich assholes who needed a party to give their endless money to a good cause. You’d thought that you were friends. Really friends. Friends that could’ve been something more, if he’d asked you to be.

But he hadn’t. He never had. And you’d started to butt heads more, and he didn’t ask if you were good like he used to. He avoided you at the stupid parties and didn’t ask your opinion about small things. He didn’t wait for you to go to lunch, or sit with you when you had to stay late, and suddenly the friendship had slipped through your fingers, because it had been so fast you hadn’t been given time to realize you were supposed to hold on.

Some days you wonder what you did, and you want to strangle the answer out of his pretty, thick head. You thought you’d been good. You’d really thought you’d been good, and then he’d just gone and decided that you weren’t. That there was something about you he just couldn’t stand, and you never get to know what it was.

So if he wanted to play the hating game, you’d play it, and you’d win. You ignored him almost every day, only sneering back when you had a comment that you knew would land like a headshot.

“You look comfortable,” he’d muttered last week at Nat’s, and you’d shot him a glare.

Bucky’s mouth had twitched, as you’d just stared at him. He always seemed to enjoy making you want to kill him. You hope he also enjoyed it, when you actually killed him.

“No boyfriend tonight, huh?” He’d smirked, and you swallowed on your venom. “What, he off fucking strippers again?”

Your lip had curled. You’d just kept glaring, and Bucky had laughed.

“Don’t give me that look, doll. It’s not your fault you can’t keep him satisfied-“

“I keep him satisfied,” you’d snapped, your patience finally fraying.

And Bucky had given you a strange, tired look. It was sharp around the edges, but dull everywhere else. Almost cold. Almost exhausted.

“I bet you do,” he’d muttered, and you’d snapped.

“At least I have someone to satisfy, Barnes,” you’d hissed. “No one can even put up with you for a one night stand.”

Bucky had flinched, and the knot in your gut had been immediate. You told yourself you liked the second his armor shattered slightly. You liked the win. You told yourself over and over, that it was fine, because he struck first.

But your body hadn’t learned the lesson. And it felt wrong to be in your skin, whenever Bucky made that broken, vulnerable face. Like he’d almost forgotten how cruel you could be. Like he’d cared at all, that you’d struck back.

He didn’t. You reminded yourself that he didn’t. It was complicated, because it needed to be, for the sake of explaining to Brock. But to you, it was really, painfully simple.

You’d been in a small, blooming love with Bucky. He’d recoiled and poured hatred on you like pesticide, and your loved had curled and shriveled, but never fully died. You think there might be something wrong with you, that you can harbor feelings for a man who brings you nothing but storms. You gave up on trying to understand it a long time ago. Maybe, one day, you’ll tell your therapist. You’re really hoping the love just dies first. It’s humiliating enough to feel it, let alone say it aloud.

Brock demanded he come with you tonight. To keep an eye on Barnes. You didn’t fight him, because fights with Brock aren’t something you win. He was a relationship you started before Bucky, that had been on and off and on and off for years. In the sacred months where Bucky had liked you, Brock had been off on some work trip in Germany. He’d gotten back right when Bucky had decided to hate you, and you’d been a raw, vulnerable creature, just crawling on the beach for a new shell to call home. Brock had been there. He’d been a tight fight, and the love you’d felt for him had soured from the joy of Bucky, but you’d just needed something. And Brock had been asking you to be exclusive for years. So you’d finally just… given in.

It’s not a dream relationship. Sometimes you worry you’re going to marry him and have his babies, and he’d make such ugly babies. You don’t want them. You don’t really see another way.

You wouldn’t mind having Bucky’s babies. That’s not a very productive thought to have.

“He always stare this much?” Brock asks, and you shrug.

“Yeah. Maybe.”

“Yeah?” Brock snaps. “Or maybe. Can’t be both, sweetheart.”

“Yeah and maybe,” you mutter. “I don’t know.”

“Either he stares or he doesn’t-“

“He stares, I just don’t know what’s this much-“

“Then you should start paying fucking attention.”

You sigh, and give Brock a tight smile. His lip curls, and his eyes narrow, and you fight the urge to flinch away.

Bucky hates you. Your boyfriend doesn’t seem to like you all that much either. He won’t let Nat sit with you, and he certainly won’t let Sam sit with you, so now you’re just fucking here. At the crowded bar, all but alone, even with half a dozen worried or hateful eyes on you. You only give yourself eyes for your drink.

At least you have your drink.

You’re smiling. Laughing. Lighting up the whole bar from your little corner, and Bucky’s stuck over here in the dark.

He wants to drink until he can’t anything but your face and a whole blur of colors, but he got stuck being one of the drivers. He wants to go over and sock your stupid boyfriend in the face, but that would lead to a bigger conversation he knows you don’t want to have. This is a grave he dug for himself, but it didn’t even work right. He was supposed to bury himself alive and forget about you, high above him, brighter than the sun and prettier than the sky.

Instead he’s just lying in the dirt, six feet down, only able to watch you orbit around him like an angel. It’s hell. It’s torture. It’s exactly what he fucking deserves.

“You’re sulking again,” Steve says casually, and Bucky grunts.

“So?”

“It’s bringing everyone down, Buck-“

“They’re fine.”

Steve sighs. He does that a lot, when it comes to you and Bucky. He sighed when Bucky told him that he’d fallen in love with you. He sighed when Bucky decided you deserved better and started to push you away. He sighed when Bucky would lock himself on the fire escape for hours after parties, smoking and staring out at the city skyline until the wind was threatening to bite his skin off, and he had to be dragged inside.

Bucky knows Steve thinks he’s an idiot. Hell, most days Bucky thinks he’s an idiot. There isn’t a moment that passes where he doesn’t want to go back and suck up the fear, take the gamble, and just tell you he’d fallen for you. Hard enough to break the sound barrier, hard enough to snap him in half before he even hit the bottom, hard enough that he was never going to be able to climb his way back up. But he’s a veteran with a missing arm and a pile of baggage he can’t even shoulder some days. You’d looked at him like he was something good. You’d looked at him like you thought it could’ve been easy, to fall right back.

And Bucky couldn’t have that.

The only thing worse than never having you would’ve been having you, and breaking you. Letting you down. Letting you love him, then letting you realize how wrong you were, to bother to try. So he’d pushed you away.

Steve said that didn’t give him the right to sulk about it all the time. Steve was probably right, but Bucky sulked anyway. It was all he had, now.

That, and hating your stupid fucking boyfriend.

Brock. Dumb name. Sounded like rock. Bucky had a better name. He’d even let you call him James, like you used to. You’re the only person that ever made Bucky sound like an insult instead of a marker of affection. He wants to go back to being James, just for you. But he can’t. Because of Brock.

“What does she even see in him,” he mutters, and Steve sighs. Again.

“I don’t know, but-“

“He’s not that good looking,” Bucky narrows his eyes at Brock. Leaning over the table. Grabbing your arm. Bucky should be the one touching you. “His dick is probably small.”

“I- Uh- Yeah, sure-“

“She deserves better-“

“Better like you?”

That makes Bucky’s head snap to the side. Steve doesn’t even blink, his brows raised in almost mocking gentleness. It pisses Bucky off sometimes, how he’s not allowed to be pissed at Steve.

“You know she’s with him because he asked her, right?” Steve says, and Bucky scowls.

“That’s not- I- He doesn’t treat her right-“

“And you do?”

Bucky tastes bile. Steve still doesn’t back down, just giving Bucky that sympathetic puppy look, and Bucky wonders if he digs himself another foot down, Steve will do him a favor and bury him alive.

“You could just- Talk to her,” Steve murmurs, and Bucky snorts.

“She doesn’t care what I gotta say, Stevie-“

“Because you made her think you don’t care at all.”

“I don’t care,” Bucky snaps, louder than he means to, and Steve gives him an unimpressed look. Bucky scowls and turns back to his drink. “Shut up.”

“I didn’t say a thing-“

“You’re thinkin’. I can hear it.”

Steve sighs. Bucky’s going to shove a fist into his mouth, to get him to stop. “I’m just saying, Buck,” Steve murmurs. “Nat thought she was finally going to get over Brock. Before you decided to be an ass to her all the time.”

Bucky scoffs, then pauses. He didn’t actually understand what that meant. It sounded like it meant something important, something he was really supposed to understand, but for the life of him, he can’t work out why. He turns back to Steve with a frown, ready to ask what the hell that meant, but the words are drowned in aloud smash from across the bar.

Bucky’s attention snaps to the side in a second, his body realizing what’s happening before his brain. He’s on his feet when Brock shouts at you, and walking when you shove Brock. He almost breaks into a sprint, when he sees Brock’s hand curl into a fist. It only gets slammed on the table, but Bucky’s heart still threatens to burst through his throat. The bar is crowded. Too crowded. It’s taking him too long to get to you, and Brock shouts something, and you scream something back, and some lady tries to grab Bucky to flirt, but he shoulders her off.

He almost loses you in the chaos. A door slams, and he’s not sure if it’s you or Brock. He looks around for Nat—wherever you went, she’ll be there too—but can’t find her. He stumbles to the table, and his mouth goes dry.

You’re not hurt, but you’re crying. You’re crouching against the wall, Nat petting your head and trying to calm you down. Brock is nowhere to be found. Smart move, Bucky thinks. He was seconds from getting his face knocked in.

“What the hell happened?” He grunts to Nat, kneeling in front of you.

She shakes her head, lips in a thin line. “I’m not sure. They started fighting, Brock smashed a glass, then just- Fucked off, I guess.”

“What’d they fight about-“

“She won’t tell me,” Nat sighs, and you glare at her under gorgeous, wet lashes.

“I’m right here,” you snap, and Nat gives you an apologetic smile.

“I know, but- You won’t tell me.”

You sniff, glancing over to Bucky, then down to the floor. “I don’t want to talk about it,” you mutter, and Nat murmurs your name.

“Was it-“

“Yeah.”

Nat scowls, and Bucky feels like he’s being left out of something.

“Nat, I-“ You grab her wrist, voice small and pleading. “I just want to go home.”

Natasha’s throat bobs, but she nods. Bucky frowns. Nat’s been drinking. Everyone’s been drinking except you and him, and he doesn’t think you should be driving when you can’t even get off the floor.

“I’ll take her,” he mutters, and you shoot him a poisoned glare.

“No.”

“Listen, kid, I’m offering to help-“

“I don’t want your help,” you sneer, and Bucky sighs. He deserves that. He knows he does. Doesn’t make it any easier or sweeter to swallow.

Natasha mutters your name, watching Bucky from the corner of her eye. “It’s either him, or an uber-“

“Uber,” you say immediately, and Nat gives you a flat look.

“That wasn’t a real option. You’re going with Bucky.”

You pout, inching away from him, and Bucky’s face burns. He stares at his hands, trying to pretend he can’t hear your whispers. Trying to pretend they don’t cut into a sensitive, raw, needy part of his heart that no amount of self-inflicted burns has ever been able to steel.

“I don’t want to go with Bucky,” you hiss at Nat, and Nat just shrugs.

“I don’t want you to be alone right now-“

“Then you get in the Uber with me.” Your voice is small. Almost pleading. It breaks Bucky’s heart.

Nat shakes her head, voice gentle, as if you’re a wounded animal. “Bucky will drop you at my place, alright? I just have to take care of something first.”

Your nose wrinkles, but you agree. Bucky doesn’t think you’re happy about it. He can almost feel the disdain emitting from your body like radiation, as Nat helps you to Bucky’s car. He decides not to tell you that Nat’s thing is probably hunting down Brock and killing him. Bucky would join her, if he didn’t have to deal with you. He doesn’t think there’s anything more noble. His worry is devotion. It’s a shame you’re blinder than a real god, to see it.

The drive is dead quiet. Bucky glances at the radio every few minutes, but loses the debate with him over and over to turn it on. He doesn’t want you to hate his taste in music.

You curl up against the window, as far away from him as you can get without jumping onto the freeway. Bucky drums his fingers on the wheel to fill the silence. Your breathing has steadied from short, shallow gasps, but he can still hear you sniffle every few seconds. It makes his vision line with red, and he knows he’s the worst kind of hypocrite, but knowing never helped anyone. He doesn’t understand, how Brock could treat you so horribly. He doesn’t understand how you—beautiful, smart, sweet but unwavering and sharp—could tolerate it.

Bucky parks the car outside of Nat’s. You don’t move, and he wishes he could build the anger to make you. But you smell like vanilla and something summery, and you look like an angel in the streetlights, and all he can feel is bubbling red and green. It spills out of his mouth like vomit, before he can garner the will and kindness to shove it down.

“What do you see in him,” Bucky mutters, and you look over with a frown.

You stare at him. Bucky stares back. He loves it when you do that. It’s a little off-putting, but he thinks he can tell you the truth with his eyes. He’s not sure, though, if you ever see it.

“He’s good to me,” you mutter finally, and Bucky snorts. “He is, don’t- Don’t fucking make that face-“

“I’m not makin’ a face-“

“You are,” you point at him, eyes narrowed, voice cold. “He is good to me, Bucky.”

Bucky raises his brows. It only seems to work you up more.

“Fuck you,” you spit. “Brock loves me, he- He’s- You just don’t see the side of him that I do-“

“I don’t think he’s got enough sides to hide anything, doll,” Bucky drawls, and you scowl.

“You’re just jealous.”

Bucky recoils, fingers tightening on the wheel. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” he grunts, and you roll your eyes.

“Fuck off, it’s so obvious-“

Bucky mutters your name in warning, but you just keep going.

“You’re jealous that someone like me could have a partner that loves them, when you’re alone. But guess what, Bucky,” you lean forward, words spitting over Bucky’s slack face. “You’re going to die alone, and I’m not, so fuck you.”

You push the door open, and storm out onto the street. Bucky’s frozen in the drivers seat for a second, a faint ringing in his ears. You’re right. You’re right, and it’s his fault. Not about Brock—that piece of shit isn’t capable of love, even for someone as perfect as you—but- But-

He’s moving before he can think about why. Shoving his way out of the car and shouting your name, chasing you up the sidewalk like a madman. You ignore him. Of course you do. It’s what he’s fucking earned.

“Just- Wait-“ He catches your wrist. You yank it away.

“Leave me alone, Bucky-“

“No, I got somethin’ I wanna say-“

“Well I don’t want to hear it-“

“I know, I know, just-“

“No!” You scream, round on him with a pointed finger, and Bucky feels something split right down his chest at the tears in your eyes. “No, I don’t want to fucking- I- You don’t get to tell me anything about- About anything. This is your fault, your-“

You cut yourself off, and Bucky blinks, leaning back. “My fault?” He laughs in disbelief, when you nod, not meeting his eyes. “How the hell is it my fault?”

You wrap your arms over your stomach, gaze fixed firmly on your shoes. “Brock thinks you want to fuck me,” you mumble, and Bucky’s heart falters in his chest. “That’s what the- The stupid fight way about, alright? And he thinks I shouldn’t be around you anymore, because of it.”

Bucky gapes at you. He’s trying to think of a way to ask that isn’t selfish. He can’t come up with it. “But you’re not going to listen to him, right?”

You shrug. “It’s not like you like being around me,” you mumble, and Bucky’s hands fists.

“That’s not the fuckin’ point, doll-“

“Isn’t it?” You give him a tired look. “Don’t you want me to just- Just go away? Aren’t you fucking happy, that you’re never going to have to deal with me again?”

Bucky’s throat his too tight to speak. This is a walking nightmare, but he can’t seem to wake up. You’re right. This is the part he’s supposed to want, where you bury him and he never has to see you’re beauty and wonder what if. But he’s selfish. He’s too fucking selfish, and he doesn’t want the sun to go away. He can’t lose you. Not like this, not when you seem to have halfway lost yourself.

You give him a prompting glare, tipping up your chin when he’s been silent too long. He swallows. His fingers flex, and he works his jaw until he can speak.

“Don’t,” he rasps, watching you under hooded eyes. “Don’t go away.”

You laugh, but it doesn’t sound read. “Don’t do that, Bucky, don’t act like you care-“

“I do care-“

“No.” You point at him, face tight. “No, you don’t- You don’t-“

Bucky catches your hand, and you immediately go quiet. He takes a small step forward. You don’t take a step back.

“I care,” he croaks, squeezing your hand once. “I care, doll. I- I’ve always cared, I-“

He moves to his knees. You stare down at him, like you’re not sure what you’re supposed to do. Bucky doesn’t need you to do anything. He only prays at the only alter he knows—your feet—that you’ll listen.

“I love you,” he whispers, and your mouth falls open.

“Bucky…”

“I know I’ve been a dick,” he rasps. “I know, and I- I don’t expect you to forgive me, or say anything back. If you wanna slap me, I’ll let you. I’ll let you do anything, doll, just- Please don’t listen to him.” Bucky swallows, daring to wrap a hand around the back of your thighs, silently begging you to stay. “If he’s told you no one else is gonna love you, he’s dead wrong. If you’re letting him tell you what to do ‘cause you think it’s the only way to make him stay, let him fucking leave. You deserve better. You’ve always deserved better. Than-“ His words catch, painful in his throat. “Than me. But also than him. You deserve better.”

He digs his fingers into your soft skin, and you swallow, blinking down at him with soft, glossy eyes.

“I love you,” Bucky echoes like a prayer. “I swear I love you, doll. And I really don’t expect nothing, but- Please.”

You straighten up, and Bucky tries not to flinch when you cup his cheek. Your hand is so warm, so soft. He doesn’t deserve the touch.

“Bucky,” you murmur. “Stand up.”

He blinks at you, then scrambles to his feet. Your mouth twitches. He thinks that’s a good sign.

You stand barely an inch apart, staring into each others eyes. Bucky lets every bit of himself crumble away, until the only thing left for you to see is his love. You let out a sharp breath, and glance to his parted lips.

“You mean it?” You whisper, and he nods in a heartbeat.

“With everything I got.”

You laugh, soft and nervous, and meet his gaze again. “But- You were such an asshole- I thought you hated me.”

“Never,” he whispers. “I- I mean- I was an asshole, but I never hated you doll, ever. I just- I kinda loved you too much, and I’m an idiot-“

Bucky’s voice dies easily, when you push up and press a small kiss to his lips. His hands twitch to catch you, but he holds them back. Not daring to move. Not daring to let this fall apart. Your lips are so soft, and you taste like that sugary drink you’d been nursing, and he thinks he might have just taken a hit of a drug he’s never going to kick.

He’s panting, when you pull away. You smile at him, shy and gorgeous, brows raised in challenge, and he laughs like a ruined man. He dives back down, grabbing your face between his hands and kissing you hard. Kissing you the way he dreamed, your lips molding together and body arching up to his touch, your tongue darting over his lip before he squeezes your jaw, and you open for him with a moan.  He chuckles and spits into your mouth, wrapping an arm around your waist. You scratch his neck and press back with twice the force, dragging a low groan from his chest.

Bucky yanks himself back, and you stare at each other, flushed and panting. You find it in you to speak first. Bucky’s not surprised.

“You love me?” You demand, and he nods.

“All the time.”

You nod, and he thinks he’s got the kind of luck they talk about in kings.

“Good,” you mutter, straightening the collar of his shirt before fixing him with that enchanting, dangerous stare. “Prove it.”

Bucky smiles, and presses a harsh but loving kiss to your lips. You really have no fucking idea.

Proving it is going to be the easy part.

You’ve had dreams about this. So many dreams that living through it takes a lot of convincing, for you to believe it’s reality. You think, through the power of Bucky’s hands and lips, you’re going to get there.

You kissed and stumbled into Nat’s house with your hands roaming and feet tripping over everything but each other. Bucky had ripped your shirt over your head and kicked the door behind him, letting his searing mouth wander over your jaw, your cheeks, your nose and back to your lips. You’d pulled the buckle of his jeans while he made quick work of your bra, using the straps to pull you right back against his chest before tossing it the same way as your shirt.

“Look at you,” he’d muttered, palming your breast with an air of awe to his every word. “Prettiest thing I’ve ever fuckin’ seen.”

You’d flushed and kissed him before he could say any more nice things. They were already making your heart soft and prone to forgiveness. The kind you were trying to make him earn, even if he was probably about to get it for free.

Bucky slid his hand around the back of your neck and kissed you like it was a movie. You’d melted into him, clinging to the hooks of his jeans and letting him angle your face further back. You’d tugged him closer and he’d grunted, wrapping his full bicep around your neck and sliding his hand on your breast down your side. He’d cupped your ass and squeezed it before dipping his fingers under your waistband, pulling it back and forth as he dragged his tongue over your lower lip.

“Wanna take care of you,” he’d muttered, like he was speaking to himself. “You gonna let me take care of you?

“Ye- Yeah,” you breathe, nails digging into his wrist. You’re trying to stay steady. You’re not sure it’s working, with how the room is spinning and your skin is getting heated. “Yes, please.”

Bucky chuckles, dragging his thumb over your lower lip. Your mouth falls open with a tiny gasp, and his brows furrow tight. He slides the pad of his finger between your lips, and you flick your tongue against it. Your eyes droop, and your head tips back as you start to suck on him. Bucky groans, his fingers digging into your hips.

“Jesus,” he rasps. “Always knew you’d be the death of me, doll.”

You coo, and Bucky’s nostrils flare. His hand drifts further down your back, hooking on your bottoms and pulling them with him. You make another soft, humming sound, smiling at him around his thumb, and his throat bobs.

“That’s it,” he rasps. “Just like that, nice and easy.”

Your bottoms fall to the floor, leaving you in only your panties. Bucky glances down, his tongue darting over his lips, and then looks right back to you. He pulls his thumb away, cups the back of your head, and pulls your face back for him to kiss. You moan against his mouth and he groans, pressing over you until there’s no space for anything else left. It’s all just Bucky, everywhere around you and so warm you start to get dizzy. You almost don’t know what to do with yourself, yanking at his shirt and trying to meet every kiss, but it’s hard. Bucky’s demanding, and you’ve wanted this for too long. Just his hands on your bare skin are better than anyone else being inside of you. It’s really unfair.

Bucky cups your pussy when your back hits the wall, and you mewl. He leans back to watch your hips roll against his hand, his eyes going fully dark and a low, rumbling grunt falling from his lips.

“Fuck, baby,” he rubs his hand back and forth, a sweet, lewd sound filling the room. “This wet, just for me?”

You nod a little shamefully, watching him under fluttering lashes. He pulls on the fabric of your panties and snaps it against your cunt, making you buck up with a squeak. Bucky chuckles and rubs over the hurt, leaning down until your lips are brushing together.

“You want me to play nice?” He whispers. “Or fuck you like I’ve been dreamin’ about.”

You blink at him, mouth hanging open and face burning. It’s hard to think, with the drag of his rough, gentle hand against your cunt. For a little while you just stare at him helplessly, and Bucky takes a small mercy, snapping your panties back against your pussy, shocking your heartbeat enough to make you think.

Like he’s been dreaming. You’ve been dreaming too. Holding fantasies about Bucky giving it to you just how you want, walking that thin line you never trusted Brock to balance on. But you trust Bucky. Your Bucky, before the whole mess. The Bucky you can see so clearly now, features shining with affection as he watches you already start to come apart.

“That,” you say, small but certain. “Do- Do it like that.”

Bucky pauses. “Like-“

“How you want,” you whisper, and he goes still.

Bucky scans over your face for an ounce of hesitation. You don’t have any, so you hold his gaze.

He lets out a rough, broken breath. “You sure-“

You press up and kiss him hard. He gets the idea.

Bucky rips your panties off like they’re made of paper, drops one arm under your thighs, and picks you up with barely a grunt. You squeal and try to push away on instinct, but he’s strong. Stronger than you thought, and you’ve spent an embarrassing amount of time ogling his muscles. He slams his mouth over yours for a brief, hungry kiss, spits down your throat, and tosses you right over his shoulder.

“Bucky-“

“Shh,” he slaps your ass and you squeak again, dropping your face right into his shoulder. He squeezes over the pleasurable sting then starts to walk, keeping you steady over him.

“Where- Where are we going?” You try to push up to see over his shoulder. Bucky lands another spank on your ass, and you fall right back down with a whine. “James- Shit-“

He’s dragging his fingers over your sopping wet cunt, smearing the mess everywhere he can, humming while he walks. Your thighs clench, but that only seems to give him easier access, and you whine.

“Bu- Bucky-“

“Ah,” Bucky slaps your pussy, and you muffle your moan against his body. “That’s not what I want to hear, doll.”

You swallow and shake your head, bunching his shirt between your trembling fingers. Bucky spanks your pussy again and it clenches around nothing. His thumb drifts, teasing over your clit in tiny brushes, back and forth and back and forth. You whimper, but he just hums, dragging two fingers through the mess between your thighs, before returning to your swollen little button.

“Come on,” he coos, encouraging and mocking all at once. “Use your words for me.”

You can’t. You muffle another moan in Bucky’s shoulder, writhing best you can in his iron grip. Bucky hums like this is casual, like he’s not already taking you apart with the lightest of touches. A door creaks open, and you barely have time to recognize the carpet of Nat’s guest room before you’re being tossed down onto the bed.

You bounce slightly, and Bucky catches your ankles, dragging you right to the edge of the mattress. You stare at him, mouth hanging open, completely unsure what to do with yourself. His lips twitch and he lowers down, pressing a gently, loving kiss to your lips. You arch up and he rubs your thighs, easing you down into his touch. You slump forward, running your fingers through his hair, and he makes a low, satisfied sound from the back of his throat.

Bucky traces his hand a little higher up your thigh, and you try not to buck into his touch. It’s not very successful, and he smiles against your lips, pinching your upper thigh. You whimper and turn your head, trying to save useless face. Bucky chuckles, sucking a small mark under your throat, then flicking his tongue against the sensitive skin.

“James…” You moan, and he goes still. You turn nervously, worried you somehow, already, ruined it. “Bucky?”

His throat bobs. He grabs your chins between two fingers, eyes boring through you, like he can see all your hazy, love-colored thoughts.

“Buck-“

“James,” he mutters, dragging his thumb over your swollen lip. “Keep callin’ me James, doll.”

You nod, a faint flush burning your cheeks. It’s not even from the way he’s touching you. Not right now. James isn’t a name Bucky lets anyone use. You used to, but then he started pushing you, and you didn’t want to lose that last sacred closeness, of being allowed to use his nickname. But if James is what he wants. He’ll get it. You’ll give him almost anything, right now.

“James,” you breathe, and Bucky’s throat bobs. He leans down for another, slower kiss. You close your eyes and let him control the depth, the unmeasured but drizzle passion like honey. When he pulls away you’re breathless, and he’s on his knees.

Naked and on his knees.

You make a tiny sound, gaping shamelessly at his cock. It’s thick and heavy looking, leaking with pre-cum and probably more than you can take. But you want to try. You want to drool around it in every possible way, looking up and Bucky and getting that faint, affectionate smile.

“You seein’ something you like?” Bucky teases, and you give him a hopeless, embarrassed look. He chuckles and grabs himself, stroking slowly and holding your gaze. “You want it bad, huh,” he mutters, smearing some drool over your cheek. “He ain’t been fuckin’ your right, either. Left you so needy for so long, you get all quiet just seeing a real cock?”

Your face is on fire, but your core is throbbing and aching. You drop your brow against Bucky’s, fixated on his fist, pumping that massive dick.

“Spit on it,” Bucky grunts, and you obey thoughtless, letting some of your need fall from your lips to Bucky’s shining cock. He groans and smashes his lips over yours, his hand pumping faster until he’s groaning your name against your lips.

Then he pulls back, lets go of himself, and just stares at your slack, desperate expression. You swallow, and his lips curve into a faint, starved smile.

“You need to be treated like a whore, huh,” he mutters. “Fucked like a toy ‘till you remember how nice it is, to have my attention.”

Oh, God. Your thighs try to press together. Bucky shoves them apart, using his thumb to part your puffy, swollen pussy lips.

“Pretty little thing,” he mutters, pressing over your clit before dragging his thumb back down. “Don’t worry, baby, I’ll fuck you right. Gonna open you up,” he presses his thumb hard against your entrance, smirking at your tiny sound. “Then give you exactly what you need. That sound good?”

“Ye- Yeah,” you manage to babble, remembering his thing about words. “Yes, please.”

Bucky smiles, and presses a quick kiss to your lips. “Good girl.”

You whine, and Bucky doesn’t waste time. He sinks fully down, kissing over your tummy as he shoves your legs fully apart. You watch him, breathing ragged, and weave your fingers through his hair for balance. He kisses the inside of one thigh, then the other. Nips at the sensitive skin, then flicks his tongue over the hurt before kissing it again. He takes his time, kissing all around your cunt, but never letting his mouth go where you really fucking need.

“James,” you whine, tugging on his hair. “Don’t- Don’t tease.”

He chuckles, his lips brushing right against your clit. You squirm, but he holds your thighs down and gives you a stern look.

“I’ll tease you all I fuckin’ want, babydoll,” he mutters, giving the quickest, lightest kiss to your clit. “You’re too pretty and reactive not to play with.”

You whimper, unable to come up with a response that isn’t a fuck you. As fun as it would be to push his buttons and find out just what punishment under Bucky’s attention is—being dragged over his lap, forced to sit on his cock until you’re drooling, brought right up to the edge over and over but never being allowed to fall—you’re too desperate right now. You might cum just from looking at him, it’s been so long, and he seems to know it.

“Needy pussy,” he mutters, tracing his thumb in circles around your clit. “Gonna take real good care of you, pretty girl.”

You mewl because god help you, you really believe him. Bucky pulls back the hood of your clit, blows on it in a way that makes your whole body seize up, then presses a long, slow kiss to the bundle of nerves.

“Fuck- James- James-“

“I know,” he coos, tongue flicking against your pulsing cunt. “Such a greedy fuckin’ girl, can’t even wait for me.” He kisses your clit again, making out with it until you’re panting and struggling to sit up. “Lucky I’m feelin’ generous,” he mutters, and whatever restraint he’d been pretending to have was gone.

Bucky shoves his face into your pussy, his beard scraping your thighs and his tongue licking a long, rough stripe up your core until it hits your clit, swirls, and  dives back down. Plunging in and out of your dripping hole before repeating the lick, playing with your clit more and more every time. Thick hands keep your legs spread when you start to get restless, but he lets you buck freely up into his mouth. He seems to enjoy it, how you pull on his hair and cry his name. If anything, his mouth just works harder against you, tongue flicking against your clit in rapid, tiny strokes that send you into a frenzy.

You fall back with a sob, grinding up and craning your neck to try and keep watching him. It’s a beautiful sight, Bucky drowning himself between your thighs. He winks at you, pressing his tongue flat over your entrance, and you fall back with a moan. You’re getting there fast. It would be embarrassing, with anyone but Bucky. He just kisses your thigh and bumps his nose against your clit, muttering you’re close against your skin before diving right back in.

“Bu- Bucky-“ You grab at the sheets, your pussy throbbing like a ticking bomb before an explosion. “Bucky- I- I’m gonna-“

His teeth graze your clit, and he wraps his lips tight around the nub, sucking on it hard. You scream as your vision goes white, your hips flying off the bed, but Bucky doesn’t stop. He lets wraps his arms around each thigh, shoves your legs close around his head, and keeps sucking on your clit, it starts to get all tingly and numb in the best way. It’s almost like he’s tickling it with his tongue, the pressure of his mouth perfect and unbearable, your eyes rolling back in your head as you writhe.

“Oh- Oh my god-“ You sob, pushing at his head. “Bucky- I- I can’t, please-“

He kisses your clit a little more gently, spanks your pussy, and gives you a stern look. “Yes, you can.”

It doesn’t seem to be something that’s up for argument. 

Bucky keeps you pinned to his face, sucking and sucking and sucking, no real care for what else you do. You cry and pull at the sheets, trying and climb away with no avail, and end up rolling onto your stomach, your face pressed into the sheets. Bucky still stays locked against your pussy, the feeling only intensifying when he’s beneath you. You’re all but sitting on his face, grinding you cunt down onto his jaw, sobbing into the sheets as your body becomes taut and wired and ready to snap.

A second orgasm rolls over you like a thunderstorm. Wet and loud and hot. You gush against Bucky’s face, tears starting to stream down your face from the overstimulation. You haven’t even had one proper orgasm in… longer than you want to admit. Brock never really gave you anything more than a shiver, and your patience in your own body was limited to a vibrator and ten minutes before a dull, anti-climatic orgasm that didn’t feel like much, but still made you too sensitive to keep going. Bucky just pulled two out of you, with his mouth alone.

He pulls back when you’re trembling, leaving a last, gentle kiss over your clit.

“Best fuckin’ pussy I’ve ever tasted,” he mutters, giving it one more spank before he starts to crawl over your body. “Coulda died there, doll, I swear.”

He laughs to himself, and you whimper against the sheets. Bucky pauses, caging you against the mattress with massive arms, and slowly rolls you over onto your back. You stare up at him, starry-eyed and spent, and his mouth twitches down.

“You alright?” He murmurs, brushing the hair from your face. You nod, and he doesn’t look convinced. “Are you-“

“Bucky,” you whisper, and his throat bobs. “If you don’t fuck me, I’m leaving.”

He laughs, throaty and dry, and ducks back down to give you another, slower kiss. One hand slides down your body, palming at your breast, rolling a nipple between his fingers between pinching gently. Bucky smiles, at the tiny whine it pulls out of you.

“Could spend forever here,” he mutters. “Givin’ every single part of you the attention it deserves. Sucking on these tits while you ride my thigh. Bending you over and opening up that cunt with just my hands, just playing with your ass until you’re drippin’ on my lap.” He groans, his cock twitching against your thigh. “You’re so fuckin’ beautiful, babydoll. You got no idea.”

You hum, the tears on your cheeks shiner than before. He means it. Whatever doubts you’d had before fade, because you’re sure. Bucky means it.

He settles himself fully between your legs, the more aggressive, dominant mask seeming to fracture, like light splitting through the clouds. Always there, even when he pretends. Coming out when you most  need to see it.

“Gonna go right in,” he mutters, mostly to himself. “Opened you up real good. Shouldn’t even hurt.”

You hum, pressing your face against his neck. Bucky rubs his cock against your cunt slowly, covering himself in your arousal before tapping his head against your clit—almost ceremoniously, like paying homage—and notching himself against your entrance.

The stretch isn’t as bad as you thought it would be. Bucky’s still big, so big you can feel it in your throat, so big you don’t think you’ve ever been this full, but he’d prepped you so well, it’s just a faint burn before it molds into pleasure. Bucky’s warm breath fans over the top of your neck as he watches your pussy mold around his cock. He moans something like your name against your skin, and you wrap your arms tight around his head.

“Feels so good,” you moan as he pushes further in. “So- So good.”

Bucky grunts, and you whimper as he bottoms out, balls pressed tight to your ass.

For a few moments, neither of you move. Bucky looks up at you with a wrecked expression you can feel in your chest, and you give him a faint, nervous smile.

“You know I love you too, right?” You say, because it’s the only thing you can think.

Bucky’s throat bobs. He doesn’t seem to have any words, and gives you a slow, romantic kiss. He rolls his hips experimentally, and you gasp against his lips. He’s curved in a way that presses right up against your g-spot, and it’s almost like a massage. You clench down, and Bucky grunts, but he repeats the motion anyway.

“James- Ooooh-“ Your eyes roll back, and Bucky sucks and kisses over your jaw, grinding his cock right against that soft, gooey spot. “Fuck- James-“

Bucky makes a deep, almost feral sound, and starts to move faster. Shallow, brutal thrusts that split you right open. You grab his bicep for dear life, and he watchers your every reaction with a sharp attention. You mewl when he does a swivel move, almost flying off the bed, and he pins you down with a hand splayed over your stomach.

“Feel that?” He grunts, pulling all the way out before slamming back in. “You fuckin’ feel that, babydoll? How good we feel together? Greedy little pussy, swallowin’ my cock up like the whore you are- Fuck-“

Bucky falls back over you, kissing you with spit and teeth and brutal force. You wrap your arms around your neck, moaning loud and shameless as he picks up his pace. Small, measured thrusts turn into the bed creaking, Bucky’s cock drilling into your pussy like he’s trying to knock every thought from your head. It’s working. You’re a drooling, wound up mess below him, and he grins against your lips.

“That’s my girl,” he mocks. “Smart head so fuckin’ empty, when I got you on my cock. No one else makes you feel like this, do they?”

You don’t answer—you can’t—and Bucky smacks your clit.

“Do they?”

You shake your head, babbling out a pathetic half-answer. “N- No-“

“Who fucks you right?” Bucky demands, words harsh but touch gentle when he grabs your jaw.

“You.” Tears start to fall down your cheeks again. “You, Bucky- Please-“

You moan as he hits that spot again, and Bucky groans, dropping down to kiss the tears away, then mold his lips back over yours.

“Damn right, me,” he grunts, skin slapping against skin, the wet, sinful sound of him bullying into your cunt almost drowning out the words. “My fuckin’ girl.”

Bucky leans up, and you almost cry for him before you realize what he’s doing. Bucky grabs your knees with one arm and presses them up to your chest, leaning down to kiss you as he fucks you deeper into the mattress. The angle is deeper like this. You can feel it everywhere, from your toes to your lips. You make a strangled, undignified sound when Bucky’s thumb returns to your clit, rubbing in slow, tight circles.

“Cum with me, babydoll,” he grunts, kissing your calf and rutting into your drooling, pulsing cunt. “Come one, wanna fill you up, pump this pussy up ‘till everyone knows, just-“ He groans. “Gimme just one more.”

You don’t know where it comes from. You didn’t think you had it in you, but Bucky manages to pull it out. A third orgasm, slower and longer than the last too. Hotter, as well. Pooling in your gut before flooding out of your cunt. Down your thighs and over Bucky’s cock as you flutter and he doubles over with a roar.

You’re not sure what’s Bucky’s cum and what’s yours. There’s just wet stickiness, filling you up everywhere until your eyes are unfocused and your body is twitching. Bucky kisses you through the orgasms, fucking shallowly into your pussy like he can’t help himself. When you both ease down, you’re blinking at the ceiling with heavy eyes and a warm feeling blooming back into your chest. Free and light and easy, in a way you never expected yourself to have.

This is going to be a mess in the morning. Right now, you don’t really care.

“I guess Brock was right,” you muse. “You did want to sleep with me.”

Bucky sits up with a glare. “Don’t say that when I’m still inside of you.”

You giggle, reaching up to brush some hair from his brow. His gaze softens and he catches your hand, pressing a gentle kiss to your knuckles.

“Do you believe me?” He mutters, and it’s small and worried. As if, after that, you’d somehow ever let him get away again.

“Yeah,” you smile, and his shoulders slump in relief.

“Thank god-“

“But,” you squeeze his hand. “I think you should keep proving it.”

Bucky chuckles, giving you an amused look before dropping his face right back into your boobs. You beam at the ceiling and pet the top of his head, neither of you in a rush to clean up. You probably should. You really should. Bucky seems to realize why at the same moment you do.

“Nat’s gonna kill us,” he groans, and you snort.

“Yeah. You.”

Bucky props his chin on your chest. “You too-“

“No,” you shake your head. “I’m her favorite.”

“That’s-“ Bucky sighs, and drops his face back down. “Yeah.”

You laugh, and he grins against your boob.

“Worth it,” he mutters, and you smile like a fool.

Because yeah. It was.   

✦End note: sometimes... cheating is okay!✦

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Neither of you mention the kiss. And he doesn’t press for another, doesn’t mention how your lips had parted beneath his, or the way your fingers had curled into his chest. What he does instead is stay a little longer each time. Not conspicuously, nothing that could be pointed to as a specific thing, but the visits that used to end professionally, with a nod and a see you tomorrow, now end with him lingering by the basin, helping you organize glass vials of antiseptic or wiping down the metal trays without being asked and saying something about the weather or a story about his friend Steve (you have heard a handful of those by now).

You realize, with a faint ache in your chest, that Bucky is letting you set the pace. Doesn’t crowd our space; if you step back, he stays put. If you put on your professional face, he meets you with quiet respect. He’s showing you that he can be trusted with the territory you have given him.

And because he gives you room to breathe, you find yourself loosening your grip on your own secrets.

One afternoon, in the midst of applying a soothing salve to the reddened skin around his healing wound, you start talking. The tent is quiet, and you want to convince yourself that that is the only reason why you say anything all, but you know better.

“My mother used to make a salve out of clover and beeswax,” you whisper, mind wandering before you could stop it. “Whenever I fell out of the cherry tree in the backyard, she’d slather it on. Smelled God awful, like old honey and dirt.”

Usually, you didn’t talk about home. Didn’t talk about your mother, or the life you had left behind in a white-picket box across the Atlantic. Yet here you are now, saying things without being asked, without really meaning to, simply saying them because it feels comfortable to share them with this soldier.

“Sounds like a luxury compared to this government-issued grease,” Bucky says with a soft chuckle, eyes crinkling at the corners. “You tumble out of that tree often?”

“Often enough,” you reply, voice dropping a little lower as you tie off the bandage. “I don’t have any siblings, so I had to invent my own trouble. My parents nearly went gray trying to keep me in one piece before I went off to nursing school. I suppose they’re waiting for me to go back home in one piece, now, too.”

Bucky doesn’t offer a platitude. He knows, better than anyone, the agony of the families left behind, staring at the mailbox every morning. Instead he reaches out, thumb gently catching the side of your wrist and he presses down just enough for you to feel the reassuring warmth of him.

“They’ve got a tough girl watchin’ over an entire regiment out here,” he says, looking up at you with those blue eyes that you’ve already learned are nothing but trouble. “I bet they’re real proud of you. I know I would be.”

The sudden stinging heat behind your eyelids is too much for you to bear, and you have to look way, pulling your wrist back from his hold. The difference is that this time you do it gently; not a rejection, just a retreat to gather your senses.

The second week of August arrives with the kind of heat that has no manners about it, summer turning fully cruel. It settles over the camp by mid-morning and stays, turning the inside of every tent into something very similar to an oven, and even the shade offers no real relief, serving only as a slightly darker heater than the open sun. Nurses have taken to rolling their sleeves as high as propriety allows, and most soldiers have abandoned propriety altogether.

You are in between tasks, a rare lull in a day that was otherwise consumed by heatstroke cases and salt-tablet distributions, moving through the rows of tents in camp. A hand comes up to your forehead to wipe a bead of sweat, and you inhale, looking for a breath of wind that doesn’t exist, when you spot him.

Bucky is in his usual spot, the big tree at the edge of the camp’s quieter side, the one with a root system that makes a reasonable seat if you know how to position yourself. His back is braced flat against the rough bark, one knee hooked up to prop up a small wooden crate he’s using as a desk, the other leg stretched out in the dry grass. In concession to the stifling heat, his uniform jacket is long gone, and his olive-drab shirt is half-unbuttoned, exposing the damp skin of his collarbones and the dark hair of his chest, and his hair is a little disheveled. A sheen of sweat makes his skin glisten in the dappled sunlight filtering through the leaves. There’s a letter in his hands, a few pages long already, and there’s creases in his forehead as he seems focused on reading through what he has already written, stubby pencil held between his fingers.

Despite his absorbed expression, Bucky looks entirely at ease, which is something you don’t see often enough on the faces of the men in this camp, and which does something unhelpful to your already compromised ability to think clearly in his vicinity.

He hasn’t seen you yet.

You stand there for a moment and watch him, an action you allow yourself only because no one is watching, and see him turning a page, and smiling at it. Stepping out of the sun, you finally walk over, boots crunching softly on the ground, a sound that catches his attention when you approach close enough.

Bucky looks up, blue eyes blinking at the sudden shift in light as you step into his shade. The easy smile blooms across his face immediately, cutting through his fatigue. “Look what the breeze blew in.” He shifts slightly, kicking a stray canteen out of the way. “Looking for a spot that isn’t boiling?”

“Yes, but apparently here isn’t it,” you admit with a smile, but you’re already folding your skirt beneath you as you sink down onto the grass beside him. The bark of the tree is rough against your shoulder, but not enough that it becomes uncomfortable. “Who’s the letter to?”

His eyes look down at the page, pencil tracing the edge of the crate. “My ma,” he says softly. “Gotta let her know I’m still eating, still keepin’ my socks dry. The usual lies.” And he smiles when he says it, warm, tinged with a fond sort of longing you recognize easily, then tilts the paper toward you. “Listen to this. ‘Tell Becca that if I find out she touched my book collection while I’m gone, I’m gonna make sure she doesn’t get a dime of my back pay. Especially the copy of The Hobbit. It cost me almost three bucks, plus shipping. If she ruins the spine on that one we’re no longer related.”

You blink, a soft laugh catching in your throat as you look from the paper up to his face. “You have an edition of The Hobbit?” you ask, eyebrows raised in amused disbelief. “Sergeant Barnes… I never expected you to enjoy dwarves and dragons.”

Bucky’s cheeks flush an endearing pink beneath his tan, and he looks away, suddenly very interested in a bush a few feet away. “It’s a good book,” he mutters, though a sheepish grin breaks through his defense. “Cost me some good money. And Becca’s careless, she uses old sandwich wrappers as bookmarks. Can you believe that?”

Finding out that the camp’s resident heartthrob, the man who can apparently charm the stripes off a tiger, is fiercely protective of a fantasy novel is almost too much. Too sweet, too close to tapping into feelings you can’t afford to tap into in a warcamp. Hearing him talk about his family, about ordinary squabbles over books, made the distance between this camp and reality feel a little less vast. Brooklyn isn’t just a place he mentions to be charming; it’s real, waiting for him, and he carries it with him in the neat rows of his handwriting.

Bucky is mid-sentence, gesturing with his pencil as he explains how his sister had once accidentally dropped one of his books in the bath, and how he doesn’t really believe it was an accident to this day, when an overwhelming urge hits you.  

Not quite your usual calculated decisions. It doesn’t come with the usual warnings or your frantic inner monologues reminding you of the war or the dangers of getting attached to a soldier who might not make it to autumn. It is simply an urge that settles in your bones and seeps into your bloodstream, immediately tainting your thoughts: you want to kiss him.

So you lean over and do it.

Bucky goes still. For a fraction of a second, he is genuinely surprised, a rare crack in his usual demeanor, and you find, with a small thrill in your veins, that you like catching him off guard like this.

It’s not a long kiss. Just a press of your mouth against his, warm, over almost before it’s begun, but still giving him enough time to melt the shock and kiss you back, hand dropping the pencil onto the crate and then coming up to brush his knuckles against your jawline and then moving to the back of your neck, head tilting to drink you in.

When you pull back and smooth down your skirt, you look at him, expression perfectly calm as if you didn’t just set his quiet afternoon upside down. He’s looking at you, eyes slightly blown out, cheeks flustered, lips still parted as if waiting for you to chase him again. His tongue licks over his bottom lip in a nervous tick.

“What was that for?” he asks, and you learn that you also like the way his voice sounds slightly different than usual.

“I simply felt like it,” you say.

A beat of silence.

“You simply felt like it,” he repeats.

Another beat, and  Bucky just stares at you as if you just hung the entire sky for him right here in the middle of a blazing August afternoon, completely awestruck by the sudden grace of you. Like maybe you are the most remarkable thing he has encountered in his considerable experience of the world.

You look away before he can see that you are smiling, focusing on the dry grass between your boots.

“‘s warm out today,” you say to the middle distance.

“… It is,” Bucky agrees, and you can hear it in his voice, that his mind is miles away from weather talk. “Real warm.”

The two of you side under the tree for a while longer. He picks up the letter again, reads you one more passage that makes you laugh, and he tries to memorize that sound simply by being right next to you.

It’s late by the time you get back to the sleeping tent that night, later than usual, the camp having already settled into its quiet nighttime sounds by the time you have finished your last round and washed your hands. The heat of the afternoon stayed in the canvas of the tent long after the sun went down, making the night air thick and sluggish. Some nurses were already snorting softly, faces pale in the amber wash of the kerosene lamp hanging from the center pole.

You sit on the edge of your cot after changing clothes, fabric of your nightgown sticking slightly to the small of your back, slowly unpin your hair, and you are almost convinced you have made it through your arrival without incident when Beth’s voice comes from the cot across from you. She’s lying on her side, head propped up on her hand, looking at you with an expression that is considerably more cheerful than her usual careful neutrality whenever she tries to pry. Like she has been waiting all day to have this conversation and has been enjoying the anticipation.

“Something’s different,” she says directly, voice dropping to a late-night murmur.

You don’t look up from your lap, keeping your fingers busy playing with the wrinkles in your skirt before folding it over the foot of the cot. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“You’re almost in a good mood,” she replies with a stubborn smile tucking into the corner of her mouth. “Have been since about four o’clock this afternoon when you came back with dirt stains on the hem of your skirt.”

Your fingers still against the cotton fabric. You had cleaned those stains off with a damp rag the second you got back to the washbasin, or at least you thought you had. Leave it to Beth to notice the state of your skirt’s hem and associate it with anything else happening in your life.

“I’m frequently in a perfectly adequate mood, Beth,” you deflect, voice thoroughly rehearsed. “And the shade by the supply tents is entirely dirt. I remember I tripped near the ditch.”

"Uh-huh, tripped," Beth lets out a dry chuckle that she quickly smothers with her hand so as to not wake the nurses next to you. Shifts closer to the edge of her mattress, eyes open wide. “Nothing to do with a certain Sergeant who's been finding increasingly creative reasons to be wherever you happen to be?”

The memory of Bucky’s face, flustered, lips parted, tongue darting out nervously after you had pulled away, flashes behind your eyelids vividly. You say nothing, which is obviously not enough of an answer for Beth.

“Has something changed?” She asks, and her voice has shifted slightly, less teasing, more genuine. Are you alright? Is this good?

Your eyes find Beth’s and you simply look at her for a moment, at the fond expression of a woman who has watched you maintain your walls for months now and is watching in real time as they begin to crumble.

“We kissed,” you whisper.

The confession slips past your lips before your mind can construct its usual barricades, words dropping into the heavy silence like pebbles into a pond. Maybe the August heat has left you too tired to fight it. Beth freezes, head tilting slightly as if she isn’t entirely sure she heard you correctly. Teasing grin vanishes, replaced by a look of sheer shock.

“You what?” her voice cracks slightly before she catches herself and lowers it to a frantic whisper. “When? Today?”

“Today,” you admit, cheeks flaring with sudden heat that you’re grateful is mostly hidden by the low light in the ten. “And last week.”

Beth stares at you, jaw slightly slack. As a woman who prides herself on always having an observation prepared, she is remarkably empty-handed. “Twice,” she repeats slowly. “And you sat there with your little hair pins and wrinkly skirt, telling me you tripped in a ditch.”

“It was an impulse,” you defend quickly, voice hushed but fierce. “Today, at least. He was reading me a letter he’s writing to his mother, complaining about his sister ruining the spines of his books. He has a copy of The Hobbit, Beth. Paid three dollars for it.”

Beth blinks, smile faltering into an expression of profound confusion. “He… what does a fantasy book have to do with you kissing him under a tree?”

That gives you pause. “…Nothing.” Though you know it has everything to do with it. The absolute lack of war in that moment, the jarring reminder that Bucky Barnes exists outside of field dressings and casualty counts. “It was just… sweet. He was flustered. He’s… cute, when he’s flustered,” you add, admission slipping out quietly.

Beth’s confusion dissolves almost instantly, morphing into a look of of pure warmth. The gossipy edge she usually keeps in this camp completely melts away.

“I’m really happy for you,” she says softly, voice carrying a weight that makes your throat tighten.

Your fingers tangle awkwardly in the cotton of your nightgown, a blush spreading across your cheeks and down your neck, hot enough to rival the midday sun. Looking down at your knees, you are suddenly unable to meet her eyes, utterly flustered by how easily she has seen through you, and how thoroughly Bucky Barnes has managed to scramble your senses.

But beneath the burning heat in your cheeks, and despite the frantic inner voice telling you to pull the walls back up, there is a strange lightness in your chest. You could try to press it down, assume your usual rigid posture, but your shoulders are loose. Beth is right. You are happy, happier than usual. It’s a terrifying thing to recognize in a place like this, but as you sit on the edge of your cot, you can’t deny it.

“So, I suppose all that shameless chasing he did was worth it after all,” Beth purrs, continuing with a wicked spark returning to her tone. “Sergeant Barnes was practically setting up permanent residence in the infirmary just to get you to look at him.”

“He did not chase me,” you huff, trying for a stern tone but failing miserably. Finally, you decide to lay down, and you pull the thin sheet up over your legs, tucking yourself into the cot as if that was enough to shield you from Beth’s knowing look. “And I told you, I’m still not looking for anything in this camp. Men still leave, Beth. Trucks still roll out at dawn and we’ll be back to cleaning wounds.”

“Of course you’re not,” Beth says, with the serenity of someone who is deciding to let you have this particular story you have told yourself as long as you need it.

“I’m not,” you repeat, a little weaker, words as fragile as they have ever been. You know it’s a lie. Beth knows it’s a lie. Territory has been surrendered, ice has broken, and no amount of distance is going to erase the memory of his hand resting against the back of your neck, or the way his lips tasted when he kissed you, or when you kissed him.

“Whatever you say,” she murmurs into the dark, voice thick with an unbearable amount of satisfaction. “But you know… if you ever did want something. You know you can always talk to me, right? For… whatever. Advice. Friendly word. Whatever you need. We’re friends.”

You turn onto your side, facing away from her, and stare at the silver sliver of moonlight on the dirt floor. A hand drifts upward, fingertips lightly brushing against your lips, where the faint, warm taste of him still lingers. Then you close your eyes, heavy thrum of the camp fading into the background, and in the quiet safety of the dark, you let yourself smile.

Next morning, you are heading back from the supply depot, a heavy stack of freshly laundered bed linens balanced against your chest, with fabric smelling faintly of harsh lye and sun-baked canvas, while your mind is wandering some place else, thinking about Beth’s words last night, and the warmth of Bucky near you. You’ve found your mind often drags itself there, these days. While taking the long way around the motor pool, moving quickly to escape the mosquitoes buzzing near the water barrels, you end up hearing voices.

It isn’t an intentional thing. In a camp this crowded, privacy is a myth constructed out of thin cloth, and the rumble of soldiers unwinding is simply the background noise of your life. But as you round the corner of a parked deuce-and-a-half truck, a familiar cadence catches your ear, anchoring your boots to the floor. You don’t mean to stay and overhear, really, you don’t, but you do it anyway.

A cluster of men from the 107th are loitering in the shadow of an armored car, their silhouettes dark against the blue sky. A few of them are smoking, orange-red tips of their cigarettes pulsing. In the center of them, leaning back against the metal bumper with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, is Bucky.

“Come on, Barnes,” a voice jeers, and though you can’t quite see him from your spot, it sounds like Gabe Jones, thick with a camaraderie-laden grit. “You’re slipping pal. We saw you sweatin’ through your shirt under the elm yesterday like a schoolboy.”

A chorus of rough chuckles goes up from the group.

“I was writing my mother,” Bucky’s voice floats back, perfectly smooth. “A man can’t show his Ma some respect without his squad acting like a bunch of hens?”

“You weren’t looking at no letter when the nurse walked by,” another voice, higher and sharper, chimes in. “You always act different with her, Sarge, like you’re trying to remember your manners or something.”

Without meaning to, you settle against the back of the truck, bend a little, trying to prolong how much longer you can hear this conversation without being caught. The stack of linens feels very heavy, pressing against your ribs, trapping the air in your lungs. Or maybe it’s something else taking your breath away. You know you should keep walking. Professional distance, your own sanity, everything is demanding that you step out of earshot. But your feet refuse the order.

“She’s a lady,” Bucky replies, his tone light, deflecting the jab with practiced ease. “Unlike the lot of you, I gotta remind myself what civilized people act like so I don’t turn into a grease-monkey like Dugan.”

“Don’t give us that,” Jones pushes again, tone shifting from teasing to blunt, honest curiosity. “Every time we see you with her, you look like a dog waiting for its owner to give him an order. What’s the story?”

You find yourself holding your breath, rough cotton of the sheets scraping against your chin. You expect another joke. A smooth line that would minimize yesterday’s afternoon under the tree, something to keep his reputation intact among the men who look up to him. You brace yourself for it.

But it never comes.

“I don’t know,” Bucky says, rough edge of a genuine admission in his words. “She doesn’t give an inch. Looks right through the mouth on me. But… there’s something. About her. I think… I think the might be the o—"

With a sudden, violent jolt of panic, you force your boots to move, spinning on your heel and walking away into the afternoon shadows before the next word can leave his mouth. You move quickly, your stride frantic, stack of linens trembling slightly in your grip as you practically flee toward the safety of the hospital tents.

Not because you don’t want to hear it. God help you, it’s because you do. Because you can feel the shape of that unfinished sentence like a hand pressed flat against your sternum and you know that hearing the rest of it would do something to you that couldn’t be undone. Whatever he had been about to put at the end of that sentence, whether it was one, or only, or something else entirely, it would permanently dismantle the fragile fiction you built up to survive this war. That you weren’t looking for anything, still aren’t, and that this thing between you and Bucky is something you can keep perfectly bottled up, buried, controlled.

And you’re not ready for what comes after that. With admitting that wanting Bucky Barnes means admitting you could lose him.

Then the opportunity to continue exploring those feelings that have begun settle arrives on that same week, three days later, on a night carried on by a merciful breeze that breaks the stagnant heat of the afternoon.

You and Bucky find each other not by arrangement, but more by gravitational pull, one that causes you two to end up in the same place way past eleven, when the camp has died down and most people are asleep or awake but quiet in their cots. You are sitting behind the supply tents in the dark, staring up at the stars in the dark sky, back against the wooden slats, when you hear his boots on the dry ground. Bucky drops down beside you without needing an invitation.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he says, by way of explanation.

“Me neither.”

This wedge-shaped pocket of darkness behind the auxiliary supply tents is a spot you found because you weren’t quite ready to head to bed yet and decided that maybe the night air would be good to let you reflect on the last few weeks. A spot completely shielded from the main thoroughfare by a stack of empty wooden crates and a row of inactive water trailers. It is out of the way, and for the first time in weeks, it feels entirely private. Even when Bucky sits there and occupies that spot with you.

The two of you sit together for a while in the comfortable night, talking about small things, nothing consequential. Bucky tells you a ridiculous story about how Steve once tried to fix a bicycle in Brooklyn with nothing but a rusty wrench and ended up with grease behind his ears for a whole week. You tell him about a soldier today who had a clearly broken finger, but still refused to let you set it, until you asked him to try to button his own shirt and he couldn’t. That makes Bucky laugh, and the sound of it settles somewhere in your chest, something slotting into a place it was made for. The unfinished sentence you didn’t allow yourself to hear lingers in the back of your mind, still, but you ignore it.

Then Bucky goes quiet mid-laugh, his eyes catching the silver gleam of the moon reflecting in yours. You wonder, when you look at him and find him already staring at you, if he knows that you know something. If he knows, or suspects, that you heard something that hadn’t been meant for your ears. If he does, he doesn’t say it. Instead, he simply reaches out, large hand coming up to cup the side of your face, thumb smoothing over the apple of your cheek with a tenderness that makes your chest ache.

When he leans in, you don’t brace yourself. Don’t count the seconds, or think about the war. You just meet him halfway.

Bucky lets out a soft breath against your mouth, fingers curling into the hair at the nape of your neck, tilting your head just enough. The kiss deepens naturally, the way a kiss does when neither person is busy pulling back. His other hand finds your waist, and you let it, because you have come to find that you trust him with this part of you, a part no one has reached before.

You feel him shift slightly, turning more toward you, and you turn toward him too, leaning into the heavy heat of his mouth against yours, allowing your body to melt into the cool night air and the sharp scent of his minty soap. Whatever is happening, you are following his lead. His hand on your waist curls softly, tightening his hold on you, and you whine softly into the kiss, the sound immediately drowned by his mouth. But he hears it.

Goodness, he hears it.

His lips pull away from yours, and instead he tilts your head and brings his mouth down to your neck, tracing a burning line down the column of it, tasting your skin as he kisses it softly. On your waist, you feel the fingers moving, hand slowly traveling downward, hesitant in a way that Bucky rarely is, very aware of what he is doing and very uncertain how you will receive it. The action slows down, the air warms. His knuckles brush the hem of your skirt, and then, so slow you begin to question if time has transformed itself, they disappear under it, touching your knee, then moving just a bit up to your leg. Something in you clenches at the sudden, barely obscene touch. You don’t recognize the sensation at all; an entirely foreign language your body has suddenly started speaking without your permission. A tight heat blooms right through your middle, sinking low in your stomach and burning with a strange intensity that makes you want to curl inward. It feels like it hurts. Not the sharp sting of an injury, but an ache-like pressure that takes your breath away and makes your pulse hammer.

Feeling completely unmoored, you pull back slightly.

Not away. Just enough to create a small space, enough to see his face in the dark. Bucky goes still immediately, hand stopping where it is, eyes finding yours with an expression that is already apologetic, already prepared to retreat entirely without being asked.

“Bucky,” you whisper, and then stop, because the words that come next require a particular kind of honesty that you are still assembling. “I don’t… I don’t quite know what I’m doing. I’ve never… there hasn’t been anyone else. Not… not like this.”

Bucky doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t make any kind of easy remark to smooth over the moment, and doesn’t make it feel strange or foolish. Instead, he moves his hand up from your thigh, a loss you mourn immediately, and he settles it on your jaw, fingers tucking under your chin. Very gently, he moves your face until your eyes have no choice but to meet his.

“Okay,” he says. Simply. Like it's the easiest thing in the world.

His expression makes your throat squeeze, and you insist. “I’m not—”

“Thank you for tellin’ me, but you don’t have to explain anything,” he continues. “There’s nothing for me to know. You don’t have to be anything different than you are right now. You can just be here with me. I like you just like this.”

You let out a shaky breath, your forehead leaning forward to rest against his for a fraction of a second, feeling the steady thump of his heart against your chest. Bucky stays perfectly still, letting you find your bearings, hand on your cheek. When he speaks again, his voice is somehow lower, but carrying a quiet reverence that makes your skin tingle.

“Can I make you feel good? Nothing more than you want, my dove. I’ll stop the second you tell me to, I swear,” he tells you, small crease between his brows where he seems to be dedicating all his serious thought to this specific situation. Your hands settle on his chest, over his shirt. He calls you my dove. The world around is quiet for a while.

“Yes,” you say, somehow, not nervously this time. “Yes, Bucky.”

The moment you say it, tension leaves him in a quiet exhale. He doesn’t move fast. Consent isn’t treated like a green light to be rushed into; instead, he shifts his weight, large hands sliding under your arms to lift you up and guide you effortlessly onto his lap. He settles you over one of his large thighs, your skirt bunching between you and the world narrowing down to the broad expanse of his chest and the protective bracket of his arms. One of his forearms winds securely around your waist, anchoring you against him, while his other hand goes back to your hair, fingers tangling gently in the strands to tilt your face back up to his.

When his mouth meets yours again, the kiss is different. Slower, with a new kind of sweetness, his lips parting yours with a patient pressure that seems designed to soothe the agitated beating of your heart. And then it starts. The hand on your waist tightens its grip, fingers pressing into the fabric of your dress, and then he applies just enough force to prompt you, coaxing your hips forward until you are shifting over the heavy muscle of his thigh.

The rough fabric of his trousers presses right against your center, separated only by the fragile barrier of your underwear. As he guides your body to rock against him, the blunt counter-pressure rubs directly against the tight ache between your legs.

A sharp gasp is wrung from your throat, fingers instantly clutching at the fabric of his shirt, bunching the olive-drab cotton into tight fists. The sensation is blinding, the same peculiar heat you hadn’t recognized before flares up instantly, but this time, under the steady pressure of the movement he is helping you make, it breaks into a rolling wave that ripples all the way up to your chest. Your hips twitch against him instinctively, chasing the friction even as the sheer intensity of it frightens you. You slide forward again, entirely driven by his guiding hand, and another gasp slips past you, this time a little louder, something that is definitely closer to a moan, though you have never heard your mouth produce such sound before.

“Bucky—” you choke out against his lips, voice laced with overwhelming sensation. You feel entirely too exposed, even though you are fully dressed, body coming undone in ways you can’t exactly control or predict, the rigid composure you had maintained for months liquefying under the steady heat of his body.

“Shhh, we’ve gotta be quiet, dove,” Bucky murmurs against your lips, his voice strained, too. He keeps his thigh perfectly unyielding beneath you, all solid muscle underneath, and his hand on your waist remains firm, prompting another slow slide that makes your toes curl inside your boots. “Feels good like that?” His eyes track your reaction, and when you let out another desperate whimper in response, he just holds you closer. “Yeah, okay.” And then, before any other noise slips past your lips, his palm presses flat over your mouth to smother the noise.

Your muffled gasp vibrates directly against his skin. Completely at his mercy now, riding his heavy muscle in the dark as the fabric of his trousers relentlessly catches the agonizingly sweet focal point between your thighs, you cry out from pleasure but his palm catches the sound, locking it away between the two of you. “I’ve got you,” he murmurs, just with enough volume that you can hear it. “Keep your eyes on me. Trust me.”

His blue eyes are blown wide as they watch you, memorizing the way your eyebrows knit together in desperation, pleasure, your body hyper-sensitized. Your body moves with his help, chasing pleasure in a rhythm you don’t understand, driven solely by the heat pooling in your lower belly.

Whatever innocence you maintained by keeping your clothes on did nothing to dampen the intimacy of this moment. If anything it made every press of his hard muscle against your aching core feel magnified.

Your fingers curl harder around his shirt, and he smiles, a sight so devastating that it makes your stomach flip. Your hips roll forward again, a clumsy mimicry of the movement, driven by the need to ease the throbbing pressure. Bucky leans up, press his lips against your forehead, faintest stubble scraping pleasantly against your skin. “Just lean into it. Let me do the work.”

His own composure starts to fracture at the sight of you coming undone on his leg. Slowly, he uncurls his palm from your lips, but before you can let out the sob building in your chest, he slides two fingers directly into your mouth.

The intrusion is surprisingly gentle. His knuckles brush against your lips, fingers settling over your tongue and instantly providing a new anchor for your senses.

“Y’can bite down if it’s too much,” he whispers, thumb stroking the side of your flushed jaw.

Your mouth closes around his fingers then, teeth catching the blunt pads of them as another wave of blinding friction hits you from below. You can’t think anymore; can’t calculate the risks of the camp, proximity to the tents, or any other negative thought you have ever had since coming here. All you can do is suck clumsily on his fingers, tongue swirling around them in a helpless motion that only barely matches the desperate rolling of your hips against his thigh. You, entirely inexperienced you, completely oblivious to the way your own biology is surrendering, begin to drool around his fingers as the heat inside your stomach tightens into a sharp ache. Slick, warm moisture slips down the corner of your mouth, wetting his hand.

A jagged breath hitches in Bucky’s throat as your lips tighten around his fingers. For a man with his level of experience, the clumsy heat of your mouth is unexpected, an instinctual reaction from someone who has never been taught how to undo a man, yet is managing to completely shatter his defenses anyway. He hadn’t anticipated the way your innocence makes the unpracticed drag of your tongue feel ten times more devastating than any calculated move.

“Look at you,” he rasps, eyes darkening as he watches you drink him in. “Don’t know what you are doin’? My favorite nurse is a natural.”

Beneath you, Bucky shifts his weight with a short jerk of his hips, jaw clenching as he forces himself to adjust his position. He is getting aggressively, uncomfortably hard against the fabric of his trousers, the movement of your body threatening to rip his ironclad control from his grip. He realigns himself, but deliberately tilts his pelvis back just a fraction, ensuring that the rigid length of him doesn’t demand a single thing from you. His fingers twitch inside your mouth as his hand on your waist presses you down harder, driving you firmly against his leg to meet the crest of the wave.

And then, with a sharp intake of air, the knot snaps. Blinding, golden burst of heat ripples out from your center, a shiver being sent straight up your spine. Bucky recognizes it when your head falls back against his arm, and your mouth tightens around his fingers, eyelids fluttering shut as your body pulses helplessly. “That’s it, dove, let go for me… you’re okay.” The throbbing ache dissolves into a melting sweetness as you ride out the waves against his leg. Muscles clamp down around nothing, a flutter that burns and rips through you, radiating outward from your core until a soft paralysis seems to leave your limbs locked into place only to turn them into liquid right after.

You sit there on his lap for a long time afterward, Bucky keeping up a micro-movement, a soothing rub against your sensitive center to help you ride out the peak of your release until the tremors finally begin to fade. Completely spent, you collapse forward and bury your burning face into the crook of his neck, chest heaving as you try to catch your breath. Night is still warm, the camp still at war, but as you close your eyes and feel the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm, whatever is waiting for you across the Atlantic and whatever is happening in Europe just a few kilometers from where you are matter very little, compared to the universe Bucky has just given you room to breathe in.

“No one can know,” you whisper weakly against his skin, but Bucky is chuckling and wrapping his strong arms around your back, pulling you flush against his chest.

“But I’d love to let every muttonhead in this camp that you’re mine.”

You lift your head from his neck just enough to look at him, and he has the expression of a man who is very pleased with himself, so you just make a face. “That’s a terrible idea.”

“I’ve had worse, haven’t I?”

You scoff. “Sure. Inventing a splinter.”

“And it worked,” he points out. “Besides, I didn’t say I was going to announce it at roll call. I’m just saying I’d like to let everyone know that the prettiest nurse in camp is mine, now.”

Your teeth dig into your bottom lip, dragging it inside your mouth before you lean forward and kiss him, long enough to feel him chuckle into the kiss and the pads of his fingers digging briefly into the muscles of your back, before you pull back. His arms tighten around you slightly then.

“No one can know,” you repeat, but it comes out even less stern than the first time.

“Whatever you say, dove,” Bucky murmurs, and you can hear the smile in it before you see it, warm and unrepentant.

You stay exactly where you are, with his heartbeat under your palm and the quiet in the night camp. Things keep moving between the two of you, tectonic plates shifting and finding new positions until the earthquake comes, except every time it feels significantly less terrifying.

“Bucky,” you say very quietly, leaning against his shoulder again.

“Mm.”

“Don’t make me regret this.”

Warm lips press into your hair, and you feel him inhale slowly. “Will try my best, darlin’. I don’t wanna lose the best damn thing I’ve got now.”

Neither of you say anything else, and you just let the night hold you both.

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