mixx

Well, apparently, he could see the future too.

You stood under the broken, clearly not maintained, shed of a bus stand. Driblets of rainwater hit your skin every now and then, with a force so uncomfortable you almost thought they were revenging Bucky. You tilted your head up to glare at them, but it was only responded with a heavy drop sliding down your nose.

Your weight shifted. Right foot. Left root. Then, a slow bounce on your heels.

Should you call Bucky? Ask him to pick you up?

No. He'd lecture you into oblivion. Steve really influenced Bucky the wrong way.

But...it was freezing. And you'd very confidently dressed yourself in a summer dress because Mr. Watson said it was a great, sunny day today. Fuck Mr. Watson.

"So—"

"Shut it", you muttered back with the tiniest frown between your brows, hastily settling yourself in the passenger seat. His eyes trailed down to the wet mess you'd already made in the car—mud staining and water dripping.

He started with a sigh, forcing his gaze back on the road. "Car service—"

"Comes out of my pocket. I know. Just drive, will you?"

The drive felt agonizingly long. Despite the heater Bucky had quietly switched on, your teeth clicked together, your body curling into itself to preserve heat. Bucky's warm hand found your thigh, rubbing the soft skin gently, hoping some friction would ease you till you reached.

When you did, Bucky gathered your soaked belongings, uncaring of ruining his own shirt, as he let you dash inside the apartment first.

He tried to hold back. Really. But he couldn't help it and—

"The fuck you laughing for?", your head sprang up from where you'd been crouching, looking for the hairdryer that had conveniently disappeared the moment you needed it.

He crossed the room, firm hands finding your shoulders and forcing you up. He caught the buttons of your soaked cardigan next, his fingers careful with the damp fabric.

"You look like am adorable, wet raccoon."

"Hey—"

"Shh", his mouth twitched up in the faintest curl, a warm hand sliding up to your jaw, guiding it to his lips for a quick, sweet peck.

A shiver climbed its way up your spine before you could stop it.

"Arms."

You obeyed without protest.

Your undershirt peeled away with a squelching, heavy sound, colder than you'd realized, now that it wasn't clinging to your skin anymore.

"I'll find it. You go and take a hot shower first."

He disappeared down the hallway while you busied yourself in the bathroom.

You heard drawers opening. A closet door sliding. The washing machine lid lifting.

By the time you stepped out bundled in a towel, he was already there—hip leant against the wall, one arm holding the hairdryer while the other balanced a hoodie that looked suspiciously his.

"Sit."

Not harsh. Just firm. Practiced.

"Why must you order me ar—"

"Sit."

Sit you did. His hands, rough but careful, untangled the strands damp with fresh warm water from the shower. The steady whir of the hairdryer drowned out almost everything else.

Bucky had assumed this was going to be easy. Point the device. Dry. Then, done!

Instead, he found himself adjusting the heat every few minutes, making sure it wasn't too warm against your scalp.

Air accidentally blown on your face? He was hissing like it burned him.

Plastic bumped your forehead? His face was scrunching up.

"Don't move!"

"I literally have been still for the last five minutes."

"No? You wiggled like four times."

"It's called adjusting."

Eventually, you went quiet. Relaxed enough that your shoulders had finally stopped hunching against the cold. You smiled like a content cat, eyes half-closed, your head chasing his palm whenever he smoothed down the hair fluttering wildly.

The hairdryer now lay uselessly on the fluffy mattress beside you. Bucky held up the hoodie, chin jerking in a wordless ask.

You raised your arms once again, giving him a shameless grin: help me. He unfastened the towel's knot swiftly with a disbelieving huff, helping the soft, cozy fabric over your head.

His gaze lingered.

Not on your body. He'd admired that a thousand evenings already.

There was no urgency in his eyes. Just quiet affection as he watched you thrash your head when the collar hooked onto your nose, and click your tongue when your arm struggled to find one sleeve.

There you were.

Safe.

Warm.

His.

"Want some tea?"

You nodded enthusiastically, already hopping up to find yourself some socks before you cozied up. This was perfect. A mellow stay-in with your boyfriend and the herbal tea that tasted good only when he made it.

He chuckled—low and undeniably fond. He gave you a loud smooch on the forehead, grinning as your twisted your face at the dramatic exaggeration.

At some point, you both drifted to the window. His arms were locked around your frame, cocooned beneath a blanket that smelled like fresh laundry. The storm carried outside, rain lashing against the glass so hard it blurred the streetlights into hazy golden smudges.

The rise and fall of his chest was rhythmic combined with the gentle patter of rain, comforting enough that your lashes had started to flutter. Your head somehow ended up on his shoulder later, nose buried in the crook of his neck, seeking the familiar scent despite your unconsciousness.

He smiled tenderly—lovingly—before drifting off with you.

He was never painfully slow. His pace was fast enough for your drooling pussy, thrusts delivered firmly to attack that soft, erogenous spot inside.

He'd come only after he was pleased with your releases, smirking silently when your overstimulated body trembled underneath him. When your thighs shook against his hips, and he unhurriedly buried his cum deep in you.

His nimble fingers would always find your puffy slit even after pulling out, making sure no drop slipped out while you cuddled post-sex.

You loved it.

The care.

The douceur.

Him.

Perhaps, it was time you made him feel just as worshipped.

"God, I missed you", he whispered against your neck, his hands finding your hips, pulling you closer like he could no longer handle any distance between you two. Your lips curled, head tilting to give him better access to the smooth skin, letting him plant kisses at the delicate slope.

"You were out for an hour."

"Mm, too much", he shot you a playful grin, turning you just enough to face you properly now. You looked gorgeous. Hair tied back to cook in peace. Skin glowing with whatever expensive moisturizer you used. 

His eyes gave you that look—requesting, looking for any hint of reciprocated desire. You only responded with a smile, hands sliding up his chest as you closed the distance. The muscles felt taut and warm beneath the sweat-stained shirt, your fingers curling around the fabric to pull him further.

Grabbing your waist, essentially hoisting you, he deepened the kiss. His tongue sought yours, beard scratching the skin around almost pleasantly. The raw food lay forgotten in the back.

Without breaking apart, he gently guided you around, finding a blind way to the bedroom. His arms tightened their grip as he finally stepped you both inside, his foot kicking the door shut behind.

But before he could try to lay you comfortably on the fluffy mattress and ravish you like he intended, you pulled back. He made an almost inaudible noise, chasing your mouth instinctively.

Your palm pressed itself against his midriff and he immediately quietened. His voice faltered mid-sentence, every muscle seeming to freeze as though someone had pressed pause. His brows knit together, his expression tightening and  eyes flicking downward to check you with panic.

"What's wrong, doll? Do you not—"

"I just..."

You sighed. Your cheeks tingled with the blood rushing there with embarrassing speed. So, instead of voicing your request, you pushed the hem of his shirt.

The moment he yanked the fabric off, you pressed a deep kiss at his chest. Satisfied with the hitch in his throat, you slowly descended, your lips trailing wet kisses in their wake. You ever so often licked away at his skin, your body tingling at the feel of his abs tense against your tongue.

Trusting your boyfriend's brain to understand your wordless want, you sank. Your knees hit the plush carpet with a thump, toes curling in anticipation.

Your eyes—wide with the need to study his expression and glossy with neediness—met his.

His breath stopped. His soul left his body. God knows what all happened to the poor man in a split of a second.

One moment he was simply hard. The next, he was about to come in his pants like a teenager at the very sight of you kneeling before him.

"Doll, you don't have to—"

You cut him off firmly, a hand gliding up to his thigh, "I want to, Sarge."

Your mouth hovered over the zip of his pants, lips tentatively—teasingly—brushing the hardness straining under. His head tipped back, chest heaving with uneven inhales.

Your nails dragged a slow path past his abdomen, nearing his belt but never hooking. His hips bucked over, chasing friction.

With a deliberate bat of your eyelashes, you finally unbuckled the leather from its loop, discarding it mindlessly on the floor. You unzipped the jean, the fabric sitting a little looser on his hips now.

Your teeth sunk into the waistband, dragging the easy fabric down. Eye level with his erection, it was your turn to swallow hard.

Months of dating Bucky and yet, you could never get used to the size.

Reverently, you removed the boxers along, gasping quietly at the sight. His cock sprang out, hard, throbbing, and very angry at the tip—leaking precum.

"It'll be okay."

You nod at the reassurance, leaning forward to pepper light kisses over the length. He hissed loudly, his right hand threading itself through your hair. His grip tightened with every teasing lick and swirl.

Having enough, he wrapped his metal fingers around the thick shaft, guiding it to your inviting plump lips. The salty taste greeted you first as you worked your jaw open, the stretch almost overworking.

The second your wet warmth enveloped him, he let out a groan, his head falling backward. He tried—he really did. But his hips moved out of his control, thrusting into the tight expanse mindlessly.

"Oh fuck. So—So tight. My perfect girl."

His cock sat heavy on your tongue, pushing its way to your throat despite your obscene gags. You slurped and choked around him, the vibrations of your pretty sounds only spurring him further.

He couldn't hold back.

"Just like that, doll."

Both palms—large and tepid over your head—held it in place as he sped up. With every stuttering thrust, his heavy balls slapped against your chin, saliva pooling there alongside his own precum.

He dared make the mistake of fluttering his eyes open to look at you. Because fuck—

You were brimming with tears at the strain, lashes damp as they blinked at him. Your cheeks, flushed with a beautiful shade of rose, were hollowed, struggling to take all of him in.

"Oh baby, those eyes—shit—gonna be the death of me."

His flesh hand left your hair, dropping as he instead flexed his fingers. Your gaze caught the movement, your own hand moving over to hold his. Such a sap.

You would smile if you could.

His cock had started pulsing at the back of your mouth now. Insistent. Signaling.

With a broken moan, he abruptly pulled out. Fisting himself, he finally let go. Hot liquid spurted over your face, sticky globs painting your cheeks. Your lips. Your forehead.

Your tongue darted out to lick some off the corner of your mouth, watery eyes glancing at him.

"Shh doll, you okay?", he murmured into your ear, strong, steady arms easily carrying you to the bathroom.

You made a tiny noise of discomfort, jaw evidently sore. He gave you a small pat on the head, gingerly settling you on the marble counter.

"Let's clean you up, yeah?"

He reached for the washcloth hanging neatly beside the sink, the faucet hissing softly as warm water rushed into the basin.

He worked slowly.

One careful swipe beneath your chin.

Another across your cheek.

Every few moments he'd pull back to inspect your skin with heightened concentration, scared of bruising your skin with the water temperature.

His thumb brushed your chin lightly, turning your face just enough to catch a stubborn little smear near your jaw.

"There."

He smiled faintly.

"Much better."

You tilted your head to look in the mirror. Still disheveled. Still messy.

But....taken care of.

"I love you."

Your eyes flew back to his. The startled sound that escaped you wavered, slowly dissolving into an airy, weak laugh.

"Love you more, Buck."

You sighed at that, your eyes rolling dramatically. Swirling the drink in your hand, you poured the expensive wine right into the glasses—those smuggled under the billionaire's nose too.

"So? He told me it's imported from Bordeaux, or whatever. Try it!"

His mouth parted, ready to deliver your name in that familiar, disapproving tone.

You beat him to it.

The cool rim of the glass was pressed unceremoniously to his lips, forcing him to chug the alcohol. His eyebrows furrowed as he drank the bitter liquid, face scrunching as he shot you a glare.

"I know you can't get drunk. But at least...pretend."

"How did you even get your hands on this?", he wiped away the spilled driblets from his chin with the back of his hand. And God, if you weren't so focused on the stealth operation, you would've jumped the man and just licked—

"Baby?"

"Huh—yeah—um, Nat helped me."

At that, Steve raised a brow. Natasha volunteering her help out of pure generosity? He'd believe that right after Tony admitted he was wrong. He knew her enough. Nothing was ever free.

"..."

"..."

"...In exchange of those black stilettos for a month."

"Hey—I gifted you those!"

You winced at that, shifting back on your haunches to try come up with some dumb consolation like 'Sharing is caring!'

But you never got the chance.

A huge shadow towered over you, stopping you from digging a deeper hole for yourself with petty excuses. And your brain skipped directly to the worst possible conclusion.

Tony.

Your soul left your body. He must've noticed the empty space in his not-so-mini bar. He must've connected the dots.

Slowly, you lifted your head.

"Have you happened to see my poptarts, little one?"

Oh.

"Thor, what the fuck?!", you whisper-shouted, scowling up at the God like it wasn't your fault for getting caught. 'Foul-proof plan', you'd assured Steve earlier.

His face fell at your expression, giving you that devastating puppy face. He nodded woefully as though he was denied participation in a mission, taking half a step back. Sometimes, you couldn't decide if it was purposefully guilt-tripping you, or just born a golden retriever.

Sighing, you caught his pant leg.

"Clint stole them earlier. I saved you some in the bottom drawer."

Thor was snowballing into conspiracy territory. Because what on Asgard?

"That eye of hawk must realize—"

"Thor, how about you deal with this later?"

Steve chimed in alongside, a crimson hue spread on his cheeks out of sheer embarrassment.

"Don't tell anyone about...this." By the time he'd finished speaking, the warmth had climbed all the way to the tips of his ears.

"You know—", you hiccupped, a wobbly finger pointed at Steve's chest—ever so prominent in that white shirt, "—why the chicken crossed the road?"

He shook his head, almost in exhaustion now. You’d made him sit here for more than an hour. His shoulders ached from being hunched over and his knees protested every time he shifted on the cold tile. And yet, he didn’t have it in him to complain. 

Because here you were. Tipsy. Ridiculous. Happy.

His. And that somehow made every inconvenience insignificant.

“Because it wanted to know how much wood would a woodchuck wood if a woodchuck chuck chuck wood?”

He plainly stared. ‘Cause like, what the fuck was that?

“Sweetheart, maybe we should—”

You clicked your tongue and gave his approaching hand a half-hearted swat.

With an exaggerated huff, you crawled the short distance toward him, closing it completely before your wine-addled brain seemed to register just how close you'd gotten.

“Fine, how about we dance instead?”

"We’re literally confined."

"I know.”

"So why—"

"Because I want to."

Whatever you thought you were singing nice, you weren’t. Your lousy efforts to stay unnoticed paired with your barely-there melody made a dangerous combination for poor Steve.

“LOVE ME, HATE ME, SAY WHAT YOU WANT ABOUT ME— “, you flailed your arms in an attempt to do that sexy ‘hands above my head’ bar dance, only to fall sideways. Balance lost, you found your head on his lap, your wide eyes dumbly blinking up at an upside-down Steve.

“Steve? What happened to you—hah, you’re in-inverted!”

You made a tiny noise as he suddenly manoeuvred you out with him, a stubborn pout making its way on your lips. instinctively, your hand wandered across the counter in search of the stolen bottle. Your lips had already parted, fully prepared to sneak another sip.

Empty air greeted your fingertips.

“Huh?”

The bottle was gone before you could catch on. Steve clicked a cabinet shut, his free hand reaching down to guide you upright.

“We’re getting you to bed. You're too drunk.”

He’d tucked you in with gentle hands, forcing you to close your eyes when you argued for ‘just one more drop’.

And now, you were peacefully asleep in his bed. Drool slipping down a corner of your mouth. Chest rising and falling rhythmically. Lashes fluttering at whatever you were dreaming of.

A laugh escaped him before he could stop it. Quiet. Almost surprised.

Threre'd been nothing grand today.

No adventure. No partying. No celebration.

Just you. Stealing. Singing bad. Dancing even worse.

He'd always assumed fun was something extraordinary.

Apparently...it could also be an adorable girlfriend tipsy and disastrous in his arms.

Until he'd gruffly murmured a "baby, 'm tired". And you respected that. Slowly retracting yourself from the man, you tried your best to ignore the warmth that had pooled in your lower stomach. Your thighs rubbed against one another needily, face buried in the pillow as you tried to think of anything to turn you off now.

But it still hurt because that 'groggy' voice was fooling no one.

Your relationship wasn't weak by any means. You loved Bucky more than anything in the whole world, and the man had expressed his love for you more than once, in more than one way.

His gentle touches. His soft gaze. His low tone with you.

Everything about him screamed a doting boyfriend.

Never obsessive. Never controlling.

But always there. Always present and caring.

Another Thursday evening where your socked feet rested on Bucky's lap, tickling him with the fuzzy fabric even through his pants. Your cheek was pressed against the cushion, face half disappearing in there as you watched Bucky with yearning eyes. A petulant pout was starting to make its way on your lips.

He was watching the random princess movie playing on the ridiculously big TV you'd insisted on buying, more invested in the fight between the two step-sisters than you were. Eventually, however, his senses did catch on.

"What's wrong doll?", he turned to look at you, that always-present softness in his eyes directed to you, and only you now.

You huffed. Will he ever just let you be upset? Your thighs slotted around his comfortably when you climbed over, your movement lazy and deliberately slow.

"Well, I just want my boyfriend", whining, your nose tucked itself in the crook of his neck, breathing in the clean scent—something masculine and uniquely Bucky.

"Baby—", he started again, firm, strong hands finding your waist, about to deposit you back on the side of the couch. But then your widened eyes shining with insecurity—real or dramatic, he couldn't tell—met his, and he instantly melted.

Pressing a lingering, chaste kiss on the top of your head, he gave you a little smile. Compensating. But not convincing.

"What's wrong?", you cupped his cheeks, fingers tense against the well-groomed stubble. "You know, if you just say it, I'll stop asking you."

A soft sigh. His gaze dropped to his own lap, his grip tightening around the faded, worn hoodie you'd put on. Sliding them down to your thighs, he drew small, anxious circles on the smooth skin—mostly to comfort himself than you.

"I just—it's not that. I always want it with you."

You almost snorted at that. Always?

"But baby, I just wasn't sure you'd like it."

You were cartwheeling and backflipping and somersaulting. Because what the fuck? Not sure? As if you hadn't been salivating like a hungry dog around him. You blinked at him in total disbelief for a whole of one minute.

Hands groping. Foreheads bumping. Noses clashing. Buttons tearing.

"Fuck—", you gasped breathlessly, face flushed crimson—lack of breath. Definitely not how hot he looked shirtless.

"You asked for it, doll. Come on, wrap your pretty legs around me", a rasp. He pressed you to himself urgently as if enough willpower of his would merge you together. The closeness just wasn't enough.

You know, if you were rich and had money, you'd literally compose a song of the things he murmured in your ear when he was on top of you, hovering with that smirk. Because—

"Shh, my sweet girl only has to wait a little more. Yeah, can you do that?"

"Mm, there you go. All settled and comfortable."

"It's okay, doll. I'll never do anything you don't want."

His arm—strikingly cold and oh so confident in how it moved—lifted your back just enough to yank the clasp of your bra. The sudden, harsh movement made your breasts bounce enticingly, and God, Bucky had to be stupid to force this out of his life for a whole month.

Your teeth sunk into the plumpness of your lip, muffling any sounds that could've escaped you. Eyes squeezed tight as you struggled to register every sensation, your head thrashed against the pillow. He descended with wet kisses all over your skin as though they were trails of passion left behind.

His warm skin glided against yours painfully slow, gaze unwaveringly locked on yours. He was not going to miss a single second of the adorable, flustered expressions on your face.

"Aww, look at you. So ready for it, aren't you?", thumbs swiping against the jut of your hipdips, his teeth grazed every spot he wanted marked—he just couldn't get enough of what he'd been so obviously missing.

When his lips finally met your weeping pussy, your back almost flew off the bed. Because shit, that man had one hell of a tongue.

It swept. It lapped. It curled.

Your thighs snapped around his head, keeping him in place despite how overwhelming he was making you feel. His groan at your action vibrated against your wet flesh, saliva and slick obscenely slurped by the seemingly starving man.

Your chest tightened with how hard you were fighting yourself to control your noises, a bead of sweat travelling down the valley of your hickey-adorned breasts.

Yes. Just a little more—

"Why'd you stop?", you mewled breathlessly, eyes snapping open to reveal how glossy and needy they'd become.

"You don't have to lie about liking it", he murmured softly, eyes reluctant to meet yours, afraid to see hidden unsatisfaction as he shifted to sit back on his haunches.

"Huh?", you gaped at him, still stupid from how close you were from absolutely drenching the sheets with your release.

"You don't like it. You don't even—", he cut himself abruptly, perhaps ashamed to continue. "You don't even let me know how you feel."

You stared at him blankly. Then, in a painfully plain tone, you deadpanned, "Bucky, wow. Bucky, it felt nice. Bucky, please get back to my pussy. Like that?"

He choked at that, coughing and spluttering.

Your thighs were uncomfortably spread wide, knees hurting despite the pillows Bucky had slid under them with that cute, quiet concern. Your body was arched awkwardly till your back thudded against his bare, sweaty chest with every thrust he pistoned. One cold, unyielding forearm hugged your throat close, the difference in temperature maddening you, paired with a deep, low voice whispering dirty praises into your ears.

With every scratch of his stubble against yours, with every tighten of fingers at your right hip, you were losing control over your mouth. Jaw hanging, drool pooling, you could barely stop your moans.

"So perfect. So beautiful. Aren't you the perfect fit around my dick?"

His pace didn't falter with time. If anything, he got faster.

"Need to hear you, baby. Come on, sweetheart, please. Please, let me hear you."

There was a desperation in the way he spoke. As if your sounds were supposed to assure him of how good he was fucking the brains out of you. Your mind went blanker—if that was possible.

"Thought you didn't like—fuck, ah—like a loud partner", you scrambled for purchase, fingers digging into the strong muscle holding you upright.

Bucky frowned at that. He'd die to hear your beautiful voice break and hitch on his cock. But no time for questions right now. He had priorities. Namely, an orgasm.

"Need you to sing for me, doll. Please."

Who were you to say no to that? You let go. Cute "uh-uh"s, and "Oh, Bucky"s, slipped. The room felt heated—combined with the noises you both were making, and the lewd slap of skin on skin. The wet squelches echoing in the sex-smelling room made your cunt gush in both embarrassment and unfiltered need. 

Your voice had acted a switch. He was more confident with his aim now. The tip kissing your cervix with an intensity he was setting precisely, with his hips. You could feel him in your stomach. Your throat. Your everywhere. And with every panted "So big!", you massaged his ego.

Massaging his dick was a job your clenching, hot insides were taking care of.

His warmer hand slid down from your hip to the mess between your legs, moving his digits with vigor. They pinched the sensitive, pulsing bud there, forcing you to chase your high alongside him.

"My pretty darling. You need to come with me, okay? Come on, do it for me, doll."

"Yes, just like that. No more holding back, baby. Make my dick wetter."

Finally crashing, he slumped on top of you, his mouth curling up involuntarily when you weakly whined at the heavy weight. Rolling over, he grabbed you to flip onto your back with him.

"Can't believe you assumed I wouldn't absolutely love to hear you lose it on my cock", he grumbled, voice unfairly deep and obviously dripping with smugness. You hummed mindlessly, still trying to reconnect with reality. Slowly, and on wobbly legs, you lowered yourself on the floor. With shaky steps, you approached the bathroom—no space for UTIs between you and Bucky.

"Whole relationship, thought I wasn't satisfying you enough."

You shot him a look over you shoulder in incredulity.

"Didn't assume. Sam tricked me."

"..."

"..."

"HE WHAT—"

Now, at that, you could only grab the big guitar by your bed, the other hand blindly flailing around to find your phone. Lips caught between your teeth, you ran a hundred names in your mind.

Should you call Dad? Cops? Women's helpline??

"Oiii~"

A big silhouette was pressed to the glass, waving its arm like a mindless cockroach signaling its mate with its antennae. Whoever it was, their mouth exaggerated every word as they spoke with their lips almost smooching the pane.

"Opeeen. Theee. Wiiindoww."

Wait—that voice—

"BUCKY?!", you whisper-shouted, rushing to the man who was waving enthusiastically outside. You yanked the window open, letting out a breathless 'oof—' as your darling boyfriend's heavy weight stumbled on you.

His hands found your waist, feet finally planting themselves steady on the floorboards, his head held up high like he was oh so proud of himself.

"Hello there. Missed you", he leaned in with a dramatic pout, ready to smother you with wet kisses. What a sap.

You could literally see the imaginary ears on the top of his head falling as your palm roughly covered his mouth.

"What are you DOING?!"

"I've been calling you for twenty minutes."

"I put my phone on silent!"

"Eh, I figured."

"And you decided to climb my house like Romeo from Ebay?"

"Hey—! Don't say that that. And, you also live on the second floor."

"THAT DOESN'T ANSWER THE QUESTION."

He shrugged like you were being overdramatic, pulling you closer with that infuriating grin—a self-proclaimed 'expert wooer'.

"I wanted to see you."

"You wanted to commit a felony!"

"Doesn't matter if my Juliet deserves it", he leaned in again, pinning your wrists to the small of your back with ease.

"BRO—"

"The fuck you mean 'bro'—I came here for you because you said 'Bucky, I wish I had a dick'."

"...You're here to tell me you're gay?", you deadpanned, gaze narrowing as you tried to check for any signs of drug use in those pretty eyes of his.

"What, no—I'm here to ask you out on a fair-date."

You came from a household which believed women were better off at home. No, not in the 'don't study further' way.

In the 'outside world is dangerous' way.

And they weren't entirely wrong. But sometimes, the obsessive control over your freedom was suffocating. Like someone was physically holding you down.

Oh, you wished you were a boy, just to go out with your friends whenever you wanted like your brother did.

You mentioned it to Bucky for the first time today. Your secret boyfriend who kissed you behind trees and slid you gifts under student mail. It had only meant to be a small complaint.

But now here you were, in a hastily put on Polo dress, looking left and then right and then left and then right and then—

"Doll, no one's looking. Come on", his warm hand interlinked with yours, a firm assurance as he walked you to the motorcycle he'd discreetly parked behind a nearby shop.

"I-Is this even a good idea?"

"Hey, it's okay. Hop on."

He held out the extra helmet, a soft smile playing on his lips, leg already swung over to settle on the saddle comfortably.

Your eyes shone, catching the carnival lights until they looked like they were holding tiny constellations. Bucky's favorite constellation.

Your frame was practically buzzing, and if you could, you'd bounce around. Because shit, Bucky was right. This was amazing.

You could spread your arms and run. You could play cheap games and walk away empty-handed with a smile. You could watch Bucky fail at the only game he's bad at—Spin to Win.

You were an uncontrollable ball of excitement, slipping out of your boyfriend's arms and almost flying to the nearest rides. His hand would always find your hip—but never pulled. Just stayed.

His face mirrored your beams, albeit smaller and better hidden. He'd rather look at you giggle and speak with a mouthful of popcorn than some random firecracker in the sky.

You were his firecracker.

"Bucky!"

You called for what he assumed was the third time now, given the little pout on your face. Your fingers held up a bill, thumb gesturing to the stall beside you.

Ring Toss.

"Why do you enjoy losing, doll? Is this some kind of freak I'm missing", he confidently strode over, snatching the note with what he liked to call his 'swag'.

Boomers should stay away from slangs.

Bucky was working out today.

Because every time something new caught your eye—something you didn't know you were allowed to see up close—you'd break into a jog. You wandered. You ran. You explored.

Your fingers trail exhibits. Your gaze lingers on plushies. You laugh when strangers do.

He had had to catch up every time—mouth curving before he realized it—shoulder brushing yours whenever you abruptly stopped to admire one new thing.

"Look!"

"Let's go there!"

"I love this!"

"Win me that, pleaseeee!"

"There's a greater probability I die on this ride—" "DOLL!"

Eventually, the night quietened. Your steps slowed.

You both finally stopped in front of the huge glimmering Ferris Wheel.

"Baby, I'm tired", he lazily followed behind, shoulders sagging with exhaustion.

You made a tiny sound—almost a whine—jogging with that surprisingly sustained 100% energy, "Just one last one!"

And he let you drag him. 

Because here you were. Happy. Excited. Free. 

He could almost see the glittery wings of independence on your back, the glow on your face, the rosy hue on your cheeks.

A bird set out.

And he could never have the heart to dim that light. 

So, he insisted on payment again, cash stuffed in the worker’s palm before you could even try. He led you to the ride with newfound eagerness, eyes following every move of yours. 

"Buck, 's so beautiful."

He tilted his head, furrowing his eyebrows at the tone. What was up with that—

Oh.

You were lolling against his shoulder, keeping yourself forcefully awake—and still failing. You wanted to see more. You wanted to experience more.

But you had clearly tired yourself to the core, arms clinging to his bicep like you could transfer energy physically.

He let himself simply watch.

He looked like he was trying to memorize the moment. Your naturally puffed cheeks. Your lashes fluttering stubbornly.

God, he loved you.

By two in the morning, you were tucked in your bed, snoring in a way that was tiny and barely audible—but he didn't care. You weren't going to hear the end of it any time soon.

That night you slept with your wings on.

...Where did Steve buy it from?

Was it cheap?

No...

Steve loved expensive gifts—’pampering’ you, as he called it. 

You wondered how people even made them in weird, squiggly shapes.

Did they use some tool?

Or maybe just twisted their wrist this way and then that.

Wait.

Could you make one?

You should totally—

"Oh wow—what are you doing here?", a heavy, sleep-addled voice called out from the kitchen door, followed by obvious shuffling of feet.

"Yo, yo, yo, Captain America in the house", you turned around with the widest grin on your face, hands throwing random signs like the cool rapper you thought you were being.

"No gang signs."

His face twisted in that annoyance—and slight disbelief—rubbing away the sleep from his eyes. He was now wearing a faded cotton t-shirt, much to your dismay; probably for his run.

God knows how he woke up so early every single day. He was the personification of that one “Good Habits” book you despised in kindergarten. 

How’d he even end up with someone as chaotic and indecisive as…you? 

Eh, pretty privilege. And personality, apparently. 

He slowly walked over to you, the worn floorboards creaking underneath, a calloused hand effortlessly finding your waist. He peered over your shoulder curiously, eyebrows twitching. "What are you even doing, baby? It's six—no, five, in the morning."

Before he could blink again, you were spinning and twirling like a mystical, just-got-freedom bird, arms flailing quicker than your thoughts; they were your wings.

"I'm a fairy! I deserve to have some nice coffee with my fairy-er boyfriend."

His head tipped slightly to one side, lips twitching involuntarily at the adorable sight. There was something about your barely-contained, endless energy that made warmth flood his chest. Before you could wander off, he grabbed you by your hips, tugging you back by your sweater—damn him for manhandling you so easily.

"Where's that energy coming from, sweetheart?", his eyes narrowed playfully, your soft body turned to face him better. But that sheepish smile and twinkling eyes of yours? Oh fuck.

You batted your lashes the way you knew melted him. Steve Rogers was only uptight and stoic in front of his team members. 

"Remember when you told me to go to the pharmacy?"

"Yes?"

"Um, they're out of my ADHD medication for five days."

His head tipped back, hand flying to his head as though it was already aching. How dramatic, you frowned to yourself. "Oh my God."

"It's gonna be a fun week!!", you hopped back to the counter's side, socks gliding, the momentary upset forgotten as you instead focused on being an enthusiastic, hyper fixated bunny. You jumped your weight from one foot to another, excitement fizzing beneath your skin until standing still felt almost impossible.

A whole week.

Seven days.

Together.

Maybe you could suggest all those activities you'd wanted to do since so long now.

No, what if he thinks a list of twenty three is weird and overwhelming?

...

Is there a socially acceptable number?

Eh, you shouldn't try on making a plan. Plans fail.

At least, your plans fail. How about you stick to—

That cute beam dimmed.

"What was I doing again?"

You blinked.

You crossed your arms.

He looked up at the ceiling for a moment. Not in frustration. In silent negotiation with whatever higher power had decided this would be his Wednesday morning. 

"Huh."

"Coffee", he piped.

"Ahh. How could I forget that—", you shook your head, fondly exasperated at yourself, because self-love bro.

"NAH, where's my mug?!”

He was already leaving the open kitchen, readying himself for his morning routine. Or dawn, if he ever decided to be more accurate about it. "I don't know", he replied flatly, having no interest in helping you whatsoever.

"Bro, this my third mug. I'm so tired—", you cut yourself short, jaw dropping at the sight in front of you. You looked disgusted.

"What? Found those first two mugs on the bookshelf?", he lazily voiced from where he sat on the couch, pulling on his socks with a snap. 

You gasped loud at that—dramatic and offended. "YOU KNEW?"

"I didn't see them before!", he countered back, eyes widened in that ‘I’m-the-most-sincere-guy-ever’ look as he raised his hands in mock surrender—or maybe a real one; you were dangerous to deal with like this.

"Yes, you did! You cheater", you squinted your eyes with determination. Keeping the mug in some random place—again—you jumped on the man. Legs locked around his waist, toppling down on the couch with him, the poor guy unable to handle the sudden weight you put on him. You attacked him with a series of half-hearted punches. 

"Hey!", he squeaked. The corner of his mouth twitched despite himself, chin jerking as he tried to escape your merciless display of justice. "I saw them barely ten seconds ago—"

"I'm going to kill you, Rogers. Fuck you for betraying your own girlfriend", you stuffed a pillow over his face, an elaborate plan to suffocate him.

“Sweetheart—”

“I lost Gregory and Harry. I grieved for them. And you didn’t tell me?!”

“You named the mugs?”, he spoke against the cushion, voice muffled. 

He clicked his tongue. Then, with a small, easy push, you were already falling on the floor in a poor, pouting bundle. Legs stretched in front of you, and eyes looking at him like you were the puppy he kicked, you watched as he stood up with a heavy sigh. 

Snatching his keys from the bowl, he was fleeing faster than you could register.

"Ohhhkay—I'm going to Bucky's."

“Hey—”

“Have fun with Gregory and Harry and whoever that third one is.”

"Will you help me instead of just laughing—", he groaned and dragged his palm over the mess, the globs of red falling to the wooden floor in a puddle. You shuffled over, your movements careful and steady to avoid dirtying your feet, and reached out with the hem of your apron.

"Aww, my poor boyfriend", you cooed mockingly, burst of giggles still slipping past your lips, no matter how hard you tried. Finally, under his glare, you muffled them all, peering up with amused eyes twinkling mischievously.

You leaned up on the tips of your toes, giving him a quick kiss on the stained stubble. Your beam was admiring and loving, but Bucky was too embarrassed to mirror and romance.

"Just—Shut up!", he frowned in that adorable way a big, beefy man like him technically wouldn't. Aggressively scrubbing his face with water, he again returned to the counter.

"Anyways", he grumbled lowly, clearly annoyed, "What does Lucy say next?"

Clearing your throat and forcing away any lingering snickers, you replayed the YouTube tutorial.

"Mix whatever's left of the puree and the sauce we made earlier. And then, apply it to the bread."

"You're not helping at all", you muttered with a pout, head tilted to the side to let Bucky rest his heavy chin on your shoulder. He only hummed, the sound vibrating against your skin.

"I like my girlfriend like this. And we saw what happened when I tried."

You only sighed at that, pretending to not enjoy how clingy he was. You garnished the pizza with some basil and oregano, totally into the act of an actual chef.

"Wanna have the first bite?", you turned your head just enough for your noses to brush. He scrunched up his face at the sudden contact, then slowly melted to boop yours once. His smile was small, soft, and so genuine.

"Nah, let my pretty girl have it."

"I can't decide on which of you two is cheesier", you spoke with a mouth stuffed full of pizza, the sticky, melted cheese smudged under your lip and crumbs lingering all over.

The sight only made the man fall harder for you.

He watched your dramatic expressions and elaborate gestures with patient eyes, his smile widening the more his heart bloomed with warm affection.

Your bodies fell back on the soft mattress of your bed with a quiet thump, the room filled with the sounds of your combined laughs.

"That was so fun", you stared up at the ceiling, your limbs spread wide, fingertips brushing his warm shoulder.

"It always is with you", he replied back with a sincerity that made blood rush to your cheeks. You rolled onto your side with a wide grin, looking up at him with the brightest eyes ever.

A few minutes passed with the silence broken by passing vehicles outside and sheets ruffling with how much you kept 'adjusting' your position. His fingers threaded through your hair, untangling the silky hair you'd deliberately shampooed before he came over.

You stared at each other like the princes and princesses from storybooks finally finding their happy ending. His gaze dropped to your lips and so did yours.

When his lips met yours, it was slow. A little reluctant like he wasn't sure of your reaction, but still so fond. Your lips moved carefully, pouring love like never before.

You were curled under the blanket with Bucky, your cold feet very conveniently nestled between his. Not your fault he signed up to be your personal heater when he decided to date you.

"Will you stop sighing?", you mumbled against his arm, eyes struggling to flutter open from the sleepy haze and glare at him.

"I'm not."

"I've been counting. This was the eleventh."

He was about to sigh at that too, before catching himself and clicking his tongue instead. He wiggled a little, subtly pushing himself farther.

"I don't think I'm ready. I'm sorry."

Your head craned at that, eyes squinted as you tried to spot Bucky in the dark.

"Ready for what?"

"You know...that", he jerked his chin like the answer was standing in your doorway. Now, it was your turn to sigh. Pushing away the urge to just bury yourself under the warm comforter, you sat up on your knees.

"That what? Sex?"

"Yeah", he admitted quietly, shame evident in the way he stared down at his metal palm.

"Buck, baby—", you slowly climbed onto his lap, his jaw cupped in your hands.

"Why would you ever think we had to?"

He met your gaze with a big question mark on his face, brows creasing at your words.

It was almost like he was incapable of processing what you just said. The primary reason he'd been running away from any relationships was because the idea of sexual intimacy put him off. Not because he wouldn't like it.

Because HYDRA had changed many things for the worse.

And then, here you were. Telling him that his tender kisses were enough. That his lazy cuddles and late date nights were enough.

"Huh?"

"I don't expect it, Bucky. I don't kiss you hoping it'll lead somewhere."

He paused, his muscles no longer tense under you. "…Really?"

"Really", you assured with a tight hug, you arms wrapping themselves around him as hard as you could. "You don't owe me anything. Not kisses. And definitely not your body."

"That was poetic for no reason, doll" His vision blurred with tears but he'd never let you know that. For now, jabs were better.

"I love you, Bucky. More than sex."

You still continued, seeing past his tough guy act.

"Love ya more", he grunted, lips pressed to the side of your head.

That night, he slept deeper and calmer.

...And snored way too loud, much to your dismay.

"The grass is wet, doll. You should be happy I'm even sitting."

You giggled quietly at that, lifting your head just enough to look at him with a stupid, giddy grin, "You already look like you peed your pants. A little more soaked doesn't matter."

He scrunched his face up at the poor comparison, shifting his ass unconsciously—very obviously embarrassed.

"You're annoying."

You gasped dramatically at that, watching him with cartoonish, mock-offended, wide eyes as he lowered himself on the wet greenery. Flipping over, you propped yourself up on your forearms, eyes squinted into narrow slits.

"You dare dislike your own girlfriend, James Barnes."

"Woah, you use my full name again, and I might as well actually pee my pants," he said in a painfully flat tone. He clasped his hands to his chest like he was praying for divine intervention.

You exaggeratedly gagged, wincing at his words like you hadn't used less than a minute ago.

"Ew. Stop being so childish", you gave him a sassy once-over, eyes sweeping over his body like he was disgusting you.

He stared at you in disbelief for a moment, eyebrows raised to his hairline. He blinked once. Then twice.

Two moments of misleading peace, and before you could comprehend, two thick, strong arms were grabbing you by your waist. You gasped at first, a sharp inhale at the suddenness. Rolled over, he was now on top of you, nimble fingers finding the sides of your abdomen.

You burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter, legs kicking the air like you were a mosquito being electrocuted. Your nails dug into his jaw, trying to use your acrylics to an unfair advantage.

"Uh-huh, what were you saying again, baby?", the smugness was dripping from his words, prominent in ways other than his smirk.

Your head tipped back, pieces of weed and crushed petals tangling into a mess in your hair. But you couldn't care less. And neither could Bucky.

He thought you looked prettier like this. More than the stars.

"HAah—let gooo~", you thumped your fists against his chest half-heartedly, all the strength sucked out of your arms. Damn you for being so ticklish.

He lowered his body more, using his ridiculously hot, beefy frame to pin you harder. Before he could trouble you more, a bright, soft light hit your face.

For a moment, he was starstruck. The white light illuminating your beauty. Your pearly teeth shining. Your dimples deepening.

"You missed it."

And you were back on top, a thumb gesturing to the starry sky above.

"No, I didn't."

"Bucky missed a shooting star! He missed a shooting star! Bucky missed—", your very exasperating loud and high-pitched singing was brought to an abrupt stop when his lips met yours.

Not roughly. Not even firm.

Sweet. Gentle in a way that allowed backtracking if you wanted.

Because even if he wanted to shut you up, he didn't have the heart to do it harshly.

"Geez, keep it in your pants", you rolled your eyes but the blush on your cheeks gave you away when he broke it.

The night continued with his head on your chest, a stubbly cheek smushed against the softness of your breast. He'd promised he was only giving you a 'quick hug'.

But here that grump was. Head lolled—heavy—as he unknowingly dozed off to the sound of your heartbeat. Your fingers played with the hair on his nape, twisting and curling, and deciding you'll wake him ten more minutes later for the third time now.

You just couldn't help it.

It made something warm bloom in your chest when you saw a man like Bucky lower his guards around that one person—you.

And maybe, he wasn’t entirely wrong.

“This is, uh, for you”, he had grumbled one day, handing you a small bunch of flowers. Daffodils tied together a little too roughly with a thick, half-torn utility rope. 

And yet you'd completely fallen in love with those cute yellow plants because he had plucked them himself. They sat on your desk for weeks.

“Wait, lemme—”, you’d said once, leaning up on your toes to brush his hair the other way. It always got so messy in summers. Beaming with satisfaction, you had stared up at that partition for a whole minute.

No one questioned when he started to comb his hair in that direction everyday.

Bucky’s idea of romance was gentle. He believed in a love that built and didn’t just…happen. He believed in a love that bloomed when eyes met and smiles exchanged. He believed in a love that strengthened when soup was made and blankets were wrapped. He believed in a love that showed fragility didn’t mean weakness. 

Three months earlier, he’d been in a different bedroom but with the same person—you. 

“You need to breathe”, you held his hand tighter to your chest, eyes wide with concern and that unwavering calm that was slowly grounding him. Your lips were curled up in the kindest, most patient smile, waiting for him to find quiet at his own pace. His hands were shaking so badly that when you offered him the glass of water, it rattled against his fingers. 

A panic attack. Something you weren’t supposed to deal with. 

But here you were, brushing away his hair, tightening your grip on his hands to let him know that you were here. For him. Repeating your "It's okay"s because he couldn't stop apologizing even after the seventh time.

His chest was heaving, wet patches of sweat making his shirt cling to him. It felt suffocating. 

Your fingers found his hair—messy from the restless movements—and tucked them farther from his eyes. “You have such rowdy hair”, you whispered softly, still crouched next to him, but smiling like you knew he’d mirror it. 

“Rowdy”, he scoffed, the corner of his mouth turning. “Hey—”

“Shh”, you shifted closer to him, freeing your hair from the messy ponytail you’d made just a few minutes prior. Instead, you gathered the unruly locks and secured them with the pink scrunchie.

James Buchanan Barnes. With a fountain ponytail. 

“You’re lucky I like you.”

“You’re lucky you have me”, you poked your tongue out, your bright beam lightening the mood instantly. 

"People cheated me. Everyone else did", he cradled your jaw with one warm palm, the colder one finding your hand.

"Thought I'd never know what being human feels. Thank you, doll."

He could never tell you how grateful he was for you. For someone who stayed. And he knew for sure, he would always be there for you too. 

"I'll punch you if you say that again. We don't do that formality anymore", you weakly retorted because damn Bucky for giving you those sincere eyes and firm words.

He noticed you. And he thought he…knew you.

Until today, here on your bed, reading your diary.

·•—–٠✤٠—–•·

‘31st, Saturday

Sam and I pulled a prank on James. He didn’t notice the rope we’d tied. A little absent—minded, I assume. But he looked a total snack in those soaked clothes.

Anyway, the bigger news is I made him a cup of tea. He drank it even when he realized it was too bitter for him. He’s a sweetheart. Too bad I brought the cup back. 

Will go and ask Dr. Addams when I’ll be getting the results.’

·•—–٠✤٠—–•·

He kept flipping. Turning every page so aggressively, they were starting to crumble.

‘I almost felt bad today.’

Almost.

‘I lied to him about the broken car.’

Lied.

He had rushed to your yard the moment you’d texted him that morning. It had taken him hours of standing under the blazing sun to try to fix the car that apparently had nothing wrong with it. He’d felt useless when he had to come back to your door later and tell you he couldn’t figure out the issue. You had offered him lemonade and assured it didn't matter.

His chest was tightening. 

And then, he found that one damn entry.

·•—–٠✤٠—–•·

‘5th, Thursday

I’ve invited him over for dinner tonight. Well, had to make an early entry. He looked so excited, I could practically see the tail wagging.

He’s a sweet guy. But I guess work is work. I mean, he’s beginning to trust me. It’s made him so easy now.

Hate to admit that he’s starting to matter just now.’

·•—–٠✤٠—–•·

His thumb froze against the paper. He frowned. Not because he understood. Because he didn't.

He read the sentence again. ‘It’s made him so easy now.’

His body was trembling now. Eyes blinking rapidly as he tried to comprehend what he was reading. He wished it wasn’t about him. He wished he could prove all this wrong. 

But even at the twelfth read of the same sentence, the words didn’t change. They didn’t magically disappear. No hand reached out to shake him awake. 

He felt distant. Suddenly hyperaware of the mattress underneath—where you’d hugged him and touched him and let him take you. The clock ticking in a way that seemed loud and painful.

“Bucky—”

He startled.

You stood in the doorway paused from whatever taunt you were coming up with, for him taking so much time. Your face fell like you were the victim, those ridiculous wide eyes still seeming pretty as they watered, making him more nauseous than he already was starting to feel. You opened your mouth to say something—anything to explain what he’d just read—because that hurt in his eyes told you just how far he’d read into your dark, little world.

“Just—Just don’t.”

He stood up abruptly, the leather of the diary cover creaking as his grip tensed. He didn’t look at you. Instead, he stared down at the bundle of pages in his hold, bile starting to creep up into his mouth.

“Buck.”

“No, don’t call me that. Y—You—”, he swallowed hard, “Th—That teacup, the— the knife—”

“You need to breathe—”

“Don’t tell me to breathe, goddamit!”, his hands found your shoulders, pushing you roughly against the wall. The diary you thought you had hidden well, lay on the wooden floorboards now. The fall was dull. The sound rang like a shameful reminder. 

His fingers were shaking with the urge of tightening his hold and shaking some sense into you. But God, your beautiful eyes kept reminding him of how deep he had fallen into the pithole called love. 

Your frame rattled by the harshness of his act, so in contrast with the man who’d cradled your face yesterday with gentler hands. You forced yourself to not move, to not let him see your heart breaking too. 

“My hairbrush. This is what you took it for, didn’t you?”, Bucky didn’t yell. But his voice dropped an octave in a way not so hot anymore. Scarier. Angrier. Colder.

It echoed in the quiet room, strangely enough to make even him flinch.

A lump was forming in your throat, drying the muscles of any saliva. Your tongue felt heavier, and forming words seemed impossible. Every noise felt amplified. The sound of the moving fan. The leaky faucet in the bathroom. A car passing by outside.

Everything ordinary. 

Everything normal. 

Everything wrong.

“You didn’t keep it as—as a personal item to cherish. You—You—”

Bucky Barnes was stuttering. A man who he knew leading and guiding, reduced to a frozen, broken mess. Again. 

Crawling around in his mind for words that would explain your behavior. Because a part of him still wanted to defend you, even now. 

“Hair sample”, your voice was no longer a guilty whisper. And even if it held any underlying emotions, Bucky didn’t want to read into them. He only watched what was presented to him—an expressionless face, unapologetic eyes. 

He thought he saw your lip tremble against all odds, but he didn’t wish to fool himself by seeing what he wanted to. He sucked in a frantic breath, then carefully moved his hands to cradle your cheeks. 

Because maybe—just maybe—there was an explanation that would protect the bubble of love he had created around you both in his mind.

He nodded once, slowly.

“Why? Is that all I am? A subject?”, his voice cracked, throat bobbing—so desperate to try not to break down right there and then.

You had no reason. Or maybe you did—you just didn’t say it. 

“I don’t love you.”

He couldn’t breathe anymore. It felt as if someone was reaching to his lungs through his ribs, completely crushing the pair in their palms. His eyes stung, the pain almost unbearable. 

He said your name in a broken hush, shaky hands flexing against your soft skin. As if touching you would wake him up from whatever nightmare he was living. 

“Why?”, his voice barely carried. He wasn't trying to scare you. He was just desperate to know. 

“I never did, Bucky”, you iterated the fact like it was disgusting to even think about. Like you were mocking him for believing it for even a single moment. 

Your voice was low, your facade barely concealing your own uneven breaths. You couldn't let him see you. Not this time.

Your nails curled into your palms, displacing whatever you felt into the innocent skin as you stared down at the man you—

He closed the distance before you realized he was moving.

One hand caught your upper arm, drawing you toward him until there wasn't space left for anger to hide. His breath came hard against your face. His teeth ground together, the muscle in his jaw jumping beneath his skin as though he were holding back a hundred things he wanted to scream. 

He was convincing himself this was just properly controlled, quiet anger. Because admitting that he could never get mad at you seemed vulnerable and idiotic and naive.

"You cheated me. Like everyone else did", the words barely managed to tremble their way out.

Your tear-filled gaze met his. 

‘Like everyone else did.’

You wanted to puke. The accusation. The truth in it. 

Your lower eyelashes—wet and clumped—brushed your cheekbones once and he was already letting you go.

He couldn’t pretend to hate you. He couldn’t force himself to hurt you. He was already hating himself for touching you. 

He was hating himself for loving you. 

His shoulders sagged. You saw that. That tiny shift. Hope leaving.

He swallowed, his jaw tightening hard enough for his teeth to grind painfully. Instead of you, he fixed his eyes on the worn floorboards—something easier to face.

The silence stretched. He couldn’t bring himself to even look at you. Then he turned. It wasn't dramatic. No slammed door. No final remark thrown your way.

Just... a turn. The movement was so small; on any other day, you wouldn’t care. But today… His footsteps came quickly, each one carrying him farther from you.

He wasn't walking away because he expected you to wrap yourself around him and make him stay.

He was walking away because he knew he wouldn’t dare expect you to. He was abandoning you. 

He wouldn’t stop. 

“I wanted to know what they did to her.”

Stop he did. 

No, that voice was guiding. That voice whispered small praises and sweet assurances when you whined at the girth stretching you. Your knees pushed to your chest, his fingers leaving red marks where they gripped your flesh tight. You never knew you were flexible enough for that.

"It's okay, baby. Just a little more."

"There you go. My sweet girl."

"Fuck, look at you. So pretty."

His hands had held you wherever he could reach, like he couldn't fathom the thought of letting you go when night ended and the sun peeked. He was careful of your hair, brushing it away when you arched your back off. You could taste the smugness in the way he kissed you, but your brain was long gone to retort.

His pace was firm, but not punishing. And although the self that had fantasized about him for months craved a rough claim, your current self seemed content with the tender eye contact and attentive touches.

"Bucky, oh—"

"Mm, I know, doll. Taking it so well, ain't ya?"

And when your nails dug into his muscle, leaving red crescents he was definitely going to stare at later, he smirked and tilted his head to give your knuckles a little kiss. 

“I love you”, you’d mindlessly but oh so genuinely slipped. 

“Love you more”, he’d oh so tenderly replied. 

He'd made sure you slumped off with definite releases pulled out of you. Once with his mouth on you, an experienced tongue lapping up juices from your sex and wet thighs like it was ambrosia. Then, with a monster called his dick, thumbs simultaneously pressing into your stomach because it made you whimper.

When your head had lolled back, a tiny smile adorning that glowy face of yours, he'd only pulled you to his chest. A quiet, quick kiss pressed to your head before he dozed off with you.

He didn't snore that night.

Morning came quicker than you wished it did. You woke up to a Bucky who slept with his mouth open and eyebrows furrowed. His flesh forearm rested on his eyes, the other sprawled over the mattress.

It had taken you ten minutes of moving ever so silently and tiptoeing just to not stir the man awake.

Despite your wobbly legs and acknowledged soreness, you managed to complete your morning ritual of brushing your teeth and making yourself a little more prettier than an unkempt raccoon in the shower.

You walked out the bathroom a human.

The t-shirt you wore still stuck to your damp skin, making you scrunch your nose in annoyance. But that was manageable. Cooking breakfast?

Yeah, you failed three times. Not because you couldn't make scrambled eggs. But because they had to be perfect for Bucky. What would he say if you didn't serve him perfectly cooked eggs that looked just the right shade of golden-brown?

...Actually, he wouldn't say anything, but that's not the point!

Minutes later, you were drawing a stupid ketchup smiley on his plate, tongue poking out in concentration and stance changing every second like this was the Squid Game.

When you were finally satisfied with your artwork, you made your way to the bedroom again. It was time to wakey-wakey the handsome man in your bed. You pushed the door as slowly as you could, trying to not startle him awake with any sudden noises.

Except you froze in the doorway, lips parted like a gaping fish about to die. Because there he was, brushing his messy hair back with a hairbrush he'd never tell you he carried yesterday night to look perfect for the dinner. His teeth had sunken into his bottom lip, expression giving away how determined he was to not look like a disgruntled bear.

Your little giggle was what made him spin around, a pink flush growing on his cheeks.

"Doll?"

"You look—"

Yeah, you couldn't complete your sentence. Instead, you burst out laughing as you walked to the embarrassed man sending mock-angry glares your direction. With a careful hand, you grabbed his hairbrush, wordlessly insisting you did it for him.

Honestly, as a foodie, you would've never thought food would be getting forgotten by you as often as it was happening now. Because once again, the eggs were turning cold outside while you and Bucky stared at each other like he was a war soldier leaving again.

His hands gently held onto your waist, fingers caressing your love handles while you combed through his hair. And when he was about to reach up to get the wooden object back? You simply pocketed it.

He didn't say much at that. Stared. Smiled. Nodded to himself like that was an achievement.

"Let me reheat your breakfast. Someone decided to be a toddler today", you snickered, already jogging to the kitchen because you didn't want another lecture on how he had fought a war and was old and mature and not a toddler.

“Hey—!”

He was almost successful in chasing you, if not for the book his foot bumped into. Must’ve fallen down when you both had walked yourselves to the bed last night without a care of where you stepped. He sighed as he watched the empty hallway, then leaned down with a grunt—like a grandpa with back pain—and picked it up. 

It looked like a diary. Oh. 

He turned the blue notebook once in hands, then twice, like he was studying it. 

“Respect her privacy”, the sensible part of his brain chirped.

“Curiosity is what makes humans different from any other animal!"

“Curiosity kills the cat.”

“We’re not a cat.”

The nonsensical argument of not being a cat won. He ended up on the edge of your bed, eyes continuously flicking up to the door like you’d bolt in right away, catching him red—handed and throwing him out the window. 

His fingers hesitantly flipped the first page. 

·•—–٠✤٠—–•·

‘20th, Monday.

I met James today. He is just like everyone describes. Quiet and Grumpy. I said hi to him first but he only shook my hand. I thought it was rude but Sam said he is always like that with new people. He’d only be my friend when we get comfortable around each other. 

Getting to know him is going to be a pain in the ass. But good thing I have Sam with me.’

·•—–٠✤٠—–•·

He tilted his head at the small entry. Apparently, you weren’t all for descriptions.

·•—–٠✤٠—–•·

‘21, Tuesday.

He was in the yard today. Was fixing a mower in that unfairly tight white shirt. His grip looked firm, and he was focused like his life depended on that tool. He tripped only once over a small stone. Don’t really think he has glasses.

P.s. he looked so handsome; better than the pictures I got honestly. So, I had to replace them. He didn’t catch me, though.’

·•—–٠✤٠—–•·

He blinked at the collage on the page after. It was…unconventional. But again, there were so many dating norms in this century he didn't understand. Maybe, clicking pictures was one of them?

Your entries were consistent, he had to admit. Not long paragraphs of you gushing over him, but small compliments seemingly written in a short time. You were just as observant as he was, earning some brownie points. Did he also mention the butterflies he felt when you called him ‘hot’ in an entry?

His lips were curled up as he flipped through and through, feeling fuzzy at the feeling of being liked by someone. He was found attractive by many girls. Obvi.

But this—a real crush and the cute secret?—made his hold tighter on the spine of the diary. 

He was biting his lip, reading every single word with laser focus while you took your sweet time outside—can’t really blame yourself for forgetting to cook your own breakfast when your mind was only on Bucky.

With a heart singing, he moved onto the next page.

The grin that had plastered itself on his mouth slowly disappeared.

Household was not his strongest suits. War did teach him how to do it. But that didn't guarantee him the success rate he'd hoped. Cooking took him hours, until he finally decided he'd rather eat takeout everyday than take up Sam's part of the chores.

Worse was when he'd spilled honey on the floor and irritated himself to the point of restless anger. And then you'd shown him a tutorial on how to clean it right and Bucky just felt stupider.

Well, naturally, you called him over for dinner this time. Just something to help him and ease a few responsibilities off—and maybe also buy yourself an excuse to have him over.

In your defense, him surviving on outside food just wasn't nice. He had a bigger appetite now. Which deliciously showed when he wore that Henley that stretched over his chest and showed off the slight pouch of his stomach before disappearing in his pants. Someone had to feed his thick arms—arm?—too.

You had tried your best to make it look platonic and not 'too much'—though you would never mind if Bucky did end up taking it the other way. 

The long Hard Maple was covered in the most beautiful—and unused—dining cover you could find in that dusty, small attic of yours. Lace embroidered the ends, red against white, giving it a flawless pretty look. On top were ceramic bowls and plates—glass was overrated—filled with the appetizers and cuisines you’d spent hours learning on Youtube (thank you Martha for that lemon tip). You could only hope the steak was cooked right, and the baked potatoes weren’t mushy enough for Bucky to roleplay a child. That would be, uh, a disaster.

Nonetheless, you tugged your dress down for the nth time that hour, chewing at your cuticles because there was no way you’d ruin the acrylic nails you’d gotten done with a whole month of savings. You wouldn't say you looked bad. If anything, you'd bought the dress only because that neckline sat below your shoulders and highlighted the collarbones you'd worked your ass off for, only to appear. It even had a twirly skirt that fluttered around your thighs. You felt...cute.

Your hair was pinned back with simple bobby bins, just to make sure you didn’t embarrass yourself by Bucky finding a hair strand in his food and awkwardly smiling. Ew, ew, ew.

It's not like you could get away by throwing him under the bus either. He'd cut his hair and now you could no longer argue that maybe one of his strands grew longer than the others.

When the doorbell rang, you bolted to the door. Then, just to gaslight yourself into thinking you weren’t that desperate, you waited for a few more moments before opening the door. 

Your hair bellowed, a bright light hit your face—like it was illuminated by a luminous celestial body—and a bunch of roses levitated.

Okay, no, that did not happen. But so close! Bucky stood in a tux he was clearly feeling self-conscious in, adjusting his cufflinks and smoothing down the obviously ironed blazer. His hair was combed, and his lips were definitely shining—Vaseline?

“Doll? May I?”

Always so polite. Always so gentle. Was he like this in—

Ah yes. You had to let him in. 

“Oh come on, sweetheart. Where are the forks?”

He was rummaging—opening drawers, then cabinets, then randomly peeking in closed shelves. You swiftly spun around to tell him to stop shuffling so much, that he was a guest and was supposed to be seated while you worked. No one could prepare you for the close-up view of his stubbled, unfairly sharp jaw. 

Worse, for the little blood you’d managed to draw when your knife grazed his collarbone. No freaky-freaky. You had actually hurt him.

“Buck! I— I—”

Fumble. That’s all you could do. You hastily grabbed a ready handkerchief from the countertop, pressing it firmly to his tanned skin that you surely didn’t stare at first. And if his ears flushed crimson because your floral, fragrant handkerchief was being used for his assistance, he didn’t show it on his carefully masked face.

His voice was uncharacteristically gruff when he spoke again, “Who even uses a real knife to cut steak?”

He let you wipe the blood away, the cut clotting quicker than you apprehended, saving you the hyperventilation. He didn’t jerk away. He didn’t try to do it himself. Because this touch was comfortable.

It…always was. Your proximity didn’t make his stupidly broad shoulders tense. Your careful hands didn’t make him suck a breath in and mentally curse you for trying to be in his personal space. You were very openly welcome in it. 

He had never thought anyone was capable of that after Steve, until that one night you’d trusted Bucky enough to call him to pick you up from the library. The rain had created puddles even  your polyester boots couldn’t protect you from, and you really could use a ride. 

“You don’t have to do this”, he’d muttered when you pressed your chest to his back, one arm wrapped tight around his waist, fingers curled around the leather jacket he always wore. You never found out if it was only to look cool on his motorcycle, or Sam had actually succeeded in knocking some fashion into that old, stubborn brain of his. Your other hand had held up an umbrella, wide enough to cover your heads.

“Yes, I do. You shampooed your hair literally yesterday.”

How you’d known that? He forgot to suspect. 

He was pulled out of whatever thought, his eyes snapping up when you said his name. You always said it so nice. Not pouring honey. But sweet in a way that was familiar and warm.

“Yes. Let’s get back to eating”, he gave you an effortless grin, moving back to the chair. You had to use another ten minutes to find the forks and the butter knife, but he was as patient as ever. 

The dinner went smoothly. Even when you spilled juice down your chin which he wiped with a napkin with the kindest smile ever. Even when he choked on a bite, glaring at you because you’d rather watch him cough over food that was barely spicy than help him with a glass of water. 

He’d been so nice to you all evening, saying thank you’s despite you insisting it was okay. And now, he was screwing his whole impression by annoying to death.

“I said, let. Me. Wash.”

“You are a guest, Bucky.”

“Ouch?!”, a hand trying to reach around you and snatch the soapy plate from your grasp. You writhed like a tortured cockroach, elbows hitting his midriff in futile attempts. With a groan, you swatted your hand behind. 

He wheezed.

Now, normally you would have laughed.

But this time—nah, kidding. You did snicker like always.

Soap on his nose, suds in his nostrils, face scrunched. You giggled, shoulders shaking with how hard you were trying not to outright laugh. 

He kept aggressively wiping at the cartilage, grunting like a troubled bear—okay, you had to stop with the bear association. Instead, you leaned up and rubbed it away with your sleeve, smiling to yourself. 

Which didn’t take time to falter when you dared glance up and he was impossibly close. His eyes were like pools of blue and…were those flicks of green? Why was he staring back so intensely? Was he looking at that one part of your face you’d forgotten to shave?

No, he wasn’t.

He was staring at your pretty eyes too, lips curling just slightly because he could never hide how much he admired your features.

It was too silent for some time. Were you leaning up? Was he leaning down?

Doesn’t matter. Your heart was content with the increasing closeness. You forgot to breathe, eyelashes batting like you didn’t know what to do next. When his lips brushed yours ever so lightly, testing, you melted like butter.

His fingers found the underside of your jaw, tilting it up softly. He gave you time to pull away. To tell him you were better off as friends. But when you didn’t, oh boy. He crowded you against the counter, marble digging in your back. Did you care? Nopeee.

You’d rather focus on how tenderly he was kissing you, like this was highschool all over again and you were his first crush. His thumb kept swiping against the moisturized skin of your cheek, trying to memorize how you felt. The metal he used to consider only a weapon and nothing more, cradling you like he could never ask for anything better.

When your cold, covered-in-dish-soap hands found his chest, he pulled apart with a hiss. Your noses grazed, foreheads bumping hard. 

Bucky let out a giggle—a giggle—and looked down at his soiled button-down. You looked up at him, smiling at his adorable eye crinkles.

It felt natural. A kiss not forced. Intimacy that wasn't selfish.

You both stayed like that for a while, forgetting about the ice-cream waiting on the table, focusing on how beautiful everything seemed right now.

And if his arms did end up going around your waist, if his lips did manage to find yours again, if you did wipe your hands on a rag hastily just to grab his face closer, if he did ask for permission in the gentlest way possible, if you did impatiently pull him to your bedroom…

..no one would know.

The library was just a part-time job till you actually found a company you'd actually be interested in doing accounts for.

Bucky had been very silently judging of your work, not in a prejudiced way but a rather confused one.

"You willingly chose this?", he'd said the first time, genuinely clueless as you showed him the library when your car had passed by it.

But it didn't seem to matter anymore because that effortlessly charming man was standing soaked to the core, trying to hide his chest with a towel like a Victorian.

"The bucket prank was Sam's idea!", you raised your hands in surrender like that could save you Bucky's old lecture about boundaries and childishness.

The brunet only hummed passively and pulled down the rope that kept the bucket of water dangling from the ceiling. What had happened to his observation?

He had been pressing all kinds of buttons on his phone with his index, cursing for the umpteenth time because that game advertisement kept leading him to the app store. Where was the close option?

And then before he knew it, he was tripping over. Rope yanked, bucket tumbling. The purpose? Uh, Sam's tiktok feed.

The glorious sight was just a...by-product.

Sighing, he walked past Sam and to the small hallway of the house. But not before subtly kicking the man in the shin. Bastard.

“That was unnecessary, Barnes!”

"Hey?"

"Hey."

You shifted your weight from one foot to another, holding a cup of tea in your hand like an offering, because frankly? Coffee tasted bitter.

"I brought you tea? I'm sorry about the prank."

He only gave you a perplexed look, his eyebrows furrowing in the way you'd learnt to recognize as 'the fuck?'

"I'm not as uptight as that birdbrain preaches", he grunted softly, his lips twitching just enough to make you mirror it too. He took the cup from your hand with an acknowledging nod, bringing to his mouth without complaint. There was an ease in his movements now, no longer hesitating to take things from you like he used to. Your eyes almost shone with an emotion he peered at from above the rim. Were you having a moment? Oh, you were having a moment—

Until, he unceremoniously choked on the tea. Ugh, not a fan of ginger.

You blinked rapidly, the eyelashes—that you definitely had not thickened with your favorite mascara—brushing the high of your cheeks. 

“It’s nothing. Just…strong”, he flashed his teeth like it was indeed nothing, pushing away the urge to scrunch his nose and hiss. His tongue darted out to lick the drops sliding down the edge, because no matter how unpleasant it tasted right now, he could never have the heart to say that. 

But you weren’t fooled. With a sheepish smile, you retrieved the ceramic back. 

"I'll uh—get you a new one."

Bucky was already stepping forward at that, fingers brushing your sleeve briefly. He had that look in his eyes which would be pathetic if it wasn't so cute and over-gentlemanly.

"Doll, you don't need—"

Poor Bucky. Words ignored again as you turned to hurry to the kitchen, leaving him behind to not stare at your ridiculously set, out-of-a-Panteen-commercial, pretty hair and go back to drying himself instead. He would never admit his stomach fluttered just a moment ago. All blames on the eggs he burnt today. Because apparently the possibility of diarrhoea seemed less disconcerting.

Meanwhile, you stirred the tea once. Then twice. Then until your fingers hurt and the clink of the spoon started to annoy you. Efforts weren’t wasted. Bucky said the drink was 'refreshing'. 

You replayed that word until your brain told you to get your shit together. 

And if anyone asked why the teacup was on your study desk later and not the sink—which no one did, because no one the fuck cared enough—you'd tell them you were working on your Still Life sketching.

Had anyone told you a few months ago that James Barnes would ever reach a point where he’d comfortably let his thigh brush yours and chew on his pasta, you’d just gape. Now? No gaping. And definitely no red flushes down your neck.

There was a realization that Bucky wasn’t the rough type. No matter what psychology textbooks said about trauma patients seeking control, Bucky sought trust. Trust was his own little version of command. You trusted him enough to hang out. He trusted you enough to not be wary. 

That evening went quiet. His poor jokes with references that only a dying 78 year old would laugh at. His awkward smile when you said something that made him feel fuzzy—because God Forbid he got to live one nice moment in his life. 

"—and then he goes, 'To the moon, Alice!'. Hah-"

No one laughed at that. Bucky had to scramble to explain the reference and embarrass himself further.

"Okay, anyways. Who wants extra cheese?", Sam gave a tight-lipped smile. 

It wasn't a surprise Bucky didn't talk much later that night, only huffing when Sam cracked a pun because 'they weren't any better'. The only crack in his armor when you hid your beams behind that sweater of yours—fondly or not, grinning at his pique.

You’d be surprised by how the night didn’t end with you kissing—or maybe, you wouldn’t. Bucky Barnes was out of everyone’s league. Especially with his blue sharp eyes that the Supreme power had made impossibly beautiful. But it did end when you gave him a goodnight hug before leaving, and he didn’t pat your back like a middle aged dad. He rested his weirdly warm palm on the small of your back, the colder one on your shoulder like he was making sure you were grounded. 

No one would know how many times you kicked your feet under your sheets later.

If therapy had taught him something, it had to be that perspective matters. Why call Sam invasive when he could stop being so paranoid and called the man concerned instead? The guy was a good friend.

So when, he met you, he forced himself to not overthink things. So what if you smiled too bright and cared too much? So what if you baked Sam cookies immediately the day after he met you? So what if you offered dinner treats the moment any of them mentioned a tough day?

Not everyone had to be unsatisfied with life and dislike it— Actually, they did. But maybe your coping mechanism was smiling prettily instead of having a staring problem.

And he admired that. You didn't judge. You were friendly but respectful enough to keep your distance. You laughed at his jokes meant only to fill awkward silence, as if they were actually amusing.

Sam had a tough competition.