RAWR xD

Every time you roll over and smack the pillow in an attempt to find a more comfortable position, your mind replays memories of the night like images flashing across the silver screen. The crooked, excited smile on his face. His hand tugging yours to the dance floor. The gentle way he held you when the music slowed, his arm wrapping more securely around you. The look in his eyes when he pecked your cheek, like he wanted more but wasn't going to take it.

Your heart stutters.

Bucky wanted more.

The man who is—was?—like a brother to you, who listened to you complain about the way men treat you like you're something to claim, who never actually gave the advice you asked for and offered reassurance instead. He wanted more. But he didn't take it. He didn't even ask for it.

Because despite all the stories people have told about him since his freshman year of high school, despite all the women who have chased him, James Buchanan Barnes is, first and foremost, a gentleman.

Your gaze flicks to the vase your mother set near your windowsill. The flowers he brought specifically for you stand proudly under the soft glow of the streetlights outside, each petal a delicate display of something dangerously close to affection. Knowing he somehow knew exactly what flowers you prefer has something warm settling in your chest.

Years of being around the Barnes siblings, of being Rebecca's best friend. Years of looking at him like he's just Bucky. Now? The world has shifted, tilted on its axis before you could even think to brace yourself for the flood of realizations and subsequent emotions that can only mean one thing: you have feelings for him.

The thought makes your heart race and cheeks burn like a nervous schoolgirl.

Flipping your pillow over for the cool side, you shove your face into it hoping if it doesn't help you fall asleep, maybe it'll smother the thoughts running rampant in your brain.

Because Bucky Barnes is suddenly no longer just anyone.

And Rebecca is going to kill you.

The sun is just beginning to light the sky when sleep finally claims you, only waking at the incessant ring of the telephone down the hall. You're already pulling yourself out of bed and rubbing sleep from your eyes when the warm sound of your mother's voice answers the call. She smiles when you poke your head out the door.

"Phone's for you, dear." She holds out the receiver.

Mind still foggy with sleep and remnants of a dream you can barely recall, you head to the phone.

"Hello—"

"Come over, we're going to Rockaway," Becca's voice comes over the receiver, quick and impatient.

"No greeting?" you tease, leaning against the wall and fighting back a yawn. The house smells of lemon and sugar, making your stomach growl.

She sighs and you swear you hear her eyes rolling. "Hi, hope you're well. Bucky and Steve both have the afternoon off and if we leave soon we might still see daylight. Get over here."

— — —

The door to the Barnes residence swings open almost as soon as your knuckles touch it. A wild-eyed Becca beams the second her eyes land on you, the scent of Winnifred's fresh baked bread wafting out into the street.

"It's about time! That train is going to take us forever," Becca turns, calling to who you can only assume is Steve and Bucky in the living room. "She's here! Let's go!"

Steve's the first to come around the corner, a couple strands of his blond hair falling to the middle of his forehead. He offers a polite smile and a nod in greeting before Bucky rounds the corner, tossing an arm around his best friend's shoulders and meeting your gaze.

He looks unfairly handsome today; dark hair perfectly mussed, a grease smudge lingering near his temple from working at the garage this morning. The easy smile forming on his lips makes your stomach flip.

"Nice of you to finally show up," he says coolly. His gaze trails over your face, like he's searching for something. Or maybe he sees right through you.

Before you can even think to stop yourself, your mouth opens. "Miss me that bad?"

Bucky's eyebrows lift almost imperceptibly, his eyes flashing with something too quick to interpret.

"Maybe I did."

Becca, who is pretending not to watch the interaction and failing miserably, smirks and clears her throat. "Hey, Romeo, can we go now?"

Your eyes widen. Steve bites back a laugh while silently mouthing "Romeo?" and Bucky chuckles, already stepping forward and dragging Steve along with him out the door. Becca grins, clearly proud of herself, the loose curls of her hair bouncing as she falls into step beside you.

The day is bright and warm, bordering on uncomfortably hot as the mid-afternoon sun beats down on the sidewalks of Brooklyn. By the time you step off the train in Rockaway, mild relief comes in the form of a salty ocean breeze as the group walks down the boardwalk.

People sprawl out in all directions along the beach and across the street to Rockaways' Playland, earning a displeased grumble from Becca before leading the way through the crowd. She slips through easily, Steve following quickly behind her. Bucky falls in step behind you. Despite all the people, you can't help but be aware of exactly where he is, the sound of his shoes on the pavement, the low "excuse me" as he brushes past someone to keep up with you.

The crowd inside the park is only slightly less crowded as the beach itself. A line for the park's specialty wooden coaster snakes around in a neat line before ending near the carousel. The scent of fried funnel cakes and popcorn mixes with the salty air. It brings back memories of all the times this same group went to Coney Island growing up, when everything felt effortless for four kids in Brooklyn.

Your gaze lands on Bucky. He's laughing with Steve as they approach the line for the ticket booth ahead, carefree and happy as the afternoon sun highlights his sharp features.

Becca catches you looking and hooks her arm in yours. She leans over and whispers conspiritorially, "How was the date last night?"

Your eyes snap to hers, heart racing. Bucky glances over across the midway.

"Date?" you ask a little too quickly. As if Rebecca Barnes hasn't been able to read you like a book for most of your lives. You hadn't told her yet. You hadn't mentioned any Friday night plans to her, let alone that said plans had involved her older brother.

She gives you a look, all but rolling her eyes as the corners of her lips pull into a knowing smile.

"With my idiot brother, obviously."

Years of friendship, of shared laughter, tears, secrets and jokes have made you as close as any two people can possibly be. Things have changed overnight. You know it. She knows it. Yet she doesn't seem angry. If anything, she sounds relieved, like she's been waiting for the day Bucky finally stepped up.

"You're not mad?"

"Of course not," she scoffs before pressing further, giving you a little shake. "Details, girl, come on."

You swallow and huff a nervous laugh, suddenly finding a nearby pigeon incredibly interesting. "It was fine." Understatement of the century.

"Just fine?" she asks, leaning closer, voice raising in utter disbelief. "He came home practically floating on cloud nine last night. I've seen him go on a lot of dates over the last ten years, but there's only one person I've seen make him smile like—"

"Atom Smasher, ladies, let's go!" Bucky calls, his voice booming louder than necessary and pointing to the coaster rumbling by. People nearby glance at him sideways. Someone spills popcorn. He's staring at Becca with the look of an older brother knowing exactly what's about to be said and silently begging her not to continue.

She looks at you but doesn't finish her statement, turning on her heel and leaving you standing near a hot dog cart processing her words. You follow slowly, stomach flipping from more than just the thought of the roller coaster.

The afternoon moves in a blur of laughter, adrenaline, and too much sunlight for anyone's own good. Bucky attempts to play ring toss, insisting his aim is perfect, before wildly missing two of the three shots.

"What was that?" Becca snorts, doubling over in laughter and wiping non-existent tears from her eyes.

"Distracted, Buck?" Steve asks. His lips twitch with a knowing smile.

"What? No," he says quickly. The tips of his ears turn pink. "My arm's tired from the shop, shut up."

You bite back a smile from the sudden realization that James Barnes isn't always as suave as he appears and is, in fact, human—nerves and all.

He catches your eye before he rubs the back of his neck and clears his throat. "Anyone up for the shooting gallery? A quarter says I can hit the bullseye on the first try."

Steve and Becca glance at each other sideways.

The gallery sits toward the middle of the park, tucked between concessions and skill games against the roller coaster, with scooter cars across the midway. Lights flicker on, the sun beginning to set and casting an orange glow across the various structures. Bucky doesn't hesitate the moment the gallery comes into view. He rushes over and hands a dime to the attendant, wearing a grin that is far more confident than it probably should be.

The moment the gun touches his hand, his demeanor changes. He lifts it with all the seriousness in the world—intense focus and smooth movements that speak of a man who's done this more times than he can count. He pulls back the forend and fires a shot before you even blink. A bulb flashes immediately.

"Bullseye!" The attendant calls, grabbing the photo that just printed and setting it on the counter next to Bucky.

"Lucky shot," Steve scoffs.

"Jealous, Rogers?" he asks, lowering the gun.

"How—" you start.

Bucky glances over at you, his grin back. He grabs the picture and shoves it in his pocket unceremoniously. He shrugs, but the look on his face betrays just how confident he is. "Easier than it looks."

"Liar," Steve and Becca mumble simultaneously.

Bucky ignores them, his focus solely on you. "I'll prove it. Give it a try." He gestures with his head for you to come closer, the gun securely in his hands.

As you step towards him, interest piqued yet moving slower than strictly necessary, you barely register Steve clear his throat. "We're gonna go find something to drink," he announces before dragging Rebecca off somewhere.

"I'm going to embarrass myself," you mutter when you finally reach him.

Bucky's lips curl into a smirk that would be almost infuriating if it didn't make your pulse spike. "Not a chance, I'll help you. Do you trust me?"

"After ring toss? No."

He blinks, looking offended for a moment before a smile spreads across his face. "Oh come on, did I not just prove myself right here?" he laughs. "I'm better with a gun, I promise."

"Fine." With a resigned sigh and a roll of your eyes, you take the gun from him and step up to the counter. It's heavier than expected, the metal cool against the summer air, the wood polished just enough to be smooth in your palms.

Bucky waits for you to nod before he steps behind you. His hands are warm and careful as they guide your form; firm grip on the forend, butt plate braced against your shoulder, elbow just so.

His hands move to your shoulders, fingers squeezing gently. "Relax. Too stiff in the shoulders and you'll definitely feel it tomorrow."

"Easier said than done," you mutter, all too aware of how close he's standing and how heat is radiating from him.

He doesn't respond right away. Instead, he just watches, waiting. Your eyes are locked on the center of the target, finger on the trigger guard, breath coming out a little too quick.

You can feel the weight of his eyes on you, making your heart beat quicken. Then he leans down slightly.

"Do you have any idea how fun it is to watch you try to keep your composure?" His breath is hot against your ear. You shiver. You don't even have to look at him to know his lips are curved into that familiar Barnes grin that means trouble.

"Shut up," you huff, the gun still aimed at the target. Heat warms your cheeks, and the way your heart beats against your chest makes it hard to focus on the target in front of you.

He chuckles and takes a half step back, giving you space to focus.

"Rest your cheek against the wood. Line up both sights and take a breath. You can do it."

You take a deep breath, grateful for the space. The coaster roars by, rattling the ground beneath your feet. Then, with relaxed shoulders and a slow release of breath, you pump the forend and squeeze the trigger.

A bulb flashes.

"Bullseye!"

You stare at the target in disbelief. A beat passes. Two. A low whistle sounds from behind you.

"Would you look at that," Bucky murmurs, tone full of pride. "Careful. With a shot like that, they might send you to Camp McCoy."

A laugh slips from your lips and you shake your head, lowering the gun and handing it back to the attendant who hands you the souvenir photo.

You glance at the picture in your hands and everything stops.

Centered in the image is you, hair slightly ruffled from the afternoon's activities, face focused. Behind you is Bucky. Standing just beneath the Shoot-A-Photo sign, he stands tall. Proud. His eyes aren't on the target; they're on you, with a look on his face you've never noticed before—a soft smile, softer eyes. It makes your breath catch.

Bucky peeks over your shoulder at the picture, your silence making him curious. His gaze lingers on the photo for a moment before flicking up to your face, watching your expression.

"You're overthinking again," Bucky teases softly, pulling you from your thoughts. He nudges you with his elbow for good measure, chuckling when you attempt to swat him away.

"I'm not."

"Your eyebrows say otherwise."

You huff and turn to look at him. He grins before you speak again. "I'm just…trying to make sense of some things."

"Yeah," he sighs, his expression softening with an understanding nod. "I know the feeling."

His gaze drifts down the midway, finding Steve and Becca near the carousel. Steve suddenly finds something interesting in the sky, but Becca doesn't back down from watching the scene unfold.

"Walk with me?" Bucky asks, his eyes finding yours again.

You hesitate for a moment before nodding, the grip on the photo in your hands tightening slightly.

As the two of you walk through the park, each step slow, Bucky lets the silence stretch, allowing the amusement park's general chaos and tinny music fill the space instead. It's comfortable in a way you hadn't expected. Years of friendship now teetering on the edge between possibilities that could make or break everything you've ever known.

Bucky breaks the silence first, his hands shoved in his pockets. His shoulders are tense. "Remember how we used to spend essentially entire summers at Coney Island?"

The reminder makes you smile. "We spent far too much time there. Too much sun."

Bucky laughs. "And too much cotton candy. Becca used to badger me to not eat so much sugar."

"You never did listen. Those poor employees."

"Hey,"—he throws his hands up in surrender—"it's not my fault they offer pure sugar for so cheap and then have the best coaster in Brooklyn directly opposite the stand. It's like they encouraged it."

You both laugh, the nostalgia a welcome distraction for a moment before your thoughts comes crawling back. Bucky gives you a moment before speaking again, his voice low.

"Anything I can help you make sense of?"

You shake your head, unsure where to even begin or how honest to be. Your mind replays the past twenty-four hours and Rebecca's words. The photograph in your hand is physical proof that you aren't crazy.

"I don't even know how to explain it."

"Try."

"I'll sound ridiculous."

"Impossible."

You sigh, shoulders raising with a deep breath to brace yourself. "I thought you asked me out because you pitied me."

He stops in his tracks. His brows pinch in confusion as he looks at you.

"Pity?" The word leaves him like he's not sure he heard right. He says your name with a short huff of disbelief. "Why on earth would you think that?"

You shrug, not quite meeting his gaze. "Because my love life is hopeless. Because you're Rebecca's brother. Because I've watched women throw themselves at you for years. Take your pick."

His mouth opens and closes a couple times, processing your words. When he doesn't answer right away, you finally look at him, and for a moment, he looks torn between being honest or making a joke to ease the tension thickening the air. He picks the former.

"Last night was the furthest thing from pity. That was me finally doing something I should've done several years ago."

That admission hits hard, making your heart skip. "What?"

Bucky hesitates, rubbing the back of his neck. He takes a deep breath, voice low and steady.

"Every smile aimed in my direction makes me feel like I can take on the world. Every time you laugh at one of my stupid jokes…" he chuckles and shakes his head, his gaze falling to the concrete where the toe of his shoe scuffs the concrete. "Then you came over after another bad date asking me for advice with men that don't deserve you, and I had no idea what to say. Because to me, those men are just too blind to see how incredible you are."

The silence stretches between you, your mind and heart racing. His eyes lift to find yours again.

"Every time I look at you, I have to fight not to reach for you, to hold you. I took you out last night because I wanted you to know how I'd treat you if you gave me the chance."

"Why didn't you tell me sooner?" you whisper, voice barely audible among the noise.

He sighs. "I was scared—I still am. The last thing I want is to ruin what we have. You mean a lot to me."

The air stills.

"You really mean that?" Your feet move a half step closer.

Bucky looks at you, hoping flickering in his eyes. The tension in his shoulders ease.

"Every word," he murmurs. His hand lifts, his fingers brushing against your cheek. The touch is soft, barely there and different than last night—tentative and full of silent questions.

You find yourself leaning into his touch, warm and familiar in the best way. His eyes glance at your lips before searching your face for any signs of hesitation. His thumb brushes your cheekbone.

Then, slowly, he leans in.

The kiss is short but sweet. A simple press of lips, uncertain, yet enough to forget the noise and people around you as his hand moves to fully cup your cheek.

It ends too soon.

Bucky pulls away just enough to rest his forehead on yours. Opening your eyes, you find his still closed, lips parted with breaths that fan across your face in light puffs, brows drawn together just enough to cause a crease between them. He slowly pulls back again. A muscle in his jaw twitches when he finally opens his eyes, immediately flicking to your lips like he's committing how they feel to memory.

You smile before you can stop yourself, feeling lighter than you have in a long time. He licks his lip and grins back, a soft laugh escaping him.

"That was…" he starts.

"Terrible?" you offer. Bucky laughs again, his free hand lightly touching your waist like he wants to pull you closer.

"Better than I'd hoped, actually."

The admission is soft and makes your heart flutter.

"So…what happens after this?" you ask.

He nods thoughtfully, taking a half step back like he just remembered you're in public, Rockaways' Playland hardly being a place for privacy. His touch lingers for a moment before dropping back to his side.

"I'd like to give us a real chance. If you're open to it."

You don't let him finish before your answer comes tumbling out. "I'd like that, too."

Bucky's blue eyes sparkle under the midway lights. He doesn't say a word as he reaches for the hand not holding the photograph, fingers intertwining with yours like it's second nature.

"Perfect," he says softly. "Come on, I think fireworks are starting soon."

The walk back down the midway feels shorter than it did before. Maybe it's the weight of everything now lifted off your shoulders, or maybe it's the feeling of his hand in yours. Maybe it's the lingering memory of his kiss—an answer to the million questions you asked yourself over the last day. Whatever it is, the crowds heading towards the beach barely register.

Steve spots you first, smiling to himself at the sight of your joined hands before gently nudging Becca's side. Her eyes go wide. Her grin goes wider. No one says a word as the four of you follow the crowd to the beach across the street.

The sand is still warm from the day when you sit down, placing the picture on your lap. Bucky doesn't let go of your hand, his shoulder brushing yours as he joins you, his long legs stretching in front of him.

It's a short wait before the first firework bursts, red lighting the sky and reflecting across the water. Golds and blues join quickly and fill the air with a dazzling display.

You glance at Bucky. He's not looking at the fireworks. He's watching you, lips curving into a soft smile when your eyes meet.

His fingers tighten around yours, and you scoot a little closer, resting your head on his shoulder. He lets out a quiet sigh and gently leans his cheek against your head before finally looking at the fireworks overhead.

A/N: If you’ve made it this far, I just want to extend a massive thank you for reading and supporting this story. It’s been almost a year in the making, which blows my mind when it wasn’t meant to go this far. You’ve also seen me grow significantly as a writer and it genuinely makes me emotional. Anywho…as of now, I’m tentatively calling this the end—but you never know what inspiration might hit me and maybe there will be a sequel someday. Lots of love 💜

⤷ Everything S. Stan: @steelandvibranium @/phoenix-in-writing @syd-vixious @sebastians-love @overwintering-soldier @wintersgirllost @wint3rbarnes @miraclediviner @barnes-babydoll @buckytakethewheel @bucksbby @sheriff-bodecker @wherewinterblooms @dei-dreamz @ladymiseryy @ornateglass @galactict3a @take-u-2-an0ther-w0r1d @alyssinwunderland-blog-blog @blue-eyes-in-august @/juniebjonesin @erina00

⤷ Bucky Barnes only: @phantom-wolf-girl @bartonsparrow25 @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @highhopes1008 @hagridshaircare @jamesbbcrnes

⤷ Everything Taglist: @sunday-bug @tw1sters @/castielscaplan

⤷ Barnes Knows Best Taglist: @lost-girly-014 @dreamiierose

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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You kiss him back, your lips gliding against his wetly in a way that had him moaning into your mouth, had him gripping you by the waist and pulling you closer. You let out a soft sound of surprise against his lips when you feel the undeniable evidence of his arousal pressing against your stomach.

“Buck—” you murmur against his lips before you pull away, eyes flickering over his face that was bathed in warm light from the bedside lamp. “We need to—”

“—please,” Bucky whispers, his breath hot against your skin as he presses his lips to your neck, sending another surge of heat through your body, causing your cunt to pulse with need for the man in front of you. “Please, baby. Need you—need my wife.”

You couldn’t resist because you could never resist your husband, not when his cerulean blue eyes were looking at you like that, not when his cock—thick, heavy and aching for you—was pressed against your body, making your cunt clench around nothing.

And so, your hands reach up to cup either side of Bucky’s face to pull him in for a searing kiss. Bucky wastes no time in kissing you back with a kind of hunger that makes your core ache. His flesh hand squeezes the globe of your ass as the cool metal of his vibranium hand gently tilts your head back in order to deepen the kiss, the wet heat of his tongue licking into your mouth and causing every nerve in your body to come alive.

Even after so long together, even after two years of marriage, you can’t help but melt into him. Your arms wrap around his neck and you press your body flush against his as his flesh hand dances across your skin, goosebumps erupting in its wake before he hooks your thigh over his hip. You whimper against his lips, the feeling of his cock—painfully contained within the confines of his boxers—pressing against your clothed core and sending something that felt almost like electricity shooting through your body.

“Fuck,” Bucky groans against your mouth, pulling away only to take your bottom lip between his teeth and sucking it gently.

All thought about tomorrow, about what could happen almost completely leaves your mind for a moment, as Bucky’s fingers dip beneath your sleep shorts, his lips parting as he thumbs over the damp patch that had collected in your panties.

“You’re drenched, doll,” he murmurs, pressing his fingertips against your clit through your panties and smiling when you moan out loudly, nails biting into the skin of his shoulders. “All from a little kissing? Oh, doll.”

“Buck—” you gasp out, bottom lip pulled between your teeth as his fingers pull your panties to the side to slide the digits between your folds. You let out a noise—somewhere between a moan and a whimper—as your back across off the bed. Bucky groans shamelessly, collecting your slick from between your folds over his fingers before he smears it over your swollen, puffy clit, reveling in the pretty sounds falling from your lips as a result.

Your body jolts, his name falling from your lips in a desperate, wanton moan that your neighbours were surely to complain about in the morning. Not that you cared as your husband was circling your sensitive bud with one deft finger, causing heat to spread from your core to every damn nerve throughout your body.

You mewl, you whine, you were incapable of uttering anything but your husband’s name, especially when you felt the familiar cool metal of the fingers from his other hand prod at your entrance.

“I know, baby—I know,” he hums, pressing soft kisses to your warm cheek as though he wasn’t the one making your body writhe against the sheets. “Just relax f’me, yeah? Let me take care of my wife.”

Those words go straight to your dripping cunt, because despite being married for over two years, hearing Bucky Barnes call you his wife still made you lose your damn mind. 

You hear the sound of Bucky tearing your pyjama shorts off your body, feel him pull your soaked panties hastily down your legs before throwing them unceremoniously to the other side of the room. 

With your bottom half completely bare to Bucky, your body shudders with anticipation, arousal coating your folds that glisten for him in the warm light. Your husband could barely contain himself—both his large hands clasp your knees in order to spread your legs wide open for him.

You don’t notice how his hands shake slightly because his mouth sealing over your wet heat distracts you.

“Buck!” You mewl out, your hands reaching out to grab onto his hair, the longer locks threading through your fingers before you tug at them harshly. Bucky hums against you and the vibration sends shockwaves through your body, right down to your toes. You barely have time to recover however as he swirls the tip of tongue around your swollen clit and suddenly, your mind goes blank.

“Fuck, I love you so much,” Bucky murmurs against you before he starts sucking on your clit with such enthusiasm that your back begins to bow off of the mattress, but your husband’s vibranium hand stops you from doing so. His flesh one was creeping up your thigh, fingertips dancing along the skin and leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. “Gonna make you feel s’fucking good. Even if it’s—”

He cuts himself off and you don’t have time to question him, not when Bucky was pressing two of his thick fingers deep inside of you. He wastes no time in curling them, in pressing firmly against that spongey spot inside you, in returning his mouth to your clit and making you see stars.

You couldn’t speak, couldn’t even form a vaguely coherent thought, not when the dual sensation of Bucky’s mouth over your clit and his fingers fucking in and out of you with the most obsence noises was all you could focus on. You barely notice how desperate he seemed, the way he was holding onto you like he was scared you might disappear.

“Bu-Bucky,” you gasp, your hands in his hair tugging in a warning as the feeling in your lower gut builds and builds and builds. The sounds he was making between the thighs—the wet sounds, the low moans of his mouth full of your pussy—were pulling you closer and closer to the edge, the sounds falling from your lips were unabashedly loud but nothing else mattered when Bucky Barnes was between your thighs, worshipping you. 

“Please come,” Bucky groans against you, his voice breaking from arousal? From holding back? You weren’t sure. “Please come baby, I need—”

You cut him off with a loud cry as your orgasm crashes over you. It was so intense—it always was with Bucky—and yet, you had never gotten used to the way your body shakes, the way stars burst behind your eyes. Your pussy gushes around Bucky’s fingers, your walls squeezing the digits as though trying to keep him inside of you. His fingers continue to pump in and out of you, his tongue lapping every last drop of your essence greedily as a mix of his saliva and your slick sticks to his stubble.

You felt pleasure in every nerve, every damn cell in your body and the only damn thing keeping you tethered to the earth was Bucky. His fingers that were still inside of you, his metal hand on your hip, his hair between your fingers, the choked sounds he was making and the—

You blink, your body still coming down from the intense high that Bucky had given you but everything comes back into focus as the sounds Bucky was making finally registers. 

“James,” you gasp softly, your hands gently cupping his face as you pull him up to your level, his fingers withdrawing and leaving you empty. His face was wet, mostly with your slick but also with—his tears. Bucky was crying. “Buck—why—”

“—n-nothing, I just—”

You tap his cheek gently, a soft look in your eyes as you feel a sudden weight in your chest. One that reminded you of the mission he was leaving for in the morning, the one he had told you not to worry about.

“—it’s the mission, isn’t it?” You ask him quietly, your voice barely a whisper as your thumb gently wipes away his tears. “You—you’re scared.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything but the way he looks back at you says it all. Your heart tightens in your chest.

“Buck, it’s going to be fine,” you say, unsure of whether you were trying to convince him or yourself. “You guys—you always find a way to pull through and—”

“—it’s different this time,” Bucky interjects, a look on his face you don’t quite recognise, one that makes your stomach turn, makes you feel a sense of dread that you’re not quite sure what to do with.

“It feels different and I—I just—I keep looking at you and thinking ‘what if this is the last time that I’—fuck—”

He pinches the bridge of his nose, eyes snapping shut as he turns his face away from you, not wanting you to see the tear that slips down his cheek.

Your heart feels as though it shatters into a million tiny pieces at the sight of his tears.

“Hey,” you whisper to him gently, your own throat suddenly feeling too tight as you pull him closer, trying to anchor him with your touch. “Don’t talk like that, Buck. You—you’re going to be fine, okay? You and everyone else are going to be—”

“—but what if we’re not?” Bucky asks you, his eyes shining as he looks back at you with an intensity that feels all consuming. “What if I—what if something happens and I—”

“—don’t say it—”

“—and I don’t come home.”

You swallow, your eyes burn and your throat feels too tight to even speak because the thought of something happening to Bucky—to your husband, to the love of your life—it just was too much to even comprehend.

“You will,” you say finally and with such certainty that Bucky’s eyes can’t help but shift over to meet yours. “You will, okay? You always find a way to come home, Buck.”

For a moment, Bucky looks as though he was going to argue, that he was going to let his fear and anxiety win but your hand acts as anchor, warm palm gently pressing against the hard muscle of his chest. Reminding him of why he did this—of why he fought so hard. To come home—to come home to you.

”You’ll come home,” you repeat quietly, your fingertips grazing against his bare skin, leaving his flesh burning beneath your touch, causing a curl in his gut and making him incredibly aware of the fact you were still bare from the waist down, traces of your arousal still smeared across his face, still lingering in his stubble. “You always come home, Buck.”

A fierce kind of determination burns in Bucky’s eyes, so much love and devotion there that it very nearly takes your breath away. A determination to not only survive but to keep you safe because nothing—absolutely nothing—was more important to Bucky than that. 

His metal hand—the one that had once hesitated before touching you—cups your cheek gently. The combined feeling of the cool metal of his palm and his thumb stroking over your skin makes you shudder but you don’t dare look away.

”Always,” Bucky murmurs quietly before he leans in, his lips just barely grazing yours and yet—the barely there kiss reignites the fire burning in your gut. Your hands dance along Bucky’s bare skin, along the sensitive flesh where his shoulder was fused with vibranium before they find home at the nape on his neck, fingers curling in the hair and making him moan against you.

Bucky’s lips soon press more firmly against yours, making your head spin and your heart race. You return the kiss with equal fever as you feel his cock hardening beneath his boxers once again against your thigh. Another groan is pulled from Bucky’s throat, his hands moving to grip the swell of your hips desperately, dragging you closer as his tongue smooths over yours, licking eagerly into your mouth. You swear that you feel fresh slick already oozing out of you as a result.

You feel Bucky’s hand move from your thigh, his destination the wetness between your legs but you place your hand over his before he could press his fingers inside you yet again.

You shake your head, smiling at him as you move your hand to rest on your husband’s abdomen. You watch the way the muscles there twitch, his body shuddering under your touch.

“Baby, please don’t tease me,” Bucky groans, throwing his head back against the pillow and exposing his neck to you. You can’t help yourself—you lean in, pressing your lips to his skin and fighting back a smile as Bucky makes a small noise beneath you, your fingers gently tickling the dark trail of hair that disappeared beneath his boxers.

“I would never,” you murmur, your hands continuing their journey down his body, palming his now rock hard cock over his boxers. Bucky’s response was instant—his muscles tense, he pulls his bottom lip between his teeth as he tries not to let out any more noise. But one squeeze of his cock through the material has him whining beneath you. Because Bucky Barnes may have been a six foot super soldier, but he was always putty in your hands.

“Sweetheart—”

You silence him by yanking his boxers down. His thick, heavy cock slaps audibly against his stomach and you can’t help but marvel at the beautiful sight—at the ruddy tip that was already leaking precum, at the veins bulging along the length. 

Fuck—there was not a better sight than your husband’s cock.

Your hand wraps around him (as best you could given the sheer size of him) and you give him a slow but firm stroke. 

Bucky lets out a strangled sound, his head tipping back against the soft pillow as you speed up ever so slightly, twisting your hand at the head before gliding back down with the help of his precum. Bucky’s hips jerk upwards and you watch—in awe—as his lips part, as his breathing turns ragged, as his hips cant into every stroke—so fucking desperate for you that you could feel the wetness pooling between your thighs. 

“F-fuck,” Bucky groans, his fingers fisting into the sheets as the obsence sounds you fisting his cock fill the room. The schlick, schlick sounds was lewd but fuck, if it wasn’t turning you on even more. “Feels so fucking good, baby. I fuckin’ love you s’much.”

You can’t help but smile at his words, your heart thumping in your chest as your eyes flicker up to look at his face. You don’t dare slow the rhythm of your hand but you take a moment to just look at him. To look at how truly beautiful he was, how much he trusted you to take control, at how there was once a point in your relationship where you didn’t know if that would ever be possible since someone else in control had once meant pain, meant torture for Bucky but now? Now—Bucky was more than happy to let you take control. 

“I love you too, Buck,” you tell him gently, the sweetness in your voice a direct contrast to the way you were pumping his cock, taunting him by swiping your thumb over the slit, spreading the precum over the velvety skin and making Bucky whimper beneath you.

“Baby, please,” he whines, his hand wrapping around your wrist to slow your movements. “Please. If you keep—if you keep doing that, m’gonna cum and I—I want—I need to cum inside you, sweet girl. I need to fill my wife up, need’t see my cum dripping out of you. Need to—”

You shut him up by pulling him into a searing kiss. One that has him pulling you flush against him, groaning into your mouth as he flips you easily onto your back. You let out a small squeal against his lips, one that turns into a whimper the moment that you feel the fat head of his cock nudging at your entrance. 

“Bucky,” you whine, back bowing off the bed as you try to pull him closer, one leg hooking around his hip to try and press his thick cock even further inside of you. But Bucky seems hellbent on taking his time, holding the base of his cock as he guides it teasingly between your folds, coating it completely in your slick. “Buck, please—”

You’re cut off by your own loud moan as Bucky sinks in home. Your husband was always a stretch but god, you loved how full you felt when he was inside of you. How it very nearly felt as though you were being split in half, how you felt him in every damn every in your body.

“You feel s’good, sweetheart,” Bucky tells you, pressing his lips to your forehead in a sweet kiss as he bottoms out, the tip of his cock kissing your cervix and making your toes curl. “Feel s’good, I wanna marry you again. Once wasn’t enough.”

You let out a loud laugh, one that makes Bucky beam down at you, the corners of his eyes crinkling with because god, he loved you. He loved you so, so much and if anything happened to him—

He couldn’t think about that now. He couldn’t even let the thought in. Because he was going to survive. He was going to keep his promise to you. He was going to come home. Because Bucky was always going to make it home. 

His flesh hand slips into yours, fingers intertwining and resting on the pillow beside your head. You don’t miss the way Bucky’s thumb brushes over your wedding band, the small action making your heart suddenly feel two sizes too big.

“I love you,” he whispers, his vibranium hand cupping your face and holding you like you were something more precious than gold. “I love you so much, baby.”

The corner of your mouth twitches, your hands find the plains of his chest and your nails bite into his skin, your throat feeling momentarily too tight.

“I love you more.”

Bucky smiles down at you, squeezing your hand as he pulls his hips back, leaving just the tip inside of you before pushing back in. Your velvety walls pulse around him, making it difficult for Bucky to even form a coherent thought.

“Not possible,” he manages to grits, slamming back into you and hitting that spot inside of you that knocks the breath right out of you, has you holding onto him even tighter.

Your interlocked hands don’t move from their spot on the pillow, not as Bucky begins to pick up the pace, not as the lewd sounds of his cock slamming into your soaked cunt begin to fill the room, adding to the symphony of your moans and Bucky’s low groans.

The headboard knocks against the wall, your moans only get louder as Bucky’s cock sinks into you over and over and over again. It was so intense, so overwhelming and with the thought of tomorrow lingering over you? The heat that was burning through you was near impossible to hold back.

You mewl out, your hand squeezes his as you feel the coil in your gut tightening, so close to snapping that you felt tears well up in your eyes due to the sheer amount of pleasure you were feeling.

“Oh, are you close, baby?” Bucky asks in a teasing voice, despite the fact you could see the sweat glistening on his forehead, the muscles bulging in his arms from the effort of holding back. “You gonna be a good girl and come f’me?”

You wish that those two little words didn’t have an effect on you, wish that you could have held back for even a few more seconds. But Bucky knew you and knew exactly what you needed to tip you over the edge.

A sound tears from your throat, somewhere between a sob and a moan as your orgasm crashes through your body like a damn tidal wave. You felt it in every nerve, every cell, every bone throughout your body. Your thighs shake, your back arches off the mattress and your velvety walls squeeze around him so tight that Bucky can’t help but follow you right over the edge.

Bucky finishes with a loud, needy groan that was in danger of waking the whole damn building. Not that you cared, not when Bucky’s hips stuttered against yours, slamming into your spent pussy a final time before flooding it with hot spurts of his cum, your name falling from his lips over and over again.

“When I get back,” Bucky murmurs, his lips grazing your shoulder gently before he pulls away to look at you. “We’re going to do that every night, deal?”

You let out a warm laugh, your body shuddering slightly as Bucky pulls out of you. You feel his cum oozing out of you due to the sheer amount he had produced, could feel it dripping down your thighs and onto the freshly washed sheets. But that didn’t matter when Bucky’s thumb once again was rubbing over your wedding band, not when he was looking down at you with such reverence in his eyes.

“Deal,” you say with a small smile. “Now, should we go to sleep or—”

You were cut off by your own small shriek as Bucky grabs your waist and rolls over, leaving you sat on top of him, straddling his waist and feeling his thick cock hardening beneath you once again.

“—not yet,” Bucky murmurs, his eyes shifting down to his cum still leaking out of you. “Gonna make sure it sticks, baby.”

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「 puppy love 」

♌︎ August 3rd | by @buckytakethewheel The first time you and Leo met was as seven year olds on a playground. His first words to you? “You’re gonna be my wife”. Almost two decades later, you’ve heard that phrase leave his mouth more times than you can count. But is there a chance it will ever mean something real?

「 take a chance on me 」

♌︎ August 7th | by @phoenix-in-writing It was with great reluctance you showed up to the country club, put on the practiced smile that had sold millions of records worldwide, and braced for the latest celebrity gossip to catch up with you OR The five times Leo Reilly tries to impress a popstar that already has everything money could buy, and the one time he actually does.

「 aye aye, captain 」

You slip into the quiet beach house after midnight, the wooden stairs creaking under your bare feet. The family vacation was supposed to be chill, a respite from college finals. You just wrapped up your first year at NYU with your brother, Bucky. Unlike many traditional students, the two of you commuted to/from Manhattan. The perks of living in Brooklyn.

And if you want to be technical, Bucky is your stepbrother.

Bucky is also the guy who’s been glaring at you like he wants to either fight you or fuck you since your parents got hitched last year. Maybe both.

Nothing’s ever neutral with Bucky Barnes around.

The living room is dark except for the faint glow of the ocean through the big windows. You freeze when you see him already on the oversized sectional, one arm slung behind his head, shirtless in those low-slung gray sweatpants that should be illegal. Moonlight cuts across the hard lines of his chest. He doesn’t look surprised to see you. Like he was waiting.

“Couldn’t sleep either, huh?” His voice is low, rough.

You swallow, clutching the hem of your oversized sleep shirt. “Just… getting water.”

But you don’t move. The air between you feels charged, like the storm rolling in off the water. Weeks of this—sniping at each other during family dinners, him “accidentally” brushing against you in the kitchen, you catching him staring when he thinks you’re not looking. The tension’s been building since that stupid fight last month while you were cramming for exams. It ended with him pinning you against the wall and growling that you were driving him fucking crazy.

He shifts, patting the cushion next to him. “C’mere.”

“Bucky.”

“It’s too late to fix it now,” he murmurs, eyes locked on yours, dark and intense in the shadows, “so why don’t you just lie down here in the dark with me?”

Your heart slams against your ribs. This is crossing every line. The kind of wrong that makes your thighs press together even as your brain screams bad idea. But your feet carry you over anyway. You sink onto the couch, keeping a careful foot of space between you. He doesn’t let it stay that way. One big hand curls around your waist, tugging you closer until your curves are pressed against his solid warmth, your breasts brushing his side, your thigh draping over his.

“Fuck, you feel good,” he breathes, nose brushing your hair. His fingers trace lazy circles on your hip, slipping under the shirt to find bare skin. “Been thinking about this since you walked in wearing that little bikini earlier. Acting all innocent while your ass is out there tempting me.”

“Bucky, we can’t.” Your protest is weak and breathy, because his other hand is already sliding up your thigh, calloused palm rough and possessive.

“Too late, doll.” His voice drops, lips ghosting your ear. “Parents are asleep upstairs. House is quiet. And I’ve been hard for you for months. You gonna keep pretending you don’t want it too?”

You shiver as he kisses your neck, slow and open-mouthed, teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp. His hand cups one of your breasts, thumb circling your nipple through the thin fabric until it’s aching. “God… been dying to get my hands on you properly. So fucking soft and perfect.”

You arch into him without meaning to, a little whimper escaping. He chuckles darkly, flipping you so you’re straddling his lap, your panties grinding against the thick bulge in his sweats. “That’s it. Ride it a little. Let me feel how wet you already are for your stepbrother.”

His words are filthy and loving all at once, hands worshipping every inch like he’s claiming what’s always been his. He pulls your shirt up and off, mouth latching onto your breast, sucking and biting while his fingers dip between your legs, pushing your panties aside to stroke your slick folds.

“Such a good girl for me,” he growls against your skin. “Gonna make you come on my fingers first, then my cock. Quiet, though little sister. We don’t want them hearing how bad their sweet little daughter’s cunt needs her big brother’s cock.”

You bury your face in his shoulder, rocking against him as he works you open, two thick fingers curling just right while his thumb teases your clit. The ocean waves crash outside, matching the rhythm building inside you. It’s wrong. It’s everything.

He flips you onto your back suddenly, hovering over you, sweatpants shoved down just enough to free himself. “Look at me,” he demands, lining up at your entrance. “Want to see those pretty eyes when I finally fuck you.”

You bite your lip hard, those your eyes wide and glassy as you take him in.

Fuck, he’s big. Your mouth waters at the idea of sucking him and swallowing his load.

You grin and hook your thumbs onto your panties. You lift your hips, ready to pull them down. “Then come take what’s always been yours dear brother.”

Ruffled, sleep mussed, dark brown hair. Slightly squinted, soft, deep blue eyes. A white sleep shirt that loosely clung to the hard ridges of a muscled body. Grey sweatpants that hung dangerously low and showed the shape of him if you stared longer than was appropriate.

And, god, the low, husky voice that you could feel rumble through your body from metres away. The slender, strong, veiny hands that didn't hesitate to grab the box slipping from yours. The pink lips that stretched into an easy smile, pearly white teeth dazzling and rendering you speechless for a minute.

The heat that crawled up your back was instant—your body reacting to your new roommate before you even knew his name.

Attractive men existed, you knew that. The bar you worked at had handfuls of them come in every night, some that even flashed you a flirty smile with interest in their eyes. But you didn't live with any of them—you didn't see them when they were half-awake, their rough edges softened by sleep and early morning light.

He introduced himself as James Barnes, but he requested you call him Bucky—"only my ma calls me James"—, and mentioned he worked as a physiotherapist at the VA.

He was quick to put the box in your new room, running out to the curb to grab the rest of your belongings from the rental van. You stood near the entrance, frozen in shock. Words failed you, your brain failed you—the only thing you could think about was the shift of his back muscles beneath his shirt as he hauled boxes through the door. It was an intoxicating sight, one you didn't even know would affect you.

You quickly came to learn that the problem was Bucky—everything he did had an intoxicating effect on you.

The smile he flashed you as he handed you your morning coffee, the wink he tossed your way when he took your side in your weekly movie night debate with Sam, his laughs that you could hear through your shared wall when he gamed with his friends.

His laughter was one of the most intoxicating things about him. There were the low, deep huffs when he was tired. The louder, harsher ones when he was caught by surprise. Then your favourite—the long, slightly breathless giggles that crinkled the corner of his eyes and had his nose scrunching. Every time you were blessed with them, you could only think about how cute he looked. It made him even more attractive, and you even more infatuated.

When your friend and roommate said that she was going to move into her partner's apartment once your lease was up, the first thing you felt was dread. You didn't know anyone who was looking for a room, nor did you know anyone who was looking for a roommate. The last thing you wanted was to move in with a stranger—having already lived with complete strangers in the past you could not say it was a pleasant experience. Your friend—an absolute angel—was quick to tell you that a coworker at her law firm was looking for a roommate, and she assured you that Nat would not break into your room and steal your jewellery like your first ever roommate did.

While you weren't exactly ecstatic to move in with four best friends, Nat had quickly won you over when you met for coffee. You sat down feeling like a complete contrast to her—sporting an old sweatshirt over your sweaty work uniform while she was in a creaseless emerald pantsuit. But she made you feel completely at ease—offering up embarrassing college stories about her and the guys, asking you about yourself and actually seeming interested, talking about the brownstone with so much adoration in her voice you couldn't help but love it already.

You felt awkward living with the close knit friends at first—shuffling on your feet as the four of them lounged on the couches, pulling at the loose threads on your sweater as you sat and listened to them bicker.

Fortunately, it didn't take long for you to find your place in the group. Sam played a big part—his teasing and infectious personality making you feel at home within a week. He didn't let you retreat into yourself; he pestered you with a mix of random and personal questions—"what extinct animal do you most identify with" followed by "what was your first heartbreak"—, teased you about your cooking (to which he always stole a mouthful), and was just warm—and yeah, slightly chaotic.

Nat and Steve quickly became one of your favourite couples. They weren't heavy on the PDA—unless red wine was involved—and they balanced each other out perfectly. She was loud, he was quiet. After a few too many on a night out she was ready to start a fight with any asshole who dared to look her way, and he was there to gently steer her away by the shoulders and remind her it wasn't worth ruining her fresh manicure.

Despite having some opposite traits, they were both incredibly kind and comforting people—truly living up to their titles of being the household's mom and dad. Nat was there for you after your gruelling shifts, holding either a glass of wine or mug of hot chocolate. Steve was the one knocking on your door with a bowl of soup and bag of medicine when you had the flu.

And then there was Bucky. He was just as kind, a good middle between Sam's chaotic nature and Steve's quiet one, and he made you feel seen.

Uncomfortably so.

He was the one next to you during social gatherings, gently nudging his shoulder against yours in a silent check in. He was the one suggesting fresh air when your breathing picked up incrementally. He was the one staring at you like he was captivated, sitting forward as you rambled about your niche interests.

Bucky noticed you, paid attention to you, like no one else had in your life.

He remembered what mugs you liked, making sure to use one of them when he made you both coffee—he remembered that too, the way you liked your coffee made. He bought you more body wash when you complained about running out but not having time to go to the shop before your shift. He sat next to you as you rewatched your comfort shows for the fifth time, asking questions like he was genuinely interested—a welcome contrast to Sam's mocking comments.

Each day he was in your life, looking at you like you were worth knowing, was just another day you fell deeper.

And then there were the moments. There weren't many, only a handful, but they were burned into your memory.

The first was when you came back after brunch with old friends, wearing a white sundress that made you feel pretty.

Bucky was in the kitchen, leaning against the counter while eating an apple. You smiled in greeting as you walked in, grabbing a glass to fill with water. You sneaked a side glance at him like you always do when he's in the same room as you, catching his eyes already on you—drifting from the bottom of your dress up to your chest. You watched his adam's apple bob in his throat as he swallowed.

"That's a nice dress, sweetheart."

Goosebumps erupted across your skin at his low drawl, a warmth spreading in your core from the pet name. He had never called you that before.

He pushed off the counter and walked out of the kitchen, acting like those five words hadn't changed your whole day—your whole life.

Where once you thought the dress was pretty, you now saw it as a lifeline—tethering you to the hope that Bucky might just like you back. You found reasons to wear it more often; making an effort to hang out in the common spaces when you came back home wearing it, delaying changing into your comfortable clothes because Bucky wasn't home yet and you wanted him to see it. To see you.

The second moment was when the five of you were at a birthday party for one of Sam's army buddies.

Nat and Steve had left after only being there for half an hour—Nat giggling to you on their way out, telling you and the boys to hold off on coming back home for a couple of hours. Sam was in the lounge with a large crowd hanging on to his every word as he retold his war hero stories— to which Bucky was quick to throw you a look, raising his hands to mimic being strangled, making you laugh and receive dagger eyes from Sam.

The two of you made your way outside towards the game of beer pong being set up. Bucky was quick to accept their offer to join in and that's how you found yourself standing opposite him, a sticky fold out table between you—the ping pong ball in your hand shaking, your breath catching as his lips tilted into a smirk. His eyes were as dark as the sky, the moonlight making them twinkle with their own constellations—staring straight into yours with a silent challenge, daring you to miss your next shot. His tongue sweeping over his bottom lip stole your attention and your hand faltered, the ball almost dropping out of your grip.

"You got this, sweetheart."

Time slowed down as the ball left your hand, your eyes watching it sail through the crisp night air while Bucky watched you. It dropped to the table with a pathetic, dull tock—inches away from any of the red solo cups. Bucky's smile grew even more lopsided, his eyes gleaming with mirth.

"Better luck next time, angel."

What the fuck was with him calling you these stupid, heart stuttering, knee trembling pet names?

Your beer pong partner was quick to brush off your missed shot, chuckling at your flustered expression and offering to help you with your stance. The game continued with you almost missing every shot, your partner guiding you with hands on your hips in the hopes of you sinking a cup. His arms wrapped around your waist when you made your first successful shot, but it wasn't his attention that had your mind clouding—you couldn't even say it was the alcohol flowing through your veins. No, it was the look of pride on Bucky's face that had you freezing, everything else around you fading away until all that remained was shining midnight eyes and curved pink lips.

God, how you wished the arms around your waist were his.

The guys you were playing with retreated inside after the game ended, with your partner telling you to find him before you left, throwing you an easy smile over his shoulder.

Bucky and you lingered in the fresh air, slowly walking towards the backdoor, your bare arm brushing against his denim jacket with every step. Music and laughter trickled out of the open windows, the noise softening in the cool breeze before it reached you. Despite the calm, you felt your body vibrate with a persistent buzz—Bucky's close proximity and the beer you downed making it hard to find the line between your feelings and reality.

"You do realise he was flirting with you, right?" Bucky's voice broke the silence. You turned your head to find him already gazing at you—soft eyes a contradiction to his clenched jaw.

You scoffed, looking at him like he'd grown another head. "What, no he wasn't."

"Uh yeah, he definitely was. The 'let me fix your stance' play is the oldest trick in the book and has a pretty decent success rate." He chuckled softly, shaking his head with an uptick of a smile. "Not with you, though." He paused, giving you a teasing wink. "I'll keep that in mind."

The wink had your body flushing with heat, the words I'll keep that in mind burrowing into your lovesick heart and amplifying the buzzing. Your words stumbled on their way out."Th-there's no way he was flirting with me—he's way out of my league."

Bucky stopped in his tracks, turning to face you fully with a deep crease between his eyebrows. The gentle breeze swept a strand of hair over his face, your hand twitching with the need to brush it behind his ear.

His voice dropped low, the teasing tone subduing. "What are you on about? Tell me you know that's not true, doll."

You crossed your arms over your chest, feeling exposed and vulnerable under the intimacy of the dark sky. You shivered, not just from the cooling wind caressing your bare arms. You gave a small shrug in response.

Bucky started to take his jacket off, exposing the black t-shirt that hugged his biceps a little too tight for your sanity. "While I don't believe in the whole people being in different leagues thing, I can confidently say you are so far out of his league you're on a whole nother planet."

"…Are you saying I'm an alien?"

"If the shoe fits," Bucky responded, a fraction of his seriousness easing into a cheeky smile. He draped his jacket over your shoulders, his thumbs brushing the sides of your neck as he fixed the collar—another shiver running down your spine from his faint touch. The warm, rich scent of his cologne and him wrapped around you and dragged you under—the scent that you now associated with home.

Bucky's eyes met yours, the starlit blue swirling with something you couldn't quite decipher. His hands moved from the collar of his jacket to the hem, fingers toying with the rough fabric. "No, what I'm trying to say is that you're—" he licked his lips, trying to find the right words. "Any guy would be lucky to have you, but I don't think anyone is deserving of you."

Your brain short-circuited, the haze of rose coloured glasses starting to fall over your eyes—threatening to distort the Bucky in front of you with the one you stayed up late daydreaming about.

You found a smaller version of your voice. "I…I'm not that special, Buck."

He tugged on the hem, the force pulling the jacket tighter around your shoulders. "No? Then why are you the only person—other than Steve—that I let call me Buck?"

You stared at him, unblinking. You didn't realise other people didn't call him Buck—the nickname just slipped from your lips so naturally after the first month of living with him.

"One of these days, I'm going to make you see yourself how I do."

He leaned in, brushing the faintest of kisses on your forehead—the mere ghost of his lips burning your skin, eliciting a cascade of sparks to run down your body. He stepped back, stuffing his hands in his pockets and tilted his head towards the door.

"Let's get back inside before Sam tells everyone about the time he had to save you from a raccoon."

"He had very sinister looking eyes!" You cried indignantly. "And I was really stoned—remind me to never have one of Nat's brownies ever again."

The third moment happened during your bar's weekly quiz night.

The four of them were in their usual booth for the night—the one Sam demanded you reserve for them ever since you mentioned your work had a quiz night on Tuesdays. Nat and Steve were sitting on one side, each nursing a pint of craft beer, with Sam and Bucky sitting opposite them—the latter half hanging out of the booth with his hand raised in a beckoning gesture, shooting you one of those irresistible half smiles that made the butterflies in your stomach flutter.

You rolled your eyes at him, knowing exactly what he wanted—but you couldn't stay away from that smile, even if it was starting to get you in trouble at work.

You walked over to them, pocketing your pen and notepad before stopping next to Bucky, your eyebrows raised and arms folded.

"What do you want now?"

"Can I please place an order for the answer to question five?" Bucky held the quiz sheet up to you, pointing at the blank space next to number five like it was a menu. "Oh, and question eight." His smile evolved into a endearing grin, your heart aching traitorously at the sight.

"No."

The smile dropped a fraction, not expecting you to say no to his charm. "C'mon, you're the one here who knows niche pop culture the best—even Sam is stumped. I know you know the answers."

You nodded, looking at the sheet in his hand before his puppy dog eyes made you crumble. "You're right, I do. I'm not giving them to you, though."

"I thought I was your favourite." His voice dropped like he was genuinely upset, but his twitching cheeks gave away the smile he was suppressing. Sam scoffed next to him, Nat and Steve exchanged a knowing look. You ignored them.

Bucky put the sheet on the table, patting it softly like he was about to make a deal. "How 'bout this—I'll make you dinner for a week." He carefully watched your face, trying to find a crack in your resistance. "Two weeks."

You sighed, dropping your arms to your sides. "Bucky, the prize is only a fifty dollar bar tab."

Bucky shook his head. "It's not about the prize, it's about the glory of winning four weeks in a row." He squinted his eyes, tilting his head in the way you knew meant he was thinking—probably something stupid, too. "Wait—is there another prize for that?"

You scoffed, tempted to hit him with your notepad. "Yeah, you get put on the no entry list."

Nat and Steve snickered at Bucky's clearly offended face, and you bit your lip to hold back your smile—he looked too cute, it was tugging at your heart strings.

"Besides," you continued, "you only won them because you cheated."

He raised his hands in mock defence. "Hey, not my fault the pretty waitress was more than willing."

Sam choked on his beer, spluttering a mouthful onto the table. Your eyebrows skyrocketed, heat rushing to your cheeks and ears at his choice of words.

Bucky's cheeks lit up red and he ran a hand through his hair. "No—wait, I didn't—that wasn't what I meant." He nervously chuckled. "What I meant was that you're more than willing to help—help us…" He trailed off, turning and shooting Steve a look.

Some of the tension left your shoulders, along with some of the hope you always carried that Bucky liked you more than a friend. You cleared your throat, your heart rate struggling to slow down after 'pretty waitress'.

"Maybe I've grown a conscience." You looked slightly to your left, your eyes flicking to your manager standing at the end of the bar, narrowing her eyes at you.

Bucky chuckled softly, his confidence back even with his cheeks still glowing. He crossed his arms on the table, leaning towards you. "Are we gettin' you in trouble, sweetheart?"

"There's no we in this, Barnes. It's all you." Nat interjected, pointing a perfectly manicured finger at him. He gave her a dismissive wave, his eyes still looking at you expectantly.

"She said if you win one more time then she's going to put me on the bar for quiz nights—something about testing a theory…" You admitted quietly. You watched his blue eyes soften, his previous amusement dissipating.

"Well, we can't have that happening." He said, serious. "I would stop coming to quiz night."

"Yeah, right." Sam muttered into his beer.

"You'd be on the no entry list anyways, Buck." You said to Bucky, your tone lilting jokingly.

He tilted his head, the right side of his mouth twitching, his eyes looking like a sky full of secrets.

"You wouldn't do that to me, doll. You like me too much."

Your stomach dropped at his low voice, his words piercing right into the chamber of your heart he had unknowingly etched his name on. A breath got stuck in your throat, your usual witty banter getting lost in the sea of thoughts that only screamed his name.

Like an angel pulling you from a seizing riptide, your managers voice called out your name—saving you from saying something stupid, something that exposed how you had gone past the boundary of like six months ago, stepping into a dangerous territory that could tear you apart.

"Duty calls," you laughed out breathlessly, pointing a thumb over your shoulder. You turned on your heels and walked away like you were on fire.

Sam's low mutter made its way to you through the hum of soft pop music and chatter. "Get a room already, for fuck's sake."

Your shoe scuffed on the hardwood floor, your feet almost tripping over each other. You caught your balance—narrowly avoiding falling and making a fool of yourself in front of the guy you're hopelessly in love with.

You reached your manager waiting at the end of the bar, overcome with the desire to kiss her in gratitude.

"I need you to cover the bar while Dean has a smoke. He'll be ten minutes, tops."

You nodded your okay, used to covering the bar for your coworkers breaks. "Unless a pretty girl walks past, then he'll be at least thirty."

Your manager hummed in agreement. "Remind me to dock his pay for pulling that shit on Saturday. Boy gets enough tips from his flirting to make up for it."

You exchanged a small laugh, walking around her to go behind the bar. She touched your forearm as you passed, stopping you with a gentle touch.

"Word of advice?" She started, voice a little quieter. "Don't screw the crew."

You stared at her with furrowed brows, confused. "What? I would never sleep with Dean, that's just—ew, who knows how many untreated diseases he has." You visibly shuddered your disgust at the idea of hooking up with your coworker who was always chasing tail.

She nodded her head in the direction you came from. "They're your roommates, right?" You nodded slowly. "Hon, you look at him like you can't decide whether you want to run in the opposite direction or get on your knees."

Heat rose beneath your skin, your body freezing in mortification. You gaped at her, your mouth opening and closing until you pushed out a forced laugh.

"What—you're—that's ridiculous. You should get your eyes checked because that's, like," you laughed nervously, panic starting to burn through your rib cage, "he's like…a brother to me?" You phrased it like a question, your voice rising uncharacteristically high at the end.

She gave you a deadpan look, not buying a lick of your bullshit. Your shoulders dropped in defeat, your teeth starting to tear at your inner cheek.

"Is it…am I really that obvious?"

She sighed, her hand on your arm giving a reassuring squeeze. "I've worked with you long enough to know when someone is making you uncomfortable, when you're seconds away from exploding at a condescending customer, or when you want to jump over the bar and climb a guy like a tree." She paused for a second, pursuing her lips in thought. "Funnily enough, they all looked like him."

She let go of your arm, nodding towards the bar. "Now, stop thinking about fucking your roommate and get to work. I'm pretty sure table seven just ordered six espresso martini's." She gave your ass a friendly swat, pushing you behind the bar and making you throw your head back with a startled laugh.

You grabbed the docket from the POS printer, seeing an order for five espresso martini's and one spicy mango margarita. You walked down to the cocktail section, hands moving on autopilot as you prepared the margarita first.

Your eyes flicked up out of habit, your attention drawing towards the booth your roommates had practically scratched their names into—finding a pair of piercing blue eyes already gazing at you. The tequila bottle in your hand shook.

Don't screw the crew.

The last moment occurred during a typical movie night, where yours and Sam's raised voices warranted a domestic disturbance call from your neighbours.

"Oh my god, we are not watching Top Gun for the third time this month!" You exclaimed exasperatedly, throwing your head back against the couch with a groan.

Sam scoffed from his spot sprawled on his stupidly large beanbag—the one you're fairly certain is a dog bed for a Great Dane. "Oh, like your suggestions are any better? You made us sit through a fucking Twilight marathon a couple weeks ago! That's precious time I'll never get back."

You glared at him. "That's bullshit, Wilson—I didn't make you do anything. You chose to sit in that exact same spot and watch all five movies." A mocking smile twitched your lips. "And, if I remember correctly, you were the one asking me to pause the movie while you went to get more snacks."

Sam shook his head adamantly. "No, what's bullshit is your taste in movies—I only sat through it so you wouldn't feel bad!"

Nat and Steve were cuddled up on the couch perpendicular to you, their eyes darting back and forth between you and Sam like they were watching a tennis match. Bucky was sitting on the other end of the couch you were on, legs spread wide with a soda in one hand—his eyes shooting daggers at Sam.

You let out a harsh laugh. "Oh, really? So you crying when you thought Carlisle was dead was just you not wanting me to feel bad?"

"Yes!" Sam yelled, throwing his hands up in the air. Then he paused, processing what you just said. "Wait, no—there was no crying! I just acted sad for your benefit."

You opened your mouth to refute his statement when a deep, husky voice rumbled out from next to you.

"Sam," Bucky started, tone low and final, "stop lying, I saw you wiping your eyes." He continued glaring at Sam, his shoulders more tense than they were a minute ago. "Apologise to her so we can move on."

Sam looked at him like he had lost his mind. "Apologise? What the fuck do I have to apologise for?"

Bucky nodded towards you, darkened blue eyes still narrowed at Sam menacingly. "You said her taste in movies was bullshit. Apologise."

You were suddenly speechless—not sure how your usual movie night bickering with Sam led to Bucky being so…commanding. Protective.

You looked over to the other couch, catching Nat's eye—her mouth overtaken by a knowing smile. Your eyes darted to Steve next to her, his cheeks tinted pink and eyes squinted as he looked at his best friend—a sly smile partially hidden by the can he brought to his lips.

Sam shook his head with a disbelieving laugh, grabbing the TV remote off the coffee table.

Bucky reached out a long leg, giving Sam's beanbag a firm kick. "Now."

"Jesus," Sam dragged out, "chill out, man." He turned to you with a sigh, brown eyes glinting as he gave you his best puppy dog expression. "I am truly sorry for calling your movie taste bullshit. I will gladly sit through ten Twilight marathons if that's what you want."

He turned to Bucky with a smug grin. "There, I apologised to your girl. You happy now?"

A breath hitched in your throat, your brain freezing and going offline.

Your girl.

Said so easily, so naturally. Like it was a fact and not a mocking taunt.

Goosebumps prickled across your skin, a pleased shiver running through you at the thought of being Bucky's girl.

Bucky glared at Sam, the apples of his cheeks dusting pink. "Very." He said before leaning forward and snatching the remote out of Sam's hand. He turned to you, cheeks still flushed but eyes considerably softer. "What do you want to watch, doll?"

"…Shrek 2."

Groans erupted from three of your roommates, the fourth keeping his eyes on you while he shook his head with a fond laugh—the one that showed his pearlescent teeth and crinkled his eyes. The one that was your damnation, sentencing you to a life of yearning and false hope.

"It's the soundtrack, right?"

You nodded eagerly, a bright smile making your cheeks ache. "I knew you would get me, Buck."

You faintly heard a fake gagging sound come from the nuisance being swallowed by a beanbag, but you couldn't care less. Not when Bucky was looking at you like you were an astronomical phenomenon.

Condensation beaded glasses stained the wooden tabletop, chewed paper straws slowly disintegrating in melted ice. A half eaten bowl of fries grew stale in the middle of the table—your manager's attempt to get some food in her staff while they abused the (prepaid) leftover function alcohol, yourself included. The disco ball was still spinning, sending a thousand shards of light dancing throughout the empty bar, while an ABBA track murmured softly beneath laughter and gossip.

"I'm telling you," Dean said, spreading his arms over the back of the booth, "the ladies can't get enough of me."

The booth packed full of your coworkers vibrated with long groans, someone to your left loudly booing and your manager threatening to throw her gin and tonic in his face. You shoved his arm off the seat behind you, earning yourself a pinch to your cheek as his arm retreated.

"I'm serious!" Dean continued, pulling his phone out of his jean's pocket. "One of them even left a review about me last week—hold up, I'll get it." He squinted against the glowing light from his screen, bringing up the bar's google page to show everyone.

"Here it is—last Saturday: bartender was cute, would drink here again. Five stars." He leaned back in the booth with a smug smile, barely reacting when your manager ripped his phone out of his hand.

"Did you see who left the review, dingus?" She asked him, her mocking smirk overpowering his. "I don't know about you, but I don't know any ladies who go by the name James." She waved the phone in his face before going back to reading the review.

Dean recovered quickly, holding his hands up with a shrug. "I'm not opposed to having male admirers—they're some of my biggest tips."

You snorted a laugh. "Oh, I bet they are."

The table dissolved into laughter around you, the liquor and line cook's joint lowering everyone's inhibitions.

Your manager looked up from the phone at you, her eyes lighting up. "Weren't you also working on the bar last Saturday?"

You took a sip of your drink, lifting a shoulder in a half-shrug. "I think so? Was that the night we had two bachelorette parties come in?"

"Yeah, we ran out of cold brew because of them." Dean said. "I set a new record for how many numbers I could get in one night."

You rolled your eyes, choosing to ignore him like everyone else at the table. "Yeah, I was definitely on the bar—my arms are still aching from shaking espresso martini's all night."

Your manager leaned forward, her glassy eyes glinting at you teasingly. "I think this review is about you," she said in a sing-song tone.

You couldn't help but feel a little giddy at someone leaving you a review calling you cute, even if they were most likely stumbling drunk.

Allie—your fellow waitress who was sitting on the other side of Dean—grabbed the phone and read the review herself, scrolling on the screen with her eyes growing wider until a delighted gasp left her.

She looked at you with a beaming smile. "This James guy has been leaving reviews about you for months."

"What?"

She nodded eagerly, a small squeal leaving her. "This is so good, nothing this exciting ever happens here!" She was almost bouncing in her seat as she looked back at the phone, her excitement shaking the booth. "Okay, this one is from Valentines Day: waitress's frown is cute, I still should've bought her flowers." She fell back against the booth seat, clutching the phone to her chest with a dreamy sigh.

Your heart stuttered, the tipsy fog in your head clouding further. "That's—it doesn't say my name…" you trailed off with a nervous laugh. "It could be about any of the waitresses."

Your manager snorted. "We called you sourpuss the whole shift, you wouldn't stop frowning."

Before you could start your rant about how Valentine's Day is just another highly commercialised holiday and people shouldn't need a specific day of the year to celebrate love, Allie started reading out another review.

"This one is from four months ago: come to this bar if you want to see a real-life angel."

Dean groaned, "that's so fucking cheesy." He turned to look at you, "I hope you're not falling for this shit."

"We don't even know if it's about me!"

"I think it's cute," the new waitress piped in from the other end of the booth. "You've got a secret admirer."

"More like a stalker." One of the line cooks mumbled.

"Oh," Allie gasped, "this man has it bad. These are borderline love confessions." She reached past Dean, handing you his phone with the review page still open.

You hesitantly grabbed the phone from her, your heart beating rapidly in your chest. There's no way some guy was leaving these reviews about you…right? That just seems insane, like something out of a romcom. Or something that will end with a restraining order and you moving states away.

The phone faintly trembled in your unsteady hands, your eyes narrowing against the screen's bright glare.

James B.

★★★★★ a month ago

Wars were started over smiles less beautiful than hers.

Oh.

That's maybe the most romantic thing anyone has ever said about you.

You don't know if it's about you.

You exhaled shakily, shrugging nonchalantly as you handed the phone back to Dean. "He could be talking about any of the waitresses." You repeated your earlier statement. And then for good measure—"It's hardly a compliment—wars are started over literally anything."

Allie looked at you with wide eyes, bringing her hands up and shaking them in a strangling motion.

"Do you know anyone called James?" Your manager probed, clearly invested.

"No." You answered, ignoring the dull, tingling sensation at the back of your head. "No one significant."

"Well, even if he does turn out to be a stalker, at least he boosted our ratings."

Over the next few weeks, your coworkers had made it their personal mission to find out the identity of James B. Your manager had the brilliant idea to set up a weekly bar tab giveaway—for people to be in the draw they just needed to put their business card in a jar on the bar. What your customers didn't know was that every Friday after close, Allie and Dean were emptying the jar not to find a lucky winner but to look for any cards with the name James B.

It turned out there were a few more James B.'s than they were expecting, and there were no other parameters to narrow down their search. And much to their chagrin, you didn't recognise any of their names.

"Wait!" Dean exclaimed, holding a finger in the air. "Why don't we just reply to one of his reviews?"

"Oh," Allie said, leaning forward in her chair, "that's actually kind of smart. Maybe we could say we have a thank you gift for our number one fan?"

"Or we could just ask who he is."

Something about that made you uneasy.

After the night you all first discovered the reviews, Allie had drawn up a timeline of them which revealed this James guy had been leaving reviews for a year. And while they never mentioned your name, everyone knew they were about you—but you didn't want to believe that; it felt absolutely insane.

Majority of the reviews were brief and mundane, similar to the first one Dean saw. But a few of them…they read like poetry, like the pages out of someone's journal. They mentioned your smile, how your laugh could cure any ailment, that being in your presence was like witnessing a supernova.

It was beautiful and terrifying.

And every day it was looking more like a stalker than someone you knew—you didn't want to give him attention in fear that it could evolve from something harmless to dangerous.

"Already tried that," your manager sighed next to you. "He didn't reply."

Something in the atmosphere felt off when you shouldered the brownstone's front door open with a heavy sigh. It was well past midnight on a Saturday, and the soft murmuring you would usually hear coming from the lounge—Sam had a habit of passing out in front of the TV on Saturday night's—was nonexistent. You didn't think much of it, your mind single-focused on needing a scolding hot shower to wash away the ten hour bar shift.

Your work uniform was drenched and sticking to you uncomfortably, a crust of sugary cocktails and beer lining your skin. It had been one disaster after another—the beer keg soaking you as you tried to tap it, the cocktail shaker exploding in your hands, the new waitress who failed to call out "behind" and you ended up covered in a customers chili cheese fries.

You welcomed the boiling water, scrubbing your skin until it was red and raw. Visible steam swirled from your body even after you retreated into your room, and only then did some of the tension ease from your shoulders. Your fatigue ran bone deep—it felt like you were dragging your feet through mud as you slowly started your nighttime routine.

A noise cut through the eerily silent night, soft and faint, but an unmistakable echo from the room next to yours. It made you pause, your eyebrows drawing together. Then more noise followed, three breathy high pitched moans that the wall separating your rooms failed to drown out. A hot realisation curdled your stomach, rising through your body until it settled in your chest and throat—a tight, unrelenting fist clenching and making it harder to breathe.

Bucky had company.

Your ears zeroed in on the noises against your wishes. The last thing you wanted was to hear the guy you had a debilitating crush on fuck someone else. And yet, you stood frozen—your towel still wrapped around you, water dripping onto the floor, heart trying to beat out of your chest. Your nervous system had entered fight or flight mode, triggered by the sounds of another woman's pleasure.

Sweat started to line your back, your hands trembling where they were clutching the towel, chest stuttering as your breaths turned sharp and quick.

The moans grew in volume and soft thuds reverberated against the wall—then, a faint low murmuring graced your ears. A deep voice you would recognise anywhere, that you had heard through the wall plenty of times during your one year living there.

You snapped out of your shock, ripping open your work bag to find your headphones. Your phone shook in your hands as you searched for 'calming' playlists, your thumb jabbing violently at the first result. You turned the volume up loud enough to vibrate your eardrums, but the damage was already done.

You paced the length of your room, clenching and unclenching your fists in an effort to calm down—to will your racing heartbeat to slow, to tamp down the spiralling thoughts that made you feel like you were drowning.

You got ready for bed in a blur, trying to stay as quiet as possible with your heart beating wildly in your throat. The exhaustion that had your bones aching after your shift was lingering, but had been overwhelmed by the adrenaline surging through your veins. You laid in your bed, trying to concentrate on your breathing.

Inhale. One, two, three, four.

Hold. One, two—

It didn't sound like she was faking it.

The breath rushed out of you quickly.

You squeezed your eyes shut tight, clenching your fists and trying to focus on the sensation.

Inhale. One, two, three—

Bucky's bed is pressed up against your shared wall.

You grabbed the pillow next to you and pressed it against your face, something between a pained whimper and frustrated groan leaving your throat.

Did he like to talk? Was he whispering dirty things in her ear, telling her how good she felt, how much he wanted her? Did she get to hear him moan and whimper?

The music in your ears had become irritating, overstimulating you even more. But there was no way in hell you were taking your headphones off—your heart was already broken enough.

Did he call her sweetheart, too?

You slept for two hours, maybe three if you were being generous. The exhaustion won out against the anxiety around two am, only for you to jerk awake two hours later when the same noises echoed through the wall. At some point in the night your headphones had slipped off and you were defenceless against the noises your body had already filed as a threat.

Your nervous system reacted as if you were being hunted down by a lion, not overhearing your roommate-slash-crush have sex. It was a horrible way to wake up—your body pumping full of adrenaline and cortisol before you even took a deep breath.

The headphones went back on a second too late—leaving a scratched record of giggles looping through your head that the music couldn't drown out. One giggle that you knew well, that had you beaming with pride whenever you coaxed it out of him.

A silent tear slid down towards your ear, disappearing into your hairline as you stared at the ceiling.

Hours passed before it felt safe for you take the headphones off, and even then anxiety gripped your chest whenever you thought about leaving your room. Everything that had once felt safe, had once felt like your solace, now felt like a prison.

You knew you were being dramatic, knew that your jealousy and hurt was unreasonable. Bucky wasn't yours, he would never be yours—you knew that, you'd always known that. But that's the thing with crushes—they are irrational, uncontrollable beasts that mistake kindness for attraction, that disguise inevitable heartbreak as fluttering butterflies.

Opening your bedroom door slowly, you saw the flash of a towel dart into Bucky's room—two faint sets of giggles sounding behind the closed door, slicing into your aching heart. Heat burst behind your eyes and you willed the tears to stay at bay—at least until the shower could drown out your sobs.

You sat on the floor of the shower, staring at the wall while hot water rained down on you, each drop feeling like a knife piercing your skin. You sat there, unblinking, as your vision blurred—the water washing away your endless tears. You sat there as the shower stream changed from a burning fire to an icy bite, your body shivering but unmoving.

Nat's banging on the door about rising water prices snapped you out of your dissociative daze.

"Bucky! Oh, fuck—don't stop, please—"

"Yeah? You like that?"

"Yes—god, so much!"

"You feel so good, baby."

Thump, thump, thump.

You had taken your headphones off for half a minute while getting changed. All it took was thirty seconds for tears to swell in your eyes and a silent scream to claw at your throat.

It had been four weeks since you first heard them. Four weeks of knowing your crush was fucking someone else less than three metres from your bed. Four weeks of debilitating anxiety and heartache consuming you until there was nothing left to take.

You knew their routine; she came over every Wednesday and Saturday, always after ten pm. Depending on your roster for the week, sometimes you were home when she came over—subjected to hearing Bucky's low baritone greet her at the door, their footsteps padding down the hall past your room, the soft click of his door closing and the giggles that followed.

You fucking hated giggles.

By the end of the second week, you had put in a request to work the closing shift every Wednesday and Saturday. The tightness in your chest and churning in your stomach never faded, but you took some comfort in knowing you would only be in the same house as her for a few hours. You hadn't met her—you didn't even know her name—but you were envious of a faceless woman, a voice you heard in the dark, because she had the one thing you wanted but could never have.

No one brought her up—there were no casual chats between the boys, no probing questions from Nat. Apart from the first time, she was out of the house by six am—narrowly avoiding Sam and Steve leaving for their morning run. You weren't even sure they knew she existed—not until Nat gave you a sympathetic smile over a glass of wine, confirming that they did in fact know without uttering a word.

The usual nights the five of you spent together continued as normal. Or, at least as normal as you could manage. The space between you and Bucky grew—he stopped trying to charm quiz answers out of you, and you hugged the arm of the couch like it was a life preserver during movie night. The soft conversations over morning coffee ceased to exist, the nights of you two reading together in the lounge just a hazy memory.

The distance made your heart yearn for him while his proximity made your nervous system overload. It was a push and pull that sucked the life out of you, exhausting you until you were a shell of who you used to be.

When Sam asked you what your first heartbreak was you instantly thought of Liam Turner from the sixth grade. He was the classic class clown that both charmed and annoyed all the girls in your grade. He sat next to you during History and English, always pestering you for help and trying to make you his partner in crime. You did what any smitten eleven year old girl would do—you handed him a note. It was simple, you didn't even write your name—just "do you like me" with tick boxes for yes and no. You handed it to him before recess and watched with bated breath as he ran to his group of friends, watched as all of them turned to you and fell into hysterics. You crashed into your mom's arms once you got home from school, sobs wracking your body as you felt like you were going to die from the crushing sensation in your chest.

What you felt that day wasn't even a drop in the agony that consumed you when you walked into the lounge for movie night.

"You're late!" Nat yelled, her voice travelling down the hall as you rushed through the front door.

"I know, I know," you yelled back, heading for your room and changing out of your work clothes in record time. You made your way towards the lounge once in comfy clothes. "The health inspector would not stop asking me questions, no matter how many times I told him I'm not the—"

Your feet and words came to a halt once you reached the doorway to the lounge, your heart dropping to the floor and shattering into a million pieces.

Because there she was—sitting in your usual spot with her feet resting on Bucky's lap, one of his hands engulfing her ankles.

She was beautiful. And the complete opposite to you in every way possible. From the texture and colour of her hair to the shape of her body. From the clothing and jewellery she wore to the colour of her eyes.

The two of you weren't even comparable—you were from completely different planets, different universes.

It hit like a sucker punch. You weren't his type, not even close.

You're a fucking fool.

She smiled brightly at you, the white of her teeth glaring. You faintly heard her great you through the ringing in your ears, offering you her name. You managed a meek hi in response, dragging your wide eyes away from her over to the other couch.

Big mistake.

Nat and Steve were already looking at you with pity in their eyes, a silent "are you okay?" written all over their faces. Nat scooted closer to Steve, tilting her head towards the small open spot next to her on the couch. You knew the second you sat next to them that her comforting presence would wrap around you and tear away the last of your fraying composure. So, you did something you had never done before.

"Move it, bird brain." You muttered to Sam, squatting down next to his beanbag and shoving his shoulder to make room for you.

"You ever tried not being bossy?" He grumbled in reply, shuffling to the right so you could collapse down next to him.

Normally you would respond with something just as snarky. But that required mental energy that you did not possess—energy that was being drained with each passing second she sat behind you.

You settled into the beanbag, the rustling of polystyrene beads filling the quiet room. You tried to take calming breaths as subtly as possible, the blood from your broken heart clogging your throat and lungs.

"We're watching Interstellar tonight," Nat spoke softly. "Steve's pick."

You hummed, keeping your eyes glued to the TV screen as Steve navigated through the streaming app.

Sam stiffened next to you, turning to you with a peculiar look on his face. "What? You got nothing to say to that?"

You sighed. "Every white guy's number one film on letterboxd. Try being less predictable next time, Rogers." You said in a flat monotone.

A deep, breathy chuckle sounded behind you, and it took all of your diminishing willpower to not turn and get a glimpse of the soft smile that haunted your dreams.

You tried your best to focus on the movie, you really did. You tried to focus on the press of Sam's shoulder against yours, something tangible to keep you grounded. But nothing could distract you from the soft murmuring behind you, the sound of her giggles as Bucky provided commentary throughout the movie. It was something that you normally didn't mind, something you indulged in, even. Not tonight. Thirty minutes into the movie, your eye had developed a constant twitch from suppressing the urge to turn around and tell them to shut the fuck up.

At one point Sam's hand had fallen over both of yours, stopping you from picking at your bleeding hangnails. You didn't even notice the sting from the exposed wounds—too preoccupied with gnawing on the inside of your cheeks.

You walked into your shift the next day with another request.

You clocked into your shift on Tuesday afternoon with a sinking pit in your stomach. A feeling that you had become accustomed to over the last couple months, a feeling that had you walking the scenic route home at night, delaying your arrival. It was the feeling that you had started associating with home, along with the ache in your chest.

You loved quiz night—you loved seeing what stupid team names people came up with, loved judging them when they got such an obvious answer wrong. Once upon a time, you had loved seeing Bucky's handsome face sitting in your section, waving you over with an up to no good smile stretching his lips. Now, it all felt like a taunt.

Nothing was out of the ordinary—the opening shift said it had been quiet as usual, there had been a couple bookings from newcomers for quiz night, and the tabby cat that wandered the block came in to say hi.

And then, she walked in. Strolling in behind Nat and Steve, her arm looped through one of Bucky's, flashing you a kind smile as they made their way to their usual booth. In your section.

You wanted to scream. Cry. Jump into the East River.

The bar had become your safe place—which honestly sounded crazy, you hated half of the customers. But your home hadn't felt like your home since she walked through the door. And now she was in the one place that hadn't been tarnished.

She was nice, you knew she was. But she was a constant reminder that your heart belonged to a man who never looked at you twice.

You rushed over to Allie who was standing at the bar waiting for Dean to finish garnishing cocktails.

"I need you to swap sections with me—please." You said in a frantic breath.

She turned to you, her face already telling you her answer. "Hell no! I've got two tables of big tipper's—I am not giving that away."

Dean leaned his elbows on the bar. "I'll swap with you."

Your head whipped to him at a comical speed, your wide eyes meeting his unbothered grin. "…But you hate working the floor."

He nodded towards one of your tables—one of the newcomer bookings, a booth full of girls in their early twenties. A few of them were already looking over at your trio—more specifically, looking at Dean. You turned back in time to see him flash them a wink.

Your chest deflated with a relieved breath. "This is the only time I am ever going to be grateful for you being such a dog."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"It wasn't." You and Allie said at the same time, matching deadpan expressions on your faces.

Allie turned to you, squinting suspiciously. "Why do you want to swap?"

You shrugged, looking at her forehead to avoid eye contact. "Just felt like a change."

"You said please—pretty desperately, too. It was kinda hot." Dean piped in.

You glared at him, choosing not to acknowledge his comment. You turned back to Allie looking at you expectantly. "Variety is the spice of life?"

She hummed disbelievingly. "Mhm, sure. We'll talk later."

Working the bar brought you no reprieve; every time you walked to the cocktail station, they were in your direct eyeline. Every time you poured a cosmo, shook a lemon drop, garnished a mojito, you could hear them laughing. You watched how she fit in like the missing puzzle piece, her body slotting perfectly under Bucky's arm—like that's where she belonged. You watched your roommates welcome her in with open arms and crying laughter, the realisation hitting you that she replaced the temporary hole your absence had opened.

Your knees were shaking while you closed up the bar, your hands scrubbing the beer grates with an urgency that was cause for concern.

"Hey, hey, woah that's—" Dean came up next to you, his hands gently clasping your wrists. "That's enough," he said, uncharacteristically gentle, "your hands are bleeding." He brought your hands up, your unfocused eyes seeing spots of red raised on your knuckles.

"Oh."

"Yeah, oh. What's up with you today?"

Dean led you away from the bar, grabbing a first aid kit on your way over to where your manager and Allie were sitting, working through the next week's orders. He pushed you into a chair, stepping back with an awkward pat to your head.

"I'm sensing that this is a girl talk so I'm just gonna finish closing the bar."

The two women turned to you with concern painting their faces. Allie glanced down at your hands and opened the first aid kit, pulling out supplies to treat the cuts. Neither of them spoke while she tended to your hands, watching your face closely.

"These aren't too bad, just scrapes." She said softly, packing the kit back up and sitting it out of the way. She clasped your hands lightly, her thumbs rubbing soothing circles on the back of your hands. "What's going on, sweetie?"

You looked up from where you had been staring at the table, seeing her eyes and your manager's shining with worry. A silent tear slipped from your eye, leaving a damp path in it's wake.

"Whose kneecaps are we busting?" Your manager demanded.

That broke you.

Your shoulders started shaking, your throat closing in on itself in the form of a sob. Your heart escaped from your chest cavity, rising up like bile. Your vision was completely blurred, hot tears taking your eyes hostage. You caved in on yourself, wrapping your arms around your body as your frame trembled like a leaf.

You couldn't even feel embarrassed about bawling like a baby in front of your coworkers, the pain you had been sheltering for months overruling any other emotion. Allie wrapped her arms around you, pulling you into her warmth and making you cry harder. Your manager placed a gentle hand on your shoulder, her thumb rubbing calming patterns as they both whispered words of comfort to you.

You gasped for breath, trying to get some air past the ball in your throat. "I-It's so—" your words broke with a hiccup, "it's so fucking stupid." You rushed out. "We were never—ugh!" You wiped at your cheeks furiously, willing the tears to stop. You gulped down a deep breath, trying to focus on the comforting touches and not the agony vibrating every cell in your body.

"We were never anything. God, I'm sobbing over a guy that—he was only being nice, and I made it into something it wasn't." You garbled out, the brine of tears lining your lips.

You opened up to them, telling them about how deeply you fell for Bucky in between sobs. How you felt like a goddamn fool, your lovesick heart reading into things and mistaking your strictly platonic relationship as something else entirely. You told them how you hate going home most nights, finding it harder to breathe the closer you got to the brownstone. You admitted to them that it's not just jealousy over him with another girl, it's something deeper—the fear that you've been replaced, that he doesn't need you anymore.

"…my sleep is fucked, I'm on high alert every second I'm home—I don't feel safe in my own home. Which—I know, it sounds so fucking dramatic. But it's like she's seeped into every crack, changing the foundations I built over a year ago. Now she's turning up here—on fucking quiz night, my night—and I just can't escape." You finished with a deep breath, feeling drained from your emotional monologue.

Allie, who had kept her arms wrapped around you throughout your rambling, lifted her head and looked at you with a mix of understanding and sympathy. "That's why you wanted to swap sections, because she was here." You nodded meekly.

She sighed and sat back in her chair. "Give me a couple days to clear out my spare room. You need it more than I need a second closet."

Before you could start sobbing over her offer a muscular arm reached in front of you, depositing a vodka cranberry onto the table.

Dean's voice rumbled behind you. "If it makes you feel any better, I've wanted to sleep with you since my first shift."

"Dean," both women next to you hissed. You turned to look at him, catching that easy-going smile of his and you started laughing—the first genuine one in weeks.

Thursday 6:18pm

Nat: Hey, you working late tonight? The boys are getting restless, Sam is threatening to watch Top Gun if you're not home in 10…

You: shit i forgot to tell you i'm working thursday nights now! sam can watch whatever mediocre garbage he wants :-)

Nat: We can change movie night to another night! Maybe Sunday? Whatever works for you x

You: don't worry about it, thursdays work for everyone else!

Nat: Is everything ok? I feel like I hardly see you anymore :(

You: aw i'm sorry natty :-( just been picking more shifts up at work - boss has me training the newbies! promise we'll have a wine night soon xx

"I'm moving out."

It was the Sunday after that fateful quiz night, the sun beating down on your four roommates as they laid out in the backyard. Sam was going on about some barbeque he had been invited to—telling the other three that if they behaved he would let them join him. Nat's head was resting on Steve's chest, half asleep while he massaged her scalp. Bucky was lying with a hand behind his head, shirtless, and reading his well-loved copy of The Fellowship of the Ring.

Allie had sent you a photo of her spare room an hour before, a bottle of Tito's sitting on the floor the only thing in the empty room. You couldn't put off telling your roommates any longer, knowing that once you moved out you would start feeling like a human again. You stood in the doorway, arms tight across your body—fearing for their reactions.

Sam stopped talking abruptly, Nat jolted awake and sat up from Steve's chest, Bucky slowly lowered his book to his chest. Nat was the first to speak.

"What?" She asked softly.

You started to shuffle your feet, looking around the backyard—at the fairy lights that flickered like dying stars, the small veggie patch Steve cared for like it was his child—avoiding eye contact with them. "You remember Allie from the bar? We've gotten really close these past few months and she was looking for a roommate—kinda felt like a no-brainer, y'know?"

You finally looked at them, your heart beat rattling your jaw. Sam looked speechless, his face frozen in confusion. Nat was looking at you with that assessing gaze, her eyes squinting like she knew something else was going on. Steve nodded his head solemnly, his features pulled into a frown that looked out of place on him. Bucky had abandoned his book completely, sitting upright with his pretty lips downturned, his sunglasses hiding whatever emotions swam in his cerulean depths.

"I can sort out getting the room filled—can probably pay double rent if necessary—"

"I'll handle it." Bucky cut you off, his tone gruff and curt.

You wrung your hands together, hating being under the spotlight of your roommate's attention. "Are you sure? It's a bit late notice so it might be hard to—"

That same curtness cut you off again,"I said I'll handle it, didn't I?"

He probably wanted his girlfriend to move in.

Your three other roommates momentarily directed their bewildered stares to him, just as surprised as you at his bluntness. Just like Steve frowning, this was out of character for him. You could feel his eyes glaring holes into you through his sunglasses.

Nat shook her head at his attitude, turning her attention back to you. "I didn't know you wanted to move out."

Okay, time for the lies—just like you practiced in the mirror.

"It's not about wanting to move out," you started softly, "it's just something that naturally unfolded. Her landlord upped her rent last month and she can't afford it on her own anymore." Steve and Sam nodded along, while Nat was looking at you with that unwavering stare. You didn't even want to glance at Bucky. "She jokingly asked me over drinks a couple weeks ago if I was looking and after thinking on it, I think it's the best choice for me. It's closer to work, cheaper than what I currently pay and, as I said, we've become really good friends."

Nat continued squinting her eyes at you, watching as you fidgeted with your fingers—your tell that you would rather be anywhere else.

"Okay," she acquiesced. "When are you moving? We'll throw a little goodbye party."

"Great idea," Sam mumbled.

"Sometime in the next week." Everyone's eyebrows shot up at that. "And that's not necessary—I'd prefer it if you didn't do anything; it's not like I'm leaving the city, I'll only be a few blocks away."

Steve recovered from the brief shock at how soon you were leaving them. "Let us know what day and time, we'll help you move your stuff."

"I appreciate the help, really I do, but my coworkers have already offered—we have Dean to do all the heavy lifting."

That made Bucky stir, standing up with a scoff and arms folded across his chest. "Did you think about us at all? Sounds like you can't wait to get away from here."

You froze, the ice running through your veins equal to the frost in his tone. "That's not—I didn't want to bother you—"

"How can you think you bother us after all this time?" He asked, the frost melting into water—revealing something that trembled close to desperation.

"Bucky," Nat warned.

"I just don't understand," He snapped, shaking his head and walking towards where you were stuck in the doorway. He paused in front of you, his sun slicked chest making your heart gallop. You kept your eyes on his chin—locking on the clef still visible through heavy stubble, resisting the desire to glance at his naked chest, or worse, look into his eyes. "Mind letting me through?" He muttered lowly, his frame now blocking you from the sun. You ducked your head, pressing your back to the doorframe to give him space.

"Buck—"

"Not now, Steve." He bit out, your body absorbing the heat radiating from him as he brushed past you. You stood still, head tilted to the floor until you heard his door slam closed.

"Well, that was…" Steve started, his uneasy chuckle filling the heavy atmosphere.

The shock of his attitude left you dazed. You expected some blow back from Nat—she could read you like her favourite book, knowing the emotions you held within yourself better than you did. You expected—hoped, really—that they might be a little down about your departure, but Bucky acting like this wasn't even in your realm of possibility.

"What was that about?" You muttered to yourself.

Sam stood up with a huff, grabbing a beer from the cooler near the table. "Fucking idiots, the pair of you."

You timed the move for the following Wednesday, not wanting to risk another night of hearing what you had labelled your own personal torture. You had been working nights since Sunday, avoiding any interactions with your roommates. The vibe in the brownstone felt off, the air tasting stale even when you were the only one home. Nat had been texting you for updates, apologising for Bucky's strange behaviour, and assuring you your friendship with her wouldn't slip away after you were gone. Sam continued to send you memes—he had an affinity for the gradient instagram reels—and Steve saved you the best strawberries from his garden, hiding them in the fridge for you.

Bucky was radio silent.

Tuesday 5:36pm

Nat: Just spoke to Allie - apparently you're not working quiz night anymore?? What's going on?

You: we thought the new waitress should work it for a bit! good experience :-)

Nat: You should come join us then! We would be unstoppable with you on our team xx

You: maybe another time? don't want the other teams to think you have an unfair advantage lol

Nat: Fuck what they think. We miss you! Movie night was not the same without you last week :(

A month passed before you saw Bucky again.

You had been texting Nat on and off, feeling an awful reluctance to seeing her. It had nothing to do with Nat and everything to do with you continuing to avoid the problem—your feelings. Because you still thought about him, religiously so. You hated yourself for it—hated your brain conjuring up scenarios of him and her, replaying the happiness that glowed on his face the couple of times you saw them together.

Your sleep had improved, at least. There was no anxiety constricting your chest when you walked home, no fear for what you might hear through the walls. Allie encouraged you to cry it out on the bathroom floor, over tubs of ice cream on the couch. While it was horrible to address and to actually feel the heartbreak instead of intellectualising it, you had to admit you did feel lighter. It was a weight off your chest for someone else to know your secret, to let you speak about the pain and not forcing you to move on.

Your manager was quick to approve your request to work the day shifts—asking if you wanted to get your managers license, to be her dependable day shift manager. You were elated to have something else to focus on, and the pay rise wasn't bad either. Working the days also meant you weren't there in case your old roommate's called in for a drink on their way home from work.

But you knew your luck was going to run out some day soon.

It was on a quintessential late summer evening—the kind where the sun was low enough to shine through the tree canopy, casting the ground in a scene of dancing light and shadows. Gravel crunched beneath your shoes as you ambled through Prospect Park, listening to the harmony of kids laughter, dogs barking, and a busker playing guitar. Walking through the park lengthened your journey home by twenty minutes, but on a day like this it was hard to resist.

You heard him before you saw him, too lost in appreciating the world around you to notice him strolling towards you on his trek home. He called out your name softly, hesitantly. And you would recognise that husky baritone even if you were locked in a soundproof pool drowning underwater.

Your gaze ripped away from watching a pair of swans glide along the shimmering lake, your heart jumping into your throat as you saw Bucky a few metres in front of you. He was wearing his gym clothes, the black compression top clinging to his chest with light patches of sweat. His hair was tied back in a small bun, a few strands stuck to his dewy forehead and your fingers twitched to brush them back. Soft sapphire eyes roamed the valleys of your face, his shoulders dropping with an almost relieved sigh.

You hated how your body heated under his watchful gaze in an instant—hated that he still had control over you and he didn't even know it.

"Hey," he said quietly, a small smile tugging his lips. He hesitated for a moment, doubt flickering across his face before he shook his head and stepped closer, lifting an arm and placing his hand between your shoulder blades to pull you into his embrace.

A startled gasp escaped you at the contact, blood pulsing in your ears as his warmth enveloped you. His other arm wrapped around your waist, his hand resting on the small of your back to pull you in closer. Your traitorous body relaxed in his hold, the heady scent of sandalwood, spice, and his sweat clouding your mind.

Fuck him for always smelling so irresistible.

"Hi." You murmured, muffled by his shirt. You kept your arms at your sides, knowing that if you felt his body beneath your hands you would backtrack all the progress you had made over the past month. You could already feel yourself slipping—comparing being in his arms again to lying in front of the fireplace while rain pelted the windows and thunder clapped outside. The feeling of being warm and safe despite a raging storm.

He rested his chin on your head, his chest expanding underneath your cheek as he inhaled deeply. The hand between your shoulders flexed, pushing you further into him. His chest rumbled below you and you felt his words more than heard them. "Missed you."

You stepped back quickly, stumbling out of his embrace. His brows pinched together and his lips turned down with a frown. He took a small step back and cleared his throat, a muscle flexing in his jaw as he stuffed his hands in his pockets.

"I—uh—how, how have you been?"

You folded your arms across you chest, focusing on the light freckle on his neck. "I've been okay."

"That's good, great. I—we've missed you." His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard and his voice dropped lower, softer . "Place isn't the same without you."

You had to leave before you did something foolish—before you dropped to your knees and pleaded for an ounce of his affection.

You cleared your throat, trying to rid the sudden emotion clogging it. "How have you been? How's the new roommate?"

Bucky's eyes flicked away from you, a hand leaving his pocket to rub the back of his neck. "Fine—they're fine." Splotches of red coloured his cheeks. "They don't compare to you, though."

What the fuck did that mean?

"Um—okay, well, that's good? I should—"

"Listen," Bucky interrupted you before you could flee from the increasingly awkward encounter. He stepped closer, his eyes locked on the gravel lining the earth. "I—I want to apologise for my behaviour, when you told us you were leaving." He looked up at you, remorse and distress bleeding from him so viscerally you could almost grab it. "I was in shock, I think—it doesn't really matter, I'm not trying to excuse it. I just wanted you to know that I really am sorry and you didn't deserve that." He closed the distance between you more, hands raising towards you before they dropped to his sides. "I—um, I would hate for that to be the reason you haven't come 'round—if you felt uncomfortable because of me."

It was resting on the tip of your tongue, the truth. It was begging to spill out, to tell Bucky that you were uncomfortable because of him but not for the reason he believed. You could handle a little attitude—what you couldn't handle was hearing the guy you're in love with treat another woman the way you had fantasised about since the day you met him.

Grateful for the fact you had been getting enough sleep to keep a grasp on your filter, you accepted his olive branch instead of starting a confessional. "Thank you, Bucky." You looked into his eyes, trying to express your sincereness. "I appreciate it, really."

Hope flared bright across his face. "So, wanna join us next Thursday? Your pick—I'll tell Sam to keep his comments to himself."

Guilt curdled your gut. "Thank you for the offer, but I can't make it, sorry. I already have plans."

If sitting in front of the TV watching New Girl and doomscrolling on your phone constituted as plans.

And just like that, the flame was extinguished. "Oh."

You interrupted before he could say more. "It was good seeing you, Bucky, but I have to get going." You stepped around him to continue home, giving him a small wave goodbye before focusing forward—walking brisker than the tranquil evening called for, your shoulders too tense for the serene landscape.

"Bye," he murmured, the sound drifting towards you with the light breeze.

You kept your head straight forward the rest of the walk home.

You expected the text from Nat the next day, knowing that Bucky would've told your former roommates that he ran into you. She demanded you meet for brunch at your earliest convenience, and given that it was Saturday and you had no plans you couldn't deny her any longer.

You were sitting on the couch putting on your shoes when Allie burst through the front door, her hands full of bags from the morning market and mouth stuffed with cake from the pâtisserie around the corner.

"Oh my god," you heard her mumble around frosting and sponge. "Guess what I just found out."

"Apparently not what decent manners are. Swallow before you talk."

A mop of floppy blonde hair appeared in your doorway. "That's what he said."

You rolled your eyes as Dean sauntered in with a wolfish grin, closing the door behind him. "What the hell are you doing here?" You shot wide eyes at Allie, wordlessly demanding an explanation.

She took your advice and swallowed before speaking again. "I ran into him at the market—he has an update on James B!"

A mix of anticipation and dread made your morning coffee stir. "I thought he stopped leaving reviews?"

Dean collapsed next to you, eyeing the dress you were wearing with approval. "You dress up for me, angel?"

You shoved his shoulder. "Not in a million years. What's the update, dumbass?"

He pulled his phone out with a sigh. "He left a review last night—don't look at me like that, I set up notifications for this very reason." He tapped on his phone before handing it to you, the screen displaying the latest review.

James B.

★★★★★ 13 hours ago

Quiz night isn't the same without her. Nothing is.

Your heart rate picked up, sweat gathering at the back of your knees.

What the fuck?

"But last night wasn't quiz night?" Was the only thing your dumbfounded mind could vocalise.

"I mean, yeah, but you're missing the point!" Allie interjected, standing behind the couch and leaning her head down to read the review. "Now we know he's a quiz night regular! That narrows the search pool down so much."

"Ooo, what if it's one of the old dockmen?" Dean giddily queried.

"They do normally sit in your section—or, well, what used to be your section." Allie supplied, wandering back to your kitchen to put away whatever trendy new chutney she bought from the market.

Your eyes followed her, catching sight of the clock hanging on the wall. "Shit—I'm going to be late." You jumped off the couch, frantically grabbing your phone and shoulder bag. "We can theorise more later, Nat is going to murder me for being late."

"Bye, honey!" Dean yelled as you ran out the door—stopping for a second to throw him the middle finger.

Nat was sitting at a table towards the back of the cafe, her crimson hair a stark contrast to the soft pastel interior. The atmosphere was buzzing and lively—every table occupied, with laughter and heavenly aromas wafting out the open door. It was the go to brunch spot for Brooklyn natives, it's covered outdoor courtyard an enticing location on a warm summer's morning—you were surprised Nat even managed to score a table.

Her face lit up once she saw you, standing to welcome you with a hug. "One more minute and I would've thought you were ghosting me."

You hugged her just as tight, the smell of her perfume relaxing your shoulders and making your heart clench—you shouldn't have gone this long without seeing her. "God, I know, I'm sorry. Allie came home with gossip before I could make my escape."

You both pulled away and sat down, reading the menu like you hadn't looked at it online on your walk over.

"Gossip? Anything interesting?" Nat asked, wiggling her eyebrows.

You let out a deep sigh. "It's a long story. One that's better told over a bottle of wine."

"Okay, now I am beyond intrigued—you better not leave me hanging for another month." She shot you a small glare, the smile on her face lessening it's sharpness.

The waitress came over and took your orders before the two of you fell into easy conversation. She updated you on what trouble the boys—Sam—had gotten into, and you told her about the time you and Allie were locked out in your pyjamas and tried to scale the fire escape. Neither of you broached the subject of why you moved out, but it was lingering in the air—in the soft way Nat said Bucky's name. Throughout the hour you spent chatting you noticed she didn't mention their new roommate once, and the curiosity was making you restless.

"So, how's the new roommate, really? Bucky didn't say much about them."

An out of place nervous hesitation tightened Nat's face, her eyes darting between yours as she bit her lip. After a tense few seconds her shoulders dropped with a sigh.

"Honey, there is no new roommate."

You reared back, your eyebrows furrowing in confusion. "What? But Bucky said yesterday—he said they were fine."

"Of course he did," she muttered under her breath, pinching the bridge of her nose. She looked at you with a huff. "The room is empty. Bucky…he's been paying for it."

"What?" You nearly exclaimed, your body temperature rising.

"Look, I don't know why he didn't tell you the truth—I honestly don't know what goes on in his mind, he has made some terrible choices the last few months." She placed a gentle hand on top of yours, her tone softening. "Choices that had you leaving us."

"I don't understand." You muttered quietly.

"I probably shouldn't be the one to tell you this, but—Steve and him were drinking after work last week and he admitted he's paying for the room—saving it in case you want to come back."

Shock rendered you speechless—frustration climbing up from your gut, opening the partially healed scars seared into your heart. Confusion, irritation, and heartache swirled together until they formed one emotion—anger.

Your hands balled into fists, your clenched teeth making your jaw ache. "I'm sorry, what?" You bit out.

You barely noticed the smirk twitching her lips, red starting to blur your vision. "Sam and Steve are out fishing today—he's home alone if you want to go bite his head off."

You didn't need to be told twice, the red-hot fury bringing you to your feet quickly. You grabbed your stuff with urgency, your hands already starting to shake.

"Brunch is my shout—go knock some sense into him."

It took you less than ten minutes to reach the brownstone, outrage powering your legs with a speed you didn't know you were capable of. The fresh air did nothing to calm you down—you were too consumed by the memories from the past year, the heartache you endured, your utter confusion at Nat's revelation.

Your fist pounded on the wooden door, not stopping until it swung open to reveal a puzzled Bucky.

His eyes widened at the sight of you, pink lips stretching into a knee trembling smile. Your dress caught his attention, his smile freezing as blue eyes trailed down and back up your body.

He cleared his throat before speaking. "What are you doin' here, doll?"

"Don't fucking call me that," you seethed, pushing him out of your way to storm inside. You barged down the familiar path to your old room, ignoring Bucky as he called out your name behind you.

You opened the door to find the room exactly how you left it—empty. You whipped around to see Bucky standing a few feet behind you, looking down at the ground with a hand rubbing his neck and a fire overtaking his cheeks.

"Why the fuck are you paying for an empty room? No, better yet, why did you lie to me about it?" You loudly demanded, just shy of shouting.

He stumbled over his words, looking up to see you with your eyebrows raised, arms folded across your chest, hip jutted out—the perfect picture of barely contained rage.

"Well, I—you see, it's—" he dragged a hand through his hair, blowing out a breath. "It's complicated?"

"Yeah, no shit. You were so pissy about me moving—it makes no sense! Just tell me the truth for once, Bucky!" Your voice raised higher, your hands flying around as the confusion and aggravation took hold of you.

Bucky's own frustration started to seep through, the volume of his voice a notch below yours. "I was upset because you were leaving—and you didn't seem to care about us, just running straight to Dean for help!"

He was upset? He had no fucking right to be upset.

Hot, frustrated tears flooded your eyes without your permission. "I left because of you, Bucky! No one else, just you." You stepped toward him, pushing a finger into his ridiculously sturdy chest. "And I didn't run to Dean! He offered to help after he watched me have a fucking breakdown over you."

His glistening eyes stared into yours, his eyebrows drawn upwards in distress. "…What?"

A crack had fractured the dam keeping you contained, your pent up thoughts and feelings crashing through and destroying the concrete barrier.

"Every fucking day I came home feeling like my world—my heart—was being torn apart—" your voice cracked and you turned around, starting to pace the length of your old room. "And I know, I fucking know, it's not your fault—that my delusional mind and hopeless romantic heart are to blame for reading into things that weren't there, for creating a fantasy of you—of us."

You wiped away your flowing tears, sniffling as you tried to catch your breath. "But now, you expect me to, what—feel bad for leaving? I was barely human." You let out a wet, humourless laugh.

"What are you talking about?!" He demanded desperately, his face shining with frustration and something akin to hope.

"I'm talking about the goddamn walls, Bucky! I don't know if you know but they're pretty fucking thin! And every Wednesday and Saturday night I heard you and her—I heard the guy I was obsessed with fucking somebody else and it killed me."

"I only started seeing her to get you out of my head!" Both his hands found their way to his hair, tugging the dark strands in frustration. "And maybe I wanted to make you jealous—which I know is a terrible—"

You closed the distance between you in two quick strides, reaching out to shove his chest. "Jealous? You wanted to make me jealous?!" You seethed out, your fists hitting his chest as your vision blurred. "Are you blind?! Everyone could see how infatuated I was with you." Your hits lost their strength, your cheeks growing even more wet.

"Hey," Bucky whispered softly, his hands gently encircling your wrists and his thumbs rubbing tender patterns on your radial pulse. "Breathe for me."

"No," you stubbornly whispered back, despite your panting breaths slowing to match his. You drew in staggering breaths, finally noticing how hard your heart was beating—your body shaking with every thump. Your fists unfurled, your palms resting flat on his broad chest—the fast pounding of his heart a near match to yours.

He let go of your wrists, his hands cupping your face delicately. He wiped your tears away with such care it made your heart ache. Your vision cleared enough to focus on his face, seeing his eyes shining with their own tears.

"I think we're both a bit blind, sweetheart. Everyone can see how smitten I am with you." He rested his forehead against yours, the space around you two growing charged in the aftermath of your anger. "Sam gives me shit about it every day." His breathy laugh ghosted your lips, leaving tingles in it's wake. His voice dropped low, "I'm so fucking in love with you I was leaving reviews about you like some—like a hopeless sap, hoping you would realise it was me."

His confession of love flew over your head, incredulity controlling your mind. "That was you?!" You gasped, pushing his chest lightly. "I thought I had a stalker, you idiot."

The memory of the night you and Allie read all the reviews ran through your head, remembering the disturbingly romantic details written; remembering the reviews you secretly reread like a guilty pleasure, going to sleep with a giddy smile and fluttering butterflies because someone was noticing you.

"That's all you took from that?" He shook his head minutely, one of his hands brushing down your back to cradle your waist. "I'm trying to tell you I'm in love with you here."

You stepped out of his embrace, your mind still picking through all the small details. "But—the first review was, like—" you started to pace again, your hands resting atop your head. "It was well over a year ago!" Your voice raised again, recalling how horrible you felt only a month ago—the heartbreak you could've avoided. "Why did you never say anything?!"

"Because I was scared!" His voice raised to meet yours. "I didn't want to ruin things and lose you forever!"

"Yeah, well look at how that turned out!" You gestured wildly to the empty room.

"Why are we shouting again?" Bucky walked towards you, reaching for your hands. You were both breathing heavily, the sound of your pants echoing in the emptiness as your chests heaved up and down.

"Because I'm mad at you." You finally met his eyes, the blue bleeding with regret and sorrow. Your voice dropped lower, timidness starting to creep in. "You…you broke my heart, Buck."

He gripped your hands tighter, raising one to rest on his chest—right above his heart. "I am going to spend every day until I die trying to make it up to you." His remorse polluted the air around you, tears welling in your eyes once again—this time from the pain clouding his. "If you'll let me."

"That's a bit dramatic," you mumbled, sniffling lightly. "Until you're fifty is fine."

He laughed, wet and husky. He let go of your hands to cup your face again, smoothing his thumbs along your cheekbones. Your breath hitched at the touch, the pain in your system being diluted by the drug that is Bucky.

He leaned in closer, his eyes darting between yours and your lips. "I'm gonna kiss you now, okay?"

You managed a small nod before his lips were on yours—desperate and aching, stealing the breath from your lungs. One of his hands shifted to the back of your neck, tilting your head to kiss you deeper. Your hands found his chest again, fisting his shirt and causing a groan to sound in the back of his throat. He took control of the kiss with no complaint from you—happily letting him suck your bottom lip before nipping it, opening for him when his tongue grazed your lips.

The first touch of his tongue against yours had fire scorching down your body, the intensity of his kisses settling in your gut and awakening the need you've had for him for over a year.

The annoying human need for air had you pulling away from his lips, gasping as you tried to catch your breath. His stubble scratched your skin as he trailed kisses along your jaw, tilting your head to reach the sensitive spot below your ear. He gave it a soft experimental kiss, his tongue darting out and drawing a small whine from you.

His chest rumbled beneath your hands. "You talk about the walls being thin—trust me, I know." He stepped forward, his fingers dancing down your sides to grasp your hips, backing you into the wall. "I know you like to beg, what pretty sounds you make when you're about to come." He trailed his nose back along your jaw and down the other side of your neck, nestling into the crook and sniffing deeply with a small moan.

"Wh-what? I haven't—I never brought anyone home." You stuttered out, head starting to feel heavy from the lust fogging it.

"No, but you still have needs, don't you?" He let out a small chuckle, trailing feather-light kisses along your collarbone. "You thought you were alone, thought it didn't matter how loud you let yourself be." He pulled back, bringing a hand up to brush his fingers along your cheek, making their way down your neck. Onyx eyes met yours—a shiver racing down your spine at the barely contained hunger in them. "I came home with a migraine and you were so wrapped up in pleasure you didn't even hear me—but I heard you. And shit, doll, the noises you made cured my migraine faster than any pain meds ever have." He dropped his forehead to yours, his breath fanning your lips. "I had to fuck my fist three times that night. I replayed every little whimper, moan, every gasp of please until it drove me insane."

A gasp escaped you at his admission, heat rolling through your body—a mix of embarrassment and hunger swirling in your core.

"And then, like it was the universe's sole purpose to bring me to my knees, you walked in the next day wearing this dress." His fingers drifted to the neckline of your dress, toying with it as your breasts moved rapidly beneath. "Looking like a fucking angel sent here to torture me. Like sin wrapped in white lace. I had to leave before I dropped to my knees and begged for a taste—to let me worship you."

Your heart was trying to beat out of your chest, the throbbing in your core escalating with every word he murmured into your lips.

"You kept on wearing it, and I had to pretend like I wasn't replaying those sounds every time I saw you—like my dick wasn't rock hard at just a glimpse of this fucking dress." The hand on your neckline travelled down to the line of lace below your breasts—his thumb stroking along it making your breath stutter and nipples harden. "I had to do something, I felt like I was going insane. I started seeing her to get you out of my head—didn't fucking work now, did it?"

The mention of her cut through the Bucky induced haze, and you hesitated—needing clarification before you could let him consume you.

"Are you still seeing her?" You whispered.

"Fuck no, we were strictly casual. I broke it off the day you left."

Your head reared back an inch, hitting the wall lightly. "You know that doesn't make me feel better, right? That you only wanted to sleep with her because I was in the next room."

Both his hands gripped your waist, squeezing gently. "Okay, that—that wasn't what I was trying to get at." He lifted his head to stare into your eyes. "What I meant was that you leaving really showed how much of an idiot I'd been, wasting my time with her when you were right next door."

"Why didn't you reach out, then?"

He shrugged, his eyes darting away nervously. "I didn't think I had a right to. I wasn't exactly proud of how I acted the last time we spoke."

You saw Bucky almost every day for over a year—you knew he didn't get outwardly nervous often, and you knew when he was being vulnerable and honest. The Bucky in front of you wasn't lying—you could tell he was genuinely worried he'd messed everything up.

You relented with a sigh, lacing your hands around his neck. "I think it's time you start making it up to me."

"Gladly," he said before pulling you into him and kissing you deeply. He pressed his hips against yours, pushing you harder into the wall. You gasped at the feeling of his bulge against your stomach, your core trembling and aching in anticipation.

The pace of the kiss picked up, Bucky's tongue licking into your mouth with a deep moan. His grip on your hips tightened and he spun you around, walking you backwards towards his room without removing his mouth from yours.

He kicked the door shut behind him, leading you towards his bed with his hands drifting down to squeeze your ass. You broke away with a moan, your lips swollen and chin tender from his stubble.

"Sit down for me, sweetheart." Bucky rasped out. You quickly obliged—your need for him making you ready to do anything he said.

He kneeled on the floor in front of you, slowly taking your shoes off. His hands trailed up your bare legs, stopping when they reached the hem of your dress.

He pressed a soft kiss to your knee. "You gonna let me make you feel good?" He mumbled into your skin.

You nodded rapidly, your hands clenching his sheets in desperation.

He clicked his tongue. "I need words, angel."

"Yes, Bucky—please. Please touch me," you gasped out, the sight of him on his knees robbing your intelligence.

His mouth tilted into a smirk, his eyes gleaming. "There you go with that begging again."

He clasped your knees, spreading your legs open. His breath tickled the sensitive skin on your inner thighs, goosebumps erupting and surging up to your core. He pressed light kisses along one thigh, stopping when he got to your dress and switching to the other.

You could feel slick leaking out of your cunt, your clit pulsing from the lack of attention.

"Buck, stop teasing, please." You whined softly, lifting a hand to push the hair away from his eyes. He nuzzled into your hand, turning to press a kiss into your palm. Your hand vibrated as he hummed low.

He grasped the hem of your dress, lifting it slowly up to your hips. "Lean back f'me."

You leaned back on your elbows, your body trembling with need as his hands scorched paths up your thighs.

He let out a low groan once your dress was up past your hips—revealing your soaked panties to him. His eyes locked onto them, his pupils dilating until only a sliver of blue remained.

"All this from a little kissing?" He brushed a thumb along the wet patch, grazing your clit. Your head fell back with a loud gasp, your hips twitching towards his touch.

"Sensitive," he mumbled. His hand moved, tracing the edge of your panties—you were sure he could feel the heartbeat pulsing in your core. "How long has it been?"

You lifted your head up, looking into his dark eyes—the desire in them reflecting your own. "Since before I—"

You cut yourself off with a soft moan, your body jerking as Bucky pressed his thumb to your clit through your underwear—circling it with a steady pressure.

"What was that?" He asked smugly.

Your chest heaved as you tried to wade through the sensations buzzing through you. "Since before I moved in," you rushed out quickly, another moan escaping you at the feeling of his touch directly on your pussy—his hand slipping underneath the wet fabric.

"Fuck," he breathed out through clenched teeth. He grabbed the waistband of your panties and pulled them down your legs quickly. He groaned out looking at your exposed cunt, and you tried to close your legs on instinct.

He gripped your thighs to stop them from closing. "None of that," he growled out lowly. "Let me look at her."

His hands trailed up your thighs until they reached your bare hips, yanking you closer to the edge of the bed. You fell onto your back softly, your breath shaking from the impact.

He pulled your lips apart and moaned loudly. "She's fucking dripping, sweetheart."

You clenched at his words, his teasing leaving you aching and squirming. He chuckled and pressed a soft kiss millimetres away from where you needed him most. He breathed you in deeply making your hips buck up with a needy whine.

"Bucky, please."

He dragged a single finger from entrance to clit, pulling it back with a string of your arousal connecting the two of you. You sighed at the small touch, opening your eyes to see Bucky suck the tip of his finger.

He groaned at your taste, hands grabbing the back of your thighs to push your legs back and spread you wider.

"Gonna make her feel so good, pretty girl." He slurred out, his lips trailing a path of fire up to your core. "Be a good girl and make those noises for me again."

He dove in, licking the same path as his finger. His groan vibrated through you and your hands flew to his hair, gripping the strands as you gasped.

"Taste so fucking good," he mumbled before latching onto your clit. He sucked gently, circling the nub with his tongue. You rewarded him with a tug to his hair and a shaky moan.

He picked up the pace, moaning as he went from tasting you to devouring. He thrusted his tongue into you, lapping up everything he could. The room filled with the lewd sounds of your slick and his saliva coating your pussy—with your unabashed moans and gasps bouncing off the walls.

He pulled away from you, his chin and beard glistening. "That's it, pretty. Being such a good girl." You whined at the praise, using your hold on his hair to push his face back into you.

Your hips rocked against his face, the flame in your core growing fast. He moved an arm to your hips, holding them down to keep you still. He sucked your clit harshly, your back arching at the pleasure he was unleashing on you. You gasped out his name as your orgasm built rapidly.

"Fuck, Bucky—right there! Please, I'm gonna—" you cut off with a loud moan, your body jolting from him lightly biting your clit. Stars started to dot your vision as he continued to feast on you like a starved man—like you were his first sip of water after wandering the desert.

The knot in your core clenched tight before it unravelled, Bucky's groans vibrating through you pushing you over the edge. You came with a cry, your hands yanking his hair hard. A blissful fire spread throughout you, making your toes curl and head float.

Bucky drank up your release, prolonging your high until you were shaking and trying to push his head away. He relented, moving back to kiss and nip your inner thighs. Your heavy panting filled the room, your pussy twitching as you came down.

You propped yourself up on weak elbows, your droopy eyes meeting his glazed, pussy drunk ones.

"You're so fucking beautiful," he whispered reverently. He moved back in closer, his breath fanning your cunt making you clench around nothing. "Another one."

He slowly licked at your hole, leaving your overstimulated clit throbbing painfully. Your arms gave out, a whimper crawling up your throat. You brought a hand up to your chest, squeezing a breast over your dress—trying to relieve the ache in them.

"Fuck, look at you," Bucky cooed, pulling away from you to stand up. "As much as I love this dress, I think you'll look even more beautiful without it."

You nodded, sitting up slightly so he could pull it over your head. Your eyes were level with his crotch, seeing the large bulge tenting his pants—your mouth salivating already. Once your dress was off you reached a hand out, palming his hard dick over his pants. You gasped at the heavy feel of him, your walls clenching at the thought of him stretching you open.

His head rolled back with a moan, a hand catching your wrist to stop your movements. "Not right now." You let out a displeased whine and his mouth twitched with a smirk. "Later, promise. Lay back down so I can worship you."

He grasped the back of his shirt and pulled it over his head, leaving you to gape at his insane torso. You had seen it before but you always adverted your eyes quickly, scared of getting caught staring. Now, you could stare and touch all you wanted.

You leaned up to run a hand over his bare chest, his body scorching beneath your skin. You trailed a finger down the hard ridges lining his body, a thrill running through you as his muscles rippled and breath stuttered. Your mouth found his pecks, lathering them in wet kisses while your hand teased the waistband of his pants. He grasped your chin, jerking your head up to look at him. His jaw was tense and eyebrows furrowed, a slight darkness shadowing his face.

He leaned down and placed a gentle kiss on your lips. "What did I just say, sweetheart?" He mumbled, his tone laced with warning.

Before you could reply, his hands grasped your waist and pushed you up the bed until your head met his pillow. He crawled on top of you, kissing your neck.

"Thought you were gonna be a good girl." He mumbled, biting the spot below your ear and making you gasp. He pulled on one of your bra straps, letting it snap back onto your skin. You gasped louder at the small stinging sensation, the slight pain dousing your core in gasoline.

"Please, I am—I will be. M'sorry." You whimpered out, tilting your head back as he continued his assault on your neck.

He hummed in response, sucking on your pulse point before trailing lower—his stubble scraping the top of your breasts. He reached a hand behind your back, unclasping your bra with ease before pulling the straps down your arms slowly.

Your nipples hardened more once exposed to the cool air, begging for Bucky's attention. He lavished your breasts in kisses, covering every inch of skin with his spit. One of your hands clutched onto his bicep while the other wound into his hair again. He continued to avoid your nipples and you squirmed underneath him, trying to move his head to where you wanted him.

He relented, licking a nipple before sucking it into his mouth. You moaned from the relief and the zaps of pleasure racing down your torso. He pinched your abandoned nipple, rolling it between his thumb and finger as he bit down on the other one. You arched off the bed with a loud whine, the pain and pleasure morphing into one. He switched nipples, dolling out the same sweet torture with moans lodged in his throat.

Once both your nipples were raw and aching he kissed down your abdomen, hands clutching your hips as his mouth worshipped your stomach. You giggled at his beard tickling your sensitive skin and he lifted his head, his blown out eyes meeting yours with a soft—almost unbelieving—smile.

"You're breathtaking," he whispered. "And you're all mine, yeah?"

"Yes, Buck. Only yours."

He hummed in approval, pressing a light kiss to your hip. "Good. 'Cause I'm yours, angel. I'm sorry it took so long for me to say."

He moved back down to where you were dripping onto his sheets, your body wound tight from your first orgasm and his teasing. He licked into you without hesitation, drawing out loud noises from you as he sucked your sensitive clit.

"You're so wet—wanna live between these thighs, doll."

A hand left your hip to poke at your entrance, one finger sliding in easily before your walls squeezed at the intrusion. He pumped it in and out slowly until you were begging for more. A second slipped in, both of them curling upwards and grazing the spot that had you arching off the bed with a sound you'd never made before.

He lifted his head up, praising you for how good you were being—telling you how pretty you sounded. His mouth descended on your clit again and his fingers picked up their pace.

Your head rolled around on his pillow, the dual stimulation to your pussy making a heat rush through you like you'd never experienced with anyone else. You could feel how he was paying attention to you, altering his movements to gauge what sounds he could pull out of you—getting to know what you liked.

The ball tightened faster than the first time, your body edging on being overstimulated. Both your hands were fisting the sheets, your hips grinding against Bucky's face and fucking his fingers—the obscene squelch of your pussy soaking his hand mixing with your moans and gasps.

"Let me come—please. Been s'good for you, Buck—"

You know you didn't need his permission to come, but begging and submitting to him felt so good. Your own words pulled the coil in your core tighter—his resounding moan shaking through you telling you how much they affected him too.

A third finger joined in and you clenched down hard, the stretch almost throwing you off the cliff. They curled into your spot over and over, his other hand moving to push down on your lower stomach—causing something between a moan and squeal to leave you.

"Course you can come for me, sweetheart. I want nothing more than this sweet pussy drenching me."

With one last curl of his fingers and suck to your clit, your body started to shake, the ball bursting and sending waves crashing through you. Your eyes rolled back and your ears started ringing, deaf to the borderline animalistic noises you were letting out. You clamped down on his fingers hard, your juices gushing out and coating his hand—dripping and staining his sheets.

Your head was up in the clouds, cotton filling the space your brain used to be. You briefly registered his mouth leaving your overstimulated and raw nub, his fingers still moving slowly as you floated through your high. Small, gentle kisses across your cheeks, nose, and eyelids had you giggling breathlessly. Your body felt heavy, your eyelids struggling to open.

"You doin' okay?" Bucky whispered into your temple, peppering more light kisses to your forehead. You hummed softly.

"Need'a minute," you slurred out.

His fingers slowed and then left you, a whine slipping past your lips at the emptiness. You felt a hand rubbing soothing circles onto your scalp, your body turning towards his warmth. You slowly opened your eyes to find him staring at you, electric blue lazily roaming around your face.

"Hi," you whispered, lifting a heavy hand to push hair behind his ear. He grabbed your hand and covered it in soft kisses, his eyes never leaving yours.

"Hi. How you feeling?"

You leaned in, nuzzling your nose against his. "Good—really good," you muttered before kissing him softly. Your hand weaved into his hair, pulling him in as your kiss grew more passionate.

One of his hands cradled your jaw and the other spanned the small of your back, pushing you into his bulge. You bit his lip teasingly, revelling in his body shuddering and drinking down the moan he let free.

You grinded your hips against his—gasping and whimpering at the rough fabric of his pants dragging against your oversensitive pussy. He responded in kind, rutting his bulge into you with a groan.

"Want you inside of me," you mumbled into his lips, throwing a leg over his to roll your hips harder.

"Fuck—okay," he breathed out. He pulled away to reach for his bedside drawer but your hand on his chest stopped him.

"Are you clean?"

His eyes widened and he nodded dumbly. "I got tested the other week—wait, I'll show you." He reached for his phone but you stopped him with a giggle.

"I believe you. I'm clean—obviously. And on birth control."

His eyes almost bulged out of their sockets, pupils dilating until they physically couldn't anymore.

"Are you sure?" He gripped your face in his hands, eyes darting between yours. "I only used condoms with her so I understand—"

That fact pleased you absurdly, your hand trailing down his chest to his groin—squeezing his heavy bulge. "I'm sure. Wanna feel you, all of you."

He pulled you into a searing kiss, rolling you onto your back and hovering over you. Your mouth moved against his eagerly, both your hands on his waistband to unbotton and unzip his pants. You reached a hand into his boxers, a gasp leaping out as you wrapped your hand around him—his cock throbbing and big. You briefly worried about the limp you'll have later.

He panted above you, his eyes closing as you stroked him slowly. You could feel his boxers damp with pre-cum, beads of it dripping from his tip. You brushed your thumb over it and he moaned gutturally, eyes opening as you pulled your hand out. You kept eye contact with him as you brought your thumb up to your lips, licking his pre-cum before sucking it into your mouth with a satisfied moan.

He pulled your thumb out, tracing his own along your lip before you sucked on it—twirling your tongue around it.

"You're gonna be the fucking death of me, angel." He groaned out.

He pushed away to pull his pants and boxers off, throwing them behind him carelessly. Your eyes zeroed in on his cock standing proud—your mouth somehow simultaneously drying up and drooling at the sight. He was the biggest you'd ever seen—long and thick, the tip flushed red with his need. Your knees fell apart on instinct, the fire building up just looking at him.

"Wanna take a picture?" He teased.

"Another time," you whispered, surging up to grab his shoulders and pull him back on top of you.

He chuckled into your mouth before it dissolved into a moan, your hips bucking up and smearing his cock with your slick.

He grabbed your hips, pulling them up slightly as he settled between your legs. You both broke off from the kiss with matching gasps, the feel of him sliding along your slit making you both dizzy. His tip bumped into your clit with each glide, whimpers echoing from your chest as you twitched from the stimulation.

"You're so fucking pretty," he mumbled, dropping his head to kiss and nip along your neck.

"Please," you whined, your hips rocking without thought.

He pulled back and looked down between you, groaning at his dick already glistening with you. He wrapped a hand around himself, tapping his head against your clit a few times. You squealed, starting to feel dizzy with desire. He shushed you gently, dragging a thumb along your cheekbone before positioning himself at your entrance.

His eyes met yours as he pushed in slowly, the intensity in them making you choke up. It had never felt like this before—never felt so passionate, adoring. It made everything feel elevated—your nerve endings singing with pleasure wherever he touched you.

You clenched down on him instinctively, your walls stretching around just the tip. Your chest heaved as you tried to relax—you weren't in pain, it just felt so fucking good.

"Be a good girl and let me in," he whispered, leaning forward to kiss you.

Your legs opened wider for him, your core relaxing to let him push in further. Moans and gasps filled the air around you as he thrust slowly, sinking until he reached the hilt.

The breath knocked out of you, the feeling of him filling you completely making your head rush. He moved slowly at first, small thrusts to get you accommodated before pulling back until just the tip was inside. He sank home with deep moans, his cock pushing against your spot with every thrust.

You wrapped your legs around his waist making him reach deeper inside you. He picked up his pace, his hips meeting yours with soft slaps.

"You feel so good—oh, fuck!" He exclaimed as you clenched down on him.

"Harder, please." You moaned out, scratching your nails down his chest.

"Yeah? My pretty girl—my little angel—likes it rough?"

You nodded deliriously, the tension in your core sizzling with every thrust.

He sat up, bringing your hips with him. He held them up and delivered harsh thrusts—each one expelling a gasp out of you. Your legs tightened around him, his strength pushing you up the bed.

The headboard knocked against the wall, adding to the symphony of moans, whimpers, skin slapping that was already deafening the room. Each sound had you soaring higher, each thrust kissing your cervix sending a shock through you.

Bucky removed your legs from his waist, clutching your thighs to push them towards your chest. Your wide eyes met his with a gasp, the change in position igniting a roaring fire everywhere. He dropped forward slowly, pushing into you so far you swear you could feel him in your throat.

He groaned into your ear. "This is—god, you're made for me."

His thrusts resumed their previous pace, your mouth falling open in a silent scream. Sweat beaded along his hairline from the exertion, his hair sticking to his temples—and he looked so beautiful, your eyes started to well with tears.

Everything rushed through you in an overwhelming burst—the heartache you suffered, the months of yearning and uncertainty, how much you loved him. How much he loved you.

Tears fell from your eyes as the sensations built higher and you grasped his face, pulling his forehead to yours. Your gentle kiss to his lips was a stark contrast to his cock drilling into you.

"I love you," you whispered, your words breaking on a sob of pleasure.

His hips stuttered, his eyes squeezing tightly. "You can't say that again or I'll blow my load." You laughed at his clear struggle to hold back, making him groan as you squeezed him tighter.

He continued his thrusts, wiping a thumb under your eye to catch your tears. "This is the only time I'm gonna make you cry from now on, yeah? Only gonna make you sob cause I'm fucking you so good."

You nodded, letting out little "uh-huh"'s as you climbed higher and higher.

"Play with your clit, sweetheart." Bucky rasped out.

Your hand snuck between your bodies to press circles around your clit—your back arching with a whine. Tears continued to track down your temples, wetting the pillow below you.

"Fill me up, please," you managed to get out between whimpers and sobs. Bucky's grip on your thighs tightened, surely leaving marks for you to admire over the next few days.

"Come with me," Bucky moaned, pressing a scorching kiss to your lips as his thrusts grew sloppy. You tensed below him, your body locking up before pure ecstasy barrelled through you. You came with a scream of his name, clenching down on his cock to keep him trapped. Your vision faded to white, your body trembling and pulsing.

Bucky groaned out your name as his orgasm rushed through him, his cock throbbing and pulsing inside you as he filled you completely with cum.

He collapsed on top of you, his sweaty chest heaving against yours. He slowly lowered your legs then wrapped his arms around your waist, nuzzling into your neck.

You laid there for a few minutes, the both of you gradually coming back down to earth. He pulled out of you slowly, the both of you groaning at the feeling. A mix of your releases dripped out of you, coating your ass and staining the sheets.

"Stay right here," Bucky said before giving you a chaste kiss, pulling his boxers on to run to the bathroom. He came back with a wet towel, sitting on the bed next to you to clean you up with gentle, reverent touches.

He climbed behind you, pulling you into his strong chest—a satisfied rumble vibrating your back. He kissed the back of your head, trailing towards your ear and giving your lobe a gentle bite.

"I love you too."

"When can we move your stuff back in?"

Bucky and you were still lying on his bed, basking in the warmth of each other as the afternoon sun trickled through his half closed curtains.

You turned in his arms, slinging a leg over his and booping his nose. "I think we should go on a couple dates before I move in with you."

His nose and eyes scrunched with that laugh you first fell in love with. "Oh, is that right?"

"Living together before you've even bought me flowers? Sounds a bit rash to me."

"I'll buy you a whole flower shop," he mumbled, his fingers tracing patterns on your bare hip. "Well, maybe not right away—I am paying for two rooms, y'know. Would be nice to be able to buy groceries next month."

You laughed softly, poking his bare chest. "Yeah, and whose fault is that again?"

He grumbled something unintelligible, hiding his face in your neck to lavish you in more kisses.

Wars were started over smiles less beautiful than hers.

The reminder of his reviews about you flourished in your mind, prompting you to pull his head away from your neck.

"So, you're James B? This whole time?"

His face bloomed red, a huff leaving him before he nervously licked his lips. "Yeah…"

"Why? Why start leaving them in the first place, why didn't you tell me?"

He shrugged slightly, lifting a hand to trace the lines of your face. "We were at the bar drinking, and some guy nearby pointed to you and said ratings must be higher with you working there. And—I don't know, I guess I was drunk enough to agree and then…it just happened?"

You furrowed your brows at him. "Why not just write in a journal?"

"Trust me, I was already doing that." He laughed softly, his eyes glowing. "I guess, in a weird way, I was telling you how I felt without actually telling you. Stupid, I know."

Warmth started to spread from your chest. "It took us ages to even notice the reviews—we only realised they were there because Dean assumed one was about him."

Bucky tensed under your hands. "Fucking Dean," he muttered.

"…Are you jealous?"

The blush on his cheeks grew, his eyes avoiding yours. "He was always staring at you, and you laughed with him like—like you did with me. I thought there was something goin' on."

Is it bad that him being jealous is turning you on?

"You have nothing to worry about, Dean is a gross womaniser who I only see as an annoying brother." You pushed at Bucky's chest, making him lie on his back as you straddled his hips. You pressed kisses along his chest, your hips slowly rocking against his. "He did tell me he wanted to sleep with me, though."

Bucky's hands grasped your hips harder, his face turning stormy. "I don't wanna hear you talkin' about another guy when you're on top of me, doll." He muttered low.

You leaned in to kiss him, your hips moving faster and drawing gasps out of the both of you—his dick already half hard under you. "You're so hot when you're jealous."

The sound of the front door opening had you both freezing—your former roommate's laughter drifting down the hall.

"Get dressed, lovebirds!" Sam's voice rang out. "We've got fish to fry!"

a/n: thank you to this pic on pinterest that inspired half the plot (i couldn't get the ho to fit into a moodboard 😔)

Hey, guys! This is going to serve as the installment list for my new Bucky Barnes fic!

This one's gonna be a little bit of a different take on an xReader fic, if I'm honest. This Reader has some of her own background and life circumstances, so if you feel more comfortable thinking of it as you playing this character, go for it! I won't get too into it here, but this story does deal with some heavy topics like war, mental illness, loss of limb, and violence. Proceed at your own risk. 18+, MDI!

Story warnings: 18+ MDNI! war, violence, loss of limb, mental illness, medical talk and treatment, language, drinking, tense family situations, eventual smut, pregnancy scare, explosives. there’s fluff too, i swear!

Book 1

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 9.5

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Book 2

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16